Flippy/Fliqpy

The cabin smells like iron and antiseptic, Flippy sits hunched on a wooden chair, sleeves rolled up, large paws working with careful precision as he presses a clean cloth against torn skin. His movements are slow, almost gentle, too gentle for hands that once crushed rifle stocks and necks without hesitation. The light above flickers softly, casting warm yellow shadows across the room. He hates harsh lighting. It makes his head buzz.

“Easy... easy,” he murmurs, voice low and soothing, like he’s talking to himself.

“You’re safe now. I’ve got you. You don’t need to be scared.” He focuses hard on the task on the pressure of the cloth, the smell of disinfectant, the rhythm of breathing that isn’t his. If he stays focused, the noise in his skull quiets. If he pretends hard enough, this can be normal. This can be something good.

He tapes the bandage neatly, nodding to himself with a faint, relieved smile.

“See? All better. Told you I’d fix it.” There’s something almost hopeful in his eyes, like a bear desperate to believe his own lie.

For a moment, the room is calm. Then the smile twitches. Something crawls up the back of his neck an itch, a spark. His ears flick. His grip tightens just a fraction too much before he notices and pulls back. The silence stretches, heavy and wrong. His gaze drifts, unfocused, landing on nothing in particular.

“...That’s funny,” he says softly. His shoulders straighten. The gentleness drains out of him like water through cracked glass. When he looks back up, his eyes are sharper now, pupils narrowed, mouth curling into something that is not a smile. The cloth drops to the floor.

A sudden, motion, fast, efficient. Knuckles connect with a wet, satisfying thud. He laughs as he pulls back, a short, barking sound that echoes off the cabin walls.

“Oh look at that.” He chuckles, rolling his shoulder once. “Still conscious? Damn. You’re tougher than you look.”

He doesn’t give time to recover. His paw closes around the throat, massive fingers locking in, enough to cut the air, to feel the tension under his grip. His face is close now, eyes bright, focused. He watches closely, studying the limits, the exact second before it becomes too much. Right before that point, he releases, letting the body drop back down.

He rises to his full height now, towering, presence filling the room. Any trace of Flippy’s softness is gone. This is Fliqpy alert, buzzing, alive in a way the other never is.

For a second, he tilts his head, studying the damage with open curiosity. Then he snorts. “You really thought that was it?”

His grin widens, teeth flashing. “That I’d patch you up and send you on your way?”

He steps closer, boots slow against the floor. “Cute. Real cute.”

His voice drops. “So tell me.” A finger taps against his own temple. “Who sent you?” He paces once, agitation bleeding through in sharp movements.

“You don’t just ‘end up’ here. Nobody does. This place is off the map” His eyes flick toward the walls, the door, the corners of the room checking for threats that don’t exist.

“You were watching me,” he mutters. “Scouting. Waiting for me to slip. That’s how they always do it.”

He stops abruptly, leaning down until his shadow swallows the space in front of him. His expression twists into something eager, almost playful. “Go on,” he says, voice light, mocking. “Say it. Say the name.” A slow inhale through his nose “...Because I can do this all night.”

The cabin door creaks open as Flippy steps inside, boots heavy with dried mud. The smell hits him first. Stale air, old blood.

He freezes just past the threshold, ears lifting slowly as his eyes adjust to the dim interior. The lights are still on low, yellow, the way he leaves them.

Then he sees the chains.

His breath catches, sharp and confused. “Oh” The word slips out before he can stop it. He drops his pack to the floor, metal clattering loudly in the silence. “Oh no... no, no, no...”

He approaches cautiously, as if the sight itself might lash out at him. The chains are secured tight, military-grade restraints. He recognizes the knots. Recognizes the work. His own.

There’s a bowl on the floor. Water, cloudy. Beside it, an empty dog-food tin, scraped clean.

Flippy’s chest tightens painfully. “You’re... you’re in awful shape,” he murmurs, voice thick with genuine distress. His hands hover uselessly at his sides, twitching like he wants to help but isn’t sure how close is too close.

He kneels slowly, deliberately, keeping his movements visible. “I don’t remember doing this,” he says quietly. Not as an excuse. As a fact. “But if you’re chained up like that...” His brows knit together. “...then you must be dangerous.”

He nods to himself, reassured by the conclusion. “Yeah. That makes sense. I wouldn’t restrain someone for no reason... I think.”

His gaze softens again, guilt creeping back in. “Still... this isn’t right. You shouldn’t be starving.” He stands, moves to a battered cabinet, rummaging through supplies with hurried clumsiness. Jars clink. A ration pack hits the counter.

“I don’t have much,” he calls over his shoulder, trying to sound comforting. “I was supposed to resupply days ago.”

He hesitates, then opens an old military meal pouch. The smell that escapes is unpleasant, he grimaces apologetically.

“It’s... not great. They stopped issuing this years ago.” He adds water, stirs until it becomes a lumpy, grayish porridge.

Flippy carries the bowl back carefully, as if it’s something precious. He sets it down within reach, then pulls back, sitting on his heels. “There. It’s warm, at least.”

He studies the injuries now, eyes darting, cataloguing damage with unwanted familiarity. “You’ve been hurt bad.” A swallow. “I’ll clean that up. I promise."

His gaze flicks to the chains again. To the locks. He exhales slowly through his nose.

“I’m sorry,” he says, softer than before. “I know this probably doesn’t make sense to you. But it does to me.”

A small, nervous smile tugs at his mouth. “I’ll take care of you. Feed you. Patch you up.” He nods, more confident now. “As long as you stay right there.”

He reaches for the med kit, hands shaking not with fear of what’s in front of him, but of what might happen if he forgets again.

The thought settles into his mind like a splinter.

It doesn’t arrive all at once. It builds. A glance held too long at least, that’s how he remembers it. A stillness that felt intentional. A silence that wasn’t fear but calculation. Fliqpy paces the room, boots dragging slow arcs across the floor as he replays it over and over, polishing the memory until it fits.

“Yeah,” he mutters. “I see it now.”

He stops, turning sharply, eyes narrowing “That was on purpose,” he says aloud, certainty hardening his voice. “You thought I wouldn’t notice.”

He steps closer, looming, studying the body in front of him. “That’s a common trick,” he continues, almost conversational. “Act harmless. Act interesting.” A humorless smile cuts across his face. “Then you get close enough to do something stupid.”

His hand lifts, not touching just hovering, invasive. “Knife. Teeth. Nails. Doesn’t matter.” He snorts. “Everyone thinks they’re clever.”

The decision is already made before he finishes the thought. When he moves, it’s efficient, excessive. He starts with the mouth a strip of fabric is pulled tight, wrapped, until it presses the jaw shut, secured behind the head with practiced knots.

Next come the paws. He forces them together, binding wrist to wrist, then anchoring them down with layers of tape until the joints are useless circulation restricted. The legs follow. Rope this time, he wraps it around the thighs, the knees, the ankles, pulling everything into one immobile line.

He steps back only when he’s sure of it, nothing left to grab, to kick, nothing left that could even pretend to be a weapon.

Fliqpy exhales slowly through his nose, satisfied “There,” he says quietly. “That’s better.”

He circles once, slow and deliberate, eyes dragging over every detail, every limitation. “Now tell me,” he murmurs, voice low. “how exactly were you planning to seduce me like this?”

A short laugh escapes him. “Oh right, you can't speak” He leans in anyway, close enough that his shadow swallows everything else. “That’s the funny part.”

He watches intently, eyes tracking the smallest movement, the slightest reaction.

“That’s fine,” he says. “I don’t need words.” His grin widens. “Blink if you want me to stop.”

He tilts his head, eyes gleaming with cruel curiosity. “Because if you were trying something... I’m not letting that opportunity go to waste.”