#nonconsensual touch

After setting the chair in about the center of the room, the Man approaches Marcus, who pointlessly shifts himself even further back against the wall.

He dreads that chair.

At first, he struggles against the Man’s hold, even though he knows he has no hope of defending himself against the strong hands, against the arms that visibly roll with sturdy muscle. The Man’s muscle is the sort that you can tell at a glance is for utility and not just for show. The room is now lit by stark grey light, coming from an exposed bulb, and by it, Marcus can see that the Man is clearly middle aged--however, no weaker for it. There will be no defending himself physically against this man. But the comment he made about Marcus being “sweet,” and “calming down” after he’d hit him, doesn’t sit well with the boy. He wants to prove that he is not as passive as he seems. 

The man smiles at him for a moment the way one might smile at a precocious child, or perhaps an intelligent dog, and then, grabbing a fistful of Marcus’s hair, slams his head so hard into the concrete wall that his vision goes black and he loses use of his limbs.

Great.

That should help his headache.

Mostly unconscious, he can feel the Man unlocking the shackles from his wrists, but the relief that it brings to his sore skin is short-lived. Next, he’s aware of is his cotton shirt being lifted over his head and removed completely. The cold air of the room pierces his skin like thousands of needles. The Man now lifts Marcus quite easily, letting his head and arms hang loose as he carries him to the chair. The restraints clamp into place with one cold, metallic clack each, which echo dully off of the concrete walls and floor.

As Marcus is struggling to full awareness after the knock against the wall (the evidence of which he can feel in the warm tickling sensation of a small stream of blood dripping down his temple), he feels that the restraints are lined with some sort of fabric. This does nothing to make them any more comfortable, other than the fact that at least they aren’t too cold on his bare skin. The neck restraint is definitely the worst part. It allows for almost no movement of his head. He can’t breathe right. Every time he swallows, his Adam’s apple rubs uncomfortably against the rough fabric-lined metal. There’s no way to move himself up into a more comfortable position either, due to the wrist restraints. He’s trapped. That thought unfortunately sends spikes of panic through him, into his feet and hands, into his stomach, his heart, and his lungs—which makes it even more difficult to breathe. His limbs begin to shake.

Immediately after regaining full consciousness, he wishes he could pass out again. The man is in the act of bringing in a cart with what looks like some sort of machine on top of it. It’s a large black box with switches and a dial, and several wires seem to come out from somewhere on the back. It’s these wires that are Marcus’s first clue as to what sort of thing is about to be done to him. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that he’s about to be forced through something altogether unpleasant.

And for what?

How had the Man said it before? First, he had called Marcus a “project.” The memory of the word turns Marcus’s stomach again. Then he had said, “I’m going to see just how long it takes for you to be totally destroyed,” and what was the specific word? …right, “malleable.” 

That’s a word that Marcus has heard thousands of times when working with clay. The clay is hard and formless, a lump of dead matter until the creator’s hands get on it. It softens in the heat of the hands as it’s worked until it can be shaped into something completely unrecognizable compared to what it once was. The clay has no purpose until or beyond that which is given to it by the sculptor.

Marcus can see that the Man thinks of himself as a sculptor, and from the way he talks, it’s clear his “projects” are his clay. How many people has this man crushed, squashed beneath his fists? How many has he pulled and stretched beyond what is natural, twisting them to fit his own sick design? Marcus decides right now that he will not be one of them.

That’s the only thing he’s ever had—his will. And his will is strong. Hasn’t he survived his life up to this point when so many thought he wouldn’t? He isn’t hardened, or physically strong, but he’s never let his will crumble. Not completely. 

Right now he’s cold, and confused, and he trembles where he sits clamped into the chair. But he’s got his will, even now, and he’ll hold on to it with the same determination he always has, regardless of what happens. He’ll just have to. 

The Man will bend his body, but how can you bend a spirit? Not without consent. Marcus is not going to give it.

The man wheels the cart so that it sits about a foot away from Marcus. As he takes a minute to arrange the wires coming out of the box, Marcus is able to see that each one ends in a small square pad. The Man finishes untangling each one (there are eight in all), setting them neatly side-by-side, before reaching onto the bottom shelf of the cart and pulling out a couple of little square packets. One, he sets down next to the machine, and the other he rips open, pulling out what appears to be an alcohol wipe.

“You’re already mostly hairless,” the Man remarks as he unfolds the wipe, “That makes this easier. I won’t have to shave you, which saves time and effort for me. Besides, that may have gotten a bit messier than I’d like things to get so soon.” He winks, causing Marcus to grimace.

The Man stoops down, wipe in hand, and Marcus unintentionally shifts in discomfort at the approach. Of course, he can’t move away even the slightest fraction, and the Man’s ever-present smirk grows a little at the attempt.

He uses the wipe to clean four small areas on Marcus’s abdomen, two right under his navel, and two further up, just a couple of inches below his ribs. Marcus sucks in a shocked breath when the cold wipe first makes contact with the sensitive skin of his lower stomach. The Man makes no comment, but again, his smirk grows.

Finishing on his abdomen, the Man stuffs the used wipe back in what remains of its package and opens the second one. This wipe he uses to clean spots on Marcus’s chest and on the front sides of his biceps. Marcus observes that each site is over a large muscle. 

The sterilized patches of skin are pink and overly sensitive to the air, which makes his trembling worse. He really wishes he weren’t shivering so much--mostly because he knows that the Man will take it for fear, and although Marcus would like to tell himself it’s only the cold, deep down even he knows that’s not entirely the case. He focuses hard to still his body, but only succeeds in reminding himself how desperate he is to be able to move at all, and his muscles clench in protest of having to remain so still.

“How much do you know about electricity, Marcus?” The Man asks suddenly, looking directly into Marcus’s eyes with the same sort of look that Marcus remembers very distinctly from every science teacher he’s ever had.

Marcus gives no answer. This will be part of his resistance, he thinks. He won’t speak. He will give this man no more information about himself than he already has--no word, no insight--not even a single sound. Nothing that might give the Man an advantage against him.

The corners of the Man’s eyes crinkle as he realizes that his wait for a response will be in vain. Reaching onto the bottom shelf again, he retrieves a pair of black latex gloves and pulls them onto his hands, stretching and clenching his long fingers to make them fit snugly.

“This,” he says, holding one of the square pads delicately between his gloved fingers, “Is called an electrode. It adheres directly to the skin.” Saying this, he places the pad over the pink patch of sterile skin on Marcus’s left pectoral. “It is connected by the wire to this big, lovely box here.” He runs his forefinger and thumb along the wire, to the machine and then gives it an almost affectionate pat with his hand. “These,” he says, fingering the dial and switches and tapping a couple of them rhythmically, “control how much electricity runs from the box, through the wire, and into your body.” The statement is punctuated with a sharp poke to the pad attached to Marcus’s chest.

The restrained young man’s eyes roll slightly, and his brow creases in dismay. Seeming delighted by this, the man chuckles and begins attaching the second electrode, this one on the other side of Marcus’s chest.

“Now,” he continues, “The human body is an incredible thing. We are naturally very resistant to small electrical currents. In fact,” he pats at his own chest and abdomen with one hand, “we’re really made up of them. Did you know that, Marcus? Every action from speech, to movement, to the minutest workings of our autonomic nervous system--it’s all made up of thousands of tiny electrical currents firing through our body, telling our brain what to do. Human beings are truly intricate machines. It’s incredible.” The Man seems momentarily lost in the wonder of the things he describes. He stares silently at the machine for a moment before suddenly, his eyes give a cold flash and dart back to Marcus’s. His smirk is gone. “Have you ever seen what happens to a machine that’s given more power than it can take?” Still unsmiling, he returns to the work of attaching the electrodes to Marcus’s skin, and continues. “They become overpowered. Complex systems, literally designed to be run on electricity, are suddenly hit with more of it than they were ever meant to support and they begin to break down. They fry.” 

Marcus stares, unblinking. As he listens, he almost forgets the real meaning behind this explanation--the malefic weight it carries for him. He is simply rapt by the Man’s words, so full of intelligent passion.

“Human machines are the same way.” he concludes.

Marcus’s moment of contented forgetfulness is abruptly shattered. 

As the Man places the last pad on Marcus’s lower abdomen, he brushes his fingers gently over the skin there. Marcus automatically tries to shift away from the touch, which seems to greatly amuse the Man, who leaves his fingers where they are for several seconds longer, staring into Marcus’s eyes. Testing him. There is something so revolting in the intimacy of the touch that Marcus nearly groans in disgust. But he doesn’t. He simply stares back into the Man’s taunting hazel eyes, which seem so dark with wicked thought and intent, his own full of fury. His jaw hurts with how hard it is clenched.

Smiling once more, the Man pats Marcus patronizingly on the stomach before standing and turning back to the cart, pulling off his gloves in the process. He picks up a small black remote that is attached to the machine by a thin chord.

“Now, human beings have been ‘fried’ by all different voltage levels before,” he says, matter-of-factly. “The voltage is not actually what matters. The current is what determines whether a person will be lethally harmed by a shock or not. What science has discovered, and what many governments, and regimes, and privately interested individuals--” he gestures to himself, “--have exploited, is that if you administer a shock at a high voltage, but on a low current, the pain produced in the victim will be excruciating enough to make him wish he were dead, but not actually kill him.”

Marcus bites his lips to hide their trembling and the man’s eyes crinkle once more.

“It has become one of the most popular methods of torture in the world. And that is because,” he pauses, chuckling darkly, “while it is extremely effective, if you do it right, there are no messy after-effects to deal with. Now, I’m not above getting my hands dirty. In fact, I rather enjoy it. But as I mentioned earlier, I’d prefer to save the messier things for once we’ve gotten to know each other a little better.” His smile becomes a grin as his thumb strokes almost teasingly over one of the buttons on the remote. “This machine is going to help me get to know you rather well, I think. Tell me, Marcus, in your whole life, have you ever begged for anything?”

It might as well have been a jolt from the machine, the way the question causes dread to surge through Marcus’s body.

But no, he tells himself, I am not clay. I’m not reshape-able. I will not lose myself.

“Have you?” the Man pushes, “Have you ever begged mindlessly, senselessly? Unaware even of what you’re doing or saying, only that you will do anything, say anything just to get relief?”

Marcus’s heart slams wildly, painfully in his chest. His breath catches in his throat, and he’s intensely aware of the shaking of his body.

I will not lose myself.

“I think you might today.”

With no further warning, a wall slams into Marcus with such painful force that he can hardly understand it.

As afraid as Marcus was leading up to this moment, it did not prepare him for how much it hurts. He had known it would, of course, but he’d had no basis for knowing just what kind of pain it was going to be. This is nearly indescribable. It’s like the worst muscular cramp Marcus has ever felt, multiplied by about thirty, and everywhere.

Every muscle is in spasm, his body convulsing with violence, causing him to choke repeatedly on the neck restraint. He’s afraid his teeth will break with how hard he’s gritting them to ensure no sound comes out. He’s not even sure if any could, anyway. 

He can’t breathe—hasn’t breathed since before the pain started, which already feels like an hour ago.

All concept of time and reason are replaced by pain. 

Oh, fuck, oh fuck, it hurts. It hurts!

It’s the loudest thing in his mind—the pain. The burning ache is oppressive upon every part of him in a way he’s never experienced and it won’t stop. 

Uncontrollable is the violent thrashing of his body as energy wrenches through it. His fingers are frozen, splayed and curled like an odd imitation of the bare branches of a tree, and he can’t breathe. He can’t breathe.

God, how long is he going to make this go on for? Surely the Man doesn’t mean to kill him now. After all the talk he’s made about breaking Marcus down, letting him suffocate on the first go seems counterintuitive.

Finally, there’s a change. The oppressive force seems to recede. The spasms, however, do not. The burning lingers, filling every inch of his body, squeezing in and pressing out, and out until his skin feels like it will rip free. His muscles continue to convulse. He can breathe again, but it isn’t easy. And it hurts. 

Everything hurts.

The neck restraint digs into his skin as he gasps for air through his nose, since his jaw is still shut as tightly as if it has been wired closed. Not only does Marcus doubt whether it would be physically possible to open it at the moment, but he’s afraid that if he did, something embarrassing would come out.

He hopes the blurriness of his vision is not from tears, but he honestly can’t tell. Everything is sliding and smearing and oh god, it’s hot--his skin is on fire.

He can’t regulate his breathing, can’t get enough air into his lungs to put out the fire that is still there.

He is only remotely aware of the Man’s gaze taking him in with sadistic hunger. The man’s eyes are fixed and wide. No reaction goes unnoticed, no involuntary movement unappreciated. He watches the stuttering way Marcus’s chest moves in and out, as he desperately tries to make himself breathe. His eyes follow the lines of the jerking body to the boy’s hands, which have clenched now into tight fists, his fingers paling. Marcus’s muscles won’t stop twisting and jerking, alive still with the burning.

The Man wonders for a moment what Marcus might look like now if he were not confined to the chair. How the body might arch and bow. How he might writhe on the ground with his torment. Picturing it makes the Man smile widely. So much to look forward to.

He thinks the young man might be aware enough to talk to now.

Oh, how he wishes that Marcus would’ve made some sort of noise--would make some now--but oh hell, how delicious it is to watch the effort it takes him not to. The veins of his neck are clearly visible under his tan skin, though partially obstructed by the collar. His jaw looks painfully tight.

“How was that?” he asks, finally. Marcus doesn’t respond--of course--but his already irregular breath shudders out of him in an involuntary hiss of anguish. His body gives a particularly violent twitch as the Man chuckles again. “Know how long that was? Sixteen seconds.” He waits, smiling, loving the despairing crease between Marcus’s brows as that information sinks into his addled mind. “And you know, that was a relatively mild setting, all things considered. I admire your attempt at dignity, but really, precious, you’re going to burst blood vessels trying so hard to keep quiet like that.”

He crouches between Marcus’s knees, eyes taking in even the smallest details of his body’s ongoing response to its first brush with such outrageous torment. Unable to help himself, the Man runs a slow hand up Marcus’s now sweat-slick abdomen. He savours the feeling of the agonized muscles still writhing under the skin. The boy makes no attempt to move away from his touch this time--a little too preoccupied at the moment--but a low groan of disgust and frustration half makes its way out of his throat before he’s able to stop it.

Marcus’s first vocalization since the end of their earlier discussion.

The Man stands, grinning. Oh yes. This is going well.

He returns to the cart, picking up the remote again. He’s unable to resist sparing a moment to take in Marcus’s still-recovering form from this angle once more. Gorgeous, all of it. The dark, sweat-soaked hair curling about the despair-stricken face. The still clenched jaw. The chest moving in and out erratically. The wild look in the unfocused brown eyes that shows that the Man is already on the track he wants to be on. 

Marcus is a fighter—as wonderfully strong as the man had perceived.

But he will let down at least one wall before the day is out, the Man thinks. If he won’t beg, I’ll make him scream.

That one noise of disgust was enough to prove that it isn’t a long-shot at all. But what exactly will tip him over the edge? It’s a delicate business, applying just the right amount of pressure to form a line and not a crack. And the Man doesn’t want any cracks—not yet. He must chip carefully at Marcus if he doesn’t want their time together to be cut short.

Still, what’s art, really, without a little risk?

His fingers find the knob as if on their own and click it up two notches. Then one more.

He takes a deep, contented breath, softly smiling as he gazes at the boy who has just barely regained his ability to properly draw a breath. 

Shit. There is nothing better than this.

“We’ll go again now.”

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Kauri feels an absurd, half-hysterical, wild urge to slide onto his knees on the floor, where he’s supposed to be when the handlers come into the room. Something about the plain white walls that had been reassuring last night suddenly feels too tight, closing in on him. 

Kauri’s shoulders hunch, self-protective, and he presses himself back against the wall, as far from Tucker as he can get, but there’s nowhere else to go. 

“He-... he, um, he-...” Kauri swallows, hard. Fix it, make nice, be good, 645898, be good. “I told him my name was Daniel,” He lies fast, and he’s still good at it, it sounds sincere. “He’s not lying, I l-lied to him… I-” His voice catches, and he clears his throat, nervously. “I lied to him, sir. He didn’t lie to you.”

Be good. Be good, you have to be good for them.

“My n-name is Kauri, sir.”

Cass can’t help himself from crumbling as Kauri starts speaking, he folds forward, hands rubbing over his face. Shut up, shut up, just shut the fuck up, you’re gonna make this so much worse.

“Oh, he’s a loyal little puppy isn’t he? Lying for you like that,” Tucker says. Already it’s worse. Cass stares at the bed sheets, shaking his head like that’ll make it go away. He can feel Kauri’s need to placate rolling off of him in waves. Be good. Make nice. It’s only gonna get worse, worse, worse.  “How long did it take you to train that? Or did you just… you know…"

Tucker taps his temple twice, smiling like the devil. Cass glares. He should say something. He should move. He should stand and get dressed and throw Kauri his clothes and haul him the fuck out of here. But he doesn’t. He never fucking does with Tucker. He doesn’t know how.

“Kauri. I like that name,” Tucker says with the shark grin, looking back at his new toy. "I like the ‘sir’, too. You should be taking notes, Ace."

Tucker tilts his head, examining both men thoroughly. Cass glowering, Kauri cowering. Two little kicked dogs. What a fun fucking morning this was turning out to be.

“Tell me, Kauri, did Ace tell you what he does here? What he does to people? Or did you just...” his eyes trail down the young man’s half exposed body, practically sneering with judgement, disgust. “Get straight to business?”

Kauri tries - he does - but he wilts under the sneer, one hand moving to rub at the wicked scar across his collarbone, reflexively pressing against the metal plate still hidden under his skin, the part that couldn't be removed. 

He's tucked into the corner, as far from Tucker as he can get, but it's not far enough. Wide blue eyes skip to his and then away again, unable to focus on any one thing. 

Tucker talks just like a handler. Looks at him the same way, like he's not a person at all. Is he one? Kauri can't help the creeping doubt. 

"No, sir," He says, softly. Voice not quite trembling. "Yes, sir. We didn't t-talk about that."

“Well then you're in for a treat,” Tucker tuts. The longer he speaks to Kauri, the closer his manner and tone draws to that of someone talking to a frightened child. Cass hates him for it, and still he doesn’t do a single thing. 

“What do you think, Ace?” Tucker says, voice lilting playfully as he stands up from the bed. Cass is shaking his head before Tucker even suggests what is to come next, staring furiously at the bed sheets, jaw locked tight. “Shall we play puppets?”

Cass slams his eyes shut. No. No, no, no, fucking no. Kauri is good. Kauri is good and he doesn’t deserve this. Letting him stay was meant to be a good deed for Christ’s sake. Meant to be a way to get him off a goddamn park bench and Cass should have known. He should have known this would happen. 

“Why don’t you ask him to stand up for me?”

“Ask him yourself,” Cass grinds out. He'll do whatever you ask. You don't need me to do shit because he'll do whatever you want. 

“Is that really what you want?"

Cass looks up, gaze sharp and biting. He looks like he wants to say a great number of things but knows he won't be the one punished for whatever he spits out. He deflates, just barely, eyes dropping again. “At least give him his fucking clothes, Tuck.”

“Play nice and I’ll think about it,” Tucker shrugs. “But either you make him stand up right now, or I will.”

Kauri hasn’t moved. He’s still pushed up against the wall, tucked into the corner as though there’s any protection to be had there, his eyes flickering from Cass to Tucker and back again as though watching a strange and terrifying game being played in front of him. 

Every time he tries to open his mouth to offer to just do what Tucker says, one of them speaks again, and his mouth snaps back shut. He can’t keep up with them, they’re moving too fast. They both know the game, and Kauri has no idea what it is, and he doesn’t know how to be good unless you tell him how. 

He doesn’t want to move from the wall. It’s the only bit of free will he has left, his absolute certainty that he wants to stay as far away from Tucker as he can. “I, I don’t want to stand up-”

Cass finally, finally looks at Kauri. He wants to communicate everything he possibly can in the half a second he can bear to hold his gaze but all he can think is I’m sorry. This is my fault. I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry, "Kᴀᴜʀɪ, sᴛᴀɴᴅ ᴜᴘ."

Cass speaks and Kauri’s moving immediately, it’s nearly instantaneous, even as he’s hyper-aware of his own nakedness he slides off the bed and is standing, hugging himself tightly to hide the barcode inside his left wrist, keeping it pressed against his right side along his ribcage. 

“Wh-what-... wait-”

"Make him sit."

"Kᴀᴜʀɪ, sɪᴛ.”

Kauri’s eyes are as wide as saucers, staring at Cass as he sits down, abruptly, without even a hint of conscious thought before he does so.

"Make him stand."

"Kᴀᴜʀɪ, sᴛᴀɴᴅ."

And Kauri’s back up again, still staring at Cass. All at once Kauri realizes that he’s not going anywhere unless Tucker, whoever he was - some kind of handler, definitely, although not exactly the same kind - wants him to leave.

Tucker laughs, leaning against the wall like he was watching a dog perform a particularly impressive trick. He makes eye contact with Cass, turns his finger slowly. Cass resists the urge to roll his eyes before giving the direction. 

"Kᴀᴜʀɪ, ᴛᴜʀɴ ɪɴ ᴀ ᴄɪʀᴄʟᴇ," Cass’ eyes flit to Tucker, who tilts his head, mouthing something, and adds. “Sʟᴏᴡʟʏ.”

Tucker watches Kauri move, smiling like he’s watching a show dog perform a perfectly well practiced trick.

Kauri turns, hunched over still hugging himself. There are scars, here and there - small ones, moments Owen lost control and didn’t hold himself back enough. They’re tiny things, easy to miss in dim semi-darkness, but obvious in the light. And the deep twist of scarring along his collarbone. The dark brown leather bracelet is the only thing on his body, and Kauri - who is trained out of shame, who had been carefully and violently nurtured into feeling no shame for things like this at all - is bright red by the time he’s facing Tucker again. 

He doesn’t usually care - but in front of Tucker, he suddenly wants nothing more than to put his clothes back on. More clothes, even, to pull something of Cass’s on so he can be even more covered, even less laid bare. 

"It's okay Kauri, I know this is probably a little confusing," he says, mock sympathy painting his voice as he comes forward to hold the man’s jaw, long fingers squishing his cheeks together. "See this is what Cassius does. He reaches into people's heads and he makes them do the things I want them to do. Like magic.”

He grabs Kauri by the arms, grip bruising, and turns him to face where Cassius sits on the bed, hands locked around his knees, eyes hollow and refusing to look anywhere but the sheets. Kauri goes perfectly tense, every muscle rigid, but the idea of disobeying - of trying to free himself - is a distant, foggy thought he can’t slip his fingers around. 

“To be honest, that's probably how he got you here in the first place. Just crept into your head and made you feel like you wanted it,” Tucker murmurs in Kauri’s ear, just barely loud enough for Cass to hear it too. His voice is flat, devoid of the mocking lightness in it before. Full instead of utter disdain. “He doesn’t need fancy drugs, he doesn’t need threats. Just his voice. Isn’t that clever of him?”

“You’re lying,” Kauri says, voice shaking but there’s a sudden flat certainty there. Every… every time Cass makes him do something, he says his name first. Kauri picks up on that fast. His name, and then the command, and then he does it. He hadn’t understood why he grabbed the asshole in the bar’s arm, but he does now – Cass had said his name first, then the command. 

But Cass hadn’t been commanding him hardly at all after that. And he hadn’t said his name that way, not up against the wall in the alley. 

Cass closes his eyes, takes a deep breath. He can't stop shaking his head. This was meant to be a good thing. One good thing. Of course Tucker has to twist that away too. His stomach is turning just from the implication of what’s being said.

It hadn’t been like that. He doesn’t do that. But it doesn’t matter whether he did or it didn’t, did it? He could have. He might have. That was all it took to lose trust.

 "You do have good taste, Ace, I'll give you that. He looks kind of like that guy from Dimmer Switch, don't you think?”  Tucker says, holding Kauri at arms length as he circles him slowly, the perfect picture of power and vulnerability. Predator and prey. His hand skims across the glossy pink scar on Kauri’s clavicle with morbid curiosity as he speaks, Tucker’s eyes light up with all the glee of a fucking kid on Christmas as an idea suddenly hits him. “Ooh, I know. We should make him punch the wall like in the breakdown scene. You know, the one where he breaks his hand?”

“No,” Kauri says, weakly. He hasn’t seen the movie, though he knows everything that happens in it. Owen has told him the plot over and over again, piece by piece, breaking it down. But he can’t watch the movie, because he might see Vince’s face. 

“St-stop it.” He tries to find real strength for his voice, even as being so close to a handler - any handler, it never mattered if it was his handler, they were all always hurting him - makes him feel like a trainee all over again. “You’re just trying to ruin him having something nice. Stop it.”

“You’re right. That’s exactly what I’m trying to do,” Tucker says with a smile. “And look, I think it’s working, don’t you?”

Cass looks up at that, glaring at Tucker with full venom. He can feel adrenaline crackling through his veins. When it came to fight or flight, Cassius had barely ever chosen anything but the former in his life, but he knows better by now than to try and act on it. He wants to launch himself at Tucker’s smug fucking face and bash it into the floor until even the thought of smiling like that makes him flinch.

Instead he re-adjusts the iron-grip on his own wrist, focusses so hard on Tucker that he doesn’t risk glancing at the person he’s hauled into all of this.

“You’ve made your fucking point, Tuck, just let him go,” he grinds out, voice flat and empty despite the rage in his eyes.

“Oh, I will. But first, I want to watch him hit the wall until his pretty hand breaks,” he says. He grabs Kauri’s wrist, hand wrapping around the leather bracelet. He brings Kauri’s arm up to eye level, quirking an eyebrow with mocking apathy. “What? He get you into bed so fast you couldn’t even take off your accessories?”

Kauri has a snarl on his face, growing anger on Cass’s behalf - Kauri knows what it means to sink into yourself, he knows the feeling written all over Cass’s face. Kauri has been that person too many times, it’s nearly all he knows, all he remembers except for the people he’d met after he ran away.

But when Tucker grabs his wrist, Kauri freezes, and the anger fades under a low-level, growing panic. He jerks his wrist, trying to free it from Tucker’s grip.

“What if he d-did?” Kauri asks, breathless, trying to cover up the panic by lacing his voice with as much anger as he can pull back into himself. “Are y-...” He has to gasp in a breath to make the words more than a whisper, fighting the drumbeat in his mind of stop it stop being bad stop being defiant make nice make nice be good be a good boy stop it. “Are you fucking jealous or something? You want in on me, too?”

Tucker scoffs, almost impressed by the little outburst. He takes a moment to rake his eyes over Kauri's naked body, "What would you do if I did, hm?"

Cass feels his blood freeze.

His hands twitch, trying to pre-empt whatever's about to happen. He doesn't dare move yet, he doesn't dare look away. He wishes for once, just for once, that he could feel what Tucker wanted, that he could know what he was thinking.

You're not my type. That's what Tucker says. That's what he's always fucking said with every dick joke, every innuendo, every half-intoxicated pass Cass might've made at him he'd smirk and shut him down with a simple you're not my type.

But Cass was an acquired taste, really, wasn't he? Loud mouthed and defiant. A penchant for violence. Rough around the edges in every sense of the word. But that wasn't Kauri.

Kauri, who blushed easily and stumbled over his words like a school boy with a crush. Kauri, who'd fucking melted at being called good. Kauri, who even right now, even attempting to dig for something aggressive was shaking with waves of make nice, make nice, make nice. Was that what Tucker wanted? Was that his goddamn type?

"You look like you're about to faint, little puppet," Tucker continues, hand just as tight around Kauri's wrist. "What would you even do if I decided I wanted you?"

Kauri feels the weight of eyes on his body, he always has. A sense of feeling complete if someone wants him, is thinking about him, will touch him like this. Even people he hates. Even the handlers pressing him up against cold white walls was better than nothing. 

And there had been so much nothing.

“I’m not about to faint,” Kauri says, his voice still too soft, too airy, but his eyes lock on Tucker’s and hold. Barely. “Y-you’re still just trying to hurt him. You don’t like that he… that he got to be happy for a second. Besides… you don’t need to be jealous.” 

He steps forward, calling Tucker’s bluff, pushing into his personal space now, cocking his head to the side in the practiced little head-tilt, trained into him until he can do it without even knowing it, looking up at Tucker with wide blue eyes focused only on him. 

Handlers who want you to fight don’t like it when you don’t. Kauri wants to see which kind of handler Tucker is.

“What makes you think I’d say no?”

I can’t. But you don’t need to know that.

Tucker laughs.

"Oh I like this one, Ace," he says. "He's good at playing slut, isn't he? Is that how you bonded?"

Tucker sweeps a foot out, a quick kick to the side of Kauri's legs to have his knees buckling, crumbling to the floor. Kauri goes down hard with a soft cry, his knees cracking into the hard floor with a sickening lick of pain up his thighs that’s entirely too familiar. 

Cassius starts forward, ready to get to his feet before he stops himself just as suddenly. He has no way of knowing what will happen here if he makes the wrong move. He has no way of knowing who else in the Facility is up yet, who else might be called in. It wouldn't be the first time someone caught trespassing was signed up for clinical testing the next day.  

"Tucker, that's enough," he croaks. It's so weak.

Tucker shifts his gaze lazily to Cassius' face, giving him a bored sort of appraisal. "Or what?"

He laces his fingers through dark curls and yanks Kauri's head back hard and fast, his other hand trailing a line down his throat.

"See I don't think he would say no," he muses "I think he'd say please."

Kauri swallows, hard, his heart threatening to pound its way right out of his chest, feeling oddly distant and foggy now. Being scared won’t fix it. Being good won’t fix it. He’s trapped with Owen who can’t be pleased, who will only get upset, whose hands will go around his neck-

He flinches back from the hand on his throat like Tucker might burn him with it - or choke him - and lets out a broken cry, before he clenches his hands into fists and tries to, to think. But being trapped with Owen means being trapped with what Owen did. Which makes him angry.

“You might not b-be able to understand me,” He says, his voice still mostly air but it’s pissed-off air and that has to count for something, “Since I’d b-bite your dick off if you tried, I’ve d-done it before.”

He moves with Tucker’s hand, tilting his head far back, and spits at his face.

Tucker slams Kauri's head into the metal bed-frame without a pause for thought, the crack so loud it's like a gunshot ringing out in the tiny room.

Kauri cries out as his head connects, a bright flash of white behind his eyes with the pain on its heels, and slumps against the bed, the world a dizzying spin around him, throbbing pain and a trickle of something he can feel run down the side of his temple.

Tucker reels back, pulling his leg back to kick Kauri in the stomach. And Cass moves. He's on his feet and shoving Tucker backwards before he can think better of it.

"Tucker, don't," he says, terse and frantic. "Don't. I'll do whatever you want, alright?"

He doesn't look at Kauri. Kauri doesn't exist.

"I'll do whatever the fuck you want. I won't complain, I won't make a fuss. I'll stay on grounds, I'll go to the fucking meetings, whatever the fuck you want. Just... Just don't."

He feels cut loose, terrified and more vulnerable than he's been in forever but he refuses to show it, face curled into a snarl, voice harsh and biting. Tucker laughs, pulling off his tie with one hand, eyes wild.

"That little bargain might've tempted me earlier, Ace, but your friend here fucked up. He fucked up bad. And I plan on rectifying that little misstep."

“Wh-why is it…” Kauri’s voice trails off, slurred oddly, and he looks up at Tucker without standing up, bright red blood trickling down from a slice across his temple  into his right eye. He blinks it away, or tries, reaching up to wipe at it with his hand. “... that err’... ev’rybody can call me a slut but I’m n-never ‘lowed t’be mad about it?”

His ears were ringing, sort of, a weird muffled sound that existed inside his skull and not outside it. Kauri shifted back, wiping at his head again. 

Something jarred loose, with the blow to his head. Somewhere under Kauri’s panic is a darker, cynical, harder-edged anger, a pulsing want to defy, fight back, kick and scratch and bite until they remember he’s a person, not a pet, they can’t take his name away from him only they can and they did and Kauri’s weakness ended up stronger than the boy he had once been.

“Why are you… all… th’ same?”

“Act like a slut, people will call you a slut,” Tucker says, eyes still on Cassius. “Isn’t that right, Ace?”

Cass shrugs, crossing his arms, “Been begging for you to call me a slut for years and you still won’t.”

Tucker smiles, taking a few steps backwards so he can survey them both. Cass doesn’t miss the way Tucker is carefully winding his tie around his knuckles. Can’t risk bruising the hand he shakes with, can he now?

“Either way,” he says “I think all three of us know that the only way this one isn’t headed straight to jail for trespassing is if you both sit down, shut up, and play nice.”

Cass does his very best not to flinch. He’s schooled by now, at keeping his face blank and passive even as his heart starts racing. Something must flicker behind his eyes, though, or maybe Kauri’s face shifts behind him, because Tucker relaxes back on his heels, the satisfaction of finding a new chink in the armour painting his face with that insufferable smugness.

“Oh, we don’t like that, do we?” he says. “Sit down. Now. Or I get out my phone, and I’ll escort your friend downstairs to wait for the cops myself.”

Part of Kauri is astute enough to think, small men like hurting smaller ones to feel big, but the words never make it out of his mouth, because the part of him that knows things isn’t the part that keeps him alive sometimes, and the good boy deeper down steps up to the plate to force the words back down his throat.

His eyes are caught on the tie wrapped around the man’s knuckles - Owen does that sometimes, when he has a meeting the next day.

“So that’s… th’ trade?” Kauri manages, still slurred but getting better. He doesn’t move off the floor for now, but sits back on his heels, sliding easily into Position Two, hands on his thighs, kneeling on the floor. Muscle memory. He doesn’t have to think.

“Y-you… get off on th’ blood… and I get to leave?”

Damn it. Kauri winces as soon as the words are out of his mouth. He feels like his brain is going to split into two, and he knows better than to talk back to handlers, but he can’t stop himself. It feels like before all over again, like training. 

“If blood g-gets you hard-”

Stop it stop it stop it why am I still talking jesus Kauri stop

“-then you’ve got bigger problems than the slut you’re making bleed.”

Tucker laughs lightly, walking forward to stand directly in front of Kauri and tangle his fingers through his curls. Kauri shudders, trying to pull back, but Tucker’s grip is too strong. 

“He’s funny, this one, isn’t he?” he says. A hard tug to pull the man’s head back, wide blue eyes locked on his, Kauri’s mouth slightly open as he pulls in quick, shallow breaths. “Or at least, he thinks he is.”

“I don’t think I’m-”

The first backhand hits with the low thud of knuckles hitting cheekbone. One. Kauri’s head snaps to the side, moving with the slap rather than trying to brace himself against it, making it hurt less than it would otherwise. Cassius locks his gaze carefully on a patch on the floor, sets his jaw, and folds into himself. Two. Kauri grunts, this time, the barest hint of sound. Cass hears the hits beside him, counts as they land, despite himself. But he can’t bring himself to give a shit. Three.

Another grunt, higher-pitched, closer to a cry.

What the fuck did it matter? Cass thought. People got hurt all the time. Kauri had been hurt before. He’d get over it. 

Four.

It wasn’t Cass’ fucking fault. He’d warned Kauri back at the bar, back at the burger joint. He’d said it again and again. I’m not nice. And Kauri had come back with him anyway. wasn’t his fucking fault.

“You know what, I think, Ace?” Tucker says after five, panting just barely. Cass registers dimly that Kauri’s probably hurt by now. But five hits wasn’t many. They hadn’t all been to the head. He’d survive. “I think Kauri, needs some help calming down.”

Kauri, one side of his face bright red from Tucker’s hand, makes a soft, distressed sound. He knows three ways they’ll calm him down, the handlers, when he’s bad. They fuck him or drug him or hurt him until he’s too injured to speak. Fucking is the only thing that doesn’t make him feel worse, the only thing that feels better.

He doesn’t want the man, but it never matters what he wants, in the end.

Cass blinks slowly, eyes blank and bored as he turns to look at the blonde man standing beside him. He snorts a laugh. Looks to his left. There are a couple bottles of different pills on the bedside table. A few sleeves in the drawer, too. 

“What ones do you want?” 

“You’re the expert, Ace, just something to smooth the rough edges” 

He grabs a bottle on the edge. It’s only Valium. But Kauri’s slim enough. He pops off the lid and passes it over.

“Don’t have many left so don’t waste ‘em,” he says. His voice is flat, apathetic. “One’ll fuck him up plenty.”

“Two it is, then,” Tucker says, finally releasing Kauri’s hair to fish out the pills before grabbing at his jaw. “Here we go. Open nice and wide for me.”

Kauri doesn’t expect Cass to help. It’s clear what they are to each other, he and the man. Cass is the trainee. The man, Tucker, is the handler.

Kauri knows how that works. He’s watched a lot of trainees get hurt right in front of him and never helped, either. Not after they hurt him so badly he knew not to try again.

Kauri jerks back from the grip as best he can, gritting his teeth together and turning his head away. He doesn’t try to spit any words now, because that would mean opening his mouth. And that means pills. He can’t read the words on the pill bottle, has no idea what the man is going to give him - what they’re both going to give him.

"Kauri, just take the pills," Cass says, halfway numb. The quicker he took them, the quicker he'd be out of here. The quicker he was out of here, the quicker they would both be able to forget the fact they ever met.

Kauri freezes, for a breath, but the words don't have the weight of a real command. But…

He stares at the pills and opens his mouth anyway, like he had been commanded, letting Tucker force them into his mouth before he snaps it shut.

"Good boy," Tucker says, patting Kauri on the cheek with a smile. 

His mouth fills with bitterness and his stomach twists, saliva flooding his mouth, as he shifts the pills carefully around to slide them under his tongue and keep them there. If Tucker turns away - even just for a second - he can spit them into his palm and throw them under Cass's bed with no one the wiser. 

He even has one more skill.

He speaks, and he's so good at this you can't tell between the slur of the pills he's hiding and how he slurred before.

Then there’s a presence behind her, and she whirls immediately. Her knife, poised to slice through a throat, is stopped midair, a strong hand wrapping around her wrist.

Hands touching her, tearing at her clothes, pulling her closer

“Kamaria!”

Her eyes focus for what feels like the first time since this all began. It’s him. His deep blue eyes gazing into hers with so much concern and affection that she’s barely begun to understand but can no longer imagine herself living without.

Her arm goes limp in his hold. His other hand comes up to cup her cheek, his forehead pressing into hers. It’s touch, but it’s his touch, and it’s never been anything but gentle.

“It’s okay,” he whispers so that only she can hear. “You’re safe. It’s going to be okay.”

She wants to believe him, but her blood is still pounding in her ears, spine still tingling with a warning that there’s danger nearby. Her next breath comes a little easier, though. It shudders on its way out, rattling in her throat.

His lips brush her forehead. “It’s going to be okay.”

Her skin feels cold when he lets go and backs away. Suddenly she can see the man who started all of this behind him, grinning over his shoulder, and her heart drops into her stomach.

“Bruno…”

He spreads his arms out, never looking away from her. “Don’t worry about me, okay? Just go.”

Before she can grasp what’s happening, the men are on him, yanking his arms behind his back with far too much force and clapping manacles on. Clarity comes crashing back to her along with a rush of anger. How dare they put their hands on him, how dare he give himself up like that? They could still fight, they’re supposed to fight side by side against everything that tries to take them down.

Kamaria lurches forward with a wordless cry, but her momentum is halted by more hands, grabbing her arms with bruising grips, ripping her knives from her and pulling her back into their midst. One slides around her throat and another digs into her hair but her attention is on Bruno, who’s suddenly dropped his cooperative demeanor and is fighting hard against his captors.

“Let her go!” he roars. “Take her weapons, that’s fine, but you let her go now! You said you’d take me instead!”

The man in charge chuckles darkly, leaning in close to Bruno’s face, completely uncaring of the fury radiating from him. “If you actually believed that, then you have far too much faith in my honesty.” Keeping his eyes on his captive, he straightens, throwing his next words over his shoulder. “Go ahead, boys.”

Those words are all it takes for her to be plunged straight back into a nightmare. Hungry faces surround her, filling her vision, and the hands are everywhere. Again, she can’t breathe. Again, she tries to fight them off, but this time she’s truly trapped.

“Look at me,” the man murmurs, and Ellis raises his eyes. Harvey’s eyes are green and pale. His lip curls, and he says, “Tonight, I’m your master.”

Ellis’s nerves jangle anxiously at this assertion, and he has to suppress a shiver. Nobody else can be Master, that’s not – he can’t, what if he’s told to break his rules? He doesn’t know what to do, Master said to follow his rules and his orders, and his rules mean he has to do what Master says, but the rules don’t say anything about other people being Master. Only – only one person can be Master.

But Ellis can pretend. He’ll have to. This man expects it, and Master will be angry if he displeases the guest.

“How’s your hand?”

He takes a breath. He tries not to think about it. Listening to his body only makes it harder to be good, feeling the restlessness, hunger and pain. “It hurts,” he says, and sucks in an extra breath to add, “Master.”

The smile on Harvey’s face spreads wider, but the eyes behind his little glasses stay fixed on his face. “That’s very good,” he says. “You know how to treat a guest.”

Ellis nods slowly, though he’s not at all sure.

“You can get back on the floor now, little one. I want you to stand on one leg.”

Hesitantly, Ellis obeys. He wobbles for a moment, then another, unused to – any kind of physical effort. Not even used to being on his feet.

Harvey reclines on the bed, watching him with that intent stare, still smiling. “You’re so pretty,” he says, in his soft voice. “All that hair, pink lips, those cheekbones. Your eyes are divine.”

It’s not a question, but Ellis hedges a cautious, “Thank you, Master.”

Harvey meets his eyes again, and the smile is warm, and the eyes are cold, and Ellis shivers.

He notices. “You’re scared of me, I see?”

Ellis can’t nod, because he’ll wobble. He has to hold very, very still. His leg is already aching. “Yes, Master. I’m sorry, Master.”

The admission seems to draw Harvey forwards like a fish on a line. He rolls off the bed, standing and drawing closer, circling Ellis while the pet stands, trying to suppress the tremor in his knee.

“Don’t be sorry,” Harvey says, voice close from where he stands behind Ellis. Ellis flinches, sways, and Harvey’s hands catch his waist and straighten him up again, warm and heavy. The hands don’t leave again. Harvey moves closer, close enough that Ellis feels the closeness like a heat against his back. “I like that you’re scared.”

He has to stay up. Harvey is holding him until he can stay up. He has to – he tries to. Upright, one leg, like his temporary Master – temporary? – like this Master wants.

“That’s it,” comes the sweet whisper. The hands lift away from his sides, and Ellis wobbles, but stays standing. His ankle feels like it’s being slowly compressed, too much weight bearing down on it.

“Thank you, Master,” he whispers back, knowing he was helped and he should be polite.

“That’s my pleasure,” Harvey replies. He’s still so close. When his hand touches Ellis’s hair, over the back of his neck, the answering shiver prompts him to put his hand back on Ellis’s waist to steady him, and Ellis closes his eyes, surrendering himself to the contact. “Poor thing, you’re finding this so hard. Or do you just want me to hold you?”

It’s a leading question, Ellis thinks desperately, he knows what to do with those, he’s – this is so confusing, so hard, and Harvey is scary, and being scared only seems to encourage him, and Ellis doesn’t know what to do with this – this guest, so he just has to obey.

I must make no noise unless invited to by Master. And he’s been invited to make one noise, say one thing. “Please, Master,” he says, breathless, somehow, just from balancing, and being touched, and Master is holding him up, isn’t that kind of him? “Please hold me.”

Harvey makes a satisfied noise. The other hand comes to rest on his waist, and Ellis sighs gratefully at the help balancing. “Thank you, Master.”

Harvey smiles. “Look how good you’re being, little one. It’s a shame...”

Ellis’s eyes open and he frowns, perplexed by the contradiction.

“I’m going to hurt you anyway,” Harvey says. His hands sit a little heavier, thumbs brushing the marks through Ellis’s shirt. “It’s not a punishment. You’re perfect, and your fear, your pain, will be perfect too. I know you can do it.”

Ellis flounders for a response. He wants to ask, but he hasn’t been invited – he should be agreeing, or saying thank you, or – pleading to be hurt because that’s what Harvey wants and Harvey is Master and Ellis’s job is to reflect his Master so that Master is always right and Ellis is always feeling exactly how he should be and he should be – scared? Harvey wants him to be scared. Grateful, but scared.

The grip on him becomes a firm grab, and then Ellis is lurching across the room, and he lands on the floor with a breathless whimper, the impact shattering through his finger into a new level of pain.

Harvey is on him in the next moment, hauling him back up with apparent ease, setting him back on his feet. “One leg,” he reminds Ellis, and his voice is still so gentle.

Ellis pulls himself up with his legs under him again.

“One leg,” Harvey says impatiently. As soon as Ellis complies, the load-bearing ankle is kicked hard, stinging against the bone, and he’s on the floor, catching himself with his elbows in a desperate, jarring attempt to save his finger.

He feels like crying, now. This is new and different and he doesn’t like it. He’s a toy, isn’t he? He’s entertainment. He’s being – consumed, by those eyes, and those hands, and played with. His finger throbs loudly and Harvey keeps pulling him around and Ellis wants his rug, and his Master, and the dark room where he’s left alone for the night.

Harvey picks him up again. Sets him back on his one foot, on his throbbing ankle. “Good boy,” he says, a catching laugh in his paper-smooth tone. Then, the kick, the pain, the impact against the floor, again.

And again.

And again.

The kicks don’t get gentler, as Ellis struggles more and more to rest his weight on the abused joint. Soon he’s falling over of his own accord, thudding against the carpet with a voiceless whine. Harvey laughs and scoops him up, giving him a crushing great hug. “Keep going,” he tells Ellis, and puts him back down upright. Stand. Balance. Fall again.

Until Harvey kicks him and Ellis falls and he lands badly and there’s a snap, and the ache of his finger drowns in a scream of pain. His ankle.

He falls perfectly still, but for the great wracking breaths he heaves in, as a bright, constant pain sings through his body, turning his stomach and heightening his terror. It feels wrong, so wrong, and he’s so scared to move it in case that feeling becomes worse.

He isn’t given a choice. Harvey reaches down and lifts him, and Ellis can’t stop the moan of pain that escapes his mouth as he is set, for the tenth time, onto his feet.

“One leg,” Harvey says, and when Ellis tries to lift his broken ankle off the ground, hands land firmly on his waist. “No, no, sweetheart,” Harvey sings softly. “Not that leg.”

Ellis looks up into the taller man’s eyes, searching for mercy through the tears. He can’t mean it, surely. He can’t – it’s not possible.

Harvey meets his gaze, smiling. “Rule one.”

A cold pressure settles over Ellis’s skin, despite the way the pain is making him sweat. His voice emerges. “I must always obey Master.”

“Obey me, then.”

He shudders, but carefully lowers his foot. As slowly as he can, he ekes his weight onto it, feeling the way the break pushes and grinds with each shift. Lightning agony rockets up his leg and spreads through him as his body protests, and he pauses.

He screams airlessly, a second later, as Harvey’s bare heel punches into the ankle and he tumbles to the carpet.

“Good boy,” Harvey crows. “Such a good boy. Breathing so hard. I bet he’s barely hurt you, hmm? Even though he says you deserve it.”

Ellis’s eyelids flutter as the pain increases to a fever pitch, and the suggestion Harvey makes bridges the gap from terror to full panic. Master knows he deserves this. Master said he deserves this. He deserves, he needs, this is right, he should hurt and it’s good that he’s hurting.

Oh, oh – so this is a punishment. And rule – rule six?

“Thank you, Master,” he chokes out.

“What?”

“Thank you for punishing me.”

Harvey hums in annoyance, and kicks him, again, in the ankle, and Ellis’s vision whites out as the agony swallows him whole.