Chapter Text
There was something cool around his wrists. It was the first thing that registered, making its way through the fuzz in Wemmbu's brain. The harsh material bit at his wrists, almost drawing blood.
It was a weird sensation to have. His muscles going lax, incapable of responding to the desperate demands of his brain. The longer he went—hanging off from the walls, no solid ground beneath his feet—the less desperate they became.
As if his brain knew it was pointless. He was helpless, a weak creature at the mercy of his owner. The truth hurt. The truth hurt, hurts and will hurt. Wemmbu will have to get used to it someday soon, or else he'd be completely useless, better dead, even.
His eyes had dired tears around them, trailing all the way down to his chin. It was shameful. Absolutely sickening, the way he broke like it was nothing, like a little bit of pain was enough to throw him off his moral compass.
He doesn't know how long he's been stuck in here. Only that the pain will make him stronger. It was good for him, that's what Arachnid always said. This wasn't a punishment, it was an exercise—one of the easiest ones. If it was that easy, how come Wemmbu was failing it?
His arms were stretched out, pinned to a stone wall with round chain clasps. The cold was unforgiving, digging deep into his skin and waking up tremors and shivers which seemed to be a constant, even in the warmth of the sun.
The warmth of the sun sounded so distant. Almost like a fairytale. It hasn't felt like what it used to, like honeyed touches lingering on his skin, protecting him not only from the strong gusts of wind, but from the reality the world kept trying to bring to life.
It was faded, turned into something meant to be more blended with the background. His brain correlated it to fighting. When he wasn't in the darkness underneath the ground, he was on top of it leading stupid players and handling even more foolish fights.
Stupid decisions lead to consequences. Sorry didn't count, not when an entire civilization was at stake. His outburst against Flame was stupid so his consequence was worse. He knew to expect it when he started getting on Flame's nerves, possibly damaging their relation with Cindercrest.
Yungy told Arachnid. It was better for him to find out about it from them rather than from Saps himself. The meeting held with Saparata promised according punishment to the offense committed. Wemmbu would consider it a little to much, but he wasn't one to talk.
He didn't comment, didn't try to break free. Arachnid's hand was the one feeding him and he knew better than to bite when mercy was given. He willingly looked Flame in the blindfolded eyes as chains were closed around his wrists.
Saps and Flame didn't linger much longer. Still, Wemmbu could've sworn Flame hesitated before stepping away. His brain kept replaying that moment, as if it was going to change anything. This wasn't punishment, it was training.
His stomach grumbled, clenching uncomfortably under hunger's pressure. Nausea was always present in his gut nowdays, but he didn't allow it to get the best of him. Weakness wasn't good to show, not now and not never.
Arachnid said that he looked desperate. That's what he had to work on now, hiding his emotions behind a stronger mask. In a quiet corner of his mind, all the way where the pain became numbness and thoughts poured like honey, hope still bloomed.
Wemmbu was young. Too young to be drained of his power, of his will to live and make choices for himself. Being young meant being dumb enough to think that Flame might've interpreted the desperate look in his eyes as a silent cry for help. Any help, even his.
He was foolish. His bones were almost showing, he eas scared of wielding his own maces. One wrong move would send him to fissured wrists and permanently damaged skills. He'd become weaker than he already was.
Flame will help him. Flame won't let him completely loose himself in the chaos of his own doing. He'd pick his remains up one last time, before completely turning his back on him. Maybe, just maybe.
But Wemmbu allowed himself to hope, if only this last time, that someone would be with him. Anyone, to see his eyes close one last time, his brows furrowed with hunger and wrists cut and decorated with blooming bruises.