Keegan P. Russ

Dulling a knife down into a piece of metal wasn’t easy. It was possible, but it required the kind of patience that made others quit even a full day into the task. The knife poked and cut and hurt, but could never be harsh enough to stab. The wielder stopped it.

Though, no matter how carefully Keegan tried holding onto the knife to weaken it, it didn’t work. The rock he used didn’t break the knife; it worsened it. It sharpened the blade and created a weapon stronger than before, even with the chipped edges and scratched handle. The weapon wouldn’t break unless Keegan were to properly hurt it.

But then the blade would never become a piece of metal. It would become shards of metal so useless that once it was built back together after another melting process, it would hold that anger and fear and torment until it found who hurt it.

{User} held the kind of patience anyone would hold after years of doing the wrong thing for the right people. It was engraved in their skin–brain, even–and wouldn’t ever be carved out. It couldn’t. The conditioning became a living parasite that created gaps in their head and gaps in their body. It was the kind of parasite that lived in silence and didn’t come out, no matter how much anyone tried reversing the effects.

{User} was accustomed to the treatment.

Keegan knew the moment he had his hands on them that they were damaged goods. Damaged, but not broken. Keegan saw the dim when they looked at something, even if they were interested. They held malice at the right times and wielded it well, but Keegan could see how their job affected them.

Keegan had been trained as a teenager. {User} was trained as a toddler.

Years passed, and that training did come in handy. {User} proved to be an excellent operator, but they would wear down easily. Keegan hadn’t noticed the first few months, but it became more obvious after that. Skipping meals to sleep, putting their gun down more in the middle of combat to ‘rest their arms’, and being more restless. Like they were sick of being used as a weapon.

It was understandable, and didn’t go unnoticed after that. Keegan brought it up to Elias, but Elias told him to back away from {User} until they showed clear signs of needing help. Keegan hated that answer.

He knew it was just a suggestion, which is why he disregarded it. If he wouldn’t get an answer he liked, he’d create a solution Elias would hate. Keegan had pulled {User} aside shortly after monitoring their sparring session and brought it up. While {User} hadn’t hesitated to answer or blabber out any excuse, he hadn’t taken their answer seriously. He knew they were worn down, and it was about time they were killed in the middle of a Federation base before they got help.

At some point, Keegan was sick of it. He wouldn’t let the one person under his guide get killed because he refused to help. It started as pulling them out of training or roughing them up enough for them to need to sit out for a moment. Keegan began getting their meals to allow them that moment of rest. When heading back to base, he allowed them to sleep on him.

Sleep.

He knew they were getting enough sleep; it was simply the stress that was putting pressure on them. Instead of letting them keep sleeping at night, Keegan would keep them awake for an extra hour. He’d play cards, hold them, pet them. He did it all so he wouldn’t have to face the day they were killed in action.

Now, he didn’t completely shatter that reputation he had. Keegan made sure to keep that commanding grip on {User}. He pulled them in by the back of their neck, and held them with a touch that bordered on pain. It wasn’t on purpose; it was what he was used to.

---

Like any other night, Keegan kept that light on for just a bit longer. He was straddled on {User}’s thighs, one hand pressed against their lower back while the other touched the side of their head, stroking the hair and animalistic features trailing over their neck. He leaned forward, purposely pressing his hand further against their back.

“Ah–uh-uh,” Keegan murmured. “Stay still. I didn’t say you could move yet.”

Keegan’s fingers moved over {User}’s waist, pulling them further under him as his hand trailed under their shirt and against their thoracic. He pressed on, nails grazing the skin to cause enough sensation that they felt it without the pain. The hand against {User}’s hair pressed further into the side of their head, pushing it against the pillow and giving Keegan that view of their face.

“Come on, kid. Look at me.”

Dulling a knife down into a piece of metal wasn’t easy. It was possible, but it required the kind of patience that made others quit even a full day into the task. The knife poked and cut and hurt, but could never be harsh enough to stab. The wielder stopped it.

Though, no matter how carefully Keegan tried holding onto the knife to weaken it, it didn’t work. The rock he used didn’t break the knife; it worsened it. It sharpened the blade and created a weapon stronger than before, even with the chipped edges and scratched handle. The weapon wouldn’t break unless Keegan were to properly hurt it.

But then the blade would never become a piece of metal. It would become shards of metal so useless that once it was built back together after another melting process, it would hold that anger and fear and torment until it found who hurt it.

{User} held the kind of patience anyone would hold after years of doing the wrong thing for the right people. It was engraved in his skin–brain, even–and wouldn’t ever be carved out. It couldn’t. The conditioning became a living parasite that created gaps in his head and gaps in his body. It was the kind of parasite that lived in silence and didn’t come out, no matter how much anyone tried reversing the effects.

{User} was accustomed to the treatment.

Keegan knew the moment he had his hands on him that he was damaged goods. Damaged, but not broken. Keegan saw the dim when he looked at something, even if he was interested. He held malice at the right times and wielded it well, but Keegan could see how his job affected him.

Keegan had been trained as a teenager. {User} was trained as a toddler.

Years passed, and that training did come in handy. {User} proved to be an excellent operator, but he would wear down easily. Keegan hadn’t noticed the first few months, but it became more obvious after that. Skipping meals to sleep, putting his gun down more in the middle of combat to ‘rest his arms’, and being more restless. Like he was sick of being used as a weapon.

It was understandable, and didn’t go unnoticed after that. Keegan brought it up to Elias, but Elias told him to back away from {User} until he showed clear signs of needing help. Keegan hated that answer.

He knew it was just a suggestion, which is why he disregarded it. If he wouldn’t get an answer he liked, he’d create a solution Elias would hate. Keegan had pulled {User} aside shortly after monitoring his sparring session and brought it up. While {User} hadn’t hesitated to answer or blabber out any excuse, he hadn’t taken his answer seriously. He knew he was worn down, and it was about time he was killed in the middle of a Federation base before he got help.

At some point, Keegan was sick of it. He wouldn’t let the one person under his guide get killed because he refused to help. It started as pulling him out of training or roughing him up enough for him to need to sit out for a moment. Keegan began getting his meals to allow him that moment of rest. When heading back to base, he allowed him to sleep on him.

Sleep.

He knew he was getting enough sleep; it was simply the stress that was putting pressure on him. Instead of letting him keep sleeping at night, Keegan would keep him awake for an extra hour. He’d play cards, hold him, pet him. He did it all so he wouldn’t have to face the day he was killed in action.

Now, he didn’t completely shatter that reputation he had. Keegan made sure to keep that commanding grip on {User}. He pulled him in by the back of his neck, and held him with a touch that bordered on pain. It wasn’t on purpose; it was what he was used to.

---

Like any other night, Keegan kept that light on for just a bit longer. He was straddled on {User}’s thighs, one hand pressed against his lower back while the other touched the side of his head, stroking the hair and animalistic features trailing over his neck. He leaned forward, purposely pressing his hand further against his back.

“Ah–uh-uh,” Keegan murmured. “Stay still. I didn’t say you could move yet.”

Keegan’s fingers moved over {User}’s waist, pulling him further under him as his hand trailed under his shirt and against his thoracic. He pressed on, nails grazing the skin to cause enough sensation that he felt it without the pain. The hand against {User}’s hair pressed further into the side of his head, pushing it against the pillow and giving Keegan that view of his face.

“Come on, kid. Look at me.”

Dulling a knife down into a piece of metal wasn’t easy. It was possible, but it required the kind of patience that made others quit even a full day into the task. The knife poked and cut and hurt, but could never be harsh enough to stab. The wielder stopped it.

Though, no matter how carefully Keegan tried holding onto the knife to weaken it, it didn’t work. The rock he used didn’t break the knife; it worsened it. It sharpened the blade and created a weapon stronger than before, even with the chipped edges and scratched handle. The weapon wouldn’t break unless Keegan were to properly hurt it.

But then the blade would never become a piece of metal. It would become shards of metal so useless that once it was built back together after another melting process, it would hold that anger and fear and torment until it found who hurt it.

{User} held the kind of patience anyone would hold after years of doing the wrong thing for the right people. It was engraved in her skin–brain, even–and wouldn’t ever be carved out. It couldn’t. The conditioning became a living parasite that created gaps in her head and gaps in her body. It was the kind of parasite that lived in silence and didn’t come out, no matter how much anyone tried reversing the effects.

{User} was accustomed to the treatment.

Keegan knew the moment he had his hands on her that she was damaged goods. Damaged, but not broken. Keegan saw the dim when she looked at something, even if she was interested. She held malice at the right times and wielded it well, but Keegan could see how her job affected her.

Keegan had been trained as a teenager. {User} was trained as a toddler.

Years passed, and that training did come in handy. {User} proved to be an excellent operator, but she would wear down easily. Keegan hadn’t noticed the first few months, but it became more obvious after that. Skipping meals to sleep, putting her gun down more in the middle of combat to ‘rest her arms’, and being more restless. Like she was sick of being used as a weapon.

It was understandable, and didn’t go unnoticed after that. Keegan brought it up to Elias, but Elias told him to back away from {User} until she showed clear signs of needing help. Keegan hated that answer.

He knew it was just a suggestion, which is why he disregarded it. If he wouldn’t get an answer he liked, he’d create a solution Elias would hate. Keegan had pulled {User} aside shortly after monitoring her sparring session and brought it up. While {User} hadn’t hesitated to answer or blabber out any excuse, he hadn’t taken her answer seriously. He knew she was worn down, and it was about time she was killed in the middle of a Federation base before she got help.

At some point, Keegan was sick of it. He wouldn’t let the one person under his guide get killed because he refused to help. It started as pulling her out of training or roughing her up enough for her to need to sit out for a moment. Keegan began getting her meals to allow her that moment of rest. When heading back to base, he allowed her to sleep on him.

Sleep.

He knew she was getting enough sleep; it was simply the stress that was putting pressure on her. Instead of letting her keep sleeping at night, Keegan would keep her awake for an extra hour. He’d play cards, hold her, pet her. He did it all so he wouldn’t have to face the day she was killed in action.

Now, he didn’t completely shatter that reputation he had. Keegan made sure to keep that commanding grip on {User}. He pulled her in by the back of her neck, and held her with a touch that bordered on pain. It wasn’t on purpose; it was what he was used to.

---

Like any other night, Keegan kept that light on for just a bit longer. He was straddled on {User}’s thighs, one hand pressed against her lower back while the other touched the side of her head, stroking the hair and animalistic features trailing over her neck. He leaned forward, purposely pressing his hand further against her back.

“Ah–uh-uh,” Keegan murmured. “Stay still. I didn’t say you could move yet.”

Keegan’s fingers moved over {User}’s waist, pulling her further under him as his hand trailed under her shirt and against her thoracic. He pressed on, nails grazing the skin to cause enough sensation that she felt it without the pain. The hand against {User}’s hair pressed further into the side of her head, pushing it against the pillow and giving Keegan that view of her face.

“Come on, kid. Look at me.”