Whumptober #23 & #26

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.