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whumble-beeee · 3 months

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Nah Sister, You Ain't Gettin' Me to No Third-endary Location!

The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping | Cont'd from Part 12

Content: mentioned past attempted noncon, noncon drugging, needles, disabled whumpee, trans whumpee, defiant whumpee, flashbacks (ptsd), tied up/handcuffs, past captivity references, begging

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Excerpt from: The (Un)Official Guide to Hero-Keeping; a self-help guide for villains and bounty-hunters

[Drugging! What a wonderful thing! Drugs are an essential, if not the most important tool in your villain or bounty hunter toolbox.

Their utility is truly endless; You can use a truth serum to gather information that your hero definitely doesn't want you to know. Or maybe you're drugging them to make them nice and sweet, pliant, bending them to your will. Just to show them how powerless they truly are in your possession. Or maybe you just want to go with the classic drugging to knock your hero out as the very method to capture them in the first place!

Truly, drugging is a jack-of-all-trades. But be warned: dosage is vitally important. Always make sure to consider the hero’s body weight, last time they ate, etc, lest you give them too much and irreparably damage them, or too little and they remain as strong-willed as always. You'll save yourself AND your hero so much trouble!]

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There was a certain bliss to the agony that Stan found himself in in those hours that Deeby was gone. Or was it minutes… Days?

After he calmed down from his initial freakout, all he felt was a bone-deep tiredness beckoning him to the sweet embrace of unconsciousness. But he couldn't. You weren't supposed to sleep when you had concussions, right? Even so, every time he did feel the warm relief of sleep overwhelming the pain and nerves and paranoia, he snapped right back awake with an involuntary shot of adrenaline that made him shoot up to sitting and whip his head around breathlessly looking for the danger that awoke him.

But there was none.

Unless of course, you counted the chain hanging from the ceiling, where Deeby had threatened to string him up. Or the chair he'd woken up tied to the last time he was unconscious, still bearing the twine that had bound him. Or the collar that made him all but defenseless, that squeezed his throat just enough to constantly remind that he wasn’t free, nor would he ever be. He was claimed.

He was powerless.

He was owned. Again.

After a while, he didn't even try to sleep. He limped around everywhere the length of his ankle chain would allow, which admittedly wasn't very far. His leg shot little pangs of white hot lightning with every step as he kept walking, along with an occasional protestational buckle that made Stan to nearly fall on his face every time, but he didn’t care. He kept walking around the chain and the chair. He sat in the chair. Then immediately sat back down on the floor. He didn't want to be in the chair.

He clutched Deeby's stupid leather jacket around his half-naked body, trying to ignore the sharp pain in his ribs every time he breathed, the light cloudiness that blanketed the world, the dizziness every time he moved his head, the rope burn, his aching knee weak knee, the hunger, the thirst.

The collar.

The distinct lack of his power, or any way to defend himself.

God he hated the collar.

Ignore it all.

His binder felt like it suffocated him every time he tried to lay down. Made the sharp pains of his broken ribs into more of a dull, ongoing agony. He wanted to take it off, but there was no way. Not with the handcuffs, not without a shirt.

Had Deeby forgotten about him?

He may have fallen asleep at some point, he wasn't totally sure. But when the door slammed open, Stan cried out from the shock and slammed his head against the wall, turning the world around him a bright white before his vision returned hazier than ever, making it that much more burdensome just to think.

Great.

“You done with the mental breakdown?” Deeby asked absentmindedly, plastic bags in hand and ignoring the way Stan glared at him. Stan would retort back, but as soon as he tried, a small wave of nausea silenced the sound before it could even reach his tongue.

An amused eyebrow raised at him. “What, giving me the silent treatment again?” He set down the bags and grabbed something out of it, beginning a meandering prowl toward Stan.

Stan pulled his knees up to his chest. He was so tired of this game. “N–...” He could barely force out the response, the pressure of tears building up at the back of his throat. He swallowed and tried again. “No. Jus’… tired.”

Deeby dropped what looked to be a very large plain white shirt at Stan's feet.

“Understandable. I'm gonna need my jacket back now.”

Stan's heart skipped a beat. He clutched the jacket closed around his body.

“Dude,” Deeby held his hand out. “I got you a shirt so you don’t have to whine about only being in your crop top, put it on and hand over the jacket.”

Stan felt the heavy leather lifting away from him, and he grabbed the lapels and clutched it to his chest for dear life before he could even think about what he was actually doing. What was he even doing?

Deeby let out an exasperated huff. “Is this about your chest thing? I don't care if you used to be a girl or whatever, let go–”

“No, not–!” It was actually. But not only that. It was that and the nearly invisible brand that marred his right bicep. The one that all supers were forced to bear, marking a super as a ‘non-threat,’ or a ‘threat’. Like Stan. It was the tattoo on his shoulder blade, which told all about his powers, which marked him a criminal, which marked him a test subject, as someone else’s property. Even now. That let anyone who cared to look know that he was a state-sanctioned torture victim for ‘the greater good.’

“Ca-can't put the shirt on. Cuffs.” He held out his cuffed hands to illustrate his point.

A valid enough excuse.

The mercenary groaned, but thankfully stopped pulling at the jacket and knelt down in front of Stan, holding his hand out expectantly. Stan took the cue to tentatively plunk down his cuffed wrists and to his surprise, Deeby produced a hairpin from his spiked locks and slid it into the teeth of one of the cuffs, cinching it open with practiced ease.

Stan was free!

Ish.

“Fifteen seconds ‘til I recuff you, shirt on or not.”

“A h–... hairpin?” Stan questioned. Maybe stalling slightly for time. He relished the weightlessness his uncuffed wrists allowed, even if it was just a facsimile of true freedom.

“Mhm.”

“Why?”

“Stan, do you know how to use a handcuff key to undo handcuffs?”

Stan nodded slowly.

“And did you know how to use a hairpin to undo handcuffs?”

He almost nodded again, but paused. He could… probably figure it out. It didn’t look hard when the bounty hunter did it.

“There’s your answer, then. Five seconds”

Ah crap. Stan quickly shrugged the jacket off and grabbed the shirt. It was probably one of his Deeby’s extra undershirts, like the one Stan could see peeking up through the unbuttoned gap of his flannel–

Deeby grabbed his forearm and yanked it forward suddenly, twisting it to expose his inner arm, letting the jacket fall off the captive’s back and drop to the side. Stan screeched as he tipped forward off balance, then ice gripped his heart when he realized what Deeby was inspecting.

The super brand.

Supposedly only visible under black-light. Psh. The invisible ink they used always discolored the skin, easy to spot for anyone on the lookout for it.

“Deeby. Let-let go.” Stan whispered, tugging against the iron grip.

“I told you my name's Declan, didn't I?”

“‘m not calling you that.”

“I seem to remember you saying the same thing about calling me ‘DB’.”

The mercenary's gaze drifted up towards his face, searching. Stan looked away, tried to bury his head into his shoulder, but Deeby's other hand reached up and grasped his jaw, forcing his face back up for the bounty hunter to inspect.

“No. No. No. Get off,” Stan wheezed, grasping Deeby's forearm, trying to wrench it off of his face. The bounty hunter didn't even really seem to care, simply squeezing Stan's jaw harder. Stan's headache pounded, spreading slowly and thickly like molasses out from the pressure of the wall digging into his head.

Deeby's eyes crinkled. “I need to see your villain brand.”

“Fuck no,” Stan gritted immediately, kicking at Deeby’s legs.

His grip loosened slightly.

“Chiquito, you already know how this is gonna go. Why don't you just show it to me?”

“Because screw you and everything that you stand for!” Stan yelled.

“I don't care about your man tits, runt, but I'm going to see that brand–”

Stan threw a haphazard punch at Deeby's face, hard, erratic. Satisfaction flowed through Stan's chest like ichor when an explosion of pain in his knuckles signaled a fully connected hit.

Even more when he realized that the blunt teeth of the one open handcuff had also flung across his face, evident now by the pretty nasty looking gash at the seam where the burn scar met intact skin, smearing a small bit of quickly pooling blood across his cheek. Stan took the opportunity to squirm out from under Deeby, and immediately stumbled up into a wobbly fighting position, fists raised. God, the world around him wasn’t supposed to spin like that, was it?

Deeby turned to look up at him from his position crouched on the floor, stunned.

“Huh,” he whispered to himself, clutching at his face.A small tilt of the head when it came back covered in shining red blood. It dripped down his cheek and started tracing his jawline, as if he himself were a work of art.

Blazing-red eyes flitted over to the captive, fury of a darkening storm evident with each crease of his eye. The red-stained hand balled into a fist in front of his mouth.

Stan’s breath stuttered. He wasn't gonna win this fight.

Just like every other fight.

But he wouldn't stop trying, he wouldn't give in. Even if he did stumble and the edges of his vision were dark, unreceeding.

That’s fine.

Normal, even.

Deeby stood slowly, and Stan couldn’t help but shuffle back, heart racing ever-faster.

“Y'know what, Stan?” His shoulders relaxed as he let his fist fall to his side, taking a loud, deep heaving breath. “Fine.”

…

Wait…

What?

There was no way.

Deeby was just…

He–...

Giving up?

He wouldn't!

No way.

“... what?”

“I'm not fighting you on this,” Deeby said softly. “State you're in, it’d probably kill you anyway.”

Stan didn’t drop his stance. He waited for Deeby to pounce on him as he moved to the other side of the room, but all he did was grab the bags he'd first entered with, and sit in his own chair not far away. He was so close, unguarded, completely relaxed. Blood still pouring from the open wound.

Stan could go over and kick him if he wanted to.

“You just gonna stand there all day?” The mercenary asked as he pulled out a first aid kit and popped it open.

Stan stared straight ahead, processing through the wet cement that was his mind, before crossing his arms. “Yes.”

“Okay, whatever. You at least wanna put the shirt on?”

Uhh… Right. The shirt.

Stan crept over to where the shirt laid, where he’d been pinned not one minute ago. Just like he thought, the fabric consumed his figure. Definitely one of Deeby's.

A roll of gauze nearly pelted Stan in the face. “If you need to patch yourself up, do it now. We're leaving.”

Stan fumbled the gauze. It fell to the floor right next to his aching leg. “Leaving?!”

“That's what I said.”

“Where?”

Deeby snorted as he cleaned the blood off his face. Didn't even flinch as the alcohol wipe cleaned out his skinned cheek. “Nah, you gave up the right to that information when you started having a nervous breakdown.”

Ah. Right. Deeby was gonna tell him about a phone call. The one that left Stan alone with that psycho, the one that nearly got him–

Stan's heart dropped.

“You're– You're gonna give me over to that sweater-vest freak! I won't let you!”

“Wrong,” Derby laughed at Stan’s un-founded defiance, pressing some sort of gauze pad to his face. “Not yet anyway. I'm gonna have to keep you longer than we thought, actually. Lucky me…”

All the air left Stan’s lungs. “How long?!”

“Hours, weeks, years. Who’s to say, really? Boss-lady certainly won't.”

Stan could not deal with Deeby for weeks. He couldn't. Not that this mysterious Lana character would probably be any better… or the evil sweater-vest.

He needed to get out of here.

“You could… let me go instead…” Stan tried. “Wouldn’t have to ’keep me’.”

The bounty hunter chuckled. “Funny.”

“Well I'm– I'm not letting you take me to a secondary location!”

“Stan… buddy,” Deeby stood with a grunt and made his way over to where his jacket now laid abandoned on the floor. Stan countered as far away as he could from the man, all the way to the end of his ankle leash, pulling it taut with a clang. The mercenary paid the scramble no mind as he pulled on the jacket. “You're already at the secondary location.”

“We'll, I'm not letting you take me to a– a–... a third-endary location!”

Deeby searched around the various inside pockets of his jacket. “Tertiary?”

An irrational anger bubbled up through his stomach. “Whatever! You're not better than me because you know words!”

“Mm,” he murmured, amused.

This version of Deeby was almost worse than the one who didn't hesitate to use physical violence. Stan didn't have anywhere to let out his frustrations, and he was hungry, and thirsty, and tired, and hurting, he hurt so much, he just wanted to go home, tears started to form at the bottoms of his eyes for some reason– and he was really lightheaded, the room felt so dark, was the floor getting closer somehow?

“Woah, woah, hey, careful–!” Deeby yelled, suddenly halfway to his side.

Stan caught himself as he fell, shot of adrenaline coursing through his veins. He hadn't even realized he was falling. Why was Deeby holding him up?!

Stan lept away from him. A headache pounded at his skull, like a railroad spike through his head. When did that start?

“I'm fine, I'm fine! Don't touch me!”

“Christ, Stan–”

“No, no you fuckin! Don't!” He pushed the hand that Deeby extended away. He just wanted to go home! “You-you-you kidnapper! You're doing it again! You’re not my friend! Stay away!”

“Bud, did you eat anything while I was gone?”

“No!” The tears stung as they fell. “You probably poisoned those stupid protein bars anyway! How could you just leave me alone like that?!”

“Well there's your problem! You haven't eaten or drank anything in like two days!”

Two days?!

Stan stopped in his tracks. Blinked.

Two days, huh?

Two days…

He'd been kidnapped for two days.

Before he had the chance to glare at Deeby, a hand grabbed his wrist and shoved a protein bar into his hand.

“Eat it,” Deeby ordered. “It's also gonna calm you down for the trip.”

Stan narrowed his eyes at the mercenary. Apparently hungry, thirsty, concussed Stan had no sense of self preservation. Good.

“What, is it drugged or something?” Stan asked sarcastically.

“Yeah.”

“Wait, actually? I was just–”

“Yup. For the trip. Eat it.”

“No!”

“Eat the bar, Stan.”

His hand was involuntarily wrenched closer to his face, and Stan quite literally flopped to the side to avoid it.

“Why do you want to drug me!” Stan yelled. “What’re you gonna do to me?!”

“I don’t fucking trust you to not be a brat while I’m driving! Also, frankly, I’m tired of dealing with your shit!”

“You're gonna have to shove that thing down my throat if you want me to eat it!”

The grip on his wrist tightened and Stan let out an involuntary squeak. Deeby locked eyes with him. Stan paled. He wouldn't actually do that. Would he?

“Stan. Look at me,” He jerked Stan closer. “Either you eat the drugged protein bar willingly, or I use whatever-the-hell drug cocktail the bosses cooked up for exactly this scenario and inject you with that.”

Declan pulled out a small capped injection needle from his pocket, holding it up in front of Stan's face.

Stan froze.

Needle.

Injection.

The fire spread out through his leg, Soon he couldn’t even move his leg to kick out at the faceless doctors staring down at their clipboards.

“And trust me, the effects of that are worse than you could ever dream.”

Stan turned ghost pale. Eyes widened and tunneling on the glinting needle. Breathing turned to a shallow staccato.

“But I don't wanna do that to you,” Declan continued evenly. “Because you're freaking the fuck out about it even now. So eat the damn protein bar.”

Stan wrenched his gaze away to look at Deeby. To plead with him. Even when he wasn't looking at it, it was like the syringe took up his entire vision.

“Deeby. De-Dec-Declan. Please, I don't–”

Needle needle needle needle needle needle.

“Ca-can I just e-eat a regular one?”

“After the drugged one, sure. I don't think you'll have time after the shot though, you'll probably be writhing in pain on the floor–”

“No, no, no, no, no–!!” Stan gasped. He stumbled back and tripped over his stupid barely working leg and then clutching onto the sleeves of Deeby’s jacket with white-knuckled force when he snatched him up just before he completely tipped. Stan never thought he'd be reduced to a begging mess, grasping for comfort from the very man who administered the pain that caused the need for it.

Yet here he was.

Begging.

His terrified begging always fell on deaf ears.

No one cared about the pain of a lab rat.

No one cared if the next injection made the screams louder.

“Stop. Please. Please, please…”

He looked up into Deeby's eyes, pleading. Shrill. His voice broke like a knife broke through skin. Like a needle broke through flesh. “I don't wanna be drugged.”

Deeby’s gaze softened, just barely. He slid the syringe gracefully back into his pocket, pushing Stan's hand and the accompanying poison close to his mouth.

Stan’s didn't resist.

“And it's not that bad, really. Ya ever been roofied before?”

Stan shook his head.

“Ah… Well it’s not even as bad as that. You’ll be conscious. Mostly…”

Stan pursed his lips, squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head fervently.

“Uh. It's like weed, kinda. Except… more. It doesn't knock you out, just makes you a little more pliant. Easier to deal with. More relaxed, more okay with everything.”

Stan whined. “I-I don’t… None o-of this is okay.”

“Besides, you still need to eat something. We can get you some food and water, you’ll feel a lot better. Can't even imagine the trip the injection would give you after not eating for two days…”

Stan yanked his arm, then some sort of whine-sob fought its way out when his arm twisted back. Stan stared at the bar. Then back at Declan. The pit in his stomach begged for something to fill it, yet the thought of eating the thing he held in his hands made him want to swear off any morsel of sustenance ever again.

“I could… just eat a regular one…”

Deeby's face hardened and he sighed, hand reaching for the pocket.

Stan shrieked, “NONONONONONO WAIT WAIT DON'T, I’LL EAT IT!! I’LL EAT IT!”

“Then fucking do it already!” Deeby shouted, exasperated. “Christ, if I'd injected you we'd already be on the way by now!”

“Okay! Okay, okay-y, I'll–”

“No more stalling.”

Stan's vision tunneled on the protein bar. He'd only ever had that happen with injectors. Needles.

No needles. No injection. Only if you eat this. Right now.

It's just like weed. Except more. Except worse. Except it'd make him okay with and unable to fight back against whatever Deeby wanted to do to him.

Pliant.

A deafening roaring filled his ears.

At least he'd be conscious. supposedly.

Stan fumbled with the plastic wrapper for what felt like an eternity, time stretching out as an endless road before him.

This. Or injection. Needle piercing his skin. Easy choice.

Yes. Easy choice. So easy…

He bit into the bar. Swallowed it. Bit again. And again.

Swallowed it.

The bar was gone all too soon.

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