does it not hurt, dear Atlas? this burden you bear the heavens aloft for everyone else but your head is bowed and your shoulders tremble - too much! too much! how terrible to not see the stars
When James comes to, the first thing he feels is pain.
It's an ache; raw and broiling like embers, and just enough that he can't quite stop the low groan that rises from his throat. He shifts, digging a heel against the thin mattress, trying to focus on his sharpening senses: the hum of Dust, and the beep of equipment -- anything that's not acknowledging exactly where he is. He knows the discomfort is his fault. He'd asked for the least anesthetic they could safely administer. Same with the sedative. He can't afford to be slowed by anything. There's too much to do, and too little time. Not a second can be wasted.
Besides, this much is a familiar friend.
A familiar scene as well, he thinks, but he's hard pressed to believe that Pietro will be waiting by his side this time. That brings a fissure of something cold, and he sighs.
Gods, he doesn't want to open his eyes.
Yes, he remembers. Pietro is with Penny. Penny, the new winter Maiden. They both left, alongside Team RRAYNBOW, taking the Maiden's power with them. The protector of Mantle, Atlas' only hope. There's an irony to that.
Somewhere past the anger and betrayal, past the possible tactics already formulating to bring her back, James knows that that's his fault as well. Knows that there were things he said, things he didn't consider, that drove the young girl away when it mattered most. The regret -- the loss, the loneliness -- strikes deep, cutting and twisting with the tenderness of a knife, and James raises his left hand to his face.
A heartbeat too late, he realizes his mistake.
The agony slams into him like a stampeding Megoliath, piercing upward through his arm. It's merciless. The very idea of breath is stolen from his lungs, leaving him choking, heaving. His head snaps against the pillow, back arching, mouth open to a voiceless scream lodged somewhere in his chest. A tundra blizzard is in his veins, pounding in his head; ice and needles and white-hot burning. The pain writhes along with him as he desperately clamps his other hand down on the new limb, but it only makes it worse, and all that keeps him from tearing it off is the cruelly coherent knowledge that that won't help either.
A dozen names to call out to -- "WinterCloverPietroQrowOzpin help me! Gods, please, make it stop!" -- fall heavy on his tongue. All that makes it out is a sob, finally letting him gasp for air. He rolls over, curls in on himself, clutches tighter, bites his tongue. It's pathetic, he knows, but Brothers save him it hurts -- it hurts so bad.
Last time this hadn't happened. At least, not all at once, not even on the worst days. Last time it had been slower; nauseating, but manageable, with copious amounts of painkillers and a torturous recovery.
James shudders. He can't do that again. He won't.
Instinct kicks in. He just barely manages to blink away the tears long enough to watch his Aura activate, blue aurora crawling against black. It's weak, still recharging, but steady. It’s enough.
The relief his Semblance offers is instantaneous and another, trembling sob breaks past his lips. He can breathe easier, and he does. The pain is still there -- a thrumming, churning lava -- but it no longer consumes everything. Each shaking exhale chases it away; pushes it back towards that phantom ache. Slowly, he lets go of his arm.
He lays there for what feels like hours (but in reality must only be a fraction of that time) until he can think clearly. A prod, a push in the back of his mind -- focus, it's time to move -- and James relents, rolling himself upright. Water stings his eyes, gathered at the corners, and he impatiently brushes it away. Everything in the room is too bright, too loud, too much, but it’s possible to endure it now. He grasps the edge of the cot with both hands. He feels the metal beneath his right hand, registers the pressure. His left--
Nothing.
There's nothing.
Panic tightens his chest. He swallows it down, hard and bitter, and hesitantly raises his arm. The black and grey of exposed cables are matte in the bright light. A sliver of white catches his attention, and it takes a moment to realize that he’s looking clean through the wiring. Bile rises in his throat again, and he closes his eyes. Definitely not Pietro’s work.
Could something have gone wrong? Could the overload have shorted some connection? It’s a possibility; one he can’t ignore. So, carefully, James tries again, closing his fist, and forces himself to watch. It responds perfectly, smoothly, but where there should be feedback, there’s... There, yes. A slight tingle, a vague idea of pressure if he concentrates, but not what it should be. Not what he's used to.
He lets his arm drop and leans forward, passing his other hand over his face. He hates it. He hates it, but that doesn't matter. There's no time to adjust; no time for uncertainty, for hesitation, for the fear and nausea he can feel coiling in his gut. It'll have to do. It'll all have to do.
Mettle makes that easier. It lets him stand though, honestly, he can't really feel the sturdiness of the floor. Lets him gather his holsters, and shrug on a new jacket someone has left for him; one that leaves his arm exposed. He wavers, just a moment. Focuses on the wall, pristine and washed white, and doesn't look down, even as a wiry tremble crawls up to his shoulders. When he picks up his Scroll, there are three messages.
Pietro. Penny. Winter.
He decidedly ignores the first two, making a note that at least the lines of communication are still open. Winter's message is short.
“M-019, M-020.”
Mortuary.
James stumbles on his first step towards the door. Two rooms. Two corpses. Two more people precious to him, gone. He can see them already, with painful clarity. They’ll look like they’re sleeping; everything about them serene and still. Not to wake as the world crashes down around those unfortunate enough to have been left behind.
The bodies will have to be burned.
He finds the doorframe for support. The hallways are empty, though he thinks he can hear the echo of conversation from somewhere further down under the ringing in his ears. He doubts they expected him to be awake.
He checks the other messages.
From Pietro: “What are you doing?”
And from Penny: “I'm sorry, sir.”
The words glare up at him, plain and unforgiving, and he stares back until they blur on the screen. Then, he shoves the device in his pocket and wills his legs to carry him forward: toward the fight, toward them, toward her.
Together, the answers sit unheeded in a tempered corner of his thoughts.
I don't know. So am I.
