Captive whumpees who need to be in control and who default to their training and being meticulous to cope with the utter loss of control while captive:
- obsessively making their bed over and over
- getting up at the same time of day even though they don't know what time it is, because their body does somehow
- similarly, obsessing over the time and date
- attempting to keep with the same routine they had when free, even if doing most of it is impossible (they might just pretend to in order to make themselves feel better)
- memorizing guard/captor routines, faces, names, schedules, building layouts in order to have a chance of getting revenge once out
- eating the food they’re given in a specific order, in a specific way
- collecting and hiding random objects (nails, paperclips, pebbles, sticks, etc) “just in case”
- if they’re let outside, doing the same “circuit” around the area every time, like they’re doing a patrol
- getting distressed when things were promised but don’t happen when/how they were supposed to (meals, lights turning off/on, scheduled interviews interrogations, shower, etc)
- going over training exercises and routines to keep themselves occupied, even if only in their head so as not to waste strength
- obsessing over everything that led up to their capture, imagining all the ways they could (or couldn’t) have prevented it
- counting. Seconds passed, tiles, cracks in the walls, corners, windows, people, days spent inside, meals, breaths
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There’s nothing quite like the terror of waking up and being unable to remember a single thing about yourself, every strained attempt to remember only resulting in you smacking into the steel vault door that’s suddenly right where your cherished childhood memories used to be. Or, where they probably were, anyway. I wouldn’t have known, because I couldn’t fucking remember. All I could feel was this cold pit in my stomach, the sensation that I’d collapsed in on myself like a black hole, that I wasn’t anyone anymore.
Yep, there’s really nothing quite like it. Which is why there’s also the godforsaken sequel: being molded into someone—something—you’re absolutely certain you don’t want to be.
“Your pain is what makes you useful,” the trainer intoned. “Say it.”
“Fuck you—” The cattle prod jabbed into my stomach. My arms yanked at the manacles suspending me, instinct driving me to protect my torso. That was the only thing driving me, I thought numbly, my jaw clenched against the pain. Instinct. I didn’t have much else.
When it stopped, I sagged in my chains with my arms pulling at their sockets, and a bead of sweat ran down my nose and plopped to the tile floor, right in front of the trainer’s boots. The tip of her cattle prod, still warm, pushed up under my chin. I flinched upright. She let out a dry chuckle. “I could do this all day, pet. But I doubt you can.”
“Underestimate me again,” I muttered, “I dare y—”
A short, sharp zap to the sternum shut me up, at least for a second. “Your pain,” she repeated, seizing my chin in her hand, “is what makes you useful. Say it three times, and this session ends, alright? That’s a pretty clear win condition. You’d have to be stupid not to accept it.”
I loosened my jaw, made like I was going slack with defeat. “M … my …”
Her fingers slipped on my sweaty skin as her grip tightened. “Yeah?” she prompted.
I jerked my head to the side, and my teeth closed around flesh and bone. I tasted blood before she screeched, and before she had the presence of mind to electrocute me again. The prod drove deep into my stomach, but I clenched my jaw down harder against the pain, against the screaming in my ear. You’re gonna hurt with me, motherfucker.
Finally I couldn’t stand the electricity anymore. I released her mangled fingers, and her blood dripped down my chin. She reared back and didn’t waste a second in driving the cattle prod into my stomach, zapping me so long it began to burn. “You son of a bitch!” Her boot drove into my leg, and as it buckled, the prod dragged up my chest.
I was seeing stars by the time it ended, colors swirling in my vision like they were trying to brighten up the plain tile of my cell. The trainer hissed in pain, flexing her injured hand. I couldn’t see how good I’d gotten her, but I could still taste her blood, so I had to assume it was pretty goddamn good. I spit some of it out by her boots.
She just glared at me. “You don’t eat until you say your affirmations, you goddamn brat. Enjoy starving.” She hooked her cattle prod into her belt and left, slamming the door behind her.
I wiped my face on my shoulder and grinned after her. Facility: zero. Me: one.
I've seen a lot of good posts on the subject lost due to deactivated OPs and had a hard time finding remaining ones that cover all this, so I'm making my own post going over common box boy universe worldbuilding.
Since there's not a single central canon to the box boy universe, I've put together an explanation/summary of the common parts of the world, to hopefully make it easier to approach.
But first and foremost: The BBU is a sandbox world, and one of its great strengths is the freedom it gives writers. You can use, change, add, or even entirely throw out any details you so desire! These are common ideas in the BBU, but they are by no means requirements. Each writer will have their own concepts and worldbuilding details for the BBU (including me! but I’ll try to be objective for this post and not inject my own version).
The BBU was initially created by @/sweetwhumpandhellacomf and further developed and popularized by @/shameless-whumper and @/ashintheairlikesnow, but you are not required to credit anyone when creating in the BBU unless you use their specific characters.
Okay here are some common threads I’ve seen in the BBU:
Pet whump world! - The BBU is a sandbox designed for whump, specifically pet whump. As such, there’s a lot of hurt and/or comfort in most of the stories that take place there, as well as the other stuff that usually goes with pet whump, like dehumanization.
Human pets (it’s glorified slavery) - The core idea of the BBU is that human pets are legal. As in, you can own a human being. They’re advertised as “pets” but some are used for various kinds of labor or sex, not just companionship. These human pets are usually just called “pets” or “boxies”. Gender-specific terms include “box boys” for the guys and “box babes” for the gals. I think I’ve also seen “box buddies” for enbies, but it’s not as popularized of a term.
WRU - A major player in the BBU is the WRU: A big bad company that trains and sells boxies. They may be a monopoly or there may be other companies, but WRU is usually the biggest/most powerful. (In the original post that started the BBU, WRU stood for Whumpees-R-Us because it was a joke post. Authors vary in how they handle it, from coming up with something else it stands for to simply not acknowledging that it’s an acronym at all.)
In most iterations, the WRU makes an effort to appear ethical and legal on the outside, but secretly does lots of bad stuff like kidnapping people to sell, forcing signatures, and using torture instead of humane methods to “train” boxies. They’re pretty good at getting away with it.
Ordering pets - People with enough money can buy boxies. For additional money, they can even put in custom orders for traits they want. Whether those traits are natural inherited features, body mods, or special training, the WRU will make it happen. (Sometimes they kidnap people to fit a specific order, but that’s not public information).
Boxies are expensive. In many versions of the BBU, only the very rich can afford them, though in some versions it’s possible for some of the middle class to put together enough money. The exact prices vary between authors.
Boxies can also be acquired secondhand. A boxie who's been returned to the WRU, re-wiped, and retrained is usually called a "refurb," and is often discounted compared to a brand new one. A boxie bought from a former owner or other secondhand source such as a pet shelter will usually still have the training and memories from their previous owner(s) and be cheaper than a refurb.
Signing - In order to become a boxie, a person has to sign a legal document agreeing to it. Once they sign, they are legally not a person. Sometimes the WRU forces signatures using torture or other unsavory methods, then pretends it was voluntary all along.
In order to sign, a person has to be of legal consenting age (i.e. age of majority). But the WRU also lies about people’s ages sometimes.
Bar codes & numbers - Once they’ve signed, boxies are given bar code tattoos, usually on the wrist. They’re also assigned a number (most commonly six digits) instead of their name. Their owner may choose to give them a new name once they’re bought, or leave them with just their numeric designation.
The Drip - The Drip is a fictional drug (or mix of drugs) administered via IV that’s used on trainees. In most versions, the Drip induces amnesia to remove boxies’ memories of their life before they became pets. In some versions it helps with conditioning them in some other way. In most versions, the Drip is given to every boxie as part of their training, but in a few versions it may be a measure only used on the more difficult ones.
“Training” (torture and conditioning) - In order to get a boxie to behave how the WRU/owner wants, they go through “training.” The official statement is that the WRU uses humane methods, but really they use a lot of torture and manipulation. Exact methods will vary between writers, but some common ones include white room torture, electric shocks (via batons or shock collars), and drugging. Boxies are called "trainees" while in the process of going through conditioning. The WRU employees in charge of training them are called “handlers”.
Desired results of training usually include obedience, submission, gratitude, desperation for/leaning into touch, and certain automatic responses including learned phrases and specific positions. Most of these positions correspond to a number, but they’ll also bow on the floor in response to the word “respect.” Boxies are also made to wear collars, and conditioned to associate wearing one with being safe or wanted. Sometimes they're made illiterate as well.
The typical trainee outfit is black shorts, a white t-shirt and a cheap collar or shock collar. The typical food they get while in training is bland and unpleasant. The training facilities generally have white rooms, maze-like hallways, and plenty of cameras.
Most boxies are terrified of being sent back to the WRU after they've been bought.
Designations - Boxies are given specific designations depending on their training and expected duties. The typical designations are Domestic (menial labor, usually household chores), Romantic (sex), Platonic (non-sexual companionship or aid), and Guard Dog (bodyguard). Some writers also use other specialty designations. Boxies can also be combinations of multiple designations.
Delivery in boxes - Here’s where the name comes from! Once a boxie is trained and matched up with a buyer, they’re typically delivered to the buyer’s home in a box. The buyer opens the box to get their pet, and usually there are some certain steps the WRU recommends at this point, like testing their responsiveness (by hitting them) or getting them some water.
Ownership - Once a boxie is bought, they are legally owned by that person. They can basically do whatever, because after signing the boxie is legally not a person and does not have human rights. In most versions I’ve seen, boxies don’t even have animal rights. Typically there’s a three month return period, and after that it’s the owner’s business how they treat their boxie. Owners are expected to be responsible for their pets’ behavior outside the home though.
Since they’re legally not people, boxies may be banned from certain establishments, both private and public, just like other pets. (For example, often human hospitals won’t take them and they have to go places specifically for pets.)
Pet lib - Pet lib is a movement against the human pet trade. They work to aid, empower, and free boxies. They often run safehouses where boxies can hide out and work on recovery. They may also smuggle boxies to countries where the human pet trade is illegal so they can be free.
Whumpee cant fathom that their "Caretaker" is anything but, despite the horror everyone seems to react with when they talk about their time with them.
"Caretaker" is so much nicer than Old Whumper, of course they arent really a whumper! They never beat whumpee or starve them, or [insert violence here], thats what a /real/ whumper would do. What? Sure, theyre still a pet/slave/weapon/what have you, but thats just the way things are. "Caretaker" loves whumpee, others just dont understand.
taglist: @cryptozoolliegy @chiswhumpcorner (thanks for beta reading!) @paingoes @loonybun @half-duck @inhurtandincomfort (thanks for beta reading!) @toyybox @catnykit
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
It goes on and on and on, until they can hardly even scream anymore, just pathetically beg for forgiveness. By that time, it must be getting late, because Cecilia leaves them. She said something, but they can’t hear it with the ringing in their ears, and they don’t manage to ask in time.
The door shuts. Walenty doesn’t know how long it takes them to breathe soundly or regain rational thought.
Magic-fueled pain administration, then a stress position for however-long. That’s their punishment. They sigh into the darkness, aching from both physical effort and the residue of the spell. It’s going to get worse as more time passes.
They’re so tired. In their desperate attempts to avoid this exact outcome, they haven’t gotten even a blink of sleep last night. Walenty ponders trying to nap. It’s extremely unsightly, of course, but this is clearly sensory deprivation, meaning they’re alone. Still, they don’t know how long they’ll be left here. If someone walks in and sees them slacking, that’s a guaranteed extension, and they definitely won’t wake themselves up before that with the zero rest they’ve gotten lately.
Walenty sighs again. Now, what to think about to accompany mind-numbing torture...
What’s next, perhaps? They can definitely rule out this being an execution, since it’s extremely inefficient. The method has been extensively researched, and if they really have run out of use, a living body is far better for experimentation than a dead one. So they’re pretty sure they’re not being sent to be killed.
Except... maybe they are being prepared for experiment? New discoveries about healers are always being made, and a weak subject is far easier to handle... No, no, there’s no way. It was only one mistake.
…But, what if it’s one mistake out of a mountain of many, and Walenty finally ruined their last chance? It wasn’t actually a small mistake either, that report was important. It was important, and they botched it, and they’re going to dangle here until they’re too weak to move or fight back, and they’ll be taken to be strapped to an operating table for the rest of their li—
An ugly, too loud snap, and just for a second, pain shoots through them. The teen squeaks in surprise, because Holy shit that hurt, and then Oh Stars why did they shock me what’s the purpose of this? Is it sleep deprivation to speed up the process? It has to be it has to be it has to be—
Their chest hurts from not breathing, so they go ahead and do that. The literal trained torturer that should know how sensory deprivation works touches the floor with the end of their shoe, seeking stimulation beyond ache.
This is fine. There’s no way this is how it ends, right? There’s no way. Otherwise they’d have just been knocked out with the taser in their ear, maybe drugged for good measure. Yes, there’s no way. This is just a regular punishment.
They messed up, so they’re being punished. Instead of just throwing them into isolation after getting the life shocked out of them, they got shocked again some time after too. It’s far more likely to be intentional than an error. Did Cecilia — and anyone else has access to the damn thing — just feel like it, or will this accompany them?
...Walenty supposes they’ll find out in due time.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
As usual, they have practically no walking range. Being just barely able to stand is done for the sake of causing them more pain. The interrogator wonders if they should do this for their own prisoners. Hm. No, jostling grown adults into stress positions is both too risky and something Walenty just doesn’t have the physical strength for.
Yeah, they could drug them and ask a security guard to move them, but it seems like such a waste when tying someone to a chair works perfectly fine too. Not to mention they’d have to add that to reports.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
It’s boring. Right, of course it is. It hurts. Of course it does.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
Just when Walenty is settling into resting their eyes, they’re firmly brought back to reality. A sharp pain runs up their toes to their head, and if they weren’t already suspended midair, it would surely bring them to their knees from surprise alone.
They breathe in shakily. Breathe out. It’s alright, it was only one. It was only one. Their arms hurt. Is it periodic? Should they count to see if there will be a next one? Ah, they hate counting like this. It always makes everything even more boring.
Walenty sighs. They have nothing better to do anyway.
Assuming they had taken a minute to calm down earlier, This “shock” is seperated by thirty minutes. If this is the case for every instance of it, they’ve already spent an hour and a half here, and are deliberately being kept awake.
Walenty hates this kind of punishment. It’s such a waste of time. They’ve been awake for... 20 hours now, given the all-nigher they’d pulled trying to avoid punishment.
They feel tired.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
Hm. How come they’re not hallucinating? No way just aching and their thoughts are keeping them coherent.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
They wince at the simulation of agony right at their nerves. Yes, thirty minute intervals.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
They hear the door being unlocked, opened. Cecilia. She walks forwards with purpose, heels clicking with every step. The bound one can’t tell if she’s real. They beg in case she is.
“I’m sorry, please-” it’s strangely easy to make their voice crack. Maybe because they haven’t spoken? No, probably the screaming earlier. “I’ll fix it, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’ll never do it again. I’m sorry.”
She stares back.
“...are you real?” They dare to ask. They have to know. “Please tell me.”
She turns around and walks away without giving them an answer. Walenty sobs.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
They hear bugs crawling. This time, they’re certain it’s an illusion. There’s no way bugs would find their way here, after all.
There’s no way they’re rotting. Walenty’s hallucinating, that’s all. Someone will take them out soon.
Surely, someone will take them out soon.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
It hits on 31 minutes and seven seconds. Seems it’s either manual or they internally counted too fast. They hope for the latter. They hope it’ll be over soon.
Walenty closes their eyes and hangs their head. They’re so tired. They somehow haven’t lost feeling in their arms, so those still ache horribly. They just want to sleep. They just want to never make mistakes again.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · · ၴႅၴ
A handy little “alarm” wakes them from the nap they hadn’t realized they’d taken. 2 hours and 30 minutes so far, if it’s real.
They fall back asleep almost immediately. They’ll need it.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
Walenty sputters back to awareness, heartbeat going far too fast. Horribly loud chains clink against each other, making them flinch.
They breathe slowly. It stings. Are they crying? They can’t tell, it’s too dark.
It’s too dark. Everything is pitch black. Meaning earlier Cecilia must have been a hallucination. The lighting was off.
Three hours in. If this is a mid-length punishment, they should be fetched soon.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
“I’m sorry,” they practice. “I’ll fix it, I swear. Please. Please...”
They tut. It’s just for the sake of having noise. “..no, not..convincing. Too dry. I should sound frantic.. Should I ask whoever comes if they’re real?” They look out into the darkness. “...That’s pathetic enough, is it not..? Would it show that I really did learn..? or would it just give the impression of being... incapable of taking it?”
Nothing responds back. They don't want to be called out on their lie, but they don't want to appear incompetent either.
They hate this.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
What time is it? They went in three hours—
Ow.
They went in three and a half hours ago, at 18:16. Six in the evening. Now it’s been 3 and a half hours. It’s 21:46. Nine in the evening. Nearly ten. Curfew’s already hit.
They won’t be fetched until tommorow morning, then. They sigh, resigning themselves to their punishment.
They’ve gotten less than two hours of sleep in the last 38.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
They should’ve watched their grip. They should’ve checked the pen. They should’ve recalled how they tortured someone. They still can’t remember just what harm they inflicted, nor the information gained alongside it. If they really do have to fix their mistake, they’ll need to redo the interrogation.
This is so counterproductive.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
They’re terribly bored, so they count seconds in their head again. A zap marks four hours.
How much longer?
Until the morning, probably.
· · ─────── ·❅· ─────── · ·
Walenty spends the next eight hours sluggishly going from perfecting their plea for mercy, studying as many subjects as can be done from memory, and spacing out. The only vivid hallucinations they get are unrealistic. It’s a relief.
They’re shocked awake every half hour. They’re sure it goes off automatically now, because they’ve spent an entire hour counting the seconds exactly and it lines up perfectly.
It's 06:28 now. Their ears are ringing. They can’t tell if they’re numb to this torture or oversensitive to it.
They sigh. They’re so bored. They just want to beg already. They want to fall asleep. They’ll have to do the whole school day as usual, homework included. It’ll be shoddy.
They hunch their shoulders at the system put in place so that they can’t rest. Hurts.
The door unlocks, creaking open. Light floods in. They squint, gasping. Yes, finally. This better not be a hallucination. No, no way, none of their other ones have been so life-like. It’s much too bright, so they tear up a little as they force their eyes to flutter open, but they wouldn’t dare not be alert.
Assorted roses in red and black. Lady Cecilia. She’s standing there. They must collect themselves.
“..permission to speak?” Walenty rasps. Their voice is rough, unprofessional, far too desperate. Chains clink from the simple act of them trying to face her better. They didn’t even try to seem panicked, but that’s what they displayed. That’s bad, they had asked to talk, so following protocol, but then displayed desperation. Two separate approaches are mixing and now they have to stick with it despite having not even gauged her mood yet.
Walenty mouths a “please.” Cecilia steps forward, looks at them. They look back, making eye contact. Glistening red with yellow and pink, like a ruby. Nothing new. If this is a hallucination, they can’t tell.
The teen can’t help but flinch when she grabs their face, obviously just for an inspection. Even though it’s normal, they instinctively look away, breath hitching before they hurry to fix it. The sound of overhead chains knocking against each other is so loud. Walenty must be shaking, then.
“Granted,” she gives her blessing, letting go of their chin — Thank the Stars — and steps back, her own hands interlocking.
“I’m deeply sorry,” they lower their head as if they’re bowing. This is the closest they can physically get to it when their limbs are locked in place. “Yesterday, I was meant to complete important work, and I ruined it, I’m sorry—” they make their voice higher for that one word, “—I didn’t intend to, I would never, I tried and tried and tried to rewrite the report, I couldn’t recall enough, I’m so sorry.” They suck in a breath, frantic. “I’ll fix it, I swear I will, please let me fix it, please,” Is this not enough begging for her? “I can do better, I swear I can, please please I won’t fail again ple—”
“Enough.”
They stop.
Walenty breathes in. Holds. They barely had time to do something as simple as breathing during the whole performance. It added to the desperation of it all, but now they’re fighting not to pant in an undignified, disgusting way that would assure Cecilia they can’t conduct themselves and need more time in here, but then their brain really would turn to mush.
“I can see that you regret your mistake.” Of course they do. “However, regret does not reverse damage.”
She steps towards the wall, easily holding down the laver to extend the chain. Walenty tries to find their footing so that they can turn around to be uncuffed properly, but they’re utterly exhausted, so of course their balance is terrible. They stand on shaky legs, trying not to step this and that way.
The sensation of being on a flat surface is wonderful. So wonderful they only snap back to reality when the cuffs are released. It wasn't particularly tight and gloves served as padding, so Walenty doesn't need to heal themselves. That’s one good thing, at least— they’re certain they wouldn't be allowed to if they had needed it.
She walks back to her previous place, staring them down. Walenty falters, unsure if they’re supposed to return her gaze, or bow, or kneel and grovel. Which is most respectful? Which one is appropriate to the situation? Usually, they’d be able to figure it out so much faster, but they just can't think.
There’s no time. Walenty settles on kneeling. Their shaking is visible and they’re having trouble holding the pose, but that doesn't matter.
“I intended on having you clean up after yourself,” Cecilia speaks, sharp as always. She’s dissapointed. She’s always dissapointed. “Nonetheless, it's clear you’re incapable of even that little.”
Ah.
She genuinely planned for Walenty to rewrite the report.
They were supposed to be able to do that.
“…I apologize,” the teen —she expects them to be able to do the work of a professional while sleep deprived, that’s insane, it doesn’t work like that— finds their voice.
She doesn’t respond. Their torturer merely approaches them and lifts their chin. They look her in the eyes.
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cw: institutionalized violence, abuse of authority, torture, interrogation, vague threats of noncon, forced to strip (referenced)
an Asbury POV drabble for @paperprinxe
÷÷÷
He almost feels sorry for number 3844.
No family, no friends. From a planet so backwater he doesn't even have a birth certificate on record. Scars and tattoos put on display by the strip search, marks of a lifetime of gang violence.
Part of Asbury knows it's no small wonder the boy joined the Riot Kings. What else could he do with the hand life had dealt him? But he still joined the Riot Kings, and that does tend to put one at odds with the Fleet.
Asbury watches ‘44 squirm in his chair through one-way glass. Name, age, and hometown are all in bold at the top of the file he was handed when he stepped through the door, but he let them slip through his mind at the earliest convenience. Right now, the prisoner doesn't need a name. He's just a number, just a suspect. Two simultaneous detonations at the Imhotep Healthcare Directory yesterday, and Mainfleet wants someone booked for it. Maybe ‘44 did it. Maybe he didn't. Either way, Asbury will get his confession.
The interrogation room is kept at a cool fifty-three degrees. 3844 is stripped to his boxers, ankles chained to the ground to keep him from curling his legs to his chest. All by design, of course. It's only when the suspect is openly shivering that Asbury opens the door and takes a seat across from him, a thick jacket zipped up to his throat and a smile on his face.
“Sorry to keep you waiting.”
‘44 doesn't reply. Typical song and dance. All the Riot Kings think they're tough shit, but he's had the majority of his intakes in tears by five o’clock. ‘44 won't be any different.
“I'm sure you know why you're here. Big explosion. Property damage, civilian casualties, all sorts of bad things, and you're our number one suspect.” He taps a few buttons on the side of the table, and a digital form appears in front of ‘44. “Mainfleet thinks you did it. I can't say I disagree. So I'll give you a chance to take the easy way out. Sign a confession, accept your sentence, done.” Asbury slips a stylo from his sleeve, rolling it across the table to where ‘44 is hunched, eyes locked on the confession form. The line for his name, the box for his thumbprint.
“Come on, it isn't difficult.” He folds his arms, leaning back to watch him. “One quick signature and this will all be over.”
‘44 doesn't seem to want it to be over. They never do. They never know what's coming. Asbury doesn't miss the way his eyes trail from the stylo to the document, perhaps considering. But then his stare locks onto a spot directly in front of him, and Asbury knows a choice has been made.
Maybe he thinks there's not enough evidence. Maybe it's just pride, rearing its head for one last hurrah. But there's a reason there's no cameras in the interrogation room. There's a reason they don't snap an intake photo until after initial questioning's complete.
‘44 tenses as Asbury comes up behind him, chains rattling as his hands try to raise and shield his head. Unfortunately for him, there isn't nearly enough length for that. The suspect's head bounces off the table as Asbury slams it forward, nose cracking on impact. He lets out a startled gasp of pain, the loudest sound he's heard '44 make so far.
He always gives them a chance to do this the easy way.
Asbury palms the back of the suspect's head, slowly forcing it onto the table, shoulder over wrist until the full weight of his torso is keeping him down. He gently rocks his skull back and forth, all pressure on that broken nose as ‘44 shrieks.
It's rare a suspect takes his offer. A Riot King certainly never has, so he isn't surprised. Just a little disappointed at the repeat mistake.
‘44 lets out a whine as he pinches a piercing between his thumb and forefinger, stud pulling at the cartilage of his ear. Asbury uses the leverage to steer him, repositioning his head so his cheek is pressing into the table, face smeared red.
It doesn't take a confession to book a Riot King, but it's the most surefire way to keep them locked up. One more criminal off the streets, one less danger to the public. Even if it's likely ‘44 is the perpetrator, it doesn't matter if he is or not. He would've done something similar eventually. They all do.
“I told you to take the easy way out,” he says, still pinching ‘44’s ear to keep him still. “Of course, it isn't too late.” He releases the suspect, taking a step back. “I'm just as willing to keep this going as I am to take an early lunch. Really, that's all up to you.”
“Fuck you,” ‘44 mumbles. Ah, look at that. Finally talking. Asbury shrugs off the expletive, once again more disappointed than surprised. Time and time again, the Riot Kings have proven they'd rather suffer needlessly than cooperate. But what else should he expect from a group of misguided punks?
“Alright, I see you want to keep going.” He kneels beside him. “Are you right or left handed?”
No response. He sighs exaggeratedly.
“I'll take a guess then.”
There's about an inch of slack between the metal leg of the chair and the wristcuff; nowhere near enough to enable ‘44’s struggles, but he still does his damnedest as Asbury catches a bony finger and snaps it, wincing as ‘44 lets out a deafening scream right next to his head.
He really needs to start wearing earplugs, or his tinnitus is going to keep getting worse.
Breaking every finger would be overkill, so Asbury stops after the index and the pointer. If ‘44 remains stubborn, he'll dislocate the left thumb next, but he'd prefer not to stack on any more injuries than necessary for something as simple as a confession.
When he stands, ‘44 is slumped against the table, taking heaving, pain-pitched breaths through his mouth.
“I hope you weren't left-handed,” Asbury says, eyeing the stylo. “But even if you are, as of right now, you have a set of fingers that are still good to go. As of right now.” He leans on the table, eyes fixated on ‘44’s blood-smeared face.
“Unfortunately, you may not have the privilege of using your remaining set for very much longer. See, I'm here to entice you to sign a paper, and if you have two broken hands, you can't do that. And if you can't sign a paper…” He shrugs. “Well, there's no point in me being here, is there?”
‘44’s eyes are wide as he stares up at Asbury. There's fear there now, he notes with satisfaction. Exactly what he needs to get this ball rolling.
“Without a signed confession, we'll have to proceed the old-fashioned way,” he continues. “Gathering evidence, building a case, prosecuting. Consumes time and resources. And that whole time, you'll be in a holding cell. Not the end of the world, the guards will make sure you're fed, but some of them will also be looking for… company.” He shrugs. “And you'll have two broken hands.”
The suspect's eyes widen a fraction, breaths hissing through clenched teeth as Asbury leans on the table beside him, hips just about level with ‘44’s face.
“And sure, eventually the investigation team will find what they're after. One way or another, you'll be going to Phaestus.” He feels the suspect flinch as he reaches down to brush his thumb across his cheekbone.
“All it really boils down to is how long you'd like to spend in that holding cell.”
÷÷÷
Maybe ‘44 was left-handed after all.
The name that winds up scrawled at the bottom of the page is a scribbling mess. Then again, that could just be his handwriting. The Riot Kings aren't exactly known for being educated.
‘44 looks defeated when the guards come in to drag him away, and Asbury swears he can see tears shining at the corners of his eyes. A part of him wishes he could snap a picture of this moment, show today's rebel youth what happens when you join up with terrorists, but that isn't his job, is it?
He leaves the puddle of blood and spit on the table for the cleaners.
Beside it, right where the digital form had glowed, sits a bloodied stylo and a thumbprint in perfect scarlet.
“Uh, Boss?” Carewhumper lifted their head from their work and turned around to glare at the subordinate who’d interrupted them.
“Do you need something?”
“Yeah uh- you see-“
“Speak up, if this is important.”
“It is, your uh- ‘pet’ arrived.” Carewhumper rolled their eyes. So the dog arrived, big deal!
“Okay? And? You truly can’t take care of a Labrador for a few hours while I work? My business is incredibly important and-“
“No, boss, I’m sorry but there’s some kind of mistake. They sent a person in a kennel.”
Now that had Carewhumper’s attention. They stood, abandoning their work and moving past their employee.
“Show me.” Did Whumper intend to send a person? Did Whumper think Carewhumper would enjoy this? They would need a thorough ‘talking to’ if they thought this would be okay.
Ambushing them just at the beginning of their lunchbreak and requiring them to urgently deliver those documents to the department in the building the furthest away.
The boss turning down air conditioning on a hot day to save money.
Manager whumpee who is tasked to take the blame/blow for something negative that happened in the company.
Whumpee caught in a power war of two superiors, being used as a weapon in a corporate sense.
Boss whumper who loves torturing his employees with dozens of unnecessary meetings/video calls.
Employee whumper who knows boss is hopelessly dependent on them and plans to exploit that.
Boss whumpee crying because he just lost his chance on that christmas bonus because of his stupid employees.
Whumpee doing so much overtime their personal life is neglected and starts to fade and loses relevance.
The whole business is moving to a slightly cheaper country. Lose your job or move along to a country where the only familiar thing is our company and its people.
"Here, we are like family" but a very dysfunctional/abusive family.
