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nosaviorsinthewild · 1 year

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Delinquent to Dog Collar Pipeline

TW: transphobia, misgendering, gender dysmorphia directed at LA/Little Alpha/Squirt, who identified as she/they in human form, but forced into confines by their captors, in the werewolf form.

She wasn’t even that small, really. But, she was as malnutritional as any other Wasteland kid and some of them were better fighters for scraps. She was pretty sure she’d always fight for scraps. That sort of was life out there “in the wild.” Now... the Wastelands had names. There were communities, buildings, etc. with signs and stuff, but a lot of the inhabitants couldn’t read. If they were orphaned or unclaimed and they didn’t have anyone to teach them, they never learned. She had learned a little. She found a group to settle with. Her mama had gotten sick when she was 6, and was gone by the time she was 9. The perfect age, actually. The perfect age for her to fall victim to what she now thought of as the “delinquent to dog collar pipeline.”

From what she could remember, she had about a 4th grade reading level before her mama left. By 12, she hadn’t read more than street signs and food labels for the past few years, but she had settled in with a gang of survivors who fought for food and shelter. She was never that great at fighting, but for as small as she was, she always could take a hit. Broken bones that never quite set back right, bruises nearly daily and more than a fair share of scars - everybody had shit like that happen out here. It just seemed like more because she was so small compared to her crew. That also meant that they believed she could use less. Less food, less water, less respect. What was she gonna do? Fend for herself? At least she had people who shared food with her.

For a time. Around 14, that absolutely was not the case anymore. She and the few stragglers she still had were struggling and to get food was really life or death. They decided it was worth it to try to sneak into the city limits and perhaps just get a little bit from one of the settlements. Even in the outskirts, people called the police sometimes, apparently. She thought that it only happened in the gates.

She wound up being put into a detention center. The best thing about it for her was that she was able to eat. They allotted you a certain amount of nutrients. They had to keep you alive to do all of the labor that delinquents and criminals were assigned to She may never go to a crime free life again.

She was 15 whenever she got put on the detail where it all went wrong. One thing changed, she found out that she could be a she and a they, and she could change them when she wanted. She was heavily leaning towards a they. In fact, at that time, they were pretty steadfast about it.

They searched the bus on the way to the detail, for smaller and weaker ones. They needed to know that somebody was. They were no longer in the habit of taking hits for needs, and knew that in an environment like a detail, they might slip back into it if they fell too far behind.

The weak link was easy to spot. Pretty skin, a lot darker than theirs, with long, healthy hair and no types of visible damage. She looked like a worker, sure. But definitely not one from the Wastelands. She didn’t even have a collar. Only a few of them did, and fortunately for... Well... let’s call them LA. That’s what they’re called today. They were called something else back then, but boy, oh boy, the entire point of this little trip down the foggy road that some call “memory lane,” is simply because sometimes, you just wind up there. They don’t know what they were called. They would get to a point in which someone in the memory would call them something... and they would completely blank out as to what that was.

Commander said that person was dead, anyway. LA had killed them when she became... this. Murderborn was what Commander called it. For the beast to live, the human had to be killed. The beast killed the human and stole their form. That was Commander’s teachings. LA didn’t feel any different at first. At first, she just felt like the same person on the bus who had been trying to find someone weaker than themself.

The weak link was stronger than any of them knew. Not strong enough to keep her food for herself, or to fight back when she made the mistake of calling LA a “girl,” when at that time, they wanted to be just a person! Not strong enough to hold her ground whenever they jumped on her. But. Much like LA was before - strong enough to take the hits. LA paid their dues and now it was time for weak link to pay hers, as well.

None of them knew what would happen whenever the chaperone vanished, but you always send the weak one first. That way, if they didn’t come back, you ain’t lost the stronger survivors. LA might’ve had to do that in the wastelands, but they had backup now and weak link was it for this assignment. Now, the boy that went with her? He was strong. In fact, LA only recalled strength from him as she was there from his conception to his confirmation as Alpha, the Packmaster.

He left with weak link and the next time LA saw him was in transit. LA had been one of the kids who weren’t slaughtered by beasts that day... but... they were wounded. They thought, “It’s fine. It hurts, but I’m strong. I have taken hits. I’ve had scratches. I’ll be fine...” But, they weren’t fine. In fact, they were never the same again. They were yet again the bottom of the barrel, and this time, they all were beasts.

Soldiers pulled all of them off of the transport, still bound and muffled, still sedated, but conscious. LA felt them lining them up outside of a prison. They supposed that they were being transferred after what happened in the woods. Whenever the soldiers began cutting clothes off of the inmates, LA was puzzled. Usually, strip searches went down inside. Usually, they weren’t bound this way during those, either. But, soldiers were removing their clothes with weapons, then they were hosed down and inspected. Someone reported, “Beast,” when they discovered the large slash across LA’s back, and moved them into a different line. There were others, with scratches or bites. There were some that didn’t seem injured at all. “Meat,” the soldier would say and put them in the line for “Meat.”

LA felt like the drugs were wearing off. They were becoming a little more conscious, though they followed the flow of where they were being steered. They looked at the meat line, absentmindedly and it seemed to become frantic. They were being shoved into a large walk in freezer. There were other bodies in there, too. Naked and bound bodies, as well. LA’s eyes widened. Now that NEVER happened at any center that they had ever been in. The guards were shocking people who refused to move forward, hitting some and shoving others. Whenever the entire line was inside, the soldiers blocked the door and sealed it shut. LA couldn’t even hear the cries through the seal. But, they knew they were terrified for the others, and for themself.

They were in a different place now. It looked like the yard. LA looked around as the lines were formed, noting that never before had they seen such an impenetrable prison before... “Eyes front, girl beast” the woman in charge said... and as much as she wanted to protest, she was already afraid to do so. Rounded up, bound, muzzled... they hadn’t even realized what was happening when it happened, but once they did, when Commander called them “girl beast,” they knew that must be who they were now.

“They” are called “they,” someone said.

They looked around to see who it had been and that was the first time that they got a good look at one of them and then they remembered for the first time the trauma of what happened in the woods

These things rushed their camp, tore her fellow inmates to shreds. They barely got away from one of them swiping at them before their friend distracted it with a shove. They thought... maybe from this very one? He was the size of a man, but with the shape of a wolf... well... he was like... a wolf man or some shit... like nothing they had ever seen. This one stood taller than several of them, mostly white in the front with gray fur on his top and back. It was a beautiful creature to behold today. It hadn’t been when LA was running from it as it broke the shovel with the flick of its wrist and tore their friend’s throat out with enormous fangs.

Whenever the things attacked, everyone ran in different directions. LA ran. They had never been a runner before, but then again, they had never had anything like that coming for her. Anything like him... But. He was right. They wanted to be addressed as “they.” Not “she.” They would answer to she, but “they” usually felt better. Felt more natural. They would accept either, but it was the fact that the woman hadn’t even considered it. The woman didn’t seem as in awe of the wolf man as LA. Had she seen something like him before? Of course she had! She had all of this in place for something like him.. for something like them.

“Oh. Are you the Alpha of this pack?” Commander asked him. He frowned. LA didn’t know how they knew he was frowning, but they could tell that he was. Commander smiled at him, “Oh. Now, you can’t speak? Just as well. I don’t want this thing talking to me. If I ever want to speak to you, I’ll speak to you in that format.” Commander pointed a finger at LA. What format? She wondered, but Commander was in front of her soon. “Girl Beast, change your format.” LA glanced around. There were some people... or... “beasts” that looked like people, like her, and there were some that looked like wolf people. Like him.

“You... want me to make myself look like that? I can’t.”

“Of course you can. That one did it and he was killed after you.” Now, Commander pointed at the future Alpha. He was looking around, like he was trying to find someone. It didn’t occur to LA at the time that he was probably searching for that weak girl. “Speckles,” Commander said, looking at him, and demanding his focus to herself. “Change your format.”

“Am I Speckles?” He asked, confused. Commander simply glared at him and he quickly decided that he must be, clenched his fists as he concentrated on following the directions, and began to sort of change into a creature who resembled the other ones, but not quite... like he wasn’t all the way done. The mahogany red fur began to form on his pale body, but he wasn’t covered like the other ones and his face had not seemed to be getting there very well. But, Commander didn’t even press him, probably because LA hadn’t even done that much.

“Your turn, Squirt,” She told LA. LA imitated the actions that they witnessed Speckles do and felt the hairs stand up on their skin, but beyond that, they couldn’t change. “This is going to hurt a lot more if you don’t change your format.”

“What’s going to...” the words were cut off with jolts of electricity. They couldn’t hear the gasps of the ones shaped like people or the few whimpers of the ones shaped like wolf people, but they were made in the background. The one that Commander had dubbed “the alpha of this pack,” stepped in front of the prod and transformed to a human like form which looked the woman in the eyes as she continued to press the electricity into his person, to see how long he would withstand it. She smirked and withdrew her weapon.

“If you care that much, why don’t you teach her?”

“They aren’t old enough to control it. None of these,” he gestured to the people shaped ones, “Are. You can’t force it. They aren’t properly aged or fed. You may as well just kill them...”

“Kill them?” Commander stared down at LA’s quivering body, as though contemplating it. But, as he thought, they had been captured for a purpose. If Commander wanted them dead, they’d be dead. He wasn’t sure why they weren’t, but the new wolfen didn’t deserve to be tortured for how their body naturally worked.

Commander squatted and gave a shivering LA a dangerous wincing smile. “Well. The big beast on campus seems to think that he knows something that I don’t about your kind. You’d better not make a fool of him whenever I come calling again. Learn to change your format on command. That is an order, Squirt.”

“Yes, Ma’am...” LA managed.

“Commander. You refer to me as Commander, because I am in command of everyone and everything that you will ever see again. Understand?”

“Yes, Commander.”

As she walked on to terrorize someone else, the man held a hand out to help LA up, muttering to himself, “I’m not calling her that shit.” LA gave Commander a worried look, but the man shook his head, “She can’t understand this. You’ll learn, but for now, its enough that she doesn’t know our language.”

“Me no either.” LA said, certain that they had simply spoken English, as usual. But, his little smile told them that wasn’t the case. “Did I do?”

“I got the gist of what you tried to say. It’s in your blood now. It’ll be instinct soon enough, but you need more time. She needs the new ones to be in her grasp before you have the chance to know better than to listen to her...”

“STOP THAT!” Commander shouted. LA straightened and shut up. But the wolf man in people form just stared at her.

“Stop what?” He asked, with the tilt of his head. It only occurred to LA in that moment that Commander did not understand what the wolf man was saying. Even though he was speaking to her, he was speaking in some type of language that only the ones like himself could understand. It was angering Commander. LA was afraid. What if she got in trouble because of it?

“Return to your natural form,” Commander finally told him. “You are idle. No need to mimic humans.” With a louder voice she roared, “And that goes for EACH of you. If you are idle, I expect to see your natural form, NOT, a human form.”

“This is not a human form. This is simply one of OUR many forms..”

“I DO NOT KNOW WHAT YOU ARE SAYING!” She snarled.

“It is not meant for you to know.” He smirked. Commander looked like she might explode, but instead, she smiled at him and removed something from her belt. She reached her hand out and pointed it at the head of one of the wolf people in wolf form. Before anybody could even react, she pressed a button and they turned to see that it had been a projectile. Like a gun, but... it was like a laser pointer... They all watched the person fall to the ground, bleeding from their temple.

The person’s wolf form laid in a big pile. Dead. The wolf man stared down at the body in surprise, until Commander pointed the pointer at LA’s face. LA cried, pissed herself, whimpered. But, Commander didn’t press the button. She wasn’t even looking at LA. She was looking at the wolf man. He looked at her too. There was rage brewing in him. He could probably attack her and take her down before the young wolf died, but then what?

“I may not be able to understand what you’re saying, but I know that some of you can understand me to a certain degree. So let me make this clear for those who understand, that you may make it clear for the others. I am Commander. My commands are your only lessons. Every day there is a lesson. Often, every moment can be a lesson. But, this one is a freebie. I. Am. Commander. Say it.”

“You are Commander,” LA quickly complied. Other new wolves did, as well.

“Do you understand?” Commander asked the wolf man. His hands were paws and his feet were changing. She pointed it at another one in wolf form and the wolf man held up his hands. I am Commander.”

“You are Commander.” He repeated.

Commander smiled and put her weapon away. “Very good!” She did a hand signal and two soldiers came to remove the dead wolf. “Get it to skinning, immediately. I think it was a pureblood beast, so it should retain this form, but sometimes the murderborns change slow, depending on when they were killed.”

Two other soldiers were posted nearby and she told them, “I want these two researched. The troublemaker is definitely a pureblood. He knows their language and can get this one to understand. She’s a new beast. Part of the delinquent detail detainees. That one told me to kill them, but I couldn’t understand anything else. That... growl-barking that they do is definitely speaking, though some of the stronger ones can project words. Keep them from using that wolfspeak. It seems like even the new ones can understand it and they don’t need to be communicating with each other without us knowing what they are saying. Tag all of the ones from the detention detail exercise then take the ones in beast form to maximum security and the murderborns to gen pop...”

She was speaking so casually, LA remembered thinking as the soldier placed a tagging gun against their skin and fired a painful shot that left a small circle of blood for a moment, but then quickly healed. LA stared at it, but didn’t have much time before they began to steer them again, this time to the area called gen pop. At the entrance, a guard locked a collar around the neck of everyone who did not have a collar. LA and future Alpha already had, so instead, there was a scan at the doorway, and all of their stats appeared in a holographic form in front of the guard, who seemed to be matching up the description with the records.

“Umm, Guard? The system has my gender incorrect. Its supposed to have she/they indicated.”

Lazily, he said, “That identity is reserved for humans.”

“I’m still human. I can’t even do that change format thing. I’m just..”

“You’re coded as a female, because girl beasts will go into heat. We need that on record for safety. That’s literally the whole thing, so don’t bother too much with the files.”

“Heat?” They repeated.

“And you’re flagged for research, so you definitely will not be getting fixed.”

“You’re talking about me like I’m some kinda dog, Man. This ain’t right. I’m from the Wastelands, so ain’t shit ever been right, but this is going even beyond that. No matter what I didn’t have out there, I had my identity, at least. You’re gonna take that from me?”

“Kid... The idea of identity that you think you had? That is over. I know it’s not your fault completely, but something got you.” He pulled up an image of the four scratches across their back. “That strike infected that identity. The body got sick. The person died, and you were born from this sickness...” He pulled up the image of a fully formed wolf person, “THIS is your identity now. You might not be able to change the format right now, but you will. And do you think that you’ll be capable of being allowed into society then? The ones that came after you and your friends? Did you do them any harm? Not likely. Everyone who falls at their claws are attacked simply for being human. You see us as food.” He pressed the necessary buttons to validate their inspection and they were moved inside, where there was a huge flag of Commander hanging from the ceiling.

“Welcome to The Kennel,” they heard someone say. But, it was all background noise. The person they used to be was classified, on file as dead. Nobody would come searching. Nobody would question the status of a Wasteland kid. They were dead. And this afterlife, this hell for beasts was their new reality. Her... she whimpered, not missing the fact that her whimper sounded like that of an animal’s. Her new reality.

#BFCD Story Concepts by Nesha #No Saviors in the Wild #No Saviors Lore #Little Alpha #Delinquent to Dog Collar #Flint Riggs #The Kennel #Commander #story concept #stories #werewolf fiction

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whumpcereal · 10 months

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i want to see will's eventual rescue!!! :D:D:D

Do you, @hold-him-down? Here you go...

part of the kennel. set a year after will and tommy's disappearance. tommy and annie have been free for nearly six months; will has been sold away to whumper extraordinaire, pat deangelis, whom you'll get to know here. master list here.

content warnings for: extreme dehumanization, depersonalization, derealization, pet whump, references to noncon, noncon body modification, references to organ harvesting, forced nudity, collars, electrocution, captivity whump, creepy whumper, conditioned whumpee, thoughts of death, adult language

will's rescue, he's coming home

There is some awareness. The mutt knows that he exists. He is real. And at the same time, he isn’t real at all. The pain he feels is real. The feeling of Pat’s knife blade against his skin, the grinding pressure of the bolts in his jaw, the wet heat that seeps from deep inside after he’s used; he feels it all. But then, he doesn’t.

He isn’t–he can’t. He isn’t himself. There is no self to be. Not anymore. There is sensation and there is darkness and there is nothing in between. Everything happens to the body that used to belong to someone with a name, someone that people knew, but someone that no one cared very much about. No one will ever care for him again. That much he knows. It’s easier to retreat into the darkness than to entertain the thought that someone might love him. He’s not meant to think anyway. So he doesn’t. He won’t.

There is a man with Pat when feeding time comes. The syringe is full of the usual brown slop, but the mutt doesn’t care. He takes what he can get. When Pat lifts the lid on his tank, he scooches dutifully onto his ruined back. He’s still bleeding from yesterday, but he can’t really feel it; so much of what used to be skin is scar tissue now. His nerves are dead.

He thinks he might be dead soon too. He isn’t sure he knows how to look forward to it, but there’s something comforting, knowing that, soon, the darkness won’t be interrupted by any more pain.

“You got a visitor, pup,” Pat says dryly.

He kneels beside the mutt’s tank and reaches to cradle the boy’s head in preparation for his food. The mutt doesn’t make a sound; he’s not even sure that he can. When he can think, he idly wonders if his vocal cords are swiss cheese beneath the scabs and scars left by Doc’s bark collar. Doc never took it off, even after he’d wired Will’s jaw shut. Pat soldered the collar’s lock permanently closed; he did the same with the little locks that keep the mutt’s mitts in place too.

The mutt hasn’t seen his own hands in he doesn’t know how long. He doesn’t even remember what they look like. But he remembers the white hot shards of molten metal splattering against his skin. He hadn’t screamed, even then. He knew his purpose just as well as he knows it now: to suffer. That’s why Pat bought the mutt in the first place. Perhaps Will had been a whipping boy at Doc’s; here, the mutt is even less than that.

Sometimes, when the mutt comes back to himself for a stretch of time, he misses Tommy, even though he knows it is wrong. He wonders what it would feel like to be used gently again, to know any kind of apology or affection, even at the expense of his body.

He misses Annie even more.

Not that it matters. Not that he can think about it. Just now, there is nothing but the feeling of Pat’s hand beneath his snaggled and greasy hair; nothing but the rubber tubing that Pat shoves between his cracked lips.

The dim outline of another man hovers over Pat’s shoulder. For just a moment, the mutt’s eyes strain to see, but there’s only a faceless body, a voice that he doesn’t recognize. He isn’t sure if that’s good or bad.

“He looks like shit,” the other man says. “There’s nothing to him.”

Pat laughs, and at once, the piston of the syringe shoves forward and a slosh of blended dog food and water hits the mutt’s teeth. The mutt sucks dutifully at the little tube, swallowing whatever he can. There won’t be any more until tomorrow.

“Well, I didn’t think you were after him to win any beauty contests. It’s not his outsides you’re interested in.”

The mutt closes his eyes. His insides hurt. Everything hurts, and the hurt means he’s still alive. He doesn’t know if he wants it to stop. He knows he should roll onto his stomach, that he should let the man feel his insides. He doesn’t have to think to know that.

But the other man drops into a squat next to Pat and peers into the tank. “Lemme see his teeth.”

“His jaw’s bolted–”

“Yeah, I gathered. But I still want to see his teeth.”

Pat pulls the syringe away, and the mutt doesn’t whine. His head falls back against the plastic bottom of the tank, and Pat’s hands reach for him again. Pat uses his dirty thumbs to pull the mutt’s chapped lips backward from his teeth, which are permanently joined by Doc’s wires and bolts.

“I brush them every now and again.”

It’s a lie, of course, but the mutt won’t disagree. If his teeth hurt, he hasn’t noticed. That doesn’t mean they don’t hurt, but what the fuck does it matter either way?

Still, the mutt’s breath picks up. Why? The thought is tiny, like a knifepoint in the back of his mind, but it’s there. Why is this happening? Why won’t it stop? Why?

“I think he likes you,” Pat says with a soft laugh. He rubs his thumb over the mutt’s lips, catching the dry skin with the edge of a callous. “He’s getting all worked up.”

“That’s not what I’m here for,” the guy grumbles back. “If he’s not healthy, it won’t be worth using him for parts. I mean, look at him. He’s fucking gray. He’s, like, two seconds from sepsis. People don’t want kidneys that are already failing, you know?”

The mutt jerks against the floor of the tank. His insides. The man doesn’t want to use him; he wants to gut him. The mutt shouldn’t care. He should just let it happen, let everything fade into darkness for good, but the thought is growing now, slicing through his gray matter. Why? Why me? Why isn’t it ever over?

The mutt can’t breathe.

Pat dangles his arm over the edge of the tank. He’s still laughing. “Well, now! That’s the most excited I’ve seen him in weeks. Guess there’s still someone in there after all.”

Someone. The mutt used to be someone, that’s true. He shakes his head, only just swallowing the moan of protest that he can feel building in his abused throat. He wishes he could open his mouth to gasp for breath. He tries. His jaw stays firmly shut.

“It doesn’t mean he’s healthy,” the guy shoots back.

“And what do you care if he’s healthy? Does it matter to you if he dies on the table? You want the things that are keeping him alive, and damned if he isn’t still kicking. He’s got working lungs, doesn’t he? A heart that’s still beating. Just look at him!”

The mutt closes his eyes and squirms against the plexiglass walls, pulling in as much breath as he can through his nose. He remembers a movie he watched with his father, when he still had a name. In the movie, a man’s beating heart is ripped from his bare chest. The mutt imagines his heart being ripped out; it must be small now, like the rest of him. Tough and ashen.

He can’t feel his heartbeat, though. Maybe it isn’t there at all.

He is drowning. Pat tucks a hand against his throat in warning. The mutt has to get it together. He has to impress the new man. He has to be prepared to suffer and like it.

Pat slaps the mutt across the face, shoving the soft meat of his cheek into Doc’s hardware. The mutt whines without thinking. The collar deploys. His throat snaps and burns. He seizes against the walls of the tank, but when it subsides, he is breathing again. He feels his heartbeat.

He is still alive, and the new man is going to kill him.

Another memory of his father. A book. To die will be an awfully big adventure.

The mutt doesn’t want an adventure; if he could want anything, it would be relief.

The new man leans over the tank. His face looks funny.

“You’ve kept him this way the entire time you’ve had him?” the man asks.

The tank. That’s what he must mean. When the mutt was still Will, he’d laughed when Pat showed him the tank. It set off the collar, but he didn’t care. The whole thing was just ridiculous. Like something you’d put an overgrown lizard in. Glass walls, a mesh top. Just enough room for a body to lay flat. It made Tommy’s dog house look like a motherfucking palace.

It’s a fucking coffin masquerading as a terrarium. It’s a coffin. His coffin. Will’s. Oh, God–

He doesn’t want to think anymore. He wishes he could scream.

“I take him out when the mood strikes me,” Pat replies, and the mutt freezes when Pat’s rough hand cups his face. “He’s still nice and tight, even after all this time. The doc trained him well. I will miss that once you take him to play Operation, but I’m sure I can find another boy somewhere. Maybe one whose jaw has more range of motion, if you know what I mean.”

“I’m not interested in that,” the man snaps.

“You’re pretty touchy for a guy who wants this little fucker’s organs on ice.”

The mutt whines again, before he can stop himself. The collar responds. As he twitches and burns, he looks up at the man who is going to kill him. Their eyes meet. The mutt doesn’t understand the look on the guy’s face.

Derringer winces as the kid’s body stills in the tank. It’s not like he wasn’t prepared for this; it’s not like he’s new. He’s been on the task force for the better part of a decade, and he knows how depraved people can be. But this—everything that’s come out of Barker and his contacts, it’s next level shit.

He looks down at the body in the glass tank. Christ, the kid looks barely human. He’s emaciated—of course he is; according to what the Mahoney boy told them, his jaw’s been wired shut for the better part of a year—and his gray skin stretches too tightly over his bones, some of which have been obviously broken and poorly set. And that’s concerning, but somehow not as concerning as the webwork of thin, deliberate scars that covers most of the boy’s naked body. He’s been defaced. Decorated.

Ruined, Derringer’s mind supplies.

He can’t imagine the pain. The boy must have spent hours under Pat DeAngelis’ knife. And when he wasn’t being slit open like a fish, it was worse. He can see the blood and pearly smudges that line the boy’s inner thighs. Derringer doesn’t want to think of the scars he can’t see.

There’s no question it’s Will Cartwright, but whatever resemblance exists between the photos and videos Derringer’s seen and the broken person in front of him is limited at best. How could it not be, after what the kid’s been through?

Will watches him, brown eyes wide, and Derringer looks back. Their eyes meet for just a second. Hold on, kid, Derringer thinks. It’s almost over. You’re almost home.

He hardens his face again and looks back at DeAngelis.

“I’ll take him.”

“At the price we agreed on?”

Derringer shrugs. He can’t make this seem too easy. “He’s pretty beat up.”

“So you can’t skin him and make a profit,” DeAngelis laughs. “Though I’d buy it back from you if I could. I’m a little disappointed you’re going to destroy all my handiwork when you cut him open.” The jackass rakes his nails over the boy’s chest, opening wounds Derringer hadn’t realized were fresh. The kid flinches but stays silent. DeAngelis nods his approval. “I’ve worked hard on him.”

“I can see that,” Derringer says.

“But he’s outlived his usefulness, and I thought, waste not, want not, you know?”

Will’s eyes slip closed again. Derringer wonders how much the kid really hears, if he even has it in him to be frightened anymore. He hopes not. It will make this next part easier.

“Sure, waste not. But he is in rough shape. And you can’t personally guarantee his health, so—“

DeAngelis’ eyes narrow. “How much?”

“I’ll give you five grand for him as is.”

It’s an insult, and they both know it. Will probably knows it too, if he understands any of what’s going on around him.

“We said ten. And you know you’ll make more off of all his bits and pieces. That’s bullshit.”

“I don’t know that. He might not have anything viable. He might die before our people open him up. He’s practically dead already.” Derringer ignores the twist in his stomach; it’s too close to the truth. “If we can move his heart and lungs at least, I’ll kick you back a percentage.”

Will turns his head suddenly, and a tear slips down his soiled, sunken cheek.

Derringer sucks in a quick breath and forces himself to look away. He’s still in there. The kid is still alive, even if he is in pain.

Just a little bit longer, I promise.

The mutt wants to die, but at the same time, he doesn’t.

He knows what the new man is planning. He understands. And even if he doesn’t quite know why, he knows he doesn’t want it to happen. Staying alive isn’t really worth it, but it is. It is. Because maybe–maybe this isn’t forever.

It’s a stupid thought. He hasn’t had a thought like that in he doesn’t know how long. This is why he shouldn’t think. He should let the darkness take him. He should let the pain slip away.

But the pain that’s going to come before–he can’t stomach it.

Okay, poor choice of words.

Behind his closed eyes, he imagines himself cut open, his scarred skin peeled away from his chest like flaps. He can almost feel hands reaching inside to grab the things that are keeping him alive; he knows he will feel it when the time comes. Fuckers who do things like this, they get off on the pain they inflict. He will feel himself being disassembled piece by piece.

It’s more than he can bear.

“Fifty percent of his proceeds,” Pat is saying.

“Jesus Christ, you must think I was born yesterday. He’s not worth fifty percent.”

The mutt isn’t worth anything. There’s nothing he can do to keep Pat from going through with this.

Except–

“Twenty five,” the man shoots back.

The mutt blushes, but the men aren’t looking at him now.

He doesn’t make a sound–the two shocks he’s already had were plenty–but he starts to rock his body gently back and forth. He’s got to roll over. He isn’t much to look at, he knows, but Pat likes to look at his handiwork, likes to know the mutt is his creation. It excites him. And if the mutt can just get Pat excited, remind him of how good he is–

“Twenty-five? I’m giving you a fucking treasure trove here. You don’t have to hunt for any of the goods; he’s got them all. I should be charging you a fucking finder’s fee, not knocking down the price. I paid a pretty penny for this little mutt; he’s worth more than five grand and a measly twenty-five percent.”

Fuck, the mutt should be touched, shouldn’t he? He’s worth something after all.

“What the fuck is he doing?”

The mutt doesn’t stop moving. He’s almost made it.

Derringer bites back a gasp. This is worse than the Mahoney boy and Barker’s daughter let on. Of course, they don’t know what’s happened since Will was sold away. His back is completely destroyed. The thick, ropey scars from Barker’s bullwhip are as bad as he expected, but what DeAngelis has done–it’s like he’s traced every one of the boy’s veins with his knife. It’s a root system of carnage. It looks like DeAngelis reopens the wounds at will; there are a few still weeping. The smell is gut churning.

DeAngelis laughs. “Awww, pup! You want to show the nice man what else you have to offer, don’t you?”

The kid forces himself onto wobbling hands and knees; Derringer doesn’t know how he manages it. He dips his head and shoves his bony backside a little higher. His hips are a mess of black and blue fingerprints, and a silicone plug swells from between his red-striped buttocks.

“I told you, I’m not interested in that,” Derringer spits. Christ, how is this kid still alive?

DeAngelis sighs and nudges the plug with his fingers, and Will dutifully grinds backward. Derringer has to fight not to look away. The poor fucking kid.

“No, mutt,” DeAngelis says, swatting softly at the boy’s naked ass. “That’s done now. We had a good ride, but it’s getting a little sad, isn’t it? And besides, apparently we’ve got to protect the integrity of the merchandise if I want any return on my investment.”

Derringer has been doing this for years. He sees people at their lowest points on a regular basis. But damn if his heart doesn’t feel like it’s breaking when Will throws his body back against DeAngelis. Will’s dark, greasy head swoons against DeAngelis’ chest, his brown eyes pleading where his mouth cannot. Tears slip down his cheeks, but he only presses himself closer to DeAngelis. It’s a grotesque thing to watch: the kid is begging to be used with every ounce of strength he’s got left.

How do you ever get over that, Derringer wonders? Will is begging for pain because he thinks it will keep him alive. What happens when that stops? When the pain isn’t a memory, but something that’s carved into your skin for everyone to see? Tomorrow, when Will Cartwright is safe in a hospital, how will he live with what Barker and DeAngelis have done to him? How will he live knowing the things he’s had to do?

Will’s hips press backward again—almost instinctively, Derringer thinks—but DeAngelis only shoves him away, letting the boy fall face first into the tank.

“I said no. Don’t fool yourself, mutt. You’re no prize. That’s why you’re here in the first place. If anyone had wanted you, you would never have ended up with me. I don’t want you. I never did. I just needed something to do, and I’ve done all I can with you. Now it’s time to let this nice gentleman do all he can. At least now you’ll be doing something useful, huh?”

Will’s decimated back heaves with a silent sob. Derringer’s hand clenches into a fist at his side.

“If you don’t want him,” Derringer says, “then you should be willing to let him go for five.”

“7500.”

“Six.”

“Seven, and forty percent of whatever you get for his bits and pieces.”

“Seven and thirty.” Even as he says it, Derringer has to remind himself that Will Cartwright will still have a beating heart days from now, that there will be no percentage for his bits and pieces at all.

DeAngelis looks down at the naked boy with impassive eyes; the open wounds on the kid’s back shine under the fluorescent light.

“Fine. Seven and thirty.”

“Done,” Derringer says quickly.

DeAngelis leans over the tank. “Did you hear that, mutt?” he says to Will’s back. “It’s time for you and I to say goodbye.”

And then, Will shrieks. The sound is more animal than human, lodged somewhere deep in the boy’s scarred throat, and when the sensor on his collar picks it up, there’s a cruel snap of electricity. But Will only screams again. And again. And again.

Derringer starts forward. “Hey—“

DeAngelis only shakes his head and heaves the mesh lid back onto the tank. Will’s body thrashes against the glass walls of his prison, and he doesn’t stop screaming, even as the collar pops against his throat.

He thinks he’s fighting for his life. There is a part of Will Cartwright that still believes he’s worth saving, that wants to go on living even if it means being trapped in DeAngelis’ fucking tank until he dies.

Hold onto that, kid. You’re so close. Don’t let go now.

But still, Derringer knows that a part of Will Cartwright will stay trapped here, even when the rest of him is safe. The kid’s real fight is just beginning.

“He’s going to hurt himself,” Derringer says. “His heart—“

DeAngelis kicks the side of the tank. “He’ll pass out soon enough; it’ll save you the trouble of drugging him for the trip.”

Derringer wants to wrap his hands around the fucker’s neck, but it isn’t part of the plan. The others are waiting outside. DeAngelis will be in custody in minutes. He will never be able to hurt anyone like this ever again. He and Barker and all of their disgusting contacts are going to rot in prison. They are going to pay.

But it doesn’t mean Derringer doesn’t want to inflict some pain himself. For the Mahoney boy and Barker’s daughter. For Justin Huang, whose husband is still lost somewhere overseas. For every soul they’ve pulled from the depths of hell since Barker’s operation was blown open—and for the ones they were too late to save.

But right now, all he wants is to make DeAngelis suffer for Will.

But Derringer is a professional. He manages to smile, even as Will’s close-mouthed sobs keep coming.

“Well, thanks.”

Will can’t hear everything they’re saying. He can’t hear anything but his own screams, really—it turns out, when you can’t open your mouth to scream, the sound just echoes in your own head. Still, it feels good to hear some version of his own voice. To know he’s there, even if it’s only for a few more hours.

And he is there. Will is there. The mutt is too, but he’s already slipping into the recesses of Will’s brain, silent where Will is screaming. Will will scream until he can’t. He will scream and he will fight until his heart is cut from his chest, and they cannot stop him.

He doesn’t notice when Pat locks the mesh top on the tank. He doesn’t quite feel it when the tank is hoisted onto a push cart. He doesn’t care when he starts to roll away. He doesn’t stop screaming.

The pain from his collar dulls with every shock. It’s no worse than anything else he’s suffered, and it matters less now. He gurgles against the electric current, but he doesn’t stop himself from making noise. He won’t give Pat the satisfaction. He won’t give the new guy a break. He gets to decide how this goes, even if it’s the last decision he ever makes.

Will rides the electricity until his whole body shakes, and he beats the sides of the tank with his shoulders, his elbows, his heels. They ignore him, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters now.

His jaw aches to open, and he feels himself fighting against the bolts and wires that Doc installed all those months ago. Nothing budges, but he pretends that it does. Another throat-shredding scream, another jolt of electricity. Over and over and over again.

With every snap of current, Will lets himself think of the people he’s leaving behind. No one wants him, not like this, and he gets it, he does. But he is himself for the first time in a long time, and he isn’t going to waste it.

He screams and the collar lights up, and when he closes his eyes, he sees Annie. She is smiling at him, her big brown eyes crinkled at their corners. She reaches for him with her little hand, and Will tries to reach back. His mitt brushes the mesh top of the tank. Annie fades, and he screams again.

Tommy is there when the shock comes, wrapped in his favorite hoodie and leaning against something Will can’t see. Tommy’s head tips back, and he laughs. He is happy. But looking at Tommy hurts, and Will screams, and he is relieved when the shock sends Tommy away.

Will’s father takes Tommy’s place, young and a little sad, like he was when Will’s mother took off. Bud? he says, but somehow, he doesn’t say it at all. He looks so tired. Bud, I miss you so much. I’m sorry—

Will screams so long and loud that the shock stops before the sound does. He wilts on his bloody back, exhausted. He’ll go again, he will, he just needs a minute—

“What the fuck?!”

“On the ground! ON THE GROUND!”

The tank isn’t moving anymore. Will can’t see Pat or the new man. All he can see is a metal ceiling beyond the mesh top. It’s dark around him, but there is light, just outside his range of vision. He doesn’t scream again. He stills. He waits. He listens.

“Get his hands behind his back and make sure they’re real fucking tight.”

It’s the man. The man who is going to kill him. Will doesn’t understand. He tenses against the glass bottom of the tank, his bloody skin smooching awkwardly along the smooth surface. His mouth twitches, as if to bite his lip, but too late, he remembers that he can’t. The pain starts to build again, needling at him from every direction. Still, Will strains to hear. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to focus on the voices, even as the world begins to gray.

“You fucking son of a bitch—you’re a Fed—“

“I’d watch my mouth if I were you, DeAngelis. Turns out, anything you say can be used against you in a court of law. Not that it will matter too much once my team sweeps your depraved little Xanadu here. I only wish they’d put you in a fucking tank.”

Will’s brow wrinkles. He doesn’t understand what’s happening. The pain washes over him again, and his atrophied muscles seize. He groans, but the collar doesn’t react.

“Get him in the car. I’ll help the kid. Make sure the ambulance is en route.”

The floor beneath Will stutters a little, and then the man is kneeling over the tank.

“Will?”

Will shakes his head, trying to force his eyes back open, trying to understand. No one’s called him by his name in so long. How does the man know his name?

The mesh disappears from overhead. The man leans over the tank. His face is dark and stubbled in the dim light, and Will presses his body somehow flatter against the bottom of the tank, even though it hurts. Somehow, he finds the strength to scream again, and the snap of the shock flares against his throat.

“Will, no–no, kid, I promise, everything will be okay.”

The man’s voice is suddenly soft. He leans closer, and Will can see that he has blue eyes. The man doesn’t smile, but his face isn’t unkind. It doesn’t make any sense.

“Will, my name is Special Agent Christopher Derringer. I’m here to take you home.”

Home. Will’s eyes sting with fresh tears. It can’t be true. The man is lying. Will doesn’t have a home. No one wants him. How could they? He needs Pat. He needs someone to tell him what to do.

“Will? You’re safe now.”

But Will isn’t safe. Everything hurts so badly, and he is so tired. He knows he should keep fighting, that he shouldn’t believe what this man is saying, but he can’t do this anymore. It’s too much.

His eyes close, and he lets himself go. When they open–if they open–maybe he will understand.

The boy loses consciousness before the paramedics get there.

“Christ almighty,” one whispers under her breath. “The poor kid. How on earth–”

Derringer nods, standing by as they carefully lift Will from the fucking tank. They lay him gently on the gurney. His skeletal body looks too small on the blue sheets. One of the paramedics covers him with a space blanket, and for a moment, the boy looks like he must have as a child; for all that his body bears the marks of Barker’s and DeAngelis’ cruel treatment, his face is untouched, innocent.

Well, almost, Derringer amends, thinking about the bolts and wires that have kept the boy silent for the better part of a year. But like this, it almost looks like he’s just fallen asleep; like maybe, everything that’s happened to him was just some kind of fucked up nightmare.

It isn’t, of course, and when Will wakes, he’ll know it too.

Derringer follows the gurney to the ambulance, and he prays that the kid will stay asleep as long as he can. What comes next might be some kind of relief, but it certainly won’t be easy.

The heavy doors close, and Derringer digs in his pants pocket for his phone. He scrolls for the number, and he ignores the clenching in his gut as it rings.

“Mr. Cartwright? Agent Derringer. We’ve got him. He’s coming home.”

taglist: @darkthingshappen, @oddsconvert, @sparrowsage, @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump, @mylifeisonthebookshelf, @highwaywhump, @squishablesunbeam, @hold-him-down, @whumpsday, @sowhumpful, @termsnconditions-apply, @irishwhiskeygrl, @deltaxxk, @d-cs, @whumpinggrounds, @canislycaon24, @considerablecolors, @starlit-darkness, @scp-1296, @flowersarefreetherapy, @morning-star-whump, @whumpwhittler, @susiequaz12, @whump-world, @hiding-in-the-shadows, @tasteywhumpee, @whumplr-reader, @sad-boys-anonymous, @whumpzone

#the kennel #will cartwright oc #pat deangelis oc #chris derringer oc #tw noncon #please heed all warnings #whump #whump writing #whump series #pet whump #hi it's been a minute and i'm sorry

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