#wt22

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 31 A LIGHT AT THE END OF THE TUNNEL

Comfort | Bedside Vigil | “You can rest now.”

im in a jaykyle mood so enjoy this one :]

Kyle wakes up slowly, dragged inches by inches towards consciousness, a process he knows and is used to, something he wouldn’t take notice of if it weren’t for the spikes of pain he vaguely registers throughout his body, in his limbs, wrist, chest. He’s been in this position enough time to know what it means, and it’s not something he’s looking forward to.

He cracks an eye open, looks at the room he’s in. A bedroom, stripped to the bare minimum, impersonal but clean. A familiar sight. He’s on the bed, over the covers with a light blanket over his legs, head resting on a pillow and a noise coming from his right. He jerks, shifts his head subtly to find who’s sitting next to him.

“My place,” a voice he knows well speaks in the quiet of the room. “Found you on the sidewalk, this isn’t the worse you’ve looked but I’ve definitely seen better.” Jason continues speaking as his fingers fly over his phone’s screen, typing faster than Kyle can follow

“Hey,” Kyle rasps out as an answer and takes a moment to look at him, his hair longer than he remembers, the jeans and shirt he’s wearing, the false air of casualty Jason carries with him wherever he goes. “How long?”

“About an hour since I picked you up.” Jason deftly pockets the phone and lays his gaze on Kyle, looking him up and down methodically. “Anything hurting?”

“Everything,” he sighs dramatically, because Jason means safety, and he’s not sure when those two ever became synonyms for him.

“Got roughed up good, yeah,” Jason smirks as he says those words. “Crash landed in Gotham, right in my turf. Nobody got hurt,” he answers before Kyle can even ask. “Unlike you. But you’ll live, nothing too serious. A couple broken bones, minor cuts and bruises, your ring is pretty nifty when it comes to protection shield, you know that?”

“I can patch myself up.” He protests weakly, even to his own ears, when Jason details the injuries. He tries to sit up but even the idea of loving his arms or torso seems like torture. He settles for shifting his head to look at Jason.

“No, you can't,” he answers bluntly. “Not in your state. You are exhausted so you won't be able to focus to use the ring, and-” he cuts when he sees Kyle is about to speak. "I pumped you with enough painkillers to take out a horse. You cannot patch yourself up."

Kyle focuses on his ring, on green, on will, the one that comes most easily and yeah, even using all the focus at his disposal he can't get a single construct out, must less a clear idea of what he’d want to make. It feels like his mind is being pulled in a dozen directions at once.

“Yeah, ok.” He sighs and lets his head roll on the pillow, looking at the ceiling. But there is one thing, though. “Why’d d’you pick me up?” Kyle asks him, turning towards him once again.

“The White Lantern laying unconscious in the narrows ain’t a good idea, you know. Had to fish you out the street did.” Jason keeps his voice casual, but there’s something on his face, the way he’s still sitting on a mismatched armchair near him.

“You’ve been sitting with me the whole time?” He rasps out, and watches, delighted, as Jason clams down and shuts off his face. Kyle beams, knowing he just hit the target right on. “Aw, you do care about me, Jason!” And that makes him laugh, unfortunately, because his entire left side is eaten by a pain burning like fire, something that makes him cough out pained grunts instead of laughter.

“Cracked ribs.” The smug expression slides easily on his face, although it is subdued. “Just making sure you were breathing right.”

“Right,” Kyle drawls and slowly lifts a hand up, the one with the ring. “I do yield the power of Love, you know.” When Jason doesn’t speak, he does it for him. “I know you’ll never say it, but I know.” The hand flops back on the covers and he closes his eyes. He knows he should say something more, could taunt and mock but he’s tired, and in that weird feeling where he knows things hurt but they don’t really, they just feel numb and that in return make him feel fuzzy. So he doesn’t say anything, letting the silence drags on as Jason stands up, walks around the room.

The foot taping he was hearing since he woke up is gone, as are the tense shoulders and Kyle knows that, even if he refuses to admit it, he’s sitting in this room just as much for himself as he is for Kyle’s sake. It’s heady, this holds they have on each other, one that crept up on them without him noticing.

"Hey, wanna cuddle?” He blurts out when Jason steps closer, grins at the falter in his footsteps.

"Don't push it, Rayner,” he grunts, and that makes him open his eyes, if only to watch the twists of his lips and the angry frown of his eyebrow.

"Come on, you know you want it too. Hugging is supposed to release good hormones for healing, right?"

“Cuddle this," is all he gets for an answer, along with a pillow thrown in his face. Ouch.

“Asshole,” Kyle mumbles even as he grips the pillow in his arms and releases some of the tension that built in his chest. “As soon as the drugs wear off, I’ll deal with that.” He promises and Jason hums. “Show you how it’s done.”

“Sure.” He says as if he were entertaining the ideas of a child, not the promise of witnessing great powers in action. “I’ll be right there when you wake up to see that.”

“Good,” Kyle nods once and his eyes slip close again, the sense of safety and familiarity of having Jason by his side enough to pull him back into unconsciousness, a well-known feeling by now.

[blaidd-gwyn]

Thank you @wren-of-the-woods for tagging me!

RULES: Post the names of all the files in your WIP folder, regardless of how non-descriptive or ridiculous. Let people send you an ask with the title that most intrigues them, and then post a little snippet or tell them something about it! And then tag as many people as you have WIPs

For the sake of keeping the list short, I'm only including things that are witcher related and have something written about them. None of these have been looked at since at least August because I've been busy having my brain eaten by writing Jedi fallen order fanfic instead.

Toxicity(wt22)

Let your chaos explode

Ouch

Explosion

Can't sleep

Blood loss (worthy)

I think you've all been tagged already but just in case @damatris @dancingwiththefae @bambirex

[dokkanme-blog]

Live FARM TOURNOI WT22 JAP - DOKKAN BATTLE 1212

Live FARM TOURNOI WT22 JAP – DOKKAN BATTLE 1212

Live FARM TOURNOI WT22 JAP – DOKKAN BATTLE 1312 ▶Pour faire un don en live : http://bit.ly/FaireUnDonEnLive ▶Ma boutique de t-shirts: https://goo.gl/Rm4LKd ▶Devenir SPONSOR, clique ici : https://goo.gl/PbzhLd ▶Le discord public TTF : https://discordapp.com/invite/z9DqmKa ▶A quoi sert d’être SPONSOR ? Ca permet de soutenir le…

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 11 “911, WHAT’S YOUR EMERGENCY?”

Sloppy Bandages | Self-Done First Aid | Makeshift Splint

Stupid. He’s been so goddamn stupid and now he’s paying the price.

Stupid to think he’d get what he wants, stupid to think Bruce would ever give this to him, stupid to ever hope, ever think it would end any other way. Would end without him waking up in the ruins of his plans, dust and concrete clinging to his lungs as Batman rises two stories above him, without as much as a look toward him.

Jason still doesn’t know how he did it, much less why he’s still alive. All he knows is that he stumbles into one of the few safehouses that hasn’t been broken in quite yet with a hand clinging to his throat and the other curled into a tight fist. It’s all a blur, like a movie playing in front of his eyes as he shuffles around the room, retrieving the first aid kit and shucking off his jacket. When they broke into the room, the Joker’s laughter, Batman standing still, like a damn statue, Jason talking, begging, threatening a reaction out of him. What a fool he’s been.

The reflection he catches in the bathroom mirror feels like a ghost, covered in white dust and eyes wide, hollowed out. He slowly peels his hand and the piece of fabric away from his neck, lets his eye fall to the deep gash slicing the flesh. It’s deep, and it hasn’t stopped bleeding but it’s nowhere near enough what amount of blood should be trickling down from this kind of wound.

Dirty fingers prod at it, push and tug, a sort of morbid curiosity has him pulling the edge away and looking inside the flesh, the arteries and ligaments that haven’t been cut, despite the flesh being neatly sliced. It’s only then that he registers the pain, the burning sensation radiating from the wound all through his shoulder and down his neck, worsening by the second.

Jason hisses and pulls his hand away. He knows bandages won’t cut it, and there’s no anesthetic in this kit, only painkillers he’s dry swallowed already. He can almost hear Alfred’s voice as he pulls off his shirt and washes his hands. They’ve all had first aid and health lessons from him, how to take care of yourself, how to eat and sleep properly, as well as the basics of caring for wounds. He hears his instructions, scrubbing the back of the hands and nails well before handling anything that has to touch an open wound.

“Fuck off,” he hisses and bites down on his tongue, tilts his head to the side for good measure, and lets the pain pull him into the moment, away from his traitorous mind. He prepares everything, alcohol wipes, antiseptic, the thread and needles and pliers, lay everything neatly on the sink, stops only when he notices the shakes in his hands.

The adrenalize, he bitterly thinks. The tremours do not stop, nor do they lessen, not when he spends a minute slowly his breath and focusing on it, not even when he picks up the wipes and starts cleaning the cut, biting back a hiss as the sensation as he pulls on the wound and cleans the inside as much as he can. If anything, the pain and minute task worsen the shakes, hands barely able to hold the gauze. Still, he’s got a job to do, no way past this.

Jason pointedly avoid his gaze in the mirror as he brings the needle into his skin and thread it through, stopping mid-way to hiss out a breath and let the fire shoot up his neck into his jaw, doing his best to ignore the pain. He focuses on his breath, slowly in and out, and soon enough he slips out of his mind, beyond pain and grief and only in the now. He carries on with determined hands, stitching the gaping hole near his neck in record time, perfunctory and jagged but enough for what it’s supposed to do: keep him from bleeding out.

When he looks up, his head feels settled, and quiet, not run through by thoughts that had been parasitising him this entire night. The line of the wound is enough for him to know it’ll scar, something big and angry, and all he can think is good. He dresses the wound, sticks a thick bandage over it and pulls his shirt back on. He sneaks a glimpse at his own face and realizes he’s been crying. Thick tracks run down both of his cheeks, his eyes red-rimmed and glossy with tears. He wipes them with the back of his hand, runs a wet hand down his face for good measure before leaving the bathroom.

No point in staying here, he can feel sorry for himself later. For now, he’s gotta get out of here, and fast. Find his go-bag, his burner phone and a car to get him out of gotham, at least until he recovers enough. The shakes in his hands haven’t stopped and he knows the weak feeling in his knees is moderate blood loss, which will take him a few days to push through and get back to full form.

But he can’t get his feet to move, eyes stuck to the mirror. To his face, the remanent’s of bruce in his eyes and hair, in the high cheeks they share, in the haunted pain in the shadows on their faces. He’s not sure how much time passes before he can get his fingers to curl and pushes the switch off, effectively breaking his line of sight with himself.

Anger is good, hate is fuel but right now, he doesn’t feel any of those. He feels hollowed, carved from the inside out by the hand of the one he called father. So close, yet he’s never been so far away from him. His neck burns as Jason finds his way out of the flat, a reminder here to stay.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 3 A HAIR’S BREADTH FROM DEATH

Gun to Temple | “Say goodbye.” | Impaled | Ringing ears

set vaguely before utrh starts, featuring jason's first step in gotham's underbelly

Jason doesn’t like to admit these kinds of things, but he fucked up here. He royally fucked up, he shouldn’t have trusted intel gained from secondhand, outdated and misleading hearsay that result in this kind of shitty deal. Him, tied to a chair, a gun pointed at his face and no way to get out of his bonds, not with the way they messed up his shoulder.

Think, think, think Jason. He let his eyes run around the room, at Jack, currently rambling on and on about his feat and great mind, the two guards beside him and the three lackeys accompanying them, including the one currently holding the gun muzzle straight in his face.

“Don’t you ever tire of listening to this piece of filth?” He asks the youngest of them, the one standing behind this little assembly. Jason’s never been one to take a beating silently, that’s not his style and he’s sick with his voice already. And distraction is good, it makes them fail, it makes them vulnerable.

But Jack doesn’t take the bait, he only nods at lackey number three who pulls the gun away only to knock him at the back of the head with the grip, full strength too. Helmet or no helmet, it hurts, and the electronics inside do not like it one bit. He built it himself, so he knows it’s strong, but there’s a breaking point to anything if you’re looking hard enough for it.

The hit did nudge his body enough for the shackles to slide down his wrists, enough for him to reach. He pulls out the pins he keeps in his sleeve, and starts to work on getting them off quietly.

“Who told you about me,” Jack carries on with a self-satisfied smirk. Jason would love to rip it off his face with his own hands. “About this little operation of mine?”

“A, you are not nearly as suave as you like to think you are,” Jason spits and grins at the twitch of his eyebrow. He hit a nerve there. “B, the guys you employ love to run their mouth, you should be careful with that. And C, nothing goes on in this city without me knowing about it.” He ignores the blood pooling at the back of his mouth from this bitten tongue, keeps his voice steady. “You really thought you could take your share of the cake here without me coming by to let you know the rules?” 

“That’s why you’re the one bound to a chair and I’m the one holding the gun?”

“I’m exactly where I want to be,” Jason bluffs, lets cockiness slip in his tone. Truth is, he only wants to get out of here as fast as he can, the plan was to blow up this jerk’s warehouse, where he transits his supplies of guns and stolen goods. He rigged the entire building, all set on a timer, about to go off sooner than later. He wasn’t expecting company, which is right where the ‘royally fucked up’ component of this evening comes in.

“I think you’re full of shit.” Jack sneers. “And I think you’re stalling because, despite the name you’re using and your cute little gadgets, you��re nothing but a loud mouth.”

“Then why don’t you just kill me?” Just a little more, he can feel it, just a few more seconds and he’ll get the handcuffs off and then the fun will begin. But he should have excepted this asshole to raise to the second bait, just to piss him. Jack grabs the gun out of lackey three’s hands and Jason only has a moment to hope to god he’s good enough to have built a helmet that’ll withstand a point-blank shot.

It happens so slowly, the handcuffs falling from his wrist, his shoulders coiling as the finger presses the trigger and the shoot firing at him. Then nothing but noise and a flash of blinding white. His head is jerked back violently, his back arches as a terrible, overwhelming noise rumble throughout his skull, like thunder cracking.

For one agonizing, quiet and hopeful moment he truly believes he’s dead, gone for good.

And then he opens his eyes to his helmet’s blown-out lenses, cracked and grey, and realizes the noise is a combination of his ears ringing from the sheer volume of the shot and the sound receptors that must have been killed with it, creating a loop of feedback that almost distract him from the way Jack is standing with his back toward him. He has no idea how long he was out, if the warmth he feels on his face is sweat or blood and if he’ll even be able to walk but he doesn’t care much, Jason knows an opportunity when he sees one.

He takes two breaths in, the first to get a hold of the nausea rolling in his stomach and the second to push back the pain blasting from his shoulder and in his skull. It’s all mechanical when he pushes himself off the chair and lunges at Jack, ripping the gun off his hand to point at his head, daring the others to shoot at them. His moment of glory is cut short when he catches a spark out of the corner of his eyes, already cursing this evening to hell and back. Time to make his exit then.

He slams the gun into Jack’s head and shoots once toward the audience before making a go for the nearest door, thankful still open. The ten strides it takes him to get there feel like forever, and it’s still not enough to avoid the blast, the hot air washing over him as the main structure crumbles behind him.

Jason falls to his hands and knees, ears ringing and vision blurring. He’s retching up blood and bile and spit before he can take off his helmet, the sound of screams and fire eating at the metal roaring behind him.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 21 FAMOUS LAST WORDS

Coughing up Blood | “You’re safe now.” | “Take me instead.”

“You’re safe,” they tell him when they pull him off and away from the tarmac, from the burning remains of his father. He doesn’t believe them but he nods along, like he does when his mother tells him off or asks him something. He clings to the jacket and sits where they tell him to sit, and he watches his mom cry.

“You’re alright, it’s safe here.” They say when he lands the plane and steps down. “You did good,” the co-pilot says but he sees the eyes of the brass on him, he knows it’s the last time he flies for the army. It is safe, after all, but this isn’t what he wants.

“You’re safe,” he says when he sets foot on the tarmac clad in green and a ring adorning his finger for the first time. The pilot shakes his hands, thanks him, and he gets it, for the first time. To be the one to say those words, to bring protection to others. That night he fits the jacket tighter around his shoulders and clenches his fist on his ring, warm and pulsating with power.

“You’re safe,” he says, repeats, “you are safe,” and “it’s all safe,” dozen upon dozen of variations on the sentiment, offering these words with pride knowing they are true. He does not think about the times he says those when they are not, or when he can’t bring himself to say them. It all blends together after a while, but the gratification never fades.

“You’re safe,” Hal Jordan chokes out at an emerald city born out of his failure. “You’re alright,” he says to his mother and his father before they vanish, before they’re ripped away from him. “I will make it right,” he promises. He takes off from the earth and does not look back, will not look back until he can make it right.

“You’re safe,” Green Lantern croons and lays his hand flat between him and Kyle. “It’s alright, just give me the ring.” But he doesn’t believe him, doesn’t trust him, and he makes him fight for it. And then he says it, Kyle looks at him and tells him “it’s alright,” but he doesn’t tell him it’s okay, or that it’s safe, he doesn’t.

“You are all safe, now,” Parallax whispers, now a truth for the first in months, years, decades, his arms pulled wide by the black sun before him. He can close his eyes and accept what’s coming, what he’s done, what will remain. “You are safe now.”

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 4 DEAD ON YOUR FEET

Hidden Injury | Waking Up Disoriented | Can’t Pass Out

Hal sighs as he closes his eyes and rests his forehead against his locker, lets the cool metal fill his senses, takes a breath in, and out, and in again. Everything feels dizzy, and distant, and he’s not sure if it’s the change of gravity or the gash he knows is splitting the skin over his ribs. Maybe the wound, more than his lack of sleep and usual light-head when he comes back to Earth.

He’s fine, it’ll be fine. He just needs a moment to get a grip and then he’ll change, and he’ll go get that date with Carol and everything will be fine. Just a moment and he’ll move.

He’s jerked away from his thoughts after what feels like an eternity by a loud noise, which takes him a few seconds to recognize as the hangar’s door closing. He pulls his head off the locker and manages to right himself on his feet just as he hears Tom calling for him. He has just enough time to school his face and leans over the locker doors with what he hopes is a casual stance before Tom’s head peaks around the corner

“Hal, you’re back!” He cries out and saunters over, hands in his pockets and a radiant smile on his face. “Wasn’t expecting to see you before Saturday.”

“Hey, Tom.” He tries his best for a smile too, one arm draped over his stomach. He knows he misses it when the movement pulls a muscle and a pained grin twists his mouth. “How are things down here? Everything’s flying right?”

“Are you alright?” Tom frowns and steps closer, looking over him. “Did something happen?”

“Nah,” Hal dismisses with a wave of his hand. “Just needed to charge up, ring’s empty.” He holds his right hand up, and then tilts his head. “So you know, if I could get some privacy to do that.”

“But you took the battery with you. Because you needed it, you told me.” And shit, he did, didn’t I? He’s gonna have to look for it now, he doesn’t even remember how he ended up here.

Hal wants to say something, to answer him, he really wants to, but the moment he opens his mouth is when the entire world decides to shift on its axing and all he can do is hold on to his own waist as he falls to his knees, vision blurry and white noise filling his ears. It feels like his head is underwater.

“Hal!” Tom rushes to help him down, and the sudden contact makes him winces, a shoulder hitting his wound spot on. “What happened?”

“It’s fine,” Hal slurs, his tongue heavy and his eyelids heavier. He’s really tired, all this flying around space taking a toll on him, and he’s cold, and it would be nice to just sleep, just for a moment. “It’s nothing.” He looks down at his hand and the blood smeared on the white glove, winces again.

“Hey, hey Hal, talk to me,” Tom says as he takes something out of his pocket. A phone, Hal realizes. He busies himself with it for a moment, still talking the whole time. “It’ll be ok, Carol’s coming, we just need to wait for her.”

“Ok.” He says and tries to close his eyes again. His ribs hurt, but not as much as the lights hung above him do.

“Don’t sleep, Hal.” Tom’s voice is frantic, and Hal feels bad for worrying him. He’s a good kid, he shouldn’t have to see him like this. “Talk to me.”

“I’m sorry,” he manages, letting his hand fall on Tom’s wrist, not holding but resting on it.

“Why are you sorry, Hal? Tell me,” he asks and so Hal talks, slowly untangling the words on is tongue as they wait for Carol.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 28 IT'S JUST THE TIP OF THE ICEBERG

Anger Born of Worry | Punching the Wall | Headache

“You piece of shit,” Guy snarls and shoves Hal, hard enough that he loses his balance and falls flat on his back, winds knocked out his lungs. “Oh, you’re a real piece of work, Jordan,” he continues in the same tone, looming over Hal with his bull-like physic, managing to block most of his view just by squaring his shoulders and leaning forward.

“What the fuck,” Hal slurs and puts his hands behind him in order to push himself up. Before he can do anything, Guy is grabbing his collar and doing it for him, pulling him up on his feet like he’d do with a ragdoll and Hal hates it. “Get your hands off of me,” he bites and shoves his hands off. Or tries to, because he doesn’t bulge, leather bunched in his thigh fists.

“Or what? What you’ll do, big guy. Hit me?” Hal blames it on how confused he is, how the exhaustion weighs down on his bones like lead, Guy’s smug expression and the way he sounds so sure of himself. His fist flies and collides with his face before he can think about it, effectively breaking his hold and making him stumble a few paces back. It’s satisfying, wakes him up better than landing on Earth or taking off his Green Lantern costume did. Nothing like the physically of a fight.

The satisfaction lingers when Guy slams into him fist first, the violence of the swing on its own is enough to make his ears ring, and that’s not counting the second one Guy aims at his guts. He’s gasping for air when Guy pulls back and spits on the ground, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He is a brawler, and he knows where to hit to hurt. It feels good, in a twisted, strange way Hal refuses to look deeper into.

“That’s for punching me, asshole.”

“And the second one?” Hal gasps, trying to keep the bile in his stomach.

“For being an asshole.” Once he's sure he’s got his breathing under control Hal turns toward him, keeping one hand on his knee for support.

“Do you have other words in your vocabulary? Or do you only have twelve.” Guy ignores the bait, chooses to answer him instead, the only time in his life Hal wishes he didn't.

“Didn’t ya learn to keep your ring charged? We’ve been trying to contact you for a month now.”

“I do,” Hal responds with a voice a lot more defensive than he’d wish to. “I was just helping a planet with a yellow atmosphere. You know, the thing that our rings suck at.” 

“That’s bullshit, you were there for two months?” Guy is snarling again, bunching his shoulders and looming like he was mere seconds ago.

“What is it to you, anyway. What are you, my mom?” He may have been avoiding Earth and other Lanterns, but so what. A man is entitled to some time alone every now and then, no need for justification, especially not to someone like Guy.

“Because when you pull shit like that, we have one less Lantern to back us up.”

“Right.” Hal drawls. "The Great Gardner not being able to handle a situation, right. You’d cut off your own hands before admitting you need help.”

“It’s not about-” Guy cuts himself and let out a grunt. “What d’you even do, for weeks up there without anyone.”

“I just. Go there, I guess,” Hal shrugs. He’s tired, and confused, and he’s hac enough of Guy’s games. He wanted a lot of things going back to Earth but certainly not being assaulted by a manchild with an ego problem.

“You never stop running away, uh.” Guy says and that’s- That’s not fair, alright. It's not.

Hal is grabbing Guy by his own jacket, staring down at him. “I’m not running away,” he grits out and tightens his fists. “I just like the quiet, alright. It’s peaceful up there.”

“Peaceful, you say.” And there’s something in the way he says this, it’s not angry, not really, there’s something more. Not relief, but understanding maybe, like it makes sense to him. Like he gets it, gets the feeling.

“Wait.” Hal stares at him, and under the furrowed eyebrow there’s something else. “Were you- Were you worried for me?”

“Pff, worried? About you? No way,” Guy snorts and brushes him off, and it wounds his pride when he gets his hands off of him in one try, unlike his earlier attempt. It’s such a childish thing to say, miles from subtle but Hal doesn’t get it.

“You were worried for me,” he repeats, and the words sound strange when put in relation to Guy and himself. “Why?” Guy crosses his arms over his chest and twists his mouth into an angry grin.

“You really don’t know,” and now there’s something that sounds a lot like sadness in his voice, or disappointment. It’s gone as soon as it appeared. “Bet you think you’re such an important guy, right? Think everything revolves around you. Well, they don’t,” Guy is powering his ring again, a sheen of green surrounding him. “Go radio silent as much as ya want to, Jordan. It’s not like anyone cares what happens to you.”

He’s gone in seconds, leaving Hal confused, with the side of his face hurting and a weird feeling at the back of his throat

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 29 WHAT DOESN'T KILL ME…

Sleep Deprivation | Defiance | “Better me than you.”

always thinking about this panel on the glc 80th-anniversary book where john is the only one out of the three to know why guy truly acts the way he does, i think about it often

“Pussies!” Guy yells as he’s thrown on the floor of their shared cell. Or tries to, with the way the wind’s knocked out of his lung with the impact he makes on the ground. “Just a bunch of pussies, my granda hits harder than you do!” The door is closed before he can finish his speech, and John stares at him from where he’s sitting on one of the rock benches they have in the room. 

“Hey, Johnny,” Guy tilts his head enough to grace John with a bloody grin and half his face swollen. “Didn’t see ya there.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” Is all John can say, arms crossed over his chest and staring down at him. Guy slowly pushes himself onto his knees, then on his backside, sitting with his elbows on his knees, one hand rubbing at the back of his head and the swelling still there from a bad hit on the wall.

It’s been going on for days now, ever since they were caught and thrown here. Guy will shout the loudest, make as much noise as humanly possible and get the ire of their captors on himself, he gets the beating and harsh words and rough manhandling whenever he pisses them off too much. John is getting tired of that.

“What d’ya think,” Guy drawls and puffs out his chest. “Got a few hits of my own, ya know. Those assholes may live in yellow world but I still have those guns.” He picks his arms up and flexes them, going so far as to kiss each of his biceps and John will not survive this, he will not survive this mission with Guy, he won’t.

He wouldn’t even be in this mess if it were for Guy asking to tag along what was supposed to be a short trip, if it weren’t for the delay it caused and an unexpected asteroid storm pushing them off course and crashing them here, a planet notoriously known for its distrustful population. John is convinced this is some kind of cosmic joke. Guy says it’s karma, but John knows no one deserve to be locked up in the same room as him. Certainly not John.

He’s tired, he’s letting down a whole lot of people who need him for the information he was supposed to gather a galaxy away from here and Guy is not helping.

“Will you stop this!” he yells, days of anxious waiting and frustration catching up on him. “It’s just you and me here, you can stop the tough guy routine. You got something to prove? It’s not to me, and it’s not here.” Guy is staring at him, mouth opening for a second before he clenches his jaw, which somehow spurs him into saying more.

“Here, let me say this so you can go on with your life: you’re the toughest guy, happy! You can take so many hits and punch back, that’s impressive, amazing.” John grits out with as much sarcasm as he can muster, claps his hands twice. “Congratulations, Guy Gardner! Will you stop antagonizing those people out there and help me make a plan to get outta here? Make yourself useful maybe?” By the time he’s done, John is on his feet, panting, with a finger jammed into Guy’s chest, glaring at him. When did he stand up, when did Guy stand up, he has no idea. He keeps staring at Guy, he’s gotten so far, it will feel stupid to backtrack first. 

“You think it’s about me? You think I’m tryna prove somethin’? Ya don’t know the first thing ‘bout me.” He grunts and shoves his hand away. “‘m buyin’ us time, so shut ya mouth and be grateful!”

“I give up,” John says, he knows it sounds whiny but he doesn't care, there’s no winning with him, it’s impossible. He’s a smart-ass who’s louder and thus always wins those arguments by simply being too stubborn to admit he’s wrong. John swiftly turns around and heads back to the bench, sitting down with his pulse still going fast and strong in his chest.

He’s not sure how much time passed before he hears Guy shuffling around and cracking his knuckles before he speaks again, saying something unexpected. “Just you ‘n’ me, you said. Right?” And John has always been curious. He likes to know, he likes to understand and make sense of things and people. Of course he opens his eyes and looks at Guy once again, his tense shoulders and bunched-up fists.

“That’s what I said. Only you and me here.”

“I know what people say,” he shuffles again and goes to sit on the other bench facing John. “I don’t like gettin’ hit. I don’t!” he insists when John raises a doubtful eyebrow. “I don’t. Sure I’m loud, ‘n’ annoying. But I’m not stupid.”

“Why, then,” John prompts.

“‘cause better me than you,” he looks up with a small, not hesitant but subdued smile and it is such a strange sight on Guy’s rough, always so expressive face. “You’re a good guy, John.” he continues. “‘N. You know. I like ya, despite being such a stuck-up ass, I like ya. You’re a good man,” he repeats, stumbling over his words. “If they hit me, they’re not hittin’ you. Easy choice, all things considered, don’t cha think?”

“Guy…” John lets his head fall on the wall behind him, closes his eyes for a second, just a moment.

“I’m not stupid but I know what I’m good at, ya know,” he’s still talking, like he can’t stop getting this all out. “Ain’t no kick that can keep me down, not even from ugly motherfuckers like the ones out there. If they’re hittin’ me, they’re not hittin’ ya.” He repeats quietly and John has to look at him then, his thrice broken nose and big face and mismatched ears 

“You have one messed up way of showing love, you know that?” he says, and that gets a laugh out of him, a short, loud thing he barks out, like he always does.

John gets it, in some ways. There’s a reason there’s a ring on his finger, why he volunteered to go light years away from earth to get some vital information instead of Clark. There’s a reason he does what he does, going out face baren like the one looking at him from the other side of the room, a reason he says his name and puts himself in front of others. It's only that he would have never guessed it was so similar to Guy’s reasons.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 24 FIGHT, FLIGHT OR FREEZE

Blood Covered Hands | Catatonic | “I don’t want to do this anymore.”

crossposted on ao3

The days, they are all blending together. He doesn’t know how many days have passed since they went down the road of that war, how many since they took the last city, how many they’ve been fighting this battle. They’re all the same, wake up tired, break the bread with the others at the camp, march to the field or city, fight, fight, kill, go back to the camp, break the bread again, celebrate if it’s a victory, go to sleep exhausted, sleep of a restless, haunted sleep, wake up tired.

Kyle is tired of waking up tired.

The battles they’re- They fight them because they must, and he fights with them. He stands among the Omega Men bearing their insignia on his chest, he lends his ring to their cause, he-

He ducks just as a sword slices the air, hears its whitle in his ears as he takes a step back and conjures up a shield in the ghostly light he controls. The strike brutally bears down on his forearm, the impact felt throughout his bones all the way to his shoulder and Kyle grunts at its violence. Willing his strengths back to him, he pushes back and strikes at the man with a saber of his own making, feels as the blade sink into his flesh, watches the blood seeping between his armor plating.

It’s been hours and his concentration is running thin. Long gone are the flight and complex constructs and artful weapons, Kyle is panting and clinging to his chest as he blocks hits with rudimentary shields and wills gloves on his hands to strike men and robots alike. He stops when he can to heal the men fighting on their side, ignore the way his stomach churns when he walks past those they’re facing, he wipes the blood clogging his eyes and drying on his lips, cloying on his tongue, in his throat, and he keeps going.

He keeps going, keeps on marching, fighting, he slices skin and flesh, the last strings of respect he can afford to offer to those dying, he tears out electronics and heads to stop the monotonous ‘please surrender’ they broadcast. He does not look at the surroundings, does not let himself wonder where they are fighting, who used to live there before the war forced them to flee, what this building that’s being crushed under the android he’s tearing to pieces was used for, or who built it.

No, Kyle doesn’t think about that, he cannot afford to waste the little and precious energy and willpower he has on those. He has to duck and dodge and jump and charge, he has to focus on his ring, on the fear and rage and avarice in his blood, he has to muster enough strength to keep the love and the hope just as bright in his heart, to find compassion despite his exhaustion, he fights tooth and nails every second to see the hope around him, to keep the light flowing from his hand blue rather than red or yellow, to let violet flickers through the white. Green is growing more rare in his construct, and he does not think about this either.

No, Kyle fights. He follows Kalista and her Omega Men and the violet of his sword shines on the metal she yields so masterfully. He sits and wipes the tears and sweat from his face while Tigorr jumps over him, covers Primus while he shoots the androids and men around them, conjures bombs with Scrapps clawing her way through the lines.

He sits alone when the fighting is done, when the last retreat is called and the last breaths are exhaled, when everything falls silent.

His hands are green again. Dripping with blood, thick and sour smelling. It starts off sweet, like a fragrance sprayed with too much enthusiasm, but like everything organic it rots, and after a few hours gone is the uncanny, revolting sweet smell. It’s replaced by something that burns the back of his throat, something that sticks for hours after it’s washed off, that will seep into the earth when it’s not.

His hands are green, dripping with it, and he cannot look away. He wants to, he wants to stand on his feet and stand and look around him, walk through the ruined building and battered bodies, he wants to spare a thought for the deaths and pain spilled on the earth. Today, he’s stuck kneeling, the back of his wrists resting over his thighs and back arched as he stares at his hands.

There’s the ring, on the third finger of his right hand, and it is not spared by the horror, the bright and pure white is covered in blood, as is the dark gray of his suit. A few fingers twitch every so often, they curl slightly and arches over his palms, his hands shaking despite the rest of his body feeling weighted down by lead, too heavy to move.

Someone is talking near him, and he thinks they’re trying to talk to him. He cannot hear anything, the sound muffled and distant in his ears. The voice shouts, and he doesn’t flinch, only try to squeeze his hand, slowly, gently curls the fingers into his palm, then rolls them until he can fit his thumb over them and clenches once, twice, thrice, before opening the fist and letting the finger fall back into their position. The blood sticks between his fingers, bubbles at the frictions between fingertips. Green, and sickening.

Kyle used to spend a lot of time on his anatomy studies, especially the hands. The way so many bones and muscles and ligaments work together to create this wonderful thing that can reach the world and let you touch it. He’d look at his own, and his friends, strangers’ too, he’d sketch them when sitting in cafes or bars. He had a few of Radu too, with the fat flesh on the back of them and burned fingertips, thick callouses from good, honest work.

He closes his fists again, opens them, closes them a third time.

Someone else approaches, and he recognizes her before he even sees her, could pick her perfume apart from anything. Kalista smells like cut grass and cloves, like sandalwood under the acidic smell of death surrounding them.

She’s speaking, from where she’s standing behind him, she’s speaking and he doesn’t hear a word, not until he feels her hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm, she leans closer to him, and speaks near him.

“We did good. You did good,” she says, and he can’t even open his mouth to answer, to say no, to say yes, to say anything. “You were great, today.” He clenches his fists once more, looks up at the sky, red and brown and no clouds. A perfect day.

“Tomorrow, we move,” she continues. “Today, we rest. Take the time you need, because tomorrow we will need you, Kyle.” She squeezes his shoulder once, quick and gentle, and stands up, leaves him to be on his own again.

He closes his eyes and sags on his heels, lets his mask fade, lets his suit fade back to reveal the clothes they gave him, the scarf wrapped tight around his throat. It’s as if the weight of the mask over his face keeps him from breathing, from seeing clearly, with it gone it’s a rush of air and feelings.

There’s no more blood on his hands when he looks down, they’re as clean as they were before he willed the suit on but he is not fooled. Not a night goes where he doesn’t feel covered with it, sticky and wet, running down his back and toward his hands, pooling in his palms like a well. Its source is not dry, and it won’t dry soon, that he knows. Maybe not ever.

He is not fooled, he knows what he’s doing, what he’s leaving behind to fight in this fight, what they’re demanding of him. After months of deception, it is all laid plainly in front of him, and despite the illusion of choice they gave him, how could he say anything but yes. And they knew that, they knew. She knew.

People are moving around him, pulling wounded out of the bodies, retrieving weapons and supplies, talking between them in hushed tones. The thunderous voices will return in a few hours but for now, the weight of the day is still too heavy.

Kyle raises to his feet slowly, uncoiling his spine and biting back a wince when the movement pulls on his strained ankle, on his sore knee, on his spasming thigh and aching hip. He’ll walk back toward the rest of their group, and he’ll try and heal everyone who can be healed, and afterward they’ll walk back to their camp, and they’ll eat, and he’ll go rest exhausted, and he’ll wake up tired.

The days are blending together, as the cities and planets blend together, and it seems that between all this blurring of the lines, Kyle is not exempt.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 8 EVERYTHING HURTS AND I’M DYING

Stomach Pain | Head Trauma | Back from the Dead

i had to, this screams guy

This is bullshit, Guy thinks, because it is bullshit but knowing that doesn’t make it any better. All he wants to do is scream, and maybe hit something, hit someone, hit anything that could make it go away. He’s stuck here, reading over the same page for the past fifteen minutes of some report they all need to read for the following day. Except Bats is the one who wrote it and he used all those stupidly complicated words and Guy cannot make sense of half of what’s written. He can’t and he knows he used to, that a few years ago he would have read through this piece of paper like nothing and he can almost taste the memory at the back of his throat, he can feel in his fingers how he used to skim his index over the words printed on his books and papers. Now he struggles to get through one sentence and remember what half the words should mean and it ain’t fair. It ain’t fair.

It ain’t fair that they get to laugh at him while he has to sit and force his now clumsy hand to remember his old handwriting, the neat one he taught himself back when. It ain’t not fair but he’s not a whiner, so he grits his teeth and tells them all to fuck off. It’s better that way.

Guy gives up trying to read when he fails to follow the line for the third time, fist slamming on the table and a string of cusses spat at the stupid piece of paper. He pushes himself off the desk, sending his chair to the ground as he starts pacing in his room, long and jerky steps as his fingers clutches at his forehead. There’s a pressure that’s been building this entire day, rising from the back of his neck all the way behind his eyes, down his jaw and into his teeth.

“Damn it!” He yells and winces at the loud noise, can barely muster enough energy to will his ring to life and use it to close the blinds, suddenly acutely aware of how bright the sun is outside. “Damn it all.”

Even that ain’t fair. Guy is no stranger to headaches, had his fair share as a kid, and after most fights he got into, even while at school when he would pull all-nighters or drink too much coffee to go work his shifts. He used to push through the pain but it seems that along with stealing his smarts the stupid coma turned him into a wimp. A pathetic and weak man, someone who can’t handle a little headache with crying about it, without needing coddling.

He grabs the bottle of painkiller on his bedside table before he can think about it and thrashes it against the wall with a yell, watches as it spills all over the floor, white pills bright against the brown flooring. Another yell as he kicks the stupid plastic bottle and hurtling it to the other side of the room, crushing pills under his boots.

He’s grabbing the report, ready to tear it into pieces when someone knocks at his door, twice. Tora’s voice reaches him, smooth and cool, as always.

“Guy? Are you alright?” She asks and he lets go of the folder, hands shaking as he realizes what he’s doing, who is hearing him. He stumbles on his bed, head falling in the palm of his hands, another wave of pain shooting throughout his skull. He bites down on his tongue, hard, to keep quiet. “I heard yelling, is everything alright with you?”

“I don’t need no damn babysitter!” He tries to muster enough anger in his voice but it sounds weak even to his own ears. God, his head is pounding, it’s like it’s splitting in half, almost as bad as having the battery blow in his face. He hates how reading almost always end up like this now.

“Guy…”

“Back off, princess,” he spits. “Don’t ya have snow to make or somethin’?” There’s a second of silence, one that he waits out, only to listen as her footsteps shuffle away. He ignores the flash of hurt, ignores the quiet hope that she’d come in anyway dying, and settles on being satisfied. He knows what they’ll say, can hear it already. ‘Stupid Guy can’t handle a little pain, Guy who’s no good, who can’t be counted on.’ He hears all their snickering, and he hates it.

He would care about it too, if only he could think about it. It hurts too much, waves of pulsing pain after wave crashing in his head. All he can do is fall on his back and roll until his face is pressed into his bed, sheltering his eyes from the light and gripping the sheets, burying his nose in the covers until he can cry out and grunt and whimper safely, out of their ears. It'll pass, they always do, he's used to it now, yeah.

It's just that before it does, he'll spend hours feeling like he's dying, and there's noting he can do about it.

[scorchedhearth]

Day 1. A LITTLE OUT OF THE ORDINARY

Adverse Effects | Unconventional Restraints | "This wasn't supposed to happen"

opening this month with the one scenario we've all thought about :]

There’s a whirlwind of emotions storming inside Quynh. Every time she looks at Andromache, at the one she loved more than the world, anger, resentment, and jealousy rise in her heart, they simmer and boil at the sight of the other side of the coin that was thrown at them. Andy, who lived and breathed when she didn’t. There’s love, too, because no matter what she tells herself, Quynh cannot ignore the raging love that yearns for what they had, that begs for the one she loves more than she can voice.

And there’s joy underneath it all, unmistakable as they cross blades. A thrill that sings through her bones as her sword meets with their axe and a flash of iron and fire and Quynh wants to roar with pure, unbridled joy. Oh, the dance they weave through these woods, it’s easy to convince herself nothing changed, no time passed and no grief bigger than earth befell them. Andy parries just like they used to, when they first met under the blazing sun of a desert. Their footsteps nor their resolve hasn’t changed, strong and stubborn. No one could predict Quynh’s strikes as they could.

Quynh wants to laugh and cry and scream and all she does is grit her teeth, ignoring the hurt and the joy mingling in her heart and only focusing on the fight, on the anger and despair.

“Say it!” Her blade strikes down and one swift hand unsheathes her dagger from her back. “Say it!”

“I am sorry.” Andromache’s arm falls to the side, their foot skipping to the right to get closer to Quynh, to close the gap, too close for her sword to strike. Too close to see the knife in her hand. “I am sorry, Quynh. My heart…”

The blade sinks easily into her stomach, right next to the edge of her thick jacket, sinking up to the hilt and it’s only when Andy feels her fingers on her body that they look down, down at her bloodied hand. “Are you, my heart? Are you truly sorry?” She grins and tears the knife out. “Do you feel sorry now?”

“Quynh-” Andromache chokes, and something’s wrong. They’re not looking up from their stomach, they’re not saying anything back, they’re not-

There’s blood running still, out of the wound, down the dark clothes, through the fingers of the hand they have pressed to their stomach.

Something’s wrong, it’s not-

“Andromache.” Quynh hears herself, hears her voice as if coming through cotton.

Andromache looks up, looks at them. They choke out what sounds like an attempt at a laugh. “It’s gone, Quynh. I’m done. No more.” It dawns on Quynh, kicking the air out of her lungs.

“No!” She yells as they fall to their knees. “You- You cannot take this from me.” This is not how it was supposed to go, this is not- “You do not get to take this away from me, you do not get to die, Andromache! You do not! Not like this.”

Andy is staring at them, axe slipping out of their hand, falling to the ground. Quynh throws her weapons to grips their arms and slow their fall, bringing them to a sitting position, then laying them on their back, looming over them with her hand hovering over them.

This feel like a too well-known dream, a blood-soaked hand pressing on a wound, pressing on a stomach to try and keep him alive, and Lykon is telling her that it’s ok, that it’s time, that he’ll go and they’ll live and Andromache is not saying any of those things.

They do not look at peace, they don’t, their eyes are fleeting as fear grips their heart, Quynh knows it. Despite all their discussion, despite all the times they talked about it, despite Andromache claiming to long for death and wait for its embrace, claiming they’ll welcome it at peace, at their last moment they are afraid, confused, and alone.

“This wasn’t supposed to happen,” Quynh repeats. “I only wanted to kill you, I do not want you gone.” She grips at the wound, presses harder at it, tries to keep the blood inside. “Why didn’t you tell me! Why did you trick me!” Her screams sound more like cries, and yet Andromache does not react, they only bring a hand, a shaky, cold hand to her cheek.

“Quynh, I-” And the fear is still here, faint but settled deep. “I’ve always loved you, know that. And I always will. I am glad I die with you.” Their voice is trembling, weak and Quynh wants to storm out, wants to yell and kick and punish this unfair, unfair universe they live in.

“I hate you. If you leave me again, I will despise your very existence, Andromache,” Quynh cries, begs for them to stay, desperately trying to keep them from bleeding out, from dying and leaving her for good. But there’s no answer.

She looks up to watch Andy’s face as it grows paler by the second; their wide eyes and the blood pearling at their mouth.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 27 PUSHED TO THE LIMIT

Muffled Screams | Stumbling | Magical Exhaustion

It’s not heroic when it happens. It’s not gracious or tragic. It’s just pathetic, and sad.

One minute, Jason is running across the skyline of Gotham, dropping from a building into an alleyway; the next, he stumbles and crashes into a wall, the wind knocked out of him. A bad landing is all it takes to stop him this time. Ten hours of near-constant stalking and fighting and when he goes down, it’s not with a knife or a gun, it’s his body giving out underneath his own weight.

“Great. You’re a real piece of work, Jason, you know that.” He mumbles as he let himself lean on the wall, taking a moment to catch his breath.

He’s been back in Gotham for months now and the city laid her grip back on him with a ferocious determination, the feels eyes on his back and the heavy weight of her charm pulling him deeper and deeper until he’s stuck again in her, enticing and dangerous.

It’s getting close, he feels it. Black Mask is close to finally falling from the golden throne he’s crafted himself out of death and suffering, Batman is running in circles trying to chase him, and he’s running himself into the ground.

Just a few more weeks he tells himself as he looks up to stare at the sky, dark ink spilling above him, thick clouds reflecting the dirty lights of the city. Just a few more weeks and the Joker will be gone, and Bruce will be proved wrong and Jason will be done. He’ll be done.

Done for good, he thinks. He’ll rest then, as vague as resting sounds to him. But until then, he cannot allow himself to think about it, to risk his focus by vain daydreaming of an uncertain future. No, he needs to be in this, entirely invested, focused on the task at hand.

He pushes himself off the wall with a grunt and shuffles deeper into the narrow street, a labyrinth he knows better than anybody else, he’s grown here, nursed by Gotham’s own hands from a tender age, raised by her streets before he was torn away from her.

“Soon,” he whispers in the night. “Soon you’ll have them just where you want them, and it’ll be grandiose,” he grins an empty smile and disappears into the heart of the city, slipping easily into the shadows.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 14 DIE A HERO OR LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO BECOME A VILLAIN

Desperate Measures | Failed escape | “I’ll be right behind you.”

glad i finally managed to write this one :]

The figure lies still, a heap of blood and broken bones, whistling breath shaking his carcass. But he’s not asleep, nor unconscious. No, he is awake, watchful eyes trained on the door sealing this room. He is awake through the pain and the exhaustion, more awake now than he’s been in weeks, ready to seize the moment.

The trap was left open. They didn’t lock it behind them when they left him, when they turned their back on the battered body they abused once more. It’s now or never a voice whispers in the back of his head, and Jason Todd bites down on his tongue to keep his throat from spilling more raw yells as he pulls himself up, as he uncoils his bruised spine and the blood in his veins reaches the mutilated limbs, the broken bones and damaged nerves and burned skin. He weathers it all with quiet whimpers and hot tears.

Each step he takes brings tenfold the pain, but it doesn’t matter. It does not matter because he reaches the door, and it opens when his palms push it up and away, opens on an escape he’s been dreaming of for what must be weeks, months. He claws himself out of the room, out of his very own hell and crawls toward the next door, the one that’ll bring him to a corridor, to a long line of corridors that will lead him out of here.

He counts his steps, counts carefully as he navigates the empty halls, nothing but the sound of his bare feet and panting. Everything burns, he feels skin splitting under the sole of his feet and old cuts breaking open as his back arches, his ankle threatens to buckle every other step, does so twice before he gets there, gets to his out.

A window broken, facing spare grass and gravels, facing a broken fences. His escape. Soon, he’ll leave it here, the young boy thinks, he’ll track down Batman, he’ll make him pay for what he’s done. He’ll haunt the Joker, he’ll kill him for everything single horror he’s inflicted on this world. Standing there, the high moon bleeding its pale light all over him, he can taste it at the back of his throat, where he's been keeping his voice. Taste his freedom.

Only one leap, one jump and he’ll be free, he’ll be-

He doesn’t hear it, only feels the thick rope being swung over his head, settling around his throat, feels as a pair of hands tugs and pulls him back, tears him away from the window, from the escape, from his out. Not even the rope cutting his throat can keep him from screaming and trashing, tears spilling out of his eyes.

Sickening, maddening laughter guides him as he’s being dragged back into the depth asylum, back toward the grips of the Joker, back toward hell. Blood on his teeth does not sting nearly as much as the hope dying in front of his eyes, slipping away from his fingers.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 12 WHAT COULD GO WRONG?

“Mayday, mayday!” | Cave In | Rusty Nail

enjoy @tatsujeff <3

“You’re an asshole,” Guy grunts, hauling Hal to his feet and jamming a shoulder under his arm to keep him standing. “Hey,” he says when Hal doesn’t react, barely making an effort to move. “Ya heard me? I said you’re an asshole.”

“I heard you just fine the first time, Guy,” Hal pants between breaths, one hand curling around his ribs. “I’m not.” Hal spits when Guy gets ready to repeat it, petulant and cold.

“Are too.” And finally Hal decides to start using his legs, putting a foot in front of the other.

“Am not!” He tries to sound pissed but he misses the marks and falls on a solid hurt and in a pathetic way, not an intimidating one.

“Are too.” And great, he’s got him going, at least now Hal is talking instead of gazing with unfocused eyes at the sky. “Dumbass here decides to go on a rescue mission all alone in planet bumfuck in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere without no backup and no battery, thinks it’s the best idea of the century.”

“You’re a dumbass too,” Hal cuts him off.

“Hold on, how was I supposed to know this weird ass crystal would siphon the ring’s energy?” They stumble off the bridge where Guy found him and onto the flat surface of the temple right next to it. He’s glad they’re not above hundreds of feet of void anymore, this crevasse is freaking him out.

“Maybe because I was lying right next to it, no ring and no shield, well on my way to choking to death!” Hal throws an arm in the air and Guy is impressed that a man who was so short on air barely minutes ago can go on a yelling spell without turning blue. He says so out loud, earns himself an eye roll. “We’re doomed.” Hal coughs a pained grunt when his twisted ankle hits a rock on the ground. “Gonna die here, all alone.”

“You’ve got me, asshole.” And they’re not going to die. Guy didn’t go to the trouble of tracking him down just to end here, he won’t let that happen. Hal’s quiet by his side, no smart comeback or barb, only focused on walking, still leaning half his weight on Guy and hoping on his good foot. Beads of sweat pearls at his forehead. He's too quiet. “Come on, pal. Talk to me now, don’t ya dare go out while I’m carrying you.”

“You’re not carrying me,” Hal huffs, indignant and prideful even with the strain on his voice.

“What d’you find anyway, doesn’t look like rescue needs to happen here.” Guy throws a look around, the entire planet’s dead, a fossilized rock with not even a bacteria or microbe on the surface. Just rocks and putrid gazes. There are remnants of civilization, of life, but it’s long gone.

“The call for help was lost, it didn’t reach a habited planet in time. When I got there, it was long past helping.” Hal explains. He talks about how he got there, and what he found, and how he decided to investigate the crystal before leaving, just in case. Guy listens, the tension in his chest relieving by the minute as Hal’s voice grows stronger with each word.

“Here,” Guy points at a bigger rock, one that looks like it could have been a bench, or some kind of chair ages ago. Hal’s been getting progressively paler as they walked, and he’d rather not have him keel over right now. Hal doesn’t even protest, which goes to show how badly he’s hurt. Looks like at least a couple of bruised ribs, if not more, and various pulls and twists in his limbs. The cut at his forehead is still sluggishly bleeding, matting his hair down.

“What now,” Hal asks with a gasp, holding his chest with both of his arms now.

“Now I save us both, and you say thank you, Guy, you’re the best.” He flashes his grin, the best one he can conjure up, the one that says everything’s just peachy.

“I’ll save that for when we’re back home,” Hal says, but he ignores him. Guy turns around and walks away from him and his bench, deeper into the room, paces along the baren hallway of the temple, holding up his ring and staring at it.

“Come on. Just a little, just enough to call ‘Wog or somthin’.” But nothing comes up, it’s dead, cold and heavy on his finger, unresponsive. Entirely useless. He stomps further down the hall, grinding his teeth. “Son of a-” as soon as his feet make contact with the ground, it cracks beneath his sole, and Guy watches horrified as the entire thing crumbles right underneath him.

He hears Hal yelling somewhere behind him as he’s suddenly swallowed by a dark empty, and he realizes the temple is built directly above that freaky canyon. John should have some words with the one who designed this place about safety regulations, Guy thinks as Hal's voice follows him down the hole.

He doesn’t have time to be afraid, or think much else, really, because he leaves the open sky for deep darkness, not even seconds later there’s a flash of green around him and his back hits something hard and unyielding. The violence of the shock makes everything fuzzy around him, and before he can understand what’s going on he slips out of consciousness, Hal's yells reaching the edge of his mind.

[scorchedhearth]

Day. 26 NO ONE LEFT BEHIND

Separated | Rope Burns | “Why did you save me?”

this one screaming nile to me, i had to. set in some imaginary sequel to the movie

“Come on, let’s go!” Joe yells from somewhere behind the rumbles. Nile barely hears him through the ringing in her ears. “Let’s go, now! This isn’t gonna hold forever.” He insists, picking up his sword and gun from where they’ve fallen. Nicky is right behind him, gripping his own sword in his hand while Booker is still on the ground, coughing and hacking dust out of his lungs.

Nile takes a moment to let the world stop spinning around her before she pulls herself straight and picks up the axe from the ground. There’s now the ruins of a wall between them and where Quynh stood mere seconds ago, the result of a cleverly planted bomb. The detonation seems to have shaken the entire building, a house left to ruin with more holes than walls, it’s no surprise to see the rest of the structure giving out.

“Nile!” Booker calls, he’s on his feet and retreating where Joe and Nicky are but she can’t follow them.

“No. You go.”

“Nile,” Nicky says softly, and he and Joe got what she wants to do.

“I’ll get to her, and I’ll talk to her. You go, we’ll find you.”

“Are you sure?” Joe asks, although there’s little doubt in his voice.

“She deserves to have a hand offered to her.” She stares at the three of them, leaving no room for discussion. There’s another crack resounding above them, and before any more words can be exchanged, they all head toward the closest door, following her words as if it was always nature, while Nile spots an opening near the wall and slips through.

It’s easy to find Quynh. The house is small, a few rooms and no second floor, and Quynh wants to be found. She’s standing in the garden behind the house, straight and hands lax beside her legs, her sword a sharp line in the evening light. She’s expecting her, with the grin pulling at her lips is anything to go by. Probably is, since she’s showing it.

“Nile. Twice aren’t enough, you need to lose a third time?”

“I’m not here to fight you, Quynh.” She says and slides the shaft of the axe back into the loops she wears on her belt now. The weight feels foreign, too heavy and too unyielding, the prospect of many long years to come bearing it weighting just as heavy.

Quynh’s eyes are drawn to the movement, she follows as the metal slides against metal, stares for a second too long before looking at her, her gaze unreadable.

“Come with us.” Nile continues. “You don’t have to stay, but come with me. We can talk, help you, if you’d let us. You have a place with us, you know you do.”

“I don’t,” Quynh snaps and squeezes the sword in her hand. Behind her in the trees, Nile makes out the form of two persons, the new immortals accompanying her. She doesn’t even know their names. “Not anymore.”

“You do, Quynh.”

“The axe.” She says slowly, as if the words were lead. “Did Andy gave it to you.”

“They did.” Nile answers honestly. “Told me to take it, and use it.” Andy sitting on some cliff, holding their axe on their laps, passing it unto Nile, offering a smile and all their trust. “It has their blessing.”

“Andy had no blessings to give, neither curses.” Quynh snorts, almost a laugh, closer to a cry. “They only had their hands.”

“All we have is our hands. It’s what we do with them that matters.” Nile speaks the words with all the strength she can.

“Why are you offering such a thing?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Nile says, lets the truth out. She doesn’t want to play games, she doesn’t want to lie. Not now, not after everything.

“The right thing to do.” Quynh sneers, disdain filling her words.

“No man left behind.” She bites back. “That’s how it’s always been. No man left behind, no matter what. You included.”

Quynh is silent for a moment, looking at Nile as if she’s seeing into her, taking apart her thought. Nile holds her gaze, stands straight and strong. There’s anger on her face, but not only, barely discernable in the night, but there’s melancholy at the edge of a feature, and the pull of sadness on her eyebrows.

“You carry great hope in your heart, Nile,” she says after long minutes. “But hope isn’t enough in this life. There are bridges that are never to be mended. Wounds too great to heal.” She sheathes her sword in one broad arc of her hand, rests her palm on the shaft, gives Nile one last look. “An abundance of time does not give you an abundance of chances. Nor does it give you do over. Time doesn’t change what has been done.”

“Time gives you the opportunity to try again, do things differently. Time gives you possibility.” Quynh doesn’t answer, doesn’t acknowledge her words, only stares at her for a few more seconds. She then turns around and joins the two waiting for her, and Nile watches her leave, watches the three figures disappear in the woods as the house behind her collapses on itself, leaving her alone to stand in the noise and dust.