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"No, they were not," they said, stern, quite a stark contrast to the gentle tone they always used with Whumpee. "And if you keep making assumptions, you're bound to get punched. Not necessarily by me, but by someone at some point."

Friend threw their hands in the air. "Whoa, sorry, I didn't realise it was that serious. But you do realise Whumpee is like, a grown adult, right? They can tell me off themself if they didn't like the joke."

"For it to be a joke, it'd have to be funny," Caretaker deadpanned. "Am I laughing?"

A mama's boy. Whumpee didn't have a mama. Never had. Caretaker had basically raised them from the time they were a teenager to becoming the person they are today. They had taken Whumpee in from the streets. A mama's boy. What a cruel 'joke'.

"I'm just saying, it's a little weird how much you're fussing over them," Friend went on, undeterred. "Whumpee," they began, emphasising that the next part of the sentence was addressed to them, "don't you want a little more independence?"

Whumpee might've grown a lot over the years, they might've grown into an adult that towered over Caretaker by now — to be fair, that wasn't hard, Caretaker was 5 foot with a stool — but they still made themself quite small in Caretaker's presence, when they knew they didn't have to look out for themself. When they knew Caretaker would have their back. When they felt safe. "I'm fine," they said quietly.

"So you can stop the interrogation," Caretaker added firmly.

"Okay, okay. I was just askin'. Not any of my business, I guess. But what's Whumpee gonna do when you're not around?"

Caretaker saw Whumpee hang their head from the corner of their eye. Whumpee was capable on their own, but they still didn't like to think about a time when Caretaker wasn't around to help them anymore. It was bound to happen sooner or later, given the age difference, but it made Whumpee sad, and Caretaker had dedicated their life to not seeing Whumpee sad ever again.

"I plan to be around," they said, and Whumpee reached out to take their hand under the table, out of sight of the others. Caretaker let them, and squeezed it to let them know they were there for them. "Besides, Whumpee's fine on their own."

"When they can't even wipe their own mouth? Can they wipe their own—"

"We're leaving," Caretaker said, standing up from the table. Whumpee stood with them, and the size difference became readily apparent. "And we're not coming back. Thanks for the meal. You're a shit friend, though. And the rest of you are as well, it shouldn't be my sole job to defend Whumpee from assholes."

Without waiting for a response, Caretaker walked out, still holding Whumpee's hand, and so dragging them out as well. Not that Whumpee had to be dragged, they followed like it was their job.

"Thanks," Whumpee said meekly once they were out of the pizzeria. "I'm sorry that I still can't… that I still won't…"

"It's okay," Caretaker said tenderly. "I'm here for you, okay? And we'll find better friends."

"They were fine…"

"They weren't."

Whumpee nodded. They had a habit of going along with whatever Caretaker said. "Okay."

"Look, I just… I want the best for you. Be it accommodations, or friends, or whatever. And they weren't good for you. I wouldn't trust you to be alone with them."

"Thanks for looking out for me."

Caretaker reached up, standing on their tippy-toes, and ruffled Whumpee's hair. "Always. Or until you don't need me anymore."

Fear flashed in Whumpee's eyes. "I'll— I'll always need you," they said, almost scared to speak the words out loud.

"Wanna watch a movie?" they asked one time when Whumpee was over. It was already nearing midnight, and the movie was two hours long. Whumpee looked a little drowsy already, but they nodded anyway.

"Sure. What movie?"

They ended up watching it all the way through, but Caretaker couldn't bring themself to focus on the movie itself. They kept glancing sideways, checking whether Whumpee had fallen into the trap they'd set, maybe not intentionally, but definitely subconsciously: would they fall asleep during it?

They caught them jolting awake several times, they caught Whumpee pinching themself hard whenever their eyes closed for too long, and eventually, when the movie was over, they immediately stood up to stretch.

"I guess I should go home now," Whumpee said, and Caretaker was quick to respond.

"You're absolutely not driving while so sleepy."

"Well, I have to get home somehow," they retorted, and Caretaker gestured towards the guest bedroom.

"You can sleep here. I told you, guest bedroom's always open to you."

"I wouldn't want to burden you."

"It's not a burden; I'm offering."

Whumpee shook their head. "I'm fine to drive. Besides, who am I gonna crash into at 2 AM on the street? A ghost?"

"A lamppost. A tree. Whumpee, I'm worried for you, okay? Just stay here and sleep a bit. You can go home in the morning."

Whumpee looked uncomfortable. They stifled a yawn, Caretaker could tell, trying to mask just how exhausted they were. "Okay," they said eventually. Caretaker still didn't ask why they were so against sleeping over. They thought they were friends, weren't they? Friends slept over all the time. And Caretaker did the utmost to provide a safe, comfortable space for Whumpee. Why wasn't it enough?

"I'll set up the room for you," Caretaker said immediately, jumping up from the couch. "Just wait here a moment."

"Okay," they said, even less certain. Caretaker rushed to prepare the guest room for possibly the most important guest they could have over, putting out pillows and a blanket on the big, queen sized bed. It couldn't have taken more than five minutes — but when they returned to the living room to tell Whumpee their suite was ready, they found no one.

"Whumpee?" they asked, hoping Whumpee had just gone to the kitchen for some food. "Whumpee!"

They opened the front door and looked outside. Their car was gone. They didn't even hear them start the engine.

They ran a hand through their hair and sighed, long and tormented by visions of Whumpee having an accident because they had let them go so sleep-deprived. "Man…" they whispered. What was it with Whumpee and sleepovers?

They would never ask.

"Who?" Whumpee asked, then slammed back the shot of vodka. She waved to the bartender, and when she got a nod from her, she looked back at the stranger. The stranger pointed to her arms, and Whumpee looked down at the many tattoos covering them, as if she was seeing them for the first time. "Oh," she said then, softer. As though the names written forever on her skin weren't the reason she was drinking now. And the day before. And the day before that.

The bartender put another shot in front of her, and she took the glass, playing with it between her fingers. She watched the clear liquid in it slosh back and forth, and she wondered just how many nights of self-punishment would make the guilt go away.

"Friends," she answered finally.

Comrades in arms.

Dead.

Their names forever inked into her skin, so she would never forget how she had failed them out on the battlefield. She drank the vodka in three big gulps, then forcefully exhaled to make it burn less.

"That's sweet," the stranger said, and Whumpee snorted. Sweet. Right. It was sweet. Oh, how stupid and clueless strangers could be. "You have many friends, then."

"Yup," she said curtly, because back at base, she did have more friends. Friends she hadn't yet lost, yet was grieving already.

"What does one have to do to earn a spot on your arm?" the stranger asked with a smile that could be read as flirtatious. Whumpee looked down again. She read the names, though the letters seemed to be spinning by now. She knew them by heart anyway.

"You don't want a spot on my arm," she said, waving down the bartender again for another shot.

"What, do I have to die for you?" they asked jokingly. Whumpee stared them down until they let out a small, awkward laugh.

"No," she said, as measured as one could be at her level of drunkenness. "You have to die because of me."

"What?"

Whumpee turned back to face forward, deciding to ignore the annoying stranger who just didn't get it. Another shot was placed in front of her, and she slammed it back immediately, then put some money on the bar and hopped off her chair.

Her friends… Her dead friends…

She swayed and stumbled, and tomorrow she would go out onto the battlefield again. She would fail others again. She would get new tattoos, and they would haunt her further, and she didn't need to pay attention to stupid strangers who were… grabbing her arm and trying to steady her?

"Hey," the stranger said, more serious now as they held her. "I'm probably misunderstanding, but I know enough to know you don't want me to pry. Let me just call you a cab."

"I can get home," she said, not wanting them to hear when she gave the address to the cab driver.

"I bet. You seem awfully self-sufficient — to a fault. But tonight, let someone help you."

Whumpee yanked her arm out of their loose hold. She caught glimpses of names on there, and she closed her eyes for a moment, breathing in, holding, breathing out. No. She didn't get to close her eyes and not look at the names. She had to look, she had to face her past sins, she had to—

"Hey, are you okay?" the stranger cut in right in the middle of her internal monologue about long-suffering and guilt. "Just let me call a cab."

"Fine," she said, grumbled more like. The stranger gave her a tentative smile.

"It's gonna be okay, yeah? Whatever's haunting you, it'll be okay."

That was, until they were yanked up from where they lay, sniper rifle twisted out of their hand and put to their own head, and they realised that Caretaker had just… left. They didn't hear the sound of them leaving. They didn't understand why or how Caretaker left. They didn't know if this was an outright betrayal of the whole team, the whole organisation, or whether Caretaker had just decided they weren't friends anymore — or maybe they never had been.

"Who sent you?" the enemy asked, rifle still pointed at Whumpee's temple. Whumpee was better than this. Surely, even the enemy knew they wouldn't get a straight answer out of them. "I'm asking you a question. Who sent you?"

Whumpee stayed silent. The rifle was lowered, then fired; a bullet straight through their calf. Whumpee screamed, deciding that if their cover had already been blown, it didn't matter anymore.

"I'm asking one last time." The rifle was put to their temple again. "Who sent you?"

Whumpee said nothing. A dead hostage was no hostage, and Whumpee knew that well. They were essentially calling the bluff with their silence. And sure enough, the rifle was lowered.

"Alright," said the enemy, and they stepped back. "Tie 'em up and bring me the bottle of water."

Whumpee was wrestled onto their stomach, arms wrenched behind their back, tied tightly with coarse ropes. Then they were manhandled onto their back, and one of them put a cloth over their face. Waterboarding. A classic. Whumpee had been trained how to withstand it, so surely, this would be a walk in the park—

The water came down on their face, cold and uncomfortable. They were drowning. They couldn't breathe. Stop. Stop. Stop.

The water stopped, and Whumpee gasped for air. The cloth was still sticking to their face, restricting some of their breathing, but at least they weren't actively drowning.

"Who sent you?" came the same question, and Whumpee knew they likely weren't going to make it out of this forest alive.

No answer.

More water.

Whumpee gasped. They had been trained for this, and yet it was just as unbearable every single time as that very first time Leader had done it to them.

"Who sent you?"

Whumpee didn't consider themself defiant. Others might've spat insults at their torturers, or taunts, but they were of the mind that silence was sufficient for the job — no need to make it intentionally harder on themself. They weren't defiant; they were just loyal to the team.

So, no answer.

More water.

"Who sent you?"

No answer.

"Um, I'm looking for, uh, Whumpee?" came a hesitant voice from the top of the stairs. Like the voice's owner was scared to venture down into the basement. "Is anyone there?"

It had been so long since it had used its voice, Whumpee wasn't sure it knew how to anymore. But this was its one chance at companionship. At food. At freedom — hah, what a distant fantasy. "I—" Their voice cracked, and it had been so long since it'd received water or anything to wet its lips and throat with. "I'm here."

"Whumpee? Oh, uh… Okay. I'm coming down."

Steps descending the stairs. When Whumpee attempted to push its body up to see who the new arrival was, it found it had lost the strength to. Its emaciated body had been stripped of all muscle, and it simply couldn't support its own weight.

"Oh," came a softer voice, from closer. Whumpee turned its head to look at them.

The stranger was at most 20, a laughable number compared to the centuries Whumpee had spent on this earth. They looked equal parts scared and intrigued. But Whumpee wasn't looking for emotions. It was looking for food. It found none on the stranger's person.

"You've been alone down here for quite some time, haven't you?"

"Water," it choked out.

"There's water upstairs. I'll open this door now, okay? And you can come out. Whenever you're ready."

Another laughable concept. Nobody ever waited for it to be ready. Nobody ever asked its consent. Nobody ever considered its feelings. And now that this stranger might do all of those things, it had lost the ability to cooperate. A cruel joke.

"I can't," Whumpee said, but the jingling of keys drowned out its weak voice.

"Hm?"

"I can't. Too weak."

"Oh." The stranger stepped into the cell and crouched down by its side. "I see. I should've expected this. Well, you look light enough to… to carry. If that's okay. Is that okay?"

"Can I really— Can I have water?"

"Yes. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

Whumpee nodded. The stranger picked it up in a bridal carry, and Whumpee could do little more than hang there limply as it was carried upstairs. Everything was bright up there. It closed its eyes and let the stranger carry it where they willed.

It was soon set down on something foreign, something so unlike the cold, cement floor. Something soft. Whumpee opened its eyes — it was on a sofa.

It soon heard the sound of a tap being turned on, then a glass being filled. If there was anything left in its body to produce liquid, its mouth would've probably watered at the mere prospect. The stranger came back and helped it sit up, then held the glass to its lips and helped it drink.

Oh.

Oh.

Whumpee closed its eyes. It gulped down the water all too quickly, and like the horrible little monster it was, it immediately asked for more. The stranger fetched it even more. This repeated at least five times by the time Whumpee was satisfied.

"Would you like something to eat as well?"

It was just common courtesy; the stranger must've seen the state it was in. Paper-thin skin sticking to bones that were jutting out, the result of several years of starvation. With fresh, cold water in its system, Whumpee felt a little more daring. A little more alive. "Yes, please."

"A sandwich?"

A sandwich. So casual. So mundane. Nothing sounded better than a sandwich. "Yes, please."

The stranger left to prepare it, after laying Whumpee back down on the sofa. Whumpee listened to the vague sounds of it being prepared, and it imagined the soft, fresh bread, the fillings — what fillings would the stranger use? Ham? Cheese? Tomato? Lettuce? Eggs? Would they use condiments? Mayo? Ketchup? The possibilities were endless — and the way the bites would slide down its throat one by one. And with how generous the stranger was with water, maybe it would be possible to ask for even more than just one sandwich. Whumpee, for the first time in years, felt giddy with excitement.

The stranger returned, once again helping Whumpee sit. "It's just a simple peanut butter and jelly, I hope that's okay."

Peanut butter. It remembered eating whole jars of it before it was captured and imprisoned. And jelly, sweet and sour, wonderful, grape jelly. It got so excited to be able to bite into it, it even forgot its manners, not thanking the stranger for the food before it dug in.

Oh, this was so much better than eating plaster off the wall. This had taste, actual, real, good taste. Whumpee bit and bit and bit and it definitely bit off more than it could chew but it didn't care, it was being fed, it was genuinely, actually being fed.

Then its stomach did a flip, and suddenly it was retching, onto the remainder of the sandwich and onto the stranger's kind hands. It was mortified. And most of all, it mourned the food.

"I still want to eat it," it said before anything else, staring intently at the vomit-covered sandwich. "Please? I'm sorry."

The stranger made a face. Even a kind stranger could only be kind for so long — Whumpee wondered what its punishment would be. A lashing? More years down in the basement? The thought, detached as it was from its emotional landscape, sent little more than a small shiver down its spine. What was a few more years of solitude and starvation?

"No, I think…" They withdrew, letting Whumpee fall back onto the sofa. It didn't have the strength to push itself back up again. "I think… Huh, well. We need to clean this up, and then I'll make some soup instead. Maybe that'll stay in your stomach."

"I don't need cleaning, I need the sandwich," Whumpee said, like a petulant child. "Please," it added, hoping to soften the stranger's heart. That sandwich had been so good. The best thing it'd ever eaten. And now—

No. Don't be ungrateful. Soup was good. Soup was fine. It was still food, even if it wasn't… chewable.

"You definitely do need cleaning," the stranger said, and when Whumpee tried to lift its hand to lick off some of the vomit, they even smacked its hand away. Whumpee whimpered. "Don't do that. Look… Ugh, I can't believe my grandpa did all this."

Grandpa? Its captors were a group of middle-aged men. Just how many years have passed?

"I'll help wash you off. I'll clean the sofa as well. And in the meantime, I'll put some water on the stove with a soup cube. How's that sound?"

"I really want the rest of the sandwich," it said before it could've controlled its stupid, greedy mouth.

"Look, I know. You're starving. But you really shouldn't eat what you've puked up. Please. Just let me help."

And so Whumpee did, because what else was there for it to do? It couldn't have protested if it wanted to. And so the stranger helped it wash off years of accumulated grime, turning the water almost black as it washed down the drain. They helped it into new, soft clothes, then carried it back not to the living room, but to the kitchen. They set it down on a chair as the water in the pot boiled, giving off the scent of freshly seasoned chicken broth. Then, the stranger took a ladle and put two big ladlefuls into a bowl, setting it down before it on the table.

"We're gonna take it slower, okay?" they asked.

"I never asked your name," Whumpee said, though its eyes were fixed on the soup.

"Oh, right. I never introduced myself. My name is Caretaker. My grandpa… Look, I know this looks bad, that my grandpa did all this to you and now I'm here, and I'm— But I'm different, okay? I would like to set you free, but with how you are right now, I don't think that's feasible. So, uh… You're stuck with me for a little longer."

"Okay," it said easily. Caretaker had given it water, and was trying to feed it. It couldn't have asked for a better captor. "Can I eat?"

"Yes. Slowly. Spoon by spoon, okay?" Caretaker lifted a spoonful to Whumpee's mouth, and Whumpee tried to savour it, it really did, but it ended up gulping it down and opening its mouth for more. "Spoon by spoon. So it can stay in your stomach."

"Spoon by spoon," it repeated, though it wanted to scream give it all to me now, and give me that sandwich, and give me all the contents of your fridge, and give me more even still. "Thank you," it said, remembering its manners.

"Of course." Another spoonful. "We'll get through this, okay? You and I." Another spoonful. "You'll feel much better once this settles in your stomach."

"Okay," it said quietly. "Thank you."

Caretaker smiled. If it had any brain capacity to focus on anything but the soup, it might've noticed the eerie resemblance they had to their grandfather. But where his smile was always a sneer, a cruel twitch of his mouth, theirs was gentle and kind.

So they sat, and Whumpee ate.