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oneshots/short series taglist: @whumpsday @jumpywhumpywriter

Whumpee thought of home. They thought of Caretaker. Back then, when it belonged to them still, they would make pancakes together on Sunday mornings. Only on Sunday mornings. It was their special pancake day.

They thought of their parents. Their siblings. What would they have said, if they knew it didn't belong to them anymore? Would they be horrified? Whumpee had been, when they first realised. The horror was gone by now. It was just a faraway extension of their faraway mind, thrown around and broken in more ways than Whumpee could count.

Whumper was screaming at it. Only it, because their mind was far from the basement. It didn't respond. Whumper only got angrier.

For a moment, Whumpee was it again. Back in their body. The pain was unbearable.

And there they went, floating away again, probably losing consciousness for a time.

When they next came to, they were alone. It hurt, just like it always did, but it was nothing but a low hum. A bit of background noise to the real deal: their thoughts. They thought of Caretaker again. Did they go on to make pancakes every Sunday, even after their kidnapping? Or did they leave the habit behind? Whumpee wondered which they would've preferred.

It stirred. Their treacherous body. It ached and screamed, but Whumpee wasn't there, they told themself they had no right to it anymore, no right even to the pain. It stirred again. It retched.

Whumpee knew that Whumper would be angry. They tried to rein it in, but the damage was already done. So they let their thoughts wander instead, leaving it to deal with its own filth. It had become so easy to let themself go, to allow themself the privilege of retreating into a far corner of their mind, only ever coming back up for air when it was absolutely necessary.

The door opened and closed, and it was beaten again for making a mess.

"S-Sorry," they stammered.

"Caretaker this, Caretaker that, do this, say that, I'm tired. Why can't you just shut up, like in the earlier days?"

The... earlier days? When they were a scared, shaking mess in the corner of their bedroom, afraid to utter a word, lest they be beaten for it?

Caretaker preferred that?

"What do you mean?" they asked quietly, hoping Caretaker would clarify. But they doubled down instead.

"You were so quiet, so agreeable, I didn't have to listen to you blabber on and on about stupid shit. Now all you do is talk and talk and talk. Shut up."

Whumpee felt like they had been punched. Repeatedly. In the face.

They had been getting better, that was why they talked more. They felt safe around Caretaker. They hadn't even considered that Caretaker was that fed up with them.

They didn't respond. They just stood up and went back to their room, to be alone, to not disturb anybody.

They could be quiet again. They could go back to being well-behaved.

Whumper had been right. They had made Whumpee better by 'training them'.

"I..." They sniffled. "Yes. I'm sorry."

"Look, I know I offered that you can stay with me until you feel well enough to stay on your own, but this is becoming a chore. Like, a big one. You keep breaking down at every little thing — heck, sometimes you don't even need a trigger. You just break down bawling. This isn't sustainable."

Whumpee sniffled again, wiping their face. "I'm sorry. I'll— I'll do better."

"No, Whumpee. I think this is it. You need to move back into your own place."

They froze. "What?"

"I can't keep doing this every day. I'm tired. You need to move."

"But I— I—"

"I'm sure it's scary right now, but it'll be better for you in the long run. Better for everyone."

Better for you, they thought bitterly.

"So you're... kicking me out."

"Don't say it like that. I'm encouraging your independence."

Whumpee stood on shaky legs and walked back to their room. "I'll... pack, then."

Caretaker followed them. "Don't act like a kicked puppy. You'll make me feel bad."

So they weren't even allowed to feel bitter. "Okay," they said quietly.

"I'll come visit you."

"You don't have to."

"It's what friends do."

"How is any of this friendly?" Whumpee snapped. "I'm just— I'm sick, Caretaker! I have severe PTSD from that stupid— that stupid—"

"Let's not get into all the diagnoses. We're still friends, I just can't house you."

Whumpee felt like they were going to break down again. "Please get out while I pack."

Caretaker sighed. "Fine, if you want there to be bad blood."

"I— I don't, I'm just... I'm angry. I'm scared. But you don't care about that, do you?"

"I do. But again: this isn't sustainable. The fear will subside."

With one swift motion, she removes the thing obstructing your vision. It was a sackcloth. She lets it fall to the ground.

She's... short. That's the first thing you notice. Shorter than what you've expected based on the authority her voice carries.

She must see it in your eyes — that you're already judging her a little — because she steps closer and punches you in the face.

You've never been punched. It hurts, but not as much as you would've expected.

"What am I... What are you... What's going on?" you sputter.

"You tell me," she says. She never gives you a name, never tells you who she is, or where the two of you are. She's just speaking in half-sentences and riddles. What are you supposed to tell her?

"What does that mean?" you ask, at the risk of sounding stupid. "Where am I? Who are you?"

"You're telling #064 what to do. What to say." She circles you. You follow her with your eyes until you can't anymore, the only indication of where she is coming from the sound of her slow footsteps. Then, she comes into view again on your right side. She stops in the middle once more. "You're making them unsafe for the facility."

You... have been doing that. She's not wrong. Maybe you want to see the facility crumble.

"If they didn't like the choices I made for them, they could refuse," you try. That earns you another punch in the face.

"They're pliable," she says. "They'll do anything so long as there's a clear command. I tried to beat it into them that I and my superiors are the only ones to take commands from, but they were never the good student."

Blood trickles down from your nose to your mouth.

"I'm trying to help them," you mumble.

"You're moulding them into something you think they should be," she corrects. "And that girl— Winifred. What do you think her objective is? Because it sure isn't to just take in someone homeless and orphaned. She's been clear from the first moment of them meeting: she wants information. And your suggestions to #064 have made it so that they're utterly incapable of acting in the facility's best interest."

"I want them to act in their own best interest," you say, taking on some defiance. She doesn't like that. She grabs you by the face, nails digging into your flesh.

"Their own best interest is a somewhat merciful death of starving."

You don't make a peep. Her eyes bore into yours with an intensity you're eager to escape. So when she lets go and steps back, you immediately turn away, breathing heavily.

"That's okay. We've had loose-lipped runaways and dropouts before. We always find them. We always deal with them."

"What does that mean?" you ask, panic rising in your throat.

"That doesn't concern you. What concerns you is your part in corrupting them."

"What are you talking about?"

"You've clearly been a compromising agent in this. And we can't have that."

"What does that mean?"

"It means, my slow friend, that you're now on death row. You have been, from the first moment you talked into #064's ear."

Your heart is beating out of your chest. You don't see a gun, or a knife, or anything. But then she reaches into her pickets and pulls out... brass knuckles.

She's about to beat you to death.

"No, no, no, please, let's talk it out—"

"I'm afraid the time for talking has passed." She slips them on.

"You don't understand, I wasn't trying to take down the facility, or corrupt #064, or—"

"Close your mouth, unless you want a dislocated jaw."

And then she starts beating you, focusing mostly on your head, but some punches find your stomach or arms as well. They hurt, you're hurting, it hurts worse with every punch, you're bleeding—

And one, merciful punch to the temple makes you pass out.

Whumpee squirmed in their seat. Whumper had written everything they did to them down in a journal. Whumpee knew it existed, but they never got the chance to read it. Never got the chance to read the things they'd gone through from Whumper's sick perspective.

"Did you read it?" they asked quietly.

Leader shook their head. "The team agreed to leave it untouched."

"Can… Can I read it?"

Leader raised an eyebrow. "You must know what's in there. And wouldn't it trigger you?"

"I want to read it. If that's possible."

"I mean…"

"Please."

Leader sighed. "It's your prerogative." They took out a key from their pocket and unlocked the bottom drawer, pulling out a beat-up looking notebook. They handed it to Whumpee. "Just be careful."

"I will be. Thank you."

Monday, June 8th

I broke Whumpee's arm today. The sound was almost comical, the little pop as it gave way. It sounded like the way I would've imagined a bone breaking to sound. Whumpee was hysterical about it, talking about how it wouldn't heal right and how they wouldn't be able to go back to their duties once they finally escaped or were rescued. They don't know I've hidden them well-enough not to be rescued by the team. Do they think I don't know others are looking for them?

Tuesday, June 9th

Whumpee keeps crying about their arm. I gave them extra rations today to shut them up, but it didn't work. Sometimes they can be such a whiny bitch. But I picked my target right. They're a pretty crier. And useless without their team.

Wednesday, June 10th

The urge to rape them is ever-increasing. I can't do anything about it, they just look so pretty on my basement floor, all black and blue…

Whumpee shut the journal. They were breathing heavily, panting almost, like they'd run a marathon. Whumper never raped them. They had no idea the sick piece of crap even had these thoughts. Sure, their gaze might've lingered on Whumpee's starved form for a little longer than was comfortable, but with everything going on, Whumpee didn't even consider…

It was fine. They were out. Whumper was gone. And the team would never read this journal.

—

"Whumpee, can we talk?" Caretaker asked the next day. Whumpee found it strange how jittery they were, but they agreed. They were best friends, after all.

"Sure, about what?"

Caretaker was hiding something behind their back, and Whumpee assumed it would be a small present or something. Like a welcome-home gift. But when Caretaker pulled the thing from behind their back, Whumpee felt their heart sink.

It was the journal.

The journal that was supposed to be under their mattress.

"I heard Leader say they gave it to you. And I had to know— I had to—"

Whumpee snatched it out of their hand, cradling it close to their chest. "What is wrong with you?" they whispered. This was their best friend. Had been, up until this point.

"I just had to know. Whumpee, I'm so sorry for what they did to—"

"I'm going now."

Caretaker moved to block the exit. "Whumpee, we need to talk about this."

"Get out of my way."

"You can't carry this burden alone."

"So you took it upon yourself to try and share it."

"I had to know!"

"No, you didn't have to!" Whumpee snapped. "You absolutely didn't have to! You all agreed not to read it, you didn't just go against me, you went against everybody! You should be kicked off the team for this! I— I hate you!"

Caretaker froze at the words. "You're just worked up right now," they tried.

"Yes I'm worked up! You read the journal! I hate you! I hate that you betrayed me like that! Get out of my way!" they shoved past Caretaker, journal still in hand, and went straight to Leader's room. Caretaker was following them closely. "Leader," they said, barging in without knocking. "Caretaker read it."

"I knew Whumpee would never talk about it if it were up to them!" Caretaker, who had followed them inside, said in their defence. "Surely, you didn't intend on just keeping the journal and never even reading a page!"

"You did what?" Leader asked, and Whumpee was quite satisfied with the level of rage in their voice.

"I had to know," Caretaker tried timidly, the same stupid excuse they'd given Whumpee.

"Get out. Right now."

"But Leader—"

"Get out."

Caretaker pursed their lips. They left without another word. Leader closed the door behind them. "Whumpee, I'm so sorry. If I'd known—"

"It's fine," they forced themself to say. "I didn't know Caretaker was this type of person either."

"I truly am sorry. You… can't really take that back."

Now they know.

"I want them kicked off the team," Whumpee said. The words felt like sand in their mouth.

"I understand you're upset—"

"I want them kicked off. Right now. Go after them and tell them they're not welcome here anymore."

"Whumpee, I'm upset as well. But let's sleep on this at least once."

"They read the journal."

"I understand. And I will take appropriate disciplinary actions—"

"I want them kicked off."

Leader sighed. "Whumpee… You would regret that tomorrow."

"It's either me or them. I can't work with them any longer. If you keep them, you lose me."

"You can't be serious."

"I am very serious."

Whumpee knew this was risky. They were still recovering from torture, had PTSD to boot, while Caretaker was a full, contributing member of the team, able to go on missions. By all accounts, if Leader was forced to choose like this, they should've chosen Caretaker. The rejection would hurt, but honestly… maybe Whumpee did want to get kicked off. After what had happened with Whumper, they'd come back, but they didn't really feel like… they could ever go on missions again.

"Whumpee, let's sleep on it," Leader tried again, and Whumpee made their choice then and there.

"So you choose them."

"No—"

"I'm leaving."

"Whumpee—"

"And I'm taking the journal." With that, they turned and walked out. They found Caretaker standing a few feet from the door, not strictly eavesdropping, but definitely a bit close for comfort. "What do you want?"

"I just wanted to apologise again—"

"Save it. I'm leaving."

Caretaker's eyes widened. "What?"

"I'm not working with you. And Leader chose you — be happy."

"Whumpee—"

"Save it."

"But—"

"Freddie?" you whisper. Nothing. "Freddie..."

She finally moves. She groans in her sleep, turning over. You'll have to be a little more assertive. A little more bold.

You were trained not to be bold. You were trained to be quiet, submissive, pliable.

"Freddie," you squeak. Not very bold.

"#064?" She finally blinks her eyes open and sits up. "Is everything alright?"

Suddenly, you feel stupid having come over to her room over a nightmare. But it was so realistic, so visceral... "I don't think I'm supposed to be here."

That's a funny way of saying 'I have put you in mortal danger by being here'.

"What do you mean?" She rubs her eyes, trying to focus.

"I..." How are you meant to explain it without giving away what the facility is? "I just... I don't think..."

"Have you been up all this time? Thinking about this?"

"No, I... I had a nightmare. And I don't think I'm doing the right thing by taking advantage of your kindness."

"You're not 'taking advantage' of anything. You're just trying to exist. I don't think that's a crime."

You do.

The two of you stay silent for a bit. Freddie seems to be waiting for you to speak, but you're desperately waiting for her to convince you she can protect herself. If she doesn't, you don't know how you could muster the audacity to stay at her place.

"Do you want to sleep here?" she asks after a while.

What would that solve?

"Why?" you ask quietly.

"Well, when I have nightmares, I often wish I had someone to sleep next to. To feel safe."

That sounds... so simple. Also, ineffective. Sleeping next to someone not combat-trained will do nothing to make you feel safe from your handler, the most terrifying woman you've ever met.

And yet.

"I'd like that. If that's okay."

Freddie smiles at you sleepily. She pats the space next to her on the bed. "Climb in."

You carefully climb into bed with her. She's warm, and she doesn't talk or make it weird, she just closes her eyes again like this is all natural.

"Are you sure this is okay?"

"Mhm."

"Sorry. I won't bother you."

"You can talk, if you want. If you have something to get off your chest. I'll listen."

You have life-saving information you need to get off your chest. But you know you won't share it. You're too much of a coward to sell out all of your family and make Freddie understand how wrong she is for having taken you in.

Because her blanket is warm, she is warm, and you're already starting to feel sleepy again.

—

The next thing you know, you're jolting awake again.

For a moment, you have no idea where you are. Baby pink walls, inricate dressers, a painted picture of fruit above a large mirror. You look to your left; Freddie.

Right. You're in Freddie's room.

"Sorry, did I wake you? I was trying to be quiet," she says, her face the very picture of compunction.

"Are you going to work?" you ask.

"Yeah. Well, if you're awake anyway, would you like to have breakfast with me?"

You nod much too eagerly. Salami sandwich. You'd kill for one.

"Okay," she says with a smile. "Come along, then."

You do, quietly, and while you're walking to the kitchen, you note how much your body has improved over just two days. Your bones probably won't heal right, there's a bit of a chronic pain problem you're staring down the barrel of, but the last beating your handler dished out to you as a parting gift won't claim your life. Probably.

Freddie puts the sliced bread and salami on the table. Then, two plates.

You don't dare reach out before she gestures to them with a smile and an encouraging nod. Then, you gingerly take a single slice of bread and a few slices of salami.

"As always, have as much as you want," she says.

"Thank you, Freddie."

"What was your nightmare about?" she asks casually as she takes a slice of bread for herself.

~