@just-horrible-things / just-horrible-things.tumblr.com
[Prequel here]
She’s painfully glad of the quiet hours. She’s too exhausted to think straight, but she hurts too much to sleep. A few more days will fix that. But for now she just lies still where she’s pinned face-down to the floor, drifting in a haze of misery. It’s dark, and the concrete is cool against the heat of her wounds but not cold enough to make her shiver. It could be worse.
(for @whumptober2019, prompt: Recovery, I wrote a piece set during the trial/post-captivity - this is our second Ryan POV. Thanks to @orchidscript for a couple of lines I borrowed from our convo on the fandom version of this universe and to @pinkcupboardwitch for helping me pick my scenario)
TW: Brief reference to suicidal ideation, violence/torture/abuse (none depicted, but referenced)
Ryan Michaelson falls asleep on the couch with the impact statement he’s been working on a flutter of loose papers on the floor, scratched-out starting sentences and half-written paragraphs, occasional little nonsense doodles in the margins where he tried to think his way through this.
They want him to give some kind of speech, before sentencing. His parents provided a couple of videos and photos of Danny before it all happened, but they haven’t come to the trial since the first week and they’re not interested in speaking on Danny’s behalf.
No, just like the rest of his life, their parents will do the bare minimum for Danny and Ryan will step in to try and fill the gaps, to be brother and parents both. It’s so much harder with so little of Danny left.
How do you even explain what it means to have your brother disappear and then return, only it’s not your brother any longer?
The antagonist is ripped from sleep by their own stupid ringtone, it’s loud and being woken up after their fight with hero, victorious as it was exhausting, made them irrationally irate.
They didn’t bother turning on the lights–thinking that they were going to ignore it, trying to fight down that little bit of worry that nibbled at them, who calls at–shit!–three in the morning?! It was the abnormal hour that made them pick up the phone, squinting at the screen in the dark. When they saw the name on the screen concern struck, cold and immediate, it was their good friend calling them, their good friend who never was awake after eleven, choosing to study instead of party, choosing work in the morning over enjoying life. If the antagonist had to choose one word to describe them, other than kind, generous, or loyal, they would have picked stable.
Stable people don’t call at three in the morning on a day before they had to work.
The Antagonist doesn’t waste time, they flick on the bedside lamp and answer the phone. “Hello? Friend?” They don;t bother disguising the concern in their voice.
Ragged breathing comes from the other end, a pained groan, and then a voice, weak, but still recognizable, “H-hey, b-buddy,” Another groan accompanying the sounds of shifting, “I-I ne-eeda f-favor.”
“Sure, anything, what’s going on?” They are already out of bed, pulling on pants and a dirty T-shirt, their heart beating a fluttery rhythm in the base of their throat.
“M’pretty m-messed up,” their friend groans, S-some guy j-jumped me, I-I need y-you t-to take me t-to…” there was more shifting, a cry of pain, “s-six, five, n-nine wal-walnut st-street.”
The antagonist scrambles for keys, already cursing hero, wasn’t preventing things like this what he was supposed to do? They freeze, stopping in the dark, keys in hand as a wave of self loathing and realization washes over them, they’d hurt hero tonight, far too badly for them to stop a mugging. They’d been waiting for a call from their henchman that they’d either captured hero or found them dead. This was their own fault.
“I’m coming right now,” The antagonist is jolted from their horror by their friend’s gurgling coughs over the phone, “Stay awake! Alright? Where are you?”
“The p-park on wess–on westside, M’under a l-light by the p-pond,” they pant, their slurring getting worse.
The antagonist starts their car, only realizing that they are still wearing their slippers, they listen to the gasping breathing on the other end of the line, the groans that are rapidly becoming weaker, they don’t bother parking when they reach the lot, they leave it idling, throwing the door open.
“I’m here,” they relate softer than they’d planned, already straining to hear the soft intakes of wheezing breath from their friend, their eyes frantically scanning the ground looking under all of the lights as they race through the park towards the pond.
“N’thing,” their friend’s voice comes through the phone line so weakly that they have to stop running to hear it, “M’dres–dressed kinda we-weird.”
“It’s okay,” they breathe, “I’m going to find you, it’s okay.”
But when they come across their friend it is certainly not okay, the shock of the sight makes them stop, their phone tumbling from panic numbed fingers into the wet grass.
The mask was off, but they would recognize hero anywhere, even if their costume was in tatters, even if they were bleeding out from the myriad of wounds they’d just given them, even if it was their friend’s bruised and bloody face behind the mask.
No, no, NO! is all the antagonist’s mind is capable of thinking, as they stare wide eyed at their friend, horror already knocking at their bones at the state of them, at what they had unwittingly done to them.
Their friend was pale, but humor flashed in their glassy eyes at seeing the shocked reaction of the antagonist, they fought to make the words, “S-sorry,” they breathed, their voice was not much more than a raspy whisper, “I-I was gonna t-tell y-you, bu-but t-the antagonist–h-he’s d-dangerous, didn’ wan’ y-you h-hurt,” they grimaced, looking back at the antagonist with hope in their tired eyes.
They didn’t know either. The antagonist wanted to run forward, to run away, to apologize, to scream, but their throat refused to make a sound, their feet refused to move.
“You? You’re the hero?” The finally manage, more angry than they mean it to be, but they are angry, both because of the betrayal and because they think that it’s very likely that their friend, the one who helped them through the loss of their parents, the one who showed up every Friday to watch the next episode of their favorite show together–was probably going to die, and it was going to be at their bidding.
They recalled all of the blows that they’d administered during the battle, as they watched the hero–their friend take wheezing panting breathes, a pale hand curled protectively around the still bleeding bullet wound in their side, the antagonist could see from here that they didn’t have the strength to put any real pressure on it anymore, that bullet wound had made them high with the certainty of victory not even an hour ago, they’d cackled when the hero had cried out at the pain, angry that they’d managed to get away.
But this was different–wasn’t it?
“Bud?” The hero croaked, the antagonist could see blood on their lips from their damaged lungs, see the twisted way that their chest moved on every burning inhale, the way that their shoulder bled a growing dark stain on their uniform…They had done that, they were responsible for the swollen wrist, the long terrible gash on the hero’s thigh….They were responsible for all of it.
They took a tentative step back, almost, but not quite against their will.
The hero’s eyes widened, “W-what’re y-you..? “ They can’t finish the sentence before they lose themselves in rough coughing, wincing and squeezing their eyes shut against the pain, when they pry them open again, there is desperation and confusion glimmering there, a little fear too, “P-please? Fr-friend?” they raise a trembling hand towards them, fighting to keep their eyes from sinking closed.
The antagonist bolts, if only to keep from looking at the scene they’d caused, something in the back of their head is screaming at them to get back there, to save them, but they don’t listen to it. They can’t. If they go back the hero will know what they are, they’ll hate them like everyone else does, they can’t let that happen, they can’t! They reach the car before their knees buckle under them, their body itself rebelling against the traitorous act of leaving their friend to die.
A soft calm voice that almost doesn’t feel like it’s coming from their own mind at all asks in the terrible silence, how can they live with themselves if they leave them?
The antagonist dissolves, not knowing the answer to their own question.
A few moments later their phone rings in their pocket, they didn’t remember picking it up off of the ground, but they realize that it’s their other phone–their business phone from when they are parading around as the antagonist….their stomach flips in knots when they see that the number is one that they recognize–it’s the hero’s number.
Whumptober 20 - Trembling The crowd closes around them, trails after them, the press of people getting thicker street by street. All the faces are hard and angry. Anima looks to Tacitus. This is a people problem, Tacitus, fix it. Do your job. Otherwise Anima will fix it, and a lot of people will die. Maybe including Tacitus. Anima probably can’t defend him.
We walk at gunpoint, the five of us. I think we all know that we are not those who have been deemed worthy of life. I don't see much of the others' reactions. I'm still overwhelmed with the revelation of who I was. What I did. I hadn't believed myself capable of atrocity on such a scale. When it came to it, I thought I had it in me to be a good person. I was wrong.
Tears stream down my face. I'm past caring who sees me cry. Dignity is such a tiny, unfathomably meaningless thing, in the face of my worse self. This is grief, I think. Not for the life I'm about to lose. I unquestionably deserve execution for my crimes. The crimes I don’t remember. I think I'm grieving the person I dared to hope I might be. And maybe the bliss of ignorance. At least I won't have to live with this knowledge for long. I don't want to.
Still, it's no small thing to look into the airlock and imagine the killing void on the other side. The pain in ears, sinuses, lungs. The water boiling from the mouth and the surface of the eyes. The outrushing of breath that will never be retrieved.
The others are imagining it too. We all hesitate, despite the guns behind us. "Can't you just shoot us?" one of my fellows asks bitterly. I don't remember what name they picked for themself, we've barely talked. And I can't see their number, their jumpsuit is folded down and tied at the waist like mine. I can't bring myself to care who they are. "You can walk into the airlock," the android tells them coldly, "Or I can shoot your knees out and you can crawl." It's such a petty, pointless bit of cruelty. I'm angry, I think. Distantly, behind the grief. But I'm not surprised.
We choose to walk. The doors close behind us with terrible finality. Machinery begins to spin up. Listening to the hum in the walls, I wonder if they're going to depressurise responsibly and let us pass out in here, or actually chuck us out straight into hard vacuum. Somehow I suspect the latter.
The person opposite me is sobbing, scared. "I heard that if you breathe out, it doesn't hurt as much," I say. "It doesn't make a difference," someone else claims. I don't have the energy to dispute it. We won't have time anyway. Maybe I'll hit my head on the way out, I think, but I'm not optimistic. It's only meant to take a minute or two to cycle, how long can that take? It feels like forever. In a way I guess it is, for us.
Maybe the doors will open slowly enough that we'll be pasted against the gap when the air rushes out. I don't know if that would be better or worse. Probably worse. I wish I didn't have to think about it. I wonder if any of the others will miss me, when they reach the colony without me. Do they know I've been marched away to my death? Do they know who I was before? I hope not. I hope they don't grieve.
And then the doors blow open, and the starfield spins, and my eyes scrunch shut against the alien sensation. I remember to breathe out and there isn't really time to process whether it hurts too much because
I am
ceasing
to be.
Whumptober 6 - Dragged Away Mac shrugs at the shaking prisoner’s tight-lipped silence. He walks across the room, and starts rummaging in Alec’s kitbag. 068’s skin goes cold with suspicion as he watches, and his eyes go wide as Mac confirms that fear by pulling out a blowtorch. He feels ill.
He hates firefights. He’s not supposed to be there, because he’s a liability, because he freezes up, because he bolts, because he has screaming fits on the floor, because he can’t be trusted with a weapon of his own...
But sometimes they don’t get to choose when and where they fight, and he doesn’t get the luxury of being left behind some place safe.
He’s dumped unceremoniously onto the table, and Ariadne catches one of his skinny, shaking wrists to strap it into place. “No, please,” he whimpers, and it gives her pause. He knows what he did, and it’s unusual for him to try and plead his way out of deserved discipline.
“I can’t believe I’m doing this.” Jaspar muttered to himself as he watched the two figures in spiked armour kick open the door to one of the houses and move to search the inside. He reached down and unclipped the gun from his belt, slowly and methodically going through the rites to prepare it for battle. The familiar motions calmed him somewhat, but not enough to stop his hands shaking or his heart threatening to burst from his chest. He ran through them a second, and then a third, time. You’ve got to go at some point, he told himself. Who knows how long it will be until you get another chance like this. He looked back to see Nikota smiling encouragingly, brandishing a vegetable knife. Then a sound ahead alerted him to his targets leaving the building; this was his chance. He took a deep breath and charged.
He managed to close most of the distance before they had worked out what was happening. The first shot caught one of them in the chest, sending them sprawling to the ground. The second shot struck the other one in the face and they collapsed at his feet, sword falling from their hand.
It was over. Jaspar stood, frozen in place, breathing heavily and watching blood seep out over the cobbles. Unsure whether to be pleased or horrified he just stopped, staring at the bodies while he attempted to process what had just happened. I killed them, he thought. I killed them because I was hungry. And he was hungry, not as mind-numbingly hungry as he had been before he’d given in, but still painfully so. Hungry enough that the scene in front of him looked good.
It doesn’t matter how you feel about it, they’re still dead, he told himself. And now you have to deal with that. He looked over his victims, fighting the part of him that was screaming at him to bite the nearest bit of exposed flesh, trying to work out what to do next. Some of their equipment might be salvageable, the rational part of him thought. The smell the blood the blood so close so hungry the rest of him screeched. But he was used to fighting his hunger, so he began to remove their clothes and belongings, piling them slightly uphill of the bodies to prevent further damage from the blood.
And then he was free to eat.
@pythagoreanwhump, thank you for making me think about mock executions, I’m sorry this got so dark, please forgive me
The man had dragged them from their cell, to face another, with no windows and no tools. The only thing of interest was a metal grate, and now they knew what was to come. They knelt and turned around, eyes cast down onto the well-worn leather of their captor’s shoes.
They watched him take his gun and place it by their head. So this was it, the end, their final dance with darkness. They didn’t move. They didn’t breathe. Even in their cell, they thought of ways to make it end, but they could not, for who were they to meddle with their fate.
Their eyes were closed, eyes wet with tears. Once they had thought their death could be a blaze of glory, defending friends, defending secrets, and their cause. They knew now they were wrong, that they were foolish to imagine that their death could hold such meaning. They knew that even this was more than they deserved. A ditch, an unmarked grave, a quiet death of pain and suffering was more than they deserved.
This was a mercy, a blessed end to constant pain and shame and guilt. A mercy that they didn’t quite deserve. But who were they to question what the man had deemed to be their fitting end. And so they waited, for a click, a burst of pain and then the endless dark. But nothing came, except a laugh, and then they knew then that they should not have dared to think that it would be so easy.
“Please, let this end,” they begged, though something told them that they had no right. “I beg of you, please let me die.”
But still the man just laughed. “You really thought that I’d be done with you so soon?”, he sneered. “That was but half of what I’ll do to you.”
And though they wanted to protest, they knew inside that he was right, that they were worthless and their pain was penance. Their screams would cleanse them of their sins, and maybe only then would they be laid to rest.
There is so, so much to do.
There are warlocks getting jumped, attacked, found by cops on the streets and dying in back alleys where they don’t expect anyone to find them.
There are kids, lost and scared, their parents dead or even the source of the danger.
There are members of the Resistance who have been shot, or beaten, or tortured in the progress of missions.
Those warlocks need to be found. Those kids need to be brought someplace safe. Those Resistance members need to be healed, and there just aren’t enough healers to go around.
Lux doesn’t think for a second that he can fix everything… but he’s not injured right now, he’s got a safe home and food and so much magic - if he can help, he should.
