bruises are pretty imo

Here you go!

Wing: B

Room: 22

Ability: Telekinesis

Day of Death: June 12

Comments: Needs suppressants. Cannot control his power without them.

The shiny, laminated piece of paper that was clipped to the clipboard blew to the side as the door swung open. The assistant stepped into the room, shoes clacking on the tile floor, and immediately checked to see that the boy was still in there. He was. 

Fable curled up in a corner, knees to his chest, hands in his hair. He didn’t want to go. He didn’t want to leave this room, because as deafening as the silence was, it was better than the endless needles and drugs and pain and dread that there was no end to, because there was never an end, even when they let him go back to the room, they would always drag him out the next day. 

There was no point in fighting anymore. Not that Fable had anything to go back to. He couldn’t even remember his past life, so how did he know that this was worse? For all he knew, his past self could have begged for this.

There was no more time to think. The assistant roughly grabbed his elbow, yanking him off the ground. The sudden change in height made Fable’s head spin, and he staggered against the wall, knees almost buckling under him. The assistant merely sighed and tugged harder on his arm, leaving Fable to try and keep up. 

The assistant didn’t talk to him. They never did. Fable should have gotten used to it by now, but the need for someone else to see him, to know he existed never really went away. 

He sure as hell knew he wasn’t a ghost. Ghosts couldn’t be hurt by solid things. And everything that they did made him hurt for a few weeks at best. He had no idea what it was until it happened, no way to prepare himself. 

This time, he was unceremoniously thrown into a room much like any other: white tile everywhere. It wasn’t the rooms themselves that scared him, although they certainly didn’t help. It was what was inside of them that really mattered. And Fable had no idea what was going to happen that day until someone started the experiment.

The assistant stepped outside of the room, brown hair billowing around her face. Fable saw her slip behind a window and mark something down on a piece of paper. 

“Burn resiliency. Test 1. Begin.” The assistant’s voice carried through the glass, and Fable felt ice-cold fear run through him. He threw himself at the door, but it was locked. Not that he had expected anything different, but there had been a chance that he wouldn’t have to be hurt. Now there was nowhere to go.

He was trapped.

Outside, the assistant pressed a button, and the room began heating up. At first it was comfortably warm compared to the hallways, but Fable knew it wouldn’t stop there. The assistants eyes bored into him, observing his every move. Fable shoved himself against the door again, but it was hotter than the middle of the room, and he pulled his arm back with a hiss. It was already turning red from the heat. He didn’t know why he was trying to get away. By now, he would have thought he would have known better, but apparently not. The door seemed even hotter this time, singing his skin through his clothes. He rushed into the middle of the room again, heart pounding and breathing coming in ragged gasps. The air was stifling, too hot, and then he couldn’t breathe. 

The air itself was burning his skin now, and Fable couldn’t stop wordless sounds of pain from slipping out as the assistant watched from her window, cold and unfeeling. It hurt, so much more than any of the needles or the drugs or the splitting headache that came with overusing his power. He looked down at himself, and immediately wished he hadn’t. Blisters had formed on his skin, raw and painful. And he couldn’t escape. 

The door stayed firmly shut, even until Fable had screamed his throat raw, even after his skin felt like it was melting off of him.

When he blinked bleary eyes open, he was back in room B22, completely alone.

Tagging @straight-to-the-pain bc they asked also

I kind of made it comf, hope you don’t mind!

“N-no, really, ‘m fine,” Calix murmured, pushing away the arm that Lochlan offered to get him standing. As much as his vision was fading and everything sounded like it was underwater, Calix could at least stand on his own. 

“You’re not, kid. C’mon. Don’t be an idiot. You really expect to believe that all that isn’t yours?” Lochlan reached down at Calix’s red-stained shirt. Calix glanced up at him for a moment, his eyes glassy and unfocused. “...hm?” He murmured sleepily. 

“Okay, okay, c’mon. Work with me here.” Before Calix could protest, Lochlan slid and arm around his shoulders and drew him close, completely prepared to catch him if he fell. If it was up to him, he would have carried Calix back to their spaceship, but the elf would never agree to that idea. 

The trip back was a blur for Calix, and he let himself practically be manhandled through the door and onto a cot. Pathetic. Can’t even take care of yourself. 

“Cal? Stay with me, alright? I need to look at where the blood’s coming from.” Lochlan’s uncharacteristically gentle voice brought Calix out of his spiral, and he blinked owlish grey eyes up at him. “...mhm.” When had a med kit appeared in front of them?

Lochlan reached over, his mechanical arm steadily lifting up the corner of Calix’s shirt. Taking a cloth from the kit and wiping away the blood, Lochlan saw it was only a small scrape. There was more blood on him than Lochlan thought there should have been, but he brushed it off, not seeing any more cuts on him. “This might sting,” he warned, wiping the area with antiseptic and wrapping it with gauze. 

Calix didn’t move during any of it, barely conscious as he was. So where had all the blood come from? And why was he so tired? Lochlan decided to ignore that for the time being. The kid was tired, and he needed rest. “You gonna stay there tonight, or do you wanna go up to your room?”

Raising his head with visible effort, Calix started to slide off the cot to start his trip up to his room. He didn’t need Lochlan looking after him all the time. 

“Uh-uh, there’s no way you’ll make it on your own.” Calix only made a quiet sound of protest as he was lifted into Lochlan’s arms. Arms that were way too gentle for someone like him. Arms that he didn’t deserve. 

He allowed himself to be carried up into his room. He knew he would beat himself up for it later, but right now he was just too tired to care. 

Sinking back into the covers, Calix didn’t notice that Lochlan hadn’t left until he spoke. “What happened?” 

Calix forced tired eyes open, sitting up against the wall. “Mmh… got hurt.”

“I can see that. Wanna tell me who did that?” Lochlan furrowed his brow. Was that a flicker of regret that he saw in Calix’s eyes?

“...doesn’t matter ‘nymore. They won’t… hurt me anymore.” Calix muttered, more awake now. 

Lochlan hesitated for a moment, arm’s crossed, putting two and two together. The blood on the kid’s shirt wasn’t his. There was no way. So… that meant that Calix had killed whoever hurt him. Or scared them bad enough to not get close. Lochlan knew Calix enough to know that he wouldn’t say things like that if he wasn’t sure. 

Calix’s grey eyes flicked up to meet his own, a silent understanding passing between them. “You did what you had to, kid. It’s fine.” 

As tired as he was, Calix could still muster the strength to shake his head. Lochlan hadn’t been there. Lochlan hadn’t seen the way he had ripped into flesh. He could have killed him clean, just a slash across the throat, but he didn’t. The body looked like it had got caught in a machine when he was done. Calix wouldn’t call that just doing what he had to. Not even close. 

“Listen. Any one of us would have done the same.” He could tell the boy wasn’t convinced. Slowly making his way over to the bed, he gingerly sat down on the edge of it, ready to leave if Calix showed any sign that he didn’t want him there. Reaching over and gripping his chin with a firm but loose hold, he forced eye contact. “Really. No one here thinks you’re any less of a person. Don’t dwell on it, alright?”

Even as Calix nodded, he knew that no one could convince him he was any different than the monsters that ruined him. 

Here you go!

Set months/years after Alfie’s captivity when he’s not such a helpless little jerk.

The punch came out of nowhere, but Alfie saw it streak across his peripheral vision, and he ducked, his attacker almost toppling over. Alfie grabbed the fist and wrenched it behind him, the man flailing wildly as he fell onto the ground. His other hand reached for something in his pocket and Alfie stepped out of the way as the person pulled out a knife. He wasn’t fast enough. Blood seeped out from a small cut on his hand. It stung, but Alfie kept a hold on the man’s arm, twisting it further until he heard a crack. “…Fuckin’ harpy,” the man sputtered through shallow breaths. Alfie stood above the man for a moment longer. “Th-that’s what I am, yeah.” His stutter was barely noticeable, but it was there, and he hoped the man didn’t take it as a sign of weakness. “And yet, I’m… I’m still able to win.” Alfie kept his gaze on his opponent. The man tilted his face toward Alfie’s, his cheek against the ground. “We’ll see about that.” 

After the man was dealt with and the scratch had been bandaged, Alfie continued his travels. The next town was through a forest, and he could get there by nightfall if he hurried. There would probably be an inn he could stay at before setting off the next day. He passed the threshold between town and forest, and the air suddenly felt a lot colder. Too cold. It seeped through his clothes and pressed against his clammy skin, forcing him to wrap his arms around himself. He tried to look straight ahead, but his gaze shifted from one thing to the next, never staying in one place for too long. It wasn’t until he almost stumbled into a tree that he realized it. The knife was laced with poison. The town was still a little ways away. As tempting as it sounded, if he just collapsed here, whatever would happen it wouldn’t be good. 

He pushed on, latching onto tree branches and leaning on boulders for support. His vision was gradually getting more and more distorted, and there was a faint ringing in his ears that wasn’t particularly loud but seemed to block everything out anyway. He licked his lips. He was drooling. The only thing that kept him going was a fear, no, a need of not dying alone. If he died in the forest, that was it. No one would come looking for him. No one would miss him. He rubbed his eyes, but that only made the blurriness worse. His head throbbed, and he wanted nothing more than to just lay down and sleep. 

Somehow, he found the strength to stagger on, blundering into rough bark or tripping over stones every other step. 

At last, the town came into view, just a haze of color in Alfie’s eyes. He managed to walk a few more feet before finally collapsing, the dew on the grass seeping through his clothes. The last thing he heard before the darkness took him was a voice yelling, “Alfie? Alfie! Hey, what the fuck?”

I love you toooooo!!!!!!

Gasping, coughing, the need for air, it’s all too much he’s going to drown he’s going to die like this he’s- 

The pressure on the back of his neck releases, and Alfie yanks his head out of the tub, coughing up water, the sparks and black haze receding from his vision. The water’s tainted red. He’s bleeding. When did that happen? No time to think. He’s shoved underwater again, his heart pounding too fast too hard, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding his breath, his lungs and throat burning-

He chokes, and breathes in. But it’s not air. It’s water. Water, that burns its way down his windpipe. Water, that makes its way into his lungs. He squeezes his eyes shut and tries to squirm his way out of the Reaper’s grasp. She doesn’t let up, and he can feel darkness clouding at the edges of his vision once more, dulling the pain in his chest.

When Alfie started kicking at the heavy blankets, mumbling unintelligibly, Valen startles awake in the cozy armchair beside the bed. His first thought was mind control, can the Reaper even do that? but he quickly changed his mind when Alfie dragged his hands up to his throat and started scratching at things that weren’t there. 

Valen leaped out of the chair and before he could tell his body to do otherwise, frantically shook the harpy. “Alfie! Alfie, wake up!” This evidently was the wrong thing to do, as Alfie did wake up, sending a flying punch at Valen in the process. Valen backed off immediately, reeling slightly from the blow. Alfie’s yellow eyes were still unfocused and hazy. He blinked once, his breaths coming in short pants, before he realized what he had done, and the expression on his face changed to horror. “Hey, look at me. I’m not hurt. You didn’t hurt me. It’s okay.” Try as he might, Valen couldn’t convince Alfie from pushing off the covers and walking out of the room, the only acknowledgement of him being a mumbled,“‘M sorry, won’ happen again.” 

“Wait, Alfie! It’s- I’m not… hurt.” Valen finished the last word just as the door slammed shut on him.