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oneshots/short series taglist: @whumpsday @jumpywhumpywriter

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.

~

Another pause. Longer this time. Caretaker was gripping the phone so hard they thought they'd shatter it. "Let me go with you," they said then, begging. "Wherever you're going, let me go with you. Please."

There was strained laughter on the other end. "Caretaker—"

"I'm serious. I can pack my bags right now, drive down to your apartment, we can go together. Leave together. Start anew. It's not like I love my life either."

"Where I'm going, you can't follow."

Caretaker felt sick to their stomach. "Did you take something?"

Silence. Now that Caretaker was really listening, they could hear wheezing breaths coming from the other side. Laboured. "I just wanted to thank you—"

"I'm calling an ambulance."

"It's too late for that."

"You're still coherent, you can still talk—"

"I've made sure to wait long enough so that they couldn't do anything, even if you figured me out. There's a note I left for you as well, if you decide to come over. It's more coherent than I am right now."

"Don't do this to me," Caretaker pleaded with tears in their eyes. "Whumpee, don't do this."

"There's nothing to do now. I've made my choice."

"But it's a bad fucking choice!" they snapped. "I'm going over."

"The door's locked. From the inside. The key is still in it."

"I'm calling the firefighters to bust it down for me then!"

"By the time they get here…" They trailed off. Caretaker was already putting on jeans and a shirt, hopping into their car.

"Stay on the phone with me."

"It doesn't matter what you do, Caretaker. Can't we just spend these last few minutes in peace? Not arguing?"

"I'm not arguing. I'm just— Maybe I am arguing. But for fuck's sake, Whumpee, you're asking me not to argue when you're killing yourself?"

"I love you."

"Whumpee, don't hang up—"

"I'll always love you."

"Whumpee!"

Click.

Caretaker banged on the steering wheel. They called an ambulance immediately, giving them Whumpee's address and the info that the door was locked. Then they sped down there, ran up to the third floor apartment, jamming their own key to Whumpee's apartment in the lock hopefully hard enough that the key on the inside would fall out.

When they finally got it open, they found Whumpee unconscious in the middle of empty pill bottles. The EMTs arrived on the scene shortly after to take Whumpee away. They were barely breathing.

There was a single torn-out sheet of paper on the desk with Caretaker's name on it. They took it and put it in their pocket before leaving and following the ambulance in their own car to the hospital. They wouldn't read it. They wouldn't read it while there was still a chance Whumpee might live. Reading it felt like admitting defeat, and Caretaker wasn't about that.

Whumpee would live.

Right?

"Yes," you reply, swallowing. "You've done... a lot for me. Too much, probably. I don't really deserve—"

"Let's not go down this path," she cuts in, her voice soft. You clear your throat.

"Well, the point is... I am... indebted to you."

"You're not."

You furrow your brows. No, you definitely are.

"I do this because I want to help, not for any transactional reason," she continues.

"Still, I... You at least deserve to know my name."

That gets her to perk up, listening intently. She says she doesn't want a transaction, but that's clearly a lie. She says she doesn't want to find out more, but when the opportunity presents itself, she doesn't turn it down.

"My name... Um..." Suddenly, you feel self-conscious. Everyone outside has a proper name. What will she think? "My name is #064."

Freddie is still silent, like she's waiting for more. Then, after a few seconds of silence, "That's... it? That's your... name?"

You shouldn't have told her. She must be judging. She must hate you. She must—

"Okay," she says. "Nice to meet you, #064." She has a smile on her face.

Was this really okay to share? You can't help it, you return the smile, though yours must be a little timid and tentative.

"Just to reiterate: you don't have to tell me about your life in exchange for all this. But I'm grateful. I have something to call you now. Even if it's..." She trails off. "Well, anyway, ready for bed?"

"Yes, Freddie."

"My room is across the hall; if you need anything, just holler. I'll go finish my dinner."

You nod. You wouldn't bother her even if you were dying, she must know that.

In any case, she exits the room and pulls the door almost closed behind herself. You take that as a sign that though you're treated as a person here, you still don't deserve privacy. Though with how close to closed the door is, it's more privacy than you've ever gotten — in the facility, the doors had to be fully open at all times, and you had roommates.

You look at the bed. Freshly made. The covers are adorned with little purple flowers, the pillows are white and purple. It almost feels too pretty to ruin by lying in it.

You fidget for a few minutes, just standing by the bed, before you muster up the courage and get under the blanket. It's so soft. And so warm. The scent of the detergent Freddie used to wash them is pleasant. This is so much better than the park bench, even better than the facility.

No. You mustn't think that.

But they kicked you out, didn't they? What use is it, clinging to the memories?

Those are the only memories you have. Your past. Your identity. What are you supposed to cling to, if not that?

You don't have a lot of time to ponder these things. Sleep in your wonderfully comfortable new bed pulls you under within minutes.

—

You're at the facility. You're training, slashing up dummies with the blade in your left arm, punching others with your right.

Your handler watches.

"Too slow!" she shouts at you.

You try harder. You work faster. You hate the training dummies — your left eye, the one functioning as a heat camera, doesn't pick them up, so it's harder to tell where they'll come from.

Before you can land another blow, someone grabs your hand. The training dummies disappear, and it's just you and your handler. Darkness closes in on all sides. You see nothing but her furious face.

"You're useless," she hisses, squeezing your wrist until it aches. "You're better off dead."

"No, please—"

She lets go and slaps you. "Talking back? Just when did you become so bold?"

She's right. You should take the punishment quietly.

She punches you, and you fall to the floor. "You're a useless," kick, "no-good," kick, "waste of space," kick.

You don't curl up. If she wants to kick you to death, that's her prerogative, as your handler.

"I know you told her your name," she says as a final kick lands to your stomach. "I know, and I will find you, and I will cut out that blabbering tongue of yours."

That's her prerogative.

"And I'll teach your new 'friend' what being so close to you entails."

That gets a reaction from you. "No, please, don't hurt her—"

Kick.

"Already attached?" she sneers. "I'll make sure you see her battered corpse."

—

You jolt awake. It's the dead of night. Your handler is nowhere to be seen.

Through the walls, you see Freddie's heat outline, lying in her bed. You're gasping for air.

'If you need anything, just holler.'

~

Medic didn't know whether it was sweat or tears trickling down their cheeks. They had never lost a team member before. This was the first time their medical training had failed them. They slowly came to a stop, letting the low, constant beep of the heart monitor fill the room. Flatline.

"I don't understand," Medic stammered. Caretaker and Youngest were waiting outside medbay, and Medic would have to tell them they'd failed. They both loved Whumpee so dearly. Everyone did. "I don't understand. I've done everything. I tried. Why… So why…"

Hero placed a hand on their shoulder. "Medic, this wasn't your fault."

"Who else's?" they asked, and now they were sure it was tears. "Who else has the job of putting you guys back together after missions? Who else is tasked with caring for you? Keeping you alive? It's my fault. I failed. I failed Whumpee, I failed you, I failed the team. I—"

"Medic," they cut in gently but sternly. "Do not start spiralling. Whumpee died because of Villain, not you."

Medic swallowed. "I don't know how to tell Caretaker," they whispered.

"You don't have to. As the leader of this team, it's my responsibility."

The monitor was still beeping. Medic finally turned it off. They gingerly took a hold of the thin medical blanket and pulled it up so it covered Whumpee's face. They bit their lip, trying to distance themself from the idea that they were in the room with a lifeless body. That it had been their fault. Hero could say whatever they wanted, it had been their fault.

"I've seen death before," Hero went on. "Not once. Not twice. You never really get used to it, but you learn to place the blame on the appropriate source."

"I don't just want to… leave them," Medic said quietly. "It feels wrong."

"We'll hold a proper burial, after Caretaker and Youngest had the opportunity to say their goodbyes here."

"The previous medic… Did they lose a lot of patients?"

Hero looked away. "They lost three. The third one was them."

Oh.

Medic felt something akin to fear crawling up their windpipe, choking them. They'd thought their job was safe, a cushy little position where they got to support the team from inside base. But there was a possibility that it would be them on the operating table next time?

"I'll go tell the others," Hero said after a little pause. "You take a moment and collect yourself."

Medic nodded. They watched Hero leave, and they soon heard a commotion. Caretaker and Youngest barrelled into the room, both crying, both beside themselves. Medic was afraid their grief-fuelled wrath would be directed at them, but both of them seemed to be in agreement that this was entirely Villain's fault. Medic only half-listened to their pained list of things they would do to Villain if they were to catch them tomorrow.

Whumpee was gone.

You hear Freddie push back her chair and stand again. She rounds the table and stands next to you, but she doesn't touch you.

"Can I... Can I hug you?" she asks timidly.

A hug. You haven't been hugged in... ever. It sounds... good, right now. To be in the arms of someone caring, even if that care is contingent upon—

No. You don't want care like that.

"You just want to—" You hiccup. "You just want to find out more, and I won't tell you more, so just— just leave me be and let me go—"

"No," she says gently. "I don't care about any of that right now. You're distressed, and I want to make it better. You look like you could use a hug."

She's manipulating you, a voice in the back of your mind that sounds an awful lot like your handler whispers.

You slowly lower your hands. She's looking at you with compassion. Manipulative or not, you just... You want a hug. Is that so selfish?

Yes. Yes it is.

Still, before you can change your mind, you nod. Freddie steps closer and envelops you in a gentle hug. Her arms around you feel warm and her scent is just the same as what lingered on the jacket, just a little stronger. You hug her back, clumsily, like, well, like you've never done this before.

"It's okay," Freddie murmurs. "I'll keep you safe from whoever it is you're afraid of, okay?"

How could she? A whole organisation of trained assassins, all after the same goal: to kill the traitor. How could she ever keep you safe from that?

You just have to make sure you don't become a traitor.

Freddie slowly pulls away. "Better?" she asks with a smile.

Well... This solves nothing, but... "Yes. Thank you, Freddie."

"I'll set up the guest bedroom for you."

"But you haven't finished the—"

"I can eat after. Do you want to take a shower while I do that?"

You hate showers. The cold water doing nothing to make the deep ache in your bones go away, the careful maintenance of your metallic arm after one, it's all a hassle and...

But you can't just inhabit the guest bedroom dirty.

"Yes. Thank you."

Freddie smiles at you. "Okay. I'll show you where the bathroom is, and I'll bring you a clean towel and pyjamas."

You spend longer in the bathroom towelling your prosthetic dry than you actually spend in the ice cold water. You clench and unclench your fingers, and for the first time, you wonder what will become of this arm now that there's no one around to maintain it. Will it eventually just stop working, leaving you with one arm and a useless piece of metal hanging limply by your left side?

You try not to think about it. It feels impossible.

The pink pyjamas Freddie laid out for you are soft and warm, a little big on your frame. You don't mind. After spending 20 years sleeping in the most uncomfortable but practical pyjamas you could imagine, this feels quite... luxurious.

You step out of the bathroom to find Freddie still in the guest bedroom, arranging pillows. "Ah," she says when she sees you. "You're done. I'm almost done as well."

So many pillows. Such a soft-looking blanket. Luxury, luxury, luxury. You don't deserve any of this.

You can still change your mind. Change out of the pyjamas, run far away so Freddie can never find you again, protect yourself and the facility.

But you're tired. The promise of another sandwich the next day is — embarrassingly — enough to make you want to stay.

"Are you okay?" she asks, and you realise you've been spacing out. "Sorry about the pjs, I—"

"No," you cut in gently. "They're perfect. This room is perfect. I just... I don't understand..." Tears threaten to well up in your eyes again. "Why are you doing all this for me, if you won't even try to get information out of me?"

She smiles. "I like helping people."

But you're not a person. You're a weapon.

~