#mark davies

Mark gave a lazy salute and started to walk back to his trailer. The trailer he really didn’t want to go back to. He ducked through the crew and arena staff running around, weaving through them until he was at the backdoor. He pushed through and felt the cool air on his flushed skin.

He walked much slower outside. The back lot was empty, save his trailer, so he didn’t need to worry about people for right now. He didn’t have to worry about cameras, or press, or fans, or staff, or his Manager, or his image. For just a moment, he could stop and look up at the sky.

He knew there were stars there, but he couldn’t see them. There was too much light in the city, too many thin, grey clouds in the sky. Even without the stars, the cool breeze was heavenly, even if it would only last a few moments.

If he was any other artist, finishing a show would be exciting, a time to celebrate. A time to sit with his friends or family and decompress after the adrenalin of the lights and the screaming fans. If he was any other artist, his trailer would be a comfortable space for him. A space where he could relax and rest.

If he was any other artist, he could pause under the moon just to look at it.

But he wasn’t any other artist; he was Mark Davies, and he was too well trained to disobey.

The trailer door opened with a squeak and the floor dipped every so slightly as he stepped in. His eyes scanned the room and hallway quickly, letting out a shaky breath. He was alone. Maybe his Manager was busy somewhere else. Maybe he didn’t even catch the show. Maybe he was just feeling generous.

Mark rubbed the back of his neck. He was glad Sir wasn’t here, but also a little sad. Sir would always take his collar off before a show, and put it back on after. It had been kind of hard at first, but it was better now.

Collar off, he was Mark Davies; platinum artist and performer. He knew how to charm people, to entertain, to perform, and how to keep everything marketable and acceptable to the widest general audience. He knew how to smile and laugh and wink his way through anything. Which ways to angle himself to the paparazzi, which times to pause for a longer fan interaction, which interviewers he could distract with a bite of his lip and the tilt of his head.

Collar on, he was just another pet. Waiting silently by his Sir’s side, following his orders when he gave them. Behaving. Going to the people Sir told him to go to. He knew how to keep close and not get in the way, how to keep his eyes down and keep quiet. He knew how to be a good pet, and he liked it.

He liked the kind words and soft pats of his head. He liked it when Sir wrapped his arm around his shoulder, pulling him close to show him off to his friends. He liked it when they were home and he could just sit by his Sir’s chair and watch tv. He liked being a pet, it was calm and simple.

Being Mark Davies was exhausting, and he was ready to go to sleep. He wanted his collar and to curl up with his Sir. Sir didn’t want him like he was trained, but it was enough to just be close to him. He could only really sleep with another body in the bed, and he really wanted to sleep tonight.

The trailer dipped slightly again, and Mark turned around. His Manager was alone, so he let the smile fade from his face, eyes drifting down submissively.

“You missed a cue.”

Mark swallowed, but he didn’t look up. He had tried, he really had, but it was his third month on the road. The tour was exhausting; eyes on him all the time. It was hours and hours everyday without his collar, and it was starting to get to him. His head hurt almost all the time, and it felt like the skin on his neck crawled. He had asked if he could wear a choker, just to feel a little better, but Sir had shot it down. Said it didn’t fit with the image the stylist created.

Said it was too reminiscent of pets.

“I’m sorry, Sir.”

Douglass Archer huffed. “Yeah, you should be. Should be sorry, especially with the combination of that and your little fiasco with the interview yesterday. Keep making stupid mistakes like that and people are going to start digging deeper into your past. Do you want them to come and take you away from me?”

Mark’s heart beat faster, heat rushing to his cheeks. He had said he was sorry for forgetting the lines Sir gave him. The interviewer had this symbol on his necklace, it made Mark’s head hurt to look at, and he felt like he had recognized it. He had lost his train of thought and gotten the dates of his next release wrong. He had tried to fix it, and the interviewer didn’t even seem to notice. But Sir had.

“No, Sir.” He didn’t want to be taken away. He really didn’t. Sir wasn’t mean to him, and he let him sing and perform. Sir didn’t want him like he was trained, but that was okay. He was for Sir, not for his training. He was fine. Besides, Sir gave him to other people sometimes. And sometimes it wasn’t so bad.

“Well then, you need to stop making these stupid mistakes. Shirt off and change out of those jeans,” Douglass ordered, locking the trailer door.  

“Yes, Sir.” Mark turned to the side of the trailer and pulled a pair of navy running shorts from the luggage. He slipped off the jeans his stylist had set out for the show and put the shorts on. He pulled off the leather jacket and white t-shirt, hanging the jacket up and putting the sweat-soaked shirt in the laundry. When he came back to his Manager, Douglass was standing next to the treadmill with a thin black belt with little boxes hanging off it in his hand.

“Position 15.”

It felt like Mark’s body was moving automatically, feet planting in the laminate floor, arms raising above his head. Douglass secured the belt with the heartrate monitor around his chest, the prongs of the shock box digging into the skin on his back.

Tears were welling in Mark’s eyes. He was so tired, he just wanted to sleep tonight. He was tired, he wouldn’t be able to run and then it would hurt. He didn’t want to hurt, he wanted to sleep. His Sir tightened the band and pushed him up on the treadmill. He whimpered softly as he shifted on the rubber track.

“Oh hush. You’ll be fine. Besides, summer is coming up and we’ve got a couple brands that want to do some photoshoots. Two birds, one stone.” He started it at the third level, but Mark knew he would raise it later. He let Mark run for a few moments before he set the base heartrate with a small remote. Any heartrate lower than that would activate the shock box.

For the first few minutes, it was fine. Sir had set up a fitness plan for Mark, including a personal trainer when they were home, so he was fine to run for a few minutes. Or he would have been, if he hadn’t been touring for three months and just gave a two-hour concert.

A minute passed and Sir reached over and ticked the speed up.

Mark changed his pace, determined. However, his determination had already been undermined by his worn-out body. Too soon, his legs began to ache, and his heart was raging in his throat. Soon, every movement made his stomach roll. He popped his feet up to the plastic sides of the treadmill, trying to catch his breath. His head was down, watching the rubber belt fly underneath him at a concerning rate.

“If you throw up, you won’t get anything else tonight.” Douglass was barely paying attention, scrolling through his phone on the couch across the small room.

“Yes… Sir…” Mark panted. He knew that. He knew, but it was impossible. Sir always made him run so hard that he threw up every time.

He only stops when you vomit. He wants you to.  

Mark pushed the thoughts out of his head and pressed his sweaty hair out of his face. No, no that wasn’t right. He hated throwing up because Sir was so thoughtful to keep him on a strict meal plan. He was so thoughtful to keep him healthy and in shape. He was thoughtful and Mark was grateful. He had to be grateful.

He had to start running again. If he let his heartrate get too low, it would hurt. It would hurt, and he would hurt, and Sir would just make him get back on. Maybe if he just pushed through Sir would let him stop, just tonight. Maybe. Mark took a last breath and started again.

It was even shorter this time, stopping about a minute after he started. Sweat was dripping off his brow, itching on his nose and lips. His legs burned and his chest felt tight. His stomach - no he couldn’t think about that. Not now. He closed his eyes and held onto the bar as he felt his balance wane.

Closing his eyes was a bad idea. Just the thought of sleep clung onto him strongly, too strongly. He focused on his breathing, on calming the fire raging in his chest, trying to make the room stop swaying. Finally, he got a proper breath, letting it out slowly.

Then his back lit up. Electricity stabbed through his muscles, convulsing and locking them tight. He let out a cry as his legs gave out from under him. His shoulder hit the belt of the treadmill hard, but he was only there for a moment before it flung him into the cabinet behind him.

He hit it with his back and his head. His vision blurred and the room tilted even farther. Mark’s neck went weak, and his temple dropped to the ground. There was a sharp pain in his side, and vaguely he guessed he must have hit one of the cabinet’s handles. His back was already starting to feel sore from the shock, muscles screaming at him in despair. His chest heaved, trying desperately to make up for pain of the shock and the exercise.

Douglass grabbed his shoulder roughly, turning him on his stomach. Mark groaned at the movement but went pliant.

“Idiot. That’s gonna bruise. Thankfully it’s just on your back.” He pressed down on the red mark, a perfect imprint of the handle, and Mark cried out.

“S-sor-rry, Sir-r” he mumbled, fighting his own mouth to make the sounds.

“Sorry isn’t good enough kid. What even was that? I spend all this money on a personal trainer, and you can’t go ten minutes?”  He crouched down next to Mark’s head before he hit the button on the remote. Pain shot through his back again, stabbing under his sin. Mark cried out, back arching. He kept crying even when jolt stopped. He curled in on himself, arms tucked into his chest.

“I-I’m-m-m so-r-rry, Sir. P-l-lease, I’ll, I’ll do be-e-etter,” he stuttered. His breath came in short gasps, never enough oxygen to stop his fully body shakes.  

“Yeah, you will. Get up.” Mark wanted to, he really did, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t move. All he could do was curl tighter and cry. Douglass rolled his eyes and grabbed Mark’s forearm, hauling him up and back to the treadmill. It was still running at the same speed, so he turned if off and pulled Mark onto it.

Mark kept his arms tucked into his chest, tears streaming down his face, not daring to look any higher than Sir’s belt.

“Do I have to tie you to the bar? Hmm?”

Mark shook his head desperately. He didn’t want to be dragged against the belt as it moved under him. Sir wouldn’t like the marks it left either, and he just wanted his Sir to be happy. He tried to make him happy, every day, but he could never do enough. He had to be perfect, he knew that Sir had paid a lot of money for him to be perfect, but he couldn’t do it. Not all the time, every day.

“Good. Go.” Douglass turned the machine on again, and Mark let it move him for a moment before he started walking. Sir was being kind, he put it on a lower setting this time around. Even after Mark had messed up and damaged himself, Sir was still being kind. Mark wanted to do better, to make Sir happy, to be good, but he couldn’t. But he had to try.

Douglass turned the speed up again until Mark was running and stood back. Less than a minute later, Mark nearly dove off the side, making it to the small trash time in time before he threw up. Internally, Douglass was impressed. He had made if farther than he though he would, especially tonight. Still not far enough, but the progress was clear. He would let his trainer know.

Mark lifted his head from the trashcan and rolled over onto his back, ignoring the pressure it put one the box and how it dug into this ribs. He had tried, and he had failed. Again. Like he always did. His mouth felt acidic and bitter, nose stuffy, tears running down his temples. His chest heaved and he closed his eyes. Whether Sir liked it or not, Mark was going to pass out any minute.

Douglass crouched next to him and loosened the band around his chest. He took it in one hand and grabbed a blanket. He balled it up and threw it at Mark where he lay on the ground, landing on and around his face.

“If you can get up, clean yourself up before you go to sleep. We’re rolling out at 6:00 am tomorrow morning, and I expect you to be ready.” He turned off the lamp in the hallway and left, locking the door behind him.

Mark wanted to sob, to curl up in a ball and never come out, but he was too tired, too sore, too miserable to even move. He reached up slowly and pulled the fabric off his face. His fingers curled around the blanket, but that was as far as he got. He was too hot and sweaty to put it over himself, but he would still grab onto it. It was all the comfort he was going to get tonight.

Nik (this includes some things that I will write, so more spoilery than the others)

Goes home. For real. He gets out, gets human caretakers (this part will be written) and goes home. He goes back to school because the schedule and familiarity is comforting. True to his word, he becomes a teacher and is a very, very good one. 

Later in life he’s known for his critical thinking and wisdom. He keeps in contact with his Human caretakers, staying a friend to their children’s children and down their line. 

Brody

Gets help. Gets out and finds Kayla and Aries to rebuild his family (plus a couple people he picks up along the way). He gets connected to an underground ring that helps former pets, gets his chip removed, earns his GED. 

Has a steady job, gets married, adopts a bunch of kids. Like 10. Some from the regular foster system, some rescued pets that are funneled to him. Full on 7 passenger van, little league and sleepovers family. 

Full on Dad. Like, top 5 worst Dad jokes and khakis. Loves his kids more than anything else in the world. Kayla and Aries live close by and pop in often. 

Silver

It takes time, but he evens out. Goes back to his colony and ends up going into their political/governmental system. He ends up managing/running a large section of the colony, and he does a damn good job. He’s on top of things, takes no shit, makes sure the people under him are treated fairly and respectfully. 

Takes control of his life and finds a professional to help him work through everything that he’s been through. Sees this person regularly for the rest of his life, the later years shifting more towards productivity, mindfulness and self-improvement vs recovery. 

Really popular, invited to every party because he’s a good boss and has countless stories to tell from his reckless youth. 

Hilton

Goes to school online, becomes a data analyst for DIFC. Genuinely enjoys his job and the life he built for himself. Griffin and him stay close, doing holidays together with their ragtag group of friends. 

Later in life, he works with other rare mutations that have harmful sides, mentoring them and helping them take control/feel comfortable with their powers. 

Still goes longboarding every weekend for the rest of his life.

Mark

Now, this one has 2 options but with the same end result, but varies cause the BBU isn’t mine and this would be in a timeline where it breaks apart: 

He blows to whistle on the whole operation. He gives the name of each and every person that knew he was a pet and knew what they were doing behind the scenes. Even from his prison cell, Douglas Archer as to admit that they might have gone a little overboard with the media training, as he’s totally untouchable. Plays into the media perfectly, projecting exactly what they want to see to make them listen to him and take action. 

Or 

Just, goes. Media wise, he just kinda says, “I’m done being famous. Fun while it lasted. Bye guys!” Gets out gets leverage that keeps him safe. They can’t come after him, and he gets some of the royalties to his music signed over to him. 

Either way: 

Takes back his old name, moves to Atlanta to become a music teacher and vocal coach. Grows out a scruffy beard and wears lot’s of beige sweaters. All his students know that the best way to get Mr. Braishfield on your side is to bring him coffee (he’ll already have one, but he’ll accept the second.) 

Sometimes does performances for fundraisers, but he only sings Blues again. He never does another cover of a pop song for as long as he lives. 

The shows still sell out when he has them, but he doesn’t care.

BONUS - the Whumpers get what’s coming to them. 

The Sorcerer - Death comes for us all. 

Sam - Insider trading, goes away for a couple years. No one will hire him when he gets back, and is forced to become a used car salesman. He goes bald and he’s very miserable. 

Corwin - The circus is investigated and he goes to jail for crimes unrelated to Sprite-abuse. 

Victoria/Tyler/Trevor/Conally - Victoria dies in a Syndicate raid, Tyler goes to prison for life, Trevor gets turned into a lab rat after the Syndicate decides he’s more useful that way, Conally is investigated and fired with all rank/honor/pension stripped. He drinks himself to uselessness. 

Douglas Archer - Mark might not call the ethics board on him, but that doesn’t mean that no on does. Goes to prison and goes bankrupt. 

~

Douglas leaned back in his chair and took another drink. His cards were fine, but nothing to write home about. David across from his raised an eyebrow a minute amount, but Douglass had played poker with him long enough to know it was a fake tell.

Mark sat at the table with them but didn’t play. He chatted with the other guys or scrolled on his phone, paying attention absently. Just there.

In the end, Phil won and they called it a night. When everyone was still milling around and finishing up their drinks, Douglass pulled his old friend aside.

“Hey David, you remember that idea I had early last year?”  David gave an amused yet exasperated sigh.

“Oh, come on Doug, you can’t expect me to remember all your hair-brained plots. Just fill me in.”

The other man didn’t answer, arching his brows and grinning like a cheshire cat.

David ran his tongue across his teeth and tried to remember which one of the plots would impress itself so hard into his friend’s memory when the others hadn’t. He groaned.

“The WRU one? Doug, there’s no way-“

Douglas put a finger up to stop him and turned his head.

“Mark? Show some respect.”

Mark had been standing off to the side, chatting with Phil. At the command, a thud rang through the room and Mark was on his knees, forehead pressed against the floor. Phil took a step back, surprised and muttering curses under his breath.

David’s jaw hung open, and Douglass relished in the responses.

“Holy shit! I didn’t notice anything! Damn, WRU can really do anything can’t they?” David mussed as he walked over. He snapped his fingers a few times to get Mark’s attention. “Position two.”

Mark sat up on his knees, chin level with the floor and eyes straight ahead. David took his chin and tilted the boy’s head to take a better look.

The boy he had been chatting and laughing with not ten minutes before.

Mark didn’t react, didn’t pull away or flinch. His eyes were different now, distant and softer. His body language was tense and stiff. Breathing shallow.

“This is crazy impressive. I think if I had mine try and act like a real person, you’d be able to see whatever’s left of her brain dripping out her ears. She’d last less than a minute before breaking out in tears.”

The man studied Mark’s blank expression for another moment before a slight look of confused amusement came over his face.

“Position 6.”

Mark brought his arms out, wrists up, and the man pulled up the sleeve on his right arm. Then his left.

“No barcode? How’d you get away with that? I thought that was some kind of requirement or something.” Douglass grinned and pulled a small black flashlight out of his pocket.

David nearly laughed at how well planned out this was. The meeting, the big reveal, everything.

He clicks it on and shines it on the skin of the boy’s right wrist, lighting up a previously hidden tattoo. Under the light, his barcode and the numbers are easily read.

“Ooh, very nice. But what if he gets lost?” Douglas turned off the light and put it back in his pocket with raised eyebrows.

“Oh, this kid’s going to be a superstar. Won’t be able to get five feet from me or a bodyguard, hell even the paparazzi. He’s not going anywhere.”

He reaches down and tugs at the boy’s hair playfully. His hands are still out in front of him, waiting for further instruction.

“Besides, he’s still chipped so you’re really not going anywhere are you, Mark?”

“No, Sir.” His voice is different now, soft and docile. David shakes his head in amazement.

“This is just crazy, man. Mark, what’s your designation?”

“Platonic, Sir.” His manager arched an eyebrow and grabbed the boy’s bun, pulling his head backwards.

“And?”

Mark swallowed as he leaned back to try and get enough slack to breath properly. He nearly jerked his arms back for balance, but he knew Sir would want him to be perfect for his friend. Perfect for the crowds and the pictures and the crew and for him. Perfect, perfect, perfect. Never a detail overlooked or glance in the wrong direction for too long.

He had just wanted to sing. He had just wanted to be an artist.

You signed up for this.

“Platonic w-with secondary ro-mantic training, Sir,” he squeaked out. His hair was released, and he fell forward slightly as he took a deep breath. He fought a shiver as David laughed. Whenever possible, Mark skirted around his saying romantic training. It was okay, he could be good, but wasn’t made for it. He was made for Sir, and Sir didn’t want him for that.

He’s supposed to, though. He’s supposed to want me but he doesn’t. The handlers told me that my owner would want me but he doesn’t. He doesn’t and he never will. People say I’m supposed to love him but they never taught me to do that and he doesn’t want me like that. 

“How does that work? Isn’t that some sort of oxymoron or something?” asked Phil, stepping forward and eyeing Mark with a different kind of look.

That was the other reason he didn’t want to mention his secondary training. Mark like to imagine that he shied away, but in reality, he stayed perfectly still. He could only pretend, only imagine leaning away from the hands that would come and touch and touch and touch.

“Oh he’s a platonic for me and a romantic for anyone who wants to sleep with a superstar.”

Mark swallowed again, hoping that it wasn’t noticeable. He didn’t love Sir, but he didn’t hate him. He was trained for him and he cared about him, but he knew it wasn’t mutual. It wasn’t even; Sir was still his owner and Mark was his pet. His pet that he could make do whatever he wanted.

The handlers told me collars are safe and my owner wants me, but I don’t get to wear mine most of time and he doesn’t want me. Mine doesn’t he want me. I must have done something wrong or misunderstood or something because something is missing and he doesn’t want me. But he gives me away to other people and I don’t understand. 

Why did he let them train me for him and then not want me? 

No, no no no bad. 

It’s okay it’s okay it’s okay.  

Phil used his foot to push down Mark’s shaking arms. He crouched down and lifted the boy’s chin with a smile.

“God, why didn’t we think of this years ago? Could have saved Hollywood quite a bit of trouble and maybe even a few scandals.”