#oc: malpractice

You don't know why this is happening, what broke the dam and let all your emotions come flowing free. You're happy, you should be happy-- you love hanging out with your friend, so why are you crying so much? It's not fair, you thought you'd cried all you had back in your room.

Maybe it was the crushing kind of guilt about your situation right now. You aren't even supposed to be out of your room right now, much less the facility as a whole. It's not-- you should be safe to be around right now, so you didn't see much of a reason to skip out on your regular hangouts with your new friend.

Even if you had to sneak out for it. It's not like you're dangerous to be around anymore, the radioactive affect you emit should be long neutralized; the staff just wanted to keep you locked up to think about what you'd done.

And you'd thought plenty. That might be why your letting it all lose now, finally having someone to talk to that won't judge or shame you for your feelings for actions.

You've only known each other for about a month, you and Erin-- it's a terrifying thought, that this might cause them to pull away. To see how unstable you are, and decide to not want any part in your life.

If they did, then you wouldn't blame them. It's a terrible, awful feeling, being unable to control yourself. Curled up on the stone bench, settled in a quiet little grotto you'd taken to visiting a lot as of late-- your legs pulled to your chest, face pressed against your knees.

"I only wanted to help..." Despite how muffled your voice was, how crackly and warbled from how hard you were crying, you could still tell that Erin understood what you'd said.

Erin set a firm hand on your back, taking to rubbing calming little circles with their thumb. Your breath hitched, as a shuddering sob wracked your entire frame.

Deep down, you feel like you don't deserve this kind of comfort. Not after what you did, even if it was an accident. You didn't think that'd count as 'overusing your powers', enough to make you a biohazard--

"Shhh..." Erin soothed, their other hand gently holding your upper arm as you hiccupped and sniffled. "I know, I know. It's not your fault," And something about that set you off-- you'd feel better if they were blaming you, because they should be doing that.

With a monumental amount of effort (the kind that should get you an award), you pulled your face from where you'd been crushing it against the top of your knees, and looked Erin in the eyes. For just a second, before deciding it was too difficult right now, and casting your gaze to the ground as you spoke.

"No-- but, but it is! They, I-- I hurt someone, they're in the hospital fo-for radiation poisoning, and it's because of me--!" Erin's grip on your arm tightened just a fraction, but it was enough to cut your stumbling tirade short. On instinct, you looked back at their face--

You meant to only glance, before looking back to the ground. But there was something... off, in their gaze, that made you hold it. Out of fear, maybe-- something was wrong, something that wasn't wrong about 15 minutes ago when you'd entered the grotto to find them already there.

"You couldn't have known," They said with a firm kind of finality, the kind that you wouldn't dare try to argue. "And it's not like they're going to die, that level of radiation poisoning, from what you've told me of their symptoms; is hardly anything to sneeze at. Things are being blown out of proportion."

A few beats of silence passed, before your face wrenched up-- tears started anew, as you pitched forward into Erin's chest. They wrapped their arms around you in an embrace readily, like they'd been waiting their whole life to do so. Your arms wrapped around their waist in response, and they pulled you closer.

They were wearing a pretty sort of blouse-- your afraid it might be silk, with how it feels against your skin. As you cry and cry into their shoulder, you remember hearing that silk is so delicate that even water can stain it indefinitely.

But when you try to pull back, afraid that may be the case-- you find Erin's hand had settled on the back of your head, and gently guided your face back against their shoulder.

It broke you, that gesture. It might not be silk, you aren't very well-versed in these kinds of things first-hand; but if it was, which you think it may be, they're letting you stain it. The idea of it is enough to make all your walls come down, as sputtered out all your worries that's been building for months-- no, years-- before.

"I-- I jus' wanna help, that's all I wanna do! But I'm... i'm always treated like-- like a ticking timebomb or something! I don't wanna hurt people, I'm supposed to heal them-- but I can't-- I can't if I accidentally push myself too far and end up becoming a danger to everyone!" It all came tumbling out before you could even think to stop it,

But Erin took it in stride regardless. They shushed and soothed you in a way no one ever dared before-- not since the agency got it's hands on you when you were young, when your powers first presented.

It's a strange idea, that you've only known Erin for a month, if even that. They know things you don't think you've told them before, like that time you accidentally stole a sucker from a gas station a few months ago, or what your favorite school subject was.

They were simple things, though. Things you've told other friends before, so maybe it just slipped your mind that you told them after all. It feels like Erin has known you longer than you have, though.

It's an unsettling kind of thought, one that was a little difficult to shake off. But right now, you didn't have any wiggle-room to think about it. Right now, you were a little too focused on (metaphorically) spilling your guts all over the stone bench underneath you two.

By the time you'd gotten everything off your chest, your whole body felt heavy from exhaustion. Distantly, you could hear police canvasing the area-- could hear on of the facility directors speaking with them, no doubt looking for you.

Even if you had been given the go-ahead for this outing, you'd stayed out way too long. The sun was starting to set, and you never knew you could cry for that long.

Erin had held you through the whole thing, and had a hard time letting you go. When you tried to pull back, their hold kept steadfast. Their strength wasn't something you could've predicted-- but you were so out of it that you didn't question it much.

"I don' want them finding out about you." You mumbled against their shoulder, but they still didn't let up. You realized that their hearing probably wasn't as good as yours-- or they hadn't put two and two together yet,

"The agency's looking for me." Voice almost a whisper, you still knew they heard you. Because they immediately said "I know." And your brows furrowed, and Erin let you pull your head back just enough so you could look up at them.

They were looking down at you in turn, their eyes looked... well, maybe it was the dim lighting, but it looked like they had bloodshot eyes-- except the veins weren't red,

They were pitch black.

it has to be the lighting, you tell yourself as you swallowed past the lump in your throat. "I have to go." Voice wavering, you hoped Erin could pick up on how much you didn't want to leave. That this was outside of your control.

Erin just stared at you, unblinking. For a terrible, agonizingly long moment, they didn't look much like Erin at all. You don't know who they looked like, but it definitely wasn't the person you've become accustomed to in recent weeks.

"I know." They parroted back, continuing to stare at you. It was like they were mulling over something very important, but you couldn't put your finger on what exactly that something was,

Not until they suddenly said "I'm just debating whether or not I should let them have you." And you hope that they didn't mean for it to come off the way it did, like they were about to steal you away like a fairytale witch in the dead of night.

Despite your better judgement, you settled on the idea that they meant for it to be comforting. That's okay, sometimes the way you say things makes it come out a little off. You won't fault them for that.

"I promise I'll see you soon-- but probably a few more weeks. I'm sure I'll get in big trouble for this." Their arms tightened "That's exactly why I don't want to let them have you. You shouldn't get punished for wanting some fresh air."

Heart beating a bit faster now, you started to squirm. Voice a litle pitchy, as you begged Erin to "Please let me go-- they might hurt you if you don't. They don't want me forming any outside connections."

Still, they didn't let go.

"I can't lose you, please--" It might've been because of the way your voice cracked so pathetically, or how your eyes started to shine with tears again, that finally had Erin releasing you.

Quickly, you hopped off the stone bench; only to stumble and almost fall face-first to the ground, before Erin gently grabbed ahold of you and kept you steady, as your body adjusted to standing after sitting for so long.

You mumbled a quick thank you, before turning and giving Erin a quick goodbye hug. it's all you could afford right now, since you heard the voices coming closer. They can't see you two together, you know that much--

"Goodbye, Erin." You quietly said, giving a short wave and you sped-walked towards the entrance/exit of the grotto. Erin gave a little wave back, the movement jerky in a way that felt a little unnatural-- but who are you to judge?

"Goodbye, dear. I'll see you soon."

The facility had kept you locked up tight for longer than you'd expected-- but the time you got out of your 1 and 1/2 month long grounding, Erin was nowhere to be found.

In their place, however, was a younger boy-- closer to your age than Erin had been-- that claims to be Erin's little brother. Saying that Erin fell ill, but didn't want you to be alone. So they sent him, who was hilariously so, also named Aaron-- different spelling, though.

Malpractice is known as one of the most destructive and hard-to-deal with villain in all of history, having appeared around the 1930s and refusing to go away since. Malpractices comes and he goes, but he always seems to return eventually, whether that be in three months, or 20 years. He is like an illness that never truly goes away. Remission is possible, but the possibility for it to resurface at any moment is a very real, impending threat.

With abilities ranging from mind control, disease manipulation, pseudo-necromancy, and enhanced senses, speed, and strength; no one hero could ever hope to face Malpractice head on alone. Not even a group of them could ever hope to entirely defeat Malpractice,

Malpractice was a charismatic, slippery asshole-- he'd never really been caught before, but he's sure as hell caught others before. While he isn't known for doing this often, if he wants something bad enough, he'll take his time to set a well thought out trap to catch whatever-- or whoever-- it was he sought.

And when he saw you, so young but so very battered-- left to deal with an (albeit low level, but still dangerous in its own right) threat because your mentor/partner, prioritized a personal goings-on instead of staying by your side.

He'd seen as the so called hero went off the side, leaving you to fight the threat alone-- as you desperately called for their help, only to realize that they'd left without a word; beckoned by the person on the phone.

And it must've been so strange, to feel a little tug on his heart as he witnessed your reaction. Not quite angry, but rather... disappointed, but accepting. Like this was a regular, expected occurrence. Like you were blaming yourself for holding your mentor to a higher standard than this.

By then, Malpractice had decided that you deserved better. He could provide you with that-- besides, in his eyes, even if you were just on the cusp of adulthood-- you were still a child.

My, the industry sure had gone downhill from his time, hadn't it? When he'd been a doctor helping the superpowered individuals, working under the agency, though in it's infancy at the time, had taught him that children were to be nowhere near the career.

Sidekicks were not children, they were simply other superpowered individuals who along, did not do very well; but fit well with a more powerful hero, creating a dynamic duo.

You and your mentor couldn't couldn't be more different, both personality and ability wise. Really, what was he supposed to do, not spring a 'surprise adoption' on you?

Obviously, you're only fighting it because you don't feel worthy of love. That's the only reason, not that you're afraid of him or anything!

Malpractice has never been one for holidays.

Of course, nowadays holidays were a much bigger event then they were in his time. Especially Valentines day, which had morphed into something nearly unrecognizable (from his point of view) than the minor holiday he once knew it as.

Before he was... well, what he was now-- when he was still lesser than, still human; he'd get the occasional card with a silly pun on the front every once in a while, usually given by a co-worker out of self-imposed societal necessity.

But other than that, there was never much stock put into the occasion. Personally or otherwise-- as compared to now, where it was practically impossible to walk into a store and not see some sort of gaudy display. Full of red, white, and pink-- hearts and glitter that transfers to your skin.

At least, that's what Malpractice observes from afar. He's not much for stepping into your run of the mill Pharmacy these days-- not even with his macabre sort of puppets, made from some of the more in-tact cadavers he can snag from the local Morgue.

He tried not to let them be seen by anyone besides you-- there was always a chance that someone who knew who the cadaver had once been, who knew of their death; would be around.

Besides, there'd be no need for it-- unless he simply wished to spark terror. It's not like he had a prescription to be filled, after all.

Which, at the moment, he was actively avoiding-- he was avoiding making himself anymore known than necessary. Because if he did, than he's sure he'd scare you half to death.

You were such a delicate thing in his mind, and he often likened you to that of a baby bird. Because, in his mind, you really were. Fragile, even if you could sustain quite a beating out in the field.

The field you shouldn't be anywhere near, if he had it his way.

But, as it was, the agency had their claws stuck deep into you. Not emotionally wise, but legally; with you being in a sort of... ward of the state position, was the most comparable term he could manage.

Malpractice wished to dig his claws deeper, deep enough to rip whatever influence the agency had over you and take you for his own.

Metaphorically, of course! Oh, Lord knows he'd never hurt you. He'd find a way where you don't get sick with being around him-- get to a point where you won't be afraid of him afterward.

That wasn't quite in the immediate future, sadly. He had to stand by and wait, be patient-- he'd never been one to rush, but something about you made him feel an uncharacteristic amount of restlessness.

Maybe it's the fear that, if he waited too long, you'd slip through his fingers. You weren't made for the work you were being put through-- even if you weren't as young as you are, if you were of an adequate age for this sort of career,

You were still much better suited as a medic, maybe like he had been. Stay back in the medical ward-- you didn't have a flashy sort of power. But, then again, maybe the agency wanted to keep you as beaten down as possible;

Hoping that the little aches and pains that kept you up at night would make you less of a threat than they perceived you as. All because you had such a unique ability; he'd treasure it, just as he'd treasure you once he got you safely into his arms.

Unlike that blasted agency, that made you feel less than. That put you under a strict curfew, only allowing you waltz around on your own for a few hours at time-- even then, you'd have to alert them at least a week beforehand.

It was that controlled sort of 'freedom' that you despised, and had told him on multiple occasions.

...Or, to be more specific, had told various different 'puppets' the same complaint over the few short months he's been visiting you personally. You never knew it was the same sort of mind behind all the bodies, but with how you told every single one-- that was enough to rest his case that you hated it.

You hated how the agency tried to make you feel like you had a choice in the matter, when you really didn't. When your ability to go outside unmonitored and 'off the clock' was dependent on either how well you'd be preforming, or if the person reading the request had any semblance of empathy left in them.

Recently, you've been using all the time allotted to visit these puppets. You believed each to be a different person, unless you were a better actor than you caught on. Each having a different story-- to both enter, and subsequently leave your life before another cropped up shortly after.

Oh, how he hates to see you saddened by your 'newfound' friend having to skip town... but he'd try to wait until the very last minute until he did so. To the point where spots of necrosis were beginning to appear in more visible areas.

You never commented on the smell of death that'd follow the puppet during your 'last' meetings, maybe you'd become used to it-- with how you were, how your life had turned out.

But today, it was thankfully overcast; Malpractice was able to guide the puppet directly to the secluded, forested grotto he usually meets you in. That cut the commute about by about 10 minutes, since he didn't have to try and weave the puppet through the most sunless path possible.

When the puppet got to the grotto, you were already sitting on the crumbling stone bench in the middle of it. You didn't notice him-- until the puppet cleared its throat, and your head swung around to face him.

It was adorable, seeing how your face lit up. He'd thought that with all your 'new friends' coming and going, you'd become bitter. Develop a hardened shell, like he thought you'd already have by now--

However, with every new puppet, you were still as friendly yet disbelieving as you'd been while meeting the last. Like you just couldn't believe someone would want to be friends with you.

This puppet had been a jane doe, around her early to mid 20s. Due to the colder weather, this one had lasted longer than most; and it almost hurt him to know that eventually, the puppet would begin to rot despite his precautions-- and he'd have to find a new one.

You were rather attached to this one. Despite himself, he hopes he'll be able to keep this puppet until he can reveal himself-- only a few weeks more, and you'd finally be safe.

"Sorry for making you walk in this weather..." You started with, a sheepish, apologetic smile on your face, as the puppet sat beside you. "Not a problem, I'm more than willing to risk a cold to see you. I know how... rigid your routine can be."

With a little nod, you hummed before casting your eyes down and saying "Oh-- uhm, thank you." You always got flustered, whenever Malpractice-- or his puppets, he supposes-- shows you any sort of care.

Like you weren't used to being a priority-- because from what he'd seen, you very much were not. He'd even read parts of your intake records made shortly after the Agency took you in; they'd considered euthanizing you like a dog. That caring for you might've been too resource heavy-- until the sick bastards realized they could find a use for you and your unique ability.

It made him ill-- emotionally speaking, he obviously doesn't get physically sick anymore. He's practically the physical embodiment of it, it'd be silly if he could catch a cold like your normal, every day joe.

The unintentional stretch of silence was broken, as you jolted slightly-- as if remembering something. You swung around and grabbed something sitting by your other side--

Then, you turned to the puppet, and held your hands out. In them, was a little mesh bag of tin-foil wrapped chocolate hearts. The kind that'd be sold near the checkout lane at a grocery store during Valentines.

"I didn't know what you liked, so I just got you this." And-- oh, you looked so proud. He knew you didn't get much freedom at all, and you must've sneaked by to get this.

You may have have even stolen it-- there was a little bit of guilt lingering in your eyes, along with a strange sort of fear. Fear of rejection, he supposes. That whatever you'd gone through to get this wouldn't be worth it.

The puppet's hand reached out, before retracting slightly-- immediately, you noticed. Your little smile fell "Do-- are you lactose intolerant? I'm sorry--" And Malpractice laughed--

Not the puppet, so much. He's sure that, if you were a little older; better trained in your position, then you'd realize something was off with it. Some strange, uncanny value to it.

It wasn't cruel, he made sure of that. It was endeared, of course it was-- but he could never manage to quite quell the madness inherent to his tone. Not while he was laughing, at least.

"No, no not at all." The laughter died down, and the puppet gently took the bag of candy in its hands. He held it like it was the most precious thing in the world, and in his mind, it truly was.

A gift from you. He always treasured these sorts of things, but the previous gifts had been things you picked up off the ground-- pretty rocks, little knickknacks, an unordinary plant...

But this, you must've gone far out of your way to get this. And to just give it to him... he wonders, had you gone out with the intent to get it? No matter what, to just have something to show for valentines day?

After a few moments, Malpractice remembered that he should probably respond. The puppet looked at you-- fear and concern obvious in your eyes, deathly afraid that he'd reject the gift.

A soft smile broke out on the puppet's face, before he sighed and looked down. "Well, I don't have anything for you, is the problem--"

It wasn't a regular occurrence, you cutting him off. The Agency had all but tortured that possibility out of you, trying to make you into a perfect little cog more than the child you were.

Despite all that, your true nature shone through. You could never truly smother a children's light, he supposes.

"No!" You waved your arms frantically, shaking your head. You calmed down quickly, looking a little embarrassed from your own outburst. "No-- Uhm, I mean... well, you don't have to get me anything. I just wanted to do this for you,"

Malpractice went to respond, but it didn't seem like you were quite done just yet. He waited patiently, as you continued "Oh, and-- and I have something else." You dug into the pocket of your bland, practical gray coat; part of the few pieces of civilian clothing the Agency was willing to provide you with.

When he has you safe and sound, away from those (soon to be dead, if he had his way) maniacs; he'd be sure to let you express yourself however you'd like with your clothes.

He wouldn't force you into generic garments, given to you out of pure necessity.

You fished out a piece of paper from your main pocket, handing it to the puppet. It was an envelope-- handmade by the looks of it, held together by staples and closed with a small piece of scotch tape.

He turned it over to the flat side, finding it addressed to this particular puppet, written in shaky and inexperienced cursive. Jenny, he'd had you name it-- he did this often, with puppets. He'd have the puppet ask something like "well, what name do I look like?" And the first name you said, he'd take it-- the puppet would always respond with something like "Wow, are you psychic? That's actually my name!"

A shame, it was addressed to this false sort of person. This walking cadaver he took control in order not to scare you-- one in a line of many, but hopefully one of, if not the, last one.

Maybe next year, he'd receive an envelope addressed to himself. Maybe he'd even let you use his human name. He could help you with the cursive as well, even if it'd result in him basically addressing it himself.

He hasn't used the name in so long, hasn't felt attached to it for even longer; but with you, he doesn't think he'd mind you knowing him by it. To have an envelope handed to him, addressed to Maxwell S. in his own handwriting.

The puppet hummed, and flipped the envelope back over. He took his time, trying to use the puppets limited fine-motor skills to avoid ripping the handmade envelope.

Even if it was plain in nature, and not perfectly done by formal measures-- he'd still hate to mess up your handy work. It took some time, but eventually the tape was pried off and he could open it.

Inside was an index card, something you must've nabbed from the office section of the Agency; probably like the rest of the materials, if he had to guess.

It warmed his heart, to think that you'd risked so much-- even if they were meager supplies by most's standards, you'd really done a wonder with what little you had.

On the blank side was a little drawing, of a tiny cartoon version of you-- hugging this particular puppet. When he flipped it to the lined side, the words 'be my pal-entine?' were written in bright crayon, the letters alternated between green, yellow, blue, and red.

The puppet stayed quiet-- you were getting antsy, afraid of upsetting your friend. You leaned forward a little, Malpractice catching the movement out of the corner of the puppet's eye. Your brows furrowed, as you hesitantly asked "...Do you like it? It's not weird, is it? I've never really had a friend to do this with--"

You made the most adorable little squeak when, suddenly, the puppet surged forward and threw its arms around you-- it was cold, freezing to the touch; no way to retain body heat, but you didn't mind regardless. You leaned into it, despite the obvious shiver that ran through your entire body.

Sad, how he couldn't really feel what the puppet was. Oh, how he longed to hold you in this way, truly-- to feel your warmth, hear your heart beating and the blood rushing through your veins.

To know you're alive, you're safe within his arms. That you're far away from any wretched creature that dares to try and hurt his little bird.

Something annoying, something nagging that he thought he'd long since killed-- whispered in the back of his mind, telling him to just have the puppet pick you up and carry you back,

The impatient, quick-to-act sort of thought process he was known for when he was first reborn. It'd been hard to control the urges then, to act on every little whim just because he could. Just because nobody could feasibly stop him, not in a way that mattered.

The puppet held you a little tighter, and you said nothing of it. He presumes that you hold may have tightened as well, with how the puppet shifted in such a way as it did.

"So..." You said, muffled slightly as you pressed your face into the shoulder of the puppet. "Does this mean.. you, uhm, accept it?" Oh, you were so adorable that Malpractice felt like he might die right then and there, if it was possible for him to die at all-- of course.

The puppet didn't retreat, simply held you there as you melted into its cold, unnatural embrace. You must've felt it, how strange the skin felt due to the chemicals used to keep it fresh-- you either didn't want to upset them, or just plain old didn't care. Seeking any sort of comfort, not caring if anything seemed amiss.

Almost as an afterthought, too caught up in the moment-- Malpractice remembered to respond. You must've been so relaxed, so touch-starved, that you didn't notice the sudden shift in your friends speech patterns. How Malpractice didn't bother to keep up the facade of modern speech.

"Why ever would I not, especially when you've gone through all the trouble you have?" and you hummed, a soft laugh muffled by the fabric of the puppet's functionally useless coat. "...So you like it, then?"

The puppet, almost robotically, guided their fingers over your hair-- a comforting gesture to you, but it only made Malpractice feel anguished-- that he couldn't truly be here, couldn't feel you held within his embrace.