#god im delirious at this point i keep staring at words and not registering what im supposed to be doing

[nyctolovian]

Summary: Martin is an incubus and Jon is the drunken human who just accidentally summoned him.

Written for @aspecarchivesweek Day 4 prompt: AU

Warning: nudity, terrible humor and shenanigans

Martin felt a prickle at the back of his neck and hummed. A call. How unusual.

He lifted his head and looked skyward, or as skyward one was allowed to look up from the depths of the underworld. It was unusual, being called in this day and age. Humans, as a society, had long moved on from their initial obsession with witchcraft and demonic rituals so summoning for underworld beings had been and far between.

Usually, the minor demons would be clamouring over one another, in a flurry for a chance to feed upon human soul. However, as the ceiling of the underworld was burned open with a summoning circle and light from the human realm streamed in, the imps and lesser fiends around him cowered. In fact, they actively avoided eye contact with Martin. Intrigued, Martin licked the air and let the scent of blood settle on his senses. When he recognised the taste it left on his tongue, he blinked in surprise.

The call… was for Martin. Specifically.

From the corner of his eye, some of the other demons shifted out of his way politely. Slowly, Martin rose from his spot, stretching his arms and grunting softly as his joints popped at the movement. 

“Long time, eh?”

“Sure is. I just hope it’s not another horny teenager,” Martin muttered and glanced at Tim who grinned slyly at him. He was violating several social rules, which usually signalled an invitation to confrontation, but Martin knew Tim well enough to recognise the lack of hostility. Besides, it was absurd to compete for this particular summoning. Every demon was curiously watching with bated breath. Interrupting this would ruin the fun. After all, the art of summoning specific demons was thought to have long been lost. 

Especially something as specific as summoning a demon by name. 

Martin couldn’t help the shiver of anticipation as he spread his wings. What could be waiting for him beyond the circle? With a deep breath, he launched himself upwards. As he approached the summoning circle, he felt the familiar light tingle of cool air against his skin. As his hands curled around the edges of the circle, it burned into his fingers. 

Martin heaved himself up into the human realm and found the summoner, staring up at him with wide dark eyes. This was not an unusual reaction. Martin could be a terrifying sight indeed to a human, with his large ram horns and razor-sharp teeth. But humans were terribly confused creatures who often mistook their rapidly racing hearts for carnal thrill so it had always worked in Martin's favour. 

Smoke poured out of the summoning circle and he stepped out into the dark bedroom. “Why, good evening,” he greeted with a smile.

The human was quite the frazzled mess with his unshaved face, and black but greying locks tied up in a high fuzzy bun. He was wearing a purple cotton skirt that fell to his ankles, and the baggiest possible shirt with the words "Trust me, I Majored in Not Giving a Fuck" printed on the front. Clutched in his hands was a thick tattered volume of which he made full use by shielding his eyes with it.

He smelled of alcohol and a dark red coloured his brown cheeks deliciously. Martin's suspicions were confirmed when he stepped another stepped forward and kicked an empty can of beer, sending it rolling across the room and hitting a stack of newspapers on the floor with a dull klunk.

Questionable choices aside, he looked rather adorable and Martin might say this looked to be one of his finer catches. If only said summoner didn’t immediately scrunch his handsome face in disgust and mortification. 

“Oh, fuck!” the summoner said. “Wha— I thought…?” He narrowed his eyes at the pages of the book in his hands and let out the most exasperated groan Martin had ever heard. Then, he hurled the book at the wall. "Agh god! This is what I bloody get for sleep deprivation, I suppose. A fucking incubus!"

If Tim were in Martin's situation, he might have slid in a quip like, "Oh, if it pleases you, and I know it will, I can be a fucking incubus." Or a line that sounds much smoother than anything Martin could come up with. But Martin was not Tim so he just flinched awkwardly as the summoner's glare shot upwards and practically bore holes into him. 

“Alright, back into the circle,” the human said. “Back! Back!” He walked towards Martin and waved his arms dismissively, wobbling every step in his intoxicated state.

“Are y– Are you seriously shooing me?” he huffed at the audacity. “Like some cat?”

“Do I need to invite you out? Or perhaps I should rescind my invitation as if you’re a vampire. Begone, demon!” he said, flailing his arms ridiculously.

Martin looked incredulously at the small man. “But you summoned me! You can’t just shoo me away!”

“Look, I’m sorry. There’s been a mistake.”

“A mistake?!” Martin shouted. How could he be summoned by name (by name!!) in a mistake! It was unheard of and he was frankly quite offended. He gesticulated wildly, searching for the words to express how utter bullshit this was. But rage rendered him speechless and he could only sputter broken noises. 

“I read the wrong page and did the wrong ritual. I never meant to get… this.” He motioned to all of Martin, as though somehow greatly offended by the demon’s emergence he brought about himself. “What do I have to do to send you back?”

“I have to finish my contract, human! I can’t be sent back any old how.”

He frowned, hilariously befuddled. “Which is?”

“Take a guess,” the incubus deadpanned.

“Ah. That’d be… hm… difficult,” he said. “Ah! I think Sasha next door has been rather pent up lately. If you went out and knocked on the first door to your right, a nice young lady—that’s Sasha—will open the door and you could render your lovely services to her.”

“What? No, you can’t–”

The summoner clearly did not hear him because he nodded to himself sagely, humming in self-approval. He made his way over to the living room, swaying from side to side. "Oh. Wait." He halted just outside the main door. “No, that doesn’t sound like a good idea after all.”

Martin pinched the bridge of his nose. “Of course it isn't–”

“It’s better if I came with you to explain things. I don’t think she’d be keen on receiving a random stranger, and especially not someone who’s in this state of…” The summoner pulled a face of disgust. “Of undress.”

“Wh– I’m an incubus for hell’s sake! What other state of dress could I possibly be in? I'm not usually summoned to be taken on a stroll outside!”

"It's just a short walk. I wouldn't constitute that as a stroll," he mumbled. “I’m sure Sasha can appreciate this look better than I ever could. That’s a thing most other people appreciate, right? Must be,” he decided, opening the door.

Immediately, Martin slammed it shut. “Wait! No! That’s not the point! You can’t just cart me off to another human!”

Folding his arms like a petulant child in a supermarket, the human demanded, “Why the hell not?!”

“Because you made the contract! It’s your blood on the sacrificial circle, not this… this Sasha person.”

“Well,” he said, pout upon his lips, “that’s inconvenient.” He sat on the floor and tucked the skirt of his dress inwards.

Then, came the first breathing moment Martin had had since he first emerged from the summoning circle. 

Head lolling against the wooden door, the summoner slumped into himself and exhaled loudly. “What now?” 

“Well, um,” Martin said, “I usually begin things by finding out what my summoner’s name is.”

The human blinked sleepily, as though not registering for a moment (and perhaps he really didn’t), before saying, “You’re not going to… steal my name or something, right?”

“What? No!” Martin exclaimed.

“Sorry. I was just–”

“You summoned me yourself! You should know damn well I’m not a fae!”

“God, I’m sorry! It’s not every day I summon something."

Martin sighed heavily. "Yeah, it's fine. I'm sorry too. For yelling."

They settled back down into quietness. “It’s Jon. My, uh, my name. And you’re… A long name I can’t remember.” He grunted as he pushed himself up to get the book.

“Actually, just call me Martin. Don’t… Don’t use my full demonic name.”

Jon slid back down lazily. “Alright then, Martin. Is there any way we can, um, complete the contract without doing any of the–” He gestured vaguely– “stuff.”

"There's nothing else, really," Martin said with a wince of sympathy. "I am a sex demon after all so I trade in sex favours."

Deflating like a balloon, Jon let out a puff of frustration. "Oh, bollocks," he muttered. "Just my luck to summon a sex demon. Of all the wrong demons."

"Oh, so it's the sex demon part and not specifically the incubus part?"

"Yes. Don't, um, don't get me wrong I'm not a prude or anything. I'm just, well, terribly asexual," Jon said, fidgeting with the hem of his collar. "Do you… Is that something you're familiar with?"

"Oh, yeah. Humans like that have existed for ages," Martin replied and Jon visibly relaxed. "I've never been summoned by one before though."

Pulling the collar over his mouth, Jon chuckled drunkenly, his nose crinkling delightfully as he did so. "That's fair."

Martin couldn’t help the little upward curl of his own lips. Jon had a nice laugh, one that soothed and gently brushed away the tension in your chest. Martin found his chest warming at it and he sort of wished he could hear the pleasant sound again. 

The laugh faded with a soft exhale. "Is there really no other way I can… end the contract?" 

Martin gave Jon a pitying look. "Look, I'm… How about kissing? Kissing can be sexual and—"

"Kissing's worse."

Martin blinked. "Really?"

"I'm kiss-averse. Lips on lips is just… All that wet breathy movement. It just…" Jon pulled a face of revolt and exaggerated shudder to demonstrate his point. "You know? I mean, of course you don't. It's just stupid."

"No no no. It's not stupid at all," Martin assured him as he sat down on the floor so Jon didn't have to crane his neck to look at him. "Reasonable, in fact."

"Thank you!" Jon said. "Kissing has zero appeal. What is there to like about it other than the fact that it's supposed to be a show of affection? At least with sex it's not so bad. To me, at least."

"Not so bad how? Um, if, well, if I may ask…"

"I… It's…" Jon was sliding further and further onto the floor until his entire back was against the floor and his head was propped up by the door behind him. He exhaled through the corners of his mouth. "I'm… sort of neutral, I suppose? It's complicated. And quite a lot. I-I… I wouldn't want to go on for too long. I mean, I'd just bore you and—"

"I'd say I'm a pretty good listener. You'd be surprised how much pillow talk I do with the humans who summon me." Martin laughed sheepishly as he scratched the back of his head.

It was clear the moment Jon's restraint snapped because something in his eyes changed. Immediately, Jon was launched into an alcohol-driven spiel. "It's a fluctuating thing, you see? Most of the time, I forget sex is even a thing so when I'm suddenly reminded of its existence, I'm incredibly caught of guard. It's dumb but I feel offended even. That's why this—" he gestured to all of Martin— "is frankly rather off-putting. No offense."

Martin shifted awkwardly.

"But sometimes, you know, it feels… okay? As in I-I want it sometimes. Not often. Maybe once every three months, it sounds like a fascinating idea. But then there's no one in mind to do it with and I don't feel comfortable just… picking someone. And—" He frowned, his brow wrinkling cutely. "God, this is embarrassing to talk about. I didn't even talk about this in as much detail with Georgie. She's my, uh, my ex. It just never seemed like the right time to talk about it and then suddenly we've drifted apart and…” Jon sighed loudly. “I just never could talk to her about things. Even if they bothered me." A look of devastation crossed his features as his arms slackened. "God, this is probably why we broke up," he breathed.

"I'm sorry," Martin said consolingly. 

Sliding further onto the floor till he was completely lying on it, Jon held a hand up. "No. No, it's been a long time since then. I'm no longer hung up about it. I just… well, this thing… my relationship with sex as a… thing. It just creeps up on me once in a while. It complicates things. So you can see why this is an odd situation I've accidentally gotten us into?" He turned his body so he lay on his side. 

"Yeah."

His eyes were pleading as he pulled his legs up to lie in a foetal position. "I'm really sorry I got us into this mess.”

“Don’t worry,” Martin said. “We’ll figure a way out of this together.”

Hesitantly, Jon nodded. 

Martin wracked his brain for any possible solution. He sat there for a good minute before his brain gave out. “No good, I can’t think of any right now.”

Silence.

"Jon?"

The slowness and depth of his breathing made Martin frown in suspicion. He approached Jon tentatively and peered at his face. Sure enough, lying there with his eyes lightly lidded and arms crossed over his chest, the human was sleeping. 

“What?!” Martin exclaimed, nudging him with his foot. “Did you seriously pass out in 5 seconds?!”

Thankfully, Jon was not entirely in dreamland yet because he furrowed his brow, refusing to open his eyes, and grumbled, “Wha…?”

In utter dismay, Martin yelled, “Jon, you can’t sleep on the floor like this!”

“You’re not the boss of me,” he slurred out in drunken drowsiness, turning his face towards the floor.

A groan of exasperation left Martin. “You’ll catch a bloody cold!” he scolded. “Your head will be aching and you’ll have a crick in your neck at the very least.” He squatted down and began shaking the human violently. 

This time, Jon’s eyes flew open in shock and he immediately squeezed it shut. “Ack! For fuck’s sake! Why is the first thing I see when I open my eyes your big smelly dick?!” 

"Wh- It's not smelly!"

Jon rolled out of Martin’s grasp. “I’m up. I’m up.” Sitting up, he began to rub his eyes.

Martin rolled his eyes. “We wouldn’t have to come to this if you didn’t decide to fall asleep on the floor like a caveman. I thought you humans will have a better appreciation of the comforts of a bed.”

“I’m tired, alright? God, you'll be stuck here for a while, won't you?” Jon said.

Martin hummed.

“Let's get you something to wear. I can’t have you going around butt naked in my house.” He stood up and gestured for Martin to come with him. And because he was wobbling dangerously as he walked, Martin followed him to make sure he didn’t trip and die on the way to his bedroom. 

After flinging his wardrobe doors open dramatically, Jon scanned its contents with folded contemplative arms. He grabbed a pair of boxers and tossed them into Martin’s arms. “Try it on. These are the biggest I’ve got so if you can’t fit into these, I’ll murder you.”

Brushing the strange threat off as a drunkard’s words, Martin stepped into the boxers. They were a tad bit of a squeeze but he supposed they could be considered a fit. When he looked up, Jon threw a dress over him with the hanger still on, checking the fit with narrowed eyes, before sighing and shoving it back into his wardrobe. 

They went through several iterations of this before Jon ran out of clothes. Not that this was unexpected, if you asked Martin. Jon was quite scrawny, standing at about 160cm and completely dwarfed by Martin’s broad-shouldered figure of 192cm. It was already a miracle that Jon had any underwear at all that fit him and Martin expressed as much to Jon.

“Aren’t I dressed enough?” he added. 

However, that only earned himself a scathing glare from Jon. “If you think being in a pair of boxers is called ‘dressed enough’ then you’re terribly wrong,” he replied. 

Martin decided not to comment that this was the most dressed he has ever been, even more than that time he wore lacy lingerie during a summon. 

“Aha!” Jon cried, slapping Martin’s shoulder. “I have just the thing!” He squeezed between Martin and his bed and fetched a plastic chair from the corner of his room. 

Clumsily, he clambered onto the chair and if Martin had a heart, it would leap to his throat at the way Jon rocked. Then, he stood on the chair to reach the top shelf of the wardrobe and Martin's hands shot out to steady the incredibly drunk and wobbly human. 

And good thing that Martin did because Jon suddenly lurched leftwards. Martin let out a frightful squeak as he caught Jon. "Careful!"

In his arms, Jon was stiff with shock. He pursed his lips nervously. 

He really did have a nice face, round and sharp in all the right places. Short but thick lashes that flickered as he blinked. Uneven lips with the left corner curling upwards slightly, as though just to keep things interesting. Thick, strong eyebrows that accentuated his eyes—dark eyes that were so soulfully deep, one could drown in it, and Martin was struggling to breathe a bit actually.

"I… Uh, thanks?" Jon mumbled as his gaze fell. Upon seeing what he had pulled out on the way down however, his face lit up. "There!" he exclaimed, lifting the thing in his hand triumphantly. "A bathrobe!"

Martin sighed in frustration, slowly let the scrawny man down and accepted the proffered bathrobe. Jon was about to step onto the chair again but Martin pulled him off and set him onto the bed behind them, where he could not endanger his own life. “Alright, alright. No more climbing up things tonight. What do you need?” Martin said. 

Huffing, Jon flopped backwards onto the bed. “I need to close it.” 

“I’ll do it,” he said. He raised his hands and easily shut the upper shelf of the wardrobe. With that settled, he put the bathrobe on, tying it neatly, and turned to Jon. “Alright, what–” He stopped when he saw Jon fast asleep in the most bizarre position, upper body on the bed while his entire lower body dangled off, his skirt fanned out as the human slept with his legs stretched onto the floor. 

Martin grimaced openly. This was going to be one long summoning. This Jon person was really quite the hassle. Sure, Martin has met his fair share of human disasters—adulterers, gamblers, sex deviants. But he has never met this particular brand of mess before. 

Still, he couldn’t bear to leave Jon in this state. Let it be said that Martin the Incubus was an excellent bed partner. He leaned down and picked Jon up to lay him properly on his bed. While Martin tried to tuck Jon into bed, sleepy arms wound around his neck. It was quite cute actually, so Martin let him. 

When he was done, Martin tried to push Jon off, but the stubborn human only clung tighter. He tried to pry Jon’s arms apart. To his horror, that made Jon let out a whine before he threw his leg over Martin’s back and tugged with more force than Martin thought he was capable of in his sleep.

“Oomph!” Martin steadied himself before he fell and crushed the poor human under his weight. “You really are a bloody handful!” 

They wrestled for a while longer before Martin let out a groan of sufferance, jostled himself a space on the bed and lay down, all while making sure he didn’t accidentally hurt Jon with his ram horns. As though satisfied, Jon’s stick-thin limbs wound round Martin’s body and he pressed his face against his chest. Jon was all elbows and knees, and all that shifting in his slumber did not help. But, left with not much of a choice, Martin resigned himself to Teddy Bear Duty. 

[divinityoswin]

for the caged bird sings of freedom

➳ this work is a multichapter fic

summary: Dragons were the ones who ruled the heavens, who soared above all. It was unbecoming of one to desire to live down on earth.// Sabo knows nothing of his past. Im knows, though. Im always knows best. 

In which Im finds themselves in need of an heir, and the newest slave at Mariejois seems to be the perfect candidate.

characters: Sabo

words: 2221

content warning: angst, slavery, abuse.

»»————-　♔　————-««

A free bird leaps on the back of the wind  

It’s strange, he thinks, that there was an entire world out there to explore, yet the town seems insistent on caging its residents in.  

He can see it - the bars that lock them in houses, the corsets holding the women in place and the stiff suits that restrain the men from running out and living .  Their very hearts are locked and sealed away, to the point that they would turn their noses up at the screams of those begging for mercy.  Its a cage of their own creation, and he wants no part of it.

Why did he want no part of it?

He couldn’t move, he couldn’t speak.  All he could do was lay down and stare at the wooden ceiling, counting the planks as his body swayed gently back and forth.  A bandage is wrapped around one of his eyes, as well as most of his body - and something is strapping him down to a bed.  The last thing he remembers is an awful sensation encapsulating the left side of his body, and then nothing.  But that’s not the problem here.  It also happens to be the only thing he remembers.

Oh, he remembers feelings , information - he knows he detests nobles, and he knows that there are four seas - five, including the Grand Line.  But he doesn’t remember himself.  No name comes to the tip of his tongue, and any attempt to look back into his past is only met with an orange glow within his mind.  Fire, he presumes, which would explain the numb feeling in his body.

The boy would cry, if it did not hurt to do so.  Instead of weeping, he wonders.  Wonders of where he is, of what would happen to him.  He would welcome death, if a voice in the back of his mind did not scream at him for thinking so.

“You gave everyone a nasty shock out there.”

The voice is serene, and it sends shivers down his spine.  He cannot move his head, so it’s up to the stranger to come into his own view.  Just out of the corner of his eye, he spots a flash of orange - not the warm kind, like the fire that once engulfed him, but a harsh, sharp kind.  One that clashes with the black the stranger is wearing.

It’s a woman, he thinks to himself.  Danger.  Danger.

Get out.

“It is thanks to the kindness and generosity of our Saint that you were rescued,” she continues.  It’s almost as if she’s preaching, and he wishes desperately he could escape.  The last thing he wants is a lesson . “Tell me, do you know why you are here?”

He cannot move, nor open his mouth, so he merely stares at her general direction and waits.  Minutes pass by, and he can feel her gaze boring into the side of his skull, until finally she steps forward and comes into his field of vision.

She has a sharp nose, sharp eyes, sharp lips, sharp cheekbones - everything about her is sharp .  As if she were made of razor blades.  Yet freckles litter on her sun-kissed skin, and her curly bright orange hair is braided in a way that reminds him of a flower he had seen but could not remember, and she smiles with a grin that looks like honey.  None of this does anything to appease him, however, and he finds himself locked in a staring match with her.  It’s only when she sighs and looks away that he breaks eye contact.  The ceiling is much more interesting, anyway.

“As I suspected.  Your head trauma renders you unable to move or speak.”

A quill scratching on paper.  She’s writing something down.

“I suppose it would be useless to ask for your name,” she says.  She tuts, as if it’s somehow his fault that he’s incapable of moving. “Mine is Doctor Hymn.  A pleasure to meet you.”

Unfortunately, it isn’t much of a pleasure for him.  In fact, it’s rather unnerving, and a bit stressful.

“I will be your Doctor for this trip.  You should consider yourself lucky you survived the accident.”  He feels her hand - warm yet not in a comforting way - rest upon his forehead.  He winces. “I will begin to ask you some yes or no questions.  You will respond with blinking.  One long blink means yes, two means no.  Understand?”

He’s not exactly sure he’s in the right mindset to be answering questions.  After all, he’s still delirious from whatever ordeal he had been through, and everything happening now is driving him into a state of panic.  But Doctor Hymn’s grip on his forehead tightens, and he finds himself shutting his eyes before opening them again.

“Good, good.  Now. . .”

The floorboard creaks as her hand is removed from his forehead.  She’s stepping away, scribbling something more down, and humming to herself.

“Were you planning on assassinating our Saint?”

He blinks twice.  She’s talking absolute nonsense to him.  Even if he couldn’t remember a thing about his past, he got the sense he wasn’t the kind of person to kill others.

“Are you currently dissatisfied with the World Government and its system of governance?”

What a strange question, especially to one such as himself - a child.  He blinks twice, because he feels blinking once would be a mistake.  But in his heart, he feels something stir within him, and it takes him a moment to realise he’s lying to her.  

Why was he lying?

“That’s wonderful to hear.  Now, are you a strong young man?”

He can’t move a muscle, so he instead rolls his eyes and gazes at her general direction and waits.

“Not when you’re injured, of course,” Doctor Hymn clarifies.

He blinks once.  At least, he assumes so.

“Very well.”  She sets aside her notepad and quill, and takes a seat next to him. “You’ve passed the test.”

What test , he wants to ask, but of course nothing escapes his lips.  Doctor Hymn seems to understand his confusion, though, and continues.

“Discard your name.  It doesn’t exist anymore.”

A sentiment that would work if he could just remember his name.

“From now on, you will be called 0731.”

0731 shivers.

                                                    * * *

It takes 0731 only a day to understand the meaning behind her words, and to know exactly where he is.  Well, not exactly - but he senses something is important about where he is, and that it doesn’t bode well for him.  As far as he knows, he’s on a ship, he’s in some sort of medical area, and there are some very, very important passengers on board.

Doctor Hymn, the only person he has been allowed to see so far, refers to these passengers as ‘Saints’, speaking with such reverence as if they were holy creatures.  0731 can only assume that they’re either actual Gods, or they were simply nobles who had become so twisted in their self-worth and ego that they thought themselves to be so.

Something tells him it’s the latter.

Whatever the case may be, he isn’t allowed to see them.  Not yet, anyway.  Doctor Hymn tells him he’s too sickly to see anyone but her, and he knows for a fact it’s true.  Just the mere act of breathing, of his chest moving slowly up and down in ragged gasps, is painful.  Moving his body around - now that is physically impossible.

As for his company, she’s not bad company, but something about her sets alarm bells in his head.  From the way she dresses in a blinding white, to her vaguely familiar hair that he couldn’t quite place, to the freckles dotting her skin that looked so out of place with her cold eyes.  Every word that came from her tongue reeked of honey and venom, and now, as he lays down alone, he feels grateful she’s not there.  Probably off worshipping her saints, or something.

He would snort, if it weren’t agonizing to do so.

It just leaves the case of what exactly he is now.  And he has a inclination he knows what that is.

Slavery.

Despite his amnesia, he’s still very much aware of the term and concept.  The disgust runs down his spine and he shudders.  The very idea that one human being could be considered lesser than another, to the point that they’d be kept as pets , is sickening.  Yet here he is, a slave in all but his heart - his name already taken - travelling to who knows where and being stuck with who knows who .  He hears screams and cries from somewhere on the ship, and wrathful yells, and then silence.  His imagination goes wild, and 0731, for an instance, considers biting his own tongue off.

He doesn’t, of course.  Something in the back of his mind tells him not to.  But the instinct is still there.

The door creaks open, and the clack of high heels against wood resounds across the entire room.  0731 knows who it is, from the three times she’s been in already.  Doctor Hymn, here to check up on him no doubt.

As far as answers go, she’s told him nothing.  Not that he exactly asks many questions, considering the whole cannot move and talk situation, but that’s beside the point.  She keeps secrets close to her chest, and while he’s sure she’s never lied to him, she’s never told the full truth either.  Instead she gospels and speaks of her saints and expects him to know what she’s referring to.

“The blood samples have been completed,” she says.  She’s somewhere behind 0731, fiddling around on what he presumes to be a desk. “You have no illnesses, as far as I can tell.  As for your current condition. . .”

He feels her gaze bore into his skull.

“You’ll have to bear with it for a little while longer.  Once we get to Mariejois, you’ll be at the hands of the finest doctors in the world.”

The name Mariejois is unfamiliar to him, but it’s an indication of where he’s going, at least.  If only he knew where that is.

Something sharp pokes into the back of his spine, and suddenly it feels like knives are sticking into his back.  It takes him a moment to register that Doctor Hymn is lifting him up.  Not that it makes it any less painful.  He wants to scream, to cry, but any words hurt to say.  She seems to understand he’s in pain, however.

“This is only temporary.  We can’t have you drinking when you’re lying down, can we?” she says.

He wants to curse her, but all that comes out is a pathetic whimper.  

Doctor Hymn pours out a glass of water and brings it to his lips.  He’s parched, he realises, so he swallows it gladly.  Yet it stings and hurts down his throat.  Tears build up in the corner of his eyes, and he grimaces.  Doctor Hymn looks mildly concerned.  He wonders if she’ll be his solace during this time.

“We’ll have to fix that soon,” she says. “Our Saint would not want a product that cannot even drink.”

His heart breaks into pieces, and he loses whatever semblance of hope he has left.  As she straps him back into the bed, he’s dumbfounded.

“We’ll be arriving at Reverse Mountain soon.  Brace yourself.”

With that, she’s gone, and leaves him alone yet again.

0731 wants to scream and break free.  He wants to kick everyone’s ass and go someplace else and to be free .  Free of his shackles, free of this world, free of his fate.  Everything about now is choking him to death, it’s gripping his heart tightly and ripping it apart.  It’s not just about his injuries.  It’s not physical.

Not that they help much with that, either.  The injuries, that is.

So, instead, he stares at the ceiling, and begins counting in his head again.  He’s almost up to the final plank he can see when a sudden jolt breaks him out of his concentration, and the feeling of the straps scraping against his wounds sends him on fire.

Chaos is happening outside.  He can hear that, at least.  Screams, muffled yelling, rushing water .  It almost sounds like a waterfall.  Then, the entire ship rattles and shakes, and with it so does he.

To say that it is painful would be an understatement.  It is excruciatingly so.  His body is in no condition to move, let alone so violently, so being jerked around like that . . . it did not do him any favours.  It lasts for about two minutes before there’s a moment where he’s almost floating off his bed, kept down only by the straps, until he lands straight back down and the shaking begins again.

“Ah - Ah!”

His voice finally comes to him, in a hoarse whisper - but his voice nonetheless.  And at what a spectacular time, too!  For he was, as far as he was aware, about to die from the violent jerking and his injuries.  

Never again.  He never wants to go through that ordeal again.  Now the ship rocks gently, as if it’s on calm waters once again.  A clock ticks nearby, voice from above still muffled and still yelling, albeit quieter than before.

Staring at the ceiling, he begins to sob.  

It doesn’t take long for 0731 to scream.