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oneshots/short series taglist: @whumpsday @jumpywhumpywriter

"I couldn't finish the—"

"It doesn't matter." All Mentor saw when they looked at Mentee was their only previous mentee. Their only one. The one they'd lost and swore never to take on a responsibility such as this ever again. And yet they'd let themself be talked into it by the others. They'd let their reassurances calm the storm in their heart, they'd let them decide for them, and now Mentee was paying the price of not having a better mentor.

Mentor supported Mentee into the medical room. They told Mentee to take their clothes off so they could assess the full extent of the damage, and Mentee seemed ashamed, and Mentor couldn't blame them. They had been raised to believe failing a mission was not just bad luck, which it was, but a personal, moral failure. They had been raised to believe there was something embarrassing about being hurt.

"I can look after myself," Mentee muttered, and Mentor sucked in a sharp breath.

"I can look after myself," Mentee had told Mentor. "I don't need you standing watch, or treating me like a baby."

"I am your mentor, and I will treat you exactly as a mentee is supposed to be treated," Mentor had told them. "Strip."

"I can look after my own wounds!"

"Strip, Mentee."

"Fine, jeez. If you really want to see the stupid, gnarly wound—"

"I don't want to see it, I want to treat it."

Mentee gave them a lopsided grin. "Yeah, sure."

"Mentor?"

Mentor shook their head, getting rid of the image of their previous mentee that was imprinted on their mind. Their current mentee was now stripped to their underwear, and they were shivering. They better get this over quickly, before Mentee caught a cold on top of everything else. "This will sting," they said as they reached for the disinfectant. "But you won't get an infection."

"I know what a disinfectant does," they said, a little indignantly, and Mentor found themself glad they had the wherewithal to be indignant.

"Just relax."

Mentor went through and bandaged every single one of their injuries. Mentee likely had a couple broken ribs, which they couldn't do anything about, and their helplessness made them angrier than it should've.

Their helplessness had killed their previous mentee.

"I knew this was a bad idea," Mentor grumbled as they worked. "I should have pushed back more against it, I shouldn’t have let them talk me into this. But no, they knew so much better what I needed, that I needed a new mentee, that I needed—"

"Mentor?"

Oh. They had been talking out loud. "Sorry, kid."

"I know you don't want to look after me," they admitted, once again with that tinge of embarrassment in their voice. "That's why I said— why I said I can look after myself. You don't need to do this. We can be mentor and mentee only on paper."

"You're my responsibility," Mentor said sternly. "And I don't intend to back down."

"I'm not your first mentee, am I?"

Mentor pursed their lips. They weren't about to talk about their dead previous mentee with their current, dying one.

"What happened to them?"

"Died on the job," they said before they could've stopped themself. "I was there. I saw it happen. I couldn't do shit."

Mentee fell silent. Mentor finished caring for them and instructed them to get dressed again. Mentee did so without another word. Before Mentee left the medical room, though, Mentor stopped them.

"I don't intend for it to happen again," they said.

"I know you don't," Mentee said quietly.

The unspoken part hung in the air between them: nobody ever intended on losing a mentee.

"Okay," you say quietly, clinging to the jacket, the only thing standing between you and the crisp, night air. "Thank you."

"Don't mention it. Hey, um... Are those... Bruises?"

There's no way she spotted the barely forming bruising on your body in the dim park lighting. "No," you lie.

"Look, um— I still don't know your name. Well, um... Look, I'm worried about you. Are you really sure you want to sleep here? Alone?"

"Yes."

"Well... Okay. Keep the jacket. Be safe. I'll be... going, then. Home. I live just down the street, under 56. If you change your mind... just knock, okay? Even if it's the middle of the night. Just knock, and I'll let you in."

"You're not looking out for your own safety," you say before you can really process the words. "I mean— Sorry. You're trying to look out for a stranger, but you're clearly... You're not..."

Freddie laughs. "I guess I'm not. I just have this feeling..."

"What feeling?"

"I don't know how to describe it. I have a younger sibling, they live in the city. You remind me of them."

Oh.

"I'm not your sibling," you point out. "You can't just— You can't just accept people into your home because they remind you of family."

"You're right, of course. Still... Just knock, okay? I'll be going."

"Good night, Freddie," you say, and despite yourself, you sound a little dejected. It was nice to have company for a little while. "Thank you for the jacket."

Freddie smiles and waves. She walks off. You're alone in the park again. You crawl back onto the bench Freddie found you on, and you curl up, pulling her jacket as tight around yourself as you possibly can.

56. That's where she lives, just down the street. You could go and knock, and you're sure she would open with a big smile on her face. But you're not doing that.

You inhale, hold, exhale. The air going in and out of your broken nose hurts every time. Despite that, despite your many injuries, you manage to fall asleep.

You awake to screaming.

You jump up, ready to assess danger, ready to fight off whoever wants to hurt you—

You find a family of four, parents and two little children. One of the children is screaming... in joy? They're running around, the older chasing the younger, and you can't figure out what's so fun about simulated battle. You've certainly never screamed in joy when running from 'enemies' (older people in the organisation, acting out enemies).

You exhale. You're safe. For now.

Your stomach rumbles.

You don't have any way of getting food. You've never been to a 'store' before. And you're pretty sure they expect money from you there, in exchange for the food. Your handler sure has complained a lot about money.

~

"No, it's okay. Here." She drapes the jacket over your shoulders. It's nice and carries the warmth of her body. You feel a little more at ease.

But that's dangerous. You shouldn't feel at ease. You should be on high alert.

But it's late, and you're sleepy, and you're now warm and as comfortable as you'll ever get with your body battered like this. You wish you could fall asleep like this.

"You look tired," Freddie says. "My offer still stands. I've taken in people before— Well, mostly family. But I really wouldn't mind having you in the guest bedroom. You don't look like you cause much trouble."

You pull the jacket tighter around yourself. You can't help but imagine a house as warm as it is, carrying Freddie's scent; a hint of floral and vanilla. It's just a hunch, but you don't imagine she's very organised — her guest bedroom must be cluttered with things she doesn't know where to put. But it must have a soft, warm bed.

No. It's stupid to even go there in your mind. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.

"Are you okay?" she asks, worried.

"Yes," you lie. "Just tired. I can give you your jacket back. I'd like to sleep."

"No, keep it. Especially if you plan on roughing it in the park. At least you'll have some protection from this weather."

~

Finally, the leader of the guild entered the basement. They said something, but honestly, Whumpee couldn't hear from the sound of her own screaming. If they wanted anything, they would have to unchain her. It was her hope that the leader wanted something from her enough to do that.

She was still thrashing and screaming when the guild leader stepped up and removed her restraints. Her wrists were entirely charred, but the screaming stopped. It was just quiet sobs now. "I haven't done anything," Whumpee wept. "I came straight to you. I haven't hurt anybody."

"Can't be too cautious," the guild leader said nonchalantly. For the first time since she'd been hurt, Whumpee was overtaken with an urge to hurt a human. "Tell me why I shouldn't stake you right now."

"B-Because I haven't done anything wrong!"

"You're a vampire."

"But that's not— that's not inherently—"

"You need blood to survive. Human blood." The guild leader raised an eyebrow. "Tell me how that doesn't warrant killing on sight."

"I… I…"

"I'm putting the chains back on. And if you don't stop screaming, I'll muzzle you as well."

"Please don't!" she begged. "It hurts! Please, I understand if I need to stay in the basement, I won't leave. But please, leave the chains."

"I'm not leaving a vampire loose."

Whumpee's treacherous stomach growled. She immediately put both hands on it, trying to stifle the sound. "I won't cause trouble."

"You're a starving vampire."

"Well I'm starving because you won't help me!" she snapped, then covered her mouth. "Sorry."

"'Help', as in, 'give you my own blood', I assume."

"No, no, that's not… I know that's asking a lot, I…"

"The chains are going back on. And rest assured, you won't be getting any blood here."

The leader approached. Whumpee's instincts kicked in. She tackled the guild leader to the ground, hissing and trying to get at their throat. The situation was clear: it was her or them. Somebody wasn't leaving this basement.

The leader was the leader for a reason — they somehow wrestled Whumpee under themself, most likely because she was still weak and hadn't eaten anything, and raised their stake to end this. Whumpee reached up and grabbed their hands holding the stake, trying to keep them from killing her.

"Wait!" she cried. "Wait! Wait! I'm sorry! I'm sorry!"

"'Sorry' won't cut it at this point." The leader was putting every ounce of their strength into pushing the stake down, and Whumpee was putting every ounce of her supernatural, albeit starved, strength into stopping them.

"I can help you!"

That got the guild leader's attention. "Help?"

"I can— I can help you fight other vampires! Bad ones!"

"You just tried to kill me."

"You threatened torture! Of course I tried!"

The guild leader let go of the stake and let Whumpee have it. She threw it across the basement. "So you're offering to be our attack dog."

"Yes," she breathed. "In exchange for some blood. Not a lot. I can get by on a little. But I can help. Truly."

They were still panting from the altercation, and they ran a hand through their hair. "Well… I guess we better use you instead of leaving you to rot down here."

"No more chains?"

"Ah," Freddie says, a little awkward. "I shouldn't have... I shouldn't have pried. I'm sorry."

That's right.

You keep silent.

"Well, um... I'm sorry, I can't help it. You're dressed very breezy for this type of weather."

It's the middle of autumn, and you've been thrown out in nothing but your uniform — shorts and a T-shirt with your number embroidered on it.

"So," she goes on, undeterred by your silence, "I was thinking, um... I mean, you're clearly shivering, and this cold must not be good for your prosthetic... Would you like to warm up at my house? I know that's a little forward..." She trails off.

A little? She doesn't know you. You certainly don't know her. Does she really think you're going to fall for this? She clearly just wants to get information out of you. For all you know, she's a seasoned interrogator, with countless torture tools at her house. You might disappear into her basement and never come out. No, this is a bad idea. What's a little cold to you?

At the same time... She's right about your prosthetic. It hurts more and more to move it with each passing second. The attachment site where metal meets bone is incredibly sore, and warming up would ease the discomfort significantly.

But there's no way.

"Or at least, let me—" She takes off her jacket and tries to drape it around your shoulders. You smack her hand away without thinking. It's instinct; she's an outsider, and she's not safe.

Freddie stops. Steps back. She looks taken aback. You look taken aback. You didn't mean to... It was just so sudden...

"Sorry," she says eventually. "I should've asked. Can I give you my jacket so you're not cold?"

~

"Nope. No hurting ever again. I'll take your suitcase from the trunk, okay? Unless you want to… But you — forgive me for saying this so bluntly — look a little weak for that. I'll just carry it."

"Thank you, Caretaker," Whumpee said, because that was what Whumper had instilled in them. Manners before anything else.

Whumpee waited patiently as Caretaker got their suitcase and closed the trunk, then locked the car. They waited as Caretaker walked up to the front door and opened it with a key from their pocket. But just when they were about to follow Caretaker inside, they heard the unmistakable sound of claws on laminated floor, and they froze.

"Pickles!" Caretaker exclaimed, leaving the suitcase by the door and opening their arms, and the enormous dog ran straight into them, pushing its head against Caretaker's chest and wagging its tail.

"Cerberus, get them," Whumper said with a grin, and it didn't matter how fast Whumpee tried to run. The dog was always faster. Always more vicious. Always victorious.

They screamed when the dog got them in the ankle, tearing skin from bone. They fell to the ground, and the huge dog bit them all over, tearing clothes and flesh and tendons.

"Whumpee?"

Caretaker's voice felt distant. The dog's heavy breathing did not. It felt all too close, and Whumpee took a shaky step backwards.

"Whumpee, what's wrong?"

"You said no hurting," they stammered. "You said, you promised—"

"I meant it," they hurried to assure them. "Whumpee, what's wrong?"

Whumpee raised a shaking hand, pointing at the dog. It was calm now, but Whumpee knew, they were acutely aware that it took a single command for it to go berserk. For it to attack. For it to maul them.

"Pickles?" Caretaker asked with furrowed brows. "Pickles wouldn't hurt a fly. What's wrong?"

"Not until you tell them to," they said, still backing up. Their back hit the locked car.

"Whumpee, I don't understand. Why would I tell my dog to hurt anyone? Pickles is a cuddlebug. I know she's a bit on a larger side, and that can be a little scary, but look at her!"

When they looked at that wretched beast, all they saw was Cerberus all over again.

"I can't do this," they choked out. "I can't. Not again. Let me back in the car, please, I'll be good, please, let me back into the car!"

Caretaker quickly took their car keys and pushed a button, and Whumpee tore the door open and sat inside. Safe.

The stranger smiles at you. "There," she says, satisfied that you took her peace offering. "It's gonna be okay. My name is Winifred. Everyone just calls me Freddie. What's your name?"

So the interrogation continues. Your 'name' is #064. But you obviously can't tell outsiders that. Weapons who were good enough to take on outside missions got code names, normal, outside names they could be called by to avoid suspicion. You never reached that stage, so you never got a fake name.

You could always come up with one on the spot. Something unassuming.

No, this woman — Freddie — has no business prying like that. Just because you have been thrown out, doesn't mean you're suddenly ready to throw the whole organisation under the bus. They're your family. Your estranged family.

So you avoid her gaze and gently blow your nose. The tissue comes away bloody. Everything hurts. You don't feel like talking.

But Freddie doesn't get tired of waiting for a response. She stays like that, crouched down, intently searching your face. She seems to find something of interest.

"Your eye," she says quietly. "Your left eye. Why is it... Is that a fake eye? It's... red. I've never seen anyone with..."

Great. She spotted another one of your body-modifications: your prosthetic eye that functions as a built-in heat camera. Now you really have to change the subject. Or maybe not. Maybe if you stick to not talking, she'll just give up.

~

So Whumpee waited. They waited through their stomach eating itself. They waited for days, weeks, months. They were tired. They would've done anything for a drop of blood. They would've licked it up off the dusty floor if given the chance. They would've done anything.

And one day, they woke up to the scent of blood.

They were immediately fully alert, sleep long forgotten, their starved body going into overdrive at the sensation. Blood. There was blood around. Somebody said something, but it didn't reach Whumpee's ears, there was blood, there was actual blood, and they had to find the source right away.

They pounced on their cut-up prey, licking up the blood and then sinking their teeth into their flesh. They didn't care who it was. They just cared that they were finally getting a drink. So they drank. And drank and drank and drank.

Then they moved on to another body, ignoring the scared screeches and what must've been begging. They weren't a person anymore. They were a famished beast, and they acted accordingly. They didn't stop until their stomach was full, and even then, they kept drinking more.

Then, they stepped back, blood still dripping from their lips. They stepped back and took a look at the bodies. The tied up bodies of their friends. Full of lacerations, and now, bite marks. Their pale bodies. Their lifeless bodies.

They felt like they might throw up all the blood they'd just drunk.

"What… What have you… What have I… What is this…?" they stammered.

"Did you enjoy your meal?" Whumper asked from the corner of the room. Whumpee couldn't take their eyes off their friends.

"This wasn't me—"

"Oh, but it was."

It was. Whumpee collapsed onto the ground, onto their knees. Their friends. Their best friends. They were so ravenous, they didn't even hear their last words. They were so gluttonous, they couldn't stop before all of them were dead.

"You did this to me," Whumpee insisted, they had to, because the alternative was so much worse. That it was them. That they were the one at fault.

"You can say whatever you like," Whumper said idly. "But it's you who's covered in their blood."

Whumpee wiped their mouth. They were crying now. "Why?" was all they could choke out.

"Because for me to train you properly, you needed to get rid of all previous attachments," they explained. "And what better way to do that than this?"

Whumper was right. Whumpee felt utterly alone in the world now, and utterly broken. They hated Whumper, and yet, they felt like they were too spent and stupid and useless to do anything but obey them.

"So I hope you enjoyed your first meal with me. There will be many more. You will kill others for me, people you don't love. It'll be much easier, I won't need to starve you for so long. Won't that be good?"

Whumpee couldn't nod or affirm. They just knelt there, tears streaming down their face. They had no one anymore.

You can't answer. The tears just come and come, one after the other, snot and blood dripping down your face. You sit — collapse, more like — on the ground, hiding your ugly face behind your hands. You can't talk to her about the facility. You don't know for sure, but you're pretty confident it'd be a death sentence.

The woman approaches further. Slowly, like she's approaching a feral stray cat. "Here," she says, and you look up. She's holding out a tissue.

You shouldn't accept it. You shouldn't accept anything from outsiders. You don't move, but she doesn't get tired of holding it out for you, in case you change your mind.

A minute passes. She sighs and crouches to be at eye-level with you. She reaches out and you squeeze your eyes shut, expecting to be hurt further, but instead, she gently dabs your tears away with the tissue.

"I'm not going to hurt you," she says, as if reading your mind. "Please, take it."

~