#referenced captivity

The world went blurry for a moment as Stan tilted his chin up to accommodate, and the blade just went up with it, until Stan’s vision tunneled directly into the man’s eyes. He couldn't move.

He knew those eyes.

Staring down at him over the barrel of a revolver.

The bounty hunter glanced him up and down, before meeting his stupefied gaze again with an almost pitying grin. “This is gonna suck for you then.”

He whiffed the knife out and flipped it around in his hand as he circled behind the chair, barely nicking Stan’s chin with the razor-edge as it slid out from its place under his throat. The small sting of the cut was enough to bring the world crashing back to him.

Stan blinked. “Hey! Hey–... don’t do– Where– where, uh… Where are you going?”

“Behind you.”

“No– no shit, really?” he retorted, voice still embarrassingly shaky. The bounty hunter disappeared from his line of sight. “I meant– I mean what’re you–”

Stan gasped as the ropes tightened around his stomach. 

“Hey, hey! Stop! what’re you doing?!”

He immediately balled up his fists and tried to thrash away unsuccessfully for what felt like the thousandth time since he woke up, all the while attempting to twist around enough to see what was going on behind him.

“Cálmate, chiquito.” The ropes vibrated lightly. “I'm just cuttin’ the ropes.”

Stan stopped dead in his tracks. “What? Why?”

The bounty hunter’s voice took on that playful lilt Stan was already getting tired of. “I mean, I was just gonna put you on a leash in the corner, so you can actually move around a bit, but if you want to stay tied to the chair for some ungodly amount of time…”

Stan’s mind completely skipped over the leash part. He had to get out of this chair. “No, no, I don’t!”

“Really? Not sure I’m convinced, you seemed super panicked just now–”

“I wasn’t panicking!”

“Nah? Then I’m sure you’ll stay just as calm when I do this…”

The bounty hunter snatched his hand and strained it up against the twine. Stan instinctively flinched.

“Hey, what–!”

A prick on the top of his hand. Stan froze. Another prick. His heart rate spiked. The cool metal of the knife broke the skin a third time, longer, deeper this time, gliding through the skin barrier, stinging. His vision tunneled. Cool metallic threads shot through the top of his mouth, and he could swear he could feel the blood rushing from his brain and pooling down, down, down.

“Stop, STOP, PLEASE!!” He tried to break free, wiggle away from the knife and kick out and fight back against the man who was holding him hostage and tormenting him for no reason other than his own sick pleasure, but everything was starting to go dark and fuzzy and everything felt so hot, he was sweating, he was burning, he needed to get out now–

Stan's chair suddenly lifted and the entire thing spun around and landed hard back onto the floor with a clatter, accompanied by a fearful yelp. The bounty hunter’s hand moved from the top of the chair to the scruff of Stan’s neck, forcing Stan forward as he planted his knee on the seat of the chair between Stan’s legs and leaned on the unused armrests of the chair. Their faces were only inches apart. Stan strained to lean away, but just like the last million times, there wasn’t anywhere he could go. He sucked in a stilted breath.

“Y’know,” the hunter whispered as if he were sharing a damning secret between just the two of them. “If you’re gonna be all hysterical about it, I could just leave you right here…” 

Stan’s breath stuttered. The world was just the two of them. Focus on the now. Don’t pass out. “I– I kno-ow. Please don’t. Please.”

He pushed his little sister Chloe further behind his back and stood his ground. His sister pressed her face into his side.

He glared at those eyes before, snarled at them.

He felt dizzy, he couldn’t breathe, and more than anything he wanted to spit in the bounty hunter's face. He found that the best he could do was stare up at the bounty hunter with a stunned, blurry gaze as he tried to fight off the cotton that blanketed his mind.

“People get tied to the chair because they’re panicky and I don’t want them to hurt themselves, because they’re my responsibility. Like you were doing when you woke up. You were screaming and thrashing around, did you know that?”

“N-no…”

“I know you didn’t know.” His eyes dark brown eyes almost seemed to glitter red. Stan felt a visceral terror snaking up his gut for reasons he couldn’t explain. “That’s why you were tied to the chair. I’ll gladly keep you here if you keep struggling and being difficult, do you want that?”

The crackle of the walkie-talkie, the distorted voices.

“I think I found them.” The voice sealed his fate. “Uh… just– just one of them.”

The rope itched against his wrists. “No, pl-please don’t– Let me go.”

“I’m not sure I’m feeling so charitable anymore Stan, I gotta be honest. I think you should ask really nicely if you want me to untie you from this chair.”

He took a gasping breath, one he didn’t realize his body was screaming for. When had he stopped breathing? Where was he?

“Please un– uh, untie me from the chair”

The hunter nodded. “Alright, and?”

“I, uh... I would be so, so grateful?…” Stan tapered off with a squeak as his captor rolled his eyes at him and shook his head.

“No, no, look.” The hunter prompted. He squeezed the back of Stan’s neck. “You’re not going to…” 

Why couldn’t he just pass out? 

“I’m uh, I’m not going to… be panicky or, or difficult?…”

“Mhm, and?”

And?! He was already begging! What else did this guy want?!

Stan’s befuddlement must have shown on his face, because the hunter gave another hint with only the slightest annoyed groan: “What’re we gonna do instead?”

“Put me on a– a leash…” Stan felt his face burning red. He wanted to curl up into a little ball and rock himself until everything went away. He felt so small. He could never hide. “... in the corner…”

“And that’s a privilege because?”

“... you could just leave me in the chair. Captured.”

The hunter leaned back a bit and smiled. “There you go, you got there. Repeat it all back now.”

Stan squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in a shaky breath, and breathed out some of the clouds dimming his mind. He forced his eyes to focus.

“Please untie me from the chair, I won’t be panicky or difficult and I know it’s a– a privilege–” The words almost caught in his throat. “– to be on a le-leash in the corner instead. Because you could just leave me in the chair. If you wanted. And you’re not… I– I– um, thank you…”

The hunter’s hand slid up from the neck of his shaking captive and ruffled his hair.

“Attaboy, that was good. Good job.”

Stan hated how much he relaxed at the praise. At how much effort it took to even jerk away from the petting.

Right up until the very large pocket knife entered his field of vision, heading straight for his stomach. 

He screamed, wrenching his eyes shut and throwing himself as far back as possible, hoping he would just phase through the chair entirely and fall through the floor and be away from the horror show of agony that was sure to be his stomach now, away from this entire humiliating and hopeless situation, away from the flashbacks and the terror and the ropes and the captivity and the experiments and the pain–

Eventually, a realization broke through the frenzy that he wasn’t in screaming agony.

He wasn’t dying.

He was still here.

In fact, his restraints felt noticeably looser.

He tentatively opened his eyes to find a few of the ropes from his front now lay cleanly cut in his lap or hanging at his sides.

The bounty hunter chuckled into his hand, trying to hold it together. Then when he noticed his captive staring at him, he practically doubled over in a fit of laughter.

“Not gonna–” He had to look away, covering his mouth as a fit of giggles overtook his ability to speak. “Not gonna panic or be– be difficult, huh? No panic at all?”

Stan sputtered, ears red. How could he be laughing? “I– I– you– didn’t…! I– AUGH!”

His yell echoed through the room. He wanted to scream at the man, or at least run for the door now that he was technically free. But lashing out would get him nowhere, not here, not now.

He gave up on trying to speak and instead seethed while he worked at shaking off the rest of the ropes.

About half the tendril twisting around his stomach were still intact, so it took much more struggling than his dignity would have preferred to squirm out. He even tried to use his good knee to help nudge the ropes aside, since his wrists were still securely tied behind the back of the chair and useless. That didn’t really help.

But he managed, same as always.

“It's really not that funny.” Stan deadpanned as he finished working on the bindings and carefully lifted his bound wrists above the back lip of the chair.

The bounty hunter still hadn’t finished his giggle fit.

“Y'know, you're– you're really good at the whole, uh, submissive thing,” the mercenary snickered. “Suits you.”

A heavy ball knotted in the pit of his stomach. “What.”

“I mean, as soon as I got up in your face, you just stopped dead in your tracks and immediately got all cute and scared and agreeable.”

Stan clenched his teeth. He should cut through the twine tying his wrists right now and strangle this guy with how horrible–... 

Wait… Did the mercenary even know Stan could still use his powers without his cane? He mentioned earlier that it was a shame Stan couldn’t use his powers without it, but he could.

Not very well. But it was better than nothing.

“I wouldn't have done that,” he growled. “If you hadn't decided it'd be fun to fuck with me and set off my fight or flight!”

 “That wasn't fight or flight, bud, that was fawn.” The mercenary gave a condescending tilt of the head before holding his hands up in mock surrender.

“I’m just saying you'll probably do just fine as a prisoner. It is gonna be the rest of your life, all the better that it suits you well.”

“I don't–! It doesn't suit me, I-I'm not–” The bounty hunter nodded at him with false interest, patiently waiting for him to go on. Stan cried out in rage.

“Whatever! You're abusing your power over me for no reason!”

A pause. Both men stopped breathing for just a moment.

The mercenary’s gaze suddenly turned barely narrower and icy cold.

“I'm abusing my power?” He stepped forward, barely out of arms reach and absolutely towering over his captive.

“I could show you a real abuse of power, chiquito.”

Stan shot up to his feet with a loud stomp to finally match the mercenary. He was still a solid foot shorter than the man, but it still got the point across. 

He hoped.

The movement also served another purpose: he’d slammed his feet down hard enough to feel the reverberations throughout his body, just hard enough to create enough force to transfer up through his fingers into a very small point. A point just fine enough to slice through the bindings of his wrists.

He was finally, finally unbound. 

He still held his arms behind his back.

“How dare you.”

The mercenary hummed in surprise, curious where this outburst would lead. He nodded for Stan to go on. 

As if Stan needed his permission to go on. He took a step forward, and the man actually stepped back in turn.

“I don't know who you think you are, but if you can think you can just hold me captive like this and talk to me like this and expect me not to fight back, you’ve got an entire ‘nother thing coming!” Stan yelled.

“I’m not gonna just sit back and let you mess with me because you think it’s funny! I’m not going to sit there and let you do whatever you want to me, and I’m not going to let you, or whoever you work for, or anyone else for that matter, keep me captive for the rest of my life! Not gonna happen! I’m going to escape, and then I’ll find you and everyone you work for, and make every single one of you wish you had never been born. Got that?”

And for a moment, everything was still. 

Stan’s labored breathing echoed throughout the room. He’d backed up the mercenary several steps in his tirade, much to the screeching protests of his bad knee. More surprisingly, the mercenary no longer looked down on him with that condescending smile. 

Instead, his eyes quickly shot up and down Stan’s body, before meeting Stan’s scowling gaze with his own challenging stare. 

Right before he took one more step back and slid his hands comfortably into his pockets.

“Well, if you’re going to try to run, now would probably be the best time.”

Stan gawked at the man. Then shook his head out. He must have been hearing things. 

“What?”

“You said you were going to escape, yeah? You’re not gonna let me hold you captive, you’re gonna escape and take revenge?”

Stan had to suppress the urge to go back on his own words. “Yes.”

“Well, I’m about to put a manacle on your ankle and you'll be chained to the corner over there,” he nodded over his shoulder, to the corner of the room farthest away from the door.

“You’re more or less free right now. Now would be the best time. You wanna try your luck?”

“But– you– you’re standing right here! You could just reach out and grab me!” 

“That’s how it’ll always be, runt.”

A chill bolted from his head all the way down his spine.

“Uh…” his voice shook again. He hadn’t prepared for this. What was the endgame here? “Aren’t you gonna be mad?”

“Oh, I’ll be furious.” His dark eyes glittered the smallest sparkles of crimson, a light smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

“And when I catch you and bring you back, you’ll have to deal with the consequences of that. Can’t say it’ll be pretty either. So you gonna try your luck, or nah?” 

Stan turned to look at the door. Then back to the mercenary. His heart pounded against his ribcage, and he could already feel the quick in and out of his breaths making his brain feel buzzy and light. 

He looked to the door again. How far could he even get without his cane? Certainly not as far as someone who didn’t have a dud for a knee.

He looked to the mercenary. Could he even fight him off with such limited use of his magic? Did it even matter that he had already cut his wrists free?

His eyes shifted once more to the holster on the man’s belt. What about that? Was he willing to risk a gunshot wound in an escape attempt that had almost no chance of working? 

The cold metal barrel of the gun bit into his windpipe.

He never felt so frozen before.

A rough hand grabbed him, shoved him forward.

He screamed for help.

No one came.

His jaw clenched so hard it may as well have shattered. His eyes burned. He just wanted to go home.

“No.”

The hunter raised his eyebrow. “Come again?”

“I ca-an’t–” his voice cracked. He wished he could hide the way his chest heaved and his face contorted to try and hold back the tears. He wished he could hug himself as some sort of self-comfort. But he kept his hands firmly clasped behind his back. “I can’t.”

The mercenary nodded lightly with a small hum. At least that stupid grin hadn’t made a reappearance. 

“All right then, come here. You uh, need help walking?”

He turned around to walk to the corner of the room, motioning for Stan to follow.

Stan didn’t follow.

He ran.

* * * * * * * *

Next

He edged closer to the door and peered down the stairs, sure enough, at the bottom there was a tray of steaming food. “Why?”

“I noticed you had a thing about this, wouldn’t go near the door. Didn’t offer to help change a bulb down there last week when one blew. I wondered how far the fear went.”

“Far enough,” Zach replied, crossing his arms.

“Well, that’s your breakfast. All you have to do is go get it.”

Zach looked up, studying Tom’s face. He worked his jaw, teeth grinding. “And then I can eat?”

“Yep!” The grin that spread across Tom’s face was insufferable. How did he manage to see so much, to find such cruel and insidious games to play? Was Zach really so easy to read?

“Fine.” He’d been through worse, he wasn’t going to be hurt. He could out-manoeuvre Tom on this one and surprise him by not giving in.

He took a step. Another. His stomach flipped, and suddenly he wasn’t all that hungry anymore. The dim interior of the staircase felt like it would go on forever, stretching ahead of him until it warped and wobbled. He took a breath, and another, forced air into his lungs to keep his legs moving. As he passed the threshold his hand shot out to steady against the wall, palm flat against the textured paint.

Nothing good had ever happened in a basement, not to him. Dark, lonely, pain-filled places. Stuck underground, in cold, damp rooms that clung around his skin, stuck like tar in his memories. Black places. Punishments and penance, paid with bruises and more. 

He was three steps down when the memories crowded, he doubled over, took another breath. There was nothing down here. Nothing. He straightened his spine, but still his steps were heavy, as though convinced he was voluntarily walking to his doom. There was a tremor in his legs, his left knee buckled. He stumbled down two stairs before he got control of it.

There was a snicker behind him and he groaned, cursing Tom, himself, the world. He just had to get it over with. With a burst of speed he quick-stepped to the bottom and leaned into the hand bracing his weight. “There,” he called back hoarsely. “Are you satisfied?”

Tom didn’t respond. Zach rounded on him, mouth parted on a breath. Hinges squeaked, and he got one second of a grin and the look of triumph on Tom’s face before the door began to swing shut. He waited a beat, one, two, another, a fourth, a fifth. The door stayed on it’s trajectory. A scream welled up, and he strangled it until it was only a coarse yelp.

His legs found their strength in a flash, and he bounded up the stairs. “Don’t! Wait! Don’t, let me out!”

He was closing in on the top of the stairs, moving faster than he had in weeks. His hands stretched to catch it before the lock clicked into place. Please please please. Whispers of other days, other times, crowded around him, hammering into him like they might rip a hole through his chest.

The door clicked into the lock. He slammed into it with a thud that reverberated through his wrists, jolted him up to the elbows. 

He did scream, then. He wailed, hands pounding on the wood. “Tom, please, PLEASE! Don’t do this, you don’t have to do this.”

It was undignified and humiliating and even feeling that he couldn’t stop, wouldn’t stop. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just let me out.”

A solid weight thumped into the door on the other side and he held his breath, waiting.

“Zach, you still there?”

“Yes.”

A low chuckle. “So dramatic, god, you really can’t stomach anything these days can you?”

“No,” he admitted softly. Would admit to anything Tom accused him of, just to make this end.

“Tsk, shame. It’s going to be a long morning then, isn’t it? Hope you enjoy your meal at least.”

“Tom!”

The person catches themself on time, leaning against the doorframe to keep standing, one hand grasping it with white knuckles while the other stays tightly pressed to their abdomen. To a red stain that seems to be growing with each passing second.

“What– who…” Whumpee starts, but the words fail them. “What the fuck,” they mutter to themself, taking a hesitant step closer.

“I didn’t, didn– h-have any…where else to go,” they mumble, looking up through sweaty strands of hair.

It’s the voice that makes Whumpee halt. They know it better than their own. Had been ordered and punished and praised by it. And even if they hadn’t recognized the sound, those blinking eyes, even hazy with pain, are unmistakable.

“Whumper?”

Whumper only whimpers softly in response, leaning harder against the doorframe. 

They had dreamed about that sound too, many times. The time when Whumper would be the one hurting, the one crumbling to the ground in a boneless heap, the one under the whip or the taser or the knife. And although in the dreams it felt like justice, in real life it felt like fear. 

“What… I don’t– what happened?”

Flashes of their time with Whumper blink under their eyelids unbidden. Suddenly trembling, they bring a hand to their neck, just to make sure that there isn’t a collar there anymore – they can feel its weight around their throat, the tight leather always choking them. Even when they are met with only soft, lightly scarred skin, the tightness in their throat doesn’t go away.

“I need, need he-elp,” Whumper groans, reaching out to grab their hand. 

Frozen in time, Whumpee lowers their head and lets Whumper hold onto them to keep standing. Pets never pull away from their Masters, after all.

It’s only when they pull Whumpee out of the door that reality comes crashing back and they yank their hand free, wide eyes and hitching breaths, but still a person. Still at home – safe, warm, rescued.

“Why should I help you?” Whumpee hisses, tears welling up in their eyes. It’s all they can do to keep from falling down in a sobbing mess. “All you ever did was hurt me. You never had mercy, no matter how much I begged or complied.”

For one moment, one fleeting instant, Whumpee waits for an apology. Or maybe a plead.

What they get instead is a growl and a threat. 

“Whumpee,” Whumper calls in a voice that nearly sends them to their knees, “You’ll h-help me, b-because I said so.”

A puddle of crimson shines in the moonlight, dripping to Whumper’s feet. Their breathing is coming in short gasps, their body leaning completely against the door now. They barely have the energy to keep their head up, let alone strength enough to force themself inside the house – Whumpee knows they would have done it already if they could.

They take a moment to just stare. Take in the view of the person they loved and hated and feared, hunched and swaying on their feet at their doorstep, so lonely they came to their former captive for help. It’s a pitiful view and one that gives Whumpee a twisted kind of satisfaction. And a surge of guilt soon after – but still. That is Whumper there. 

It’s hard to believe that that feeble person is the same one who had hurt them so many times. Who had made them into someone so completely new, they were still picking up the pieces a year later, still fighting their training and their memories. Still trying to understand who they were and who they’d become. All because of Whumper.

“I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to,” they whisper, voice quivering but words clear. Whumper coughs and looks up, and Whumpee straightens up at the glare. “I don’t owe you anything. For all I care, Whumper, you can fucking die.”

With one last long glance at Whumper, they step back and close the door with a soft thud, and a satisfying click from the lock. They walk back to the living room with their heart hammering and their hands trembling, but their steps seem lighter somehow. They feel like freedom. True freedom.

“Hey, what took you so long?” Caretaker asks when Whumpee sits on the couch again, covering their shaky hands with the blanket. “And where’s the pizza?”

“It was someone lost, they thought someone else lived here,” Whumpee states, mildly surprised that their voice sounds completely calm and collected.

With a warm smile at Caretaker, they turn the tv back on, even though they can’t hear it under the roar in their ears.

He pitched himself toward the wall and slammed into it with a methodically placed shoulder, using the cold cinderblocks to keep balance. With that support, and if he ignored the steadily increasing pain-filled protest from his leg, he could practically run normally! 

Then a yell. He could hear footsteps pounding up behind him, gaining on him.

For a brief moment, he could already feel the iron grip around his wrist or his shirt, or the arm snaking around his stomach, the heave backward just as his fingers brushed the door handle, the slam to the ground, how he’d be bound up and forced back to that stupid chair and probably be tortured or whatever else the mercenary saw fit to do to him. 

Fuck that.

If he couldn’t outrun him, he’d just have to fight him off.

Stan whirled around and sent out the sturdiest force he could muster to grab onto the bounty hunter's ankle. Just enough so that it caught in the air and missed the floor entirely, and the hunter pitched forward with a surprised shout and fell face-first into the concrete floor, the residual blue glow of the magic still half enveloping his leg. Stan could feel the energy seeping out of him like a punch to the gut, but he didn’t stop to see the rest of the damage before turning around and booking it again.

He slammed the mercifully unlocked door open wide and frantically ran outside, hesitating for just a moment because he didn’t expect to run face-first into what looked to be a warehouse wall, complete with a wide hallway he couldn’t see the end of, high ceilings, blank walls, and cold clinical lighting like a goddamn horror movie.

And no exit door in sight.

He raced to the nearest hallway turn, ignoring his pounding head and screaming weak knee and imminent exhaustion and burning lungs and the ever-threatening presence of the bounty hunter and just focused on the one and only task of ‘RUN!’ He couldn’t afford any other thoughts.

He finally barreled past the blind corner, and there was a door! Stan allowed himself a small relieved laugh at the sight of it.

A flash of the mercenary streaked in his periphery. Stan only squeaked slightly. He needed to get away, to slow him down again, he was so close, so close. So he twisted around to throw some sort of magic bullshit at him again when–

And his knee torqued.

He stumbled.

Lost his balance.

He shoved into the wall again so he didn’t fall flat on his face, and tried to push up again and run, or attack, or do something. And in that moment, despite everything, he saw a flash of red on the back of his hand that he hadn’t noticed before that drew all his attention; A tiny little smiley face, no doubt carved in the first time the bounty hunter messed with him when he was tied to the chair.

Then the bounty hunter tackled him to the ground.

Stan fought to get back up, but all he managed was a terrified shuffling of limbs and a feeble attempt at drawing up enough energy to fight the mercenary off as he quickly pinned Stan down with a straddling of the hips and threw a devastating punch across Stan's jaw that made him have to blink exploding stars away.

He held up his arms to protect his face, instinctively trying to curl up and away from the source of the pain. Noise surrounded him, that frizzy buzzing sensation filling his head with cotton and making it hard to think. His entire body felt like it was seizing up.

He wasn’t done yet. This wasn’t done yet.

“GET OFF!!”

Stan used every last bit of power he had to push the man off of him. The walls around them glowed an electric blue, and the bounty hunter lifted violently up into the air with a surprised yelp. But not before he grabbed the front of Stan’s shirt and dragged the hero right along with him with an equally terrified shriek. 

Then Stan slammed face-first into the ground, barely managing to get his arms under himself in time to soften the landing. One which was not made any softer by the person landing on top of him.

“Holy shit... you don’t know when to quit, do you?” the voice above him cut through heavy breaths, a suddenly prominent southern twang vibrating through a growl of his voice.

Stan felt a punch in the right of his ribcage.

His muscles seemed to stop working entirely for a moment. Then a strange blooming agony started working its way outward throughout his torso.

His eyes unfocused. He curled in on himself as much as he could. It wasn't much at all. He couldn’t move. He felt an increasing pressure emanating from the area, the unbearable stinging pain spread throughout his torso and he squeaked trying to hold in a full-blown scream, breathless yet barely able to suck in a single gasp into his shuddering body. 

He barely even noticed when a hand tangled through the hair at the back of his head until it yanked him up and arched his back, causing what felt like knives stabbing through his ribs. He gritted his teeth. If nothing else, he wasn't going to give the bounty hunter the satisfaction of hearing him scream. 

The hand slammed his face down into the ground. The sides of his vision starting to go dark. Then slowly receded back again. A ringing sound reverberated throughout his entire body, and he all but went limp pressing his forehead into the floor.

“Y’know, runt,” the voice of the bounty hunter penetrated Stan’s clouded mind with hard breath. He could feel the man messing around with his belt pouches as he pressed his knee sharply into Stan’s lower back. “I was really hoping I wouldn’t have to use this. I think it's demeaning and kinda inhumane, but you just had to fuck around and find out, didn’t you?”

Stan shook his head and squirmed fruitlessly, terrified of whatever this guy could possibly think was demeaning and inhumane. 

He didn’t have to wait long to find out, because suddenly a strip of smooth leather ran under his neck and pulled tight under his Adam’s apple. 

Stan froze mid-struggle. Clenched his hands, and his teeth, arched his back and pressed his face into the floor even more. He could only see bright white. 

He already knew what the collar felt like.

And suddenly he wasn't in the dingy warehouse corridor anymore.

"No, no, no no no NO NO PLEASE STOP PLEASE!!"

The red eyes flicked down to his sister, pressing her face into his side and squeezing into him as tight as she could.

Then back up to him, holding his hand out threateningly, blue glow dancing across his fingertips.

“How old is she?”

He snarled, arms protectively pulling her into him. “Stay AWAY from us!”

The eyes softened slightly.

So why was a gun still pointing at his head?

–

He threw his hands violently out at the person in all-black combat gear and a slight electric blue glow enveloped their side. Their narrowed their eyes and hissed in annoyance.

“Collar the older one, and for gods sake, find the younger one and dispose of it or something.” The person in all-black combat gear nodded at him. “She’s the only one we need alive.” 

–

He tried to fight back. He didn’t have the cane back then. Didn’t need one.

His powers were so new, and they were so many, and he was just a kid.

He never stood a chance.

The gun. The eyes behind it. Red sparkles, red and scary.

He faced them down. 

They were supposed to be gone forever.

Then the rough woven fabric of a collar too tight around his neck.

The large hands squeezing his upper arms painfully, forcing him forward.

Restraining him.

Fighting.

Held down.

Experiments. 

Needles.

NEEDLES.

Where was his family?

He clutched at the collar as it wrapped around his neck. He could feel his powers leeching away as he fought to keep his freedom.

CLICK.

The sound reverberated through his skull.

And now the cycle had begun anew.

An arm wrapped around his chest and strong-armed him to his feet. Stan would have screamed if he remembered how to. Instead, a strangled gasp choked out of his vocal cords as a heavy hand clasped onto his shoulder and propelled him forward. 

He immediately stumbled and fell to one knee, agonizing pain bolting up and down his bad leg and almost face-planting in the process, because when were his hands cuffed behind his back again? 

He felt the collar sitting on his throat and he tried to bring his hands up to rip the damn thing off, but he couldn't.

He couldn't, he couldn't, he tried but he couldn't.

A voice lilted somewhere all around Stan, and he could feel the hands grabbing at him. He shrieked and fell forward, scrambling all of six inches before he was backed up and shivering against the wall staring up at the heaving bounty hunter.

He did not look amused.

“You are so pitiful, you know that?”

Stan brought his knees up and pressed his face into his legs, as if that small protection could put the world between them.

“Chiquito, if you don’t get your ass up and walk with me back to that room, I will pick you up and throw you over my shoulder like a sack of goddamn potatoes and spike you into the fucking floor when we get there, do you want that?”

Stan stared glassily into the floor. “... you– you– y-you were– you were there-ere.”

“I was–... What?”

Stan’s gaze snapped to his eyes. Those dark eyes. He couldn’t see it now, but he was sure there was a red glint in the right light.

“You!” He shouted, as if that would clear up his babbling. “You were– it was you!”

The mercenary stared at him. Then clenched his fists, looked up, took a hissing deep breath, and released his fists again.

“You can have a mental breakdown when we get back, runt. Are you gonna walk there or am I dragging you there?”

He didn’t remember. 

Of course he didn’t remember, it must have been ten years ago. Stan was just a kid, and everyone thought he was a girl back then. He himself thought he was a girl back then.

Things were different now. Things were going better.

“I– I– We–... Walk.”

“Great.”

He reached down and dragged Stan up by the upper arm, completely ignoring the way he violently flinched and tugged back. 

Stan did his best to keep up, but in addition to hunching over the searing pain in his chest and trying to ignore the prickling bruise that must have been forming on his cheek, his leg was oozing spikes of lava up and down his entire hip and leg. Stan stumbled and almost pitched forward if it hadn't been for the bounty hunter's iron grip. 

The bounty hunter groaned incredulously. “Oh my god!” 

“Wait, wait, I– Don't–!”

That was all he managed to get out before he was swept off his feet and thrown over the man's shoulder, hitting the soft part of his stomach right on the bone, knocking the wind from his lungs and setting his side on fire all over again. And now he was upside down. His brain felt like it was made out of slime.

He barely managed to gather his bearings enough to start kicking and yelling when he was unceremoniously dumped against the wall, where his head cracked against the cold cinderblock and he bounced to the ground with a strangled gasp.

The world went bright white as the searing pain shot through his entire being, snaking around his brain and squeezing it in a chokehold so that there was no more thought, nothing else but the primal urge to curl up into a little ball to protect himself and the silent open-mouthed screams of a trapped animal clawing desperately for its life, seizing and twitching and paralyzed all because of a too hard smack to the head short circuiting any chance it had at survival.

Stan could barely feel anything over the deafening ringing in his ears, the buzzing feeling in his body as if he were entirely made of bees, the dizziness tilting the world around him on its axis like some bad carnival fair ride.

What was that all about?

Then he finally spotted the mercenary again, coming at him once more with chain in hand, and he may as well have been dunked in ice water with how fast that image sobered him up.

He clumsily kicked out with all his might, pressing his back into the wall as much as possible to get away while simultaneously realizing that with the wall behind him, probably concussed, dizzy, tied up, and in agonizing pain, there was no way he was going to win this fight.

He kicked anyway.

Even as the hunter seemed to grab the ankle of his good leg easily, he still tried to slam his foot into the hand of the bounty hunter to just get him off. He even managed to get a solid kick in, causing the hunter to jolt back with a pained cry and let go. 

Stan felt some sort of twisted sense of pride that he managed to get a hit in even in his sorry state.

Which was quickly crushed when two hands grabbed either of his ankles and lifted them up high into the air, so high that Stan was only touching the ground with the upper part of his back. He couldn’t even use his arms for extra support with the way they were firmly stuck near the small of his back.

There was panting above him. “Alright, you gonna–”

“Let me GO!” Stan yelled, trying once more to kick out of the hold, pressing painfully down into the ground with the back of his head and writhing around erratically in one last herculean act of defiance. He kicked even as his bad knee screamed for him to stop, to rest, even as the fists around his ankles just tightened and became more rigid in response, even as the mercenary grunted out a string of curses trying to wrangle him in.

He wasn’t just gonna give in.

“¡Basta ya! Fucking stop, you lost!”

“Fuck you, make me!”

A sharp kick struck him square in the middle of his spine, and he nearly cracked his teeth with the clench of the jaw he made trying to hold back the scream. He almost involuntarily had to take a moment to catch his breath, then before he could start his protestations again, the cold metal claw of a manacle clamped around his ankle and locked in place with a final click click click that made Stan’s hairs stand on end.

But he was still upside down. The mercenary didn’t let go.

In fact, he held Stan up by only one leg now, and seemed to be fiddling with something that Stan couldn’t see because of his own overturned and battered body getting in the way. He could hear each heavy breath the mercenary seethed out, each one filling him with more dread.

He felt like he’d been hit by a truck. The adrenaline of the situation finally started to ebb away as it started to sink in that he was well and truly trapped, leaving room for the much more paralyzing fear that Stan had been battling since the moment he woke up here. 

Not to mention the blood rush from being upside down for so long was stinging at his face and making his brain hurt. And dizzy. And everything felt like it was shrouded in clouds. Or maybe that was the concussion.

“Jesus Christ,” the mercenary finally breathed. “One hell of a fucking kicker…”

Stan wrenched his head up to snarl at the man and tried to kick his hand off his ankle.

He snatched it out of the air mid-kick, haphazardly pressing a small bundle of twine into his skin as he knocked Stan’s ankles together and held them there as he began to wind the thread around them.

“Yeah, no more kicking.”

Stan still tried to wriggle out with increasingly weaker and weaker cries of anger, even as his ankles were anchored together, even as the blood rushed to his head and made him more and more dizzy, feeling the pressure in his face rising, and his breaths becoming shallower and slower.

Even as all of his efforts did absolutely nothing, and he was left panting and shaking with effort to not go completely limp as his legs were still held up high above him.

Stan didn’t even have the energy left to fight anymore. Tears stung at his eyes as he finally let his head lay on the ground.

“All tuckered out?” the mercenary's voice came from above him. “This seems to work pretty well on you. Maybe I just just let you hang like this for a bit. I’ve got this like, chain thing in the middle of the room hanging from the ceiling, I could probably just like, clip this in–”

“No, no, no, no no no…”

“You’re sure?” The southern drawl was ever-present. “Just wanna make sure you learned to never fucking do that again… y'know, I could hogtie you, you’re already most of the way there.”

Stan felt something break just then. He heaved in a desperate, hitching breath. “Just… please just put me down. Please.” 

His voice was barely even a whisper. Every breath put more strain on his lungs.

A moment passed.

Then the hold on his ankles released, and his body came crashing to the ground. His feet hit extra hard, and his bad knee felt like it was being attacked by angry stinging bees. 

But he didn’t care.

He just rolled onto his side so he wasn’t lying on his bound wrists and lay there.

He heard the boots of the bounty hunter approaching him, and he used whatever energy he had left to open his eyes and stare up at him, pleading with him to not actually hogtie him, whatever that meant. He didn’t think he could handle more.

But the bounty hunter just stared back down at him, briefly meeting his eyes before giving his body a once over, then a small nod. He nudged Stan lightly with the toe of his boot, and Stan’s wandering eyes opened and focused back on the man before he even realized they had closed.

“Not gonna pass out on me, are ya?” the mercenary asked, as if they had just had a light sparring match instead of an irrefutable beatdown.

It almost seemed like he cared. Maybe he did.

Stan swallowed. “I’m– not.”

“Good. Don’t.”

The mercenary whipped around and started to walk away, giving Stan a faceful of the revolver strapped to his hip, still completely clipped in and unused.

He never stood a chance, did he?

Despite everything, a feeling of something akin to a mix of rage and sorrow bubbled up within his stomach.

“He-hey! Wait!”

The bounty hunter turned to face him again quizzically, and somehow that made Stan’s annoyance just grow.

“You didn’t even–” Why was he mad about this? “You didn’t use the gun! Coward!”

The mercenary’s gaze shot to his hip. Then back up to Stan. His nose twitched. Face blank, calculating.

Then in one smooth motion, the gun was out of the holster and pointing directly at Stan, and a deafening blast rang out throughout the entire room.

Stan felt a burning sting whiz by his ear, high-pitched and cutting through air microseconds before the blast shook him to his core. He screamed and ducked into himself, violently shoving back into the wall and cowering into a small ball.

Even as the ringing died down and Stan realized he wasn’t a splatter on the wall behind him, the stinging on the shell of his ear didn’t die down. It got more intense. He felt a single drop of something tickling down the side of his ear before dripping down onto his shoulder. Then another.

His attention ripped up to the mercenary, only to scramble further into the wall when he found the gun still pointed at him. 

Another drip.

The mercenary flipped the revolver once and shoved it firmly back into its holster.

“I’ll use the gun next time.”

* * * * * * * *

Next

The advantage of being a sniper was knowing where to be, where to aim and when to shoot. Vivi sat in the pitch-black cell, out of her own free will in absolute silence, even her breathing mingled with the quietude of the night.

And it was that sound, of the inhale and exhale that divulged the location of the occupant in the cell next to her. She could hear the indignation in every draw of air that Ezekiel took. He was cornered, disgraced and resolute in his lack of protests. Perhaps, he was still in denial. Or maybe he thought active resistance was beneath him. This was somewhat impressive. For a whole night and a day, since Eze’s arrest, he had had no visitors. No one knew she was there, she lurked when she could, usually slinking into the cell, into her spot past sunset. After the arrival of Jared fanned the fire in the blonde and drove him to cross new lines, Vivi was left intrigued. It vexed her that she knew of the ex-second-in-command but had never bothered to know him.

Better late than never.

The sharp clanging of the bars had shattered the eerie tranquillity that was unwittingly shared by the free and the imprisoned, by the witness and the witnessed. And it irritated Vivi. But did not compel her to make her presence known. “I hope you’re happy Eze!” “Revenge is a petty look on you, T… But you wear it oh-so-often” The sniper could make out that Tariq’s quest for vengeance was rather hollow. It was his frustration and a keen sense of guilt that added an untrammelled ferocity to the way his baton struck the only thing keeping him from breaking his friend. He managed to speak over the din, “You best hope I don’t find a way in Eze...” The east-facing cells had painfully antiquated technology securing them. In Q.B.’s defence, a security upgrade was futile when no prisoner had attempted a breakout from these cells. There was nowhere to go from here, where they would not be found. Vivi could help Tariq find his way in with ease, a part of her was curious to see if his words were a bluff. But she waited. That lilt of betrayal that made Tariq sound so wounded, just made Eze scoff. According to him, Tariq latched onto being the victim of duplicity, so he did not have to face being the passive perpetrator. He had turned a blind eye too and conveniently; accepted too many things at face value. And acted upon them. Ezekiel felt safe behind the bars, safe behind the curtain of the title he once had, even though it was now lost. They can’t hurt the ex-SiC. “Why, do you miss it? Being in here? I’m certain you’ll do something to find your way back soon enough. Now that you don’t have me protecting you.” The bars were rattled. How dare he suggest that he was protecting me? And the rattling stopped abruptly. A lone figure approached, this one Vivi had not been expecting. She tucked a strand of her freshly dyed pink hair behind her ears and remained lurking in the safe shadows of her open cell. She sat up straighter as she watched the frail silhouette pass her. “Nova?” Nova had already noticed Tariq before he called out. The BioHacker was still in the black bodice and leggings. She looked like a lithe, black cat… carrying bad news and bad luck. She wanted to do this alone, but she could not turn tail now. This was a time sensitive matter. She would have to deal with whatever judgement followed when Tariq learned about Zizi. She swallowed and ignored the ex-squadron leader, her voice was a whisper and directed at the man in the cell. “Eze, I need to let her out.” The blonde spoke over her, deliberately. “Aww… My SuperNova, I expected you sooner. Are you enjoying having the house all to yourself?” His drawl had only worsened with his circumstance. He knew she was not alone in what used to be his home. She stiffened and cleared her throat.   Tariq’s confused questions found words. “Let who out? From where?” Everybody he knew was safe…  She ignored him again. “Please, just tell me how, Eze…” Even a state of disgraced imprisonment, her pleading, especially when it was so genuine, was like music. He teetered to the bars and hung onto them. If Tariq could not see the gravity of the moment and if he had not been distracted by the unanswered questions, his baton would have broken the pale clutching fingers. Ezekiel couldn’t help taunting her, she made it so easy.    “Do say that again, SuperNova… I so dearly miss you begging.” Two pairs of amber eyes pinned Eze, one set desperate, one livid, just like he liked them. He laughed, even with his back against a wall and in a cell, Ezekiel knew how to play them. He still had cards up his sleeve. The golden eyes averted and found each other instead. Tariq searched for an explanation in her features. Nova realised that there was no point in hiding it anymore. She looked at the floor of the cell as she answered, guiltily.   “He is keeping a woman in a hidden room against her wishes. I can’t find a way to let her out…” Ezekiel was smart to step away and take his hands off the rods, just as the baton clanged against where his digits had been moments ago. Tariq’s gaze darkened considerably. The blonde clicked his tongue and smirked. “I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.” 

“She’ll die.” Nova stated, as though that would change anything. It did not. Ezekiel shrugged. “And whose fault would that really be?” Tariq gave up on the man he had once called a friend and offered a naive solution. “Why can’t we report this, Nova? I’m sure someone will find a way…” Ezekiel receded deeper into his cell, his voice echoed in the dingy room as shadows and soft light made his features appear more menacing than ever. “Yeah, SuperNova, tell him why you can’t report this. Because it was not me who used her for experiments now, was it? The same ones that allowed her to fix you and Kira by the way, T.”  I just wanted to find a way to help her before she was handed off to authorities. Nova did not trust Q.B. to be able to handle Zizi’s life with the sensitivity she thought it would require. But between life and discomfort, Nova’s choice for herself and for the people around her had always been obvious. Life. It’ll be difficult, but at least she’ll live…  I do not care what happens to me… Nova’s thoughts only served as a reminder that there may be no other way. Before Tariq could fathom the implications of what Ezekiel just shared, her clear voice cut through his thoughts like broken glass. “We can. We should just report it, we must, in fact. I don’t care what they do to me. I don’t want her dying in there. Who should I go to? Who would be able to help her best?” Nova seemed to have convinced herself already and now was bolstering her spirit and coming to terms with this being the only option if there was no way to make Ezekiel give up the information on how to get into the room. They will have to believe me if what I say implicates me and I tell them anyway, right? Nova had surrendered herself to this option in her mind, she needed to act. Zizi is not dying on my watch. I will find a way. Some way. Any way.   Tariq was certain that there was more to it than he knew. This was something she probably did not want to do. Nova was driven, but the tendencies Tariq had seen did not reconcile with the picture Ezekiel painted. You are not fooling me anymore, Eze. He knew Nova would willingly suffer for something she did not have to suffer for, just for the life that was at stake here. She shared that trait with him… Just like Akira did. “There must be another way.” The conundrum was infectious and now had its claws in him.   “There is.” Vivi’s voice startled both Tariq and Nova in equal measure, Tariq visibly recoiled and then drew himself into a stance to strike. The BioHacker was better at stifling the jump. He did not strike when he saw the bubble-gum hair emerged from the neighbouring cell, “What the fuck, Viv?” Tariq was ignored again. A trio now pooled outside Ezekiel’s cell. “Eze… This certainly doesn’t have to do anything with that private Biometric ScanLock you had me work on, does it?” Vivi’s voice sounded like she was reciting a moving poem. The Blonde’s absolute silence was an answer. There was no sneering now. Anna’s scalpel flashed in the pale moonlight as Vivi twirled it in her fingers. Only the sniper spoke and asked the questions now. “Nova, you do know where this room and the scanner is, right?” The medic wearily nodded. Vivi described the gadget she had created for Ezekiel a few months ago. Nova confirmed with another small nod, that it was the scanner tucked away in a book on the bookshelf that covered the hidden door.  “You can’t - you can’t get in here.” Ezekiel tried; his voice finally faltered. Vivi removed a small device from her satchel and let it snap onto the lock of the cell with a soft click. A few beeps followed and then another click - The cell door swung open. Ezekiel’s back was already against the wall—literally now, he had scurried to the very back of the small cell on instinct as he spewed the promises of unpleasant consequences. “They’ll know! They’ll know! You will all land up here for taking matters into your own hand.” “Well you did say I’ll wind up in here, anyways right? At least it’ll be worth i-” Vivi’s fingers found Tariq’s shoulder as he spoke and was about to step in. He shrugged her hand off. He had still not forgiven her for what she did to Akira. But he did wait. The sniper spoke exclusively to Nova in a whisper. The silence let Tariq catch a few of the hushed questions. ‘Iris… print... serum healing?’ Nova had resorted to using only nods.  “Then no one has to know…” Vivi finished. Uncharacteristically, she waited for Nova to confirm that the plan was fine. Nova’s eyes went wide, then narrowed… And then she closed them and drew a breath. As usual, when she opened them again, there was a newfound resolution in them. She stood up straighter, squaring her delicate shoulders like a warrior and she used words again.  “If it must be done and there is no other way...” 

The plan was relayed to Tariq in his entirety. The soft peal of Anna’s giggle haunted the man inside the cell as much as the dark gratification in Tariq’s amber eyes. But the sight that truly chilled him to the bone, was Nova’s indifference. She did not avert her eyes. Not as Tariq easily overpowered the blonde and held him down, not as Anna’s scalpel made the cuts. Three agents walked into the prison and came out with the things they needed to free Zizi. The night bore witness to the howls of a man who had taken so much pleasure in drawing them out of others in the past. - Much later that night, Novara carried a small silicone satchel, a couple of bottles of BuzzBo and a larger bottle of water to the cell. To his cell. He sat in a corner, slumped onto the floor exactly where Tariq, Vivi-Anna and she had left him. A roughly tied makeshift bandage futilely sought to wipe the tear of blood his wounded eye cried, it only left more red streaks in its wake. The wrapped stump was oozing its own share. His injured eye remained clenched shut and hidden behind the cage of the four fingers that remained attached to the hand. The left half of his face was shrouded in the streaks of crimson and the other half was graced by the soft pale light of the moon. The contrast was as striking as it was scary… And it did nothing to deter the BioMedic standing outside his cell.

“You… fucking bitch.” He spat in a pained hiss. She didn’t respond and crouched to carefully set the bottles she had procured onto the floor of the cell through the thin dark poles. He did not make any motions towards her. He could not, not with the intention to harm anyway. “Do you want them back?” She asked and pursed her lips. “You… you’re just burying evidence, you-” His curses were lost in a pained whisper. It was her turn to shrug. She did not care, a part of her wanted him to deny the help and reconstructive healing. She knew he would not. He cared about appearances way too much and cared about perfection even more. Now it was only a matter of time for him to decide what he was willing to endure for it. She repeated her question, slower. Her tone was ever so slightly patronizing. “Do you want them back?” She had already begun to draw the serum into the syringe. He swallowed and looked at her. Disgusted at the predicament he was in. “Yes.” He croaked. Perhaps, in some other universe, Nova would have found it within her to make him beg for it. The large needle glinted menacingly. She did not enter the cell. All the experiments had certainly allowed her to iterate things and learn. The method was mad, but it taught her to be precise, in practice and in instruction.   She did not need to instruct; he knew about it all too well, too. After all, he had made it a point to witness the process. After indirectly being the reason, it was required to begin with… Repeatedly.

For Zizi, for Akira and for Tariq… She did not need to instruct him, but she pointedly did. And there was something powerful in watching actions follow her words, for once. He slipped the bandage off and stumbled to the front of the prison. “C-can you s-ee?” Panic and uncertainty tumbled out of his lips. A trembling hand was hoisted up the horizontal spoke. “Well, Anna isn’t here… So, you’ll have to take your chances.” He did not call her SuperNova now, when she truly was being super. The needle teetered. “We should probably start with the eye; it’ll require you to stay… stiller.” The single eye that stared at her, shed a bitter, fearful tear. She stared on, almost like she could not see him. “Hold it open and try not to move.” The ruby eye squinted inwards, watching the needle as his thumb and forefinger, and hers (Nova’s work ethic did not allow her to be entirely irresponsible), held the other one open.  They had to scoop out his cornea and iris, the oddly reflective lens lurked behind the wound. Nova steadied herself, which was easier than she had anticipated. Carefully she inserted the needle into the pinked and bloody white, deep enough to reach the right targets. Once, twice and then another few times. Ezekiel had just become the first human subject to have the serum tried on his eye. There certainly was a poetic eyerony, to that. Hopefully, this works. Most probably, it will... There is a chance it may not. They both thought. Till the agony wiped any thoughts from Eze’s mind.

On this rare occasion, Nova didn’t care too much if she happened to fail. The only reason she wished it didn’t, in some capacity was not for herself, or for him... But for everyone else involved in helping her. They deserved better than to get into trouble for this. The gruff cry that his lips issued, rose to a screech then to a siren-like wail. It would only get worse. He fell to his knees, leaving crimson trails on the bars as his grip slackened.  “Please… please come back for the thumb… Please… I cannot take it. Please SuperNova.” He should have stuck to not calling her that. The name he had called her for so long and in such a derogatory manner, was spoken with sincerity, but that did not matter. It slipped out of his lips before he could stop himself, maybe if it had not, she would have found herself to be merciful. “I’m not coming back here, no one is.” She said that with a heartfelt conviction. “So, now, or never.”  Four jittery fingers rose to grip the horizontal bar again, pale and weak. A needle found its way into the stump. The night would continue to bear witness to the excruciating process required to fix a broken man.

Antoni is quiet, but he moves to the side, setting the kettle on the stove full of water to boil, pulling down two mugs. Eli watches him with hazy eyes as he opens two different boxes of tea, the elaichithat Eli prefers, heavy and sweet with cardamom and ginger, his own strong black tea. “The day gets away from you,” Antoni says without looking at him.

Eli considers escaping back to his room from this… this moment that comes between them, uncomfortable intimacy.

Instead, he turns and leans against the fridge, lets the cold of it soothe the burn of his skin right through his shirt. “There are too many days,” He says, wiping at his mouth, looking down to find drips of Gatorade soaked into his shirt. Oh, well. It can join the sweat, can’t it? “Especially after my bonded was gone-... after I came back to my master. What else did I have to do, but learn while locked into my master’s bedroom?”

“Your bonded must miss you,” Antoni says, quietly. He stays on the other side of the room the span of the table and chairs between them, and Eli could cry with gratitude at the air Antoni gives him to breathe, so unlike the suffocating concern of therapists and doctors and Jakob Stanton.

“I assume he is dead,” Eli says, voice flat. “We don’t live long, away from each other. Everyone knows that.”

“But you are here,” Antoni counters, voice gentle. “You are still here, Eli.”

Eli raises his chin, jaw set, dark eyes flashing beneath the fog of his fever. “I am stronger than others.”

“Stronger than your bonded?”

His heart flutters, deep down, beneath the solid breastplate of bone where it is carefully shielded. He can withstand the blows.

“He was never the same kind of strong as I. Why are you making me tea?”

Antoni doesn’t answer at first, turning away to pull down honey in a little plastic jar shaped like a bear, tipping it upside down to add the cloying syrup first to Eli’s mug, then his own. Without looking back, he says quietly, “How else will you allow me to show you that we care if you are ill?”

“I don’t get sick,” Eli says, but he knows his appearance - pale, clammy, with the deep circles beneath his eyes - gives away his lie. “Good pets don’t-”

“We are neither of us very good pets,” Antoni says, and he smiles over his shoulder. Eli can’t help but return it, somehow.

He must be sicker than he thought.

“This is true. But I have always kept to myself, Antoni. I do not intend to stop now-”

“What was your bonded’s name?”

Eli stiffens all over again. “Why do you want to know?”

“Because… because…” The water in the kettle is starting to make a soft sound, as bubbles form on the bottom and break the surface. Not quite boiling, but close. “Because I think everyone should be remembered, this is all. I think we all of us deserve our names, and to be thought of.”

“I never stop thinking about him.” Eli looks down at his fingernails, still carefully filed and trimmed and cared for. “They don’t know what they’ve done to us, when they make us bonded. That it doesn’t stop, that you can’t turn it off. They don’t know what they’ve done-”

“Yes, they do.” The whistle of the kettle starts up, soft as a song, and Antoni pulls it off the stove immediately, pouring the steaming clear water into the mugs, one by one. There’s a silence, as he does it, the strong smell of cardamom rising in the air almost immediately. “They know exactly what they have done.”

“Yes.” Eli sighs heavily, and finally allows himself to sit at a chair at the kitchen table. His legs are nearly weak with relief, and he finds himself resting his forehead on his arms, slumped. Some part of him screams to straighten his posture, keep his chin up, smile warmly when he’s looked at, be seen and not heard, no one cares about his thoughts, recite the words he’s learning in his mind while they talk around and over him. After all, he’s just there to decorate.

Just there to be his master’s exotic trophy, as lifeless as the head of a lion on the wall.

But he’s not there any longer.

“I found him once, I was able-... able to send a package. But then he was gone again, the house was empty. I don’t know where he went. If he hurts as much as I do at not having each other… maybe he is dead.”

“I am sorry,” Antoni says, softly.

“Ne izvinyaysya.”

“‘Do not be sorry,’” Antoni echoes, opening the fridge. “I could hardly understand that one.”

“Well, I am sick, aren’t I? You can’t blame me for screwing up the emphasis.”

Antoni laughs. There’s an odd warmth in Eli at the sound. “That is fair.”

“In any case… Nine,” Eli says, muffled by the dark soothing prison of his own arms. “His name is-... it was Nine.”

There’s a thunk, the gurgle of liquid pouring out, and Eli looks up from his arms to see Antoni staring at him as milk pours onto the kitchen floor from the half-gallon tipped onto his side at his feet. “Did you say Nine?”

“My master never gave him a name,” Eli says, confused. He stumbles to his feet to grab at a towel, which seems to break Antoni from his strange trance, as he jerks back into motion and picks up the milk, splashing it into the cups before stashing it back in the fridge, nearly empty now.

He drops to a crouch to help Eli clean up the spreading pale liquid, shaking his head. “Eli-”

“I think I did not smile, after we were found,” Eli says, looking at the soaked-through towel, a pale cream with blue stripes. It’s spotted with old stains that never came out in the wash. His master would demand the towel be replaced when the first stain stuck, but here everything is kept until it is threadbare. “What did I have to smile about? Do you see?”

“I-”

“What will I ever have to smile about again?” Eli chuckles, then winces as his throat punishes him for even a hint of cynical, unhappy humor. “This is more than you have heard me speak ever before, I guess. He does that to me. Thinking about-... he could always get me talking when nothing else could. Even if he’s gone… even if he’s gone, he’s still here.”

Antoni is quiet, and then shifts to his feet. He drops a damp towel into the sink. “Eli, he is not gone.”

“No, I know. Memory is-”

“He was good with devices,” Antoni says, suddenly. “Was he not? Good at looking at a phone, a computer, and knowing how it would work inside? Good at knowing how to use them?”

“What? No, we were never allowed to touch anything like that.” Eli pauses. His brain feels too full of fog and his eyes ache too much to fully understand what Antoni is saying. The smell of cardamom is stronger, and it seeps into his mind, brings back to his thoughts the shadowy woman, the scent of her own teas steeping, the steaming samosas on the table, the way she would bring home mangos when he was sad without him having to ask, piling them high and watching as he demolished them-

The pain rises, and he puts his hands over his face, trying to force her back down again, but she doesn’t want to go. Her lips thinned with disappointment, her soft subtle proud smile when she didn’t think he would see it. She loved him in the things she did, not the things she said.

He has a sense of them both covered in color, vibrant as paint, a small boy in a woman’s arms.

His master never wanted him to wear colors at all.

His master talked about adoration but it was only in his words, and his actions were always suffocating and buried Eli, alone.

“I think I know your Nine,” Antoni says, a hand at Eli’s back. It hovers, not quite touching, but Eli can feel the weight of it even so, feel the pressure of the near-contact. He swallows the lump in his throat, pushes past how it hurts.

“My Nine,” He says, a breath. A sigh and nothing more. He doesn’t want to believe it, and so he doesn’t. It’s as simple as that. “It was years ago, Antoni. I was taken back to my master. I was alone for years, and the days were… so long. I’m sure you’ve met people like him. There are so many of us, there must be others who feel like me.”

“No, Eli. Nyet, listen to me, I know your Nine. He is hiding in a place north of the city, he is-... he is-... he helps us all now. Your Nine, I know it must be yours, he told me once he knew what it means to lose, and he asked if I had a bonded, then. I did not understand that he meant he had one.”

Eli’s body is frozen, torn with equal strength between denying it - he cannot grieve Nine all over again, his heart won’t withstand the pain of the loss, if it isn’t him Eli may lose his mind this time - and wanting to ask.

He settles on the question.

“What does he look like?”

“This Nine that I know is tall, but he slouches. His hair is brown-”

“Everyone’s hair is brown,” Eli says, acid-laced, his eyes closing at the memory of Nine and his wide bright smile, slouching in the heavy oversized sweats he wore day-in and day-out in shades of beige or gray, compared to Eli’s perfectly tailored suits and silk pajama sets. “It is a common color of hair and it means nothing-”

“He wears a brace when he works,” Antoni says, “and he is telling me once it is because his arm was broken so many times by his master that it never healed right in the end. He has scars-”

“Stop,” Eli says, and the heels of his hands push into his closed eyes, sparking bright colors behind the darkness of his eyelids. “Do not say-”

“His bonded loved stained glass, he tells me, one day we are working together. His bonded loved color but could not have any of his own, his bonded had dark eyes and dark hair, his bonded would sing sometimes in-”

“Hindi,” Eli cuts him off, and his voice sounds strangled. Hands around his throat that are nothing but memories of those bare moments of happiness they had together, lying on his master’s bed whiling away the day, teaching his bonded the songs he couldn’t forget, child rhymes from a home he couldn’t remember. "I like to sing in Hindi."

“Da,” Antoni breathes, and Eli opens his eyes to find Antoni setting the mug down in front of him, milky and pale brown, looking at him with his deep brown eyes, an urgent expression.

“Chto, yesli eto ne on?” It seems safer to ask in a language that isn’t his in any way.

“It is him,” Antoni whispers, and puts his cool hands over Eli’s. To be touched directly by Antoni is so rare that it occurs to Eli he has never seen Antoni touch anyone first, only react to be touched by others. But now, he puts his hands on Eli’s, and his fingers are cold but they warm to Eli’s skin quickly.

The sleeve of his sweater pulls back at the motion, and Eli seems circle-scars along the inside of his wrist, disappearing up inside his sleeve. When his eyes raise, he can see more through the shadowed neckline of Antoni’s shirt, traveling down his collarbone until the shadows overtake them.

“Eli, I am sure it is him.”

“If it isn’t, I won’t survive it,” Eli admits, voice cracking, his smooth soft singsong shattering beneath the insistence. “I won’t. I can’t lose him again, even if it is only a dream of him, I cannot lose him again-”

“But what if you find him, instead?” Antoni meets his gaze, his messy dark hair falling over his own eyes in contrast to how neatly short Eli keeps his. There is an uncertain, hopeful smile on his face. “Will you survive that?”

“I might.” Eli is whispering, now. “I might. But-”

“Then I will call him.” Antoni pulls out his cell phone, and Eli exhales, closing his eyes. He’s too sick to say no to hope, when he has kept himself safe by doing exactly that, over and over again, ever since he lost Nine in the first place.

The ring of the phone is audible, just barely, against Antoni’s ear.

Nothing will come of it.

Nothing has ever come of his hopes-

“I know I am waking you,” Antoni says, cutting off whoever is speaking on the other end. “I know.”

Eli looks to the clock over the oven, and it reads 11:34. Nine always could stay up all night and sleep the day away, if allowed to.

He fights the way his heart starts to flutter, as if trying to escape how tightly he has caged it under the stone of his skeleton to keep it safe. It isn’t him, he tells himself, desperate not to feel the tearing, screaming grief he has felt once before. It isn’t him, it isn’t him, it isn’t him.

“Just bear with me. I will put you on speaker.” Antoni sets the phone down in front of Eli on the table. “Say hello to one of our residents.”

There’s a pause. Then, tired and hazy, a familiar voice. A little deeper, with time, but still… familiar. “Hello? Is there a reason I’m saying hello to-”

“Nine,” Eli breathes, his fingers twitching towards the phone and stopping themselves. His vision blurs, and it takes him a few seconds to realize it’s because he can’t see through his tears. “Nine. Nine, my Nine, my Nine, it’s me.”

There’s a silence, and then a thunk, and a curse comes through the phone. Eli puts his hands over his mouth to hide the way he wants to laugh, high and crazy, because he knows exactly what happened.

“You fell out of bed, didn’t you?”

“I sleep on a mattress on the floor, but I managed to fall out of that anyway,” comes the voice on the other end. “I always-... is this really Eli?”

“It’s me,” He manages. “Did you g-... did you get my gift when I sent it-”

“Yes. Don’t leave that fucking house, I’m coming to you.” He can hear Nine moving, shuffling and rustling through the speakerphone, the jingle of keys. “Don’t you dare leave, don’t you dare, it’s going to take me like five hours to get to you, don’t you fucking leave-”

“I w-won’t, I’ll be right here, Nine, I’m right h-here-” He lets out a single, uncontrolled sob before he tightens himself, before he forces the emotion as deep down as he can force it to go.

“I’ve been keeping that stained glass in the window of my last four houses,” Nine says, breathless. Eli closes his eyes and imagines his bonded running down the stairs of some house somewhere, the focus on his face.

How has his face changed? Has it? Or will he look just the same?

“I couldn’t find you again,” He says, voice shaking still. Cautiously - he allows his heart to beat fast. He lets the cage of his emotions crack, just the slightest bit, open. Lets himself breathe. “You should know, I am very sick-”

“Let me guess, you’re telling all of them you’re fine and you can handle it and do it all yourself, like always.”

Eli laughs, startled into the freedom of the sound. “Yes.”

“Good to know I still know you as well as I used to.”

“We always knew each other best,” Eli says, and then his voice dips, and he leans forward to whisper. “I missed you so much.”

“I thought of you every day, Eli. Every damn day. I’ve been looking for you, every single day.”

“Well… here I am.”

“Don’t hang up the phone.” Eli hears Nine’s ignition start, the rumble of some ancient car. “Please. Please just keep talking to me, I’m afraid if you hang up I’ll wake up and this was just dreaming about you again.”

“Do you dream about me?”

“Always. Do you remember how we used to sing?”

“Yes.”

Antoni taps the back of Eli’s hand, lightly. His smile is wide, and there is a shimmer in his own eyes, too. “Take my phone to your room with your tea,” He offers. “I will bring you the charger.”

“Thank you,” Eli says, and he doesn’t just mean about the phone.

Antoni only turns away, leaving to head for his own room. Eli stands, balancing phone in one hand and mug in the other, moving slowly down the hall. Nine starts to talk to him about where he’s staying now, and Eli lets the familiarity of that voice wash over him. The empty spot they made inside of him during training starts to refill.

His bonded, after all, always meant far more to him than any master he was meant to love.

They didn’t know what they had done, when they came up with bonded pairs. They didn’t just give Eli a built-in nursemaid, companion, or servant. They didn’t make him a weakness.

They gave him a way to break through the love he was supposed to feel and remember what actual love felt like. They gave him the first steps towards escape, they made it so they couldn’t paint over the person he is with someone else he was supposed to be. Not entirely.

He showed through, an oil painting with a second one hidden just beneath the first.

Nine made it out earlier, but the love of Nine had led Eli here anyway.

“I can’t wait to see you again,” Nine says as Eli drops onto his bed, closing his eyes, letting the phone rest warm just beneath his collarbone.

Over his heart.

His fever burns, but the knowledge that Nine is coming burns brighter.

-