#doc says to sleep however but given the discomfort when I so much as reach for a pillow I’m thinking I’ll be stuck this way for a hot sec

[novelconcepts]

It’s all fun and games being off the pain meds until your body forgets how to sleep without them.

[youbloodymadgenius]

Brother (a Modern!Ivar fic with an unexpected Ragnarsson as special guest)

A/N: This is my entry to @maggiescarborough​ celebration. Happy early Anniversary, love 💝

I’m quite proud of this one! So, please, I know it’s not a reader insert, but give it a try, give it a chance 🙏🏽

Prompt in bold, as usual.

@inforapound​ - I know how much i owe you. Thank you 💞

Let me know if you want to be tagged 😊

Summary: One of Ivar's brothers was in a car accident. How will Ivar react?

Warning: description of physical injuries; mention of a car crash; medical and surgical inaccuracies.

Words: 2331

As soon as he spots Doctor Mikelsson, Ivar gets up, wincing at the throbbing pain in his legs as he steps closer to the renowned surgeon. 

 "Doc," he says, giving him a slight nod, "How is he?"

 The surgeon sighs tiredly and slowly rubs his palms down his scrubs-clad thighs. "I'd say he has been very lucky. As far as I know, it could have been much worse. Car versus truck is never a winning combo, at least for the car's driver. His car has been completely destroyed, from what I hear. It must have been a terrible wreck. "

"That’s an understatement." Ivar grumbles under his breath, shivering as he struggles to get the images of the crash out of his mind. The pictures he saw were so vivid, he could still hear the screams and ambulance sirens that had undoubtedly filled the accident scene. Closing his eyes for a brief instant, he shakes his head, forcing himself to focus on the here and now. 

 "That's not what I was asking, Doc. How is he?" He insists, emphasizing the last three words as he shifts his weight from one foot to the other, leaning heaviliy on his crutch, physical and mental discomfort obvious on his face.

 "Well, he's not so bad, all things considered. As I said, it could have been much worse. He's stable and his condition isn't life-threatening. It's serious, though."

 Ivar rolls his eyes, getting impatient. "Straight to the point, Doc, please! And no need to sugarcoat it." His commanding voice is sharp and stern, his tight-lipped expression giving away what little patience he has. 

 "Okay, Ivar." Doctor Mikelsson gives him a weary smile, a hand up in surrender. "About his upper body first. Aside from several bruises, he had a sprained wrist and a cracked rib. The last one will be painful for awhile but it won't be an issue in the long run. His lower body, on the other hand…" The surgeon frowns, visibly gathering his thoughts. "He suffered a double tibia-fibula fracture of his right leg and his pelvis has been multi-fractured; therefore I had to stabilize it with plates and screws. To allow his pelvis to recover, your brother will be bed- and then wheelchair-bound for at least six weeks, maybe more. Not that it matters, anyway, given the condition of his left leg."

 Hearing those words, Ivar shudders. "How…" His voice comes out strangled and he clears his throat. "How is it? You… You could save it, right? That's why I… had him transferred here."

 Putting a soothing hand on Ivar's forearm, the doctor nods. "Yes, I saved it. It was quite a challenge, I must admit. His leg has been severely shattered during the crash, literally crushed by one of the truck's tires. From the top of his thigh to the tips of his toes, not a single bone was intact. I do understand why my colleague from the public hospital wanted to amputate it, you know?"

 "But you saved it?" Ivar asks once again, his free hand running nervously through his disheveled hair.

 "I did." The doctors answers soberly before explaining. "I reduced the largest fractures, using rods and plates there as well. I couldn't avoid putting an external fixator though, his leg was too damaged. He'll still need several more surgeries, but he gets to keep his leg."

 "Thanks, Doc." Ivar adorns a slight smile which doesn't completely reach his eyes. "And what about recovery? He will fully recover, right?" A frown creasing his forehead, Ivar bites his inner cheek, worried and concerned. 

 Grimacing, the surgeon lets out a deep breath. "Ivar, I'm not sure you understand the extent of the damage. It's not just about a couple of broken bones. We're talking about devastating injuries that could have – that should have – resulted in amputation. If you ask me if your brother will walk again, I can't be sure yet, but I'm quite confident he will. Will he need walking aids, like cane, crutch and or leg brace? It's too soon to say. But to be perfectly honest with you, it's quite likely." Seeing Ivar wince, the surgeon gives him an apologetic look. "Sorry Ivar. Be sure I did my best."

 "Don't be sorry, I know you did. It's just a lot to take in. Does he… Does my brother know?"

 Scrunching his face, the surgeon hesitates, unsure. "More or less. I talked to him in the recovery room but he was a bit dazed from the drugs and the nurse had to increase the morphine because he was in pain. He was completely out of it after that. He'll probably sleep through the night so I'll talk to him first thing in the morning." Taking a step back, Doctor Mikelsson stares at Ivar from head to foot, noticing how the blue-eyed man favors his left leg, his right foot barely touching the floor. "You should head home and get some rest, Ivar. I'm pretty sure you've been wearing these braces for far too long." Giving him a light pat on the shoulder, he shrugs. "I'll do the same anyway. Guess I'll see you tomorrow. Good night, Ivar." 

 ***

 Opening the door as quietly as possible, Ivar watches his sleeping brother. He's awfully pale, his frail frame so small on the hospital bed, his right leg in a cast, his left propped up on a huge pillow. Ivar frowns at the sight of the fixator, which makes him think of a barbaric tool more than a medical device. He suddenly feels grateful that he never needed one. 

 Trying to not make any noise, he crosses the room without using his crutch, struggling and wincing with every step. He's successful but fails to stifle a hiss as he sits down on the chair next to his brother's bed. He looks at him, worried, and sees his eyes flutter open. 

 "Ivar?" His brother's voice is hoarse and the stunned look on his face unmistakable. "Why did you come here? To make fun of me?" There's no fight or fire in his eyes, only exhaustion and sadness. 

 Ivar shrugs, a light smile playing on his lips. "Can't say the thought didn't cross my mind." He lowers his head one second, snorting, and when he raises it again, it's with a serious look on his face. "Guess I wanted to know how you are doing." His voice is barely a whisper and he doesn't look his brother in the eye. 

 "What did you say?" Ivar's brother's tone is suspiscious, dripping with disbelief. "Since when are you concerned about that??" He tries to sit up but groans in pain, collapsing back onto the bed. 

 Worry wrinkling his forehead, Ivar instantly gets up, putting a hand on his brother's shoulder. "Hold still, will you? And seriously, tell me, how are you feeling? How is your pain? I mean, on a scale from zero to ten, zero meaning no pain at all and ten an unbearable pain. Tell me, how bad is it?"

 Ivar's brother rubs his cheek with two fingers, squinting his eyes, before letting out a long and audible sigh. "Four I think, maybe five."

 Ivar – who lives on a daily basis with a six or seven rated pain – has to remind himself that his pain treshold is much higher than that of ordinary people. "Okay," he begins softly, "four or five might still be tolerable but don't let it get higher. Look," he points at a small medical bulb with his index finger, "that's a morphine pump, just squeeze it once and let the magic work. Trust me, it's terribly efficient. It will make you a bit dizzy but it'll be worth it." As to illustrate his point, Ivar squeezes the pump and he can see the relief washing over his brother's face almost instantly as the pain goes numb.

 "I spoke with the doctor who did the surgery this morning. Did you?" Ivar's brother asks, a frown on his face and biting his lower lip.

 "I did." Ivar answers without saying anything more. An uneasy silence settles in, eventually broken by Ivar's brother‘s shaky voice. "So, you know there's a chance…" His words catch in his throat and he swallows loudly. "What if…" Overcome with anxiety, he's unable to say more.

 "Hey, stop that, brother!" Ivar almost scolds him."You will walk again. It may be hard, but you'll get there. For now, you should be thankful for being alive. You know what they say… Where there's life, there's hope. So please, stay positive and fucking look at me if you need to. I was able to walk, so I'm pretty sure you can too."

 Ivar's brother looks at him for a long time, a puzzled look on his face. "Karma is a bitch, isn't it?" He eventually says sheepishly, a sad smile crossing his lips. "You can say it, I won't get mad, you know? I probably deserve this, after all I did…" He sighs, lowering his gaze, but Ivar doesn't allow it, raising his brother's head with a finger on his chin. 

 "Listen carefully, brother. No one deserves to suffer. Neither you nor anyone else. Karma has nothing to do with what happened to you. You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time, nothing more. The truck driver was sleep-deprived and didn't see the red light. It sucks, I get it, but it was just bad luck that you were at this crossroad at the same time that he was."

 Ivar's brother just nods lightly, and then yawns, rubbing his eyes. "You should rest, brother. I'll be back soon." Ivar grabs his crutch but his brother wraps his hand around his wrist. 

 "Wait… You told me why you were here but there's one thing I don't understand. Why are you the one here? Where are our–" He stops as another yawn cuts him off.

 Ivar, however, understands his unfinished question. "Last time I heard from our dear brothers, they were going on a business trip to Cancun. Seeing as it is the beginning of Spring Break in the US, I'm pretty sure calling it a fuck trip would be more accurate. It also means that you're stuck with me for a couple of weeks. Sorry about that." Tilting his head, Ivar gives his brother a semi-amused look. "Anyway, now, you're going to rest,” Ivar strokes his brother's hair with unexpected gentleness, "and in the meantime I'm going to make arrangements for your future."

 "What… what does that mean?" Ivar's brother babbles, the drug-induced dizziness hitting him with full force.

 "It means that as soon as you'll be discharged, you'll be moving in with me." Ivar says casually, shrugging, as he heads towards the door.

 "Moving in with… you? But… why?" The questioning tone of his brother is obvious and Ivar turns back to look at him. "It was either this, or the rehab center. Trust me, you'll be better taken care of with me. My apartment is fully accessible, I've got a real PT room and Sven, my longtime PT, is the best in all of Scandinavia. You'll also probably need an OT, and it happens that I know the best OT too. Flora is her name, she helped me a lot a few years ago. So yeah, you will be in good hands, I promise. As good as Doctor Mikelsson's hands."

 Confused, Ivar's brother looks at him questioningly.  "Doctor Mikelsson is… your…" Obviously befuddled, his speech is now slurred and he can't find the right word.

 "My surgeon, yes,” Ivar completes the sentence. "Has been for the last twelve years. That's why I had you transferred here, in this clinic."

 Dumbfounded, Ivar's brother stares wide-eyed. "I don't… I didn't rela… realize I've been transf… transferred. And that… that was…"

 "At my request, yes." Ivar nods. "Because the Doc is more than a surgeon. He's a magician. He truly can work wonders. Me standing and walking is enough to prove it." Raising his head proudly, Ivar smiles at his brother reassuringly. 

 "Why… why did… you do… this for… me?" Ivar's brother sputters, exhaustion written all over his face. Yet, he fights it, his curiosity prevailing above all else. 

 Ivar shrugs once again, giving his brother an airy wave of his hand as to let him know that what he's doing is no big deal. "I know your pain, brother. I know the struggles you'll be facing. You have a long road ahead and I know how scary it might be. You won't be alone. I won't allow it. We'll get through this together, because no one should have to deal with such things alone." Ivar almost hiccups, his heart is suddenly in his throat as a wave of painful childhood memories floods his mind. He pushes them away, gritting his teeth, because now is not the time. Focusing once more on the blond in front of him, he speaks again, in a firm tone. "So, brother, you won't be. Never. I will be right next to you at every step, literally. We'll make our own version of 'the blind leading the blind', you know?" Ivar scratches the back of his neck, a half-smile on his lips, before taking a deep breath. "And you may be an asshole most of the time, but you're still my brother. That's why I do it. It's as simple as that. Sleep now, we'll talk later."

 Hand on the doorknob, Ivar hears a faint whimper. Looking backwards, he's surprised as he sees a single tear running down his brother's cheek. "Thank you, Ivar." His brother says with a trembling voice, clearly shaken up by Ivar's words.

 Ivar gives his brother a genuine smile, suddenly struck by the thougth that it's probably the first genuine smile he's given his brother in years. "You're welcome, Sig," he says sincerely as he has to blink back his own tears, an unfamiliar but warm feeling in his chest, "Sleep now, I'll be back soon. I promise."

 🛡💖🛡

@maggiescarborough​ @honestsycrets​ @lisinfleur​ @waiting4inspiration​ @saldelys​ @gearhead66​ @readsalot73​ @milkkygirls​ @xbellaxcarolinax​ @shannygoatgruff​ @zuxiezendler​ @a-mess-of-fandoms​ @hecohansen31​ @lonewolf471​ @ivarthebloodyking​ @fuckindiva​ @tgrrose​ @didiintheblog​

[glitchinthesystemspiderbyte]

[14] Glitch in the System - Chelsea Morning (The Mission: Pt. 3)

By K. A smooch(!) happens. Chapter title is a reference to Joni Mitchell's "Chelsea Morning", which you can peep here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=F_y7O06z77Q.

–

Widowmaker wasted little time in procuring an audience with Akande inasmuch as she offered him no say in the matter. She stewed the entire flight from Milan to Venice, punctuating the assistance she offered their medic with sporadic reprieves to the observation deck. There, alone, the sniper paced in silence as she struggled with with the unplaceable, coursing adrenaline that fueled her restlessness and left her balling fists so tight they left tender, narrow crescents along the inside of her palms. Even devoid of the ability to connect with it on a cognitive level, she recognized the physiological manifestation of what, in anyone else, would be anger. Unfortunately, Talon’s air transport offered little in the way of outlets for that frustration; instead, she grabbed her comms device on one of her trips between the medical bay and observation deck and dialed Doomfist’s number with as much deliberate force as the screen could withstand.

“What?” he asked, irritation filtering through static space with digitized crispness.

“We are going to talk,”  Widowmaker commanded flatly. “ETA 1930. D’accord?”

“Lacroix-,” Akande began, but she hung up before he could respond. It felt strangely vindicating.

After seeing Sombra to her room and tipping the medic generously, Widowmaker crossed to the eastern wing of the estate, ignoring evening greetings from other agents as she transitioned from the relative quietude of the west side to the bustling heart of their current operation. Taking the stairs two at a time, she made her way to the second floor and shouldered straight through Akande’s office door without so much as a knock.

Doomfist rose from behind his desk in acknowledgement.

“I don’t much appreciate being hung up on,” he said, setting aside a handful of papers as he stepped around the edge of the desk.

“I do not much appreciate being sent on fool’s errands,” Widowmaker replied, light and clipped as she closed the door behind her.

“Excuse me?”

“Fool’s errands,” she repeated, giving the words enough space to emphasize the accusation. “You knew it was a trap. We all did.”

Akande stood unmoving as she approached, hands tucked into the pockets of his linen slacks; as always, an impossible read. Widowmaker gave her imprecation a wide berth, locking eyes with Doomfist as she waited.

“What do you want?” Akande asked calmly, his expression unwavering. The sniper inclined her chin, searching his face for any indication of intent and, unsurprisingly, finding nothing.

“What do you mean, ‘What do I want’?” she asked.

“I fucked up,” he replied matter-of-factly. “No way around it. What do you want?”

Widowmaker pursed her lips, brows knitting thoughtfully. Her first inclination was to suspect foul play, and if Doomfist were anyone else, that reflex would be warranted. Akande, however, made good on his reputation as a man true to his word; as long as loyalty or the impression thereof was maintained, he rarely, if ever, leaned on deceit where it was unnecessary. In this regard, he was as transparent in his communication as he was opaque in his tactical decisions.

“Lacroix?” he asked, expectantly.

“Two weeks,” she replied. “Sombra, too. No questions. Expenses paid.”

Akande, eyebrows raised, tilted his head. “And?”

The assassin shrugged. “That’s all. Give me that and I forget this mission ever happened. Y’en a plus.”

“Done,” Doomfist nodded. “Make your arrangements, give me a ballpark estimate, and we’ll wire the funds. Give our girl a week to get back on her feet and the next two are yours. Then we put this behind us.”

He extended a hand.

“Put what behind us?” Widowmaker asked, accepting the agreement with a single, firm handshake. Relinquishing his grip, the sniper turned toward the door.

“Knock next time,” Akande called after her.

“There had better not be a next time,” she concluded with a single, backwards glance.

All things considered, the breakfast Widowmaker managed to cobble together from their haphazard pantry was surprisingly robust. As the last of the toast decreed its readiness with a chirp and mechanically-bolstered leap into the air, she plated it and considered her work. It was heavy by her standards, possibly even excessive: eggs with goat cheese and a variety of sautéed vegetables, bacon, toast, fresh berries, yogurt, and, to her continuous chagrin, the same overly sweet cereal Sombra favored despite infinitely more complex and healthful offerings. Still, given the circumstances, the spread felt somehow insufficient. Lacking.

She turned abruptly toward the fridge, scanning its contents.

Champagne.

Orange juice.

“Parfait.”

The medic had told her liquor was a poor idea - that nanotechnology expedited recovery but that soreness and pain would persist even after the wound was mended. For that lingering discomfort, he prescribed a relatively small but powerful regimen of painkillers for the ensuing week, offering the caveat that it be taken with food and to avoid drinking.

Popping the cork on the champagne, she scoured the cabinets for a flute and found only juice and pint glasses - both gauche in their own respects, but her options were limited. Settling for the latter, she poured the sparkling wine into the glass in equal parts with the juice and decided that what the medic didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. She knew she’d want a drink, were she in Sombra’s place.

She set the glass beside the dry cereal and adjacent cup of milk, shouldered the tray on which her work was arranged, and made her way through the hall toward Sombra’s room. She passed Gabriel en route, shushing him with a raised finger before he could so much as snicker.

“Just don’t,” she glowered. “Not today.”

Biting back whatever opening volley he’d prepared, Reaper rolled his eyes as loudly as possible before ducking around the corner.

Widowmaker continued uninterrupted, shifting the tray to her left shoulder as she approached the hacker’s door. She knocked lightly, lest her injured colleague still be asleep; even under that light touch, however, the door gave way with a slow, creaky groan.

“Manda huevos, doc,” Sombra whined from within. “If you’re here to check on me one more time—.”

The sniper poked her head through the door, quirking a perfectly arched eyebrow. “You’ll what?”

Propped up in bed with the aid of a collection of pillows, Sombra acknowledged the sniper with a tired half-smile and the ghost of a chuckle. “I honestly have no idea,” the hacker conceded, brushing a few strands of wayward hair from her face with her unencumbered hand. Her opposite arm was cradled in a sling which the medic ensured them was only necessary for the day or two required for the nanites to work their magic. That aside, the only other evidence of their failed mission and the injury incurred therein was the swathe of bandages creeping above the neck of her shirt and the softness exhaustion lended her usually sharp features.

“You coming in or what?” she asked.

Widowmaker obliged, slipping through the door with care before bumping it shut with her hip. Sunshine illuminated the typically darkened room, throwing its light across the walls and bed in a wild, radiant pane that made the hacker’s room somehow more inviting than usual - warm, lived-in, soft. She had opened the curtains as she left the evening prior, to Sombra’s chagrin, insisting sunlight would do her well, even if only to bolster her mood. Ironic, coming from her.

“You didn’t,” Sombra started, violet eyes hovering on the tray.

“I did,” the assassin replied, crossing to the bedside and setting the tray on the adjacent nightstand.

“Araña.”

“Quoi?”

“You didn’t have to.”

“I did,” Widowmaker retorted, offering her the mimosa by the rim of the glass. Sombra accepted, lifting it to her nose and sniffing with a knowing smirk.

“I missed,” Widowmaker continued quietly, sitting at the edge of the bed. “I missed and you were injured because of it. Breakfast in bed is the very least I could do, and it is far from enough.”

Her admission, even coupled with the offering of breakfast, felt inadequate, a poor conveyance of the heaviness that settled in her chest and stayed there even after the weight of that dead soldier was long removed. Widowmaker wasn’t sure what to call it - guilt was the most obvious choice, but there was a complexity to this burden she struggled to parse, a collection of independent sentiments informing its composition. Failure was among them, redolent in its vicious poignancy, its blistering sharpness the only thing that had been required to reduce her to her basest, violent instincts. But there were other inclinations there, present only in her interactions with the hacker, warm and embarrassingly tender despite the cold baseline by which she was programmed to operate.

Now, sitting beside Sombra as the sun threw its light beneath her sleep-tousled hair, Widowmaker wasn’t sure a name was necessary.

“Would you like to go to France? With me?” she asked abruptly.

Sombra blinked, midway through raising a spoonful of cereal to her mouth. “Que?”

“My family owns a château outside of Annecy. Beautiful, but mostly abandoned. I was thinking some renovations were in order.”

“Let me know when you get the time,” the hacker shrugged. “I’d go.”

“We have the time.”

Sombra tilted her head, curious. “Go on.”

“I ah,” Widowmaker began, a shy grin tucked into the corner of her mouth, “I may have secured us a few weeks’ vacation effective whenever you are feeling well.”

For a long, unbroken moment, Sombra simply stared at her. Eventually, she set the bowl of cereal aside and reached out with her good hand, curling a loose fist in the knit of the taller woman’s sweater and tugging gently.

“What?” Widowmaker asked, allowing herself to be pulled closer.

“I want to kiss you.”

“You are hurt,” she protested, even as she rolled onto one arm and settled at the hacker’s side.

“It’s a kiss, araña, not a boxing match.”

Widowmaker smiled, small but sincere as she leaned into the hacker’s grip and pressed her lips to Sombra’s, sinking into the warmth she found there that was unfamiliar and welcoming in equal measure.

They lingered a long moment even after breaking apart, nothing between them but the space of their breath and ghost of Sombra’s grin against her own.

“You don’t have a garden at this place, do you?” the spy asked with the faintest brush of teeth against her bottom lip.

“No gardening. Promise.”

*Read from the beginning or check out our intro post! All stories tagged under #glitchfic

[wilfordndarkdidntdeservethis]

@what-the-flug The idea of mad! Flug came from that beauty! Try checking out their blog before reading! :D ——————————————– “Flug!!” Snarled the annoyed voice. The anxious scientist made his way towards his boss, tripping on his feet along the way. “S-sorry sir! W-what is-” Dr. Flug pauses midsentence to gasp. There in Black Hat’s arms was a knocked out super hero. A wide grin stretches across the scientist’s hidden face. “We’ve brought in another one. 5.0.5 managed to grab him after destroying half the city. The hero knocked right out after he was used as a chew toy.” Sneered Black Hat. The demon dropped the hero to Dr. Flug’s feet. “Do… Whatever you do with those heroes. I’m surprised you manage to keep them quiet wherever you put them.” Muttered Black Hat, walking off. As soon as he laid his eyes on the unconscious hero, a million thoughts ran through his head on what he’d do. Flug immediately began dragging the body away. Dragging the body was easy for him, picking it or lifting it up long distances was another. He could only pick them up short distances. Enough to make it from the lab to a trash can out back that later burned trash periodically. I mean, what else was he gonna do with corpses? Leave them to rot and stink? He was evil, but he was not trashy, no. Flug dragged the body into the lab, and behind his desk. He glanced around, making sure he wasn’t followed. As soon as he saw the coast was clear he opened a small patch on the floor, tossing the body down, before climbing down himself. The room was dark, dimly lit by a light in the middle of the room, which shined above a glass dome over a large pit. Where Flug kept heroes to rot. He tossed the hero he had been given into the pit from a small opening in the dome before sealing it shut as he always did. He studied the hero, mumbling noted out loud. “Hero appears to be.. Cumulus. Abilities include controlling the amount of water in the air along with weather to a small extent.” He searches around the table he had beside the pit, finding a needle beside a multitude of blood samples from different heroes from the past. He tied a small cord around his body before hopping down into the pit holding a remote and a small needle. He gets on his knees beside the sleeping hero, poking her skin with the small sharp object. As he did this, the hero squirmed with discomfort. “Hey! Hey. Hey, sshh. It’s all fine. Doc just needs a bit of blood is all. Then we can poke you and cut you and potentially zap you until you make your way to the little gates down below!” Dr. Flug giggled softly. His voice wad smooth as silk and clear as day a polar opposite to him outside the room. He pulls the needle away, with a considerable amount of blood in the needle, the blood a grayish hue. He sighs, getting up. “Too bad too. You were such a cool hero.” Dr. Flug sighs. As he begins walking back, the hero shoots up with loud gasp, snapping her neck towards the villain. “you.” She spat. “Where am I!?” She raises her hand, shards of ice forming in the air at rapid speed as Flug presses a button on the remote. As the shards fly towards him, the rope around his waist pulls him swiftly out of the pit, missing the shards just barely! He slams the pit’s opening shut and giggled frantically. “Hahaha! You almost got me there you little hero, you!!” Dr. Flug cackles. The hero stands up. “where am I!? Let me go you bastard!!” She snarls. Dr. Flug ignored her, setting the blood sample inside a vial labeled the hero’s name, setting it right along side others. “interesting note to add! Not only can you affect the water levels in the air, you can also change temperature as well! You’re blood could make a great freeze ray!! Ohh, how exciting!” He grins. “Let. Me. OUT!!” Roared Cumulus, shooting a multitude of ice shards at the ice. The loud thud of the ice’s impact against the seal made Flug jump with surprise. “it’s no use doll!! Impenetrable!” Sang Dr. Flug. Cumulus snarls. “So- so what!? You gonna test me? You gonna torture me? Brain wash me? Control me!?” The hero growls out. Flug taps his chin. “you know. Giving the villain, the person with the upper hand, options is not a good move. However! I will happily accept torture!!” Cheered Flug. He presses a button on the table and arms flung out the side of the pit, grabbing the hero’s arms and legs. Flug hops down yet again with the remote, walking up to the hero who’s now unable to move. She squirms and tugs at the arms trying to break free, alas it was no use. Dr. Flug walks up to her, reaching his hand out. The girl immediately flinched making Flug laugh. He lightly grabs her chin, looking closely at her face. The girl shakes her head, snapping forward to bite his fingers. “You won’t get shit out of me.” She spat. Dr. Flug chuckles slowly, his laugh chilling and dark, unlike his normal self. “Oh sweetie. What do you think I’m torturing you for? Go on. Guess.” He eggs her on. “Info? Weaknesses? Any villain would be stupid not to want that.” She scoffs. “Not necessarily now! A smart villain tortures for info because he lacks it without others to give him the info. A GOOD villain tortures for fun because he already has all the info he needs.” Dr. Flug grins. “What? So you’re torturing me without reason? How stupid!” Cumulus cackles. “See now you’re learning! Evading me from my true goals! Good! Good! But you know, the thing is. When you have a reason, once that reason is reached, you no longer have a reason to hurt! Its a stopping point for pain. A way out for heroes,” He grips her chin rougher than before, making her unable to shake him off, “See, I don’t want that way out for you. You’re trapped here. No matter. What. You. Do!” Dr. Flug spins himself, harshly kicking her dead in the face making Cumulus let out a choked roar in pain. Flug spins back around to face her, punching her on the opposite side of her face, knocking out a tooth. She spits blood onto the doctor. “Fuck. You.” She pants. “Aww! No thanks.” He hissed, running back and kicking her in the stomach. She yells scratchily, doubling over in pain, gasping for air as she hack up blood. Her body falls weak. She’d have fallen on all fours had if not been for the arms holding her in place. Flug punched her face upward, staring her dead in the eye. “Go on now. Do something about this. Drown me, freeze me, stab me with a weak little shard!” Dr. Flug teased. She growls and Dr. Flug bounced out of the way and as he looks away the hero lets out a scream as he hears the sound of sharpness puncturing flesh. He spins around on his heel seeing she had accidentally stabbed her self in the stomach with her own ice shard. “Ohh! That works EVERY time! You heroes are SO gullible!” Dr. Flug smiles. She feels blood dripping from the ice. “S-so you gonna k-kill me huh?” Cumulus coughed. “Damn. Here I though I’d die by a successful villain.” She chuckles weakly. “Oh but honey. I am a successful villain. The disappearance of Unit, Mr Frost, Jubilee, oh what’s his name uhh, Storm clock? Yeah that’s it.” Dr. Flug lists. “Pfft. Idiot. Everyone knows it was Black Hat who killed them.” Cumulus scoffs. Dr. Flug stiffens, before walking closer. He put his hand on the ice shard, pushing it inward making her scream. “He. Did. NOT. A good villain does not boast. A good villain. Does not get caught. A good villain. Is not. That fucking. DEMON!!” Dr. Flug roars. He clicks another button on his remote, tossing it in the air. The metal shifts and reforms and by the time it hits Dr. Flug’s palm, it’s already a destabilizer ray. “Black Hat. Is no. Villain. He is just a cocky. Arrogant. Self absorbed. Fuck.” Flug growls past gritted teeth. Cumulus grins. “Damn. You must really hate him.” She sighs. “Yeah well he pays the money and brings in the heroes like you I get to play with.” Flug sighs, twiddling with the ray in his hand. “So. What are you gonna-” “God damn it. All this Black Hat talk has ruined the mood. You’re not fun anymore.” He pouts. He repositions his body, shooting the hero straight in the head, blood splattering across Dr. Flug’s bag and the ground. He sighs, as the arms around the girl let go and retract into the walls letting the hero’s body fall limp on the floor with a loud thud. Flug shakes his head. “These new toys get worse and worse.” Flug sighs. He digs out a key from his pockets, unlocking a hatch on the wall before dumping the hero’s dead body into the chute to slide out into the garbage. He switched his ray back into the remote, pulling himself out the pit without a care. He showed no pity, no remorse. Like a good villain. He switched out his clothes and bag for a cleaner pair before turning to head back up. As he turns, he stops dead in his tracks, staring at a wide-eyed, trembling, whimpering Dementia. Flug sighs. “How much did you see you little cretin?” He snarls. Dementia’s voice was barely above a whisper. “a-all..” She whispers. Dr. Flug shakes his head, walking up to Dementia. He switches his remote to the ray, the device making an intimidating hum as he slowly held it up under Dementia’s chin, raising her head up making her whimper with fear. “You do not speak. Of what you saw in this room. Black Hat does not know and he never will. Understood.” Dr. Flug growls. “Y-yes.” She whispers. Dr. Flug puts away the ray, patting her head. “Good pet.” He says calmly. As he walks to leave Dementia halts him. “W-wait! I-I just have one question.” She stutters out. Dr. Flug turns around, tilting his head. “why don’t you ever act like this in front of the rest? Wouldn’t black hat.. Y'know. Like it?” She asks. Flug shakes his head. “If a person has a double life, it is to protect the people in the primary life. People have faces. Different ways to act under different situations. No one is sane when no one is looking, Dementia. Besides. Don’t you think if I acted this way for you all, I would have shot that demon in the head by now?” Dr. Flug replies. “Come now. You have your jobs and I have mine.” He smiles. They get out of the room, and Flug shuts the door against the floor. As soon they get out, they hear black hat aggressively calling out for Flug. “FLUG!! WHERE THE BLOODY HELL ARE YOU!??” he screeches. Flug sighs, looking over at the scarred girl beside him. “remember. No telling~.” He winks. He takes a deep breathe before running for the door. “C-coming boss! O-oh gosh!!” He calls out, flustered.