The position has no relief in it.  No way to settle.  Every inch of him feels suspended in the anticipation of strain.

His ankles are secured separately now too, farther apart than before, keeping his spine locked flat against the table.

He tests one arm instinctively.  The restraint answers with a sharp metallic pull.

And pain immediately flashes hot through his shoulder socket.  Not from the restraint itself.

From the position.

His jaw clenches before he can stop it.

“…you redesigned the furniture,” he mutters hoarsely.

No response.

But there’s movement nearby.  Not hidden this time.

A chair sits several feet from the table, angled toward him with deliberate neatness.  Someone occupies it already.  Watching.

The same composed figure from before.

Clean sleeves.  Straight posture.  Hands folded loosely together.

Waiting.

His stomach tightens despite himself.

That’s new.

“You know,” he says after a second, voice rough from disuse, “most people buy me dinner before the bondage setup.”

Nothing.

The figure studies him for another long moment before speaking.

“You slept intermittently for three hours.”

His throat feels dry enough to crack.  “Congratulations to me?”

“No sedatives were required.”

That lands oddly.

Not praise.

Assessment.

He shifts again despite the warning already screaming through his shoulders.  The movement drags another sharp line of pain through both arms, deeper this time, immediate and ugly enough to pull a harder breath from him.

The figure notices.

Everything here notices.

“Muscular fatigue beginning,” they say calmly.

“Yeah,” he says tightly. “That tends to happen when you hang people up like spare parts.”

No reaction.

The figure rises from the chair.

His body goes still automatically.

Not fear, he tells himself.  Readiness.

The person approaches the table without hurry, carrying a slim tablet in one hand.  No instruments.  No tray.

That somehow feels worse.

They stop beside him.  “Your cooperation will reduce duration.”

He laughs once under his breath.  “Sure it will.”

The tablet activates with a soft tone.  The figure glances at it briefly.

Then:

“State your name.”

He stares at the ceiling.  “No.”

A pause.  No immediate consequence.

His pulse doesn’t lower anyway.

The figure taps the screen once.

Something beneath the table shifts with a quiet mechanical sound.

Then—

His arms are pulled another inch upward.

The pain is instantaneous.

A violent stretch tears through both shoulders hard enough to wrench a sound out of him before he can stop it—a sharp, involuntary gasp as every muscle across his chest locks tight in reflex.  His back arches automatically against the restraints.

The position holds.  Doesn’t release.

Oh, fuck that—

He sucks air carefully through his nose, fighting to force his muscles to unclench, but there’s nowhere for the strain to go.  It just sits there, digging deeper into the joints with every breath.

Not sharp anymore.  Heavy.  Grinding.

The interrogator watches him stabilize.

“State your name.”

He laughs again, but it shakes at the edges now.

“…creative,” he manages.

Another tap.  The table shifts again.

Not upward this time.

Outward.

His arms spread wider.

A white-hot bolt tears through his left shoulder so suddenly his vision flashes.  He chokes on the breath that tries to escape him, fingers convulsing hard against the restraints as pain radiates down both arms in brutal, pulsing waves.

The position stops there.  Held precisely at the threshold before something tears.

Tears.

His breathing loses rhythm for a second.  The interrogator waits through it patiently.

“State your name.”

He squeezes his eyes shut hard enough to see sparks.

Don’t react.

Too late for that now.

“…go to hell,” he bites out.

Silence.

Then:

“Deflection maintained.”

The tablet chimes softly.  The table does not move again.

Instead, the restraints at his wrists tighten incrementally.

Small adjustment.

Tiny.

But in this position it changes everything.

Pressure bites hard across already strained joints, forcing his arms into stricter alignment.  The pain deepens instantly—less explosive than before, more invasive.  A relentless pull buried deep under muscle and tendon.

His shoulders tremble.  He hates that they can see it.

The interrogator’s voice remains perfectly level.  “You accessed Facility Archive Seven on the nineteenth.”

His eyes open slowly.

There it is.  Real questions.

He swallows against the dryness in his throat.  “Sounds fake.”

“Who authorized your entry?”

He says nothing.

The strain builds by degrees now—not mechanically, but biologically.  Muscles tiring.  Nerves inflaming.  The slow dawning realization that his body cannot maintain this position indefinitely.

That’s intentional.

The interrogator watches the silence stretch.  Then asks calmly: “What did you remove?”

Another adjustment.  Not wider.

Higher.

The change is minimal.  The effect isn’t.

Pain lances viciously through both shoulders, deep enough now to feel nauseating.  His head jerks back against the table with a muffled sound as his entire upper body strains involuntarily against the restraints.

A broken breath escapes him.  His hands are shaking openly now.  He can’t stop it.

The interrogator waits until his breathing starts working again.  “What did you remove?”

“Nothing,” he snaps immediately.

Too fast.

The interrogator’s eyes flick briefly to the tablet.

“Stress elevation inconsistent with response confidence.”

Shit.

He turns his head sharply toward them despite the position screaming in protest.  “You measuring my heartbeat now?”

“Yes.”

That shouldn’t make his stomach drop the way it does.

The interrogator steps closer.

“Who else accessed the archive?”

“No one.”

A beat.

Then the interrogator says, almost conversationally:

“That answer was truthful.”

His chest tightens.

Why tell him that?

Before he can process it—

The restraints pull wider again.

This time he actually cries out.  The sound tears free before he can contain it, rough and sharp as agony rips through his left shoulder hard enough to make his entire arm spasm violently against the restraint.

For one horrifying second he thinks something dislocated.  The pain surges hot and unstable through the joint, radiating down into his elbow, his wrist, his hand—

Then settles just enough to remain survivable.

Barely.

He’s breathing too fast now.  He knows it.  Can’t stop it.

Sweat slicks cold along the back of his neck despite the freezing room.

The interrogator studies him with clinical focus.  “Why did you enter the archive?”

He laughs once—breathless, wrecked around the edges.

“You really—” he sucks in air sharply as another pulse of pain cuts through the shoulder, “—really need better security.”

The interrogator regards him silently.  Then reaches down.

Not to the tablet.

To his arm.

Gloved fingers press carefully against the damaged shoulder.

Not gentle.

Precise.

Testing.

The pressure hits something deep in the joint and pain detonates instantly through his arm.  He jerks hard against the restraints with a strangled sound, muscles locking uselessly as panic flashes bright and animal through his chest.

“Easy,” the interrogator says calmly.

The word almost makes him hate them.

Their fingers press again.  Slightly different angle.

His vision blurs.

“Answer the question.”

“Fuck—”

Pressure.  White pain spears downward through his shoulder blade hard enough to make his whole body shake.

“Why did you enter the archive?”

“I didn’t take anything!” he snaps, voice cracking violently this time.

The room goes still.  Too still.

The interrogator slowly removes their hand from his shoulder.

Looks at the tablet.  Then back at him.

“You did not deny entry.”

The realization hits him like another blow.

No.

No, no—

His pulse spikes so hard he can hear it.

The interrogator watches the reaction with terrible attentiveness.  “Interesting,” they murmur.

He clamps his mouth shut hard enough to hurt.

Idiot.

Pain throbs relentlessly through both shoulders now, each pulse of his heartbeat grinding deeper into exhausted muscle.  His arms are trembling continuously.

The interrogator returns to the chair.

Sits.  Composed.  Unhurried.

Like they have all the time in the world.

“You will continue answering questions.”

His breathing still won’t steady completely.  “And if I don’t?”

The interrogator folds their hands again.

“Your joints will fail before the restraints do.”

Silence.

Cold and absolute.

His stomach twists hard.

Because the worst part—

The worst part is that they say it like a measurement.

Not a threat.

The tablet gives another soft tone.  The interrogator looks down at it briefly.

Then asks: 

“What were you looking for?”

Masterlist | Next

Taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires @elvenarcane @sir-fenris @whumpy-daydreams @ziptiesnfries

“M-maybe,” Hero shuddered. Maybe if they hadn’t gotten lost in their speculations, they wouldn’t have strayed so far from the observed streets. Maybe if they had paid more attention to their patrol, they wouldn’t have wound up trapped between a building and the imposing criminal bracketing them in with their arms on either side. Close, crowded, but not touching. There was that at least. That bit of space that teased clarity, and maybe even a dumb sense of safety.

Other Supervillain studied them closely. There wasn’t an ounce of distinguishable emotion on their face. All Hero could do was stare back at them, wide-eyed and with a tight chest.

“You attended my gala the other night. Why?”

“I—”

“Don’t,” Other Supervillain interrupted quietly, “think about lying to me. I’ll know, and I don’t have time to deal with you further. Answer my questions and nothing will happen to you.”

“And I’m supposed to trust that? Trust you?” Hero questioned skeptically.

Other Supervillain’s lips quirked in what might’ve been a wry smile. “When have I ever gone back on my word?”

Hero swallowed. Was there any sense in asking them to clarify what they meant by that? If they were talking about their life of villainy or as a public figure? Besides, Hero didn’t know if Other Supervillain knew what Supervillain had told them at the gala, so maybe they didn’t know that Hero knew who they were — if Supervillain was to be believed that is.

“I was following a lead.” A half-truth, but honest enough that Hero didn’t think it could be considered a lie.

“What kind of lead? I need you to tell me everything, Hero. The harder you make this, the less likely this will end amicably.”

“The stolen artifacts. I received a tip that they might be at the gala, and I went to retrieve them,” Hero hesitated, not certain if that was the answer Other Supervillain was searching for, or if they wanted Hero to trap themselves by allowing them to prattle on under the threat of…well a vague threat of being hurt.

“You’re searching for the artifacts? From the museum?” Other Supervillain asked with what sounded like doubt. Hero’s head spun. Fighting crime was so much easier when they could gauge what was going on in their enemy’s head or their next action, but Other Supervillain gave little indication to help them in any way.

“Yeah,” Hero nodded. “They were worth a lot of money. Could fund…I don’t know, but if a villain stole them and sold them on the black market…”

Other Supervillain pulled back slightly, but didn’t drop their hands from either side of Hero’s shoulders. Hero watched them wearily as the other seemed to study them from head to toe. Their breath coming a little easier now, Hero hoped that was all.

“I didn’t steal them. I’m not a petty thief.”

“I didn’t say you were. That’s why it’s called ‘a lead’, you follow—”

“Hero,” Other Supervillain chastised, “I’m losing my patience. Tell me, why did you dance with Supervillain?”

Hero flinched. “I didn’t know it was them, not until later.”

“What made you realize it was Supervillain?”

“They said something to me, something I thought only Supervillain would say,” Hero replied slowly, swallowing the hesitation that threatened to choke their throat. Other Supervillain glared at them, opening their mouth probably to reprimand them, but Hero cut them off. “They threatened me, personally.”

Other Supervillain’s eyes bore into them. Neither one of them moved an inch. Hero was too afraid to breathe, their breath stuttering in their lungs. Silently, Hero prayed that the master criminal was satisfied, that this was the end of it. They forced themselves to bear the intense scrutiny of Other Supervillain’s unwavering gaze. They didn’t know what they would do if the villain didn’t believe them. Or if they were truly Politician…what kind of implication would this have Hero’s life? As a hero, they were often in the same circle as Politician when it came to press conferences or city events, ceremonies, the like. But what if…what if Other Supervillain/Politician found out who they were, their civilian identity? What would happen if Other Supervillain found out what else Supervillain had told them at the gala?

“You’ve been very helpful, Hero, thank you.” Other Supervillain pulled away completely and turned, walking off down the empty street and leaving Hero to catch their breath.

Sliding down the wall, Hero sank to the cold, damp asphalt like an anchor. Staring, but unseeing, their mind raced.

What just happened?

Numbly, Hero looked toward where Other Supervillain had strode off to. The master criminal, the political figure, whatever they were, was no where in sight. Vanished into the shadows of the night, Hero was left wondering just who Other Supervillain was and what they wanted or intended to do.

Maybe their “potential friend” could be of some help. Now if only they knew how to get in touch with Supervillain without raising any alarm…

“This doesn’t have to go on, Whumpee,” Whumper released their hair, voice quiet. “Just tell me what I want to know, and I’ll let you go.”

“B’ll crap..”

The fist crashed into their face, snapping their head to the side. If it hadn’t been for the chain, they would have crumpled to the ground. 

“You’re lucky I have places to be,” Whumper hissed. “Take the night, weigh your options. This is the rest of your life, Whumpee, unless you start talking.”

Before Whumpee could bring themselves to retort, Whumper was gone, having stomped out of the room, and slammed the door behind themself. 

A whimper slipped out of Whumpee’s lips. It hurt. Every single bruise, every single cut, all made by Whumper’s precise hands, none severe enough to grant them the sweet release of death. 

It seemed like seconds later, the door creaked in once again. A faint thought crossed their mind, had the night already passed?

But no, as a figure stepped into their view, and gently shut the door behind themselves. This was someone new. Hopefully not someone worse. 

“Hey,” A soft voice whispered. “I’m just going to get you down from there, and patch you up,” Whumpee squeezed their eyes shut as the person approached, nearly standing on top of them, as they reached up and fiddled with the cuffs. A moment later, the pressure against their wrists disappeared, and they collapsed forwards, right against the stranger’s waiting chest. 

Whumpee could do little but squirm and mumble as the stranger lowered them to the ground, onto their back, head against the floor. 

A ploy was their first thought, as they watched the stranger open a kit of some sort. They wouldn’t put it past Whumper to send someone in there after saying they could “rest” to just hurt them more, perhaps make them let their guard down. 

“It’s going to be okay, Whumpee,” The person murmured, almost on cue. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I- just- I’m not… not t’lkin..” They grit out, turning their head so they were looking at the wall. The blow would take them by surprise, but they didn’t want to see it happen, especially from someone who had presented themselves to be so kind. 

The first touch, however, was more gentle than they could have ever expected, lifting their head up, and sliding a bundled up jacket underneath, a makeshift pillow in a room full of torture equipment. 

“My name’s Caretaker. I’m Whumper’s cousin.” 

Whumpee felt their heart twist. Why were they telling them this? 

“I want to be honest with you. You’re in deep shit. Whumper sent me in here to have “my fun” with you. I fucking hate them, the sadistic psychopath. You don’t deserve this, you were just doing your damn job,” Caretaker seemed to almost be talking to themselves as they pulled out multiple cloths and a bottle of hydrogen peroxide. “If I could get you to an actual infirmary, that’d be ideal, or even a doctor, but that’d cause too much suspicion. There’s cameras everywhere, it’d just get both of us in more trouble. I do pick up shifts in the infirmary wing though, so I know what I’m doing,” 

Whumpee was half-listening as Caretaker soaked one of the rags in the rubbing alcohol, before turning her full attention to them. “This is going to hurt like holy hell. If it ever becomes too much to handle, though, tell me and we can take a break.”

Fuck, it really did hurt. No matter how they braced themselves for the pain, they couldn’t hold back the cry that tore from their throat as the cloth made burning contact with their skin. It felt like their skin was fucking melting off the bone. 

Caretaker didn’t say anything as she worked, her touch ghosting the cloth against the gashes littering Whumpee’s skin. 

It hurt, so bad, so fucking bad, but Whumpee didn’t tell them to stop. Dealing with an infection would be much worse than a bit of wound cleaning. 

So they sucked it up, grit their teeth, and waited for it to be over. 

What seemed like years later, Caretaker finally announced they were finished. Whumpee nearly cried in relief. 

“Drink this,” Caretaker ordered, holding a bottle up to Whumpee’s lips. “It’s just water,” 

Instinct told Whumpee to turn their head away, that it could be drugged, laced with something, but impulse got the better of them, and they drank greedily, exhausted and dehydrated from the torture Whumper had put them through. 

“I don’t have much longer,” Caretaker warned as Whumpee finished the last of the liquid bottle. “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

“I- no,” Whumpee coughed, a bit of water dribbling down their chin. “I don’t think so,”

“In that case, I wish you the best, Whumpee.” Caretaker said as they packed away their supplies. “I don’t know when the next time I’ll see you is.” 

“Thank- thank you, Caretaker,” Whumpee mumbled, as the later stood.