#implied forced labor

< ACT 1 > CH 01: SAVIOR [PT.1] [396w]

CHAPTER 208 DIRECT SPOILERS!!! this is a major turning point in the canon track. if you have not read up to that point this is your warning ;3

Summary of previous part: N/A

Notes: braun

CW: director cheongdallae, brief Braun mention, ch208, brief gore/body horror, angst

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‘It… hurts.’

“As it is, you’ll soon necrotize,” the emotionless voice of Director Cheongdallae declared.

‘Excruciating… pain.’

I didn’t say anything.

I didn’t know if she was right. I couldn’t think much at all.

My thoughts were growing foggy with agony.

Only primitive thoughts remained.

“If you don’t like that, there is another way.”

Hope.

The sound of paper shuffling.

“A contract.”

The hope snuffed out, leaving behind a bitter resignation.

Desire burnt hot.

‘I want to go home. I want to go home. I want to…’

I chanted that in my head.

"All you have to do is sign.”

Convincing words from an experienced liar in the workplace, but I knew it was my only choice.

Already, I was growing so weak, so formless, that I couldn’t even lift my head.

‘Huu…’

It would be great if there was another choice.

A third option. Anything would be better than this.

“I promise very humane treatment. It will be a satisfactory employment... in the security team, that is."

I wanted to laugh. I knew what this assignment meant.

It was the furthest you can get from being humane.

"Here."

…

"Choose."

Holding it out to me, playing the role of a savior.

His script fit that role, in a twisted way, I had no other solution, no other path forward.

‘Haa…’

I was melting… blood and organs mixing and sloshing in the constricting suit.

I felt like vomiting, but I didn’t even know where my stomach was among all this mess.

I managed to lift a shaking arm, a drowned man clinging to the last piece of floatwood, despite knowing that it was poisoned.

‘This is the end of Kim Soleum.’

On the offered contract, I signed with the mess of blood that had seeped through the suit.

“Good.”

As soon as the last stroke was set in place, my body immediately felt comfortable.

It wasn’t restoration, but it was containment.

Fitting.

‘I am an entity from the Darkness. Darknesses are contained.’

Distinctively, I felt restrictions placed around me.

I knew, from experience and by instinct, that trying to bypass them would only cause me unnecessary pain.

Though, perhaps it was an illusion born out of desperation, but…

Even as my consciousness began to fade, I could sense her, closing in with long, oppressive strides.

Someone etched into painful memory… A Good Friend.

‘My only hope.’

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CW: implied forced labor, slavery, fear, restraints, kicking

Whumpee let themself be dragged forward from the rope around their wrists. They didn’t want to be here, they /really didn’t want to be here. It had been a mistake! It was all a mistake! Now they were taken to the Pit to work. 

The other slaves looked on with either disgust or mild disinterest. They had their own tasks, controlled by their own taskmasters. The Pit was filthy, dirt, dust, and grime covering every surface and person. Whumpee cringed down, trying not to trip and fall in the mud that sunk their feet up to their ankles. The Overseer pulled them along, uncaring and hateful. Their foot got stuck, and when they paused to drag it out, the Overseer yanked their lead and they fell. 

Whumpee curled into the mud, not wanting to look up. A harsh kick in the side made them cry out. 

“Close enough,” the Overseer said as they ripped the rope away from Whumpee’s wrists. Whumpee bit their lip, trying to keep from crying out /again/ at the burn against the thin skin of their wrists. The Overseer kicked them down again before leaving them. 

Alone. 

Alone, weak, and surrounded by men that looked resentful and angry. Whumpee whimpered, sitting on their knees with forehead almost still touching the ground. The other slaves, the older, rougher, angerier ones /always/ used the fresh ones as stress relief. As something they could finally have power over, something they could dominate. Whumpee could barely handle it was when it was other house slaves, but here? With hardened, strong workers? How would they survive. 

There was a hand on their shoulder and they keened. 

“Stop. Kid, get up.” 

They looked up, seeing another slave. They were younger than a majority of the men, but still years older than Whumpee. Their light hair was pulled back and tied in a scrap of fabric, another scrap tied around their face as a mask. The figure pulled it down, and Whumpee saw that it was to keep the dust from going into their mouth and nose. 

“P-p-p-please, i, I-” voice was breaking, eyes searching this stranger’s face for any bastion of hope or compassion.