#tortured for information

[whump-and-other-misfortunes]

cw captive whumpee, injury, betrayal, tortured for information, intimate whumper 

After hours of torture, of beatings, of sleep deprivation, Whumpee finally gives in. Coughing up a mouthful of blood onto the ground at Whumper’s feet, they beg, “S-stop, please. No more, I can’t—I'll tell you, I-I'll tell you everything.” 

“You lasted longer than I thought.” Whumper crouches down in front of them, taking Whumpee’s chin in their hand and tilting their head up. Their expression is almost sympathetic as they take in Whumpee’s teary eyes and bruised face. “But it’s okay. It’ll all be over if you give me the information I need. And then, just think how nice it will be to finally rest. You can sleep in a real bed while your injuries heal.” 

Whumpee doesn’t need any more convincing. They choke out the information through sobs, clinging to Whumper, and each heave of their chest sends pain shooting through their broken ribs. But it will be over soon—Whumpee doesn’t know why they even held out this long if they were just going to break anyway. 

Whumper strokes their hair gently as they give up the secrets they were trained to die for. Endangering their team’s entire operation and perhaps their lives. But then again, it’s not like Whumpee’s team came to rescue them—as Whumper had reminded them countless times. And they were right. 

“Good…that’s perfect, Whumpee,” Whumper praises after they’ve finished spilling every bit of information that had been requested, and then some. “Thanks to you, your team won’t stand a chance against me, now.” 

A sense of relief washes over Whumpee. It's done—the suffering is finally over with. They want to sleep until the pain no longer clings to their bones and laces every movement. However, their relief is quickly replaced by a fresh bout of fear at the realization of what they’ve just done. “They’ll know it was me,” Whumpee whispers brokenly.  

“Of course they will,” Whumper says, matter-of-fact. “And they will go looking for you. And if they find you, they will kill you.” 

Whumpee shakes their head. “Worse,” they correct. “They’ll do so much worse than just kill me.” 

A sharp pain shoots through their side and they groan, clutching at one of their wounds. Whumper gathers them into their arms before they collapse completely, and assures Whumpee, “That’s why you will be staying with me. In exchange for giving up the information I needed, you will be under my protection.” 

Whumpee can’t possibly have heard them right. They must be delirious from the pain. “W-what?” they stammer. Everything is growing fuzzy, and now that they’re being held in Whumper’s arms, they just want to let their eyes fall shut and surrender to sleep. 

The gentle fingers brushing back Whumpee’s hair lull them further into unconsciousness as Whumper murmurs, “I can’t just give you up now, sweetheart. I think you’d make a valuable addition to my team.” 

Whumpee hums in agreement, not quite sure what they’re agreeing to, but if it means an end to the pain, they’ll do just about anything. 

“You were never cut out for this line of work, were you?” Whumper says teasingly. They lift Whumpee in their arms and begin carrying them somewhere, but the gentle rocking motion of their steps eases Whumpee into sleep long before they find out where they’re being taken. 

#whump #whumpblr #whump writing #intimate whumper #captive whumpee #tortured for information #emotional whump #physical whump #betrayal #requests open #future whumper turned caretaker perhaps? #interrogation whump #snippet

[steelandblood]

Whumpee is being tortured for information she does not have. Only she cannot under any circumstances let Whumper know that, because than he'll go after her teammates who do have the information. And they are too good and do not deserve to go through this torture, nor would they be able to deal with the torture unlike her. So she does everything to convince Whumper that she has the information he is looking for, to protect her teammates.

And wouldn't it be a shame, just to make her life even harder. if Whumper had means to make sure she can't lie (truth serum, spell, etc,)

#whump #interrogation whump #tortured for information #whump prompt

[jasmines-library]

The Basement

WHUMPTOBER DAY 18. Prompt: Tortured for information Fandom: Supernatural

Summary: You are captured alongside your brother Sam by the BMOL. They want something you won't tell them, so they try to force it out of you.

Warnings: Torture, drugging, hallucination, violence, guns, death? kinda.

Word Count: 2.4k

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

“Toni Bevell. London chapter house.” 

Sam’s voice faded in and out as you regained consciousness. You felt sick, your stomach churned and bile settled in the back of your throat. Everything felt out of balance and you knew that whatever they had drugged you with had hit you hard; they had caught you with it in the side of your neck when they ambushed the bunker. You could feel the bruise lingering on your neck. Vision blurring, you craned your head to try and take in your surroundings. The room was pitiful; bare save a few shelves that had been thrown together. It was clearly a basement of some sort because the windows were high and let in very little light.  

Sam sat across from you tied to a chair barefoot and dishevelled. It was then that you suddenly remembered the muffled gunfire. They had shot Sam. You could see where the blood had bloomed on his clothes, though the darkness of it told you that it had stopped bleeding. 

“It’s nice of you to join us, Y/N.” The blond woman said when you let out a groan. “I thought for a moment there you were going to miss out on all the fun.”

“Where are we?” You asked groggily, moving to rub the sleep from your eyes, but it was a pointless gesture. 

The woman looked up from where she was screwing on her notepad. Her handwriting was uniform like the suit she was wearing. “It doesn’t matter.”

“She’s just wondering how far we’re gonna have to walk back to town after we kill you.” Sam said before nodding towards the other darker haired woman who stood like a puppet next to Toni. “And her. But you first.”

Toni let out a huff you could only describe as some sort of laugh. “Yes. Well, before you murder us all we do have a few questions about you two. Your brother, other hunters in America. Oh, and how you saved the sun.”

Sam scoffed, shaking his head. “Right, you shoot me. Drug my sister, kidnap us both, but sure. Happy to help.”

“We didn’t want to hurt you, Sam. You gave us no choice. And I could say that it was never supposed to go this way, but, you’re Winchesters. It was always going to go this way.”

“And you know us?” You raised your brows.

“We do. We’ve been watching you and your brothers for years. Ever since you almost ended the world the first time. We knew all about Lucifer and the angels falling-”

“Then where were you?” You spat. “People died. Innocent people.”

She pursed her lips and tapped her pen between her fingers. “Fair question. See, some of us wanted to get involved, but the old men wouldn’t allow it. Thought we were overstepping our bounds. After all, this business with the darkness even they have to agree that things have to change.” Her accent was thick as she spoke with clear dictation. The words rolled off of her tongue. “Whilst you might not believe this, we’re here to help.”

You directed your attention towards the other woman who still stood with her arms folded behind her back. “Yeah. I can tell.”

Sam rearranged himself in his chair, trying to find a weak spot in the metal cuffs that were padlocked around his feet. “I won’t apologise for locking you up. You're dangerous to others. And yourself. But if you answer my questions, I promise you’ll walk right out that door.” 

She gestured to it with a flick of her pen. The woman looked far too happy there. 

Sam pondered for a moment, surveying you from across the room. He knew that what he was about to do would have consequences for you too, but he wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of being right. 

“Pass.”

“Sam-”

“You can ask us any kind of question you like, but the answer is always going to be the same. Screw. You.” He told her. Sam was surprisingly calm, given the situation. “And if you wanna get mad, you wanna get mean? I’ve been tortured by the devil himself, so you are just an accent in a pantsuit. What can you do to me?”

Toni nodded humbly, though the hint of a menacing smirk crept into the corners of her lips. “To you? Maybe not a lot. But to her? Lets see how long she can hold out, hm?”

She capped her pen, placing it on the table next to her gesturing to the other woman. The tap squealed as she twisted it all the way to the right. Icy water cascaded down over you. You spat it from your mouth, tipping your head back to stop it going spilling onto your face, but it just pooled on your lap and spat back at you anyway. 

“A cold shower? That’s your play?”

You shrugged it off, but after some time the cold began to sink into your bones and it was impossible to disguise your shivering. Sam tugged against the restraint, but Toni and the other woman just waited you out. 

“Screw you.”

~~

After some time, the water finally trickled to a halt and you were left there shivering uncomfortably in the clothes that clung to your body. Sam wanted to shy away as he watched your body try to fight the cold, but he opted to stand his ground and keep up a false front for both your sake and Toni’s. The woman still watched you with piercing eyes. 

“I know you two were always a lost cause, but I'm hoping that there are other hunters that we can work with. Teach.”

The two of you glared at her as she moved towards Sam, much too close to his face for his liking. “So, I need you to give me names, locations and everything else. Meeting places, an organisational hierarchy because maybe with all of us working together we could do what you never could. Make America safe.”

“So, maybe you’ll tie them to a chair.” Sam narrowed his eyes. “Maybe you’ll do something worse. Maybe you can go to hell.”

Toni recoiled at the statement, humming. “Fine. Have it your way.” She turned, retreating up the stairs and leaving you with the dark haired woman. 

Then came the humming of the blowtorch. 

Closing your eyes, you tried to collect yourself and prepare for the pain as the woman stalked forwards. Sam protested in his chair, rattling the chains. 

The woman eased herself down next to you and lowered the blowtorch. You could feel the sweltering heat against your bare feet. 

“Are you really going to make me do this?”

You took a deep breath and looked up at your brother. It was a mistake because you could see the pure guilty hopelessness in his eyes. 

“Screw you.”

She shrugged, before bringing the flame to the side of your foot. You tried to inch your feet away, but they were held securely by the shackles. You screamed in misery as the flames hacked away at your skin, causing it to blister and morph into an angry shade of red. Sam flinched at your blood curdling scream and arched your back, trying to create as much distance from the weapon, as he was haunted by the memories of his time in the cage. As the woman moved the flame closer and began to move it further up your shin, you continued to cry out. Your pained expression would forever be burned in the front of his vision. 

Eventually the woman let up and disappeared behind you up the old stairs. It was when your screams turned into whimpers and then nothing at all. There were nasty burns littering the lower half of your body and every twitch of your muscle sent pain spiralling throughout your body. Your eyes drooped as you finally allowed your body to go slack into the back of the chair. 

“Y/N?”

“I’m okay, Sammy,” You mumbled. 

“Oh Y/N/N… I'm so sorry.”

“S’ not your fault.” 

“I’m going to get you out of here, kiddo. I  promise.” He began to try and find a way out of the binds. Now that both women were gone he could take a closer look at them. 

~

At some point, you must have passed out because when you awoke  you were lying on the concrete, but your head was resting on something warm. Beginning to push yourself up you forgot completely about the burns on your foot. You took a sharp inhale, fighting against the stabbing pain that radiated throughout your body. 

“Hey, take it easy.” Sam said. It was then you figured that it was his lap that your head resided on. He helped sit you up, mindful of the burns. Sometime during your daze, they had been bandaged up. 

When you sat upright, your vision doubled, and after rubbing you raw wrists, you reached up to touch your neck gingerly. It was still tender from the first shot they had given you, though you could feel another small bump where they had clearly dosed you with something else. 

“S’mmy?” You muttered.

He nodded. “They got me too. I don’t know what it is, but they’re watching us.” He looked up to draw your attention subtly to the camera that they had strung up. 

“Do you think it has sound?”

“No.”

“good.”

You were silent for a moment as you thought. “How long was I out?”

“I’m not sure.” Sam frowned. “I didn’t see the other one return once you passed out. I kinda freaked. Then they got you before they knocked me out too. I wasn’t awake much before you.”

You scanned the room and your eyes fell on the entrance hatch. You tilted your head at it and raised your eyebrows suggestively. Your brother rose to his feet and pushed up against the wooden frame. It shifted, but not enough for it too was tied together by chains which rattled with the motion. He went to try again, but was shut down by an ear splitting ringing. He groaned, covering his ears with his hands before slumping against the wall and breathing heavily. 

“Sam?” You hauled yourself forwards, uncaring about the pain in your foot. You had hardly made it anywhere though by the time you were met with the same fate. You fell to your knees as the sound cut through you. 

Faces began to dance in your vision. People you knew. People you didn’t save in time. People you loved. 

“No…”

~

“Y/N?”

“Y/N.” 

Dean was calling to you from the other side of the library, You had begun to doze off, head drooping over the lore book you had been studying. 

“Hm? Sorry.”

Dean chuckled. The sound was light and reverberated in his chest. “Why don’t you finish up for the night, sweetheart? It’s late. We can catch up in the morning.”

You yawned, bookmarking the page before closing the book and sliding out from underneath the table. You had been working tirelessly all day, and the sun had long set. But you didn’t want to stop, you had to find the answers to stop the guilt gnawing away in your stomach. 

Dean followed closely as you began to retreat back down the hallways. He took the last swig of his beer before tossing it in the trash as he walked past. 

“It’s your fault. You know.” He said nonchalantly when you were about halfway to your room. 

You stopped abruptly. “What?”

“You heard me. It’s your fault that they’re dead. If you had gotten the lore right in the first place then that family would still be breathing.”

Turning you recoiled at the sight of your brother. His eyes were an endless black as he stalked toward you. You stumbled backwards, until you hit the wall. And that was when something strange happened. As your back made concrete with the tiles, something flashed in your vision. A dark room lit only by the streams of light that had managed to force themselves through the cracks of the hatch. 

It was a strange feeling as your vision flicked between the two scenes. It was like you were seeing between two lenses. That was until you saw Sam passed out on the concrete, surrounded by a puddle of his own blood, that blond woman was hunched over him and you forced your mind towards him. 

When you gained some grip on reality, you surged forwards, landing a harsh blow to Toni’s temple. She grunted, keeling to the side only to be picked up harshly and pinned to the wall by Sam, who showed her the deep gash on his palm. 

“Perhaps you’re not as good at your job as you thought.”

Toni spluttered and slumped to the floor. 

Sam was quick to secure an arm around your waist and help you hobble to the stairs. You had hardly made it to the third one when tased the back of Sam's leg, causing him to drop. She ran past and slipped out of the door, locking it behind her. 

“No!” Sam yelled through gritted teeth, ramming his fists against the wood. 

~

By the time Dean arrived, you had lost three fingernails and some of the skin on your left pinky. His failed attempt at a rescue had only ended up with another Winchester locked up within the clutches of the British Men of Letters. You were about to lose another nail when the sound of a gun cocking caused everyone’s attention to snap towards the woman wielding it. 

“Mom…?”

“Yeah.” Dean shrugged. He seemed to have missed one tiny detail out from his time away from you. 

She pressed forwards, snagging the keys from the table and ordering the woman to drop to the ground. When Toni failed to do so, she delivered a harsh blow with the butt of her gun. But Toni was smart, quick and well trained. She landed multiple punches to the four of your before Mary managed to get the upper hand. Dean scrabbled to untie the chains which hung above his head with the keys she had slipped him, it took him a moment, but once he did, he made quick work of dealing with the British Woman of Letters. 

After releasing you from the restraints, Sam wrapped his arm around your waist again to relieve you of the pressure from the burns. Exhaustively, you leaned heavily against him, so Dean came to your other side to help move you towards the car. You had never been more grateful to see the sleek impala as you slid into the backseat, as the car sped away from the house. Your stomach churned. Toni Bevell was not dead. But oh boy did she have it coming.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY 17 ⛤ DAY 19 ->

Taglist:

@senjoritanana

@deans-spinster-witch

@amaryllis23

#whumptober2023 #whumptober #wumptober23 #no.18 #tortured for information #supernatural #supernatural x reader #supernatural x sister reader #sam winchester #dean winchester #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester x sister reader #dean x sister reader #sam x sister reader #blood #torture #graphic #violence #hallucinations #drugging #fanfiction

[breannasfluff]

Tell Us

Whump Rating: 3/5 TW: Mild-ish Torture, injury, resolved ending

Legend doesn’t like to show weakness, especially in front of enemies. Unfortunately, the bandits saw the way he stepped in front of Hyrule and Wild; both injured already and caught off guard. They made the logical jump that if they wanted to hurt the vet, all they had to do was focus their attention on the other two.

Hyrule whimpers and each sound cuts a little deeper. The bandits want the Master Sword—never mind that they couldn’t hold it, nor do any of them have it.

“Please! I don’t have it! I swear!” Legend rattles the bars of his cell, but it makes no difference. They’ve already been at this for hours and if they didn’t believe him before, they likely won’t now. How long before they give up?

“Too bad for you, hero,” one of them sneers. “You’ll just have to watch us take your friends apart bit by bit.” He digs a hand into Hyrule’s hair and yanks. The traveler winces, but keeps his mouth shut. “Sure would hate to move to more…extreme measure.”

More extreme? Whipping? Beating? Pulling fingernails? Legend hisses, but there’s nothing he can do. He doesn’t have the one item they want.

Whatever he plans to do is cut off as one of the other bandits yanks Wild back into the main room. He’s bloody and bruised, but his eyes are hollow. It’s like…there’s no one home. The champion shut down quickly after being captured, already nursing a wound on his side.

Why did the trio decide to chase after the straggling monsters when two were injured? It was instinct, but by the time they caught up to the monsters they were cut off from the group. Easy pickings for the bandits.

Legend sends a silent prayer that the rest of the Chain will find them quickly.

“Any luck?”

“Didn’t make a sound. I don’t know if he can even talk.”

“Well, we still have this one for leverage.” The bandit claps a hand on Hyrule’s shoulder. “Pain isn’t working so I thought maybe we’d try a softer touch.”

Legend glances back and forth between the two, anxiety rising. What’s that supposed to mean? Hyrule is twitchy with people already. It took ages for him to relax into the casual back slaps and shoulder nudges the group uses.

“He seems…sensitive to touch. Brat probably lives half-feral in the woods.” The bandit gives an ugly laugh and ignores Wild, turning back to Hyrule. He grabs the traveler’s chin and forces his head up until his eyes meet Legend’s.

There’s a mix of desperation and steel there. I can take it, the look says.

His heart aches as he stares back. You shouldn’t have to; he tries to convey. It should be me.

“It doesn’t have to be like this,” the bandit says. He runs a hand through Hyrule’s hair, but this time doesn’t pull. It’s gentle; carding through the curls. Wild often does something similar when the traveler is tucked against his side.

“I’m sure we can make this more comfortable for you all if your friend just gives us what we want.” The bandit wraps an arm around Hyrule’s shoulder in a mockery of a hug. One hand traces along his collarbone and cups his neck.

Hyrule trembles and leans back, eyes wide. “S-stop,” he whispers. It’s the first word he’s said so far.

“I want to. I really do.” How the man manages sincerity is a mystery. “This can all go away. Just give us the Master Sword.” His gaze switches to Legend. “You’re the hero. I know you have it.”

“I don’t! I swear, I swear, I don’t have it anymore!”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Please!” He slams a palm against the bars, on the verge of tears. “Please, let me switch places.”

“Oh no.” The bandit straightens and shoots him a toothy grin. “It hurts you far more to watch.”

The other bandit gestures at Wild, who’s slumped in the chair he’s been tied to. “What about this one?”

“Hasn’t made a sound, you said?”

“Yeah.”

A half shrug. “See if you can get him to scream.”

“Stop it!” Legend’s eyes burn, traitorous tears slipping free. “Stop hurting them!”

“Give us the sword.”

“I don’t have it!”

“Then tell us where it is!”

“I can’t—I don’t know!” Legend closes his eyes in defeat, leaning his forehead against the cold metal. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

They don’t care about his sincerity, turning back to his friends. The main one wraps an arm around Hyrule’s shoulder and another around his stomach, despite the awkward angle of the chair he’s tied to.

Hyrule shudders and jerks, trying to escape the motion.

How long did they work on hugs before he accepted them as comfort? Legend can literally watch as all their hard work is undone before his eyes. All for an item he doesn’t have.

Wild screams.

They all jerk, turning to look at him. The other bandit has a hot poker pulled from a fire and presses it against the prior wound on his side. The champion thrashes, and the chair rocks, then falls over. His head hits the stone with a crack and he lies still.

No. No, no, he’s okay. He’s just unconscious, right? Head wounds like that can be dangerous. Legend sobs now, begging the bandits to let him take their place. What else can he give them instead? Why is he so helpless, locked in this cell? They haven’t even hurt him! Some hero, forced to watch as his friends are harmed on his behalf.

“You imbecile! What if he dies?” The two bandits argue over Wild, who’s still slumped on the floor.

Hyrule is crying, chest heaving with silent sobs and cheeks wet. Can he cast thunder to get them out of this? No, he’s already low on magic. What can they do?

One of the bandits gives a cut-off yelp and slumps to the ground. The other bandit stares at the arrow sprouting from his neck, non-plussed, before he turns to the entrance of the cave. An arrow sinks into his eye. The scream is cut off as a second hits his neck. With a gurgle, the bandit collapses to the ground.

Legend’s never been so happy to see the Chain rush in, weapons and fairies at the ready. Twilight goes to Wild and dumps out a fairy, while Warriors cuts the rope binding Hyrule to the chair. Wind pulls out a lockpick set and works on the cell door.

As soon as it swings open, the vet runs for Hyrule. Wild is slowly blinking, already crowded by Four and Twilight. The traveler flinches when Legend reaches for him and his heart sinks. “Sorry,” he whispers and steps a few inches back. “Are you okay?”

The smile he gets in return is watery, but there. “I’ll be okay.”

The vet has his doubts, but that’s a problem for the future. For now, they are saved.

#tortured for information #tw torture #tw injury #whumptober2023 #linked universe #linkeduniverse #lu whumptober #breannasfluff #mywriting #lu wild #lu legend #lu hyrule #technically triple threat #but i don't want to tag them

[aceofwhump]

Whumptober 2023

Day 18 - Tortured for Information

The Witcher 2x05

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2023 #no.18 #tortured for information #the witcher #gifs #fire #burned #burns #fear #shaking #flinching #torture #my gifs #mod post #whumptober #mods whumptober posts #whumpedit #whump

[maschals]

Oct 18 - Tortured for Information

Arthur Lester's latest terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day. Basement torture edition.

#whumptober 2023 #no.18 #tortured for information #malevolent #arthur lester #john doe #malevolent fanart

[skyward-floored]

Whumptober Day 18: Blindfold, Tortured for information

So today’s is actually a little goofier, and a bit of zelink snuck in, but hey! It’s nice to mix things up 👍

I also had the prompt “I tend to deflect when I’m feeling threatened” in mind while writing this and you can tell lol

Read on ao3

Warnings: injury, blood, concussion, torture-y elements.

————————————————————

Warriors couldn’t see.

He grunted in frustration, trying to rub his face on his arm so he could knock his blindfold loose, but no matter what he did, the coarse fabric stayed where it had been tied while he was unconscious.

He was sore, his head ached from where it had been struck, and his arms hurt where they were bound behind him, but the lack of sight was what was bothering him the most, not being able to see making his skin crawl.

It... bothered him more than he would prefer to admit.

“Hero.”

Warriors stiffened, trying to pinpoint where the voice was coming from. Multiple sets of footsteps echoed around the chair he’d been tightly bound to, making the sound difficult to pinpoint, but he could tell when a pair of them stopped right next to him.

“You have something we want,” the voice continued from much closer, and Warriors let out a chuckle.

“Oh yeah? Well you already took all my stuff, if you can’t find whatever it is, then that’s on you.”

Something connected with his ribs, and Warriors let out a grunt, unable to brace himself since he couldn’t see the blow coming. So it’s going to be like that, is it?

“What we want isn’t an item,” a different voice said, sounding annoyed. Good. “It’s information, that only a select few are in possession of.”

“Are you going to just keep me in suspense, or tell me what you want already?” Warriors drawled, and he expected it this time when he was struck again, even harder.

It still hurt though.

“Listen well, Hero, I will not repeat myself,” the first voice growled, and Warriors froze as a hand grabbed his face. Nails dug into his chin, and he hissed in pain. “We want to hear everything you know about Princess Zelda.”

Warriors felt his blood run cold.

“...What?” he asked, and bit back a cry as another hit landed on his middle. At this rate they’re going to break something.

“Princess Zelda. You work closely with her, you must know all of her powers, her weaknesses,” the voice snapped, releasing his face. “We want to know it all.”

“And why on earth would I tell you anything?” Warriors growled, and the voice went silent.

“Because you have no choice.”

Warriors’ head snapped back as a blow hit his face, and before he could even begin to recover, something sharp was pressed to his cheek, the tip of what had to be a dagger sending a little spark of fear through his chest.

“Fine! Fine you want to know about Z— the princess?” he said, and the knife eased a bit. “Okay. Well first of all, she’s great with basically every weapon she picks up, sword, bow, spear, she can do it all. She always wears pink but her favorite color is actually blue, about the color of my scarf which you’ve so kindly taken from me actually, she’s one of the best musicians I’ve ever heard, her eyes sparkle like Lake Hylia on a clear day, and when she sings, wow you fellas are missing out, oh, and Zelda isn’t her full name, it’s actually Princess Zelda Artemisa Lyra—”

“Shut up!” Someone roared, and the knife dug a line right below the blindfold across Warriors’ face.

He cried out in spite of himself, pain burning across his cheeks and nose, and the hand grabbed his chin again, sharp nails actually digging into his skin this time.

“That information is useless,” the voice hissed, and Warriors smirked, despite how badly his face hurt.

“You wanted to know about Zelda. I delivered.”

“Not her eye color,” the voice spat, and Warriors shrugged his aching shoulders.

“Well you should’ve been more specific then,” he said easily, then yelled as something hit his ribs, hard.

Something cracked, and Warriors doubled over as much as he could with how he was tied up, gasping as his chest lit up in pain. That had definitely broken something that time.

The hand was back at his face again, and Warriors coughed, feeling blood trickle down his cheek.

“Tell us your Princess’s weaknesses,” the voice said more calmly, and when Warriors didn’t say anything, the knife was dragged along his cheek again without warning.

Warriors bit back a cry, and felt his breathing speed up as the knife let up, then sliced him again in a new spot.

“Or we will cut you up until the only part of you that can move is your mouth, so we can hear every single way your cursed princess can be defeat,” the other voice hissed, and Warriors coughed out a laugh.

“Nice. Very... very dramatic. Only one problem with that,” he breathed, tasting something metallic on his tongue. “Zelda doesn’t have any weaknesses.”

His head was slammed backwards into the wall.

Sparks of light shot into his vision, and he might’ve cried out, but he wasn’t sure through the odd high-pitched sound that had filled his head up like one of the Champion’s octorock balloons.

I wonder how he’s doing... he thought blearily, wondering vaguely if the nausea that had suddenly made itself known was going to make him sick. Since he was closest when I got caught...

The high-pitched sound began to die down, and Warriors heard some other sounds through it, talking sounds.

Right... right. Right. He needed to focus.

Zelda might be in trouble.

He strained his ears, trying to focus through the pain pounding across the back of his head, and breathed in a little unsteadily. For some reason, breathing was awfully tricky.

“...hear how he called her Zelda?” one voice said, and Warriors tried even harder to focus through the ringing in his ears in order to listen. “I think perhaps the Princess has a weakness after all... the Hero.”

Warriors felt a bright ball of fear drop into his stomach.

“Sh... she cares nothing for me!” Warriors tried to shout, but his voice caught on the words, and he coughed out something thick in his throat. “You won’t... it won’t...”

The spinning and pain in his head and the ringing in his ears was suddenly too much, and Warriors felt a darkness sweep over him, despite how he resisted.

Something might’ve grabbed his face again, but Warriors slipped away before he heard any of the words they spoke.

Zelda... don’t do anything stupid for me...

(...)

He wasn’t sure how long it was before he came to, but when Warriors opened his eyes, he was still blindfolded.

And his head still hurt like a moblin had been using it as a set of drums.

He let out a low groan, and realized he was on the ground somewhere now, his cheek pressed against grass. The fact that there was grass against his face and not something else was important he thought, but he couldn’t remember or focus enough to figure out why.

He wished he could see.

A boot suddenly set itself on his side, and Warriors’ breath hitched a little, the action sending a pang through the sharp ache in his middle. Why did his head and middle and everything hurt so much?

It was as if the answer was hovering just out of reach, and no matter how he jumped for it, he couldn’t grab hold.

...Was somebody talking?

Warriors strained his ears, and heard several different voices, some lower, and higher, and scratchy, and more commanding...

They went quiet suddenly, and Warriors frowned. Why had they stopped?

The boot sitting lightly on his side suddenly stomped down, and a scream was ripped from Warriors’ throat, pain flashing up his entire side and middle and making his vision white out with stars.

The talking might have started up again, but Warriors couldn’t hear it over the agony burning through his chest, worse than his head, worse than his face. A loud noise sounded nearby and the weight of the boot disappeared, but Warriors couldn’t even focus enough to wonder why.

His world had narrowed down to pain, slow and freezing and hot and fast, switching back and forth so quickly he could barely stand it.

He coughed, something warm spattering on his cheek, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care.

A sudden crashing sound came from nearby, one oddly familiar. Despite how it made the pain increase, Warriors listened carefully, trying to identify it. It kept happening, over and over as Warriors listened, and he suddenly realized it was two swords, hitting against each other.

But who’s swords? Who’s fighting? he wondered desperately, and winced when a much louder crash rang out.

He really wished he could see.

“Link!”

A couple sets of footsteps sounded by his head, and hands tugged at his bound wrists and ankles, then near his hair, pulling at the coarse fabric. He froze, and all of a sudden the blindfold fell away, Warriors finally able to see again.

He blinked in the nearly blinding sunlight, squeezing his eyes shut before slowly cracking them open again. Something shaded his eyes, and Warriors looked up at golden hair and blue eyes the color of Lake Hylia.

“Arte... Zel..?” he said dizzily, and the worried look she’d been giving him was replaced with a small smile.

“Yes. We’ve got you Link, just hold on while somebody grabs a fairy.”

Warriors blinked up at her, his vision swimming a little. Wow. Had Zelda’s voice always been that pretty? He wasn’t sure. He should probably tell her.

“Oh geez, yeah that’s a concussion,” somebody who wasn’t Zelda commented, and Warriors honestly had no clue who it was. “Unless he usually goes around complimenting your voice?”

“Not normally, no,” Zelda replied, a bit of her hair falling in her face. The sun caught it and made it light up into a brighter yellow, and Warriors tried to raise a hand and touch it. It didn’t really work.

“Hair’s glowing?” he mumbled, and heard a stifled laugh. “‘S pretty. I ever tell y-you... Arty... you’re pretty?”

Artemis blinked at him in surprise, and this time there were a few ooohs along with the stifled laughs that went up from the people he couldn’t recognize.

“Why don’t you tell me later, Link?” she said, and Warriors furrowed his brow as she carefully turned his head. Later? Why later? What was so bad about right now?

“Now, no, why wait?” he managed to get out, his chest aching again as somebody touched it. “You’re beautiful, you... your hair... Hair looks kind of... butter,” he said, confusedly, squinting. The color was pretty darn similar in his opinion, had Zelda ever noticed that? “...Butter color. ‘S butter in your hair?”

There was laughter that was much less muffled that time, and Artemis had an odd look on her face as somebody appeared next to her, something pink in their grasp.

“Alright Captain, here’s a fairy, hold still.”

“Hold who?” he said dizzily, but then the pink swirled all over his vision, sparkles like snow drifting over him. It moved so fast he could barely watch it, but the steady pound in his head began to fade, and the horrible burn in his chest eased considerably.

What felt like a soft wave washed over him, and it took with it almost all the fuzziness that was clouding his head.

He opened his eyes (he’d closed them?) with a sigh, and met Artemis’s eyes, a tiny bit of blood on her chin.

“Oh. Hi,” he said a little dizzily, and made to sit up. He couldn’t quite made it though, his head still a little heavy-feeling, and Artemis’s arms pulled him up, along with somebody else’s.

“Hi yourself,” Artemis said with a bit of exasperation, and as Warriors stared at her. Suddenly everything that had happened while he’d been tied to a chair came back, the questions and blows and a knife dragged along his face—

“Artemis,” he startled, and lurched forward to frantically study her face. “Are you okay? Those men were trying—”

“We know Wars,” Wind’s voice said kindly from nearby. “We took care of ‘em.”

Warriors blinked at him. “Really?” How much had he missed?

“Really,” Time said with a hint of amusement. “They are no longer a threat. You pretty much missed the entire battle.”

“...Oh.”

Warriors rubbed his head with a wince, trying to sort through his memories of the past half a day or so. His head throbbed unpleasantly, and he made the decision it could perhaps wait a bit until his headache died down. The others could probably fill him in... right?

“So, you gonna tell her highness she’s beautiful again?” Legend said innocently, and Warriors stared at him.

Maybe that’s not a good idea.

“...what do you mean again?”

Several snickers went up from the group, and Artemis gave his shoulder a careful squeeze, her hand still on his arm.

“You had a concussion,” she explained, and Warriors could swear she was blushing a little. “Still do, I believe. You... rambled a bit.”

Warriors felt heat rise in his own cheeks. “...What about?”

Artemis smiled, and she squeezed his shoulder again, sending a pleasant warmth up his arm.

“Nothing bad. I’ll tell you later,” she said with a mischievous look, and Warriors felt his cheeks darken even further for some reason. “But we should get you inside. The fairy helped, but I really don’t think you’re all the way healed yet.”

Artemis helped him stand then, and Warriors leaned heavily on her shoulder, his head spinning a little at the change in altitude. They began to walk, and Warriors drifted along in a bit of a haze, the others’ conversation floating around him.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” Artemis said suddenly, voice quiet enough not to be heard by the others. “When they dragged you out, we... we thought the worst.”

Warriors blinked back the ache behind his eyes, and smiled over at Artemis, trying to focus on her face.

“I’m alright,” he reassured, and squeezed her arm. “Glad you’re okay too.”

She sighed, and brushed some hair out of her face. “I was never in as much danger as you, Link. But thank you.”

A smile twitched onto her lips.

“And I think your hair looks a bit like butter as well.”

Warriors stared at her, and Artemis stifled a laugh as he spent the rest of the trip trying to figure out what on earth she meant by that.

#linkeduniverse #linked universe #lu warriors #lu Artemis #linked universe fanfic #whumptober 2023 #day 18 #tortured for information #blindfold #writing from the floor #mild zelink #Warriors is loooopy #you can tell the exact moment I went from serious to goofy lol #hope you all enjoy anyway

[thatsgonnaleaveamark]

whumptober 2023 - day 18 tortured for information

A Town Called Malice - 1x07

#whumptober2023 #no.18 #tortured for information #gifs #1x07 #blood #tied up #bloody face #my gifs #whump gifs #whumpedit #damn this has been in my drafts for a while its already been like over a month since ive seen this show lol #this is just a really fun aesthetic #i have other gifs of this guy in this other show 'wreck' where he gets murdered by a duck mascot i love it #blood suits him :-) #ooh the way it runs up his face bc hes upside down :))) #last thing ive got done for whumptober idk if ill come up with another thing #currently working on another song whump vid with wayne from wayne and im having lots of fun with it #lots of blood involved there also :)) but that might also just be a standalone thing idk yet

[adrift-in-thyme]

Whumptober Day 18: Tortured for Information

Continuation of Day 14

Read it on Ao3

- Time & the Chain

- Summary: Time is captured by people craving the power of Majora's mask

CW for captivity, blood and injury, torture, and poisoning

--------------------------------

“Idiots!”

The shout breaks through the haze Time drifts in, sending his panicked, feverish thoughts skittering away. He still trembles like a leaf upon the wind, still gasps for breath that will not come.

Everything hurts, but he can’t remember when the pain started. All he knows is that he wants it to end.

“Idiots! You’ve nearly killed him! I asked for him to be incapacitated, not dead! Give me the antidote, now!”

Jumbled voices trip over one another in their race to be heard. They’re arguing, Time thinks, though he can't understand what about. Not that it matters. Nothing seems to matter at the moment, except for the mad struggle to remain alert and alive.

He tries to inhale the air his lungs are screaming for and chokes. A horrid gurgling sound fills his ears. It takes him far longer than it should to realize he is making it.

The realization reignites a distant fear, a sense that danger is surrounding him, dragging him down to the depths. But before he can truly make sense of it, something cold and sharp enters his neck. An odd sensation of pressure follows as cool liquid slithers through his veins. 

And in the next moment he can breathe again.

Time inhales great gulps of air as his airways begin to expand once more. His body welcomes it, allowing it to return some of the strength he lost, drive away the dizziness and fog. 

With the return of consciousness, however, come the memories. Memories of collapsing on the cold, hard cobblestone, of struggling desperately against the assault of an invisible attacker, only to be dragged away by physical enemies.

…of someone calling him the Hero of Termina.

He drags his eye open. A warm swath of lantern light greets him. It sends shadows across the walls of the building, dancing and glinting against the many bottles and canisters shelved there. Concoctions of all colors bubble or rest in powder form. In the far corner, a pot threatens to boil over.  

A man and woman stand beside it, looking slightly pensive. Despite their surroundings, however, they appear unassuming enough that had he passed them on the street, Time wouldn’t have thought twice about them. Certainly at first glance, he would not have taken them for kidnappers…or potion makers (if that is what these people even are.) But he supposes that is the way of things. Darkness does not always come in the form of demonic masks and men with evil eyes.

Another person is here too, though her back is turned as she busies herself with something on a nearby table. She is far closer than the other two, however, and Time makes sure to keep his gaze trained on her as he turns his attention to his bonds.

The ropes he remembers restraining him earlier are gone now. Instead, shackles encircle his wrists and ankles. He shifts, testing their integrity. Their metal is thick and unyielding. As he pulls at them, something prickles at his skin in warning. It is strange, but he understands it well enough. 

Magic. 

These people, whoever they may be, possess power. Dark power.

At the slight jingle of chains, the woman turns. A grin stretches across her face. 

“Wonderful, you’re awake at last! I thought those two had done you in permanently.” She jerks a thumb back to where the others stand. “Fortunately, it appears that I gave you the antidote in the nick of time.”

Time skewers her with a glare. “I suppose you are the one who poisoned me, then?”

His voice is hardly more than a croak that sends shards of pain down his throat. 

The woman chuckles. “Well, I didn’t administer it — otherwise you would be far better off right now. But yes, I’ll admit I concocted it.” She lifts a small bottle, shaking it slightly so that it’s greenish contents jiggle. “Creating substances like that – you could say it’s my specialty.”

Time’s eye narrows. So they are potion makers. What could they possibly want with him?

“But that is hardly why you are here.”

She reaches behind her and grasps something from the table. When she turns back to him her smile has grown impossibly more sinister. In her hands she cradles a sizable object with glowing gold eyes and stripes of crimson across its cheeks.

“I’m sure you recognize this.”

A strangled gasp breaks free before he can restrain it. He would recognize that thing anywhere. After all, he has seen it enough times in his nightmares.

“Ah, you do. I thought so.” She cocks her head, shifting so the light illuminates the mask’s bulging eyes further. Time can’t shake the feeling that they are staring through him to his very soul. “It seemed unlikely that the Hero of Termina would forget his enemy so easily.”

He swallows, hard, fighting against the panic rising within him.

“There is no soul in that mask anymore,” he says with a calm that belies everything he is feeling. “Whatever plans you have for it are for nought. It is useless now. Nothing more than a trinket.”

“Precisely.” 

The woman leans forward. There is a sadistic hunger in her eyes now that sends shivers down Time’s spine. But he meets her gaze without hesitation. Anything that this potion maker has in store for him is nothing compared to what he has already endured at the hands of the monster she now holds.

…or the monster that slumbers in his pouch.

“Therein lies our problem,” she continues, with a sigh. “We located the mask without difficulty (really, that salesman should be more careful with his wares) but finding it soulless was quite the disheartening discovery. After all, we had so wanted to acquaint ourselves with him. With Majora.”

The nausea that had subsided now rears its head again. Time forces himself to swallow, to breathe past the way the room tilts. He can’t truly tell how much is from fear and exhaustion, and how much from the remnant poison still coursing through his veins. But one thing is for certain. Hearing that cursed name makes this all feel more real. Too real, in fact.

“Our disappointment has proven to be short-lived, however. Soon after finding the mask we discovered a very intriguing tidbit of information.” 

She casts a glance over her shoulder, sharing a grin with her companions, before turning back to Time. In the dim light her eyes seem to gleam. 

“There is a man who holds a deep, dark secret, thought to be known only to the gods. A man who as a child traversed the entirety of Termina and faced the demons of the land. A man who knew how to kill them…and knows how to bring them back.”

Breathing has grown difficult again and this time Time knows it has nothing to do with a deadly substance. It takes no small amount of effort to keep his expression a mask of anger. 

The woman pauses for a long moment, no doubt waiting for him to take the bait. When he remains silent, a bit of aggravation flits across her face. She steps closer, blocking the light. 

“You know how to resurrect Majora, Hero of Termina. And you are going to perform the spell right here in front of us.”

“No.” The word falls heavy on the thick silence of the room. “I will not be performing any spell for you. Because I cannot.” He smiles, grim and bitter. “Your assumptions are mistaken, unfortunately. I have no knowledge of a way to resurrect long-deceased demons. Perhaps, you should have kidnapped a necromancer instead.”

He expects anger to contort her expression. Instead, she smirks.

“You live up to your title, hero. We hoped that you would.”

The woman places Majora carefully back on the table. One of her companions grabs one of the many bottles from the shelves and with it firmly in his grasp, steps forward. 

“The poison we slipped into your food…its effects were excruciating, were they not?” The woman asks. There is something almost gleeful in her tone. “They certainly sounded painful. When these two dragged you in here you were barely living. A few moments more and you would have suffocated.”

She motions toward the bottle now, filled to the brim with a deep purple liquid. Its sinister glint is almost mesmerizing. 

“What you just endured is nothing compared to what you will suffer once this runs through your veins.”

Time drags his gaze away from the bottle. The pound of his own heart is deafening. 

“If it is as horrible an experience as you say, how do you expect me to perform anything at all?”

She smiles. “Oh, not to worry. All you will need to do is agree to do as we wish. Then, I will provide the antidote and your body will return to normal functioning. So” – She tilts her head in question – “what is your answer, hero? Will you help us resurrect the great Majora? Or will you maintain this flimsy facade of ignorance?”

Time takes a deep breath, trying his best to prepare for whatever is about to come.

“I swear to you,” he says, firmly. “I know nothing. As far as my knowledge goes, Majora is dead and will remain that way.”

“Ah, so flimsy facade it is.” The woman turns to her companion. “Go on, then, make him drink it.”

Time glares at him as the man starts toward him. But he hardly seems affected. With a dark chuckle, he leans down and grabs Time’s chin, forcing his head up. Instinctively, Time’s hands fly upward to shove him off. The chains burn his wrists, magic screaming at him to remain still and compliant. He ignores it and digs his nails into the man’s hand. Blood bubbles up beneath his fingernails, turning them red. 

With a cry of pain, the man jerks back. Time doesn’t wait for him to recover. Quick as a flash, he brings his knee up. 

“Oh, you little – ”

Bloodshot eyes meet his own, fury boiling within them. Time smirks. 

“I suppose you thought I was going to go down easily.”

Seconds later his head snaps back, pain exploding across his nose as a fist collides with his face. 

He kicks out again, blindly. Another cry pierces the air. This time the retaliation takes his breath away. He is almost certain the hit has broken a rib or two.

“Hey!” Comes a breathless voice past the ringing in his ears. “Get over here and help me hold him!”

“Stay still, you!”

Hands try to restrain him but he lashes out once more. His fist connects with something decidedly human and he feels a grim sort of satisfaction at the sensation of bones breaking. 

“Oh, please. Are you both physically incapable of holding down someone who is not near death? Allow me to show you how it’s done.”

There is a telltale zip of something sharp piercing the air. And then, Time chokes on a cry as a dagger embeds itself in his shoulder. For a moment, he can focus on nothing more than trying to breathe, trying to push away the dots that have exploded before his eye. But when they grab his hair and wrench his head back, pressing cool glass to his lips, he forces himself to ignore the pain. 

He can’t fall. Not now. Not yet.

In one swift motion he reaches up, grasps the hilt of the dagger, and yanks it out. Magic is at his fingertips even as his vision goes white, a scream pushing past tightly closed lips. He funnels it into the weapon and slices outward.

Instantly, the restraining hands are gone. Screams erupt as his captors leap out of the way of the ravenous flames. They lunge forward, spreading as they go, breaking bottles and catching on the wooden floor and walls. 

“Go!” The man yells. “Get out!”

Time barely registers the two of them racing for the door. He has turned his attention to his bonds. One swipe of the flaming dagger and the chains restraining his legs fall uselessly to the ground. In the next instant, those hooked to the shackles about his wrists follow suit.

The magic they are imbued with is strong. But he has found few spells as intimidating as Din’s Fire. And he is lucky for it.

Gritting his teeth, he rises on shaky feet. Now, to get the mask and escape before the building’s inevitable collapse.

“I knew it.” 

Time stops, arm outstretched toward the mask. The potion maker grins at him from the opposite side of the room, her eyes reflecting the glow of the flames. There is blood dribbling down her forehead, soot splotched across her skin. But she doesn’t seem to notice any of it. Her gaze is locked firmly on him, that hunger even more prevalent than before.

“I knew it! You can do magic! You can perform the spell!”

She starts toward him, limping slightly on an ankle that must be twisted.

“Your lies were pathetic enough that only a child would have believed them. But now, oh now I know for certain.”

“You know nothing.” Time grasps the mask in his free hand, the dagger still held tightly in the other. “Majora is gone. He will never use anyone again.”

He starts toward the door, backing up so as to keep her in his line of sight. A quick glance around proves that his armor and pouch are not here. They must have stowed them somewhere else. Near the inn, perhaps. 

She laughs, a strangled, unhinged sound.

“Oh, Hero of Termina, you are every bit as courageous as they say.” Something is in her hand now. It glints in the light of the flames. “But you are a fool.”

Before he can even begin to react, a second dagger embeds itself in his thigh. With a strangled cry, Time crumples. The mask and dagger slip from his grasp. The woman scoops them up effortlessly.

“That is no ordinary weapon,” she says, voice drifting past the sounds of crackling wood and popping glass and his own labored breathing. “The potion you thought you had destroyed? Its blade is dripping with it.”

As if on cue, pure agony erupts from the spot. It feels as though the flames that surround them have found their way inside and begun eating away at muscles and organs and bones. A scream begs to be let loose. Time refuses to release it. Gritting his teeth, he curls his hands into fists.

But the pain only spreads, curling upward like tongues of fire, eating away at him as it goes. He chokes on a mouthful of blood.

Somewhere nearby the ceiling begins to cave in.

“Ah, well that won’t do.” Fingers dig into his wounded shoulder, dragging him across the hard floor. Time gasps. “I want you begging for death, not receiving it.”

The heat of the burning building gives way to the coolness of night. The woman drops him onto a bed of damp grass. Time catches a brief glimpse of a star-speckled sky before he shuts his eye once more, still fighting against the urge to scream. 

“Wonderful. Now that we’re a safe distance from the disaster of your escape attempt, we have plenty of time.” Dimly, he is aware of a presence settling down beside him. “In fact, we have all the time in the world. This potion isn’t deadly, you see. So, either you agree to resurrect Majora – or at the very least tell us how – or you surrender to an eternity of pain. The choice is yours.”

The unending agony surges again. Time spits more blood into the grass. A shudder runs through him. But he isn’t cold, not in the least. Every part of him is drenched in molten heat. Every part of him is burning. 

The woman sighs. “I do wish I could make the experience even worse for you, though. I’ll admit I’m very displeased with what you did to my house. And my employees ran off too. Shameful. But I suppose once you do the deed that will all be forgotten.”

Time digs his nails into the ground, curling in on himself as wave after wave of pain buffets him. 

“Why?” He chokes. “What…what do you want with Majora?”

“What do I want with him? What does anyone want with a monster in a mask?” Time opens his eye just in time to see her lean over him. “Power.”

She grins, a shadow against a backdrop of billowing smoke. And she drives the dagger in deeper.

This time he can’t restrain it. He screams, sharp and hoarse and strangled, as the fire within him grows one thousand times hotter. He is going to explode, he is certain of it. Either that or simply turn to ash. 

But neither occurs. It merely continues, an eternity of pain, surging and waning with every passing moment. 

“Give up,” she purrs, when he stops screaming long enough to catch his breath. “You have nothing to prove. Tell me how I can bring him back.”

He spits in her face.

She wipes the blood away with a strained smile. “Well, you are certainly a stubborn one. Perhaps, I need to make this a bit more excruciating.”

She reaches into a pouch at her waist. But before she can pull out her next torture device, an arrow soars through the air and pierces her arm.

With a screech, she stumbles upward and back. Grasping the dagger Time had used, she looks wildly around.

“Who’s there? Show yourself!” The blade comes to rest on Time’s neck, inches from his jugular. “Come out or I’ll kill him!”

“No, you won’t,” someone says. “You need him.”

Time blinks, trying to grasp his hazy thoughts. That…that’s Four, isn’t it? It certainly sounds like him. But how…

Wolfie lunges from the bushes, lips pulled back in a snarl. Upon his back, sits the smithy, sword held at the ready. They streak forward, heading straight for the potion maker. 

She brings the dagger up just as they reach her. But another arrow appears out of nowhere and knocks the weapon right out of her hands. Wolfie leaps at her and she hits the ground with a shriek.

Four slides off of his back and levels his sword at the woman.

“Stay down,” he says, and there is an edge to his voice Time has never heard before. “You don’t want to know what happens if you fight that wolf, trust me.”

The rest of the heroes rush forward now, some headed for the downed villain, others for Time.

Warriors reaches him first, skidding to his knees beside him. 

“What did she do to you, Sprite?” he breathes as he maneuvers Time’s head onto his lap. 

Time drags in a strangled breath. He opens his mouth, fully meaning to tell him what they need to make this all stop. But all that comes out is a series of thick, wet coughs. Then, the pain increases again and his back arches as he screams. 

Words filter through the sounds of his own agony, disjointed and befuddling.

“...sorry.”

“Alright…going to be…”

“Give…now!”

The screams taper off into gasping breaths. Time sags, boneless against Warriors. The captain’s face floats in and out of view, wavering between clarity and a nauseating blur.

“Here, Sky, take…Quick…drink.”

The hands that tip his chin upward are gentle. He trusts them. Time lets his mouth fall open, obediently swallowing the liquid that slides down his burning throat. 

He feels the effect almost instantly. The fire within him dims and lessens, as a strange chill drifts through him. It carries away the pain so he can breathe again, think again, hazy and directionless though his thoughts are.

Slowly, he blinks as the world comes back into focus. His brothers look down at him, worry and hope battling across their faces.

“Is…is he…” Wind starts, tears welling in his eyes.

“He’s okay,” Warriors assures him, even as his grip on Time’s hand tightens. “The antidote worked.”

Time manages the slightest smile. “Don…don’t worry, sa-sailor. Takes…a lot to kill me.”

Wild grins, though it’s far shakier than his usual. “Obviously. You burned an entire house down, Time! See if I listen next time you get onto us about committing arson.”

“You never listen anyway,” Warriors points out, drily. Wild scowls at him.

“But you shouldn’t have had to burn down a house in the first place,” Twilight says, bitterness in his tone and regret in his eyes. “We took too long to find you. I’m sorry.”

“What did she want with you anyway?” Legend asks. He looks down at the mask he must have scooped up from the ground. “And what did it have to do with this thing?”

“Okay, questions and apologies later,” Warriors pipes up. “We need to get him back to the inn.”

Time sends him a look of gratitude. The pain might have diminished greatly, but he feels worn and wrung out. And his shoulder and leg still throb to the pulse of his heartbeat.

Twilight’s expression is still a raging swirl of barely-restrained emotions. But he nods. 

“I’ll carry him.”

“What’re we gonna do with her?” Hyrule asks, jerking a thumb back to where the potion maker must still be. 

They must have knocked her unconscious, Time thinks, otherwise she wouldn’t be so silent. People like her don’t stop talking, even when every word only serves to drive them further into the ground.

“Bring her back to town,” Warriors replies. “Maybe we can get her to tell us what her goal was here. After that, I’m sure we can get her set up in a nice, cozy jail cell.”

“The faster we can get her there the better,” Legend growls. “Sadistic creep.”

Twilight gently lifts Time off of the ground, murmuring an apology when he hisses in pain. 

“Let’s go, then,” he says, once Time is securely in his grip. (How he carries him so effortlessly, Time hasn’t a single idea. He must’ve inherited Malon’s strength.) 

“We need to hurry up for Time’s sake too.”

Warriors nods. “He’s not completely out of the woods yet. But once we’re back Hyrule and I can fix him up.”

With the traveler's agreement, the group begins to move. Time can see the still-burning house over Twilight's shoulder, blurry and wavering. Plumes of smoke climb toward the heavens, born up from tongues of crimson flame. 

“We’ll be there soon, old man,” Twilight says somewhere above him. “Just hang in there.”

Time lets his eye slide shut. The image of destruction fades. An abyss of cool darkness greets him in its place and with a wave of relief, he welcomes it.

#whumptober 2023 #no.18 #tortured for information #linkeduniverse #fic #torture tw #blood tw #injury tw #poisoning tw #captivity tw #trin writes #lu time #lu twilight #lu warriors #lu chain #whump #angst #hurt/comfort #wheeee this is a big one #it just kept going #I couldn’t stop it XD #but it was fun #been looking forward to this one

[whumblr]

Whump prompt #62

"So, Teammate, I hear your special power is wielding electricity. I'd like for you to use it on Leader, see if you can wring out some answers."

"Absolutely not," Teammate snarled, anger sparkling between his fingertips.

"I mean, you could do so now, or wait and try to re-activate his stopped heart with it, up to you... Though I don't think it would help when there's no more blood to pump around."

#whump #whump prompt #electrocution #team whump #hero whump #captivity #threatened murder #tortured for information #sadistic whumper #my prompts #my writing

[just-here-with-my-thoughts]

A Fair Price To Pay

@febuwhump prompt: "Who did this to you" @badthingshappenbingo prompt: Tortured for Information

Fandom: The Bad Batch Characters: Crosshair, Omega, Hemlock Post Season 2: Escape from Tantiss. If you've read my fic 'A Cosy Bed', you know what's in store for Crosshair. Enjoy. Word Count: ~9675 Read Here On AO3

Content Warning: Graphic Descriptions Of Violence/Injuries Rating: Mature

Synopsis: Crosshair is determined to get Omega out of Tantiss, even if their freedom comes at a price.

Along the way, she saves him too.

*now with added epilogue! check the reblogs!*

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hemlock walked slowly around the table, inspecting the restraints that his assistant tightened to hold the tall clone in place. Yes, CT-9904 was weakened from his long incarceration, but this time they weren’t taking any chances.

“I am truly impressed by your fortitude and ingenuity,” he said, in that soft-spoken tone that somehow imparted so much more fear than those leaders who raised their voices. “I thought it remarkable, but a fluke, that you escaped the first time and attempted to transmit a message to your… ‘brothers’… to warn them about – well. You know.

“But to defy me again, and hide the girl from me?”

He stopped at the head of the table, leaning into the periphery of Crosshair’s vision. Crosshair couldn’t turn his head – he was fastened too tightly to do more than twitch in defiance. He kept his gaze fixed determinedly on the ceiling, trying to refute the weakness in his body, the faint tremor that set up in his muscles in response to fatigue and fear.

“I would like you to tell me where she is.” A soft plea, but insistent. “This facility is a big place, and she may come to harm if she is unattended. So please, Crosshair. Could you tell me where Omega is?”

Hemlock’s request sounded so reasonable.

Crosshair blinked and said nothing. Bit the sides of his tongue to keep from talking. Stared at the ceiling. At the ceiling. Not at the vents. Lifting Omega up, hiding her in a vent. Hissing at her to stay silent, not to be found.

Stare at the ceiling, don’t answer.

Don’t answer.

Hemlock sighed. “It disappoints me that you are unwilling to co-operate.” He gestured to his assistant, and a needle bit into the skin of Crosshair’s neck. Don’t look. Don’t give them the satisfaction of looking.

“What can I do that might compel you to tell me the girl’s whereabouts? There is nothing I can offer you. You have proven, repeatedly, that you cannot be trusted to submit to incarceration without resistance.” A soft huff of laughter. “Perhaps I should be unsurprised. The Kaminoan reports always indicated that your batch of ‘enhanced’ clones were unreliable.”

A warm, numb feeling began to spread through Crosshair’s body. His mind worked sluggishly. What had they dosed him with? He wouldn’t talk. Wouldn’t betray the kid. It was the least he could do. Try and protect her. It’s what Hunter would want.

Sensation dropped away. There was no table. No restraints. His body was cushioned on air.

Hemlock was still talking.

“If I cannot offer reward for co-operation, I must threaten punishment. Thus far, you have been remarkably resistant to our… usual methods of data extraction.”

Data extraction. Torture. Crosshair’s jaw worked. Was he trying to talk? He shouldn’t do that. Didn’t want to. That’s what they wanted. They wanted him to talk. Tell them about Omega, hiding in the vent. Waiting for him to come back.

That’s right. He’d promised her he would come back, once he’d found a way out. He’d better go find her.

Tried to move his legs, but they wouldn’t function. That was odd. He pictured rolling to his side, standing up, off the table. Staggering forwards. Wondered why his body wouldn’t obey.

“The sedative should have taken effect by now.”

Sedative. That would do it. The numbness.

Why would they sedate him?

Hemlock wore a small smile as he leaned directly into the path of Crosshair’s vision. He blinked, the doctor’s face swimming in and out of focus.

“What can I take from you?” Hemlock asked softly, almost to himself. “What do you treasure? What do you hold on to in the belief that it sets you apart from all the other multitudes of clones in the galaxy?”

A medical droid hovered into view. This wasn’t right. Crosshair was still conscious. If they had sedated him, consciousness should fade. Instead he was awake, thoughts wildly roaming and unable to take action as his mind had become uncoupled from his body.

Crosshair was just barely aware of a touch to his face – Hemlock, tracing a finger down the fine line of his tattooed eye socket.

“I think,” said the doctor with a humourless smile, “I shall take your sight.”

The droid unfolded its appendages, positioning the fine, sharp tools just above Crosshair’s right eye.

“Do tell me, Crosshair, if you want me to stop. We can desist at any time. I just need to know where you have hidden Omega.”

Crosshair didn’t know if he could make his mouth work anyway, in this drug-induced dream-haze. At least he wouldn’t be able to give the girl up by accident.

“Oh, and one more thing.”

Hemlock’s voice was more distant now, the doctor retreating to give the medical droid space to work.

“The sedative has robbed you of motor function. It has not dulled your pain receptors.”

*

Crosshair had been conscious for surgery before, in the labs of Kamino; pain numbed but mind sharp, responding to each instruction to focus, read this, can you see that, whilst the surgeons grafted synthetic muscle to his enhanced eyes to give him unprecedented control over his superior eyesight. Back then he had been silent, answering only when spoken to, bitterly determined to see the ordeal through with iron willpower.

Now, mind numbed but pain sharp, Crosshair found his voice. Moreso than the pain, panic ate at his nerves; strapped down, unable to flee, the right side of his world going dim.

Even when tears choked him, he didn’t give up Omega.

The sedative was still leaden in his body when he was returned to his cell, laid into the barren cot with a tasteless meal placed on the floor beside.

Hemlock was a shadowed figure just beyond the doorway as the droid assistant retreated.

“If I do not find Omega by the end of the next day,” came the doctor’s soft, even voice, “I will return for your other eye. If you wish to disclose her whereabouts, you have only to alert the guards.”

The door shut with a clang, the finality of a tombstone settling into place. Crosshair tested his sluggish limbs. He could move in an uncoordinated way, like swimming through heavy atmosphere. He dragged himself to the edge of the cot, all but falling to the floor, right hand coming up to claw at his hollow eye socket. A sob welled up but he swallowed it, forcing silence to his lips instead. On the floor he curled, foetal, arms cradling and protecting his head, one remaining eye squeezed shut to block out the reality of his loss.

If he kept his eye shut, he could pretend that’s all it was. Just like having his eyes closed.

He didn’t know how long he stayed like that. Perhaps he finally slept from exhaustion.

A scratching sound nearby permeated his consciousness, slowly dragging his mind back from the numb vortex of despair his thoughts circled. A sound not in his cell. A sound in the walls.

Carefully he rolled to his side, pushing up to sit cross-legged with his back to the noise. His right shoulder hunched high, defensive, shielding his broken face. With his left arm he reached across his body, pulling the food tray to him, then without turning shuffled backwards until he was leaned against the wall.

Once he was there he sagged against the supporting expanse of steel, drained even by that small amount of movement. Fatigue coursed through him with quivering intensity, invading his thoughts and muscles with equal ferocity, but he forced himself to gather the bread roll from the tray and slowly start picking it to pieces.

Once the roll was in shreds he tucked his hands behind the small of his back, posting the fragments of bread through the vent.

Omega’s fingertips brushed against his and he stilled, almost ready to weep at the contact. He tilted his head back against the cool steel, closing his eyes. Closing one eye, trying not to feel how his eyelid stretched in pain over the empty place his right eye used to be. He briefly squeezed her fingers in return.

“Eat up, kid,” he whispered, voice no more than an exhaled breath. “You’re going to need your strength.”

“Have you got something to eat too?”

Crosshair cracked open his left eye, peering uncertainly at the tray. “Yeah. There’s stew.”

“Can’t pass that through a grate,” came Omega’s voice with forced cheer, and tears stung his lids at the way she could find levity even in the darkest situations.

When he finished passing the bread he reached out and lifted the bowl to his lips, sipping at the stew. His hands shook so much that the ceramic bashed against his teeth, the vibration sending a fresh jolt of pain to his empty eye-socket, and he hissed in displeasure.

“Crosshair?” Omega’s voice was small and concerned. “You’re shaking. Are you okay?”

He took a breath. Summoned up some deep reserve of determination and stilled his quaking.

“I’m fine,” he said, and there was enough acid in his tone that he sounded almost like his old self. Then, “We’re getting out of here. Tonight.”

He heard a shuffling as she shifted her position within the walls. “What do I need to do, Crosshair? Tell me, and I’ll be ready.”

“Get back to the loose vent panel as the base switches over to night-cycle,” he said, trying to inject more confidence than he felt into his words. “I’ll meet you there.”

*

Tech had taught him all about their enhanced physiology. Had taught all of them, lecturing his brothers for hours on end to ensure they understood their enhancements so that they could best utilise them.

All clone troopers possessed an element of rapid healing, allowing them to shrug off injuries that would stall a nat-born, or recover more quickly from even more grievous wounds. And Experimental Unit 99 was enhanced even further than that, their growth and repair times even faster.

Crosshair wasn’t sure Hemlock knew that. Didn’t think he’d accounted for how quickly his body would break down the torture drugs which had been a feature of his long incarceration. He’d certainly never given them reason to suspect that he recovered faster than normal from the toxins they flooded his system with.

Too busy laying there in despair for them to think the drugs had worn off any quicker.

He would make use of that unintentional obfuscation now. They would expect him to still be staggered by the sedative.

All his short life, he’d been underestimated. Now, as before, he would turn it to his advantage.

“Guard.” He injected a tremulous note of feebleness into his voice. “Guard.”

An armoured solder appeared at the door of his cell. Not clone armour. The TK troopers.

“What do you want, prisoner?”

“Hemlock,” he stuttered. It wasn’t so hard to pretend, lances of pain stabbing through his head from behind his right orbit. “O…me…ga…”

A quick conference outside the door. The sound of retreating footsteps. The door opened, and the one remaining guard entered.

“On your feet,” came the command as he was grabbed roughly by his arm, “ready for the Doctor.”

Crosshair let himself be dragged upright, sagging his weight away from the TK soldier. Feigning weakness long enough for the man to off-balance to catch him.

One rapid, smooth move to sweep the knife from the sheath at the trooper’s belt. A single upward stroke of his arm, ending with the blade embedded under the rim of the helmet. A quiet gurgle and now it was the TK trooper’s turn to sag, Crosshair catching him and staggering under the weight.

He eased the dying man to the floor soundlessly, glancing at the door. Had he been too loud? Would someone investigate?

Hunter would know. Hunter would hear someone coming, sense them, long before they arrived.

Crosshair didn’t have Hunter. Only his own, un-enhanced senses, dulled by pain, and vision that swam in and out and faded disconcertingly where his peripheral sight used to be on the right.

He quashed the rising panic. With trembling hands he set to releasing the catches on the dead man’s armour, fasting it to his own body with the rote instinct of years performing the same actions, no matter how shell-shocked he felt. Knife at his belt. Pistol at one hip, blaster in hands.

Pulled on the helmet, wrinkling his nose in disgust at the close warmth of another man’s gear pressing around his injured face. Activated the HUD. Wished he knew how to compensate for his missing eye.

Wearily, he pulled himself to his feet. Both hands clutched the blaster, trying to still the tremors that ran through him. The armour felt unbearably heavy, and he wondered how he ever used to carry this weight, let alone move agile and evasive across battlefields.

He looked down at the youth whose lifeblood pooled darkly on the ground, eyes glassy and unseeing in death. There was nowhere to hide the body, and even a cursory glance would show it wasn’t Crosshair, so no point trying to disguise it in the small cot. He forced his body straight, falling into the memory of rigid protocol to step out of the cell, just another guard, another obedient soldier–

Two more guards, at the end of the corridor. Their visors trained on him as he walked slowly, so slowly, towards them. Too slow? No. Slow enough to be relaxed. Like a guard who thought nothing was wrong.

“The Doctor will be here shortly,” one of them told him.

Did they expect a response? His voice would give him away, knowing that his soft, sibilant tone would never pass for the voice of the young conscripted trooper. A slight incline of his head, acknowledging he had heard. Would it be enough?

The guards parted, and one keyed the door open for him.

Past the first hurdle. Now to find Omega.

*

The stolen helmet was oppressive, tight and humid. His breath was harsh in the close space and sweat beaded on skin which flushed hot and cold, clammy and uncomfortable. With each step the headgear rubbed against swollen right side of his face, bruising stretched tight over his angular cheekbones, and he was certain that someone would notice he didn’t walk with the confidence of a soldier who owned this armour.

Where had he spotted the loose vent; the one he had boosted Omega up to when stray chance had brought them together in an empty corridor the day before? His attention drifted and he pressed a hand to the helmet, trying to steady his pounding head. Perhaps the sedative wasn’t fully out of his system. Too late to worry now. There was no going back.

They would make it out today, or he would die. That’s all there was to it.

He stumbled, catching himself against the wall, letting the blaster in his right hand drop limply to his side. A wave of nausea coursed through him, the meagre meal he had consumed threatening to reappear. Desperate, he glanced around. Not alone. Two guards, escorting prisoners the opposite direction.

No choice. His stomach convulsed, vomit and bile burning up his throat and into his mouth. Unthinking, he dropped the blaster and wrenched the helmet off, lunch spewing forth as he collapsed to his hands and knees. Dimly he was aware of clamouring voices as he dry-heaved, clawing his fingers against the slick puddle of vomit inches from his face.

“That’s one of the prisoners!”

Still dazed, he felt himself picked up and slammed against the wall. What was left of his vision swam, agony lancing through his head at the impact, a hot poker of pain rocketing from the base of his skull to the aching emptiness of his right eye socket. A fist found his gut, robbing him of breath he had barely recovered, before some deep-seated need to survive burned through the numbness and he thought to fight back.

Another blow to the stomach and he doubled over. His hand groped for the pistol at his hip. Once he could have done this in a heartbeat – release the cover, draw the pistol, fire. Old training guided his muscles but new weakness hobbled him; one, two, three attempts to free the pistol.

Someone grabbed his throat, squeezing, dragging him upright. The guard. Fingers pressed into his windpipe, hard enough to bruise. Crosshair couldn’t swallow the mewl of fear as he writhed in the unforgiving grip.

Then the pistol was free, blast bolt ricocheting from the floor, and the sound of live fire was drowned by a ragged cheer from the chain of prisoners who surged towards where Crosshair struggled with the guards.

Crosshair shakily brought the pistol to bear, firing again, but the guard released his throat and knocked his hand aside. The shot went wide and Crosshair grunted as the guard tackled him, pinning him to the wall.

The second guard was readying his own blaster, backing away from the cluster of prisoners he had lost control of, trying to angle over his partner’s shoulder at Crosshair. Crosshair tilted his head back, gasping as another blow found his narrow ribs, tuning out the pain as he focused on the second guard.

He raised the pistol. His arm was shaking. Stars danced across his vision, going dark as his grip on consciousness faded.

Three shots. The third hit. The guard fell.

Noise swelled. The body was swarmed by his fellow prisoners before it hit the floor. Summoning a desperate reserve of strength, Crosshair shoved at his assailant. The guard stepped back for just a moment, then lunged.

Pain exploded in his face as the guard’s fist connected with his cheekbone. For a moment Crosshair sagged, the oblivion of unconsciousness pulling tantalisingly at his senses. But before he met that relief he was wrenched back to full awareness, a raw scream torn from his throat, as two fingers hooked into the bottom of his orbital socket and pulled.

Crosshair howled as he dropped to his knees, forced down by pressure which might have been the barest touch or might have been the weight of a neutron star; it didn’t matter, his body would do nothing but obey the grip inside his broken eye-socket. Somewhere within the excruciating blossom of pain, newly repaired skin from the surgical extraction tore.

Then the weight of his attacker was lifted from his body and still he howled, and the pistol was prised from his fingers and there were hands on his shoulders and someone was shaking him.

“He’s dead. He’s dead. Pull yourself together. You looked like you were going somewhere.”

Clawing at his face, blood pulsing lazily down his cheek, Crosshair gazed up in desperation. Prisoner’s garb. A familiar face. The hollow cheeks and shaved head of an underweight reg.

“Echo?” he groaned, reaching out with his left hand, fastening trembling fingers round the other’s arm.

A shake of the head. “Sorry, brother.” The reg was crouched in front of him, tearing strips from his sleeved tunic and wadding them up to press to Crosshair’s face. The sniper hissed and recoiled, the fresh damage to his eye socket settling into an intense, pulsing nexus of hurt.

“Is he alright?” asked another voice.

“Don’t think so.”

“I’m fine,” ground out Crosshair, pushing away at the ministering hands, staggering to his feet. He glanced around, searching, but one reg was holding out the pistol, and another had the stolen helmet.

His thoughts were sluggish, swirling in a disparate haze of pain and fatigue, but through it all one goal cut clearly.

“I have to go,” he muttered, gesturing for the pistol. It was placed in his palm, his arm sagging tiredly by his side. Then the reg holding the helmet stepped in front of him, reverently offering the protective headgear.

“Is there anything we can do?” one of them asked, and a murmur of assent rippled through the group.

Crosshair eased the helmet back on, panting shallowly through his mouth. Adrenaline demanded his body continue, even as his mind wanted to shut down.

“A distraction,” he muttered, voice distorted by the vocoder. What he wouldn’t give to have Wrecker and his explosions by his side.

A reassuring hand clasped his shoulder.

“Leave it to us.”

*

The loose vent. Crosshair came to a halt, pressing one hand to the side of his helmet, pretending to receive a com as another group of guards marched past. At the far end of the corridor a maintenance droid whirred away in silent industry.

He positioned himself opposite the vent, but had to turn his head to check both approaches were clear. The right side of his vision was a haze of red and black.

“Omega,” he hissed, low and urgent.

He saw the gleam of her eyes in the dark, checked the corridor once more. Then he stepped under the vent, lifting his arms up to her.

The girl pushed the vent from inside, sliding it out until it swung free on the one screw that held it. Then she reversed her position, shuffling out legs first and wriggling until her body dangled down the wall, holding on with the lip of the vent under her armpits.

“Drop,” he instructed, and she did. He reached out to catch her.

Almost missed.

One hand lodged securely under her armpit. The other was wide, and Omega squeaked in alarm as the uneven brake tilted her descent sidewards. Crosshair flung his other arm around her chest, pulling her tight and breaking her speed against his body, staggering as her weight hit him.

“Quiet,” he choked out as a fresh shockwave of pain lit up his nerves. He wasn’t sure if he spoke to her or to himself. The pressure inside his skull was so intense he felt sure it would fracture.

“Crosshair?” came her quiet voice, and the single word of his name was saturated with concern.

Crosshair lowered her the rest of the way to the floor, shuddering breath into his lungs. He looked up at the open vent. He’d meant to catch her and keep her aloft so she could replace it.

“We need to move,” he gasped, fingers closing vice-like round her shoulder as she turned to face him. He drew her to his left side “Stay close to me.”

A hum as the power cycled, and the lights of the corridor dimmed. The base was switched to night cycle. Distantly, the maintenance droid continued to rumble.

Crosshair fumbled to retrieve the blaster he had stowed to catch her. He didn’t mean to lean so much on her slim frame. Wasn’t certain he could walk without the support.

“Where are we going?” Omega asked, starting forwards with halting steps at the pressure of his hand. “What’s the escape plan?”

“Get to the hanger level,” said Crosshair, hoping that the vocoder would blur the exhaustion in his voice.  “We’ll find a shuttle.”

Omega’s small hand curled over his, squeezing. “There’s no way we can reach the hangers undetected,” she said hesitantly.

He didn’t know how to assuage her fear.

“Keep going,” he muttered, pushing her forwards.

*

Luck was on their side, at first.

Crosshair’s disguise held. The armour may have been an ill fit for his six-four frame, but it was the armour of a TK trooper, and nobody expected TK troopers to be an identical height the way clones were. Omega, in her medical assistant’s garb, simply looked like she was being escorted between assignments by Crosshair’s firm grip.

Crosshair’s stamina didn’t hold. Every step was a supreme effort of willpower, calling his attention back from the soft edges of the void to try and stay upright. His earlier nausea had given way to a gnawing enervation, his thoughts spacing out in absent drifts as he struggled to keep a continuous thread of consciousness.

His footsteps became heavy, dragging along the floor, and he stumbled. He caught his weight against Omega’s frame, felt her arms go round his waist to support him. Across the hall, heads turned to look at them.

“Report, soldier,” barked a captain, peeling away from his unit. “What’s the matter?”

Crosshair dragged his head up, trying to train his attention on the man. An enemy. Someone planning to stop their escape.

Achingly, shakingly, he began to raise his arm with the blaster.

Omega stepped firmly in front of him, arms out defensively. “This soldier is sick,” she said, her voice firm and uncompromising. A blaster was pointed her way, but she didn’t waver. “I am taking this patient for treatment.”

“And who are you?” came the dispassionate question. “Identify yourself.”

“Um,” began Omega, and the hesitation was enough to end them. The captain tensed, raising his weapon aggressively.

“Identify yourself!”

Pain zeroed in on Crosshair’s mind, forcing out all higher thought. There was nothing left, nothing but the need to survive.

He raised his arm. Raked a ragged line of fire through the captain, through his squad. Wavered on his feet as the men yelled and dived, trying to evade his haphazard attack.

One of the blaster bolts had taken down the captain at least. The others in the squad scrambled for defensive positions, nursing wounds, readying weapons. A bolt of blaster fire zipped into the dark space where his peripheral vision once was.

“Crosshair!”

Omega was clinging to his arm, dragging him, stumbling, into cover. She grabbed the pistol from his holster, peeking out to spy their enemies.

Deep-trained discipline kicked in. Crosshair crouched over Omega, shielding her body with his own. Sighted down the weapon. Watched his first shots go wide. Compensated. Still missed.

His sight was shot. Depth perception gone. Injury and exhaustion worked on his body to rob his hands of their steadiness.

Everything that had made him what he was; taken from him.

Crashing to his knees, head lolling, the blaster fell limply from his hands. He clutched at the right side of the visor, the reality of his lost sight hitting home. Unbidden, a wail of despair was dragged from him; back arched, head thrown back, a desperate keening sound ripped from his lungs and garbled through the helmet’s vocoder into an electronic howl which gave pause to the firefight, TK soldiers looking about in confusion.

Omega emerged from their meagre cover and levelled the pistol. Her expression went hard, eyes glinting in determination.

Every shot found its mark. With every shot she claimed a life, until the corridor echoed with sudden stillness after the fight.

She didn’t wait. Immediately she grabbed Crosshair’s arm, looping it across her shoulders and dragging him to his feet.

“Come on,” she implored, half plea, half command. “We have to make it to the lift.”

Crosshair allowed himself to be pulled along, unable to resist. Something in the back of his mind needled him as he let her take his weight, barely able to hold himself upright.

“I’m… slowing you down,” he managed, trying feebly to shake free of her support.

“I’m not leaving here without you, Crosshair.”

Deep inside, her words were a balm to his injured soul. She wouldn’t leave him. She wouldn’t. He swallowed thickly against the pulsating agony in his head and tried to keep up.

*

They reached the lift, Omega keying in the code to summon the capsule that would carry them up to the hanger level. Crosshair slouched against the wall, breathing heavily. It was all he could do to stay upright.

When the doors parted Omega led him through, her small hands in his, before she took charge of that control panel too. Sinking to the floor, Crosshair tilted his head back and let his mind swim in and out of consciousness. Not far now. Not far.

“An alert has been triggered,” came Omega’s voice, soft and distraught. “Reporting our escape. They’ll be waiting for us when the lift stops.”

Crosshair knew he should care about that. He waved a hand dismissively.

“I can handle it.”

He sensed – didn’t see, his eye was closed – her crouch next to him.

“You’re injured, Crosshair.”

He shook his head, but she was gently releasing the seal from the helmet and lifting it from his head. He didn’t have the strength to stop her.

The helmet clattered to the floor as she gasped, hands going to her mouth in shock. Bitterly, Crosshair rolled his head to one side. Tried to hide the right side of his face from her.

“Crosshair.” Her voice choked on tears. “Who did this to you?”

He knew how it must look. His right eye socket, empty. Bruising purpling the hollow lids, stretched across bone. Fine-line tattoo lost under a crust of dried blood.

“It doesn’t matter,” he managed through gritted teeth. He peered at her out of the slit of his left eye, dark brown iris glinting in the low light. “Are you okay?”

She threw herself at his chest, arms wrapping round him in a tight embrace. He grunted at the contact but raised his left arm weakly, folding it over her back and stroking her hair.

“Hey now, kid,” he murmured, words faint. “Don’t get soft on me. We’ve still got a fight ahead of us.”

She stayed pressed against him, and he felt her warm tears on his collar. Didn’t say anything. There wasn’t anything to say.

*

The lift jolted to a halt, throwing them about and drawing a protesting hiss of pain from Crosshair. Omega raised her head, dashing her arm across her damp eyes, and looked about.

“There’s a new alert,” she said, scrambling up to inspect the panel. “It says there’s a fire! The lift has been deactivated. What do we do now?”

A thin-lipped, humourless smile pressed across Crosshair’s face. “A distraction,” he said aloud, wry satisfaction in his voice.

He dragged himself up, staggered as he lifted Omega onto his shoulder and directed her to open the emergency hatch in the ceiling. He barely managed to stay upright as she climbed up, and had sagged back to his knees when she reached down through the hatch for him.

“Come on, Crosshair.” Her voice was filled with stubborn determination. “You can do this.”

It was like she didn’t give him a choice. Her child’s voice cut through the throbbing pain in his head and he found himself obeying, passing up the blaster and helmet first, then letting her take hold of his hands and haul him up. He didn’t have the strength to assist. Even with her help he lay panting and spent on the roof of the lift, staring up at the dark chasm of the elevator shaft in unthinking exhaustion.

Omega shook his shoulder gently but insistently. “We have to keep going,” she said, easing him up to a sitting position. Wordlessly, she offered the helmet.

He glanced at her, bruised face meeting her gaze with a silent nod of thanks before he took the headgear and pulled it back on, hiding the extent of his injuries.

Omega slung the blaster over her back, leaving him with the pistol and the knife. Without discussion they moved to the service ladder, Omega clambering on first before turning to check Crosshair was following her.

“Stay with me,” she instructed, and he nodded.

Crosshair settled into the leaden rhythm of the climb, holding his body close to the ladder. He didn’t trust the strength of his grip so each step he laboriously hooked an elbow round the rungs, clinging on through dogged determination, resting and panting for breath with every excruciating foot he climbed.

The hot-cold nausea was back, setting up a tremble of weakness in his muscles. He choked, gagging, his stomach convulsing once more as he retched fruitlessly inside the helmet. His bottom foot slipped and he fell, catching himself on his right elbow, left hand linked around right wrist as he dangled helplessly against the rungs.

“Crosshair, keep climbing!” pleaded Omega, wrapping her own limbs around the ladder securely as she watched him, waiting for him to continue. He shook his head, arm slipping slowly through his own grip.

“Crosshair!”

Omega lunged as he lost his grip. Snagged the grapple from the TK trooper utility belt he wore, hauling it up even as he dropped. She gasped and snatched her hands back before her fingers could be trapped, the hooked grapple head clanging tightly to the ladder rungs. The ratchet on the cable jerked and caught, Crosshair grunting in pain as he swung into the wall at the end of the line.

“Keep climbing,” he said, voice ragged and broken, waving at her to continue.

Instead she climbed down to him, positioning herself under him, pulling him back to the ladder and helping him hook his arms and legs back around the rungs.

“We can do this,” came her voice, small but determined. “I’ve got you, Crosshair.”

This time he climbed ahead of her, and every time he sagged he felt Omega’s body curl close and protective against him. Her hands tightened on the rungs as she kept him pinned against the ladder, her cheek pressed against the small of his back. Despite the tremor in her own tiring muscles she held on, letting him catch his breath before urging him to continue.

They were still climbing when the power was restored, the ladder rumbling beneath them as the lift began to rise towards them. Crosshair glanced down, then quickly pulled Omega against him and released the ladder, letting them drop to the roof of the lift as it rushed up to meet them.

Omega’s blonde hair was tousled by the rushing wind of their ascent, and Crosshair swayed on his feet as he held her tightly to his body. He turned his face down to her, studied the hardened look on her face through the blurred edges of his vision. His arm squeezed tight around her shoulders, drawing on her strength as he embraced her to replenish his own flagging reserves.

The lift slowed, then stopped.

“Hanger level,” said Omega softly.

Below them, through the open hatch on the roof of the lift, came the hiss of a door seal releasing.

Crosshair dropped to one knee, slamming the hatch closed.

“Through the service tunnel,” he ordered, shoving Omega ahead of him. “It’ll take us above the hanger.”

Muffled voices. “The lift is empty.”

“What? They must be there. We had confirmation they were in this elevator.”

“Stay on guard! They have to be somewhere.”

They crawled into the narrow vent, Omega fitting easily, Crosshair struggling to drag his armoured shoulders along the tight channel. Plastoid scraped against durasteel with a grating whine, echoing along the duct, and he knew the sound would give their position away.

“Keep going,” he hissed, stopping to release scraps of armour and shed them inside the tunnel. It wouldn’t be much use now anyway. Once they reached the hanger, the opposition they faced would be so overwhelming that the armour wouldn’t save him from blaster-fire coming his way.

Pauldrons and pack discarded, he carried on after Omega. Blood drips spattered the inside of his visor. He didn’t have time to stop and wipe them clean. Had to keep moving. Almost out.

Almost out.

So tired.

Almost out.

Omega had stopped over a grille, pointing down into the hanger below.

“There’s TK troopers everywhere,” she whispered, shuffling to give him space to look.

He barely glanced at the scene. Trying to focus on the distant squads of soldiers set his head aching. Between the lost half of his vision and the smears inside his visor, so much was obscured.

“There,” he slurred, “that line of fighters.”

Omega scanned the hanger and saw the row of fighter ships, cockpits canopies open and ready to welcome their pilots.

“Do you know how to fly them?” she asked.

“Yes. Tech made me memorise-”

“-the specs of every ship,” she finished, a small smile curling her lips. “He did the same with me.”

Crosshair’s chest constricted at the memory of his brother. Choked back the wave of grief that threatened to drown him.

“We go along the line, sending them off on autopilot,” he said. “They won’t know which one to follow.”

“Which ship are we taking?”

“We need something with hyperspace capability.” He pointed to a slightly larger shuttle. “That one.”

They resumed their crawl along the duct, trying to ignore the shouts of the search parties below. Omega stopped when they reached a vent almost directly above the row of ships, threading one slim hand through the grating and starting to unscrew it from the outside.

Crosshair readied the grapple, then folded his body into an awkward seat and stole what rest he could whilst Omega worked. Everything was starting to sound very distant. His mind floated on a cushion of adrenaline, comfortably numb as his consciousness divorced itself from the pain wracking his body.

Then Omega was shaking him awake.

“Ready?” she asked. He blinked groggily inside the helmet, wincing at the way his bruised eyelids pulled on the tormented right side.

“Yeah,” he muttered unconvincingly, shifting into position.

Omega released the final screw and caught the grate before it dropped, lifting it back into the duct and stowing it behind her. She spidered herself over the hole, letting Crosshair and the grapple cable lower down first, before shimmying onto the cable herself.

Crosshair dropped quickly to the floor, knowing speed was as essential as silence to their descent going unnoticed. He misjudged his footing at the bottom, rolling his ankle with a muttered curse. Quickly detaching the cable from the utility belt, he hobbled to the protecting shadow of the nearest ship and watched in desperate anxiety as Omega shinned her way down the cable.

The girl dropped to the floor and scurried to his side, peering up at the fighter. “I should be able to activate the autopilot on a timer so they all start moving at once,” she told him.

“I’ll keep the patrols off your back,” he replied, taking the blaster from her and passing her the pistol instead.

Omega hesitated, about to turn away, then straightened to face him. “Crosshair,” she said with an uncertain waver. “We’re leaving together.”

Crosshair shook his head. “If you get the chance to go, take it. Tell Hunter-”

“Tell him yourself!” she snapped, voice rising angrily. “I’m not going without you!”

He clamped a hand across her mouth to quiet her, hissing a warning. She struggled and he released her, crouching down so he was on eye level with her.

“Omega,” he said, tiredness in his voice stilling her protest more effectively than his hand had. He blinked inside his helmet, trying to clear his vision, trying to fix the image of her determined, trusting face in his mind.

She pressed into him, arms folding round his half-armoured body in an embrace that spoke all of the words they didn’t have time to say. Crosshair cupped one hand to the back of her head, trying for a soothing hum that broke as his voice quavered in exhaustion.

Then he let go, shoving her gently towards the ships.

“Get on with it,” he hissed, and turned away to avoid the hurt in her eyes. The recrimination at the sacrifice they both knew he planned.

Because it would be worth it. His life for hers. Returning her to his brothers was all that mattered.

His head swam as he steadied the blaster in both hands.

Escape, or die trying.

Help the girl escape.

Die trying.

*

The floor wobbled and gave way beneath his feet as he crossed the hanger. He fell with it, crashing to the spongy surface with a thud. Blaster in his right hand. Left splayed against the ground, testing it. Firm. No give. Still, his head strobed in and out, attention bowing and flexing as the world pulsed indistinctly around him.

He might be hallucinating. He suspected that now.

Dragged himself to his knees. Levered back to his feet.

Raised the blaster. Tried to focus.

Everything seemed so fuzzy, so distant. The HUD told him how far to his target, but it must be reading wrong. Surely he was closer than that. Was he? Leaden legs carried him forwards without conscious thought. The inside of his visor was smeared with his own blood, further restricting what remained of his sight.

The helmet was stifling. His own breath was hot and harsh, the noise of it filling his ears. He couldn’t concentrate. He couldn’t see.

Needed to concentrate. Needed to be able to see.

Uncertain, trembling, he reached up and pulled the helmet off. Winced as it dragged past the tender swelling of his face.

Or maybe he cried out. That would explain why the TK troops suddenly turned to his direction.

“There he is!”

“All units, respond.”

“I don’t see the girl.”

“Don’t let him escape!”

The helmet fell to the floor with a clang. This was better, he thought dully. He could breathe easier. See better, without the distracting smears of red across his vision.

Heavy footsteps. Lots of them. Armoured figures surrounding him, weapons ready.

“On your knees, prisoner!”

Crosshair turned his ruined face, surveyed his captors. Dragged in a wet breath through his open mouth.

A blow landed on his back, staggering him. He dropped to one knee, a broken whimper escaping him.

“Drop your weapon!”

Shakingly, he raised his hands. The blaster swung loosely from his right.

Heard someone step towards him. Couldn’t see them in the blind spot left by his missing eye.

The roar of an engine awakening. A chorus of engines. Shouts of surprise, and the TK troopers turned.

“Siths hells…”

Crosshair didn’t look. Couldn’t afford to look. Had to take advantage of Omega activating the line of fighter ships.

Spun the blaster, bringing it to bear. Finger closed around the trigger.

Opened fire.

Howls of pain, blaster bolts burning through armour. He didn’t know how many he hit. Didn’t know where he hit. Arms, legs, it didn’t matter. Gone was the ability to pinpoint each enemy, one shot, one kill. This would have to do, a haphazard spray of fire and a prayer that they would escape.

A fresh burst of adrenaline drove him to his feet, subsuming the emptiness that clawed at his willpower as he began to move towards the shuttle. He was lightheaded, stumbling as he staggered forwards with the blaster swinging between targets. Didn’t care if his shots hit. Couldn’t have aimed if he tried. It was enough that his continued fire forced the troopers to dodge out of his way, clearing a path for his exhausted body to follow.

His vision blacked out and in again. He realised he was on the floor, slumped on his front. When did he get there? He didn’t remember falling. Aligned his arms underneath his body. Pushed up. Struggled to get his legs to work.

“Order confirmed. Prioritise the girl. Stop her escaping!”

Crosshair raised his head. Blinked away the blurriness. Watched one of the gunships lift from the ground, turning slowly.

They were going to shoot Omega down.

Kept turning. Cannons pointed towards him.

Oh.

It was Omega.

Just in time he let his weight drop, belly pressing to the floor once more. The gunship’s cannons spoke, shells rocketing over his head and detonating against a stack of crates, starting a chain reaction as stored ammo and munitions were consumed in a rapid inferno. A blast of heat seared his back, baking even through the protective armour, and he slowly began to crawl forwards on his stomach to escape the blaze.

The ramp of the gunship lowered, exposing the troop transport hold within.

What was she doing? She was supposed to flee. Take the ship and go. Why was the ship hovering in place, entry ramp open invitingly?

Not leaving without you.

Her words constricted the broken fragments of his heart, filling him with purpose.

Not leaving without you.

He staggered to his feet, lurching forwards. One step. Then another. Another. Towards the gunship. Towards the light that spilled from the hold.

Towards freedom.

Close enough now to see her frightened face through the canopy, barely tall enough to see over the controls.

A faint smile touched his lips.

Another step. Towards Omega.

Towards salvation.

Her expression crumpled in panic. Mouth opened in a warning shout that didn’t reach his ears.

His smile faded to confusion.

Pain erupted in the exposed joint of his shoulder, protecting pauldron discarded to fit through the vent.

A blade twisted. A howl as bone sprung free of the socket.

Whirling, staggering, Crosshair faced down the soldier in his blind spot, snuck up where he could no longer see.

The knife, dripping with his blood.

The soldier lunged again, knife digging into the seam of his collar bone, so close to main arteries.

Pupil dilated with shock. Crosshair’s hand flew to his neck, pressing against the gout of blood threatening to spurt as the soldier dragged the knife back. Gripping the hilt, he kept it embedded in the wound.

The soldier struggled against Crosshair’s grip. Crosshair dropped the blaster. Tugged the knife from his belt.

So tired. Too tired to find the will to fight.

Dislocated shoulder refusing to bring the knife to bear.

He imagined a hand closing over his. Hunter’s grip, strong and sure.

Closed his one eye. Darkness, so comforting.

Drove the knife home.

A high voice, calling his name. “Crosshair!”

Hands pulled at his armour, tugging him forwards. He opened his eyes.

Omega, hauling him towards the ramp of the gunship.

Crosshair’s mind whipped back to wakefulness, the urgency of their situation crashing over him. He finally forced his legs to work, stumbling forwards under Omega’s guidance until they were both in the ship and she released him, running back to the cockpit.

Crosshair’s hands grasped for a gun he didn’t have, and he turned dazedly back to the hanger. TK troopers were recovering, emerging from cover and launching volleys of blaster-fire towards their ship. He dived to the side, a blast bolt grazing his hip and drawing another guttural cry of pain from him. His left arm wrapped across his body and he gripped his right elbow, holding his loosely swinging arm against his chest as he staggered after Omega.

“This isn’t the ship I pointed out,” he gasped in frustration, collapsing heavily against the wall.

Omega’s hands flew over the console, activating the ignition sequence. “I know,” she said. “This one had more defensive capabilities.”

“It has cannons!” he hissed. “That’s offensive!”

“Wrecker always says that offence is the best form of defence,” countered Omega. She gripped the steering column and the ship lurched forwards, towards the strip of night sky showing beyond the under-hang of the mountain. Already, fighter jets swarmed outside, anticipating their escape.

The front of his chest was growing warm and damp. The knife still embedded in his shoulder was slowing the blood loss but couldn’t stem it completely, and the stab wound that had dislocated his right shoulder flowed freely. The whole right side of his body was a mess, so much pain clouding his senses that it was hard to distinguish one injury from the next.

His breathing was shallow, rapid, skin cold and clammy. He released his grip on his own arm to steady himself against Omega’s pilot chair instead, leaning heavily against it as he tried to focus on the rushing darkness outside the cockpit.

“Can you do this?” he asked, the words laboured and indistinct. Omega glanced at him in worry, then fixed her gaze straight ahead.

“Don’t worry, Crosshair. I’ll get us out of here.”

The ship lurched as she dived, evading the fighters which raked fire towards their fleeing ship. Crosshair all but fell into the co-pilot’s seat, answering the impact with an agonised growl before forcing the restraints across his protesting body to strap in safely. He was no good to Omega passed out on the floor of the cockpit.

Omega snuck another look at him, her brown eyes pointedly following the red stain cascading down the stolen armour. Rivulets of blood trickled down his right hand, hanging limply at his side, dripping to the floor with alarming alacrity.

She gunned the engines, the ship roaring as it picked up speed. She shot through the waiting cloud of enemy ships, then killed the thrusters and hauled hard on the controls. The ship swung back round in a tight reversal, and now that the fighters were clustered in front of them she opened fire, front lasers tearing into the delicate fighters and sending them, flaming, into death spirals.

Crosshair grunted, the sound little more than a breath. “The Tech turn,” he whispered, a smile ghosting across his lips.

Omega gave a shaky laugh. “He says it’s not called that,” she told him, angling the ship up and sending them shooting towards the edge of the atmosphere.

“He’s the only one of us who could pull it off.” Crosshair’s voice faded in and out, eyes closed. His right hand twitched, fingers convulsing, as though he would reach out to her. “I guess he taught you well.”

“Stay with me, Crosshair.” Omega’s voice cut through the tiredness of his mind, calling him back from the edge of consciousness. She sounded like she was crying. “We’re nearly there.”

That’s right. Once they made the hyperspace jump they’d be safe.

“There’ll be a blockade,” he managed. Opened his eye. Watched her punching co-ordinates into the hyperspace drive.

Dragged his left arm from his lap. Wrapped his hand feebly round the co-pilot’s controls.

“You can’t do that yet. We’ll burn up if you ignite the hyperdrive now.”

Omega grit her teeth, snuffling against tears.

“We’ll make the jump as soon as we break atmo.”

He closed his eyes, concentrated on his breathing. It seemed to be harder than he remembered. His chest, lungs, throat, didn’t seem to want to cooperate.

He trusted Omega.

Trusted she would get them out.

A sudden, high-pitched whine as the hyperdrive engine came up to speed.

The ship was rocked by vibrations as blaster fire from the blockade raked the shields.

A blinding white-blue light pierced his closed eyelid, painting his world in a haze of dark and light.

They made the jump to hyperspace.

*

Crosshair surfaced slowly from unconsciousness, groping about with his other senses without opening his eyes. The right side of his face still throbbed but it was a numb pulse now, pain deadened beyond layers of exhaustion and sedatives. Around him the ship was quiet, computers and engines humming idly. There was a strong smell of disinfectant.

He tried to command his left arm, found it would move. Lifted his hand to his face, pressing it over his left eye before cracking it open, breathing a gasp of relief as he saw his own palm. His sight. He still had his sight.

“Crosshair!”

His name was spoken low and urgently, but with undeniable enthusiasm. He dropped his hand and blinked the rest of the world into focus, a blonde-haired face swimming into view.

“What happened?” he croaked, wincing against the dryness in his throat.

Omega pressed a canteen to his lips and he drank greedily, the water slaking a thirst he hadn’t realised was so intense. Then she was helping him sit up, hands gentle on his aching body.

He realised he was still in the co-pilot’s chair, semi-reclined. Outside the starscape was still, pinpoints of light against the black curtain of space. They weren’t moving.

“What happened?” he repeated, and this time his voice was a little stronger.

The girl immediately set to checking his wounds. He realised most of his upper right body was swathed in bandages, and the cold of space hit him as he realised she had cut his clothes away to treat the wounds. He was covered by a thin blanket which had slid down as he sat upright, and he grabbed it now and pulled it anxiously up to cover his body.

“You passed out after we made the hyperspace jump,” she told him quietly, not looking at him as she worked. She adjusted the tension on the sling that held his right arm, then smoothed down the edge of a bandage that was peeling away on his shoulder. “Hypovolemic shock,” she added, as though it made a difference. “You shouldn’t try to stand just yet.”

“I’m fine,” he muttered, lying against the light-headedness he still felt.

She huffed a disbelieving laugh. “Sure.”

He let her continue her checks, until she came to his face. Her slim hands tried to rest on his cheeks but he batted them away, turning his face from her. Turning so that she was in the blind spot of his bandaged right-hand side.

“Please let me check your wounds, Crosshair,” she said in a small voice. She dropped one hand to his chest, resting it over his hand which trembled, knotted inside the blanket.

“I don’t want you to,” he said softly, trying not to sound sullen. He kept his gaze averted, sorrow etching his face.

“We need to-”

“I don’t want to think about it.”

She stopped, mouth set in an unhappy line.

“Please, Omega,” he said, and the uncharacteristic plea softened her expression. She nodded, going to sit back in the pilot’s chair.

“So where are we?” he asked after a moment, drawing her from her thoughts.

“I’m not sure,” she admitted, a soft waver of worry in her voice. “I’ve sent a signal to the rest of the Batch. I’m hoping they’ll pick it up, but without Tech-”

“Echo will get the signal,” Crosshair interrupted her without thinking. “He’s good at things like that.”

A meek, watery smile wobbled onto her face. “Yeah. They’ll find us.”

Now Crosshair tilted his face to her, ignoring the uncomfortable pressure of his bruises as he returned her smile. It even crinkled at the corners of his left eye, a glint of his old fire and flint flashing in his gaze.

“That was some good flying,” he told her honestly. She drew her knees up to her chest and wrapped her arms around them, a shy grin coming to her face.

“It was pretty cool,” she agreed, a shaky laugh shuddering up through her small body. Then, “Thanks for getting me out, Crosshair.”

“You got yourself out, kid,” he said, a low admission of approval.

“I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He touched his hand to his bandaged arm, his neck, his cheek.

“I wouldn’t be here without you either, so consider us even.”

They lapsed into silence. Crosshair reclined back into the co-pilot’s chair once more, letting the padded seat take the weight of his aching body. His head span and he closed his eye against nausea, hoping Omega wouldn’t notice his pallor.

He kept his eye closed as he listened to her shuffle, approximated that she was imitating his position. His thoughts abstracted, snatches of memories surfacing and then flitting away as he continued to hover between sleep and wakefulness.

Eventually the com beeped.

A familiar voice.

“Havoc Five, come in.”

Crosshair started, flinching awake with a cry as the movement strained his injuries. Omega was scrambling for the com, leaning over the console with a delighted gasp.

“Hunter!”

“Omega!” The relief in Hunter’s voice was tangible as a cheer set up from the background.

“Omega! Where are you?” That was Wrecker’s voice, booming with enthusiasm. Omega laughed giddily, sitting up and tapping at the controls.

“I don’t know where we are. I’m sending our co-ordinates now,” she said, quickly relaying the data.

“Received,” came Echo’s confirmation. “I’ve got your position, Omega. Hang tight, and we’ll rendezvous with you.”

“Omega.” It was Hunter again. “You said ‘we’. Did a group of you escape?”

Omega glanced at Crosshair. He was sitting up now, shaking his head slowly.

She reached out and covered the com. “They have to know,” she whispered imploringly.

Crosshair looked away. “I haven’t seen Hunter since-”

“I know.” She reached out and laid a hand gently over his. Then she turned to the com again.

“Crosshair is with me.”

“CROSSHAIR?” His name was echoed in triplicate.

“He’s injured, so he can’t talk right now,” she said quickly, saving him from the demands of conversation. “Hurry,” she added. “Please hurry.”

“We’re on our way, Omega,” said Hunter, and the com blinked off.

Crosshair sagged back, staring unseeingly out the window. The young girl stayed at the controls a moment more, before hopping down and coming over to his chair.

Before he could protest Omega had climbed up into his lap, tucking her head under his jaw, one small hand stroking the back of his neck soothingly.

He couldn’t summon the energy to fight her.

Found he didn’t want to.

“They’re going to be pleased to see you, Crosshair,” she whispered into his chest, fingers tracing repetitive lines on his skin. “Just like I was.”

Despite the way his right side throbbed, he relaxed into the comfort of her weight on his left. He brought his uninjured arm up and closed it round her, pulling her tight against him as he rested his left cheek on her soft hair.

No, he didn’t want to see his brothers. No, he didn’t want her to check his wounds, face the reality of his loss.

But laying here like this, listening to her soft breathing, he found his doubts fading.

It didn’t seem so bad when he thought of it as a trade-off.

A price paid.

His eye. Her freedom.

His little sister.

Not leaving here without you.

It would take time for his injuries to heal. But she had already mended something in him that had been broken.

He would go through it a thousand times over if it kept her free.

He closed his eye, trying not to remember the darkness at the side of his vision.

A price paid.

A fair price.

This time, as he drifted just above the threshold of sleep, he was at peace.

*check the reblogs for the epilogue!*

#the bad batch #tbb fanfic #the bad batch season 3 #tbb s3 #season 3 predictions #tbb crosshair #tbb omega #crosshair and omega #omega and crosshair #hemlock #royce hemlock #tantiss #mount tantiss #escape from mount tantiss #febuwhump #febuwhumpday15 #“who did this to you” #badthingshappenbingo #tortured for information

[whumpypepsigal]

Whumptober 2023 | No. 18

Tortured for information

The Northman (2022): “Where is it?”

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2023 #no.18 #tortured for information #the northman #gifs #whumpedit #whump #restrained #beaten up #tortured #bloody face #punched #bleeding #blood #blood from the mouth #pain #heavy breathing #my gifs #amleth #alexander skarsgård

[much-obliged-timothy]

Whumptober #18

Day 18 - Baldur's Gate 3 - Tortured For Information

*

Scratch’s barking echoed through the camp. Those who had claimed spots around the fire stirred reluctantly, lifting their heads and squinting tiredly at the dog as he ran towards them.

“Not now, boy,” Karlach groaned, pressing her head to the pillow. 

“Tav, control your dog,” Astarion said, closing his eyes.

When Tav didn’t respond and the frantic barking continued, Astarion’s tired brain made a startling connection. He sat bolt upright, gaze shooting to Tav’s empty bedroll.

“Oh no,” he said miserably.

“Hm?” Karlach muttered.

“Tav’s gotten himself into trouble. Again. And it just had to be in the middle of the bloody night.”

Karlach got right up and kicked Gale, who had slept through the barking. “Up! Tav’s gone!”

Scratch reached them, whining and barking as he danced around them anxiously. He went right up to Astarion, lowering his head and whining.

Astarion knew Tav sometimes went out for walks just outside of camp when he couldn’t sleep at night. Scratch would occasionally follow along to keep him company.

“Was he taken?” Astarion asked.

Scratch barked, tail wagging. Karlach got up, dragging Astarion and Gale with her.

“We’ve got a friend to save,” she said, pulling them along.

“Don’t touch me,” Astarion said, shaking his arm free. “Scratch?”

Scratch barked and ran forward, looking back to make sure they were following him. They took a moment to grab their weapons and packs before following after him, knowing they didn’t have time to properly dress. 

Scratch led them outside of the camp, into a set of trees. It was dark out, but the moon reflected off a stream flowing alongside the path enough to make the ground visible. Astarion smelled Tav’s blood before he saw it sprayed against the ground.

Scratch whined at it, pawing the ground and looking up to the others. Karlach knelt down before him, scratching behind his ears.

“We’ll find him, boy,” she promised. “Can you help?”

Scratch whined and sniffed at the ground. He practically pressed his nose to the dirt as he began to walk along, nose working overtime to find his friend.

“Which of our many enemies is it this time?” Astarion said, stretching.

“Don’t act like you’re not worried,” Karlach said, shooting him a look.

“I’m tired,” Astarion corrected, refusing to admit he was worried. Of course he was; Tav could be a bit naive but he wasn’t oblivious or weak. Taking him by surprise and dragging him away would take a skilled enemy to accomplish. 

They fell silent, going on alert as Scratch led them further through the trees and away from camp. They probably should’ve woken the others up for reinforcement, but it was too late to worry about that now.

Scratch suddenly stopped, growling low in his throat, his whole body going tense. Astarion slipped past him and moved stealthily through the trees until a small camp came into view. He signaled at the others to stay back while he observed what they were up against. 

The first thing he realized was that Tav was tightly bound to a chair, bruised and bloody. He’d clearly been beaten in the time it took them to find him.

The second thing he realized was that Tav was surrounded by five Gur. One, the apparent leader, towered over him, a knife in hand. She pressed it to his throat.

“Be a shame if the bard lost his voice,” she said, the flames from the small fire in their camp glinting off the blade. 

“A loss to the world,” Tav said weakly, but didn’t flinch back as she pressed it just hard enough to draw a thin line of blood.

“Tell us where the monster is,” she snarled, grabbing his hand. “Or I will hear you scream once more and then take your voice from you forever.”

Tav dragged his gaze up, one of his eyes nearly swollen shut and coated with blood. He met her eyes with a hard look.

“I will never tell you where Astarion is,” he said simply. “Do your worst.”

She placed his hand on the chair and held her hand out. One of the others handed her a mallet, and Astarion felt rage pour through his as she slammed it down on his hand.

Tav clenched his teeth together, throwing his head back at the audible break of his hand. He squirmed in his bindings, but refused to give them the satisfaction of his screams of pain.

“You would suffer for that monster?” she demanded. 

“I would suffer for that man, again and again,” Tav said, his voice strained with pain. “I will not tell you where he is.” 

“Then you will die slowly in his place,” she said, taking the knife into her hand again.

Astarion had forgotten the others waiting for his signal. He had forgotten everything but the man below, enduring pain just to keep Astarion safe. Protecting Astarion, even knowing that Astarion had only pursued him originally for that very thing. 

But it had grown beyond that. Tav was unlike anyone Astarion had ever met, and he proved it again even now without knowing it. He was loyal to a fault; it was going to get him killed.

But not today. Not right now. Astarion refused to watch Tav suffer another moment.

He brandished his daggers in hand, let his rage fill him, and slipped into the shadows to teach these bastards what true suffering was.

#whumptober 2023 #no18 #tortured for information #baldur's gate 3 #fic writing #dragon age 2 #astarion #bg3 tav #karlach #bg scratch #bg3 #astarion x tav #jtdoeswhumptober

[insertmeaningfulusername]

After a mission turns sour, Quinlan finds himself in dire straits. All that’s left for him to do now is hang in there – quite literally – and wait for his partner to come rescue him. He waits rather longer than he expected he would have to.

Written for day 18 of @whumptober-archive 2023: Blindfold | Tortured For Information | "Hit them harder."

#whumptober2023 #no.18 #blindfold #tortured for information #“Hit them harder.” #star wars #star wars the clone wars #fic #quinfox #foxquin #quinlan x fox #commander fox #quinlan vos #my writing

[atimeofyourlife]

Whumptober day 18

rated: t | wc: 825 | prompt: Blindfold | Tortured For Information | “Hit them harder.” Steve dealing with the aftermath of the Russians

"Who do you work for?"

"Scoops. I work for Scoops Ahoy!"

Steve woke up screaming, as he had almost everyday since Starcourt had happened. Unable to escape from the horror he'd experienced in those long hours that he was trapped in the Russian base. The injuries were starting to heal, but after every nightmare they felt fresh again. The pain renewed, leaving him in agony for hours until his mind cleared enough to remember it was over. His mind making him constantly relive the torture that he'd suffered at the hands of Russian soldiers, doing anything they could to get him to give up information that he didn't have.

It wasn't just the nightmares that made Steve relive the worst hours of his life. Every time he looked in the mirror and saw the slowly fading bruises, he could feel the knuckles of combat-trained soldiers cracking his cheekbone. Every time he took his shirt off, the pain flaring in his chest along with the sea of color painting his torso, reminding of how it felt to get his ribs broken under the force of a steel toe boot kicking repeatedly. Even looking at the bottle of prescription-strength pain medication that he'd been given as he was discharged from the hospital threw him back to the high of the interrogation drugs that had been forcibly administered, to what it felt like to lose control. Not wanting to experience anything like that again, he tried to care for himself using as little medication as possible. Opting for hot and cold packs held against the most painful areas, and nothing stronger than over the counter tylenol, not even considering the extra strength variety. It was the only way he could push through.

No matter how bad it was, he didn't want to talk about it. Not even to Robin. He could listen to her talking about her struggles with everything for hours. Being the friendly reassurance she needed. But he couldn't bring up everything that had happened to him. Not wanting her to feel worse, not wanting to make her relive more of the awful memories than she already did. She didn't need the reminder of how he'd almost died down there, of how she'd thought for a good ten minutes that she had been tied back-to-back with his corpse. Steve knew that suffering in silence wasn't a healthy choice, but he didn't want to put any more on the people that had already been through so much. Maybe if Hopper was around, but was it like a knife to the gut every time he remembered that Hopper had met the fate Steve had almost resigned himself to after getting captured.

But on top of the pain of the injuries, and the horror of the past weeks, there was also the fear of the future. The fear of what would happen next. Would the Russians find him, track him down and take him captive again, with or without Robin? Torture and drug him again for more information, about the Upside Down, about the monsters, about El and her powers. Or would they use the little information he let slip while under the influence of the truth serum they'd injected him with? Use it to target Dustin, to take him hostage, to harm him because of Steve's slip up.

It took Robin falling asleep on him one night when she came over to check on him for everything to come pouring out. He fell asleep quickly in her warm embrace, but it wasn't long before he was screaming and thrashing awake. Robin's gentle touch and comforting words didn't do much to bring him down from his terror. Instead, her voice threw him further into it. Making him fear that she was there with him, that she was getting hurt and drugged again too. That neither of them were safe and they'd never made it out. His mind slowly cleared, and he became more aware of his surroundings. He took one look at Robin's worried expression and broke down into the tears that he'd been holding back for far too long.

Robin held him close as he cried, letting him get it all out before asking the difficult questions. But Steve did answer honestly this time. About how every time he got any sleep he was reliving the torture, the pain, the drugging. Robin didn't push for the details, she didn't need to as she already knew how bad it had been. She had heard his screams of pain in the time that they'd been separated, then seen the damage when they were brought back together. Instead, she just got him to agree to talk to her whenever it got bad. That they would work through everything they'd been through as a pair. That they would get over the pain and the torture the only way possible when the trauma had bonded them for life. They would do it together.

#whumptober2023 #no.18 #tortured for information #stranger things #fic #steve harrington #steve harrington whump #robin buckley #platonic stobin #stobin #atimeofyourwrites

[whumpookies]

Day 18 Title: I tend to deflect when I'm feeling threatened.

Prompt: tortured for information.

#whumptober 2023 #no 18 #I tend to deflect when I'm feeling threatened. #tortured for information #whump #waterboarded #electrocution #beaten #hurt #angst