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oneshots/short series taglist: @whumpsday @jumpywhumpywriter

Whitney could've been resentful. She could've snapped at them to leave her alone, she could've made taking care of her difficult — she couldn't find it in herself. Everything about their situations seemed like they were much the same: they were both at the mercy of The Handler, even if only one of them was chained.

And the weapon… well, they were… gentle. Those hands that dealt devastating blows to her face and stomach just minutes prior were now softly assessing the damage, putting bandaids where the skin had split. They worked in silence, as usual. Whitney was the one who tried making conversation yet again, after several failed attempts.

"You don't like doing this," she said. Whether she meant beating her or taking care of her, maybe she didn't even know.

The weapon stayed silent. She didn't even know their name. She didn't think she ever even heard their voice. All she knew was their emotionless face, unfazed even in the midst of brutalising her. And yet, she couldn't be mad. She just couldn't.

"What's your name?" she asked for the hundredth time. She was prepared for the question to go ignored like every single time before, but instead, she saw the weapon open their mouth.

"I don't have one," they said, so quietly that Whitney had to strain to be able to hear it. The weapon's voice was cool but gentle, like a summer breeze. The words felt light in the air between them, despite their meaning carrying heavy and unwelcome connotations.

"Everyone has a name," Whitney said stupidly. She didn't know what the weapon had gone through. Where they grew up, whether they had family, whether they had friends, or whether all they had was The Handler. The Handler certainly seemed the type to strip everyone of everything they had, down to the name. But did the weapon never have a name, or had it been stripped away? That, Whitney didn't know.

The weapon didn't respond to that statement. There was the slightest twitch of their lips — and Whitney noticed, because they'd spent so much time together by this point, and with that emotionless mask they had on constantly, there was little else to latch onto — signalling some… annoyance, maybe? Annoyance at her stupidity, probably. It could've also been amusement, come to think of it. Amusement that Whitney would be so naive.

The weapon knew Whitney's name. They knew most things about her. The first time the tape had been removed from her mouth, she had word-vomited everything about her life to the weapon, because they weren't The Handler, and she hadn't yet known how closely affiliated the two of them were. She had asked for help, asked the weapon to call her family, to find her friends, to do anything, to help her escape this hellhole. She had learned, since then.

But she never gave up talking to the weapon. And it seemed like it was finally paying off, even if those four words were the only thing they'd end up saying during the time they had together.

"You really don't… have one?" Whitney asked, hissing when the weapon dabbed at a cut with a cotton ball seeped in disinfectant. "What does The Handler call you? Do they have a name?"

The weapon continued cleaning her up. They didn't say anything. Whitney didn't give up.

"You know, the more I see the two of you interact, the more I'm convinced you could take them in a fight. They seem… too relaxed. Like they're so sure of your loyalty. If you just whipped around one day with that dagger of yours in hand and slit their throat, I don't think they'd even have the time to look surprised."

The weapon didn't react. Whitney sighed.

"Well, just keep that in mind. I really think you could free both of us."

Whitney didn't want to think about why The Handler was so relaxed. What training the weapon had had to go through to become so loyal. Whether it was a bond that could even be broken. She didn't want to think about any of it. What she wanted to think about was a fairy tale ending, the weapon stabbing their handler in the throat repeatedly, leaving them to bleed out on the floor as they whisked her away to safety.

She furrowed her brows. What was this… odd feeling? She'd imagined this scenario before falling asleep a couple times before, but she'd never… she'd never imagined it with the weapon actually in the room with her. Nor had she ever verbalised it. And as she said the words, as she imagined the weapon's strong — very much capable of causing harm — arms gently lifting her in the air to bridal carry her out of her torture chamber, she felt something she'd never felt about the weapon before.

This was stupid.

She was stupid.

The weapon was loyal to The Handler, and this would never happen anyway. She just needed to suck it up and accept that this was her life now. Daily beatings, rare meals, four walls and a bucket to piss in. This was her life.

But she didn't want this to be her life. And her only ticket out was the weapon. Yes, she needed to stay pragmatic. All she wanted from the weapon was freedom. The weapon would surely get something in exchange — Whitney could make it up to them somehow. If they helped. But they wouldn't help if she stopped trying.

"Do you like The Handler?" she asked.

That got a reaction. A reaction she didn't expect. The weapon giggled. They seemed to immediately realise their mistake, stifling the sound halfway through, their emotionless mask firmly back in place. Whitney's heart skipped a beat as the sound.

Why?

Why, when all they did was hurt her?

Why was she feeling this way? Was she going insane? Was she being manipulated through the weapon patching her up every time? Was this what The Handler wanted? Was she playing into their hands by getting attached?

"So you don't," she concluded. The weapon stood up to leave. "Wait— Wait, please, stay just a little longer—"

The weapon didn't look back.

—

"I can't figure you out," Whitney said the next time The Handler left the room and left the two of them together: just her and the weapon. "After what must be weeks of captivity and not talking to me, you finally decided to tell me something. And now we're like, back to square one. And you won't say a thing. Do you hate me?"

The weapon was silent, working with quick and efficient fingers. They had given Whitney a lashing and broken skin. Whitney was still crying a little from the pain, but most of all, she just wanted to talk. She wanted a friend. She wanted someone who understood, even if that understanding came from the fact that they had been the one to inflict the pain.

"Do you enjoy doing this? Hurting me?"

The weapon didn't react. They just kept placing butterfly bandages across the open wounds.

"I don't think you do. Like, today… Today I could swear you hesitated. It was either lash eight or nine, I can't remember," she sniffled a little, "but you hesitated. The Handler told you to strike, and the pain didn't immediately come. You know, you get good at spotting these… these small things, and you build on them in your mind. When you're captive like this. You build whole fantasies. Like 'oh, maybe the weapon doesn't enjoy their job, maybe the weapon wants to get rid of The Handler as much as I do, maybe…'" She trailed off. Maybe what? Maybe the weapon sees her as an equal? Maybe the weapon sees her as a comrade in arms? Someone sharing their fate?

Someone to fall for?

Whitney hit herself in the forehead. Stupid. Idiot. Of course the weapon doesn't see her in that way. She doesn't even see them in that way. Right? This had to be some form of messed up Stockholm-syndrome, or whatever it was called.

"Do you hate me?" she asked again, quieter.

The question lingered. Whitney wasn't in a rush to talk more this time. She just wanted an answer. And the weapon had answered her once before.

"No," came their soft voice from behind her, and it felt like a caress on the cheek, a kiss to the top of her head. For someone so absolutely brutal to sound so gentle, it was like gasoline on the fire, it only fuelled Whitney's delusional fantasies.

"Do you hate The Handler?" she asked. She waited again, for minutes. The weapon remained silent. Maybe one answer per session was all she would get, all she deserved. Maybe that was enough.

The weapon finished patching her up and packed up the first-aid kit. They left the room, left Whitney, and the door slammed shut behind them, the lock sliding into place with a click.

It was infuriating, in a way. That the weapon refused to help her. If they didn't hate her, then why wouldn't they help? She'd pleaded, begged to be helped. She had debased herself so thoroughly that first time, she had wailed, wept, snot dripping down her chin, she had bowed to the ground, forehead against the floor, and rattled off the contacts of every one of her friends and family members. The weapon hadn't even reacted.

But then again, Whitney doubted she was the first one in The Handler's — and by extension the weapon's — clutches. They must've heard every variation of begging to be let go. They must've hardened with time, learned to tune out the sound of desperate sobbing. But surely, this wasn't the existence they wanted for themself. Surely, they wanted more. Something. Anything.

Whitney lay on the cold, cement floor, rubbing the bandages on her wrists. She wasn't in her usual chains anymore, but she'd had to be ziptied again after lunging at The Handler, and the wounds from thrashing against the restraints hadn't yet healed. It had been the weapon to pull the ziptie so tight. But not of their own volition; The Handler had inspected their work and told them to pull it tighter. And tighter. And tighter. Just enough not to cut off circulation, but enough to hurt.

The weapon had been the one to bandage her up after cutting them off, however. And they had been gentle.

She closed her eyes. Was there any point in fantasising? Probably not. But the images kept flashing through her mind, one after the other. The Handler on the floor, in a puddle of their own blood; dead. The weapon gently taking her by the hand and leading her out the door to freedom.

There were fantasies a little more realistic than that. Of the weapon gently bandaging her arm, then raising it to plant a kiss to the back of her hand. Or the weapon gently wiping her tears away. Or the weapon gently… gently, gently, gently, always gently, because they were always gentle when they didn't absolutely have to be cruel.

She drifted off to sleep.

—

"I get one answer a day, right? Don't answer that," Whitney said when she and the weapon were alone again. "I didn't get any answers before, but that must've been because I hadn't yet earned it. But I've been here a while, and one answer a day is what that earned me. So I'm going to think of something I really want to know. Not just something I blurt out in the heat of the moment."

The weapon didn't even look up at her. They just continued applying the burn cream onto the marks left by the cattle prod.

Oh yeah, The Handler had a cattle prod. Because of course they did.

"I tried thinking it up ahead of time. So I'd have it ready when you came, and when they left." She didn't even want to utter that stupid name they made her call them by. The Handler. Who did they think they were? Did they have no other personality trait other than the fact they had the weapon?

Whitney would've loved to be described by her relationship to the weapon.

But that was different.

"But I couldn't come up with what I wanted to know most. It's hard to think about what I want to talk to you about when you're not here."

The burn cream was gentle and cooling on her skin, and the weapon massaged it in with circular motions. As always, they were careful, never causing more harm than what they had been tasked with.

"Ah, I know. See? You just need to be here, and my brain works better." That sounded weird. "Not in a weird way. I… This situation is so stupid. It makes me say stupid stuff."

The weapon didn't react. In a way, they were the perfect blank canvas to throw ideas at, to see what stuck.

"Are there others?" she asked, holding her breath as she waited for an answer. There was, of course, no guarantee that the weapon would continue their streak of answering one question per day. It was just a stupid thing she had latched onto when it happened twice in a row. Still, it felt like their little pact. Their little agreement. A bond.

The weapon was silent.

Whitney slowly exhaled. She wouldn't get an answer today.

"Yes," the weapon said after minutes, and Whitney felt the colour drain from her cheeks.

There were others. The Handler had others. Were there only other captives, or other weapons as well? And where were they kept? They couldn't have been kept close, or Whitney would've heard their screams already. And the others would've heard her wailing. Or maybe the room was soundproof? Her thoughts were running a million miles an hour. There were others. There were others.

"We have to get them out," she whispered. The weapon continued massaging the cream into her arm. "We have to. You hear me? We have to get them out. You have to kill The Handler. Or help me do it. Though I… I don't know if I could. It'd really be best and most efficient if you were the one to do it— You've… I assume you've killed before."

Her one question a day was up, and the weapon didn't respond. Whitney tried feeling the adequate level of freaked out at that prospect, the fact that the weapon's hands were stained with the blood of innocents, but it was so hard when they were so gentle with her.

This is a ruthless killing machine, an instrument of torture, said the rational side of her brain.

They are our only means of comfort and potential escape, said the other.

"You've killed before," she breathed. "I won't even ask you. I know what you'd say. But I also know— I know you didn't want to. I know you don't want to be doing this. Right? Because you don't hate me. You don't have a reason to be doing any of this. It's The Handler that's a sick sadist, not you. You just… You're loyal. To a fault. I don't know why. Maybe you'll never tell me why. But I don't begrudge you for it."

The weapon finished treating her injuries and stood up. Without a word, they left her room — her cell — and went wherever it was that they stayed when they weren't in the cell with her.

Whitney wondered how big the building must've been. How many rooms, how many cells, how high, how low… There were no windows, so she could only assume she was underground. But she didn't know for sure. The only thing she ever saw of the world outside her cell was a long corridor, but she couldn't see whether it ended in stairs going up or down; or whether it ended in stairs at all.

She lay down, staring at the wall. The weapon didn't hate her. Did The Handler? Or were they also just doing a job? Were they also just a cog in the murder machine? If she killed them with the help of the weapon, would another handler crop up?

She didn't know. And as selfish as this was, she didn't want to find out what killing The Handler would feel like. She didn't even want to imagine it. She wanted to imagine the weapon doing it. Even if that meant she'd have to be here longer. Even if that meant the others would have to be here longer.

Heck, as selfish as this was, she didn't even really want to think of the others. She had asked, sure, but she… she didn't want to think about it. She wanted to put it out of her mind for good. She wanted to imagine she was the only one trapped here. With The Handler.

—

"Will I ever get out of here?" Whitney asked the next time she and the weapon were alone. They were suturing a jagged cut along her leg, without any pain medication, and Whitney had to just grit her teeth and get through it so she wouldn't bleed out.

It was strangely intimate, the whole ritual.

Or maybe she was starting to imagine things.

The weapon worked in silence, as usual. But Whitney knew the silence wouldn't last. They were likely just mulling the question over before giving an answer.

"No," they said eventually. Whitney nodded. That was what she'd expected.

"If I were to get out of here," she said, hissing when the needle tore through her flesh at yet another point, "I would take The Handler down with me. And I'd free the others. And I'd free any other weapon that was here as well. I'd free you."

There was the slightest hesitation in the weapon's fingers as they worked. The slightest of tremors, the slightest trembling. As though they didn't expect that. As if Whitney would ever think of leaving them behind.

After a minute or so, the weapon spoke, unexpectedly. "Why?"

Whitney was so taken aback, she almost forgot about the pain radiating from her thigh up into her entire body. "Why?" she repeated. The weapon glanced up at her before going back to doing their job, and it confirmed to Whitney that this really was something they were incredibly curious about. They never talked, never made eye-contact, so for them to have done both was… huge. "Why, because—" She cut herself off.

Silence stretched between them. The only thing breaking it up were Whitney's sharp inhales of pain.

"Because you matter," she settled on. "Because nobody deserves to have to hurt people. Nobody deserves this kind of life. You're caring, I can tell. I can tell that you hate doing this, even though you try to hide it. I can tell now. Because we've spent so much time together. I'd help you escape as well because I would never leave a… a friend behind."

The end was a little clumsy there. Whitney couldn't figure out the right label to put on their relationship. 'Friend' seemed safe. For now.

What was she thinking? 'Friends' were all they'd ever be, once they got out. And even while they were still here.

The weapon stopped working, needle still in hand. Their fingers were slick and bloody. They looked up at her this time, fully looked. They locked eyes.

Whitney had never really… She'd never really… Considered, or noticed, or…

The moment was over before she could've fully lost herself in their eyes. The weapon went back to stitching her up, and she let her head fall back, staring at the ceiling, gritting her teeth in pain. Just a few more stitches.

"I don't have friends," the weapon said quietly. Whispered, more like. "I hurt them. I always hurt them, in the end."

Whitney looked back down at them. Her thigh was stitched up, the weapon working on a knot now. How was she meant to explain that she didn't care? That they could hurt her all day, every day, for weeks, months on end, and she wouldn't care?

"You make the pain go away as well," she said equally quietly, afraid of shattering the moment with a careless word, a syllable uttered too loudly. "I know you don't want this. I don't consider this you hurting me. It's The Handler at fault. You must know that."

The weapon grabbed a piece of gauze and laid it on top of the freshly stitched-up wound. Then, she wrapped it in bandages. Whitney tried not to make a sound, knowing now how guilty the weapon felt about causing pain. A weapon, afraid and regretful of causing pain. That was no weapon at all. It was stupid that she had to keep referring to them like that in her head, just because The Handler had referred to them that way, and they didn't have a name to give to her.

In the end, the weapon didn't react. They simply packed up their supplies and left the cell, leaving Whitney alone with her thoughts. But they were getting somewhere. They were actually, truly getting somewhere.

Even if the weapon would never feel… the way she felt about them, they could be friends. Maybe she could eventually convince them that there was a world out there for them too, that they deserved a world free of pain and suffering and having to constantly grovel for harm they didn't intend to cause.

Whitney ran her fingers across the bandages, bottom to top. It was nicely done, snug but not painful. It hurt her heart to know the weapon must've done this hundreds of times in their short life. What age could they be, 25? 30 at most. Whitney was 24, and she didn't think the weapon was much older than her.

She would get them out of here, she pledged to herself. She would. Even if she had to take care of The Handler herself, she would get them out.

—

Days passed.

Whitney was starting to believe nobody would ever come to her cell again. She was parched, starving, and she wasn't sure how long she would be able to hold out.

Most of all, even more than water, she missed the weapon. She missed their gentle touch, their soft gaze that felt like being lost in an endless sea of care.

But soon, she got to know exactly why The Handler hadn't been down to her cell in the past days; when they threw open the door and shoved a barely alive weapon onto the floor in front of her. They were… unresponsive. They just fell like a sack of flour.

"What have you done?" she breathed.

"Want water?"

As if that was her priority. Well… It was, a little bit… She was really thirsty. It had been days.

The Handler dangled a bottle of fresh water in front of her. "All you have to do is get up and kick them. And it's all yours."

Whitney paled. She looked back down at the weapon. Their chest was just barely rising and falling with shallow breaths, and she didn't know what had happened, she didn't know why The Handler had done this to one of their assets, she was confused, and hurt, and scared—

It couldn't be that The Handler knew, could it?

But what was there to know, really? The weapon had said maybe a total of ten words to her. Glanced at her twice. Was that why? Was she the reason they were beaten black and blue, barely alive, not even conscious? No. No, that couldn't be.

But why else would The Handler make such a request?

"Oh, come on, they've hurt you plenty," they said, egging her on. "This is just a bit of revenge. And for a good reward, no less."

If she didn't get that bottle of water, she would die of dehydration. If she kicked the weapon… they might just die on her. Was it a her or them situation? Would she have to basically commit suicide to save them?

"You two really are lovebirds, aren't you?" The Handler taunted. They screwed the cap off the bottle and poured out some of the water onto the floor. Whitney immediately crawled over and started lapping it up like a dog. It was humiliating, but she didn't care. It felt heavenly on her parched tongue. "Why don't I show you how it's done?"

"No!" she screamed immediately, sitting back on her heels. "We're— Lovebirds? What are you on about? I just don't want to hurt someone who's already half-dead! Look at them!"

"Oh, I am looking," The Handler said, reeling their leg back and kicking the weapon in the ribs. Something cracked under their steel-toe boots. The weapon didn't even stir.

"Please!" she cried. "Don't! You're going to kill them!"

"Then get up, get over here, and kick them."

Was this how the weapon felt whenever they were made to hurt her? Surely not. Surely, the weapon didn't care half as much as her as she did them. Whitney's lower lip wobbled as she stifled a sob. She slowly got up and walked over, giving the weapon a half-hearted kick. More of a nudge in the side.

"That wasn't a kick. Do you want me to show you again?"

"No!" she snapped. The Handler grinned.

"Kick them."

Whitney closed her eyes and kicked the weapon, as hard as she could muster. Surely, that had to be enough. Surely.

"Put your heart into it," The Handler said, and when Whitney opened her eyes, she saw them reel back for another kick. Before she could think, she threw herself over the weapon's motionless body, shielding them with her own. The Handler's steel-toe boot connected with her arm, and she cried out. "Oh? So you don't want the water after all."

"Please," she begged. "Please, just leave them alone. We're not lovebirds, or whatever you think. The weapon has never done anything to deserve this. You're being pointlessly cruel."

"Am I?" They leaned down, grabbing Whitney by the hair and dragging her away from the weapon. They dragged her over to the corner of the cell, keeping her down on the ground with a boot to her chest. They reached into their pocket and pulled out a handkerchief, which they put over her face. Then, they started pouring the water over it.

Suddenly, Whitney couldn't breathe.

The water she was so gratefully lapping up just a minute ago was now used to drown her, and she was really drowning, she was dying, dying, dying—

The water stopped. It must've run out. The handkerchief was removed, and Whitney turned to her side, coughing up water, gasping for air.

"You try to pull this shit another time," The Handler said, leaning down, growling, "I will kill them, and I will kill you. Both of you are expandable. Don't take your place here for granted."

"Understood," she sputtered. "Understood. I'll never— never try anything. Please. Stop."

"Good. You're free to lick up the water. If—"

There was a sound of… A soft thud, a squelch. Before Whitney knew it, a body had fallen right next to hers. The Handler's body, with a knife sticking out the back of them. When she looked up, she saw the weapon standing over them. Then they knelt down, straddling The Handler and pulling out the blade, only to stab them again. And again. And again.

Blood was splattering everywhere. The weapon's blood was mixing with their handler's, and the water on the floor. Whitney watched in awe. The weapon had been unconscious a moment ago, or they were really good at faking. And now they were killing with an intensity they had never demonstrated when hurting her.

She couldn't think. She was still so thirsty. She leaned down and started lapping up the water, now mixed with blood, the taste of metal on her tongue. There wasn't much to lick up, but as much as there was, she licked up. Then, panting, she straightened up again. The weapon was panting as well, over the dead body of their handler.

They just stared at each other for a moment.

"You…" The weapon winced a little, the beating and whatever else their handler had done to them clearly still hurting. "Your lips, your…" They reached out, clumsily trying to wipe the bloody water off her lips. Whitney reached up and grabbed their wrist, holding their hand there.

"What have they done to you?"

"Doesn't matter."

"It does. To me."

The weapon couldn't respond. Their eyes rolled back, the adrenaline probably wearing off, and they slumped against Whitney's body. She stayed like that, cradling them, until they came to again.

"Whitney?" they whispered.

"I'm here," she whispered back. "I'm here."

The door of the cell was still open, but Whitney hadn't even thought of leaving without the weapon.

The weapon slowly pushed themself up, looking her in the eye. Neither of them looked away this time. There was no reason to be secretive — The Handler's dead body was proof enough that they were safe, if only for the time being.

She leaned in.

The weapon didn't pull away.

Their kiss tasted like copper.

"I'm sorry," the weapon said.

"I'm sorry, too," Whitney replied.

"Can we… Can we really just go now?"

"Yeah. Let's… Let's go."

~

Whumpee glared back at him. Abuse or not, they wouldn't be broken. Not by some all-important, sadistic, pedantic—

Whumper reeled his hand back and slapped them across the face. "And don't you ever make that expression again. We've talked about that before."

"Fuck you," they spat, and Whumper slapped them again. With their hands tied behind their back, there was nothing they could do, and it just made them angrier. They would never break for Whumper. They would never conform to his stupid ideals. They would never change. "Fuck you," they repeated.

"In a mood today?" Whumper asked, and he didn't slap them a third time. "Okay." He went and got the cattle prod, and Whumpee tried to mask the fear that was bubbling up under their anger. "You're painfully easy to read."

"Oh, you can read?" they asked sarcastically. "I thought a guy as idiotic as you—"

Zap.

Right between Whumpee's ribs. They stifled a pained groan. A whimper. They wouldn't give him the satisfaction. This was abuse, they reminded themself. This wasn't correction. This wasn't anything noble. This was exactly what Whumper had described — a stupid, idiotic man trying to break someone for his own pleasure.

"Anything else to say to me?" Whumper asked, a challenge in his tone. He wasn't usually one for challenges — he'd correctly deduced they only made Whumpee more defiant. But today, it seemed like both of them were in a mood.

"Yeah, shove that cattle prod right up your own—"

Zap.

Whumpee's mouth hang open in a silent scream. It hurt. It hurt really badly.

"I'd say we can do this all night, but that's not true. I have things to attend to. I'm a busy man."

Whumpee was panting. "So I win."

Whumper raised an eyebrow. "That is an interesting way of looking at it. What did you win, exactly?"

A stupid prize for a stupid game. "Whatever. Go attend to your 'things'."

Zap.

Whumpee finally couldn't contain the noises anymore — they cried out. It didn't seem to bring Whumper any satisfaction. Like he really was just correcting an annoying habit in a child or something. Goodness, Whumpee hoped Whumper would never reproduce.

"I still have a few minutes to spend with you. Do you want to spend it in pain, or do you want me to undo the ropes holding your wrists so you can sleep comfortably tonight?"

"Comfortably on the cement floor?"

Zap.

"That is as much comfort as you get at this point," Whumper said. "I've told you countless times how you can advance here. You're just too stubborn to actually put in the work."

Whumpee gathered all of their defiance, all of the fire burning within them, and all of their saliva. Then they spat at Whumper.

That was a bad move.

Whumper wiped it off, then stabbed them between the ribs with the cattle prod, zapping, keeping it there, continually shocking them until they cried and whimpered and fell to the floor in a twitchy heap. They were pretty sure they'd wet their pants.

"Thank you, but it's really fine," you force out. There. That wasn't so hard, was it?

Freddie's brows furrow in concern. She doesn't seem impressed by your self-restraint. "Well, it's there for when you want it. You're free to have it, really."

"Thank you, Freddie."

"You always sound so formal. It's okay to be a little more... casual with me. You know that, right?"

Manners. Your handler beat them into you. There is no way you can be casual with someone who most likely saved your life, or at least saved you from going to prison for stealing food.

You nod anyway. That's pretty casual.

You watch intently as Freddie expertly swirls the strands of pasta around her fork, twisting and twisting until there is a good amount on it, then lifts it to her mouth and takes a bite. So that's what you were meant to do. You stash the knowledge away for next time.

Next time? What are you thinking? How dare you assume there will be a next time?

Your training feels like it's slipping through your malnourished fingers. As if the hunger and the kindness have fully unravelled your mind, moulded it into something else, something... improper.

"Uh..." Freddie looks like she wants to say something, but doesn't know how to begin. "I still don't know your name. But hey, um... You don't want to go back and sleep in the park tonight, do you? I can set up my guest bedroom for you. And in the morning, you could have another salami sandwich. Doesn't that sound good?"

It sounds dangerous. She has already weaselled her way into a far corner of your heart, the one longing for affirmation, kindness, generosity. Things you've never been given.

~

"Give it up," Whumper repeated. "I know where to stab to kill someone. This isn't my first rodeo."

No. No. No. Caretaker couldn't be dying. For the first time ever, Whumpee hadn't been alone. For the first time ever, Whumpee had a family in Caretaker. Even if it was just one person. Even if their relationship didn't fit traditional moulds, like parent-child, or siblings, or anything. They had Caretaker. Caretaker had been their everything in the past months.

But Whumper had come back. And they had come back with a vengeance, targeting Whumpee's only solace, knowing that if they took Caretaker, Whumpee would go with them. Not physically, maybe — and only because Whumpee didn't have access to the knife Whumper had stabbed Caretaker with, if they did, they would've slit their throat with it when they saw Caretaker wasn't going to make it — but emotionally. Whumpee would check out. Whumpee would be Whumper's, fully Whumper's, again. Because Whumper couldn't have that. That Whumpee's heart belonged to someone else.

"Give it up," Whumper said for the third time. Whumpee was still pressing on the wound, but blood was seeping through their fingers. Caretaker's precious blood.

"I—" Caretaker tried, but they coughed.

"Don't talk," Whumpee said between sobs. "Don't talk. Save your energy. I'll fix this. You'll be okay."

Caretaker slowly reached up and cupped Whumpee's face. Their palm was bloody from where they'd pressed it against their own wound, but Whumpee didn't care. It was Caretaker's touch. So gentle. So soft.

They couldn't talk. But they could communicate. And Whumpee knew exactly what they were communicating.

I love you. I'll always love you.

Tears trickled down Whumpee's cheeks. "I'll fix this," they whispered. "I'll fix it. I swear to you, Caretaker, please, just hold on, just a little longer, please—"

"That's enough." Whumper grabbed Whumpee by the hair and pulled them away. As soon as the support of their knees was yanked away from under Caretaker's head, it lolled to the floor, to the side, almost like Caretaker was nothing but a dead body by now. But they were still alive. They were. There was still a chance of saving them.

"No!" Whumpee screamed, kicking and scratching and doing whatever they could to get back to Caretaker. "Let me go!"

"They're as good as dead," Whumper growled. "Give it up."

"No, I can save them, I just need a little time, I just—"

Whumper let go and punched them in the face. Whumpee fell to the floor, blood running from their nose. They didn't care. Caretaker had a much bigger problem, and Whumpee tried fruitlessly to crawl back to them and save them. Whumper stepped on their back, keeping them down. "They're dead. Look at them."

No, there was still a little movement to their chest. Rising and falling. They were still breathing. "Let me go," they begged, begged, because Whumper liked it when they begged, and maybe they would overlook the horrible, horrible choice they'd made in getting attached to somebody else.

Whumper sighed and stepped off. Whumpee immediately scrambled to get back to Caretaker.

It was too late. The small movements of breathing had ceased. When Whumpee put a hand on Caretaker's chest, they didn't feel a heartbeat. Caretaker was still smiling serenely, an expression that would be frozen on their face forever now. Their eyes were still open, though fixed on nothing. Whumpee let out an inarticulate scream.

"Happy now?" Whumper asked.

Whumper was good. They were good at tracking Whumpee, good at destroying everything dear to Whumpee, good at trying to get them back. But they'd made one fatal mistake in their calculations; they assumed that once Caretaker was gone, Whumpee would simply go back to being theirs.

But their time with Caretaker had changed them.

"That's not..." You trail off. Maybe it'll be better if she thinks you just don't like spaghetti. "Thank you, Freddie."

She stands up from the table and goes to the counter, grabbing a loaf of bread. You mourn not getting to try the spaghetti — it smells delicious, and after two days of not eating, you're sure it would've been heavenly. But a sandwich is good. It's sustenance.

"What would you like in your sandwich? And don't just try to please me. Tell me what you really like."

"I like salami," you say timidly. Does she have salami at home?

"Salami. Okay." She goes to the fridge and takes out some salami, then arranges it in a layer on top of the bread. "Anything else?"

"Just salami is fine. Thank you, Freddie."

She puts the plate in front of you, at the same time taking the untouched spaghetti. A sandwich. Way more manageable. You wait for Freddie to sit back down, and you take your first bite.

Oh.

It's... very good. The salami is not the cheap kind the facility had. It's so tasty. You can't help yourself, you can't even sit and wait for Freddie to start eating as well, you scarf it down like... well, like you haven't eaten in two days.

When you next look up, you find Freddie staring.

"Sorry," you say, the word just slipping out despite you having no real idea what you did wrong.

"No, it's fine. Do you want another sandwich?"

You swallow. The taste of bread and salami lingers. You desperately want more. But you've already exhausted Freddie's kindness, you can't possibly ask for even more.

"No, thank you. It was delicious."

"It's really no bother," she assures you. "Are you sure you don't— Here." She stands up, grabbing the loaf of sliced bread and the packet of salami, placing both in front of you on the table, presumably so you can make your own sandwich. "Have as much as you like."

~

She immediately jumped off the ladder, not even caring to put the door back in place. She rushed out to the back of the shop, to the dumpster, frantically opening the lid to reveal several bags of trash. She tore through them all, looking for her love. She found no trace of her.

Of course. What were the chances of Priscilla making it back in time to find her?

She jumped back into her car and headed to the junkyard.

Priscilla was immortal — as in, she reincarnated into different bodies in different times. It always took some time, but she eventually regained her memories every time. This time, her body was a woman's called Rita. Rita was one of three children, absent father, seamstress mother. She had to drop out of school to support her family.

It didn't matter. Rita wasn't real. Not really. It was Priscilla inhabiting her body. And as soon as she regained consciousness, she sneaked off, crossed borders, came back to the same repair shop where she'd left her girlfriend last time when her body got old and frail.

Her girlfriend was similarly immortal. 03 — her full name being 7583703 — could keep going so long as she was kept in somewhat working conditions. Parts changed, swapped out, old stuff being replaced by new technology.

But she wasn't in the auto repair shop. And if she was in the junkyard, possibly unresponsive, it would take Priscilla a very, very long time to find her.

But she would find her. There was no world in which she wouldn't.

She got to the junkyard and got out of her stolen car — Rita never got her driver's licence, but it didn't matter, Priscilla knew how to drive — and started yelling for 03. There were no others around.

"Fuck, please, please, answer me..." she muttered. 03 was the love of her life. They had found each other through time and space, every time, no matter what body Priscilla came back in, no matter what 03 looked like, they always found each other.

"Here," came a weak, distorted voice. It didn't even sound like 03 anymore.

Priscilla ran over to a pile of junk and started throwing stuff away, slowly revealing a rusted, dysfunctional 03. "Oh dear..." she said, gently tracing 03's jawline. "I'll help. It's okay."

"I know," 03 said. "Like always."

"I'm sorry I couldn't come sooner."

"Did you like your family too much?"

Priscilla scoffed, but... Rita's family was sweet. With her having run off, she didn't know what would become of them.

Still, 03 was more important.

"I like you most," she said. "Come on..." She gently lifted 03's metallic body out of the pile of trash and brought her to the car.

"You have freckles now," 03 pointed out. After so many bodies, so many lives, Priscilla wondered how 03 still found ways to note her favourite features.

"Yeah. And you have a rusted voicebox. What happened in the attic?"

"The new owner found me. I pretended to be unresponsive. I knew you'd find me anyway."

Priscilla smiled, though it was a little pained. What if she didn't find her? What if she lost 03 forever?

Disassembling 03 for cleaning was as natural as breathing by now. Priscilla made sure to scrub every part of her thoroughly, making sure the rust was gone, parts were well-oiled, and she shoplifted any part that needed to be replaced.

Soon, 03 was back to functional again.

"I like the new arm," 03 noted, making small rotations with it. "When the last one was crushed, I... It hurt."

Priscilla sat down on the curb. Cars were whooshing by. Nobody paid them any attention.

03 sat down next to her.

"What was it like?" 03 asked. "Your life this time."

"Nothing notable. I'm just glad to be back with you."

"Come on. There must've been something noteworthy. A crush, maybe."

Ah. So that was what was on 03's mind. Priscilla smiled. "You know you're my one and only."

"Well, as Priscilla, yes. But you weren't Priscilla for a long time again. How old is this body?"

"23."

"There was nothing in those 23 years?"

"Well... I suppose... I don't know. I liked my mother. And my siblings. It's always... You know it's always a little..." She trailed off, frowning. "I don't like leaving people. But whenever I get my memories back, there's no way I can stay. When I know you're waiting for me."

"You don't have to come back to me just because of that," 03 said. "If you ever find someone more—"

"Stop. I won't. I love you."

03 smiled to herself. "I love you too."

"What have you done in the last 23 years?"

"Mostly hid out in the attic. Sometimes, when I didn't hear anyone in the shop, I'd go downstairs and guzzle a bunch of oil. You know I like the taste of it. Poor man running the shop had called the police multiple times, but of course, no sign of a break-in."

Priscilla smiled. "It must be boring. Waiting for me all the time."

"Not all the time. You come back, and we spend decades together. Usually. When there's no freak accident."

"Come on, I got hit by a car once."

"Because cars were invented in the last century. Who knows how many more times there will be? And you remember that wild beast attacking you?"

"That was ages ago."

"Still. I never like to... to see you go like that. I prefer being by your bedside, when you're old, and comfortable. I like being able to say goodbye, even if it's more of a see you later."

Priscilla tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear. "You know... I've been through so many bodies. Ruined so many lives."

There was a beat of silence. Priscilla didn't continue. 03 didn't cut in.

"Do you ever... wonder if it's just habit at this point?"

03 looked away. She looked like she'd just heard the words she had been afraid to hear in her millenia of lifetime. "Not for me," she said quietly.

"Yeah..." Priscilla looked up, staring at the sun about to go down. "Sorry. That was a weird thing to say. Do you always like me equally?"

"Yes."

"Even in the male bodies?" she asked playfully, wiggling her eyebrows. 03 pushed her a little.

"It doesn't matter to me. You're my Priscilla."

"And you're my 03. Sorry for bringing up so many weird topics today. I guess... I guess you're right. I did like this body's family a lot. You know, I wonder... I wonder what became of them after I left."

"Maybe we should go back. Together."

"They're countries away."

"We have time."

Priscilla let out a little laugh. "That we do. That we do."

"I'm serious. Let's go back. I could meet your family—"

"My family has been dead for 3000 years. They're not my family. I don't need them."

"You're worried what they'd think of me."

Priscilla looked down at her lap. "I just don't want them to hurt you," she mumbled. "I'm not ashamed of you, I just... What if they want to take you apart? Turn you in to the government? Anything like that. I don't trust them."

"I'm sorry for being a nuisance."

"What?" Priscilla's head snapped to her. "You're not— What are you saying?"

"You can never bring me around anywhere. You're forced to live out your eternity watching out for me. It's already been 3000 years. That's how many human lives?"

"It doesn't matter. I love you. That's what lovers do: watch out for each other."

"I just hold you back."

"Are you trying to break up with me?"

It was 03's turn to look down at her lap. "No... Not really... I don't want to... I just... I feel bad..."

Priscilla reached out and grabbed 03 by the face, turning her head so she was facing her. "Do not. I choose to come back for you every time because you're my everything. What is eternity, if I can't spend it with someone I love?"

03 was tearing up. This new technology was really something else. Priscilla just wished her tear tank wouldn't be emptied out for the first time since her arrival because of her.

"One day, you'll get bored of me," 03 said. "And then— And I won't know. I'll just know that decades passed and you didn't come back. And I think of that, in the decades when you're not here. And it makes me so— so—"

"Hey. 03. Listen to me. I will always come back."

"You don't know that. What if one time you don't regain your memories?"

Priscilla swallowed. "If this has been going on for millenia, I don't have reason to doubt it'll go on for more."

"But you don't know that."

"Yeah, well, what if you fall into such disrepair I can't fix you? What if the twenty years I spend away from you is too much? What if one day I can't shoplift parts for you? Don't you think I think about this stuff too?" Priscilla let go, tears of stubborn determination stinging her eyes. "I think about this. I thought about this today, when I couldn't find you."

Silence stretched between them.

"I don't want to be a burden," 03 said again.

"You're not. 03, I... I'd be lost without you. Please, just promise me you'll be around for as long as I am. I know that's selfish. But please."

"I'll be around for as long as I can," she said gently.

Priscilla scooched over, so their shoulders were touching. The sun had gone down. It was getting chilly.

"Wanna break into a motel room?" Priscilla asked.

03 grinned at her. "You know it."

~

"Slow down," they said with a small laugh.

"Whumpee?" came Leader's voice from behind them, and Caretaker painfully tore themself away from Whumpee so Leader could take a look as well.

"It's them!" Caretaker exclaimed. Leader walked over and took a good look at Whumpee — scrutinising. Almost like they didn't believe it was really Whumpee.

"Where were you? We all tried calling."

"Ah," Whumpee said, rubbing the back of their neck awkwardly. "I needed a bit of a break, I guess. Sorry I didn't tell you."

"You ought to be. Everyone was worried sick. If you needed a break, there are protocols for that, I would've granted—"

"I'm back now," Whumpee cut in gently. "I won't go away again."

Leader nodded. "Well, it's good to have you back."

—

It was so mundane. A spoon had clattered to the floor when Caretaker was preparing lunch. They didn't even realise what a fatal mistake that had been on their part until they turned around and saw Whumpee curled up in their chair, hands over their ears, rocking back and forth. "Whumpee?"

In the past few days, Whumpee hadn't told them where they'd gone away to, no matter how many times they asked. But they'd spoken of their little outing so nonchalantly, so casually, that Caretaker assumed they really did just need a break. This was the first time they considered the other option — that Whumpee lied to spare them.

"Whumpee, are you okay?" they tried gently. Whumpee was mumbling to themself, seemingly oblivious to Caretaker prodding. "Whumpee, hey—"

"Get away from me!" they said, kicking Caretaker when they tried to reach out and touch them. Caretaker jumped back.

"Whoa, whoa, hey, Whumpee, it's me—"

"Get away from me! Get away!"

The shouting brought the team together in the small kitchen, and everyone was just as flabbergasted as Caretaker. Nobody had ever seen Whumpee so freaked out. Crying, even. Whumpee wasn't a crier. Or, hadn't been.

"Whumpee?" Leader tried, but Whumpee kicked and screamed and wouldn't let anyone approach. "Okay, everyone, out."

"But—" Caretaker tried, but Leader shut them down.

"Out. I'll take care of Whumpee."

Caretaker didn't know what that entailed. They wanted to know. They wanted to be there. They wanted to help. But Leader was the leader for a reason, and so they nodded and left their best friend in their care.

They went back to their room and sat on the bed. They could still hear Whumpee's terrified cries from the kitchen.

You take a tentative step towards her. Then another. Soon, you're walking inside the lion's den, deeper and deeper, entering through a doorway into a baby blue kitchen with a round table and four chairs. You awkwardly sit down, hands folded in your lap.

"Oh my," Freddie says, brows furrowing. What now? What did you do? Did you make a mistake? "In this light... Oh dear. I couldn't see it that well in the park, but you're... Did someone hurt you?"

You stay quiet. You might've done many uncharacteristic things during your brief relationship with Freddie, but you're certainly not about to sell out your handler. She only did what she had a right to do.

Freddie goes on, undeterred. "That building. I know there's something shady going on in there."

No, she doesn't know. Nobody outside the facility knows. At most, she has a hunch. And if you don't confirm her hunch, she has no way of verifying it.

"I'm sorry for being unsightly," you say instead, and she once again hurries to correct you.

"No! No, that's not— I'm sorry, did it come off that way? I just... I'm worried about you. You don't have anywhere to stay, anything to eat, and you're hurt. Maybe a visit to the hospital..." She trails off. "Well, that can all happen after we ate. After you ate. Do you like spaghetti?"

You've never had spaghetti.

"Yes," you say anyway.

"Great. I have some leftover from yesterday, I think it'll be enough for the two of us."

Freddie heats it up in the microwave, then plates it and places one plate and utensils in front of you. You stare at it.

She takes a seat across from you and takes a fork in her hand, so you follow her example and take the fork as well. She doesn't start eating. She seems like she's waiting for you to start. Your stomach rumbles.

It's... a lot of pressure, suddenly. You don't know how to eat pasta. You've never had pasta.

~

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.