Now the chapters should (hopefully) be getting a bit longer and more interesting. Or at least more intense. And, amazingly, they seem to be getting longer. For this chapter in particular, WARNINGS for graphic depictions of violence, general whumpage, torture, torture of a minor (is there a difference?), descriptions of blood etc. Oh, and more cursing.
This is the real beginning of the part that makes this story M, so please keep this in mind as you continue to read this fic. Things are gonna get worse before they get better.
So, yeah… PLEASE don't kill me? Go kill the VILE faculty! I did say this was whump!
Thanks as always to Vodonn!
I do not own Carmen Sandiego (Netflix). This story is a work of fiction that came from my own horrible brain because I have been searching for Player!whump and haven't found many fics like that.
…
The first punch slammed into his gut like a battering ram, nearly knocking Player backward and onto the floor again. Instead, he curled forwards, gasping as he tried to regain his stolen breath. He knew all about Coach Brunt's almost inhuman strength, but he'd never imagined he'd feel it himself. Hearing Carmen's gasps and whimpers when she'd fought Coach Brunt had been more than enough to paint him a mental picture of what she was capable of. A rough hand snagged Player's hair, yanking his face up to stare into Coach Brunt's sadistic grin. A second punch, this time a left hook, hit Player's jaw and snapped his head back. He let out a small whimper of pain but swallowed down the rest of it.
A jab to his ribs knocked him on his back and a right hook slamming into his other cheek kept him dazed on the floor. A powerful kick to his ribs had Player curling into a ball on his left side, another whimper escaping him. Player bit his lip, the pressure breaking the skin and the taste of copper danced on his tongue.
Blow after blow rained down on his rib cage; an unrepentant punch pounded against his sternum and a silent gasp fell from his lips. He wondered if he could distance himself from the pain, like Shadow-san had told him about over a late night phone call during Carmen's recovery from her fight with Brunt.
Another punch, slamming into his left knee, tore a gasp from him, quickly followed by another punch to his other knee. After that, the beating seemed to blur.
A punch, a kick, a slap, another kick, another punch, punch, punch, kick, and on and on.
Fuck this hurts, it hurts, it hurts... Make it stop, make it stop, make it stop, MAKE IT STOP!
"Why won't you make some noise, you piece of shit!" Coach Brunt yelled. Player flinched but stubbornly kept quiet.
I won't give them the satisfaction, Player thought frantically. I can't, I can't, I can't, Ican'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan'tIcan't.
Then there was a snap and someone was screaming; Coach Brunt laughed and he felt sick. The beating stopped, if only for a moment, and Player lifted his head to look down at his feet.
Oh, Player realized numbly. I guess I'm the one who screamed.
He was pretty sure his right ankle wasn't supposed to bend like that.
Tears streamed down his cheeks and Player let out a hiccuping sob but bit his lip again to hold in the rest.
"Well, I guess that's a start!" Coach Brunt snarled but backed away from Player's crumpled form.
Closing his eyes, Player tried to take stock of his injuries. He'd seen what some alone time with Coach Brunt had done to Carmen and even if he couldn't do anything about them at the moment, Player knew he had to count his wounds. Player was no medic, but he'd picked up enough from the rest of Team Red to get the general picture of what had happened to him despite the haze of pain.
Player would look like a walking bruise within the half-hour if he didn't already look like one. Coach Brunt hadn't been pulling any punches, or kicks, and had beaten every inch of his body. Both cheeks were badly bruised from Coach Brunt's punches and backhands, but Player didn't think his jaw was fractured. He had a black left eye that was throbbing along with his entire abdomen. Definitely bruised ribs and maybe a few cracked ones, but nothing was broken, or so he hoped. If he'd broken a rib and it had punctured a lung, Player figured he'd be coughing up blood. Brunt had spared his back, but his bruised knees would make walking painful and he didn't even want to think about kneeling again. Or standing for that matter
The worst was his ankle.
It was an excruciating, brutal pain where even the slightest movement brought flashes of pain to his entire body. Player didn't know enough to determine what kind of break it was; he only knew his ankle was broken. Badly. That would make walking impossible even if he had the strength to do so.
"I think that's enough for now Coach Brunt," Roundabout cut in. Player hated that he felt a spark of gratitude towards the man. "Time to bring in ACME's lost agents."
Player froze as the duo walked away from him, eyes going wide. There was a crackle of electricity that faded into a hum along with a chuckle from Dr. Bellum. Forcing his eyes open (when had he even closed them?) Player saw the translucent green dome surrounding him. The dome was large enough that he could've sprawled out like a starfish and, had he been able, would've allowed him to stand up straight.
Any gratitude he may have felt towards Roundabout had been reduced to ashes.
"I'd avoid the dome walls little Jacob," Dr. Bellum sneered, "unless you want the shock of a lifetime."
If Player hadn't been in so much pain, he would've groaned and snapped some snarky remark at her. The faint sparks that danced at the edges of the dome made the consequences of touching it perfectly clear without Roundabout wasting his breath on a pun.
It was so bad it should've been illegal.
It was worse than when Zack had been obsessed with puns for an entire two weeks, using them at any available moment. He'd finally stopped when Ivy had threatened to break his nose; Player had cracked up and Carmen made no effort to hide her smile. Player wished he could recall that flash of a memory in greater detail. Instead, he remained curled up into a pained ball.
A side door swung open, near the faculty head table, and the Cleaners dragged his parents in. Both were cuffed, their hands in front of their bodies rather than behind them, but their ankles were free. They scowled at the faculty, but then their eyes landed on their son.
"Jacob!" Lisa O'Connell screamed, struggling against the iron hold of one of the Cleaners. Martin scowled, mimicking his wife's movements, but was equally trapped.
"Cleaners? Why don't you let this little family reunite?" Professor Maelstrom drawled, and the Cleaners immediately released their captives.
Player tried to swallow as his parents ran towards him, desperately searching for the strength to speak. His mouth and throat were dry but Player wasn't sure if it was because of Coach Brunt's beating or his dread at seeing his parents. It was through sheer stubbornness that he forced his voice to work.
"Stop! Don't touch the dome," Player rasped out, bringing his parents to a skidding halt a foot away from the green dome. Player may not have any kind of a relationship with his parents, but that didn't mean he wanted them to get electrocuted. His father dropped to his knees trying to get as close to his beaten son as he could without touching the green shield.
His mother whirled around, snarling at the VILE faculty, "What did you do to him?"
"Why don't you ask your son? He's supposed to be a genius, isn't he?" Countess Cleo mocked.
I'd be flattered if someone from VILE hadn't said it, Player thought, and if I knew how she even knew about that… Maybe it's just obvious? Player briefly shut his eyes to send a quick prayer to any deity he wouldn't believe in in any other situation.
But, well, extenuating circumstances and all that.
"Son, what did they do to you?" Lisa asked, voice choked and eyes wide.
"It looks worse than it is. Just beat me up is all," Player rasped. He tried to uncurl but yelped as his broken ankle was jostled.
Both of his parents' faces darkened.
"And apparently broke your ankle!" Martin growled.
"Yeah, and maybe broke my ankle," Player admitted, biting down another whimper of pain. "And cracked a rib or two?"
"What do you want?" Lisa sneered at the faculty, keeping her and her husband's bodies between them and her captive son.
"Just some information, that's all," Roundabout practically purred.
"About?" Lisa asked shortly.
"Your employers of course," Roundabout answered.
"Please remember who is behind you before you refuse," Countess Cleo said pointedly.
His parents blanched. Player could tell without seeing his mother's face; her trembling, white knuckled fists told him everything.
"As an added incentive, if you cooperate, we'll give you some medical supplies to treat young Jacob," Professor Maelstrom smirked.
Okay, I'm not THAT young! Player mentally snapped.
Player watched as his parents exchanged a long look. He'd seen his parents communicate nonverbally more times than he could count, using hints of facial expressions to have an hour-long debate in a minute. With a huff of dark amusement, Player realized he wasn't sure if his parents would fold and spill ACME's secrets or if they'd leave him at VILE's mercy until they caved, if they ever did.
"Fine," Martin answered, voice curt. "But Jacob comes first."
"You don't have the power to make that demand," Coach Brunt retorted, taking a step forward.
"We're not demanding," Lisa said. "We're begging."
Player figured the beating and concussion, even a minor one, he'd obtained earlier was messing with his brain. If ACME agents were anything like Chief, then their pride would likely get the better of them and he'd be spending some more time with Coach Brunt. But their faces weren't frozen in fury like he'd expected. Were they really…?
"Then beg," Roundabout smirked.
"What?" Martin asked.
"You want us to treat your son before you start talking? Then beg," Roundabout repeated.
Player stayed quiet, unsure what he should say, if he should speak at all (which he doubted).
"We're begging you," Martin's voice hitched. "We're begging you to let us help our son."
"Please," Lisa said.
"Please," Martin repeated after his wife.
"Good enough for me," Coach Brunt said, turning to her colleagues. Countess Cleo and Professor Maelstrom looked like they disagreed with Coach Brunt, but didn't protest, while Roundabout and Dr. Bellum watched Player's parents intently.
"Do anything with these supplies beyond helping your son, and he'll spend another hour with Coach Brunt," Roundabout warned as the Cleaners returned to the room. They dropped a white box at Martin's feet, before slinking back into the darkness of the hall.
Dr. Bellum tapped on one of her screens and the dome faded away. Player gasped as his parents swarmed around him, his mother laying his head in her lap while his father dug into the box. The room was silent as the two secret agents helped their injured son, taking out a scalpel to cut the ropes binding Player's wrists. That explained Roundabout's warning about not using the supplies to try and escape. Some kind of cream was rubbed into the sluggishly bleeding cuts and Player hissed again. His parents both wore pained looks, guilt obvious in their eyes.
The kit didn't have any bandages large enough to wrap around his ribs and Carmen had warned him about the dangers of binding injured ribs. Your ribs naturally move when you inhale and exhale; if they are compressed by tight bindings, for example, it restricts your airflow. This is especially dangerous if the ribs are broken rather than bruised and cracked, but thankfully Player managed to avoid any broken ribs. Rest and painkillers were the only solution for injured ribs; Carmen's injuries had shown him that.
Martin turned to the faculty. "We need to treat his ankle and we can't do that with him chained up like this," Martin said, the plea was badly hidden in his voice.
Dr. Bellum tapped a different screen and the shackles fell away with a clatter.
Gentle hands, rough and calloused and so familiar, lifted his ankle into his father's lap. Player bit back a scream, biting into his lip again and ignoring his parents' confused looks. Confused and scared looks, Player mentally corrected.
A soft bandage wrapped around his ankle twice, before two wooden sticks were placed on either side of his ankle to serve as splints. The bandage was wrapped around his ankle until it ran out; two metallic clips kept it in place. Player briefly wondered if he could use the clips to defend himself but had to choke back laughter at the desperate thought seconds later. The clips were too flimsy to do much more than keep the bandage in place. His mother pressed a pill to his lips and though he whined in protest, she was insistent.
"It's a painkiller Jacob, please take it," she begged. That got Player to open his mouth, grimacing as he swallowed the pill dry.
"That's enough of that," Roundabout called and the Cleaners yanked Player's parents away from him before they could move a muscle. The Cleaner holding his mother kicked the first aid kit away from Player; the box skidded to a stop when it hit a side wall.
The electric dome once again sprang up around him, leaving Player unshackled but still trapped.
His parents were cursing in multiple languages that Player hadn't realized they knew, and he only knew from Carmen, as the Cleaners wrestled them into metal chairs. As soon as they were forced to sit, metallic cuffs materialized and clapped around their wrists and ankles while another band wrapped around their waists like demented seatbelts.
"Remember your bargain, agents," Professor Maelstrom narrowed his eyes, and Player's parents' struggles ceased, slumping down like puppets whose strings were cut.
"Now, let's start off simple," Roundabout whispered, "Where is Carmen Sandiego?"
His parents both snorted. "Why would we know where she is?" Lisa asked.
"You don't ask the questions. We do," Professor Maelstrom hissed, before nodding at Roundabout who returned the gesture.
Roundabout practically waltzed over towards Player, the dome deactivating and allowing him access to Player.
"I know Coach Brunt would love to pick up where she left off, but I think it's my turn now," Roundabout grinned. "I'd hate to ruin your work of helping your son, but I don't think I have a choice."
Before Player could even attempt to move, Roundabout swung his cane, hitting Player's mid-back with a thud.
Player gasped at the unexpected blow, squirming away from the villain despite the pain from his injured ribs. He didn't get very far before Roundabout's cane pressed into the small of his back, pinning him to the ground. He grunted at the weight and pressure forcing his ribs and sternum against the frigid ground.
"We don't know!" Martin shouted, eyes firmly fixed on his son.
"Wrong answer," Roundabout growled.
Is there a right answer? Player thought dazedly.
Player heard a metallic sliding sound, then the swish of something moving quickly through the air. Then the pain cut into his upper back, across his shoulder blades. Player cried out from the unexpectedness of the cut, reminding him that Roundabout's cane wasn't only for helping him walk; it was a saber.
Another swish, another cut, another cry of pain. The cane's sheath stayed firmly planted on Player's back, preventing him from escaping the sharp blade that was cutting red lines through his white shirt and hoodie. Crimson streaks slowly began to form.
A third swish, a third cut, a third cry of pain.
"We don't know! We don't know!" Lisa cried out.
"We don't work with her! We've been trying to find her for months!" Martin yelled.
Roundabout snarled and Player tensed, waiting for the next slash of pain, when the large screen in the middle of the room, just above and beyond from where Player was, lit up.
"Esteemed faculty members, I apologize for the interruption, but I bring urgent news," a familiar voice drawled.
"Troll, you better have a good reason for calling," Roundabout snapped.
"Oh I do," the Troll purred. "I've finally hacked into Jacob O'Connell's laptop and cell phone."
Player froze before craning his neck to look at the screen, more specifically at the Troll.
"Whoop-de-do, you hacked into the laptop of a sixteen-year-old boy," Countess Cleo rolled her eyes.
"And why do we care?" Coach Brunt sighed.
"Oh, this isn't the laptop of any sixteen-year-old boy," the Troll said, pausing dramatically to smirk at Player.
"I hacked the tech of Carmen Sandiego's secret weapon."