Content: flashback to child abuse, fear of abuse, trying to make friends with abuser, carewhumper, favorite child
Kit
Kit was back to being stuck in bed. Every time he closed his eyes for more than a few seconds, his brain would take him back where he didnāt want to go. Stupid brain. Somewhere in his mind, he thought he was safe.Ā
Iām not safe. Iām not safe. He kept telling himself. But weeks of kind treatment, medical care, and every need met, even academic mental stimulation, had left him with a rising feeling of panic when he was forced to rest.
Every time he closed his eyesā
Slam. That feeling of a fist ramming into his gut, the intense pain and ache, gasping out his air, and then of course Glen wasnāt done; another punch that hammered him into the wall, and another that sent him doubled over onto his knees, and another, and another, and another.
Have mercy on me.
He thought it so many times, and the thought enraged him. Glen would have beaten him so much worse for showing weakness like that. Thankfully he was rarely lucid enough to say it when he thought it.Ā
Instead the blows kept raining down.
Trying to breathe on his knees, instead convulsing as he tried not to gag like the pathetic piece of shit Glen said he was.
āBlazing get your feet under you!ā Glen would actually look around like he was embarrassed and drag Kit back to his feet by the collar.
If he did have to help Kit up, heād pay him back for his weakness in full with another set of heavy blows to the stomach. It hurt.Ā
It hurt that his father wanted to beat him instead of just hug him or talk to him.Ā
He groaned on the bed, clutching a hand over the wound in his side without daring to actually press down on it. Horizons, it hurt.
And then Glen would usually douse him under the faucet, or at least smack his head into a corner, something that made him bleed down the side of his face. Something to show everyone that heād been a bad kid again.
Kit brushed his hair back from his forehead, fingers tracing over the scars on his temple, a couple on his cheekbone. No matter how well he covered the injuries, heād always have the scars, the marks of how much his father hated him sometimes.
At that moment, he felt his stomach clench and his heartbeat increase as his fatherās step came down the hall toward his room.
His father knocked on the door and then came in, followed timidly by a slave. He pulled a chair closer from Kitās desk. He sat down by Kitās bed, the sunlight from the window bending around and making a gentle glow over his face.Ā
The slave set down a folding table and put a bowl of steaming food on it for Kit, with a bow at both of them.
Kitās father dismissed the slave with a wave, and he left. He uncorked his flask of tea and waved invitingly at Kitās food. Kit took a breath to prepare himself for the pain of sitting up, and Glen muttered a quick āohā and set his tea down, hurrying over to give him an arm and help him sit up against the wall. He pulled the table over closer to Kit.
āHey, Dad,ā Kit said, reaching for the food. His father preferred to be addressed very casually.
āHow are you feeling?ā Glen picked his tea back up.
āIām okay, justā¦ thinkingā¦ I hate being stuck in bed.ā
Kit tried the squash. It was all normal, but everything tasted too intense. He side-eyed his father, waiting for a snide comment about āI told you not to mess around with the Soulsā but he didnāt say anything like that. He just sipped his tea, smiled, and then reached across to Kit, who flinched. But his dad just tousled his hair.
Then he leaned back, took a long drink of tea, and his eyes took on a faraway look as he nodded.
āYouāve got so much blazing energy, kid," he shook his head. āI never had that much energy.ā
Kit nodded, taking another bite.
āCaboodle blazing.. Takes right after meā¦ā Dadās gaze had fallen to the floor, now looking dejected. āI haāI swear,ā He tried and failed to smile. āThat kidā¦ Do you know what heās been doing every night after heās done studying?ā
Kit swallowed nervously. Yeah, he knew, but he didnāt dare tell his father.
āHeās trying to learn how to do magic. On his own.ā
Kit slowly released his breath, keeping his eyes on his plate. So he didnāt know it was life magic.Ā
āAre you interested ināā
Glen cut him off with a bitter laugh.
āI was interested in plenty," he said. āAnd then I get drafted. And the whole, warā¦ Spend the rest of my life trying to stabilize this city, make a life for my family here. And here we are.ā He made a thatās-that face, raising his hands helplessly at the surroundings, as if he wasnāt the lord of the entire estate.
Kit wiped his fingers on the napkin slowly, almost wishing he could take longer to make his father stay, and be nice for longer.
āPoint is, stop encouraging him.ā Glen tousled his hair again, and this time Kit leaned away, frowning back at his dad.Ā
āWhat?ā
āHeās growing up to be a little asshole," Glen said, patting Kitās arm since his head was out of reach. He glanced down into his empty flask, sighed, and stood up.
āIāll send someone in for that.ā He gestured at the stuff on the folding table.
He never did.
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Tag list: @bamber344 @sorcererfen @iamheretohurt @notlikeothernurses
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CW: Car crash aftermath, combat PTSD flashback, immortal whumpee, vampire whumpee, description of car wreck injuries, some referenced gore, anxiety, panic, negative stimming
Happens simultaneously to this pieceĀ where Jake crashes his car
-
California, Present Day
They move past him in the dark.
Chris fights against the current of a river of men with rifles gripped in their hands, starlight glinting off the goggles on their gas masks and dully lighting their battered, bent helmets, their breaths muffled and somehow still deafeningly loud.Ā
They wash around him like water slowly wearing at rock, they brush against him like cold feathers against too much skin. There is a burst of rifle-fire and someone near him falls, he never sees the manās face.Ā
There are too many faces.
There are too many dead men.
āMedic!ā His voice cracks, itās rough, and there is dark blood running in a trickle down the side of his head as the wound there - from cracking against the glass window, fracturing his skull - throbs.
He doesnāt feed enough anymore for it to fix itself quickly.
āWe need a medic!ā He cries, but they donāt listen.Ā
They canāt listen.Ā
They canāt stop.Ā
Their eyes show through their goggles, wild and white-rimmed , mad with fear and fury. The gas rolls in a fog around him, prickling and stinging. It was subtler in life, but now as he stumbles through half-formed memories itās thick as pea soup, faintly greenish.
It doesnāt even slow the infantry racing headlong into the darkness, disappearing into the woods. They shout, dim and faint or deafeningly loud, they scream, they fall.Ā
Shells scream to earth and burst in explosions that rattle him down to his fingernails, sending him scrambling for cover under bushes or behind the trees. There are voices calling everywhere, a cacophony.Ā
Shouting orders and locations, warnings and last words, and itās all too much sound, itās too much, but Jake is hurt back at the car and Chris has to get through the crush of soldiers to find a medic to help him.
He doesnāt have his uniform any longer - they took it from him when he came back, took it and everything to do with it. They told him he was a traitor, a deserter, and thenā¦ then he broke out of the jail and ran. It hadnāt been made to hold vampires.Ā
āPlease. Bitte, sāil vous plait, pl-please, please, please help, help me, my-my friend, my friend needs help-ā
No one even looks at him beyond a glance. They have no life to spare to help him save another. These men are all dead already, they just donāt realize it. There were always so many men who ran to fight who never came back.
Jake needs help, but the vampire boyās medic bags are missing because he isnāt a soldier any longer. Traitor, deserter, fiend, demon, evil no matter how heās tried not to be, but not a soldier.
Not a medic, not any longer.
He stays on his knees, looking up at the army as it flows, a thousand men heading into the jaws of death for little more than blasted bare earth to show for their victory. Itās a victory they won - a war they lost - a hundred years ago, but still they run and fire and fight, inside his mind.
āMedic,ā Tristan Higgs whispers, rocking forward and back, forward and back. He shakes his head, rocking forward until he knocks it against a tree trunk, then again. Again. Again. His hands move through the air, jerky motions like he could will himself to have wings if only he tried hard enough, trying to push the energy and the noise out of him, so he can remember how to think.
His head throbs and his skin itches as the wounds heal over, broken arm shifting back into place, cells repopulating to knit back together, a head wound going from seemingly mortal to a simple lump to nothing but the smeared blood. The bruises marked over him, thoughā¦ they only slowly recede in a stripe from the seat-belt across his chest and hips, dug into his neck. They take their time.Ā
It should be nearly instantaneous, but the blood bags never work so well as living blood does.
It hurts.
Chris staggers back to his feet, stumbling with his leg dragging through the woods, determined to find a medic among the dead.
Thereās a light, he thinks, somewhere far away through the trees. He moves towards it, tripping on branches on the ground, shuffling through fallen leaves. He looks down and sees the bodies of the men who just ran past him, bloodied corpses. They look at him now, but they donāt see him anymore.
Some of them survived long enough to rip off their gas masks, take one final deep breath of fresh air. He checks them, one by one, but he canāt feed off of any of them - his hands move through them like theyāre made of chilled air and little more.Ā
Theyāre not really here, and he needs a body.
āMedic. Please, please, a medic-ā
He checks the corpses but never finds the telltale armband. He never finds the bags of bandages, the liquor, the clear liquid to pour over the wounds. He keeps moving, shivering, trembling so he trips every few feet.Ā
Around him the trees loom heavy in the darkness, weighed down with leaves. The shells should be breaking them to nothing, leaving only stumps and skeletal sticks behind, and yet somehow he doesnāt see it.
He is here and not-here, he is in the 21st century and 1918, he is both and he is neither. He is a demon and a boy, damned with certainty for whatās heās done.Ā
There is no more hope for him.
But Jake needs him.Ā
āMedic!ā He screams, one final time, stumbling out of the woods into a clearing. Thereās a farmhouse with a light on, just one. Itās two stories with the flat sides, and he races for it, still limping heavily - it takes so long for broken bones to knit back into place when you canāt sit or lay down to let it happen.
He ignores the itch and the pain, grinds his teeth against it, and throws himself at the window.Ā
His palms smack into the cold, cold glass. Itās flat and cool. The army moves behind him, they fight in the clearing, pitched rifle battles. Bullets fly everywhere, the noise is tremendous, but Tristan sets his jaw and smacks into the window again.
He sees a shadow from inside, an old man moving towards him, eyes widened in alarm. He bangs on the window again, frustrated. He canāt come in unless the old man lets him, but he doesnāt want in, he wants only to find someone to help Jake before itās too late.
The manās mouth moves, on the other side of the glass. His voice is soft and muffled, though he shouts, and Chris can just barely hear him over the sounds of the battle. āSon? Are you quite aware it is the middle of the damn night?ā
Chris nearly cries with relief. He speaks English, Tristan doesnāt have to stumble through his terrible halting broken French and hope they understand enough of it.Ā
āI, I need a medic!ā He shouts, bangs on the window one more time, and then turns away, looking back over his shoulder. He shudders, watching a shell explode. Itās only a few feet away, it should shred him to pieces even a vampireās body canāt recombine, and yetā¦ nothing happens. He looks down, and heās still here.
The old man pushes the window open, and the shriek it makes as an ancient frame slides against the pane is worse than the sound of the shell. Tristan has to shake his head to get the weight of the sound off his skin, has to rock a little, letting his hands move to shed it.Ā
āYāneed a what?āĀ
āA medic! Please! I, Iām with the 307th, K Company. Heās been hurt up on the, the-the-the-theā¦ the road! The, the road, up the road! He needs a medic! I, I donāt have m-my uniform, donāt, donāt have it, but he needs help! Please, sir! Send a medic, a, a medic, please!ā
āWho needs help? Son, youāre not making sense-... thereās no need to shout, I can hear you just fine-ā
āWeāre, weāre trapped! Theyāre firing! He, he he he he needs a medic, a, a medic...ā Tristan stumbles away from the old man and runs back into the woods, with the old man calling behind him. He hears a door open and close, but he doesnāt look back.Ā
He has to get back into the fight.
Heās a part of them, even if they hate him.
He still cries out, hoping against hope someone will answer. āMedic, please, please, a medic! Please!ā
Another shell, deep within the woods, and he drops to the ground flat on his stomach, clapping his hands over his head, screaming into the earth as the shell deafens every sense he has but fear and the dead space inside him where his heart would be pounding if it still could.
The shells come in a cacophony, sound that seems to come up from beneath the earth as much as from the sky, and Tristan screams until the soil beneath him is wet from his tears and his wounds have all healed themselves.
He doesnāt realize he isnāt making a sound.
Around him, the men keep falling, the way they are always falling in his nightmares, and he can do nothing to save them.Ā
Tristan looks up and sees Johann staring down at him, hands pressed to his stomach through his shirt, blood bubbling up between his fingers and running out of his mouth. His eyes are dark and glassy-gone, distant, staring far beyond Chris as he drops to his knees, then collapses to lie on his side.
Help me, Johann cries, his voice bouncing around the trees, somehow louder than the artillery barrage. There is so much blood. He canāt smell it. Tristan, help me, please, I am not ready to die-
Laughing at the stupid joke his teammate said, Alec playfully shoved his shoulder.
āWhat a stupid pun, man,ā he laughs.
His teammate Ty fired back with his own push. āYeah right, youāre the one laughing the hardest.ā
Alec leans away from his shoveāinstinct, at this pointābut it hits his shoulder anyways, and itās just hard enough to rock the chair a little too far back...
As he falls backwards out of the chair, his environment morphs into a nightmare.
Back in that cell, haunted by the shadows of rats and other lowlife whumpees, anticipating the next time that their master picks them out of the group, and secretly wishing that someone else would get hurt instead of him.
In the darkest corner that he called home, Alec curls up and watches everything with cautiously trained eyes, his attention snapping from one sound to the next, the movement of the person next to him to the loud clanging of the door opening.
Their master was walking in, and no one was in their place. Alex stays curled up in the corner as the rest scramble and crawl to gather around the cell door, waiting toāand yet hoping against itāget picked for the day.
Alec feels tears seep into his sleeves, and he watches with terrified eyes. Heās gonna pick me, he thinks. I just know it.
A hand touches his shoulder. Alec buries his face in his arms and cries. Please, not today. Donāt pick me today.
āAlec,ā the master calls, and Alec feels every bone in his body crumble into dust. He knows he has to get up, walk over, quickly, get to the door, and then just make it through the day. He knows it, but his body wonāt move.
āAlec,ā the master repeats. Sinking into the corner, Alec feels like dying. Please, not today, please.
āAlec!ā
Raising his head at the different voice calling out, Alec is face to face with Ty, his teammate, who looked concerned and worried and panicked.
āW-wha...?ā His words seem to escape his throat before he can say them, and thatās all he can make out.
Ty leans back with relief. āOh, thank god. That was so scary to watch.ā
Nervous, and still feeling like the master will call his name any second, Alec tries to laugh it off, but it sounds obviously forced.
He lifts his head weakly and manages a smile. āOh yeah? Itās even more scary toāā
He canāt finish the sentence, and Ty looks relieved. It was weird, seeing Ty so concerned. It made Alec feel like the weakling, the broken one, or even just... the stray the team canāt seem to shake.
Curling back up and leaning against a wall, it almost feels like his cornerālike home.
āAlec? Do you want me to get you some water or someāā
āNo! I mean, no, uh, Iām fine here for a bit, thanks.ā Everything sounds forced, and Ty for sure realizes how weak Alec really is. Itās been months since he was rescued, but those flashbacks seem so real, seem so...
Ty sits beside him and rests his head on the wall. āThatās fine. I think Iāll just join you, if you donāt mind.ā
Alec was never the one to cry, or hug others when he needed comforting. It was the same way in the cell; if you cry or draw attention, master will pick you for the day. Eventually, everyoneās tears dried up.
And Ty seemed to know that, or at least it seemed like he did. Sitting beside each other in silence, it was calming to have another presence.
āSorry...ā Alec mumbles into his hands, and then suddenly finds his lip trembling, and then his hands, and then he canāt keep still. He hugs his legs, trying to keep it locked into a ball, and it all pools into his eyes and drips down his cheeks.
Looking down at his teammate, Ty sees tear stains on Alecās sleeves. It was heartbreaking, seeing his friend in pain like this, especially since he was the type to keep it all to himself.
And so, in the silence of company, Ty lets Alec cry.
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"You know I'm going to ruin you, right?" you purr as you circle the chair Heraldā's tied to. "Mr oh-so-perfect poster boy hero."
Herald shivers, his muscles tight and tense. Too afraid to move. Too afraid to show weakness in front of you. "I'm not afraid of you," he lies, and you tut at him. It's pointless to lie to a telepath and really, he should know that. "W-what do you even want with me?"
Little Danny boy is terrified, and you're the reason why.
It makes you smile, taking a vicious sort of pleasure in his predicament. You can't help but feel a thrill shoot through you at having brought Herald down to your level. On his knees, bound in front of you.
There's a...different sort of thrill that also shoots through you at having Herald in such a vulnerable position kneeling, but you ignore it. As tempting as it might be...no. You're not that sort of villain.
Sure, you could force others to submit to your control easily. But there's just no meaning in it. No satisfaction. Not like turning them to your side and luxuriating in their conflicting emotions, their moral struggles. You want genuine loyalty, not twisted bonds forced under duress.
You know you're not a good person but there are still some lines you refuse to cross. You have your own sort of honour, even if it's not one everyone agrees with.
Be loyal to your people. Everyone else can burn. And if anyone does betray youā¦
You'll make them pay with extreme prejudice.
You ignore the whispers at the back of your mind, accusing you of being the very sort of person you despise. It's not betrayal if the world abandoned you first. You thought...you thought you had found people to rely on, but even they forgot you and left you to rot.
Never again. That's why they have to pay. That's why you hand picked your new family, made sure to be as loyal to them as they are to you.
A family of your own.
You've never had that before, and they know if any of them dare think about turning on their new brothers and sisters you'll make sure they will regret it. You're strict, not a cruel Father. Not like-
Not like at The Farm. They're not your real parents anyway, you were created, not born. And now you've remade yourself in your own image. Haven't you done an admirable job raising yourself? Learnt how to live. To be human.
That's all you, not what they tried to shape you into. You are proud, proud of who you are and what you are and they will never, ever take that away from you. You refuse to be ashamed anymore. You refuse to bow down to their hatred, to believe yourself lesser for existing.
You are Pride, and you will not. Be. Erased!
Herald moans in pain, and you are momentarily distracted. "Having fun down there?" you hiss.
Herald just glares up at you, refusing to give you the satisfaction of answering your taunts. Honestly, you thought he'd be easier to break before you met him. It's kind of ruining your groove.
"No answer? Hmph. No matter. I can still play with you regardless."
Herald doesn't whimper, but it's a close thing. Honestly, he's trying to put up such a tough front it's almost pitiful. It almost makes you feel like a bit of a bully.
Almost.
"-won't get away with this."
Hm? Oh. It turns out the cat hadn't caught his tongue after all. Well, you're less a cat and more a lion, that's what you styled your armour after, after all. You stand poised in gold and royal red and look just as much of a leader as you feel.
Herald spits in your face and oh. That's incredibly rude, not to mention horribly unhygienic. Ā Discreetly, you step back to grab a nearby handkerchief and pull your ruined glove off; maybe your priorities are skewed but getting bodily fluids on your armour is one of your pet peeves, blood is already bad enough. At least blood is something expected.
"Tsk, tsk. Didn't your mother teach you spitting was rude?"
Anger. Coldness. Oh, this was interesting. You hadn't expected the surge of negativity that wells up at the mention of his family, it looked like the golden boy didn't have as perfect of a home life as he would seem to have.
"It's not like she'd care what I got up to," Herald scowls. "But at least she wasnāt as psychotic as you! You're deranged, you know!"
You're pleased that the voice distorter turn your amused laughter into a rumbling growl appropriate as the lion you've modeled yourself after.
"Perhaps I am," you tease. "It doesn't change the fact that you're kneeling here at my mercy. You might not want to challenge my goodwill so much, no?"
"I'll- I'll challenge it all I want!" he mutters, looking the picture of a poised, tragic hero even when so obviously outmatched.
It makes you bitter. That even when he's at his lowest he still holds onto some notion of nobility and acting so much better than you. It makes you want to ruin him, drag him down into the dirt with you.
"Oh, is that so?" you say, vicious amusement and genuine anger coalescing into a something more raw and revealing than you would like.
Herald is holding up admirably in the face of the situation. He can't take flight and run away from his problems like he'd like to, so all that terrified energy has turned into furious anger instead. "The others are going to come for me, you know," he tells you, and he truly, honestly believes that. "They're going to come and bring you to justice."
You bristle. How dare he rub it in! How dare he rub it in that he has friends he can rely on while they left you for dead? It makes burn with resentment and that's why you grab his hair in rage and jerk his head back forcibly, making him gasp in pain.
"Argh!ā he yells. āW-what are you even doing this for? Do you just like hurting people? That's pathetic."
"I do," you force out, face twisting in fury. He should be afraid. This isn't how it's supposed to go. Why isn't he begging for mercy yet? "And you, Herald, are beginning to test. My. Patience!"
He just looks at you with that infuriating, pitying face. "You call yourself Pride, but I don't see anything in front of me to be proud of. I just see a broken, angry shell." he tells you, and the truth stings, stings so badly because you can read Heraldās mind like a book and you know he genuinely believes that. Genuinely feels sorry for the twisted, cruel mess you've become.
No. No! You will not be pitied anymore! You are not a thing to be pitied anymore-
And then Herald has to go and rub salt in the wound. "People like you are worth nothing but feeling sorry for. You've gone down such a dark path. You know they say pride comes before a fall, right?-"
Fall.
Fall.
Don't- don't fall.
Please, help
Someone, please, anyone!
Ortega? Steel?
.
..
...They're not coming.
No one is coming for you. You always knew that, but you hoped against hope you'd be proven wrong. There are no heroes for things like you, you were the one that tricked them into thinking you were human. The only person you can only rely on yourself.
(You can't stop falling)
Embrace it. Embrace the darkness. It's where you belong.
That's why they have to suffer. They have to understand the pain they put you throughā¦
Don't they?
.
You are not human you will never be one of them they abandoned you and they will pay for looking down on you for treating you as disposable
You will not be a thing anymore.
Never again.
...
...You're hyperventilating.
The armour is giving you warnings that you'll pass out if your blood oxygen level rises much higher and your crew have entered the room and someone is slowly, gently, leading you away.
They don't mention anything about what just happened to you and you're glad for it. You shouldn't have shown such weakness to them. You're supposed to be the indomitable boss, you're not supposed to be a mere, flawed person like the rest of them. You're not supposed to start shaking and fall to your knees from the flashbacks.
It... grates at you that you're too weak to protest the blanket they lay over you, the mug of chicken soup someone places beside you with a straw that'll work through your mask.
The...the understanding and care you pick up from their thoughts. It undermines you, Pride is supposed to be in charge, controlling and caring for your family, not being cared for.
It scares you. Youāre not supposed to be scared anymore. Youāre supposed to be the one scaring people.
Herald doesn't say a word as they lead away, but you feel his eyes on you following you out.
(BIG THANKS to @storm337 for helping me with this one!)
Jackie invited all the others over to his office den for a night of pizza, video games, and just general socializing. And as much as Henrik was confused by these āvideo gamesā he was excited to learn more about them! There were so many things from this time he needed to learn about... and it was difficult without his hearing but his friends sure were gentle and patient with him and he really did appreciate that.
Henrik leans against the back of the couch and watches the match between Jackie and Chase with fascination. He had no idea what was going on but Jackie and Chase sure did seem into it, jostling and bantering back and forth, elbowing each other as their characters got closer and closer to each other on the screen, guns at the ready.
Then, suddenly on Chaseās side, the screen shook before being filled with the red-hot cloud of an explosion.
Chase threw up his hand, nearly throwing his controller, āAW CāMON!! A MINE?? JACKIE REALLY?!ā
Jackie turned and gave his friend a shit-eating grin, āGotta pay more attention, hero!ā He taunted, leaning back as the screen showed his character taking the 1st place spot. Chase crossed his arms and pouted.
Alt chuckled to himself until he felt the couch dip behind him and blinked, lifting his head. He blinked as he saw white-knuckled hands gripping tightly to the back of the couch, faintly shaking. Alt sat up fast, looking up to see Henrik white as a sheet, staring at the television with a distant frightened expression.
āUh... H-Hen..?ā Alt asked quietly, making sure to ask in Henrikās line of sight, but he hardly got a blink from the actor. Itās like Schneep couldnāt even see him.
All Henrik can hear is loud ringing, wailing, assaulting his eardrums. So loud he can feel it pounding throughout his entire being as if his whole body was filled with static. His balance feels off as he staggers, tears filling his eyes as the dust and debris stings his eyes. He coughs hoarsely, his throat feeling rough and torn. Everything happened so fast. They were just out shopping, getting groceries to take back home. Now Henrik had no idea where he was.
āI-Ilse? G-Gabi?ā Henrik called into the gaping void of thick dust, āMama?! P-Papa?!ā The dust gave no answer, except another ear-shattering boom that sent more debris and hot wind straight towards Henrikās face. The boy ducked and covered his face with his elbow, trying to trudge forward even as the blast tried to throw him off his feet.
āVhere are you?!ā He screamed, tears leaving tracks down the grime on his face, āDonāt leave me here!!ā He could hardly hear anything now, except the horrible drone of wailing ringing in his ears. It threatened to swallow him whole and he fell to his knees, choking on sobs as he coughs against the smoke and dust thick in the air.
āP-Pleaseā¦ Mamaā¦ P-Papaā¦.!ā He sobbed as he felt the earth shake again. He couldnāt stand the pain it caused his ears so he quickly curled up and covered his ears, hiding his face in his elbows. He cried and cried, calling out for his sisters and his parents, even though he could hardly even hear his voice over the loud ringing that threatened to drown him. He just wanted to go homeā¦ He wanted to go home and have the ringing stop!!
āH-Henrik?!ā Alt screeched in fear as he saw the deaf man drop to his knees, tears streaming down his face. He was crying out to himself in German, shaking like a leaf and Alt hopped over the couch to crouch next to him.
āUh, Doc?? I think we need you?ā Alt squeaked in a panic as he hovered over his shivering friend. Jameson was next to them in a heartbeat, worry tightening his face as he adjusted his glasses.
Jackie and Chase quickly flew over too, blinking in surprise.
āWhat the hell is happening to him?ā Chase asked.
Dr. JJ frowned, studying Henrik, trying to decipher what he was muttering. He knew very little German but maybe he could figure something out.
āQuiet,ā Jameson ordered sternly to the others, holding up a hand as he watched, āAnd nobody touch him or go near him.ā Alt carefully scooted back, looking nervous as Henrik coughed and wheezed, sobbing loudly as he pressed his hands over his ears. Jamieās mind raced as he tried to assess what exactly was happening.
Henrik wails on the floor, curled into a tight ball as the world rocks around him. He chokes on the dust, coughing harshly and choking on the thick smoke that sticks at the back of his throat. He can hear screaming, the cries of the injured and the near dead, but it is quickly drowned out by a harsh reverberating ringing that bounces around in his skull. Suddenly the noise is gone, the world around him silent as all that remains is the terrible ringing, making him even more dizzy and disoriented. He can hear the vibrations of his voice in his throat, in his body, calling for his family, but he can not hear it. He can not hear anything. The world around him falls to pieces and all Henrik knows to do is wraps his arms around his body and pray, hope that he'll be okay.
Much too slow for his liking, Jameson starts to piece it together.
āHeāsā¦ Heās having a flashback,ā The therapist breathes, noting how heās coughing at nothing and picking up snippets of his muttering to hear āmamaā and āpapaā. Regression.
āA flashback?ā Jackie echoed, eyes widening. āWell, shouldnāt we snap him out of it?!ā He seized forward, grabbing onto Schneepās shoulder, despite Jamesonās hurried warning, āJackie, donāt!ā
Henrik immediately sniffened, recoiling away and flying upwards. His breathing quickened as his eyes darted around before he dove away from the crowd around him with a terrified cry, āNO! Not Again!!ā He whimpered out in German, stumbling blindly across the room. He hit his hip hard against the couch and cried out, hostling his knees up high as if climbing over a mess of rubble only to misstep and fall forward, smashing the side of his face against the coffee table.
Jackie cries out in horror and tries to rush to help the actor up as Henrik curls up and cries harder, suddenly sounding like an injured child. But Jameson stops him, pushing him backward and staring him down with a hard gaze.
āStep back, Jackie,ā Dr. JJ nearly growled, āYouāre just making it worse! Iāll handle this!ā Jackie opened his mouth to argue but the doctor gave him no time as he turned heel and carefully made his way over to the trembling gentleman.
A huge red bruise was forming on Henrikās face as he huddled on the floor, hiccupping. Jamie slowly lowered himself next to him, close but not close enough to accidentally touch him.
āN-No moreā¦ No more bombs.. No more bombs!ā Henrik muttered quickly between sobs in his native tongue, āI want mama.. I want Papa!!ā
JJ tried to think quickly, āAltā¦ toss me a blanket!ā The pickpocket glitched slightly, quickly grabbing a blanket and hauling it JJās way. The doctor catches it and makes sure it doesnāt brush the actor before heās ready. Then slowly, he drapes the thick fabric over his body.
Henrik reacts immediately, eyes snapping open and body tensing as if ready to run. But, Jameson quickly holds up his hands and shushes him gently. āHey, itās okay... Itās okayā¦ Ā Ā Everythingās alrightā¦ā the doctor reassured, āAre you alright, little one?ā
Henrik blinked slowly before he spoke in a soft, quiet voice, so different from his loud animated one. ā...You.. you are an Englishmanā¦ā He coughed thickly, body shaking and he huddled the blanket around him. Henrik was surprised he could even hear the man past the intense booming silence in his ears.
āAhā¦ yes. Can you speak English?ā The stranger asked. The boy nodded and held back another harsh cough against the thick rubble dust.
āY-Yes, aā¦ a little bitā¦ is not very good zhough,ā he replied meekly.
The mustached man laughed, a twinkle in his eyes. āWell thatās okay, my Germanās not very good either.ā
Henrik couldnāt help but giggle along even though it hurt his throat, āVellā¦ I can understand you just fine!ā
The stranger gave him a sad smile before leaning down by him, āCan you stand up, my boy? It is not good to lie down hereā¦ We should get you somewhere safe.ā
The boy shook, eyes darting behind him, āB-But mein parentsā¦ mein sisters... I-i donāt know vhere they are!ā
āWe wonāt be able to find them with you in such a stateā¦ Iāll help you find them once youāre taken care of.ā
Henrik stared at the ground and thought for a moment before he slowly nodded and tried to push himself up. He still felt dizzy and disoriented though, his balance still thrown off from the blast. Hesitantly, Henrik hooked the blanket around one shoulder, before he reached a shaky hand out to the stranger. The mustached man beamed before taking his hand and helping the boy up gently, curling an arm around his shoulders and holding him close to his side to help him walk.
But, the action feltā¦ strange despite also being comforting. Henrik was always a small boyā¦ and he was only 11. So why did he feel like he was about the size of this strange adult? Was this stranger just very short?
āJust close your eyes little oneā¦ weāll be at my home real soonā¦ā The stranger assured him. Henrik wanted to argue, that the statement also sounded strange but he was very tired. Resting his eyes sounded so good right now. He leaned his head against the stranger's shoulder (how was it he could reach his shoulder?) and shut his eyes, letting him lead him through the dust and rubble.
Alarmingly fast, Henrik hears the squeaking of a door in a doorframe and is greeted by the sight of a kitchen. Butā¦ somethingās off. Itās soā¦ shiny? What were some of these contraptions?
āApologizes for the mess,ā The kindly man mumbled as he lead Henrik to sit down at the table. He adjusted the blanket to sit tighter around his shoulder before he smiled gently at the boy, āWould you like some tea?ā
Henrik was silent for a second, looking down at the strange patterns on the table before he swallowed past the thickness in his throat, āDo...do you have Kakaoā¦?ā The man smiles more and nodded before he went to the other side of the kitchen and grabbed the materials he needed to make the drink. Henrik sat still, watching the man with fascination. Everything about this place felt wrongā¦ yet comforting. Like he had been here before. But he couldnāt haveā¦ could he?
After a few more minutes, the man comes over with a piping hot mug of hot chocolate and small red box under his arm. He hands the mug to Henrik who eagerly takes it and almost chugs it down, the chocolate lingering on his lips. The man holds back a chuckle as he sets down the strange box and fiddles with the dials. Carefully, he rests one of his hands on Henrikās, causing the boy to look back at him before he pointed back to the box.
āI thought some music might help calm you down,ā He explained with a smile, leading Henrikās hand to the strange circular nets on the sides of the box. Aside from the manās voice, Henrik still couldnāt hear anything. But, that didnāt scare him as much as he knew it should. As he felt his fingers press against the metal net, he also felt a slight tingle, gentle vibrations coming from the machine.
āI tried to find something from your time,ā The stranger added gently, letting go of Henrikās hand as it lingered on the strange device. āI knowā¦ I Ā know you canāt hear it but maybe you can imagine something that helps you think of home.ā
Henrikās mind is still a bit fuzzy but he nods to the doctorās advice, focusing on the boxās vibrations. He could imagine music. He loved music. His brothers loved to show him ragtime songs from America when he went to visit them in Britainā¦ even after the bombing. He started to imagine that, tapping his feet slightly to the music, a slight smile crossing his face.
Henrik slowly slipped his hot chocolate before realizing there was a conflicting scent hitting his nose from nearby. He scrunched his nose and looked around the table, eyes landing on a slightly greasy box in front of him. He reached over and pried it open, blinking at the contents inside. He was at first confused by the food inside but quickly the word for it found itās way to his tongue.
āPizza.ā
The actor blinked rapidly, suddenly acutely aware of the length of his limbs, the heaviness of this body. The ache on his side and his face. Then the lack of suffocating air and debris, the lack of dust on his fine clothing.
Henrik turned to catch the worried gaze of four pairs of bright blue eyes lingering in the kitchen doorway. The actor shrunk slightly, trying to find an awkward smile to flash them but finding nothing to give.
