TW: Mention of child death, self-harm

Ouro had been sitting alone in his apartment, when a memory surfaced. It was an ordinary one, one he had many a time. He’s sitting with his son on the porch with a pumpkin between his knees, asking questions about Hallow's End while making a complete mess of the carving. Ouro could picture every detail of it with perfect clarity. The porch, the pumpkins, the grin on the kid's face whenever he said something clever, and the laughter that followed…

…The laughter. He tried to remember what the voice behind that laughter sounded like. Nothing came.

At first, he wasn't concerned. Memories faded, that was a normal part of life. After all, he had survived a bullet to the head and there were entire chunks of his life that existed only as fragments now. Surely the voice would come back if he focused hard enough. He closed his eyes and tried again, replaying the scene over and over.

Still nothing.

The smile and the expressions were all still there, even the words themselves were there. He knew exactly what his son had said that evening. He remembered every joke and every eye roll. Yet the sound of his voice had vanished completely, as though someone had reached into his skull and plucked it out.

By the time the sun had begun to set, Ouro found himself standing at the gun range. He hadn't consciously decided to come here, his body had simply brought him. The range had always been one of the few places where his mind quieted down. Shooting required focus and control. It demanded enough attention from him that there was little room left for anything else.

But today, the memory followed him. The range was nearly empty, aside from a handful of distant shooters. Ouro barely noticed them. He loaded a magazine, inserted it into the pistol, and stepped up to the firing line. The target hung motionless in the distance. 

He fired. The crack of the gun echoed through the range. Then he fired again. And again. And again.

Years of experience ensured that the bullets struck center mass with consistency. But Ouro wasn't paying attention to the target itself, his thoughts kept drifting back to the same realization. Every few moments he would try once more to remember.

What did his son sound like when he laughed? Nothing. The pistol fired again. What did his voice sound like when he was excited? Nothing. Another shot. What did he sound like when he called him "Dad"? Nothing.

The magazine emptied and Ouro reloaded without looking. The motions were automatic as muscle memory took over while his mind remained trapped elsewhere. Soon brass casings littered the ground around his boots, and the center of the target had become little more than a ragged hole.

He knew that the frustration should have become sadness. A normal person would have been devastated. They would have broken down at the realization that one of the last pieces of their dead child had slipped away forever. Ouro understood this, the same way he understood how grief was supposed to work.

The problem was that he couldn't feel it. The bullet that had nearly killed him all those years ago had taken more than flesh and bone, it had also hollowed something out inside him. The emotions were still there, but they felt distant and unreachable. He knew he loved his son, and he knew losing him had destroyed him.

Yet now, standing there with a pistol in his hand, all he felt was…nothing. He hated that. He hated that the voice was gone, he hated that he couldn't seem to mourn it properly. Most of all, he hated that he was aware of exactly how wrong that was and still couldn't change it.

The gunfire grew faster and the target disappeared beneath another barrage of rounds. Each trigger pull sent a sharp recoil into his palms. The slide cycled back and forth relentlessly while the smell of burnt powder thickened the air around him.

Still, it wasn't enough. The frustration and the emptiness remained, but the voice remained absent. Hours passed and people came and went. Targets were replaced and the pile of spent brass around Ouro's feet continued to grow. At some point his wrists began to ache from the repetition, but he ignored it. The physical discomfort was preferable to sitting alone with his thoughts.

Eventually the slide locked back once more and silence settled over the lane. Ouro stood motionless, staring downrange. The target was ruined beyond recognition. He couldn't remember how many magazines he had gone through. His gaze lowered to the pistol in his hand. The barrel shimmered faintly from repeated use. Even from where he stood, he could see the distortion of the air around the metal.

For several seconds he simply stared at it, then he turned the weapon sideways and touched the barrel to the inside of his wrist. The burn was immediate. The sharp pain shot through his arm and his muscles tightened instinctively, but he didn't pull away. Instead, he held the metal there and watched as the skin reddened beneath it.

At last, there was a reaction. Not grief, not sorrow. Not the devastation he should have felt after losing another piece of his son. Just pain.

The heat sunk deeper into his skin, and for a brief moment it cut through the numbness that had followed him for years. Pain was simple. Unlike memory, loss, and all the things broken inside him, pain was something he could still understand.

When he finally lowered the pistol, an angry burn marked his wrist. Ouro stared at it for a long time before letting out a short, humorless laugh. The sound carried no amusement whatsoever. It was simply the only response he had left.

His son's voice was gone. The range couldn't bring it back. The hundreds of rounds he had fired couldn't bring it back. And standing there beneath the fluorescent lights, surrounded by empty casings and shredded paper, Ouro found himself wondering if there would eventually come a day when even his son's face disappeared too.

ALSO FREE PALESTINE!

tw: Blood, medical

FOLLOW-UP TO OURO'S STORY HERE!

The message came through just after three in the morning and was barely legible, ‘Need you. Augur’s Row. Back of The Tunnel.’ He knew immediately it was serious, and by the time Xylaes reached the address, the streets were nearly empty. The alley behind the building was narrow, littered with old crates and flickering neon spilling from a rusted side door.

And there he was.

Ouro was slumped against the far wall, half in shadow beneath a flickering neon sign. His coat was torn and slick with blood, one leg stretched out, the other bent at an odd angle. His head tipped forward, chin to his chest, much too still. Xylaes’s stomach dropped. He closed the distance fast and crouched down beside him. One hand gripped Ouro’s jaw, tilting his face toward the light. His skin was pale, eyes mostly closed, lips parted, and blood smeared across his features.

“...Ouro,” Xylaes exhaled, voice tight. No response. He pressed two fingers to Ouro’s throat where he found a faint pulse. Then his gaze went to the blood soaking through the man’s shirt, spreading from his side. Xylaes’s training kicked in and he checked for an exit wound, fingers running along Ouro’s back, brushing over the scars and old burns already there. Nothing, which meant the bullet was still inside.

“Damn it,” he hissed under his breath, pushing the thought aside. There wasn’t time to call for transport. The Shielded Mind was closer than any hospital, and they wouldn't ask questions. He shifted his grip, hooking one arm beneath Ouro’s shoulders and another beneath his knees. “Hang on,” Xylaes muttered, not sure if the man could hear him. “You picked a hell of a night.”

He carried him through the quiet district, and by the time he shouldered open the side door of the clinic, his arms burned with Ouro’s deadweight, and his shirt was soaked through with someone else’s blood. Doctor Dai’goa looked up from a datapad, “What can I—” His words cut short.

“Gunshot. Left side. Bullet’s still in. He’s losing blood fast.”

They moved efficiently after that: Fabric torn, magic humming, and light too bright against the dark stain of blood. The room became a blur of motion and command, controlled chaos. Xylaes stayed only until they told him to wash up and where clean shirts were kept. He hadn’t realized how much blood had gotten on him until he stood at the sink, watching it trail down his forearms and pool in the basin.

He caught sight of himself in the mirror, he knew this particular reflection all too well. He dragged his hands through his hair, exhaled once, and whispered, “You’re fine. He’s fine.” It was the same mantra he had used in every warzone, every moment he thought he had lost someone. When he finally collected himself and came back, the chaos was gone. Ouro was still, bandaged and pale under the soft blue lights, the monitors beside him beeping in a steady rhythm.

“Stable, bullet’s out. Used some Light to close the wound, he’s still gonna be out for a bit to recover.” Veilos murmured before turning towards the doorway. “You did the right thing bringing him here. Someone will check back in soon. …Family, right? Feel free to stay.” Veilos knew very well that the two were not family, but it was for the best if someone familiar were there when Ouro awoke.

Xylaes just nodded, too tired to speak. He dragged a chair close to the bedside and sat, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor. Exhaustion weighed on him, but it couldn’t quiet the anger that had been building since the alley.

He looked at Ouro and fury spread through him. Fear followed fast, and that was worse. Xylaes had been there before himself, he understood the deathwish, but understanding didn’t make it easier to watch in someone else. “Idiot,” he whispered, jaw tight. Angry at Ouro, angry at the world, angry at himself because there was nothing he could do.

Every muscle wanted to shake the other man awake and demand a promise to survive, but he couldn’t. He was helpless in the matter. Ouro was alive, but Xylaes knew the war between him and death wasn’t over, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.