Chapter Text
The cell used to be dark.
He knows that much.
Wemmbu isn’t sure exactly how long it’s been. He used to track the time between meals, but ever since Lettuce noticed what he was doing, the mealtimes have become increasingly irregular.
It feels like it’s been longer than usual, at least, though it’s not like he knows how long usual is.
So, yeah. It used to be dark. He used to stumble over every crack in the floor trying to navigate his cell with only the light from under his door. Used to being the keywords here, because it’s been a long time since Wemmbu’s had trouble with that.
The dragon scratches absently at one of the scabs on his leg. It’s long and deep, the remnant of one of Lettuce’s less imaginative torture sessions turned impromptu lesson in dragon anatomy.
Wemmbu’s still nursing a dislocated shoulder from that same day. Lettuce had just wanted to see if it was possible to dislocate a dragon’s joints, which obviously it was.
He isn't sure if Lettuce was genuinely stupid enough to not know, or if he’d just wanted another excuse to hurt Wemmbu.
Wemmbu wouldn’t put either reason past him.
He sighs, tilting his head back until it’s resting against the wall. Fuck.
It’s been so long that Wemmbu’s starting to forget things. He can’t quite recall what the interior of Flame’s base looked like, much less the rest of the server.
There’s a clatter, the sound of something hard hitting the floor resonating impossibly loud through the quiet room. Wemmbu looks down.
It’s a scale.
He sighs, turning his hand over to squint at the new blood crusted under his claws. That’s a new one for the pile.
Wemmbu hasn’t counted exactly how many scales he’s scratched off at this point, but it has to be more than he’s ever lost before. More than the ones that fell off when he was still working under Zam.
The door creaks, and he shoves the scale across the room to join its counterparts. Wemmbu can feel his heartrate pick up, can feel his fists clenching so hard that his claws are drawing blood from his palms.
“Hey, Wemmbu! How’re you doing today?”
Lettuce sounds far too cheerful for someone who’s been torturing Wemmbu as long as he has. Wemmbu’s lips pull back from his teeth, and he bares his fangs in a wordless snarl.
“Still the same old, huh? You’re not quite tired out yet.” There’s a note of playful disappointment in Lettuce’s voice, but it’s drowned out by overwhelming excitement.
The kind of excitement a predator feels when it’s playing with its prey.
Apprehension rises in Wemmbu’s throat, forcing a hiss from between his teeth. His scales rise away from his body, flaring their sharp edges as if daring Lettuce to come closer.
“Though,” Lettuce continues, “I’d be disappointed if you had broken already. Strongest on the server and all.”
Wemmbu bristles at the mocking tone, the same one Lettuce uses every time he enters the cell. The same one he uses to condescend to the strongest players on the server every time he has even the smallest advantage.
“Shut up,” he says finally, voice raspy from disuse, and then immediately regrets his decision.
Lettuce takes two strides forward until he has Wemmbu cornered against the wall. A rough hand grabs his chin, angling his head upward until he’s forced to make eye contact with his captor.
“I’ve been going easy on you,” he growls, “seeing as this is still just the beginning. But you know what? I’ve tolerated this disrespect for too long.”
Wemmbu’s blood runs cold. Lettuce calls this going easy on him? He can’t count the number of times the other man has sliced him open deep enough to see his bones, or held him underwater until he starts drowning on land.
Lettuce raises his other hand, and backhands Wemmbu right across the face.
The dragon is sent sprawling to the other end of his cell, knocking over his pile of scales with a loud clatter.
The heavy sound of netherite boots draws closer.
Wemmbu curls in on himself. He can’t bring himself to look at his captor, not when he knows there’s nothing but pain waiting for him. He doesn’t think his body has ever been more tense than it is now, bracing itself for more of the torture that’s been in his nightmares for the better part of his stay here, and–
–Lettuce’s footsteps have stopped.
Wemmbu chances a wary glance at the other man.
What is he doing?
Lettuce is knelt by Wemmbu’s scales. He’s holding one in his hand, turning it through every angle and observing how the meager light from under the door reflects off its surface. The scale catches the light just right, and the gleam of Wemmbu’s blood makes itself apparent.
He feels a chill go down his spine. Nothing good can come of that.
“Wow,” Lettuce remarks, running a cautious finger along its edge, “these things sure are sharp. You’re just giving me weapons here.”
Sharp is an understatement.
Dragonscale is second only to netherite in terms of strength and durability. If Wemmbu had more of them beyond the collection on his forearms and shins, he doesn’t think he’d even bother wearing netherite armour.
But dragons are rare, dragon hybrids even rarer, and so that knowledge has remained relatively hidden. There’s always the occasional duel where Flame’s sword glances off the smattering of scales on his arm, or when he’s stuck in a mob and doesn’t quite get to his rockets in time to fly away, but those moments are easily forgotten in the heat of battle.
Nobody’s had the time to really observe just how strong Wemmbu’s scales are. Not until now, at least.
“You know what,” Lettuce says, voice taking on a considering lilt, “I’d say these are even tougher than dragon leather.”
Wemmbu’s blood goes cold.
No.
“No,” he croaks, “no, please–”
He’s cut off by a kick to his chest, and his words dissolve into choked gasps as Lettuce’s boot crushes into his windpipe.
Fuck, he can’t breathe, he can’t–
“What did I say about speaking, Wemmbu?”
Lettuce’s voice is quiet. Measured. It would probably sound calm to anyone else, but Wemmbu knows better than to think that.
He’s made a mistake.
It seems like an eternity before the pressure on his neck abates, and it takes even longer for the black spots to clear from his vision, for his brain to restart.
Wemmbu swallows thickly, testing the new hoarseness in his throat with a grimace. He probably won’t be able to talk for a while even if he wanted to.
Lettuce crouches down until he’s eye to eye with Wemmbu, still fiddling with the scale in his hand as he does. Wemmbu can’t take his gaze off of it, transfixed by the way it shimmers in the light even when covered in his dried blood.
“Here’s what’s going to happen,” Lettuce informs him, casual as can be, “I’m going to have to punish you for that.”
Wemmbu knows what’s going to happen.
“We could kill two birds with one stone, if you get what I’m saying.”
No.
He blinks. Lettuce is pressing his own scale into his open palm, curling his fingers around it tight enough for its edges to dig into his hand and start drawing even more blood.
No.
“Come on, Wemmbu. You know what you need to do.”
No.
“Do you need a demonstration? I always knew you were stupid, but you really can’t even follow simple instructions.”
No–
Pain lances sharp and sudden through his left wing, and Wemmbu half-chokes as a scream forces its way from his abused throat. Lettuce has one hand forcing the limb down, holding it immobile even as Wemmbu thrashes against his grip.
His other holds another scale tight between its fingers, scoring neat lines all the way down Wemmbu’s wing. Neat slits.
Wemmbu can feel his wing trying and failing to catch the air, can feel the cold damp wind in this cell flowing right through him.
It’s wrong.
This can’t be happening.
“It’s your turn now, dog.”
No, he wants to say. Please. He’ll say whatever Lettuce wants if it means he doesn’t have to do this.
Wemmbu’s hand clenches harder around the scale. He can hardly feel his fingers now, though whether from adrenaline or blood loss he’s not quite sure.
Lettuce can’t make him do this.
Then Lettuce’s hand is letting his wing go, and it falls limp, immobile despite Wemmbu’s greatest efforts to get it to twitch even a little. In the same instant he takes hold of the other one instead, pressing it into the stone floor of his cell.
There’s a firm grip around his wrist (when did Lettuce even do that–), bringing his arm up until he’s holding the edge right against the leather.
Lettuce pushes his hand forward a little, just enough to draw a bit of blood, and keeps it there.
“I know you think you’ve lost everything. You’re weak, you don’t have your maces, and now you can’t fly. You’re not even the strongest anymore, Wemmbu. But you know what? There’s always more to lose. I’d just have to look in a… different dimension. Let’s put it like that.”
Egg.
The scale has pierced through his wing before he can think twice.
It burns.
Fuck, it burns.
Wemmbu swallows around the lump in his throat. He’s shaking, but his hand is unwaveringly steady as he draws a line through the leather of his own wing.
It hurts, and yet it’s nothing he hasn’t felt before.
He can do this.
Wemmbu pulls out the scale as soon as he thinks he’s in the clear, and casts his eyes upward to meet Lettuce’s ones.
There’s no mercy to be found there.
“We gotta make you nice and symmetrical, you know? Here, I’ll help you out. There’s three in your left one.”
Two more.
Wemmbu barely stops a whimper from leaving his mouth as Lettuce’s grip on his wing tightens.
“I’m even being nice,” Lettuce says, not even the smallest trace of sympathy in his voice, “holding your wing still for you and all.”
Wemmbu hears the threat behind it: take too long, and I’ll let go. Take too long, and he’ll have to find a way to carve through his own wing, all while fighting the urge to flinch away from the pain.
Take too long, and the damage won’t be nearly as easy to heal.
He whines deep in his throat, and plunges the scale into his wing again before he can get his breath back enough to scream. It’s becoming slick with his own blood, making it increasingly hard to keep a firm grip.
“Can’t you do this any faster? You’re the strongest, aren’t you?”
Shut up. Don’t call me that.
He’d lost to fucking FlameFrags, and he’s glad for it.
Still, it serves as enough motivation for Wemmbu to drive the scale through his own wing a third and final time, pulling it down and out with a single vicious yank. His entire body seizes and his vision blacks out for a second, but at least it’s done.
Wemmbu’s breath forces its way out of his throat in harsh pants, stinging at his lungs with each inhale. He thinks Lettuce is saying something, but it’s all muffled like he’s underwater. The pain in his wings is fading into a dull ache, too, becoming something that can be ignored.
Everything fades away in bits and pieces. Black crowds in from the edges of his vision, and his muscles lose their strength, slumping uselessly to the ground. The scale falls limply from his fingers, but he doesn’t even hear it hit the floor.
Wemmbu watches the edges of Lettuce’s boots, watches how they stand unmoving for a moment, and then–
“I’d say good job, but you needed a lot of encouragement today. I mean, that’s okay, isn’t it? You’ll get better. My sweet, sweet Wemmbu.”
–And then his eyes close fully, and he’s gone.
When he wakes, Lettuce is nowhere to be found.
He instinctively moves his arms to sit up, but the movement pulls at his wings, drawing a hiss of pain from between his fangs. He can still feel the air passing through the neat lines in each wing, knows without trying that he wouldn’t be able to get even a foot off the ground.
Dragon wings are strong, but for all that strength they are fragile once broken.
…He’ll most likely never fly again.
Wemmbu can feel his entire body go cold at the thought. That isn’t an option. He won’t give up his freedom as easily as that. He’ll get out of here somehow, and when he does he can go to the End and find Egg and Minute, and it’ll all be okay.
Egg is easily the best healer he knows. He’ll definitely be able to fix the damage, and then they’ll go fishing together and never think about fighting ever again.
Yeah. All Wemmbu has to do is get out of here, and Egg will handle the rest.