You're telling me a fish wrote this whump??

August runs his fingers through his hair, shuffling anxiously from foot to foot. The nerves are eating him alive. He checks his watch religiously in the hopes that every time he glances, hours have passed and it'll be time for them to go home…it's always only seconds.

“Grey hairs already, little brother?” Aviana goads, plucking a pinch of hair from August’s scalp and twirling the strand between her fingers. It’s very clearly a dark, chestnut brown hair, and she’s very clearly trying to push all of August’s buttons and get a rise out of him, as per usual. She blows the hairs into his face with a shit-eating grin. “It’ll be a walking stick next. A coffin soon after. Old man.”

“You have to be nice to me, Avi. It’s my birthday.” August glowers down at her. He’s always towered over her since they were children - it never once unsettled her. She was always the boss. “Could you not rummage deep, deep down into your heartless core, and find it in you to manage that for one whole day?” He scoffs a dry, humourless laugh.

Aviana rolls her eyes so far back into her skull, she must be able to see her brain. She storms off, flipping him the middle finger and flashing an infantile smirk.  She’s the eldest child, and yet still acts the immature brat. 

August's attention darts to his mother, who paces the room, her gown flowing behind. Her face is fixed in its permanent scowl, as it always is when she’s scrutinising every part of August’s life and home. She carelessly fiddles with antique ornaments resting on the fireplace and flips through pages of books, faking a stretched-out yawn at their topics. Medicine. Anatomy. Biology.   August’s father follows behind her like an obedient lapdog, always at her beck and call. 

“Is this what has become of us now, my child?” August’s mother huffs, shoving his book on the nervous system back to its wrong alphabetized position, and swiping a line of dust off the bookshelf with her fingertip. She wrinkles her face in disgust. “I often wondered whether you were still alive. You do not write. You do not visit. I’ve forgotten what your face looks like. Just birthdays now?”

August casts his eyes to the floor, and he bows his head in deferential shame. He nervously fiddles and picks at his fingers behind his back. He remembers how small she used to make him feel when he was a child. He feels two feet tall all over again, like she could squash him like an ant under her heeled boot.

“Mother - I’ve been busy-”

“Oh yes. I can see that. So this is where you’re hovelled up, August? Still chasing that thickheaded childish dream that wormed into that skull of yours?”

“Helping people isn’t childish, mama-” 

“Saving swines from slaughter is", she snaps. 

August stays silent. He knows better than to argue. It's a losing battle. At least she hasn't seen downstairs. The basement turned doctor's surgery. He just might be killed where he stands should she see that. He already brings so much dishonour and shame to the Crinamorte name. He’s half surprised they still give him the time of day;  it’s a miracle they’ve even shown up.

His older brother, Atticus, rigidly shuffles closer to August, his patent shoes squeaking along the hardwood floor. His eyes scatter awkwardly around the room, anywhere but at his little brother. Like if he makes eye contact he’ll burst into flames. He chews at the skin on his cracked lips until blood beads, skin flaking. He tugs lightly at August’s sleeve to grab his attention, shoving his handmade paper card into August’s hands. 

August has to swallow the lump of tears forming in his throat, a tender smile spreading across his face. Atticus is the only one of the family August thinks might understand him. He runs his fingers gently over the front of the card. His heart swells. August knows that this is already his favourite gift. Nothing will beat this. Squiggly writing reads ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” in a banner across the card, a birthday cake sketched in the middle with candles, balloons dotted all around it. 130 in big colourful bubble letters at the bottom. 

Inside it reads:

Happy 130th birthday, August.

Atticus.

P.s. I’m sorry. I tried to stop them.

August’s heart drops through the floor, and his smile dissolves into an unsettled frown.

“Atticus?” August’s face twists with confusion, a sinking sensation in his stomach, “ What-” August flaps the card through the air, “What on earth are you sorry for?”

“Atticus!” Aviana seethes at her little brother, fists clenched tight. Atticus winces and squeezes his eyes shut as he’s scolded. “You’re going to ruin everything!”

“Ruin what?!” August yells desperately. He’s being kept out of the loop. They’re hiding something from him, something terrible. Atticus looks like he could crumble to the floor any second now, Aviana looks like she could jump for joy, and his parents - well, they  look as guilty as sin.   Like August is the butt of some cruel joke. Like always. 

“We have a little surprise for you, Auggie,” Aviana whispers in August’s ear, her hands slither over and along his shoulders to his opposite side, her maniacal high-pitched giggle echoing down his ear canal, sending shivers rippling down his spine. “I just know you’re going to love it.”

Which means he’s absolutely going to hate it. He should run for the hills here and now and never look back.

“S-Surprise?” August can’t hide the wobbling tremble in his voice, the scepticism knitted in his brows. He gulps, and blinks over to his parents, looking like a lost little child. “Mother? Father? Do you know about this?”

“Oh, we planned it, dear. We’re taking you shopping. To pick your own birthday present”, his mother says, squeezing her husband's hand. But August knows better. It isn’t as though they’ll be stopping by Tesco for sweets. Why can’t they be like a normal family, like a human family that brings balloons and cake? Why does he have a bitter sense of dread turning in his stomach?

August jumps out of his skin as Aviana bursts into an excited squeal behind him, clapping her hands and running to join the rest of the family by the front door. There’s a darkness behind her eyes, a glimpse of a wicked smirk curling on her lips. 

“Shopping…?” August squeaks. “Where?”

“A little place called human territory.”

*!*!*!*

August is dragged from the car, kicking and screaming, with the same brute force he was shoved in with. He squirms across the leather back seats, thrashing and kicking his legs wildly in protest. Swatting hands try to grab a hold of him; he evades them as best he can. August refuses to participate in this sick and twisted game, a hunting trip. All for the sake of his own birthday present?! He fights desperately to stay in the car. But a sudden grip latches around his ankles and effortlessly hoists him from the car, sliding him along the seats and sending him tumbling out onto the wet pavement.

Strong, muscular arms hook underneath his armpits and heave him to his feet. His father. He grumbles curses under his breath as he peels August from the ground. August’s lips part to speak, to growl his objections once again - but his mother slaps him across the face, stunning him into silence. Her cold iron hand clamps over his mouth.

“What are you playing at, you moronic boy?! Are you trying to get your entire family killed?!” his mother spits. 

She’s not wrong. In the dead of the night, hunters probably swarm the border like flies, primed and ready to take down chancing vampires. If he’s not careful, they’ll be the prey tonight. 

“Be quiet. Or I will kill every human in a five-mile radius in your name. The choice is yours, child.”

That shuts August up in a heartbeat. He squeezes his eyes shut to trap the stinging tears that spring to them. Hurting one human this evening is bad enough. He nods in defeat, mumbling behind his mothers palm before she pulls away. He’ll never be able to live with himself after this.

“I don’t want to do this,” August whispers now, and he slumps in his father's hold, "Please. Let's go back. I want to go home."

“It’s not a matter of want. It’s a matter of need. And you need direction, and discipline. Choose a human, it’s your pick-” she gestures to the street, at unsuspecting humans walking in the dark, scurrying back home. “Don't be a spoiled brat, August,” his mother berates him and shoves him into the road.

“N-No. I refuse. I won’t do it, mother. You cannot make me. I will stand here until the sun comes up.”

“August-” she sighs, cupping August’s cheek with her palm. He leans into the touch, eyelashes fluttering. Even if she is cruel, she is still his mother; he still wants her to love him. “My youngest…my boy… wherever did I go wrong with you? You are a great embarrassment to me.”

She might as well have just driven a stake straight through his heart. He stumbles away from her, clutching his chest.

“You are not the baby of the family anymore, August. You are 130. I refuse to sit by and let you flabbergast about any longer, pretending you are morally superior and oh so holier than thou. It is time you woke up. Join the real world. Tonight you will feast on human blood, as is your very nature.”

“Monsters,” he gasps in disbelief, shaking his head at them all, “the lot of you. If this is your idea of a gift, or celebration - go home. I will not hurt a human, I will not kidnap a human!”

One look at Atticus and August nearly regrets the words that just left his lips. Atticus stands off to the side, as far away from the conflict as he can without being scolded. His head bowed in shame to the floor, fiddling with his hands. August didn't mean him. He's not a monster. He's a victim too - under the thumb of the family.

“You will," his mother scowls, "Tonight, you will catch your first prey. Taste the fruits of your labour. A birthday to remember.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You will be dead to me. I will lose a son tonight. And it will hurt, but I will not mourn. I will rejoice that such a coward is no longer associated with my bloodline. This whole family will disown you. You will not write, you will not dare to show your face, and you won’t ever see your brother or sister ever again.”

“I - Please - No, I don’t want that. I don’t want to be a stranger,” August chokes, the thought of losing Atticus suffocating him “You’re my family…I - I love you.” He does, in his own way. But it is Atticus  he can’t bear to be parted from. 

“And I you, child,” his mother says. “But I’ve coddled you long enough. What vampire won’t hunt? Won’t feed to nourish itself? I’m putting an end to it. Here and now.”

“Mother-” August’s voice breaks, screeching to a whispered halt. He sinks down to his knees and tugs on her flowing gown in the palm of his shaking hands. “Please. I beg of you. Don’t make me.”

He can’t possibly be turning one hundred and thirty years old today. Right now, he feels like he’s a babe in arms again. So small, helpless and powerless. His vermillion eyes glaze with overflowing tears as he weeps at her feet, and he feels that all too familiar leer of disappointment bearing down on him. The same pang of shame, with him for every one of the last 130 years, lances his chest. 

“Get off the filthy ground now,” she growls, pinching the shell of his ear and pulling him to his feet, “and stop playing up. You should know better, August.”

It takes all August’s strength, physical and mental, to not fold to the pavement all over again. Alarm bells ring and sirens blare in his head. But he will have to plead ignorant to them, pretend this doesn't go against everything he believes in, if he wants to remain part of the family.

What they are asking, it's ritualistic. This is his ticket to maturity in their eyes, to being accepted in society…accepted as a Crinamorte. No longer the outcast. Welcomed with open arms. He doesn't want that. Not if this is the price. He’s not even the one who has to pay it - some poor, innocent human is.

“Ooo! What about that one?! Over there,” Aviana points over a hedge, to a defenceless, homeless kid sleeping on the streets with his back turned to them, huddled up to the brick wall, sparsely lit by a flickering street lamp. 

Seeing the human in the flesh makes this all so hauntingly real. The reality sinks in. That's a living being, with a life, and hopes and wants. And fears that will probably come true for him tonight. Because of August.

"Aviana, you will accompany August. Ensure he doesn't pull a fast one on us," his mother orders, and his father's disapproving stare burns holes in August's skull,  "I imagine he'll chicken out or foil his own attempt. Keep an eye on him." 

She's right. If they send him alone, he would compel the human to run. ‘Overpower me, scream and run'. August would crawl back to his family, tail between his legs and lie through his teeth and say the human overpowered him.

But he's outsmarted. They're always two steps ahead. Aviana pulls at his arm and drags him further down the empty road, he swats and slaps uselessly at her hand, but he can’t break free. His legs scuttle and drag beneath him as he’s forced to follow her to his victim.

The human sleeps soundly on a bed of cardboard and strewed newspaper, his head resting on a stuffed-full backpack for a makeshift pillow. A torn and ratty navy blue blanket barely covers his shivering body. The rain just narrowly misses him underneath the shelter, it drips from the roof overhead and patters and puddles around him. August feels god awful for the poor kid. He's about to send his life spiralling from bad to worse.

“Take it, August,” Aviana orders in a harsh whisper, her eyes blazing with impatience. “What’s taking you so long? Your very first catch. Look, it won’t even see you coming. So perfectly vulnerable.”

Thunder rumbles hungrily above them, and August nearly jumps out of his skin; he's so on edge, on high alert. But the human doesn’t even stir. Not even a twitch in sleep. He’s peaceful and at ease, like the dim and damp streets pose no threat to him. Or rather, he’s well aware of the dangers, and he knows there’s nothing else for him to lose. He’s not scared of what could happen, he welcomes it. August doesn’t want to think about what that means, what’s landed this young man homeless, slumbering through a thunderstorm.

Perfectly vulnerable, as Aviana said.

“He’s already lost so much,” August whispers in disbelief, shaking his head and the very thought of snatching the human right out of it.“You want me to take all he has left to his name? His freedom? Shall I whisk away the old newspaper underneath him too whilst I’m at it?”

“There’s nothing left for it to lose, August. Freedom is an illusion for humans, their life was never theirs in the first place,” Aviana grumbles, she doesn’t take her bloodthirsty eyes off the man for a second, she even licks her lips, “It’s how the food chain goes, brother. They exist to be our fuel. It is nature. It is their purpose.”

August slowly backs away from his sister, jaw dropped, breathing stopped in abject horror. He can hardly believe he shares the same blood as this monster. How can she be family? They’re like night and day.

“I will not do this,” he spits. “I want no part in this. Shame me, hate me…hell, disown me! I don’t care anymore. Such cruelty and lack of empathy is beneath me. You’re an animal.”

August is done. As he turns to storm away, he knows he’s turning his back on everything he’s ever known and loved–and it feels so fucking freeing. He’s waving goodbye to his family, to their archaic and barbaric practices and beliefs, the kidnapping and torturing of humans. He can decide his own path.

“Fine. Walk away, coward! I always knew you were weak. Waste of a blood bag!” she hisses after him, “Guess I’ll just take it for myself then. We’ve come all this way, shame to spare it. I have plenty of room for more food. Or maybe the blood farms will snatch him up!”

August stops dead in his tracks, fury pumping through his veins. Aviana has got him in a chokehold. 

August turns back. “Don’t you dare. You leave that poor boy alone, Aviana. We’re going home. NOW!” he growls, careful to not let his voice tip over into a bellowing roar, careful not to wake the human or alert hunters. He snatches her arm but she yanks back and pulls herself free. 

“I’m getting me a blood bag. You go home, if that’s what you want. But if you don’t want it, I do.”

That’s a death sentence. No. A fate worse than death. A human in Aviana’s hands is livestock, her home an abattoir. Humans are only there for her sadistic amusement, and soon slaughtered for her dinner. The boy will be drained dry in days if he’s lucky, seconds if not. August could never live with himself if he dooms the boy to her, for the sake of his own peace of mind. His moral compass swings out of control. What’s right is wrong and what’s wrong is right. The world is flipped upside down. What is he supposed to do?

Aviana begins to wade her way through the foliage, swatting leaves from her face and tangling with the twigs. This will happen no matter how much he fights. They will tackle August to the ground and drag him away kicking and screaming to snatch the human from where he sleeps. 

There’s nothing he can do to stop this–except to do it himself. Either August takes him, or they do. That’s the choice put before him. He at least, can be merciful and humane. August will do whatever it takes to keep the human out of their claws, and release him back home…well, back to the streets the second his family are out of sight. August can be gentle and kind as can be.

“Wait!” August cries out. Aviana stills and halts in her pounce, staring back at him. She looks desperately smug. She knows August’s realised his dilemma. He is fully aware of the cruel corner they’ve backed him into.

“What…If I take him… you’ll leave him alone? He’ll be… He’ll be mine?”

The word feels nasty and bitter on his tongue. You can’t own another life.

“All yours, little brother.” Aviana smiles, the sharp points of her canines glinting in the streetlight, a reminder of just how much danger the human may still be in.

August must do this.

“Then, I’ll do it. But I do it my way. No more harm than is necessary, understood?”

“You’re the boss, birthday boy,” Aviana salutes, stepping aside to allow August to take the lead. He barges through until he’s standing across the street from the human. His human? August swings his head, checking up and down the street to make sure no-one’s around. No witnesses. This feels so wrong; he’s disgusted with himself.

August steals across the street, Aviana sticking behind, deathly close. Too close for August’s liking; he can feel her breath on his neck, hear the squelch of her shoes in the mud and puddles. August almost wishes that humans had the same hearing as vampires; the boy would have heard their clumsiness a mile off. 

Aviana’s presence only makes this so much worse. Her malice complicates this tenfold. Why can’t this be easy? In and out in seconds, the human wakes up back home before he even knows it and is none the wiser. August could just compel him to sleep, carry him slumbering to the car. Be gentle and kind, not let him see or feel a thing.  It would all be a hazy nightmare.

But no. It has to be an ordeal. A show. Because Aviana wants it to be, because the family wants it to be - he has to prove himself, and somehow, this is still miles better than the alternative. 

August crouches behind the sleeping human, his whole body shaking. He reaches out a trembling hand before he quickly snatches it back. Touching the human would only startle him awake, and he’d jump up with two vampires hovering over him, beady red eyes feasting on his terror - fight or flight would kick in an instant. The street would echo with his screams and hunters would surround August and Aviana before they could even blink.

Maybe, if he whispers into the boy’s ear as he sleeps… quiet enough to not wake him, but enough for it to seep into his mind and grasp control - then there’s no commotion, there’s no scene. 

“Stay aslee-”

The human jerks awake. His whole body spasms into a desperate fight for his life, his arms and legs kick and lash out frantically, tangling with his own blanket to shove August away. A guttural scream rockets up his throat, and without thinking August slams his hand over the boy’s mouth. Guilt floods every sense when August meets his eyes, caramel brown and blown impossibly wide. August feels the scream get trapped and muffled in his own hands. He rips the offending hand away and holds it close to his chest as though he’d been burned. Why the hell would he do that?! How could he do that?! He didn’t think, he just …he just did.

He’s becoming the very thing he swore he wasn’t all these years. A predator. An animal. This human is bringing out the side of him he’s tried his damned hardest to suppress. No. Not the human, his family. He glares up at his sister with pure hatred swelling in his chest. He should let the human scream his lungs raw, run and leave Avi to deal with the fallout. This is her doing, he’ll never forgive her for this. He’ll never forgive himself.

The boy suddenly screams again, this time roaring in anguish. He bucks and writhes, flailing in place as August battles to keep him still. He tries to be firm but gentle. It’s for both of their benefits. The human swats and shreds August’s arms like a feral cat. August is so flustered, he’s like a deer in headlights. 

“NO! GET THE HELL OFF ME-” the human roars desperately. August freezes, slowly pulling away in horror.

That must be the final straw for Aviana. 

“Enough! You’re going to get us caught!” she bellows and rips August away, discarding him like trash on the road. Aviana pounces on top of the screeching boy, scratching and scrabbling with his swinging arms to subdue him. Her nails rake down his cheek, clipping the edge of his nose, leaving four long, bloody scratches. He cries out, face screwing up in pain, hands shooting up towards the open gash. Aviana seizes her chance, she snatches his bony wrists and pins them above his head, growling down at him. 

Aviana bares her razor-sharp and ruby-red lipstick stained fangs, her nostrils flare and sniff high in the night’s air, and her pupils consume her iris until they’re nothing but charcoal. Blood pours from swipes and scratches along the human's arms, where he’s tried and failed to defend himself against Aviana’s claw-like nails. 

Even August’s mouth waters at the scent. He stumbles back, quickly shielding his nose with his arm. 

“Stay quiet and deathly still, little snack,” Aviana hisses down to her squirming and squealing prey. And then silence. It’s harrowing, like something from a nightmare. August can see where the human’s vocal chords tense and bulge where he’s trying to scream, but nothing comes out. He’s frozen in time, but his petrified eyes somehow well with tears and dart between both August and his sister.

“Oh, Auggie, look! It’s crying! How absolutely darling!” Aviana squishes and pinches the human’s cheeks, puckering his lips, and forcing him to stare into her soul. August has never seen such terror and fury in his whole entire existence. He wishes he could tell the poor boy that he’s so sorry. It’s not for long. The second these foul demons he has the misfortune to call ‘family’ leave, he’ll release him. He’ll be safe. Just a little longer. It’s better than the alternative, better than Aviana keeping him.

“Human. Come now. Don’t look so glum. Look, you can scream until your heart's content when we get you home. Pinky promise.”

“Don’t torment him, Aviana.” August barks, “Don’t make this any harder than it has to be.'

Aviana scoffs in disagreement. She rolls and flips the human onto his belly, shoving his terrified face into the wet concrete. She wrangles his wrists behind his back, pulling zip ties from her leather jacket pocket, “You gotta get a thicker skin than this if you want to keep it under control, Auggie. It’s just food. Food doesn’t have feelings-”

She cinches the zip ties around the boy’s wrists until they cut and dig into his skin. The human winces and gasps, tears streaming down his puffy, red cheeks. No feelings? August can see a score of them in just one look of the boy’s face. Terror, regret, anger, pain, devastation. He stares up at August, silently pleading with his teary eyes - he shakes his head as much as he possibly can. Begging for mercy. He’s shaking nearly as much as August is. 

This is barbaric. 

“I’m so sorry-” he mouths down to the human,  “Sleep. Peaceful dreams,” he finally commands.

Out like a light. The human is knocked out instantly, his body flops lifelessly underneath Aviana, his legs limp and pliable as she binds his ankles together too. 

“You’re too soft,” she huffs, standing and throwing the bound boy over her shoulder like it’s light work for her, and it definitely is; she moves with ruthless efficiency, a true hunter. “It’s your birthday. So I’ll tell mother you did most of the work. That’s me being nice today. But you owe me one.”

*!*!*!*

August carries the human into his home like a precious newborn babe, cradling the boy's head in his hand and embracing his limp, sleeping body close to his chest. He moves with the utmost care, as if the slightest jostle would break the boy. August is gentle and delicate, but he is ardently protective of the human. He doesn't let the other animals, his so-called family, even look at them, let alone get near. He is a loyal yet fierce guardian.

The worst part is over. By sundown tomorrow, the boy will be on his way home. If you can call that sidewalk a ‘home’. 

The family, the vultures, swarm around him, eager to feast on the fresh blood. Not Atticus, he trails far behind, skulking in their shadows. August ducks and swerves every grab for the human, determined to protect him at all costs.

"Leave him alone," August warns, his voice low and dangerous. "He is mine."

He doesn’t even recognise his own voice, it’s so hideous what he’s saying. Downright despicable and he doesn’t mean it. Bile rises alongside the words. But August will say what he must and play the perfect part if it keeps them happy and far away from the stolen soul in his arms.

His family grunt and groan their protests, “Not even a little taste, Auggie? I helped you catch the meatbag… I’ll take it as payment-” Aviana makes another lunge but August blocks her with his arm, shoving her away.

"He’s mine," August repeats, this time he looks sinister, murder dancing on his mind. "That’s what you said, isn’t it? I will decide what happens to him."

His family reluctantly back down, seemingly pleased with the unexpected change of heart. August turns his full attention back to the boy, who is still unconscious. He looks almost peaceful, as though he’d simply drifted into a deep, sweet sleep. Without a care in the world. If it weren’t for the zip ties digging into his rubbed-raw skin and the stripes of scratches caked in dried blood on his cheek, August could have been fooled.

August knows that his family would never understand. They will never understand why he will spare the human's life, or what his life is worth. But it’s what he must do. He has to protect the human from this mortifying fate, even if it means sacrificing his own life.

The boy sways lightly in August’s arms as he’s carried bridal-style down the creaky-wooden steps to the basement. The artificial strip lights overhead buzz to life, the air-conditioning whirs on. August carefully slides him onto the cushioned examination table, laying his head on the plump headrest. His instruments still lay scattered on the table beside them, he picks up his scalpel and rolls the human onto his side. He slices through the restraints in one swift motion, throwing the severed zip ties into the bin where they belong. 

“There we are,” August softly brushes his thumb over the sore bands of bruises circling the human’s wrists, massaging the aches he’s not awake to feel yet. “I am so sorry. For everything. I’ll tell you all over again when you wake. You do not deserve this. I will make this right, I swear it.”

August stands there, lost in his thoughts, watching the steady rise and fall of the human’s chest. His hands dangle off the side of the table, light breaths wheezing through his parted lips. Who could ever want to hurt something so vulnerable and helpless? How could anyone look at such a being and wish to inflict pain?

“August! You have all the time in the world to play with your new bloodbag, come say goodbye to us! We’re leaving!” His father shouts from the top of the stairs. August rushes up to meet them, bolting the door behind him. Not so the man down there can’t leave. No. But so the family can’t go down there unless they go through August.

“Well, what a birthday, hey bro?” Aviana taunts, patting August on the back. “Enjoy your new toy.”

He bites his tongue, fangs piercing until he tastes his own blood. He squeezes his fists behind his back. It doesn’t even dignify a response. August’s eyes burn into the floor as he huffs furiously through his nostrils. The damage is done. They can go now. 

“August,” his mother calls him, and his head shoots up to meet her gaze. It’s not cold like usual, her face is gentle and tender. A hint of a warm smile creeping on her lips, “I’m very proud of you. Congratulations, my boy.”

It means absolutely nothing to him. 

August has never felt more ashamed of himself. If he catches a glimpse of himself in a mirror, he might just keel over and vomit. He’s a heartless beast. The entire night comes crashing down on him like a tonne of bricks, his knees buckle to the floor just as his family take their final step out the door.

There’s a human being in August’s basement. A captive. He kidnapped a human and locked him away downstairs.

What has he done?

---

Thank you to the wonderful @whumpcereal for her amazing beta on this monster of a chapter!!!

In sleep, they both looked peaceful. Hero, loose hair splayed out, face uncharacteristically relaxed. Arms loosely draped around Villain, half-cocooned in the comforter and looking much healthier than last night—if not blissful.

He had so many questions.

But he didn’t want to disturb them. So he woke up Team Leader instead.

Groggily and somewhat reluctantly, they created a sound bubble and stood up to see. Their jaw dropped.

“What the actual…”

“I know!” He whispered. “What happened last night?!”

“I didn’t hear anything!” Team Leader hissed back. They considered the sleeping duo a moment longer. “Maybe he got sick or something?”

“Oh, I can totally see that,” Sidekick said. “And Hero, being the softie we actually know she is, came to help.”

“That’s not how I would’ve helped.”

Sidekick made a face. “I think it’s cute.”

Snorting, Team Leader said, “I think I’d rather play tennis with Supervillain than cuddle with Villain.”

“Mm-mm. Look at them! They can totally work!”

“Sidekick.” Team Leader looked horrified. “Villain is not the man for Hero. He’s a villain!”

“First of all,” Sidekick ticked off a finger. “Villain is anyone’s man. Young, rich, hot. Boom. Second, he doesn’t have to be a villain. He can, like, change his ways or whatever.”

They choked on a laugh. “Yeah, okay. We’ll see if he can go a day without Hero punching him first, alright?”

Sidekick blew slowly through his lips. Team Leader had a point. “Well, no matter what happens, at least they seem to have made up from last night.”

Team Leader nodded. “Yep.” Glanced at him. “We don’t tell them we saw this, alright? We don’t need any extra drama here.”

He agreed. Team Leader went off to shower, and Sidekick left to find breakfast.

_________________

He got lost, of course.

The mansion was, naturally, large, and though he’d figured that the kitchen would be on the first floor, he had yet to find it. A giant living room dominated by leather couches and a flat screen tv? Found that. An exquisite-looking dining room that could feed thirty. Yep. A small room decorated solely with renaissance-era paintings? He’d even found that.

But not the kitchen. He returned to the front of the house, the starting point, and tried to map out a route.

So it was that he ran into Supervillain.

“Gyaa—hello,” he stammered to the man, who’d actually just opened the front door and also nearly stumbled back in surprise.

“Ah,” Supervillain huffed nervously and eased the door shut behind him. “Hi…” He stared at Sidekick like a deer in headlights, and Sidekick probably looked the same. “I’m…not used to people. Here.”

There was a long pause, then, as Supervillain’s momentary shock began to retreat behind an emptying expression. “Are you lost?”

“Uh, yes actually. Yes I am.” Sidekick scratched the back of his head, the weight of Supervillain’s presence beyond crushing.

“And where are you trying to go?”

“The kitchen?” He phrased hopefully.

“Mm,” the other hummed in understanding. “The original builder of the home thought kitchens were an eyesore, and hid this one in the back corner.” His eyes flicked to something behind him. “I’m sure Bach could show you the way.”

“Absolutely.” Sidekick veered around, heart jumping at the sudden appearance of an older man—grandpa-aged, at least—who stood erect, dressed in a blue dress shirt and tan slacks. Where the heck did he come from?

The man—Bach—gave him a disconcertingly gentle smile. “I work here. You are Sidekick, I believe? Come with me.”

Stunned, but not sure what else to do, Sidekick followed Bach to through the house maze.

“So, uh, who are you?” He asked along the way.

The man didn’t turn, answering with another wrinkled smile. “Bach.”

“Ah. Ha.” Sidekick saw the man’s grin grow. “I mean, what do you do here? How are you and Supervillain…” he gestured vaguely with his hands. “Associated?”

“I work here,” he repeated. Vague, but not unkind. “Here’s the kitchen.”

Past an intricately carved mahogany door was a room hardly recognizable as a kitchen. In Sidekick’s mind, a kitchen was utilitarian—stainless steel and granite countertops were as fancy as it should get. This kitchen, however, looked like Michelangelo had taken a carving knife to a fine block of wood.

A deep red-ish wood, maybe cherry, covered every cabinet, door, and wall. At first glance, Sidekick couldn’t even see any fridge or dishwasher. It all just looked like different wood-cutouts with metal bits poking out. The only recognizable thing to him were the counters, which blared bright white marble.

“Um…I’m going to need help.”

He couldn’t even find the stove, how in the world would he make eggs?

“That’s what I’m here for.” Bach gave an understanding chuckle and started pulling open cabinets. The one that turned out to be the fridge blew his mind. And then Bach somehow rolled back a slab of marble, revealing the stovetop beneath.

Sidekick grinned. “This is going to be much more fun that I thought.”

tbc here

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

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Ah. So there was something.

Hero softened their tone. “You know you can tell me anything, right? I’m here for you.”

Villain slowed, finally turning to Hero. A quiver of emotion passed through his face. “I know. It’s just…” He bit his lip and turned, running a hand over his forehead. His dark eyes blinked closed for a moment. “I don’t…I don’t know what to do.”

The hurt in his voice made Hero stiffen. How bad is this? They hesitantly put a hand on Villain’s elbow, and the other allowed it. “What happened?”

They walked slower, almost a quarter of the way home.

“There’s a new manager,” Villain admitted quietly.

A distinct sense of dread landed in Hero’s gut.

“He doesn’t…he said…I’m not a good fit for ‘the hospital milieu.’”

“The milieu?” Hero asked incredulously. “What does he mean by that?”

Villain shot him a pained look. “I think you know exactly what he meant by that.”

Hero’s chest tightened further. “We had an arrangement, though. The hospital was eager to have more help, and you…you felt satisfied working there.”

Scorn twisted Villain’s expression, and his voice grew louder the longer he spoke. “The new manager forced me into an empty room. Told me to sit and wait until my ‘services’ were asked for. Of course, no one asked for them, and I spent the whole day doing nothing!”

“No way!” Hero reacted just as loudly. “That’s not okay! You have to do your work, Villain, or else—”

“I know what will happen!” Villain snapped violently.

Hero held in a breath. Their eyes narrowed, looking over Villain more carefully. Noting the sweat on his brow, the silver crescent glinting in his eye. Their skin went cold. “You’re already hungry, aren’t you.”

“I told you not to worry about it,” he growled. Then stomped up the steps to their apartment, and Hero had to chase after him again.

“Wait, wait! We have to talk about it though!”

Villain didn’t stop, only slamming open their apartment door and heading straight for the bathroom.

“Stop!” Hero grabbed their upper arm, but Villain slipped out. Desperate, Hero blurted out the idea he’d been holding in reserve for a while now. “You can use me.”

Villain veered around, eyes blazing with fury. “NO.”

“Why not?” Hero demanded.

He shook his head, expression tortured. “I-I couldnt-I never-I promised I would never hurt you again.”

“But…you’re hungry.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not! And it’ll only get worse with this awful new manager you have.”

“I don’t care, I’m not taking from you!” Villain threw his hands up in the air.

Hero licked their lips. Then strode to the kitchen.

“Oh hell no!” Villain yelled, but it was too late. Hero took a paring knife and, before they could overthink it, plunged it into their forearm.

“NOOO!” Their old enemy ripped the knife from their grip and hurled it against the wall. “No!! Why, why would you-AGH HERO!”

Tears welled up in Villain’s eyes, and Hero smiled despite the pain. “Is it helping?”

“Nooo,” Villain moaned and sank down onto his ankles. He started swaying, breathing heavily. Hero frowned, idly aware of their power rushing down their arm, weaving tendons back together.

“Did it…help?”

Villain didn’t answer. Didn’t look at them. Hero peered closer, seeing pupils that had become fully silver. They stepped back. Crap.

“Okay…um. Maybe that was a bad idea, Villain. I’m sorry, I’ll just g—”

With blurring speed, Villain lunged forward and drove a clawed hand into their gut.

Hero choked on a scream. Their body flailed, screeching and helpless and held in place against the fist squeezing their insides.

“PAIN,” Villain rasped.

Through the spots in their vision, Hero saw the ecstasy flowing into Villain. And just as unsettling, felt the pain flowing out of them. It was like being stabbed with a morphine-laced sword. Unwelcome memories surged to the surface of their mind, and they started to whimper. Villain drew in a deep, satisfied breath through his nostrils.

“N-no,” Hero sputtered. “You d-don’t want this.”

Villain rolled intoxicated, bright eyes at them. “I do.”

Hero whined as the claws sank deeper, and the pain that rose up drifted away. “Villain…you…don’t.” They groaned, forcing out the next word. “Remember?”

For a moment, it seemed like Villain wouldn’t remember. That he would simply torture Hero for weeks on end, draining his pain like a starved leech. As he had before. And then Villain gasped.

He yanked out the clawed hand and gripped Hero’s arms, holding them steady as they both dropped to the kitchen floor.

“No! No no no!” Villain yelled, then sobbed, squeezing Hero between his arms and rocking back and forth. “I’m so sorry, Hero! I didn’t mean it, I swear, I just—” he whimpered, burying his head in Hero’s chest.

“You were hungry,” Hero whispered. Their eyes were closed, and as much as the pain still crashed over them in angry waves, they didn’t blame Villain. They couldn’t. Not after the life he’d lived.

“I’m a monster,” Villain cried into his shirt. “Everyone is right about me.”

“They’re wrong,” Hero breathed out.

“You should’ve just locked me up,” he continued. “It’s-it’s where I belong, and you know it.”

Hero shook his head weakly. “No.” They put a gentle hand on the back of Villain’s head. “You belong here.”

Their stomach twinged, internal tissues knitting back in place. Villain lifted his head. Hero opened their eyes, meeting tear-stained dark ones. They cracked a smile. “You’ll always have a place here with me.”

Villain bit down on his lip.

“I’ll have a talk with that manager tomorrow. You’re damn irreplaceable as the emergency room receptionist.”

At last Abril dragged in a deep breath and became First Captain again, if an unsteadier captain than usual. Rainier kept a hand on her arm. “He was in the gaol?” she asked Leander in clipped tones. “For how long?”

“The guard didn’t know. I’d guess since soon after the last battle. He’s- he’s been there a long time.”

“Good,” Abril said curtly. “Why didn’t anyone tell you he was captured?”

Leander sighed. “In all honesty, Abril, I think they forgot. There was so much happening in those days. Each man probably assumed someone else had told me and didn’t bother any more about it.”

“What are you going to do with him?”

“Why does this feel like an interrogation?”

“Because it is one. What are you going to do with him?”

“He’s sick. And hurt. And nearly starved. I’m going to have a healer look at him.”

“Not what I’m asking.” Abril stepped forward and put a finger in Leander’s chest- not jabbing him, just making sure he felt the pressure. “Long term, Leander. What are you going to do with him?”

Leander opened his mouth to answer and realized he had none. He hadn’t thought about it, and when he did think about it, no reply came to mind. He couldn’t keep Emauri chained in the spare bedroom for the rest of his days, but he couldn’t send him back to prison. He couldn’t welcome him into the court; the nobility would be outraged that one of their own had been left to rot in gaol and the common folk would be outraged that he wasn’t still there. He couldn’t find work for him- it was obvious even without a healer’s advice that Emauri would never again be as he had been.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly.

Abril’s hardened face softened a little. “I wanted you to say it,” she told him. “You think with your heart, Leander. That’s good. But you have to think with your head, too. Rainier and I try our best for you, but you are Lord Protector. The blame will always fall on you.” She became captain again, standing straight and tall, planting her feet. “Right. You don’t have a long term, so we’ll focus on the short term. Rainier, ask Master Brindle to come see the- the prisoner.” Leander could tell she’d wanted to say much harsher words.

Rainier nodded and took himself off to the healer’s tower. Leander went to the window at the end of the corridor, staring out at the lightening sky. It wasn’t quite full morning.

“I’m sorry, Abril,” he said.

He heard her sigh behind him. “When I had nightmares, I used to tell myself that it was all right because everyone in them was dead. I still have them. I’m in the Tarasque house. It’s dark. There’s blood. The baron stands over me with a knife. Emauri holds the lantern for him. They’re both laughing.” Her voice trembled in her throat. “I remember the baron telling me that what he was doing to me would be nothing compared to what he had in mind for you. When they put us up on that wall and tried to make you surrender- I’ve never been so afraid in my life, Leander. And he was there. He was there and I thought he was dead and now you tell me he’s not only alive, but living in my home.” She was Abril again. Leander wished she’d be First Captain. The First Captain never sounded like she was going to cry.

“I couldn’t leave him there, Abril. I know who his father was. I know what they did. I still couldn’t leave him. Part of me even wanted to, but- I can’t know that a man is suffering and let it continue. I had to put a stop to it.” He wrapped his hands around the stone of the windowsill and watched the sun and thought about a pitch-black prison cell.

Abril said nothing else. He knew she was still there, but he didn’t turn to look. They stayed silent and waited for Rainier to come back.

When he did, he had a look of grim satisfaction on his face. “Where’s Master Brindle?” Abril asked.

“Not coming,” Rainier said, flat and cold as steel.

“Why not?”

“He says he won’t treat a traitor.”

“You told him?” Leander felt the first flash of anger rather than guilt. “Why?”

“I thought he ought to know. I swore him to secrecy first. He said he’ll look at him if the Lord Protector commands it, but he won’t waste his medicines and things on a kingsman.” Rainier shrugged. “He was a soldier in your army, Leander, you can hardly blame the fellow.”

“And the town healers will talk.” Leander glared at Rainier. “Fine. If Master Brindle won’t treat him, I’ll send for Master Atticus.”

“Master Atticus is still alive?” Abril blurted.

“He lives at the edge of town now, keeps himself to himself and doesn’t advertise his practice much. But he’s alive and well, and he’ll come for a summons from the Lord Protector.” Leander turned back to the open window and silently added I hope.

————————————————————————

Leander sent a messenger with a sealed letter to Master Atticus and went to his rooms to wait for a reply.

By the time one came, it was early afternoon and he was nearly out of his mind with impatience. He’d thought of going to see Emauri again, but he had eventually decided he’d stepped on Rainier and Abril’s toes heavily enough.

He didn’t see Abril for the rest of the day. Rainier’s stopped by his room at midday to tell him, in severe tones, that he was going to look in on the prisoner. Quietly, Leander asked him to give Emauri water, and pretended not to see that Rainier was carrying a chain.

“He wouldn’t drink,” Rainier reported, coming back empty-handed. “Got it down his throat. It wouldn’t stay there.” He shrugged, as if it made very little difference to him. “I have a guard posted.”

“Thank you,” Leander told him, sincerely, and thought he saw Rainier’s eyes warm just a little.

Just as the shadows started to lengthen, Leander heard a horrific bwooooo sound on his balcony. He jumped nearly out of his skin and hurried to see what on earth was making it.

The ugliest pigeon he had ever seen sat on the railing. It had one eye that looked outward and another that stared straight up into the sky. Its feathers were ragged and in some places nonexistent, and its feet were an absurd yellow. There was a note tied to one of them. When it- somehow- managed to look at Leander, it said Bwooooo, and held out the leg for him.

“Um- thank you,” Leander said, untying the note. The pigeon preened its patchy feathers.

Leander unrolled the note. It was a scrap of parchment, with a single line of writing in a bold, elegant hand.

The note read, You are an idiot.

Leander read it four times. “This doesn’t say if he’s coming or not,” he told the pigeon.

Bwooooo, said the pigeon unhelpfully, and soared off the balcony and very nearly into the opposite roof before it straightened itself out. Leander watched it go, feeling as if he couldn’t fly straight lately either.

A short while later, a serving boy rapped at the door to tell him that there was a strange man in the main hall. “Do you know him?” Leander asked.

“No, sir,” the boy answered, “but he’s got a pigeon.”

Leander sent for Rainier and Abril, and they went together to receive Master Atticus.

The old healer was a tall, thin man with a hooked nose and long ink-black hair that did not dare wave in the slightest. He wore a long robe exactly the same color as his hair, even in the hottest months, and Leander had never once seen him smile. And, sure enough, the scraggly pigeon sat on his wrist with the exact same sour expression on its beak.

Bwooooo, it said, when it saw Leander.

Master Atticus turned and saw him.

“Thank you for coming-“ Leander began.

“You are an idiot,” Master Atticus told him.

“So your pigeon said.”

“Oh, yes.” Master Atticus turned to Abril and held out his arm. “Let Atticus the Younger out the door for me. He’ll make his way back to the house all right.”

Abril stared at the pigeon, then at the healer, then at Leander. “Atticus the Younger?” she asked.

Master Atticus raised one eyebrow and looked at her. Suddenly the name seemed perfectly fitting. She took the bird- who protested with a Bwoooo- and hurried off. Rainier hid a laugh as a cough.

“So you’ve taken some poor wretch out of that gaol and you think I can heal prison fever,” Master Atticus said, turning back to Leander.

“Can you heal prison fever?” questioned Rainier.

“Of course,” Master Atticus replied, finishing it off with his customary “You idiot.”

“There’s a lot more than that to heal,” Leander said. “He’s nearly starved, and there are many injuries, and he’s too ill even to hold down water. And- I feel I should tell you who he is. His name is Emauri Tarasque. He and his father were two of the old king’s most loyal men.”

Master Atticus looked at him.

Leander shifted his feet awkwardly.

Master Atticus continued looking at him.

“What?” Leander asked.

“Does the fact that he is a king’s man have something to do with treating his injuries?” Master Atticus said.

“Master Brindle refused to do it because of it.”

“Brindle began his career treating cows and pigs and ought to have kept at it. Does this man’s loyalty somehow affect my treating him?”

“Well- no, I suppose not.” Leander glanced at Rainier for help. Rainier lifted his brow in a don’t look at me sort of look. “I- thought you should know, that’s all,” Leander fumbled.

“I am a healer,” Master Atticus said, biting off each word in his mouth as though he thought Leander was slightly dim. “I heal people who need it. I do not particularly care whether a person who is sick or injured is one of the idiots loyal to you, or one of the idiots loyal to the old king. I only care that the person is sick or injured and I have the ability to help them.”

Abril came back inside- pigeon-less- just in time to hear the last sentence. She and Rainier exchanged a look that Leander did not care to dwell on. “He’s upstairs on the third floor, in the spare bedroom with a guard by it,” Leander told Master Atticus.

The healer produced a large bag from somewhere under his bat-like robes and swept up the stairs without waiting for an escort. “I shall need some fresh water,” he called to them.

The three of them stood there, staring at each other.

“What a loon,” Rainier said.

Leander shrugged. “As long as the loon knows how to heal. Come on, let’s fetch that water.”

——————————————————————-

They hauled two pails of water up to the third floor and found Master Atticus standing outside Emauri’s room, storming at the guard who also stood outside it.

“-see that I’m a healer, with your hideous head stuck so far up your culette! Now let me in, you misbegotten spawn of a beetle’s buttocks-“

Holding back a laugh, Abril waved at the much-affronted guard to allow Master Atticus to pass. The healer swept into the room in a very offended cloud of black.

“Do beetles have buttocks?” Abril whispered to Leander.

“If they don’t, I’m not going to tell him,” Leander whispered back. He was glad that they seemed to be friends again.

He moved into the room and immediately found himself the new target of Master Atticus’ ire. The healer flung a hand toward the bed where Emauri lay. “What in the name of the father of fire do you think you’ve done?”

Leander could not see any obvious mistakes. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve put furs on him! Godsbelow, you had some sense when you were a shepherd, where’s it all gone?”

“He’s been locked in a dark, cold cell for years,” Leander replied, a little stung. “I wanted to make sure he was warm.”

“By loading him up with heavy trappings? When he hasn’t yet managed to keep down a sip of water? You’ll have him sweating out what little he’s managed to hold onto, and he’s not strong enough to go without. No, take those away. A light blanket will do. Even that’ll be a good deal warmer than that hole you told me of.” Master Atticus strode to the bed and flung the furs back.

The room went silent. Even Abril gave a little gasp of dismay on seeing her enemy’s condition.

The blue tunic was soaked through with fever-sweat, and Leander thought some darker patches might have been blood. The bruises and cuts stood out stark against Emauri’s pale skin, and the badly healed break in his leg seemed almost worse. His breathing had changed; shallow and even before, now it was shallow and ragged, rattling in his lungs. The hair spread out on the pillow was stringy, dark with sweat. He was clearly still unconscious.

“Who chained him?” Master Atticus demanded, pointing his chin to Emauri’s better leg.

Rainier had kept his word- one end of the chain was latched around Emauri’s painfully bony ankle, the other around the bedpost. “It’s staying,” Rainier said firmly.

Master Atticus accepted this, setting his bag at the foot of the bed. “At least you had the mind not to put it on the bad one,” he said half under his breath. “I’ll do what I can for him, but he’s too weak to stand much. Leave that water and clear out, the lot of you. I work best alone.”

So they cleared out, the three of them, and left Master Atticus to his work.

He called them back in as darkness was setting outside. He was washing his hands in a basin, and Leander saw that the water was tinged pink. “I cannot reset the leg today,” he told Leander bluntly. “I would have to break it again, and the shock would likely kill him. I wonder if it might not be better, overall, to leave it as it is.” He shook his head, returning to the bedside. Emauri lay just as he had been, his breathing slightly better, the soaked tunic exchanged for a pair of dove-grey linen pants. His back had been bandaged, and there was a wet cloth laid across his forehead. He had still not woken.

“Certainly a fever has set in,” Master Atticus continued. “I gave him a tincture of elderflower, and a poultice on his chest for the weakness in his lungs. He must sweat it out. Keep a cool cloth on him, and make sure he gets plenty of water- even if he coughs it up, keep giving it to him. I will return in two days to see how he is coming along.”

“I’ll make sure he gets the best care,” Leander promised.

Master Atticus shut his bag. “No, you won’t.”

Abril and Rainier frowned.

“You will follow the instructions I’ve given and no more than that,” Master Atticus said. He stepped back from the bed, his expression pinched. “I know you all too well, Leander. You have an unfortunate addiction to being the hero and to being lauded for it. And since this man is in no condition to be singing your praises, you will doubtlessly want him to be well quickly so that he can do so. You will ply him with the best of everything- bread and meat from your own table- to return him to health as fast as possible. And in doing so, you will kill him.”

“How could feeding a starving man kill him?” Rainier broke in, and received a withering look for his trouble.

“Because, Captain,” Master Atticus drawled, “when the body has been used to the coarsest fare, and precious little of that, for years on end, a sudden surfeit of rich delicacies comes as a shock to the system. Not unlike the shock that occasionally comes to your system when the brain you supposedly carry between your overlarge ears manages to produce a coherent thought.”

Rainier, like Leander, was well used to Master Atticus’ biting tongue and only looked a little insulted.

Master Atticus turned to the bed again. “So,” he said. “You may give him a little thin broth and some cool water, but no more than that. You will kill him if I am disobeyed. Am I quite understood?”

“Yes,” Leander answered. “You are.”

Master Atticus picked up his bag and made to exit. “Oh, and leave a candle lit in this room.”

“What will that do?” Rainier asked.

“The candle will provide illumination, Captain,” Master Atticus replied dryly. Then, a bit more gently, and addressed to the unconscious figure on the bed, “When one has been in the dark for so long, he will treasure a little light.”

——————————————————————————

Hero's wrists and ankles were properly restrained in leather cuffs by the time she was ready with gloves on and medical instruments on a rolling cart next to the bed.

Hero had started choking on his own blood again, unable to lean forward and cough it out. But Medic was prepared for that. She gestured for Assistant to come stand at Hero's head, giving her control of a suction device to regularly suck the blood from Hero's mouth and keep it from going down his throat, simultaneously giving her a better view of what she was doing when she focused her headlamp into Hero's mouth to look closer at the remaining stump of his tongue and see if the missing piece could be reattached.

But it was obvious upon a single glance that it was impossible. Tongue reattachments in of themselves were extremely difficult, but with how much time had passed since the injury, and how the severed tongue hadn't immediately been put on ice... a reattachment was unlikely to be successful in the long run. It would never be a fully functional appendage for Hero, even if the wounds healed.

Medic cursed angrily under her breath, shoving a device between Hero’s teeth to hold his mouth open and keep him from biting. Then picked up a full syringe with a long needle attached.

Hero’s eyes locked onto it, widening. He started tugging at the restraints, distressed grunts bubbling up from his throat.

“Relax,” Medic hissed, not bothering to keep her tone polite. “This is just to numb you. Unless you’d rather tough out the stitches without it.”

Hero’s eyes kept sliding out of focus, but her words seemed to register, because his muscles uncoiled and his body went limp.

“Good boy.” She patted his cheek condescendingly, and numbed the tongue-stump.

The medication worked fast. She watched the pain ebb out of Hero’s face. And once she was positive it was as numb as possible, she picked up her surgical needle and got to work sealing off the severed artery and stitching flesh together.

The procedure itself was simple. The aftermath was not. Medic was heavy-handed with anti-inflammatory drugs to keep Hero’s tongue from swelling up and cutting off his airway, along with antibiotics to prevent infection.

Considering the fact that he'd be unable to eat any real food in the near future, she set up a nasogastric feeding tube that would supply all the calories and nutrients he needed.

After everything was done, she was left to confront the grim reality.

Vigilante had gone too far. Way too far. Hero would need a prosthetic if he was ever going to be able to eat and talk again.

But a tiny, vicious part of Medic felt that maybe this was a fair outcome. Karma catching up to him. Maybe he deserved this.

   She shook her head to herself and got to work cleaning up the bloody mess Hero had left behind in her medical facility. It wasn't her place to decide what counted as 'justice'. In the end, Villain would decide whether Hero would be allowed to receive a prosthetic tongue, or left to suffer.

   She winced sympathetically at the reminder of Villain. Vigilante had torn open a lot of old wounds and done a great deal of damage in a very short period of time. Medic made a note to check on Villain as soon as possible once she was done sanitizing everything.

⏪️ Back (((hmm I'm not sure if I'll continue it from here, I'm open to ideas)))

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