#wt22

He cracks an eye open, looks at the room he’s in. A bedroom, stripped to the bare minimum, impersonal but clean. A familiar sight. He’s on the bed, over the covers with a light blanket over his legs, head resting on a pillow and a noise coming from his right. He jerks, shifts his head subtly to find who’s sitting next to him.

“My place,” a voice he knows well speaks in the quiet of the room. “Found you on the sidewalk, this isn’t the worse you’ve looked but I’ve definitely seen better.” Jason continues speaking as his fingers fly over his phone’s screen, typing faster than Kyle can follow

“Hey,” Kyle rasps out as an answer and takes a moment to look at him, his hair longer than he remembers, the jeans and shirt he’s wearing, the false air of casualty Jason carries with him wherever he goes. “How long?”

“About an hour since I picked you up.” Jason deftly pockets the phone and lays his gaze on Kyle, looking him up and down methodically. “Anything hurting?”

“Everything,” he sighs dramatically, because Jason means safety, and he’s not sure when those two ever became synonyms for him.

“Got roughed up good, yeah,” Jason smirks as he says those words. “Crash landed in Gotham, right in my turf. Nobody got hurt,” he answers before Kyle can even ask. “Unlike you. But you’ll live, nothing too serious. A couple broken bones, minor cuts and bruises, your ring is pretty nifty when it comes to protection shield, you know that?”

“I can patch myself up.” He protests weakly, even to his own ears, when Jason details the injuries. He tries to sit up but even the idea of loving his arms or torso seems like torture. He settles for shifting his head to look at Jason.

“No, you can't,” he answers bluntly. “Not in your state. You are exhausted so you won't be able to focus to use the ring, and-” he cuts when he sees Kyle is about to speak. "I pumped you with enough painkillers to take out a horse. You cannot patch yourself up."

Kyle focuses on his ring, on green, on will, the one that comes most easily and yeah, even using all the focus at his disposal he can't get a single construct out, must less a clear idea of what he’d want to make. It feels like his mind is being pulled in a dozen directions at once.

“Yeah, ok.” He sighs and lets his head roll on the pillow, looking at the ceiling. But there is one thing, though. “Why’d d’you pick me up?” Kyle asks him, turning towards him once again.

“The White Lantern laying unconscious in the narrows ain’t a good idea, you know. Had to fish you out the street did.” Jason keeps his voice casual, but there’s something on his face, the way he’s still sitting on a mismatched armchair near him.

“You’ve been sitting with me the whole time?” He rasps out, and watches, delighted, as Jason clams down and shuts off his face. Kyle beams, knowing he just hit the target right on. “Aw, you do care about me, Jason!” And that makes him laugh, unfortunately, because his entire left side is eaten by a pain burning like fire, something that makes him cough out pained grunts instead of laughter.

“Cracked ribs.” The smug expression slides easily on his face, although it is subdued. “Just making sure you were breathing right.”

“Right,” Kyle drawls and slowly lifts a hand up, the one with the ring. “I do yield the power of Love, you know.” When Jason doesn’t speak, he does it for him. “I know you’ll never say it, but I know.” The hand flops back on the covers and he closes his eyes. He knows he should say something more, could taunt and mock but he’s tired, and in that weird feeling where he knows things hurt but they don’t really, they just feel numb and that in return make him feel fuzzy. So he doesn’t say anything, letting the silence drags on as Jason stands up, walks around the room.

The foot taping he was hearing since he woke up is gone, as are the tense shoulders and Kyle knows that, even if he refuses to admit it, he’s sitting in this room just as much for himself as he is for Kyle’s sake. It’s heady, this holds they have on each other, one that crept up on them without him noticing.

"Hey, wanna cuddle?” He blurts out when Jason steps closer, grins at the falter in his footsteps.

"Don't push it, Rayner,” he grunts, and that makes him open his eyes, if only to watch the twists of his lips and the angry frown of his eyebrow.

"Come on, you know you want it too. Hugging is supposed to release good hormones for healing, right?"

“Cuddle this," is all he gets for an answer, along with a pillow thrown in his face. Ouch.

“Asshole,” Kyle mumbles even as he grips the pillow in his arms and releases some of the tension that built in his chest. “As soon as the drugs wear off, I’ll deal with that.” He promises and Jason hums. “Show you how it’s done.”

“Sure.” He says as if he were entertaining the ideas of a child, not the promise of witnessing great powers in action. “I’ll be right there when you wake up to see that.”

He listens as the door is pushed open, hinges whining either from age or the weight of the door. He hopes it’s the former and not the latter, if he wants a chance to get out this way. There are three footsteps, coming straight to him and he tries to control his breathing under the heavy bag they slipped over his head, keeping it calm and steady despite his pulse picking up.

“Where d’you find him?” A rough voice asks, answered by the man who caught him. Well. The one he let himself be caught by, there’s only so much one can do without getting information straight from the source, and there aren’t many ways to get inside a drug operation, even if it’s a small one.

“He was lurking through a window, I caught him before he could run off.” The first voice hums, then clicks his tongue.

“Think he saw anything important?” Whatever answers he gets is not verbal, and he doesn’t think it’s one he likes because seconds later the bag is tugged off his head and thrown at his feet, sudden lights blinding him.

“Jesus, that’s a fucking child,” a third vice grits out and it takes all of Jason’s focus to not tell him off.

“I didn’t see nothing!” He babbles out, gets a few tears in his eyes and in the tone of his voice, looks around frantically, at the old wooden door behind the three, the lack of windows in what looks like a basement, the guns slipped in their waste bands and their faces in great details.

“Sure you didn’t,” the one in the middle, the big boss’s right arm from Jason’s investigation, scoffs. He’s wearing an expensive white suit, stark contrast to the jeans and hoodie of the two flanking him

“I swear! On my mama’s head I swear,” he quickens his cadence and shakes where he’s kneeling. “I was jus’ hungry, wanted to find somethin’ to eat.”

“Cute story,” white suit continues. “But I find it hard to believe, given the lack of roads near this place and your real nice, real clean clothes. Who sent you?” And shit.

Shit, it wasn’t supposed to go like this. He was supposed to play them, at least long enough so that he could slip into the main building unsuspected, but now it’s gonna be harder to disappear in the shadows if they’re watching him.

“Eh,” Jason smirks and shifts his posture, relaxes his shoulders and stops the pointless crying. He may be in trouble but he’s not one to simply take it, and certainly not take it quietly. “How does it feel to get busted by a fucking child?” He smirks and watches as white suit gets pissed at him. He doesn’t show it, but he sees it in the twist of his mouth.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, brat,” he grabs Jason’s hair in his fist and tugs, harshly, snaps his head back so that he can stare down at him. “You’re not getting anywhere ‘til I find you sent you here.”

And all Jason can think of, stuck here in this extremely shitty situation he put himself in, struggling to even get out of his bounds, is Dick. Confident Dick who always keeps his cool and knows how to get out of any situation, even the worse.

It’s not that he’s scared, but it’s the second time he’s in this situation, completely alone, no one to back him up or come help him and his track record with that isn’t great, given it took him over a year to walk off being dead.

So he thinks of Dick, his quick thinking and complete control of himself even in the worse places and runs with it, embraces his big brother in the only way he can.

“You’re quite an optimist, aren’t you?” He grins again, all pretend but it works because the hand in his hair falters.

“What?” He asks, confusion and anger in the same word.

“You don’t have a great track record with the minors that are brought into your little business.” The words roll off his tongue almost too easily, they taste strange, and foreign, but addictive. Something he likes, dangerous and exhilarating. “They get killed easily, don’t they? Think you can hold off your trigger long enough to get an answer out of me?”

“What do you think,” white suit spits lowly and tugs harshly once before releasing Jason and pulling away one side of his jacket to reveal a knife tucked in his belt.

Shit.

“Hey, Johnny,” Guy tilts his head enough to grace John with a bloody grin and half his face swollen. “Didn’t see ya there.”

“Are you proud of yourself?” Is all John can say, arms crossed over his chest and staring down at him. Guy slowly pushes himself onto his knees, then on his backside, sitting with his elbows on his knees, one hand rubbing at the back of his head and the swelling still there from a bad hit on the wall.

It’s been going on for days now, ever since they were caught and thrown here. Guy will shout the loudest, make as much noise as humanly possible and get the ire of their captors on himself, he gets the beating and harsh words and rough manhandling whenever he pisses them off too much. John is getting tired of that.

“What d’ya think,” Guy drawls and puffs out his chest. “Got a few hits of my own, ya know. Those assholes may live in yellow world but I still have those guns.” He picks his arms up and flexes them, going so far as to kiss each of his biceps and John will not survive this, he will not survive this mission with Guy, he won’t.

He wouldn’t even be in this mess if it were for Guy asking to tag along what was supposed to be a short trip, if it weren’t for the delay it caused and an unexpected asteroid storm pushing them off course and crashing them here, a planet notoriously known for its distrustful population. John is convinced this is some kind of cosmic joke. Guy says it’s karma, but John knows no one deserve to be locked up in the same room as him. Certainly not John.

He’s tired, he’s letting down a whole lot of people who need him for the information he was supposed to gather a galaxy away from here and Guy is not helping.

“Will you stop this!” he yells, days of anxious waiting and frustration catching up on him. “It’s just you and me here, you can stop the tough guy routine. You got something to prove? It’s not to me, and it’s not here.” Guy is staring at him, mouth opening for a second before he clenches his jaw, which somehow spurs him into saying more.

“Here, let me say this so you can go on with your life: you’re the toughest guy, happy! You can take so many hits and punch back, that’s impressive, amazing.” John grits out with as much sarcasm as he can muster, claps his hands twice. “Congratulations, Guy Gardner! Will you stop antagonizing those people out there and help me make a plan to get outta here? Make yourself useful maybe?” By the time he’s done, John is on his feet, panting, with a finger jammed into Guy’s chest, glaring at him. When did he stand up, when did Guy stand up, he has no idea. He keeps staring at Guy, he’s gotten so far, it will feel stupid to backtrack first. 

“You think it’s about me? You think I’m tryna prove somethin’? Ya don’t know the first thing ‘bout me.” He grunts and shoves his hand away. “‘m buyin’ us time, so shut ya mouth and be grateful!”

“I give up,” John says, he knows it sounds whiny but he doesn't care, there’s no winning with him, it’s impossible. He’s a smart-ass who’s louder and thus always wins those arguments by simply being too stubborn to admit he’s wrong. John swiftly turns around and heads back to the bench, sitting down with his pulse still going fast and strong in his chest.

He’s not sure how much time passed before he hears Guy shuffling around and cracking his knuckles before he speaks again, saying something unexpected. “Just you ‘n’ me, you said. Right?” And John has always been curious. He likes to know, he likes to understand and make sense of things and people. Of course he opens his eyes and looks at Guy once again, his tense shoulders and bunched-up fists.

“That’s what I said. Only you and me here.”

“I know what people say,” he shuffles again and goes to sit on the other bench facing John. “I don’t like gettin’ hit. I don’t!” he insists when John raises a doubtful eyebrow. “I don’t. Sure I’m loud, ‘n’ annoying. But I’m not stupid.”

“Why, then,” John prompts.

“‘cause better me than you,” he looks up with a small, not hesitant but subdued smile and it is such a strange sight on Guy’s rough, always so expressive face. “You’re a good guy, John.” he continues. “‘N. You know. I like ya, despite being such a stuck-up ass, I like ya. You’re a good man,” he repeats, stumbling over his words. “If they hit me, they’re not hittin’ you. Easy choice, all things considered, don’t cha think?”

“Guy…” John lets his head fall on the wall behind him, closes his eyes for a second, just a moment.

“I’m not stupid but I know what I’m good at, ya know,” he’s still talking, like he can’t stop getting this all out. “Ain’t no kick that can keep me down, not even from ugly motherfuckers like the ones out there. If they’re hittin’ me, they’re not hittin’ ya.” He repeats quietly and John has to look at him then, his thrice broken nose and big face and mismatched ears 

“You have one messed up way of showing love, you know that?” he says, and that gets a laugh out of him, a short, loud thing he barks out, like he always does.

“What the fuck,” Hal slurs and puts his hands behind him in order to push himself up. Before he can do anything, Guy is grabbing his collar and doing it for him, pulling him up on his feet like he’d do with a ragdoll and Hal hates it. “Get your hands off of me,” he bites and shoves his hands off. Or tries to, because he doesn’t bulge, leather bunched in his thigh fists.

“Or what? What you’ll do, big guy. Hit me?” Hal blames it on how confused he is, how the exhaustion weighs down on his bones like lead, Guy’s smug expression and the way he sounds so sure of himself. His fist flies and collides with his face before he can think about it, effectively breaking his hold and making him stumble a few paces back. It’s satisfying, wakes him up better than landing on Earth or taking off his Green Lantern costume did. Nothing like the physically of a fight.

The satisfaction lingers when Guy slams into him fist first, the violence of the swing on its own is enough to make his ears ring, and that’s not counting the second one Guy aims at his guts. He’s gasping for air when Guy pulls back and spits on the ground, wiping his chin with the back of his hand. He is a brawler, and he knows where to hit to hurt. It feels good, in a twisted, strange way Hal refuses to look deeper into.

“That’s for punching me, asshole.”

“And the second one?” Hal gasps, trying to keep the bile in his stomach.

“For being an asshole.” Once he's sure he’s got his breathing under control Hal turns toward him, keeping one hand on his knee for support.

“Do you have other words in your vocabulary? Or do you only have twelve.” Guy ignores the bait, chooses to answer him instead, the only time in his life Hal wishes he didn't.

“Didn’t ya learn to keep your ring charged? We’ve been trying to contact you for a month now.”

“I do,” Hal responds with a voice a lot more defensive than he’d wish to. “I was just helping a planet with a yellow atmosphere. You know, the thing that our rings suck at.” 

“That’s bullshit, you were there for two months?” Guy is snarling again, bunching his shoulders and looming like he was mere seconds ago.

“What is it to you, anyway. What are you, my mom?” He may have been avoiding Earth and other Lanterns, but so what. A man is entitled to some time alone every now and then, no need for justification, especially not to someone like Guy.

“Because when you pull shit like that, we have one less Lantern to back us up.”

“Right.” Hal drawls. "The Great Gardner not being able to handle a situation, right. You’d cut off your own hands before admitting you need help.”

“It’s not about-” Guy cuts himself and let out a grunt. “What d’you even do, for weeks up there without anyone.”

“I just. Go there, I guess,” Hal shrugs. He’s tired, and confused, and he’s hac enough of Guy’s games. He wanted a lot of things going back to Earth but certainly not being assaulted by a manchild with an ego problem.

“You never stop running away, uh.” Guy says and that’s- That’s not fair, alright. It's not.

Hal is grabbing Guy by his own jacket, staring down at him. “I’m not running away,” he grits out and tightens his fists. “I just like the quiet, alright. It’s peaceful up there.”

“Peaceful, you say.” And there’s something in the way he says this, it’s not angry, not really, there’s something more. Not relief, but understanding maybe, like it makes sense to him. Like he gets it, gets the feeling.

“Wait.” Hal stares at him, and under the furrowed eyebrow there’s something else. “Were you- Were you worried for me?”

“Pff, worried? About you? No way,” Guy snorts and brushes him off, and it wounds his pride when he gets his hands off of him in one try, unlike his earlier attempt. It’s such a childish thing to say, miles from subtle but Hal doesn’t get it.

“You were worried for me,” he repeats, and the words sound strange when put in relation to Guy and himself. “Why?” Guy crosses his arms over his chest and twists his mouth into an angry grin.

“You really don’t know,” and now there’s something that sounds a lot like sadness in his voice, or disappointment. It’s gone as soon as it appeared. “Bet you think you’re such an important guy, right? Think everything revolves around you. Well, they don’t,” Guy is powering his ring again, a sheen of green surrounding him. “Go radio silent as much as ya want to, Jordan. It’s not like anyone cares what happens to you.”

“Great. You’re a real piece of work, Jason, you know that.” He mumbles as he let himself lean on the wall, taking a moment to catch his breath.

He’s been back in Gotham for months now and the city laid her grip back on him with a ferocious determination, the feels eyes on his back and the heavy weight of her charm pulling him deeper and deeper until he’s stuck again in her, enticing and dangerous.

It’s getting close, he feels it. Black Mask is close to finally falling from the golden throne he’s crafted himself out of death and suffering, Batman is running in circles trying to chase him, and he’s running himself into the ground.

Just a few more weeks he tells himself as he looks up to stare at the sky, dark ink spilling above him, thick clouds reflecting the dirty lights of the city. Just a few more weeks and the Joker will be gone, and Bruce will be proved wrong and Jason will be done. He’ll be done.

Done for good, he thinks. He’ll rest then, as vague as resting sounds to him. But until then, he cannot allow himself to think about it, to risk his focus by vain daydreaming of an uncertain future. No, he needs to be in this, entirely invested, focused on the task at hand.

He pushes himself off the wall with a grunt and shuffles deeper into the narrow street, a labyrinth he knows better than anybody else, he’s grown here, nursed by Gotham’s own hands from a tender age, raised by her streets before he was torn away from her.

Nile takes a moment to let the world stop spinning around her before she pulls herself straight and picks up the axe from the ground. There’s now the ruins of a wall between them and where Quynh stood mere seconds ago, the result of a cleverly planted bomb. The detonation seems to have shaken the entire building, a house left to ruin with more holes than walls, it’s no surprise to see the rest of the structure giving out.

“Nile!” Booker calls, he’s on his feet and retreating where Joe and Nicky are but she can’t follow them.

“No. You go.”

“Nile,” Nicky says softly, and he and Joe got what she wants to do.

“I’ll get to her, and I’ll talk to her. You go, we’ll find you.”

“Are you sure?” Joe asks, although there’s little doubt in his voice.

“She deserves to have a hand offered to her.” She stares at the three of them, leaving no room for discussion. There’s another crack resounding above them, and before any more words can be exchanged, they all head toward the closest door, following her words as if it was always nature, while Nile spots an opening near the wall and slips through.

It’s easy to find Quynh. The house is small, a few rooms and no second floor, and Quynh wants to be found. She’s standing in the garden behind the house, straight and hands lax beside her legs, her sword a sharp line in the evening light. She’s expecting her, with the grin pulling at her lips is anything to go by. Probably is, since she’s showing it.

“Nile. Twice aren’t enough, you need to lose a third time?”

“I’m not here to fight you, Quynh.” She says and slides the shaft of the axe back into the loops she wears on her belt now. The weight feels foreign, too heavy and too unyielding, the prospect of many long years to come bearing it weighting just as heavy.

Quynh’s eyes are drawn to the movement, she follows as the metal slides against metal, stares for a second too long before looking at her, her gaze unreadable.

“Come with us.” Nile continues. “You don’t have to stay, but come with me. We can talk, help you, if you’d let us. You have a place with us, you know you do.”

“I don’t,” Quynh snaps and squeezes the sword in her hand. Behind her in the trees, Nile makes out the form of two persons, the new immortals accompanying her. She doesn’t even know their names. “Not anymore.”

“You do, Quynh.”

“The axe.” She says slowly, as if the words were lead. “Did Andy gave it to you.”

“They did.” Nile answers honestly. “Told me to take it, and use it.” Andy sitting on some cliff, holding their axe on their laps, passing it unto Nile, offering a smile and all their trust. “It has their blessing.”

“Andy had no blessings to give, neither curses.” Quynh snorts, almost a laugh, closer to a cry. “They only had their hands.”

“All we have is our hands. It’s what we do with them that matters.” Nile speaks the words with all the strength she can.

“Why are you offering such a thing?”

“Because it’s the right thing to do,” Nile says, lets the truth out. She doesn’t want to play games, she doesn’t want to lie. Not now, not after everything.

“The right thing to do.” Quynh sneers, disdain filling her words.

“No man left behind.” She bites back. “That’s how it’s always been. No man left behind, no matter what. You included.”

Quynh is silent for a moment, looking at Nile as if she’s seeing into her, taking apart her thought. Nile holds her gaze, stands straight and strong. There’s anger on her face, but not only, barely discernable in the night, but there’s melancholy at the edge of a feature, and the pull of sadness on her eyebrows.

“You carry great hope in your heart, Nile,” she says after long minutes. “But hope isn’t enough in this life. There are bridges that are never to be mended. Wounds too great to heal.” She sheathes her sword in one broad arc of her hand, rests her palm on the shaft, gives Nile one last look. “An abundance of time does not give you an abundance of chances. Nor does it give you do over. Time doesn’t change what has been done.”

She used to speak with them, with the people who made her and who lived within her. She’d talk at length, communicate, share with those who shared their lives with her. But they left, never came back, she was forgotten, and they cannot speak with her now. Now matter how much she tries, they don’t understand. They try and say things but they can’t answer her.

There’s one who can, the one-made-machine, she talks with her. She touches her and seamlessly blends into her and they share something no one had ever shared with her. It’s a connection, an understanding. It’s not words, it’s not a language like she had with those before her, it’s something else. Shared knowledge, shared ideas, shared experience. The one-made-machine brings her memories and wishes and in return she gives hers, her own fears and desires. And she loves, the one-made-machine loves her, she feels it whenever she connects with her.

The one-made-machine is not here anymore, she’s not anywhere she can reach and she hates it, yes, she hates it. The ones inside her see that she hates it, and they try to talk to her but they don’t understand her, they don’t. She’s mute, all seeing, all hearing but mute. Alone, again.

“Carrier,” the walking-spirit says, slowly. “I know you’re afraid, but we need you. If we don’t do this, we’ll never see Angie again.”

“Jenny, we don’t have much time left,” the sun-man says, low, as if she wouldn’t hear.

“I know,” the smoke from her hand rises into her ventilation system, she follows it as it travels throughout her body. “Jack will be there, alright? He’ll be with you.” The one-almost-like-her, he feels her in a way they don’t, but he doesn’t understand like she does. She wants her. “You have nothing to fear, you only need to leave orbit for a moment, just enough so we can locate her. That’s all. Can you do that for me?”

The carrier is afraid to be alone again, to lose the new ones, to be left to drift through space and time without a soul in her. But she’s more afraid to be stranded without a voice, without one who understand when she talks. She unlocks her controls and let them take control of the course.

“That’s it,” the walking-spirit says. “Good girl.”

The battles they’re- They fight them because they must, and he fights with them. He stands among the Omega Men bearing their insignia on his chest, he lends his ring to their cause, he-

He ducks just as a sword slices the air, hears its whitle in his ears as he takes a step back and conjures up a shield in the ghostly light he controls. The strike brutally bears down on his forearm, the impact felt throughout his bones all the way to his shoulder and Kyle grunts at its violence. Willing his strengths back to him, he pushes back and strikes at the man with a saber of his own making, feels as the blade sink into his flesh, watches the blood seeping between his armor plating.

It’s been hours and his concentration is running thin. Long gone are the flight and complex constructs and artful weapons, Kyle is panting and clinging to his chest as he blocks hits with rudimentary shields and wills gloves on his hands to strike men and robots alike. He stops when he can to heal the men fighting on their side, ignore the way his stomach churns when he walks past those they’re facing, he wipes the blood clogging his eyes and drying on his lips, cloying on his tongue, in his throat, and he keeps going.

He keeps going, keeps on marching, fighting, he slices skin and flesh, the last strings of respect he can afford to offer to those dying, he tears out electronics and heads to stop the monotonous ‘please surrender’ they broadcast. He does not look at the surroundings, does not let himself wonder where they are fighting, who used to live there before the war forced them to flee, what this building that’s being crushed under the android he’s tearing to pieces was used for, or who built it.

No, Kyle doesn’t think about that, he cannot afford to waste the little and precious energy and willpower he has on those. He has to duck and dodge and jump and charge, he has to focus on his ring, on the fear and rage and avarice in his blood, he has to muster enough strength to keep the love and the hope just as bright in his heart, to find compassion despite his exhaustion, he fights tooth and nails every second to see the hope around him, to keep the light flowing from his hand blue rather than red or yellow, to let violet flickers through the white. Green is growing more rare in his construct, and he does not think about this either.

No, Kyle fights. He follows Kalista and her Omega Men and the violet of his sword shines on the metal she yields so masterfully. He sits and wipes the tears and sweat from his face while Tigorr jumps over him, covers Primus while he shoots the androids and men around them, conjures bombs with Scrapps clawing her way through the lines.

He sits alone when the fighting is done, when the last retreat is called and the last breaths are exhaled, when everything falls silent.

His hands are green again. Dripping with blood, thick and sour smelling. It starts off sweet, like a fragrance sprayed with too much enthusiasm, but like everything organic it rots, and after a few hours gone is the uncanny, revolting sweet smell. It’s replaced by something that burns the back of his throat, something that sticks for hours after it’s washed off, that will seep into the earth when it’s not.

His hands are green, dripping with it, and he cannot look away. He wants to, he wants to stand on his feet and stand and look around him, walk through the ruined building and battered bodies, he wants to spare a thought for the deaths and pain spilled on the earth. Today, he’s stuck kneeling, the back of his wrists resting over his thighs and back arched as he stares at his hands.

There’s the ring, on the third finger of his right hand, and it is not spared by the horror, the bright and pure white is covered in blood, as is the dark gray of his suit. A few fingers twitch every so often, they curl slightly and arches over his palms, his hands shaking despite the rest of his body feeling weighted down by lead, too heavy to move.

Someone is talking near him, and he thinks they’re trying to talk to him. He cannot hear anything, the sound muffled and distant in his ears. The voice shouts, and he doesn’t flinch, only try to squeeze his hand, slowly, gently curls the fingers into his palm, then rolls them until he can fit his thumb over them and clenches once, twice, thrice, before opening the fist and letting the finger fall back into their position. The blood sticks between his fingers, bubbles at the frictions between fingertips. Green, and sickening.

Kyle used to spend a lot of time on his anatomy studies, especially the hands. The way so many bones and muscles and ligaments work together to create this wonderful thing that can reach the world and let you touch it. He’d look at his own, and his friends, strangers’ too, he’d sketch them when sitting in cafes or bars. He had a few of Radu too, with the fat flesh on the back of them and burned fingertips, thick callouses from good, honest work.

He closes his fists again, opens them, closes them a third time.

Someone else approaches, and he recognizes her before he even sees her, could pick her perfume apart from anything. Kalista smells like cut grass and cloves, like sandalwood under the acidic smell of death surrounding them.

She’s speaking, from where she’s standing behind him, she’s speaking and he doesn’t hear a word, not until he feels her hand on his shoulder, heavy and warm, she leans closer to him, and speaks near him.

“We did good. You did good,” she says, and he can’t even open his mouth to answer, to say no, to say yes, to say anything. “You were great, today.” He clenches his fists once more, looks up at the sky, red and brown and no clouds. A perfect day.

“Tomorrow, we move,” she continues. “Today, we rest. Take the time you need, because tomorrow we will need you, Kyle.” She squeezes his shoulder once, quick and gentle, and stands up, leaves him to be on his own again.

He closes his eyes and sags on his heels, lets his mask fade, lets his suit fade back to reveal the clothes they gave him, the scarf wrapped tight around his throat. It’s as if the weight of the mask over his face keeps him from breathing, from seeing clearly, with it gone it’s a rush of air and feelings.

There’s no more blood on his hands when he looks down, they’re as clean as they were before he willed the suit on but he is not fooled. Not a night goes where he doesn’t feel covered with it, sticky and wet, running down his back and toward his hands, pooling in his palms like a well. Its source is not dry, and it won’t dry soon, that he knows. Maybe not ever.

He is not fooled, he knows what he’s doing, what he’s leaving behind to fight in this fight, what they’re demanding of him. After months of deception, it is all laid plainly in front of him, and despite the illusion of choice they gave him, how could he say anything but yes. And they knew that, they knew. She knew.

People are moving around him, pulling wounded out of the bodies, retrieving weapons and supplies, talking between them in hushed tones. The thunderous voices will return in a few hours but for now, the weight of the day is still too heavy.

Kyle raises to his feet slowly, uncoiling his spine and biting back a wince when the movement pulls on his strained ankle, on his sore knee, on his spasming thigh and aching hip. He’ll walk back toward the rest of their group, and he’ll try and heal everyone who can be healed, and afterward they’ll walk back to their camp, and they’ll eat, and he’ll go rest exhausted, and he’ll wake up tired.