* EYE IN THE SKY.

❝ god fucking damn it ― ❞ the bullet ripping through his gear feels like it's made of a calibre intended to turn people into mist. the merc's watching him, wary, waiting to shoot again. smart, he thinks, even though several other words want to leave his mouth. he has to wait for his lungs to finally manage to rejoin enough to let him suck in an uneven breath, gloves absorbing the cold tile of the empty facility, a simple recovery mission with miniscule fine print not emphasizing that he'd have to dodge twenty-seven highly trained operatives on the way. he pulls his cracked visor off, sucking in grateful air. ❝ will you stop shooting me for two seconds? i don't even have a gun. ❞

labs. so many fucking labs. he thinks he was born in one and will die in one. duho also thinks he'll be listening patiently to his mother until he dies, which means, to be fair, timeline undeterminable. this one is much like the rest, or would be, if he was able to open his eyes against the light, everything too sharp, painful. ❝ i don't... ❞ he presses the heel of his hand tight over his burning eyelids, hit with some spore or other, some bullshit that would've killed anyone else, probably. ❝ should you not have that thing sealed? ❞

❝ i'm only here for your security, doctor ❞ the spilled tossed liquid nitrogen slathers sharp pain across his fingertips, stings his eyes. he knows it'll heal, but he blinks back tears of pain, staggering away from the researcher. another one behind him hurries out of the room, leaving them with a slick hiss of the cold lab sealing shut. it's quiet here, despite the bustle of research ongoing in the rest of NEST. ❝ i fail to see why these responses are necessary. ❞

❝ agent harper, i'm from the recon team ― ❞ he manages half a sentence. the surge of agony from a misfiring nerve catches him halfway, makes him grateful for the safety on his state-issued weaponry being resolutely on. he catches his arm, the shoulder torn through with a shotgun not half an hour ago, skin knitted together, but the torn tactical gear not hiding the tight grip he has on his shoulder. he's grateful for the mask covering his grimace, not that it makes a difference. ❝ park, stratcomm. here to ― to deal with ― for your extraction. ❞

it catches him mid-laugh. that's the worst of it, he thinks, intestines twisting, crumpling. pain is no stranger ( is constant companion ) but the surprise of it has him dropping away from the kitchen island, stool rattling with the force of his motion. to one knee, then two, arms wrapped around his core like it makes any difference. the human body's instinctual responses are hard-wired, are absolute. he feels the fat of his cheek give way to hollow truth : a glimpse of age, as his cells decide what to fix. too much rot in his system. ❝ fuck. fuck. sorry, el, i need ― a minute ― ❞ he spits a wad of acrid black to his palm, holding breakfast a minute ago, warm and comfortable. he manages a smile, cruel, resentful. monkey's paw, immortality. ❝ maybe more than a minute. ❞

i feel profoundly sick and miserable so like this for a one liner starter where your muse gets to watch duho crumple to the ground and writhe in pain

i'm back now. after i finish all the other crucial shit i need to get done

quick little PLOTTING CALL !