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thebest-medicine · 5 months

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had a long drive this weekend and had a lot of time to think about things — one of those things has been this brainworm:

A series where fjord and jester get stocks set up in a room on one of their boats

perhaps Fjord and Jester end up fighting off a pirate ship that tries to fuck with them and stealing their set of stocks from the dungeon. Jester is all gung ho on using them as their ‘torture chamber’ so they can prank mean pirates and get them to confess where their treasure is

Jester deserves to have stocks!!!

one where she shows them to Caleb - she gets him to sit in them even though he’s like hmm this seems like a bad idea and she’s like no no it’s fine I just wanna show you them really quick — and then tickles him

one where she shows them to Essek and gets him to try them out too, offers to help him with his spellcasting

and / or one where after showing them to Caleb she comes upon him and Essek in the room using them and she’s like omg omg omg you GUYSYSSSS and they’re like no we’re- we’re studying! It- it was an idea to help with concentration and casting focus!

Jester immediately offers to be both of their concentration coaches and insists she needs to build a second set of stocks so they can study together

one where Beau insists she’d never break under torture especially something as silly as tickling and jester invites her to try

afterword Beau is like fuck you next time you’re going in there and jester is like Yes How About Right Now Please :) and hops up

she invites Kingsley to try them out for another one perhaps, maybe also one where she invites Kingsley to help her get fjord or Caleb in them bddhfjfjgk

a cute little role playing silliness where Captain Tusktooth is interrogating a mysterious pirate wench / stowaway (Jester) in the stocks “I’ll never talk! You can’t make meHEHE!”

(Hnnnrnr maybe something with an npc where jester is like omg guys. I have an idea. Let’s take her to my torture chamber wahahaha she’ll talk. And she tickles her.?. Non con maybe kinda. Evil torturer trickster jester??? Hello???? She’s being thorough and silly and trying to get the truth. “Well I don’t have Zone of Truth prepared today- buuuuuut I can think of another way to get the truth.”)

#I had a lot of hours to ruminate #critickle role #jester deserves a nice big set of stocks #maybe a chair with restraints to hold their arms up too #I NEED TO WRITE THE THING. ESP THE ONE OF THE EVIL CAPTAIN TUSKTOOTH STOWAWAY PIRATE SPY JESTER IN THE STOCKS - I NEED THEM TO BE SILLY #‘oh admiral😍😍😍’ jester voice lol.#but make it knismo #all tieflings are knismos #that is my agenda #critical role #tickle ideas #stocks #mine #thoughts #cr #cr tickling #fic ideas #Mayhaps I shall write some of these #ideally all of them #I also love the mental image of lime #jester hearing noise and coming downstairs and she finds Caleb or Essek in the stocks and the other one tickling them and she’s like gUYSWH #and they’re both just like furiously red #then maybe she commissions them a set of stocks for Caleb’s house #he sets up an extra room in the tower eheh #anYWAY #I had a lot of time to think about this and was very stoned for part of it #ps I meant like not lime earlier but I’m not deleting and writing all these tags over

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fulcrumwrites · 4 months

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Trial and Error

Summary: After a failed escape attempt, a patient is punished treated with solitary confinement and a new method.

CW: Asylum/psychiatric hospital, medical malpractice, isolation, sensory deprivation, restraints, blindfold, muzzle, chains, straitjacket, mentioned kidnapping, gaslighting

“You can’t keep me here! Let me go!”

Dragged through the vacant hallways, the young man’s cries bounced off the walls unheeded. The grips on his arms were iron-clad as he struggled every step of the way. Digging his heels proved futile; his paper shoes slipping on the vinyl floor.

“As a matter of fact, we can, Mr. Doe,” Dr. Malcom threw over his shoulder. His professional tone only added to the fire that was Luca’s rage. “Your family admitted you into our care. That makes us responsible for your health and wellbeing, even if you disagree with our methods.”

“My family?” Luca laughed incredulously. “You have no right to bring them into this. You kidnapped me! You stole me away from them to satisfy your… your sick little experiments!” He yanked his right arm in hopes of breaking the large orderly’s hold. The desperate attempt resulted in nothing more than a deeper bruise. “And my name’s not Doe. Not ‘Mr. Doe’ not ‘John Doe’… My name’s Luca. Luca Barone.”

“I see your delusions still have a hold on you, Mr. Doe. We’ll have to adjust your treatment and boost your medication.”

Luca rolled his eyes. “Please. The only delusion here is that I’d believe my name is ‘John Doe’. You could have at least tried to come up with a convincing name.”

He was walking at their pace now, submitting to whatever punishment awaited him. This was not his first attempt escaping Mayfield Psychiatric Institution, and it won’t be the last. He wasn’t even sure where Mayfield was. It could be a fake place. A fake name. A fake asylum. All lies.

Dr. Malcom paused at a familiar door. The man shook his head and looked at Luca with those mournful gray eyes that he wanted to punch since he was first brought to this hell-hole.

“I had high hopes for you, John. You were improving. This escape attempt will only set you back. I’m disappointed.”

Luca barked out a laugh in the doctor’s face. “I couldn’t care less about your approval, old man. Do your worst.”

“And what of your family? They sent you to us to get better. Do you want to disappoint your mother, John? Your sisters? Valentina, Contessa, little Mia–”

The glob of spit splattering on his face cut the doctor off, and that’s all Luca could do as the two orderlies held him back.

“You keep their names out of your mouth!” the boy hissed with venom. “And my name is Luca Barone.”

Dr. Malcom removed his glasses and wiped off the spittle with a cloth. Then he pushed them back onto his nose before dabbing away the spit on his skin. His actions were calm, but Luca could see the flush in his cheeks and how his hands shook in contained anger. What once made him afraid now brought a rush of victory.

He held onto that triumph as the old doctor snatched Luca’s jaw and forced him to look him in the eye.

“I’m your psychiatrist with more years of practice than you’ve been alive, boy,” he seethed. “You will show me some respect.”

Luca grinned around the hand squeezing his face. “Only my mama deserves my respect.”

His jaw was released only for his head to whip to the side, cheek smarting. The boy’s impertinent smile only grew.

Fuming, Dr. Malcom turned to the door and jammed his key in the lock. His movements were clumsy with anger, but after a moment, he unlocked the heavy door and swung it open with a bang.

Luca braced himself for what he knew was next. The orderlies would stop in the doorway and shove him in. He would land on the floor on his hands and knees as the door shut behind him, locking him in the dark and silence. They would leave him there for a few days, maybe a week. Then they would let him out, he would try to escape again, and the cycle continues–if he’s caught.

“No,” Dr. Malcom says suddenly, stopping the hands on his back before the final push. Luca and the orderlies look at him expectantly, curious as to the change in routine. Dr. Malcom nods into the dark room. “I think the patient requires a firmer hand. Use the maximum security protocol, if you please.”

The orderlies’ grips tighten once more as they personally drag him into the room. Forcefully, they turn him around with his back to the wall as Dr. Malcom passes a folded white bundle as if summoned from thin air.

“Are you serious?” Luca groans when it’s unfolded to reveal a straitjacket. “Come on. How can you think I can escape this place? The door doesn’t even have a handle on the inside!”

“Your numerous attempts has made me cautious, Mr. Doe,” Dr Malcom replied dryly. “Additionally, this will be part of the upgrade to your treatment plan as other methods have proved inconclusive.”

Luca scowled but managed to not resist as they wrangled his arms into the stiff sleeves. As each strap was pulled snug and fastened behind his back, he felt smaller and more cramped as if the walls of the cell were closing in on him. Luca focused on his breathing as they finished buckling him in. His arms stretched securely around his torso and the final, uncomfortable strap between his legs prevented pulling the suit over his head to freedom.

“Happy now, Doc?” demanded Luca sarcastically.

“We have one more new method to try, Mr. Doe. It may be uncomfortable, but remember this is all for your benefit.”

“Can’t wait.”

As if on cue, a timid nurse stepped into the cell just long enough to deliver a box into the doctor’s hands. With great care, Dr. Malcom removed the lid and slowly lifted the contents into the air for all to see.

A mass of leather and metal dangled limply in his hand. Luca squinted at it in the dim light.

“What the hell is that?”

“This, Mr. Doe, is a device I had specially ordered for my new therapy. Since you were admitted into my care, I’ve been researching and experimenting new psychiatric treatments for your unique case.”

As he spoke, Dr. Malcom set aside the box to hold the contraption with both hands. He examined it from all angles, his eyes never leaving it as he addressed Luca.

“I had heard of an incarceration method where prisoners are deprived of their senses in a white room. I know that sounds inappropriate for a medical institution, but I wondered of the psychological effects as a temporary treatment. My hopes is that this method will help reset the brain and reduce mental ailments.”

Luca stared at him. “‘Reset the brain’? Do you even hear yourself, Doc?”

Dr. Malcom finally tore his eyes off of his new toy to glare daggers at his patient. “You dare question me, boy? What do you know of medical science?”

“Enough to know you shouldn’t get ideas from actual torture methods. And you all say I’m the sick one. You don’t even know if this will do anything.”

“Trial and error, Mr. Doe,” said Dr. Malcom as he lifted the device to Luca’s face. “Thank you for your involvement in the advancement of science.”

Luca instinctively stepped back and was once again trapped by the silent orderlies. They held him still as the leather straps and metal buckles inched closer.

“Don’t touch me! Get that thing away from me!”

He twisted and pulled against the straitjacket in vain. His hands itched to be free to push the offending device away from him.

“No! Stop, you bastar–”

Rubber was shoved between his teeth and over his tongue, cutting off the insult. Leather encased his face from beneath his chin to over the bridge of his nose.

The doctor breathed a sigh of bliss. “At last. I don’t have to listen to your insolence another moment.”

A strap at the base of his skull was tugged tight and buckled, followed by another above his ears at the middle of his head. The final strip of leather ran from his nose over his dark hair all the way down his cranium.

Once fastened, Luca’s teeth clenched over the bit, unable to open his mouth. Already his teeth and jaw began to ache from the strain. He inhaled sharply through his nose and smelled overpowering new leather.

Gently, Dr. Malcom took his chin in his hand again, tilting his head to admire his contraption.

“Excellent so far.”

Luca swallowed a moan of despair. If he could not speak, he would not give Dr. Malcom the satisfaction of hearing nonverbal sounds from him.

Metal flaps swung over his eyes, perfectly cupped to block out any light. He felt the doctor’s hands securing the blindfold. If he could talk, he would inform the overeager therapist that a blindfold was not necessary in a dark room.

“Perfect,” the old man breathed, sending a shiver down Luca’s spine. “I had this made with you in mind, you know.” The remark was casual as if he expected Luca to be grateful. “Used your measurements to ensure it would fit perfectly.”

He hardly had time to processes that information when his ears picked up the rustle of the doctor’s coat and his footsteps. He circled his patient, no doubt taking mental notes.

“You won’t hear me after the final step, so I’ll tell you now that this cell is to be your permanent residence since the normal rooms can’t hold you.”

Horror plummeted to his stomach. Protests lingered restlessly on his tongue, unable to be freed. Now he couldn’t resist a muffled whine, regretting it too late to take it back.

“Try to remember this experience. I’ll be interviewing you on it after I deem this first session complete.”

Hands groped the sides of his head and buttoned down leather flaps over his ears. Plugs precisely measured fitted into his ears. If the doctor was still speaking, he couldn’t hear him over the silence and the roar of his own blood pumping.

In his dark, silent world, Luca had no idea if he was alone. He stood exactly where the orderlies had placed him for what felt like hours, trembling. When his legs began to ache, he built up the courage to walk around his cell.

He only managed two steps when an unexpected pull at his waist brought him to his knees. Without sight, sound, or his hands, Luca twisted and pulled to deduce what had ensnared him. It was strong and unyielding. Possibly a rope, but more likely a chain. They chained him to the wall like some misbehaving dog. Not only must they deprive him of his senses and lock him away, they couldn’t even let him walk more than two paces in any direction.

A scream of frustration tore at his throat. In a surge of mad desperation, Luca thrashed against the excessive restraints. He flexed his muscles, pulled his arms, strained his jaw, and shook his head like the rabid dog they thought he was. For all his efforts, they many buckles and straps and links refused to budge.

At last, Luca collapsed onto the ground in exhaustion. Sweat beaded his skin as the exertion made him hot in the jacket. He took as deep of breaths as he could through the muzzle.

Hopelessness took hold and all the fight drained out of him. The faces of his mother and sisters flashed in his mind; a memory to treasure rather than a reason to rebel.

So long as Dr. Malcom had control over him, Luca had no hope of seeing them again.

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ratwithhands · 11 days

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i wonder when anyone is going to tell the league (in Battle Addict au) that straight jackets are actually pretty bad at keeping people actually restrained when they can think clearly hruoiehgboerhg (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ivuuJxX1hXg (when praciced, its even easier to get out of than shown here lol)) but this au is incredibly interesting! fascinating looking at how the public reacts to things in the extreme and how the people who they target suffer for it, and how much misinformation is spread. really got me curious how they sped their time and how this effects emmets mental state. it cant be easy with everyone acting like hes a monster. and while ingo doesn't get the majority of the attention- if must be so hard to see his brother suffering like this. and im sure he isn't spared so scorn as well. really really fascinating- and a verrrry clear reminder of what people used to think mental disorders were like and how people with them were treated.

Funny thing: that’s partially why there’s some minor edits to Emmet’s straitjacket. There’s a narrow bar that his arms have to slot through, as well as a set of belts tied to his upper arms to keep them from moving too far from resting position. Homeboy weaseled out of the first one after like two weeks and they said "ok do it again this time mf" and handed him the new one.

The league would probably put Emmet on "leave" (house arrest) if they saw him get out of another one/realize the strait wouldn't work. That is probably what's keeping him from breaking out more than the actual jacket is.

As for mental state,

The household is certainly seeing more absences and mental health days. The worst part about the diagnosis for Emmet is that everything he used to enjoy has lost its worth because any time he sits down to study, he's just proving he is crazy and battle obsessed. He forces himself out of his old habits but he doesn't have anything to fill the void so he's stuck in a perpetual state of being exhausted and disinterested. Ingo may or may not be subconsciously picking up these beliefs as well

Thank you for your ask! Took a while to respond cause of school, but I do hope to outline more about their lives and habits when I get free time. I gotta run though, so see you guys later ^^

#submas #submas au #au #ingo #subway master ingo #ingo pokemon #nobori #emmet #subway master emmet #emmet pokemon #kudari #Elesa's straitjacket is easier to escape with one layer‚ but the secondary restraint keeps everything locked in place #League straitjacket would probably have a few loopholes‚ but it's honesty more uncomfortable than anything else #oh speaking of‚ Elesa's straitjacket works better on Emmet because of the mental block‚ just like the threat of leave #he wants to be grateful and not damage the garments + they're more comfortable so he's fine to not try as hard #ALSO I should really sketch the magazines/photo edits circulating the media‚ one conflict in the plot is Ingo finding them on sale #at a pharmacy/convenience store and bringing them home to discuss with Emmet if they should bring it up with the League/Court #not to mention friends/coworkers bringing up posts they've seen and asking if they're true‚ there's probably a stupid amount of rumours #probably many instances of paparazzi catching pictures of them and just coming up with bullshit to make the image sound more interesting

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crowzwhump · 7 months

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Me: I am a normal person, with normal taste in fictional men. ^‿^

My taste in fictional men:

Sephiroth - Astarion

Fenris - Dante

#I like when they're hurt... and deeply traumatized... and have pretty little eyes... and put in tragic situations...#yeah <3 #blood tw #restraints tw #gag tw #visual whump #image whump #whump image #whump community #whump blog #whump scenario #whump tropes #dante dmc #sephiroth ff7 #astarion bg3 #fenris da2

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notonewouldmind · 2 months

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I Need someone more knowledgeable than me to do an architectural analysis of witch hat atelier…. please please please I am begging you

#witch hat atelier #I have saved literally so many images of the building designs when they are featured in panels #but I have no idea how to determine exact time/art periods and inspiration because I don’t Actually know all that much about architecture #like I’m learning about baroque stuff rn and we talked about Bernini and Borromini #and how their architecture reflects the ideals and artistic styles of the time period as well as some form belying function #or the restraints of building technologies at the time #so I see a comic panel with like a coffered ceiling or pointed arches and I go WOAH #but idk what all the elements together resemble or anything #like I’m just curious what styles the author is inspired by is what I’m saying #anyway #I would watch a video essay on this tbh

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nasuverse-most-breedable-tourney · 18 hours

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Bracket H, Round 1 (Match 12)

#it took a lot of restraint to not sneak in swimsuit musashi for the 2nd image #but as tourney trends have shown. that wouldn't have been fair to wodime #Miyamoto Iori #Kirschtaria Wodime #nasuverse most breedable tourney

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reactionimagesdaily · 2 months

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#throwaway63 you're 6 numbers off an obligatory funny number and I respect your restraint #reaction image #reaction meme #daily reaction images #image mood: y'all are heathens #submission

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alienaliart · 1 year

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A quick fanart of Shadow inspired by a bizzare dream I had about him where everything was the same except GUN put these cuffs on him for no reason

#shadow the hedgehog #sonic the hedgehog #sonic #sonic fanart #sth #alienaliart #artists on tumblr #I hope it's not too spicy for tumblr???#the dream had no spicy implications whatsoever #it was literally pure silliness #they were like ok from now on you have to wear these for your missions and Shadow was like why #and they were like because fuck you that's why #and he was like WHY THO #so the entire time he was running around cuffed like this and complaining #they really don't pay him enough to deal with this nonsense #he even wore these at home to the surprise of Sonic and said it was for work but he was doing after hours I woke up cackling #ofc they were dating and living together in my dream duh in this house we ship sonadow #Shadow being mildly inconvenienced by government mandated restraints is a thing that exists now you're welcome #I drew this almost immediately after waking up cause I wanted the image in my head to be real so bad #it feels good to be an artist fr fr #I was gonna work on dance au sonadow stuff but I got burned out #It's still coming I promise just a little later and after I do some comms #I take commissions over on my twitter and instagram if you were interested hmu there

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highwaywhump · 1 year

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Would you be up for writing a little piece about kill shelters, from the pet’s POV? I saw that you said you wouldn’t write about pets actually being PTS - completely understandable! - what if someone were to come in at the last second with the news that the pet’s original owner had been found? I’m so curious on what the process would be for the shelter handling this- since it would technically be murder, how would it be done in a way to remain ‘legal’? And what would the pet be told? Would they tell them what was going to happen, or just ‘get on with it’? :o

TW/CW: A CHARACTER THAT IDEALIZES DEATH/HAS SUICIDAL THOUGHTS. to be clear, he doesn't die, but another character does (this comes through very vaguely - never voiced outright). brief and vague mention of a gun, talk of scars, low self image, talk of collars and chains and cages/kennels, description of a hit and run victim (still alive), brief description of a dislocated hip, talk of restraints, talk of syringes and needles.

i know our community has suffered these past few days, and i was seriously debating whether i should post this piece or not. in the end, i figure that writing has been my way of overcoming difficult feelings for many years now, and i have been dealing with a lot of them lately, including intense stress and depression. if anyone feels i am doing something wrong in posting this piece, please let me know and i'll see what i'll do about it.

i am also painfully aware this ask was sent over a month ago (in reference to this ask), but i had to sit down and think about how i wanted to go about it. BE AWARE that the following piece features a character that idealizes/wishes for death - please sit this one out if you are struggling with such thoughts. i'm putting everything under a read more so that you can avoid reading a single word if you don't feel comfortable. my dm’s are always open if you want to talk about anything. <3

this character might seem familiar to some. spoiler, this is how poker from this piece ended up. he was about 35 when joey met him and he’s a few years older in this piece. and i'm sorry but there’s just something about men in cages… (also, let’s ignore that i add a bunch of details here that weren’t present in the first piece with him. also also, i don’t know what happened to the verb tenses in this one. it’s the middle of the night. roll with the punches i guess)

It might’ve been months since the guard dog saw his owner last. He doesn’t know. He’s stopped counting.

Well.

He never really started.

He doesn’t remember much about him. He’d lost another fight, the last one in a long row of losses. He’d been pulled into the back of a car by his thick collar afterwards, dazed and hot and sputtering blood all over the leather seats. They’d hit him in the ribs for it and he knew he’d deserved it.

Whoever was driving had been given orders in his owner’s rough voice.

“Go down to the docks. Get rid of him.”

He knew there was a lethal piece of metal stuck down the waistband of the driver’s jeans.

He’d been taken a few hours outside the city instead, deposited on the wet asphalt outside of a brick building and chained to a drainpipe. The driver had gotten back in the car and sped off.

The guard dog had leaned against the hard brick, watching as the brake lights disappeared. He didn’t think much, other than okay. As if he had anything else to say about his situation.

His surroundings turned into a shapeless blur from there. Hands touching him, cold and unfeeling and clad in blue rubber. A couple were soft and took their time to stroke his hair, scratch the hard to reach place between his shoulder blades. He savored those moments, and tried to remember the hands and the face they belonged to, but none of it lasted.

Nothing ever lasted around him, it seemed. He couldn’t keep an owner for more than a few months, never more than a year. Couldn’t keep winning. Couldn’t keep anyone safe, even though that was the thing he was made for. The only thing that kept, were the scars.

And the fucking tattoo on his wrist. Not even the facility that had made him, wanted him back when the shelter called them about him. Too old. They had no prospects who would want someone like him.

That was what the visitors said too, few and far between as they were. Too old. Too big, too many scars, too scary, too ugly, too old, too dumb, too old again. They talked about him as if he wasn’t even there, huddled up in a corner just on the other side of the chain link.

He knew it was his fault. He should be, or at least seem, happier to see them. Smile. Wait at the kennel gate, like all the others did whenever somebody stopped by.

But to what end? Another owner who would put him in the ring again, just to be angry at him when he loses? Or someone he can take bullets for again, even though he isn’t quick and bright enough to anticipate them anymore?

He doesn’t dare hope that anyone else would want him, not in his condition. It’s true, what they say. He’s old. Scarred, slow. There are sunshine stories of even the most unwanted of pets, expenses in every way, who somehow end up on the couches of kind people who just want a companion, their head resting in their laps, petted by soft fingers.

Those people get platonics, though. Domestics. Even the occasional romantic can adapt to such a lifestyle.

But not an old ex guard dog, like him.

He’s no use to anyone, not anymore.

They remove him from the kennel one day. For a moment, his heart beats a little faster. He can’t tell if it’s fear or excitement, but it turns out neither is warranted. He’s taken to another room, a chain attached to his collar, the other end pin shackled to a ring in the wall. Another pet, younger and prettier, is put in his kennel. He can see them through the frosted glass on the door.

He turns away.

He doesn’t cry.

Visitors don’t come through this room, he realizes, and for the first few days he’s happy for it. Nobody talks about him now. It’s quiet and the cold linoleum floor is almost comfortable on his joints. The only bad thing about this room is the other pet, chained to the wall opposite of him. The man is curled up, breathing shallowly through dried blood in his nostrils, and the sound is annoying. He’s younger than him, and he was probably very pretty once, but now his face is bruised and swollen, and bloody in the crevices even though they washed him with a damp cloth when he came in. Hit and run, somebody had said in passing.

That was four days ago. The guard dog watches him, mostly because there isn’t much else to look at in here. His leg is in a weird position, he’s noticed. It’s as if the thigh has rotated where it attaches to the hip. He wonders if it’s supposed to be that way. It doesn’t look very comfortable. His stomach is weirdly distended, too. It looks out of place on a body that is otherwise slim and smooth.

Two workers descend on him one day, kneeling down beside the misshapen figure. They talk to him, sweetly, as they gently lift him over on a gurney and start wheeling him through another door. “You’ll feel a lot better when you wake up,” one of the workers say, a vinyl clad hand patting his shoulder. The one part of him that isn’t broken.

The guard dog catches the faint smile visible through a swollen cheek as they pass him. The other pet is happy they’re coming for him, making him feel better. Finally.

Maybe twenty minutes have passed when the workers come back. One of them wipes their hands on their worn jeans. “Glad that’s over,” he mutters. "Should have been done when he came in," the other says. The guard dog meets his gaze as they pass. Neither of them say anything.

They’d come for him a few days later. They wear the same smiles and the same gloves as they did with the other pet, but he doesn’t need the sweet talking. He goes with them willingly. He’d stopped eating a while back and his muscle tone had disappeared a long time ago, so it was easy for them to help him up to his feet. He’s taller than them, still, and keeps his head down the way he’s always done.

He’s known cold. Heat, pain, pleasure even, in small stints. Grief, fear. Rage. As he places one bare foot in front of the other on the beige linoleum, obediently following the worker in front, he knows he will soon know death.

And he isn’t afraid.

“You won’t feel a thing,” one of them says as they help him sit on the steel table in the next room, as if anyone has ever cared about how he’s feeling.

“You’ll feel much better after,” the other worker says, without specifying exactly what was supposed to be better, as they gently lay him down. The table has leather straps hanging down the sides, ready to restrain its more unwilling cases, but he doesn’t move and they don’t use the straps. In the corner of his eye he can see two syringes on the counter. One of them is skinny and filled with clear fluid. The needle is small and will slip into him easily. He’s had many needles before. This won’t feel any different, he decides. The other syringe is larger, the needle too big to be used on somebody who was awake feel it.

It doesn’t matter. He’ll feel better after. The guard dog refocuses his gaze on the bright light overhead. He closes his eyes.

“Small pinch, now,” one worker says, and he can feel a pinprick at the crook of his elbow, the cold liquid fanning up his arm as it is being pushed in. His heart beats a few more times before the serum reaches it. He can feel his pulse, docile to begin with, calm down even more. He feels sleepy, his body heavy, as if he’s being pushed into the table from above. The hard metal digging into his joints doesn’t matter anymore. He knows he won’t even notice the other syringe. He knows he’ll feel better soon.

A grating ringtone interrupts his silent mind. One of the workers picks up, speaking in a low voice. Sleep tugs at the edges of his mind, and he wants to follow. Right before he goes under, the sound of hard plastic hitting metal and a few words make it through the fuzzy walls inside his head.

“No trouble at all. You’re just in time, sir.”

to answer your other questions, anon: in the legal sense it wouldn't be murder, as the pets aren't people anymore, they're only human at the biological level (again, in a legal sense). it's necessary :) and humane :) euthanasia :). the pets aren't told anything/they're gently reassured and told they're going on for surgery, or something similar. i think "you'll feel better when you wake up," is a classic in these circles. i'm sure some understand what is about to happen (hence the restraints on the table), but the majority goes quick and silent. i have no idea what happens to them after though so don't ask me about that :)

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