title...

oneshots/short series taglist: @whumpsday @jumpywhumpywriter

It wasn't going away. No matter how much Whumpee thrashed, it wasn't going away. "Let me out of these fucking restraints!" they cried. "I need to— I need to—"

"You don't need anything. Needs are for people."

"I—" The protest died in their throat. The burning was too much, they couldn't even argue. Their personhood wasn't the point right now, the point was that their veins felt like they were on fire, like insects were crawling under their skin, and there was nothing they could do about it. "Just make it stop!"

"No can do. Even if I wanted to, at this point, the antidote would probably leave you worse off than if we just let it do its thing."

"I don't care! Give me the antidote!"

"Ah-ah," Whumper chastised, and Whumpee got the sense they were quite giddy this was going so well for them. Not so well for Whumpee. "You'll just have to take this as a learning opportunity; you're learning patience, self-control—"

"Let me out of the fucking restraints!"

"I'll leave you to calm down," they said, picking up their clipboard they used to jot down any significant side effects or, well, intended effects. "I'll check in about an hour from now."

"This will last an hour?" they asked, voice high-pitched and hysterical.

You stop. You arm stays halfway outstretched towards the jacket she gave you, but you slowly lower it. As if you had the right to take it with you, regardless of whether Freddie was mad.

You don't know what to say, so Freddie keeps talking.

"I just... I don't know, to imagine you having sat here all day, I mean, it's five o'clock now, I left at seven... And you just sat here, staring at the wall?"

That's not all that unusual. You had to stare at walls for longer back in the facility. You're used to staring at walls. It's safe. There's not much that can go wrong when you're just staring at a wall.

Your stomach growls.

"Oh dear... You didn't even eat? All day?"

"I'm okay," you finally say, desperate to finally make her stop worrying. It's fine. You're fine. Everything is fine, and she's done more than enough for you by letting you know where the key to her house was.

"I'm making you some food. This isn't negotiable."

She's not your superior. Or your handler. She's not part of the organisation. By all accounts, you don't have to obey.

But she's shown kindness to you. And now she wants to feed you. And you're... so hungry.

~

"Okay," Medic gave in. "I have to— I have to tend to Whumpee's arm, that was a nasty wound I saw there, and I have to, I have to look at your abdomen, the enemy got you quite good—"

"Medic, shut up," Leader said sternly. "You're not looking at any injuries when we get back."

"It's my job—"

"Your job right now is staying alive," they said. "I won't have you arguing with me. I'm the leader for a reason. And you of all people should know better when to order bed rest for someone, even if that someone is you."

Medic coughed again. Leader felt them placing more and more of their weight on them. They were about to pass out, Leader realised in the back of their mind before Medic slumped against them. They picked them up in a bridal carry.

"Idiot," they grumbled as they swiftly carried Medic back to the team vehicle and laid them in the backseat.

"What happened?" Caretaker asked once they got back as well, and Leader just pointed to the unconscious Medic. "I saw the enemy fire a shot at them, but I didn't think—"

"You're driving. As fast as you can. The stupid idiot was talking about treating others even as they collapsed, so ideally, we need to make it to base and treat them while they're unconscious. If we don't, they'll fight us all the way."

Caretaker nodded. "Whumpee still isn't here—"

"For fuck's sake!" Leader hit the top of the car. "Where are they? We need to move fast!"

"There," Caretaker pointed out timidly. There, in the distance, was Whumpee, stumbling towards the car.

"Caretaker, go and bring them here," they barked the order, and Caretaker was immediately off to help them while Leader stayed behind, guarding Medic's unconscious body. Once everyone was in the car, Caretaker took off, and just like instructed, they broke several speed limits on the way back to base.

Whumpee was sobbing all the way there. Medic had been right — that wound on their arm was gnarly. "What do we do without Medic?" Whumpee asked hysterically. "My arm, I can't move it—"

"We do what we have always done before, before this team ever had a medic on board. We treat it ourselves," Leader said, constantly looking in the rearview mirror to see if they were being tailed.

"I don't know anything about medicine!"

"Caretaker will take care of it, then. But I don't have time for a breakdown, Whumpee, keep it together."

There was some mumbling from the backseat, and Leader immediately turned to Medic. They were mumbling the names of different medicines, half-passed out. They must've distantly registered they were talking about Whumpee's wound.

The second thing is the way you're dripping water all over the carpet. You let out a small sound of fear, fear of Freddie getting back, changing her mind, beating you senseless for making a mess. You take off your jacket and hang it up, but there's no way for you to dry yourself off unless you venture further into enemy territory and find some towels.

But you can't. You can't go further. Freddie might be nice, but there's no way she actually meant for you to snoop around in her house.

You slump against the hallway wall, slowly sliding down until your butt hits the floor. It's warm. You can just stay here in the hallway until she kicks you out.

You lift your prosthetic arm, clenching and unclenching your metallic fingers. They creak a little — courtesy of the cold. You even pop out the blade embedded in it, and it looks sharp and ready to use. Good. You pop it back in, hiding it from sight.

There's not much else to do but sit there. So you sit and warm up. The droplets of water on your skin slowly evaporate. You feel... okay.

You stay sitting like that, with your back against the wall, for hours. You don't even let your mind wander in the direction of the kitchen. That's Freddie's food. You would never ever think about taking it, no matter how much your stomach urges you.

You don't know how many hours pass before the front door opens, and there she stands. Freddie.

"Oh my," she says. "I thought it was weird that the door was not locked... I... Have you been sitting here all day?"

~

Whumpee had encouraged them to stop counting their pills, but it was clearly because they had been planning on this. Caretaker had gone to therapy and convinced everyone around them that they got better, only to go back to checking the pill bottle every night. And tonight, it might be the thing that saves Whumpee's life.

"Whumpee!" Their banging got more erratic, more forceful. They eventually stepped back and kicked the door down. Those martial arts classes had finally paid off.

Whumpee was lying on their bed, motionless.

No.

No no no no no.

"Whumpee!" They rushed over, grabbing and shaking Whumpee by the shoulders. "Whumpee, wake up! Look at me!"

Whumpee slowly blinked their eyes open. They looked unfocused. "Caretaker...?"

"You took the fucking sedatives. You promised. You promised you wouldn't."

Whumpee sighed deeply. Like they were too tired or sleepy to have this conversation. Twenty pills in, it was no wonder. "And you're checking the numbers again..."

"Well, I fucking will! Forever! Because I have to! Because you give me reasons to! I'm calling an ambulance."

"Do whatever you want," they said, eyes closing again. Caretaker slapped them awake.

"Don't you dare pass out on me. Hello? Yes, I need an ambulance. Possible sedative overdose. Yes, please hurry."

"I just wanted to feel calm," Whumpee said in a faraway voice. "Floaty. Serene."

"This is not the way to do it."

Whumpee laughed. It was joyless. "Neither of us are actually getting better. I'm still an addict, you're still in the throes of your OCD. Neither of us are making progress."

"That's not... We'll discuss that later. For now, just stay awake."

"I don't want to."

"Honestly? I don't care what you want right now. You will stay awake."

"Okay," they said, but then closed their eyes again. Caretaker shook them by the shoulders.

"You know why I'm not getting better?" Caretaker asked, sharper than intended. "Because you pull shit like this. That's why— What's why I can never just relax. That's why I can't trust you. That's why—"

"I get it," they mumbled. "I'm at fault."

"Yes. Yes, you are." The tears came out of nowhere. Caretaker wiped their eyes. "You are at fault," they sniffled, trying to stay angry, but they couldn't. "Where's the damn ambulance? What's taking so long?"

"Caretaker?"

"Yes."

"I love you. I'm sorry."

"Don't say that right now. It sounds like— It sounds like saying goodbye."

Whumpee smiled. They really did look serene. It made Caretaker want to slap some sense into them again. "Would you bring flowers to my grave?"

"I swear to god, if you don't shut up, I'll gag you."

"I'll take that as a yes."

"No grave. No funeral. No dying. They must be here soon."

"Okay," they said quietly. "I'm ready to be hauled off to a psych ward again. Though it doesn't help. Nothing does. Caretaker, I just wanna die. And one day, I'll find a way. And you won't be there to stop me."

"Don't say that..."

"It's the truth. So just... Try to make peace with it. Can you visit me on the ward?"

"Of course. Every day."

"Like clockwork."

He sighed. Matchmaker's weapon. Nine letters. What could it be? Who was a matchmaker again? He knew this one, he was sure. He didn't have any letters to guide him, the squares standing as empty as his heart.

He missed his wife. The divorce had been nasty — she had accused him of cheating and emotional unavailability. She forced his hand in selling their old house and splitting the profits right down the middle. That was the money he used to rent out this small apartment, more than enough for a man in his forties to be living in alone. The only thing he took was the red couch. The couch they'd bought together. He couldn't bear to part with it.

Matchmaker's weapon. Oh, of course. Who was a matchmaker? How silly. It was Cupid. And what did Cupid have? A bow. He stopped chewing on the end of his pencil and quickly wrote the letters. CUPIDSBOW.

One of the last conversations he'd had with his daughter, she encouraged him to get a pet dog. He was never really a dog person. Nor a cat person. He didn't really want the responsibility and the vet bills. He told himself he would rather be alone, that being alone wasn't all that bad, that the fact the only connection to the outside world he had was work, where he barely talked to anyone outside of empty pleasantries, was okay.

He set down the newspaper. It was six o'clock. He stood up to go to his tiny kitchen, where he kept all his medicine. He was taking sedatives now; doctor's orders. They had said he'd gone through a breakdown following the divorce, and they needed to get him on these. The only thing that did was make him consider taking… more than prescribed. It was a small little bottle, with thirty pills. He'd just opened it yesterday. He wondered if it would be enough to send him to the hospital, or to the morgue. He wondered if his family, his ex-family, would care.

He poured out a single pill into his palm. It was so unassuming, that little pill.

The phone rang. Whumpee downed the pill immediately and rushed to pick it up, not even looking at the number it displayed. Not many people called him — this had to be his daughter. "Hello?" he asked.

"Good afternoon! I'm calling to ask you a couple of questions for a survey we have going on. Would you happen to have two minutes for me?"

Whumpee didn't respond. He hung up without a word, then walked back to the red couch and sat down. That lady on the phone deserved at least a 'no', he thought distantly. He shouldn't have just hung up.

He buried his face in his hands. It would take another twenty minutes for the sedative to kick in, and even that would just make him sleepy and more depressed. Just how low could a man sink?

"Get yourself together, Whumpee," he muttered to himself. Sure, maybe he was alone. Sure, maybe he felt like nobody would miss him if he was gone. Sure, he felt a little low. But that wasn't a reason to completely despair, was it?

He stood up and went to the bathroom to take a shower. One of the only little pleasures he had left in his life. He wondered if his daughter would've picked up for him if he tried calling again — after three unsuccessful attempts, he'd kind of just given up. He wondered how his ex-wife was doing with her new fiance. Whether she was happy. Happier than him. He hoped so. He had no ill-will towards her, despite how the court case had gone. He got to keep the red couch, and that was all that mattered.

In any case, you start walking. You walk down the street, right past a house with the number 56 on it. It's a nice, unassuming house, with flowers in the windowsill and a flower wreath on the door. Freddie must really like flowers.

You don't linger; you walk past the house before she could see you from the window, ducking into a back alley. It is there that you make your little nest: you find a dumpster and fish out old newspapers to use as a blanket. You even look for food, but there isn't any. Your stomach growls in dissatisfaction.

You sit down, back against the brick wall, and arrange the newspapers to cover your legs. You lean your head back against the wall.

You need a long-term plan. You can't go without food forever, nor can you stay in the alley for unlimited stretches of time. What do people do in the outside world? They go to school or something, right? You don't reckon many schools would take you. You don't really know anything besides combat tactics and handling different weapons. Is there a school for that?

Or get a job. What job would accept you, of all people? You have no skills. You have no knowledge. Your handler made sure you knew you are dumb as a rock, useless outside of being a punching bag for the other weapons. No school, no job. There's not really much else you can think of.

So is this it? You'll just slowly starve to death?

You close your eyes and take a deep breath. You'll figure it out. Maybe if you went back to the facility and grovelled hard enough, they'd let you back in. Maybe you can still make it up to your handler.

"Hello?"

Your eyes snap open. You're immediately on high alert. But the voice is... familiar.

"You... relocated."

Freddie. Standing at the end of the alleyway. Looking concerned.

"I'm okay," you say before anything else. Her brows furrow in doubt.

"You'll really catch a cold if that's all you have," she says.

"I'm okay," you repeat.

"Temps are gonna be dropping today. With a chance of rain. And... And you really have been kicked out, haven't you?"

It's so embarrassing to admit. You don't want to. But she's really forcing your hand here. "Yeah," you mutter.

"Look, I can't stay. I gotta get to work. But... there's a spare key under the 'welcome' mat in front of my door."

Just how careless is this woman? First, inviting a homeless stranger into her home for the night. Then, letting them know where she keeps her spare key, allowing them free roam of her house while she's at work. You could do anything. You could steal all her cash. Her valuables. Why is she not more cautious? Why is she so... so...

"I have to run, I'm sorry," she says, then waves. "If it starts raining, you better take me up on my offer."

With that, she's gone.

It's barely a few seconds later that the first drop of rain lands on your head. Then another. And another. Soon, it's raining pretty hard, soaking all the newspaper you've covered yourself with. You pull Freddie's jacket tighter around yourself. It has a hood, so you pull that over your head.

~

"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.

~