Infinity Smashed: The Strength of Chains
Mar. 19th, 2018 12:42 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
lb_leeThe Strength of Chains
Series: Infinity Smashed
Word Count: 605
Summary: Number One likes weapons.
Notes: Freebie to get a better sense of One. I know, I said I wouldn’t be posting any new writing for three months. I was wrong.
Number One’s study of other societies was not as thorough as she would have liked, but she knew enough to get by. Which was good, since contrary to most people’s thought (which was to presume all societies were based off similar foundations to their own), there were very few universals among cultures. Most, however, did have one thing in common: they had weapons reserved for equals, and weapons reserved for property.
In her own society, for instance, stabbing someone to death reserved for the highly respected, especially dueling knives. To be willing to get so close to someone, to use a weapon so easily turned on the owner, was an act of trust, respect, even intimacy.
One had never stabbed anyone. Nobody was her equal. She was livestock—exorbitantly expensive, carefully bred, exhaustively trained, but livestock nonetheless, and thus giving her a dueling knife would’ve been absurd. Someone might as well give a dueling knife to a tank, or a fetus.
One didn’t mind; what would’ve been the point? She was worth more than eight-ninths of the population, at her conservative estimate. There were worse things to be than an invaluable asset.
Nevertheless, back when her handlers had resorted to corporal punishment, they had done so according to her status. Whips, nerve-wranglers, switches. Those had been the first weapons she’d learned to use herself.
Whips and switches were disappointing. Both were intended to be used on prone, restrained targets, nigh impossible to kill with under normal circumstances. (Which, perhaps, was why they were used on her, to moderate her lethality should she take the weapon for herself.) Really, the only whip worth its weight in damage was one made of good chain; those, used properly, could break bone, bind flesh, and made the loveliest sounds. More importantly to One, they could also channel current and required lots of training to use effectively, so she was unlikely to find an opponent who could take it and flog her with it. They’d be more likely to hurt themselves.
One had learned this herself. When she’d been younger, her handlers had been unclear whether she could feel physical pain, whether it could be used effectively as behavior modification. She was, after all, the first of her kind, and only fools took such things for granted. Before they could train her, they needed to learn what made effective reinforcement, what constituted her limits.
There was a reason physical pain had been the first thing One learned to manage. A few threads woven out, strands broken, and she could go numb—and as she aged, she learned to feel without hurting, and even convincingly play-act pain so her attacker wouldn’t know otherwise. (It was not as though agony required much in the way of subtlety to perform.)
But this was before that. One chose to discard most of that memory, but she did choose to remember with relish how satisfying it had been to free herself and give the researcher a taste of his own medicine.
She had done a childish job, of course—the chain whip had so stymied her that she’d nearly put out her own eye. Eventually she’d resorted to wrapping it around her fist and simply beating the man with that. Utterly flayed her hand, and the bruises had lasted for days. But it’d been worth it, and the experience had instilled an appreciation for the chain whip, the weapon of owners against assets, and turn it to her own purpose. It seemed almost poetic.
Chains were strong. They were versatile. They were dramatically appropriate.
And best of all, they were everywhere.
Series: Infinity Smashed
Word Count: 605
Summary: Number One likes weapons.
Notes: Freebie to get a better sense of One. I know, I said I wouldn’t be posting any new writing for three months. I was wrong.
Number One’s study of other societies was not as thorough as she would have liked, but she knew enough to get by. Which was good, since contrary to most people’s thought (which was to presume all societies were based off similar foundations to their own), there were very few universals among cultures. Most, however, did have one thing in common: they had weapons reserved for equals, and weapons reserved for property.
In her own society, for instance, stabbing someone to death reserved for the highly respected, especially dueling knives. To be willing to get so close to someone, to use a weapon so easily turned on the owner, was an act of trust, respect, even intimacy.
One had never stabbed anyone. Nobody was her equal. She was livestock—exorbitantly expensive, carefully bred, exhaustively trained, but livestock nonetheless, and thus giving her a dueling knife would’ve been absurd. Someone might as well give a dueling knife to a tank, or a fetus.
One didn’t mind; what would’ve been the point? She was worth more than eight-ninths of the population, at her conservative estimate. There were worse things to be than an invaluable asset.
Nevertheless, back when her handlers had resorted to corporal punishment, they had done so according to her status. Whips, nerve-wranglers, switches. Those had been the first weapons she’d learned to use herself.
Whips and switches were disappointing. Both were intended to be used on prone, restrained targets, nigh impossible to kill with under normal circumstances. (Which, perhaps, was why they were used on her, to moderate her lethality should she take the weapon for herself.) Really, the only whip worth its weight in damage was one made of good chain; those, used properly, could break bone, bind flesh, and made the loveliest sounds. More importantly to One, they could also channel current and required lots of training to use effectively, so she was unlikely to find an opponent who could take it and flog her with it. They’d be more likely to hurt themselves.
One had learned this herself. When she’d been younger, her handlers had been unclear whether she could feel physical pain, whether it could be used effectively as behavior modification. She was, after all, the first of her kind, and only fools took such things for granted. Before they could train her, they needed to learn what made effective reinforcement, what constituted her limits.
There was a reason physical pain had been the first thing One learned to manage. A few threads woven out, strands broken, and she could go numb—and as she aged, she learned to feel without hurting, and even convincingly play-act pain so her attacker wouldn’t know otherwise. (It was not as though agony required much in the way of subtlety to perform.)
But this was before that. One chose to discard most of that memory, but she did choose to remember with relish how satisfying it had been to free herself and give the researcher a taste of his own medicine.
She had done a childish job, of course—the chain whip had so stymied her that she’d nearly put out her own eye. Eventually she’d resorted to wrapping it around her fist and simply beating the man with that. Utterly flayed her hand, and the bruises had lasted for days. But it’d been worth it, and the experience had instilled an appreciation for the chain whip, the weapon of owners against assets, and turn it to her own purpose. It seemed almost poetic.
Chains were strong. They were versatile. They were dramatically appropriate.
And best of all, they were everywhere.
