Tora

“Wh’t’s goin’ on?” That’s Tiger. Another small glow of white. He sounds disorientated, in a sleepy way. He hears the sound of a weight hitting the floor, and suddenly Tiger’s voice is much closer, but yet so very far away, like he can’t bring himself to come closer. He sounds scared now. “Shit–”

Bo ignores him, instead leaning downwards. Closer. Big hands hold him steady, “Let it breathe for you.” He begs. Somewhere nearby, a machine lets out a shrill, deafening shriek. “Let it, Rasta. Don’t fight it. It’s helping you, okay? It’s there to help.”

His hands twitch. Bo’s own meet them, squeezing tight. So, so very tight. Tight enough that he feels as if he could shatter under the pressure. It’s a welcoming distraction to the feeling of dying.

“Let it.” Bo is still pleading. He sounds so tired. Another machine beeps frantically. “Just let it. Please, Rasta, please.”

There’s yet another voice now. He doesn’t recognise it.

“He woke up– I don’t– I-” Bo chokes. His hands disappear, replaced with colder ones. The sickly smell of antiseptic hits his nose. It only renews his struggle. Another gurgled sound leaves his lips.

Bo lets out a sob. It’s Tiger who asks the next question, voice tiny, “Is this normal?”

The voice rambles some sort of response to that. That it can be, at least that’s the only part he grasps as he struggles for air. This isn’t normal, he’s dying, he can’t– he-

“-pushing propofol, he should be–”

“There you go.” Bo is back now, his voice closer, hovering hesitantly over him. A faint hand settles against his shoulder as his body goes slack. It’s terrifyingly quick how fast the fight leaves his body. He wonders if there even was much of a fight to begin with. “There you go. That’s better, yeah?” Bo’s voice makes a weird crackle. It drops to a whisper, something he finds he has to strain to hear. “Fucking hell. Fucking hell.”

—

He wakes up to something rubbing against the skin of his cheek. It’s soft, and fluffy. It smells dusty. In a good, old, worn way. Familiar. Comforting. If he could move, he’d nuzzle into it.

“-remember this, Cap?”

He’s quick to recognise the voice as Shakes’. Faster than he’s been before, waking up looking at the back of his eyelids.

There’s more fluffy, soft touches against the exposed skin of his neck. It drapes over him like a… a…

Ah. A blanket.

“Found this doing a little cleaning at your place.” Shakes continues on. His voice is so very gentle. Like how a person would speak to a puppy, rather than a man. “Hope you don’t mind that I took it. North was gonna throw it away.”

“I was not.”

“He was. Said it was real ugly too.”

North snorts, “You agreed with me, I mean look at it.”

“He’s not wrong, Rasta,” The darkness brightens a little when he hears Shakes laugh, “this thing’s atrocious. Whose Grandma did you steal this from? Purple polka dots? Seriously?”

It hurts his head a little, but if he focuses enough, he can picture it. He knows which blanket it is now pressed up against him. If he could talk, he’d agree- it was ugly. He’d kept it for a reason, that he’s certain, but trying to think about it only deepens the impending headache knocking against his skull.

So he leaves that thought, for now. He can always remember later, right?

—

Yelling. That’s what wakes him up next.

An argument of sorts. A voice on his left, another on his right, like angels on his shoulders. They don’t seem to be yelling at him… At least he thinks they aren't.

“You can’t say stuff like that, Coach.”

“But it’s true, isn’t it?” Coach sounds venomous. He’s heard him angry before. Many times, even, but this… this is new. It’s scarier. In a raw, feral way. It doesn’t sound like him one bit. “I know you’re thinking the same thing.”

“Don’t you dare say that.” Bo’s voice rises slightly, “Don’t write me off like that. Respectfully, Coach, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

“You can admit it.” Coach’s voice sounds like a snarl. “I wouldn’t blame you one bit.”

“No– I don’t think for a second that you should be in his place!”

His place?

He wished he could ask what Bo meant. His place? Whose place? Who was… did something happen? Something must’ve happened. He wished he knew what.

“I was in charge. I’m supposed to be there for all of you. I was supposed to go back for him. We’re all thinking it, I’m just voicing it.”

“You think Rasta’s thinking it-?” Bo sounds livid now, in a way that only he can. All low growls and deep mutters, “How do you think he’d feel if he knew you were saying all of this?”

“He’d agree with me!”

“You and I both know he wouldn’t, so don’t lie.” Bo counters, “What the hell’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing has! I’m being realistic, Bo, that’s what.”

Something started beeping.

Well, no. It was already beeping to begin with. At least, he thinks it was. But this beeping was different. A little louder, a little faster. Enough to catch his attention, if only for a second.

“Listen to me when I say this.” Bo’s voice grew into a low rumble, “I don’t want to say this, but if you ever go around saying shit like that again I’m going to knock you out. And I know for a fact once he’s up he will too.”

“We don’t even know if he’ll ever wake up!”

Beep. Beep.

Beep. Beep.

Beep. Beep-

“Why would you say that…?”

Coach lets out a sob. An unnatural noise to hear. He wished he could reach out to wherever he was. Hold his hand or… something. Whatever this was about, Coach didn’t need to be upset. “I don’t know.”

“He’ll wake up.”

“I know.” He croaked, “I’m sorry.”

—

There’s a rubbery hand holding his own.

Rubbery like… like a chicken. The toy chickens, he means. Those ones that squeak if you hold them tight enough. He faintly remembers that he owns one. Not him, but… his dog? His dog owns one. Has. His dog has one…

Does he even have a dog? Or is he thinking of someone else's...? 

Regardless, it’s not a hand he recognises, and not a voice he recognises either. His brain doesn’t fill in the blank for him, leaving him to wonder until the hand moves, and there’s a sharp, uncomfortable pinch against one of his nailbeds. He tries to jerk away from it, but all his hand does is twitch. He thinks he might’ve grunted too, but the thick tube in his throat shoves that sound right back down into the bottom of his lungs, silencing him.

“Very good.” The voice comments quietly, “That’s what we like to see. You’re doing good, Rasta.”

See what? What were they seeing? He didn’t do anything– or did he?

Another voice quietly asks something. He faintly recognises it as Tiger, despite not comprehending a single word said. It doesn’t sound like Tiger whatsoever, but he knows it’s him. It sounds raw, and exhausted, but there’s a Tiger-esque something about it that he grasps onto like a lifeline.

“It is.” The voice above him murmurs, “You can come closer, if you want, and I’ll show you what I mean.”

There’s a shuffle, and Tiger is by his side. A slow, trembling hand reaches out to touch his arm. It’s cold.

“Right, so, here-” His other arm is lifted up once more. His fingers are folded between the rubbery ones, “-we do this thing called GSC. It tells us how ‘aware’ he is, so to speak, by making things a little uncomfortable. Watch as I press here…”

His nail is pressed again, painfully so. And again, he tries to jerk away from the touch. He knows he makes a sound this time, too, because it manages to slip up past the tubing. It sounds like nothing he’d intended, all garbled and gurgled, but it’s a sound nonetheless.

“Did you see how he moved slightly? As if to get away? That’s really good.” His arm is lowered back down, and the gross rubbery hand disappears. “And that sound he made too, both are super good signs. Puts him on maybe level four? A good, excellent level, given his case.”

“You hear that, Cap?” Tiger's voice is nothing short of a shaky whisper. His hand is still cold where it’s pressed against his forearm. “You’re doing good.”

—

I was writing up something entirely unrelated to Supa Strikas and thought ‘huh, these scenes, if I reworked them, would work really fucking well for realistic ‘Dat Boot’ segments in which Rasta’s in an accurate/ish coma (all I had to do was remove a lot of swearing and rework a scene or two, cause the OG characters this was for are British, like myself, and swear like sailors, like myself).

And then I realised I could in fact rewrite it and pop out some non-Tiger-Centric Supa Strikas content for a change! Magic, isn’t it?

This came to me randomly and so I wrote this as a spur-of-the-moment thing. Figured I’d post it as it is now. It’s not good, and very little thought went into it, but I liked the parallels my brain drew up between Spike and Tiger and I wanted to write it out before it left my noggin.

—

Spike Dawson and Twisting Tiger parallels (that I'm on about) for those wondering:

Spike – was injured by an opposing defender (goalkeeper) Tiger – was injured by opposing defender/s (unknown specifics)

Spike – never forgave and festered in anger and pain Tiger – forgave and allowed it to make him stronger 

Spike – retired from the league due to his injury Tiger – spent time learning to cope and work around his injury

Spike – was injured accidently Tiger – injury hinted to have been caused by a purposeful dangerous tackle

—

“You know.” Tiger sat himself atop the pipe, his legs curled underneath him. Chocolate eyes peered over the edge down at him. “It’s been years, hasn’t it?”

“That doesn’t make it any easier.” Spike snarled, glaring up at the man. “My life was taken from me, I can’t ever heal from that.”

“You can, though.” He tilted his head, his face one of piqued curiosity. His words held little bite. “At least a little. More than you have now.”

“He took everything from me.”

Tiger blinked. “Did he?”

“Yes!” He snapped. His hand flew out to gesture at the room around them. The grubby, dusty dungeon he called home. “Does this look like living to you? I used to be one of the best players this world has ever seen, and this is where that got me. Surely even an idiot like you can see the problem here.”

The Strika paused, clearly in thought. His gaze wandered the confines of the room. “Did Bo put you down here?”

He narrowed his eyes. “You know what I mean.”

“But did he?”

He couldn’t help but let out a groan. “His actions put me down here. His decision to end my career put me down here. What more do you want to hear?”

“You could’ve come back.” Tiger murmured quietly. His eyes were so gentle… it was sickening. “To the league. To Grimm. But you didn’t. Why?”

“I couldn’t.”

“You were afraid. Weren’t you?”

“I wasn’t–” He threw a hand out angrily. It connected with one of the many TV screens he had littering the room. It broke upon impact. Glass twinkled against the dim lights as it fell to the floor. “How could you possibly know how I was feeling?”

Tiger’s gaze followed the trail of glass. Watched how pieces stuck into skin, rivets of blood oozing from the small puncture wounds. “Because I’ve been there before.”

“Oh.” He laughed. “Have you, now? That’s rich.”

“I was afraid too.” Tiger continued, as if he hadn’t just been jeered at. His eyes had wandered elsewhere. Glazed over, deep in thought. “I didn’t want to come back either. It was scary, putting myself out there.” His lips quirked into a frown, his face distant with memories. “I never wanted to feel that kind of pain ever again.”

Agony, racing up his side. He fell to the ground. A guttural scream left his lips.

A hand on his back. A massive shadow looming over him. He quivered and shook underneath it. Its touch hurt. Burnt, even. It felt like scalding fire, tearing open his skin, melting at his nerves. “I’m sorry!” It cried, “I’m so sorry-!”

“I wasn’t afraid.”

Tiger’s head tilted once again. “Is that what you truly think, or is that just what you tell yourself?”

“Enough with the cryptic shit.” He scowled, “Get down from there.”

“Hmm… Nah.” Tiger clicked his tongue cheekily, leaning himself backwards, arms raised. He fell, twisting into a handstand as he landed on another nearby pipeline. He began walking himself down the line using his hands, body swaying through the air. “Not until you admit it.”

“I’m not admitting shit.”

“Then I’m not coming down.”

“You’re supposed to be my prisoner.” Spike couldn’t help but point out. A lame argument, he admitted. “Not my personal clown.”

“I know.” Tiger giggled, maneuvering back into an upright position before continuing to wander across the old rusty pipeline, arms outstretched for balance. “I can be both, can’t I? Sitting in a cage isn’t really my thing. Besides.” He peered down at him, grinning, “It’s not like I’m running away. I’m kind of enjoying this.”

“You’re…” He pinched the bridge of his nose, sighing, “You’re enjoying this.”

“I’m a real life damsel in distress right now!”

“A real princess would get inside the fucking cage.”

Tiger pursed his lips, humming in thought, “I… don’t think any of the Disney princesses got into cages, actually.” He clicked his fingers, “Wait, does Rapunzel count?”

“Oh. My God.” He wanted to strangle this cocky asshole. “Get down here. Now.”

“No.”

“Tiger.”

“No.”

“Can you–”

Tiger pouted dramatically. “No.”

“Are you fucking serious right now?!”

“Yes.”

“Alright then, smartass.” He scowled, “Stay up there, then. You can’t get out of here anyway. Not when I have the keys to the only exit.”

“Pretty sure I probably can, but sure.” Tiger dropped into a crouch. He was on a pipe directly above him now, close enough to pester him, but intentionally just out of reach. “You gonna tell me your evil plan or whatnot now?”

“It’s a simple one, really-” He completely missed the way Tiger’s eyes rolled at that, “-I had everything taken from me by Bo. I can’t seem to sabotage him the same way, no matter how hard I try, so I’ll take something of his instead. Show him what it’s like to feel true hopelessness and fear.”

“Okay.” Tiger snorted. He glared up at the man, who simply chuckled down at him, “Sorry, I just don’t think Bo’s really all that scared of you, honestly.”

Spike scoffed, “Well you clearly don’t know him at all. He’s terrified of me.”

“Yeah, you must be right.” He sighed, shaking his head slightly, “I guess I don’t.”

“Well-” Spike turned back to his remaining TVs and computers, slumping down onto his chair in front of them. There was nothing left of this conversation- Tiger only seemed to be deriving some sort of sick joy of seeing him suffer like this. “-now that’s covered, can you wallow in your lack of understanding in silence while I work further on my masterful plan, please?”

“One last question-” He groaned, looking back up at the Strika, “Why me? Like- why’d you pick me? I mean I’m flattered of course, but, you know.” Tiger shrugged, “It’s just a bit random.”

“You were the easiest to grab.”

“Easiest to- hey!” Tiger gasped, “I am not! That actually hurt my feelings, what the hell- I’m not the easiest to grab. Klaus is! Or Shakes! Or even El Matador!” He leaned down a little further from his place up high, jabbing a finger in Spike’s direction, “Don’t tell me they’re too difficult for you to ‘kidnap’ for this dumb idea of yours.”

Spike couldn’t help but grin, “Oh no, Tiger, you were by far the easiest. Klaus? He would’ve been way too difficult. It was like taking candy from a baby stealing you.”

“Okay so now you’re just baiting me.” Tiger grumped, sitting fully down on the pipe and crossing his arms with a huff, “Screw you. I want out.”

“I told you-” He rolled his eyes, “-you’re my prisoner. You can’t just leave. I need you for my plan.”

“And I was fine playing along until you said that.” Tiger scrunched his nose, “Now I’d like to go back up to my room and sleep instead of spending time stuck with you in some shitty, Grimm FC dungeon, thanks.”

“Well you’ll just have to wait for Bo to come save you then, hm?” He laughed, “I’ve already sent off a message to him. I bet he’s woken up- panicking as we speak right now, begging that it’s not real. Oh how I wish I could see the look on his face!”

“He doesn’t care, man.” Tiger groaned, holding his head in his hands, “Why don’t you understand that? Besides- Bo could sleep through an Earthquake! He won’t hear the text message! We’ll be here all night!”

“We won’t!”

“Yes, we will!”

“What makes you so sure, huh?”

“Gah!” Tiger tugged at his hair with a groan, “You’re ridiculous.”

“You’re the one being ridiculous. Can’t you just sit quietly like a normal prisoner?”

Tiger paused, “...Do you… often kidnap people..?”

“Well, no…” He bit the inside of his cheek, “But in the movies they don’t complain nearly as long as you have.”

“I…” Tiger’s hands clasped together, and he sighed, “I’m beginning to understand why Bo hit you.”

“Hey, too far-!” He barked, standing up from his seat, “I could say the same for you, asshole. Maybe Colossus’ defenders should’ve aimed for your head instead of your arm to knock some sense into you.”

“Even if they’d hit my head, you wouldn’t see me wandering around crying victim.” Tiger snipped back, “You’re so obsessed with him, every waking moment of your day, man. Do you dream about him too?”

“Shut up!” He snapped, “Deep down I know you’re just as angry as I am!”

“But I’m not- I’m literally not!” Tiger tugged at his hair again, “It’s just you. I was angry when it happened, sure, but that was years ago and I moved on. You know, like a normal person? Why can’t you?”

“He took–”

“-’everything’ from you. I get it.” Tiger sighed, “But it was an accident. He apologised. You had chances to better yourself, but you didn’t take them, it’s as simple as that. You instead signed off of Grimm and made it your life’s mission to just be an asshole.”

“How would you know what I did or didn’t do?”

“Then tell me.” 

He blinked. “What?”

“Then tell me.” Tiger repeated, “If I’m gonna be trapped down here for the next few hours with you, why don’t you just- I don’t know, get it all out now? Free therapy session.” He glanced off to the side, adding with a mutter; “You clearly need it.”

“I– you’d just use it as blackmail!” He grunted, “Why would I bother trusting you?”

“I’ve watched so many documentaries about you that I probably know you better than your own mother.” Tiger deadpanned, “And do I really look like someone who blackmails people?”

“Aren’t you the guy who got his ass beat by Nakama after exposing all their secrets?”

Tiger barked out a surprised laugh, facade cracking, “That was a misunderstanding. I didn’t say anything.”

“A ‘misunderstanding’.” 

“Yeah. Just like you ‘n’ Bo.” 

“That’s not a misunderstanding.”

“Say what you want, Spike” Tiger rolled his eyes, “But I’ve seen the footage. I know what happened. It was an accident. Everyone agrees that it was an accident. Except you.”

“How would you feel if I told you your injury was just an ‘accident’?” He snapped back, teeth bared, “What if I told you all that pain you experienced meant nothing just because someone said ‘sorry’?”

“No one’s undermining your pain.” Tiger scowled, “You think during my recovery I wasn’t hit with the same thing? Colossus fans dogpiled me. Said I was faking, that it wasn’t as painful as I said it was, said anything and everything to beat me down. But you know what?” He gestured to the room around them. To the piles of rubbish and pastry bags tossed about, “At least I didn’t give in to it and end up living in some shitty basement.” He pointed a finger directly at Spike now, “People are cruel, and they’ll continue being cruel. Not an excuse for you to give up on yourself.”

“Oh, shut up,” Spike snapped, swatting the air like he could push the words away. “You act like you clawed your way out of a warzone. You got a glorified sprain, wrapped it up in some cool bandages, and the whole world fell at your feet.”

Tiger let out a breath that was almost another laugh- but there was no humour in it.

“A sprain?” He echoed, voice tight. His left arm reached to his right, tugging at the fabric wrapped around it. It fell away, revealing deep, angry scars hidden underneath. Twisted scarring that looked faintly like tiger-stripes marred the contours of his arm. “Does this look like a sprain to you?”

Spike couldn’t help but avert his gaze. The view was nauseating.

“You wanna know what I got?” Tiger asked, continuing regardless of the silence that followed, “Permanent nerve damage. Torn tendons. My arm doesn’t respond right half the time, and when it does, it’s agony. I wrap it to stop the tremors. I wrap it so it doesn’t get worse. I can’t cure it. It’ll be like this until I die.”

He slowly began re-bandaging the arm. “I didn’t have it easy, so don’t go around saying that shit.” Tiger squinted down at him. “So yeah. Maybe you think it’s unfair that Bo got to keep playing. Maybe you think he stole something from you. But guess what? He tried to apologise. Everyone tried to help you. You just spat in their faces and then cried when no one stuck around.”

Spike’s voice was uncharacteristically raw, “It wasn’t that simple-”

“Yes it was!” Tiger cut back in, “You wanted someone to blame more than you wanted to get better. You clung to the pain so tight it turned into rot. And now look at you. Angry, bitter, alone, and you’re still trying to drag other people down with you.”

He crouched again, arms resting on his knees, gaze cold and steady.

“I didn’t let the pain define me,” he finished, quiet but heavy. “You did.”

—

If I ever came back to finish this up I’d have it end with Tiger and Spike chatting and being all buddy-buddy and Bo eventually showing up, having finally woken up and read the messages, only to stumble into what looks like some crappy sleepover. Cause initially this was supposed to be humor with just a little hint of parallel talk, but it kind of went the opposite way the more I wrote.

Also I don’t think Tiger’s arm looks like that, I just wanted to throw in some cool scars or something. I actually have an injury very similar to what I assume Tiger experiences myself. No scars, no signs of trauma to the naked-eye. Also my right arm, but it’s my shoulder, not elbow/forearm. I injured it by landing shoulder-first into pure concrete whilst having a seizure. Not the exact same, as I said, but my injury is that of a ripped/torn tendon that helps control weight-bearing in my arm. If I put too much pressure on it/or angle my arm wrong, the tendon ripples like a guitar string being pulled, and then pops out of place. It feels about the same as dislocating your shoulder (I’d know, I’ve done that too), except there’s nothing you can do but wait until the tendon loosens up enough to slip back into place. It’s incredibly painful. The only plus side is that whenever it flares up my mind instantly goes ‘omg Twisting Tiger core!’ as I’m legit sobbing from agony lmao. 

It helps when it comes to writing him I suppose, ‘cause now I know what it’s like. I always was one for immersing myself into a character’s lifestyle for storytelling.