Hero Pose

“I passed Second Lieutenant Guten in the hall this morning,” Rantaro—her new first lieutenant—was saying, flicking absently through a sheaf of crumpled notes as he kept stride beside her. “She said—” He cut himself off, yawning and pressing the back of his hand into his mouth. The heat must be getting to him, Kris hummed. “Sorry,” he sighed, pulling himself out of it. “She said that the new training arrangement’s going well. She’s really enjoyed working with the older group, and, from what I’ve seen, they’ve really taken to her. They've grown a lot.”

Kris nodded. “With less trainees to handle at a time, she’s really been able to focus on their individual weaknesses and strengths. They’re improving, and quickly!” She smiled. “I think part of it is that they want to impress her so bad.”

Rantaro snickered. “I wish she’d give me a few pointers.”

“How are you doing with the younger cadets?”

He’d been blasted out when the ceiling above them had collapsed, breaking open the floor with an explosion--Shu’s ankle dangled over the blazing hole now--and freeing a blast of flames and a gale of ripping hot wind from the rooms below.

“Fubuki!” Shu hollered again. His fingers were slick with sweat and soot. The protective seals he’d painted over his skin were running, smeared and useless. Not fireproof. No shield. No amplified strength. Already, his lieutenant’s hand was slipping through his own. In a few more seconds, despite his best efforts, he would let go. “Fubuki, come on!” he screamed, even as he recognized it wouldn’t do any good--the young man had taken a projectile directly to his brow. His head had snapped back and pinched a nerve in his spinal column. He had been forced unconscious, and he was going to stay that way.

Groaning, Shu flicked his gaze up, looking for a safe place to land. If he couldn’t pull Fubuki back inside, maybe he could direct his fall--or even manage to carry him to the ground. The prospects weren’t looking good, however. The garden below was charred black, crunching and crackling with billows of fat red sparks. The bleak stone road after it wasn’t any more promising. And, beyond that… Shu’s eyes widened.

The river?

He calculated the distance frantically. He wouldn’t get a running start, he would be carrying a dead weight, and height wasn’t necessarily on his side. But I can make it, he swallowed, feeling the sting of smog as it dripped down his throat. I can make it.

Digging his fingernails into his first lieutenant’s wrist, Shu drove his weight backward, kicking off his knees and staggering hazardously to his feet. Mere inches behind him, the gaping maw of the shattered floor loomed, jets of flame licking hungrily at his heels. Meanwhile, his lungs suddenly expanded as he wrenched upright, refilling with air--soupy and black though it was--and his impalation scar began to ache. The soreness was dull and familiar, although not the least bit helpful; he tried to ignore it.

With a grunt, he clamped his fists tighter around Fubuki’s slipping fingers and planted his boot over the windowsill.

Just one jump, he thought, squinting as a gust of burnt air whipped against his skin. His tangled hair flipped and turned, caught in the breeze, and the hundred-or-so shards of glass lodged inside it tinkled together like paste jewels. He ducked his head carefully under the window bay, his eyes locking to the river below, and prepared a burst of Resonance, letting it collect in the soles of his feet. Then, with a roar of effort, he leapt from the building.

It was a rush of confusion and chaos.

He managed to secure his grip around Fubuki’s shoulders.

Golden fire screamed out from behind him.

He thrust down his heels.

The magic there activated, wild and untempered, and propelled him higher.

The wind wailed.

His hair flogged his face.

Shadows and light spun together like a kaleidoscope.

He vaguely registered the fact that he was not simply falling, but flipping, rolling through the air.

And suddenly, the water was there.

He locked his arms to protect Fubuki’s skull.

He managed to catch his own breath.

And then the river split against his back.

CRASH!

A split second of thunder was followed by a sudden, oppressive silence as his ears instantaneously filled with water. He felt the raging swarm of surface-bound bubbles as they billowed past his limbs and the frigid cold as it coated him like a paste. Reflexively, he gagged and the air he’d saved burst from his mouth.

He guffawed. “Excuse me?”

“Consider it a testament to your vitality.”

He slumped against his crutch, his hazy indigo shadow mirroring the decompression. “Oh, no. Don’t say that.”

“What?”

“I do give you time off, don’t I? I’m serious. Do you need more? You can have it.”

She snorted, waving away the concern. “That’s not what I meant, Your Majesty. I'm trying to say that, as your captain, it’s my responsibility to worry about you, whether I'm on duty or not. And, as your friend,” she emphasized the word by blowing out her cheeks and Aiger rolled his eyes, “my worrying, frankly, never stops.”

“Even with four grown men constantly babysitting me?”

“Honestly, I don't think Free spends that much time on you.”

And sure enough, standing behind her was none other than the matriarch of the de la Hoya family. Free’s mother. Much like her son, the duchess was tall and lean, and possessed a mane of thick, golden-blonde hair. Hers had been braided back into an intricate, bead-studded weave especially for the ball, and her dress--an elegant red gown with a feathery, cathedral-style train and sleeves slit up to the elbows--had obviously been selected with just as much thought. “Kristina,” the woman bowed, her voluminous skirt swaying forwards like a furling wing.

“Sh-Shu?” the young lieutenant choked, staring through the blaze where he’d last seen his captain. “Shu? Shu!”

He’d been on the bottom landing, about to come out, almost out--less than twenty feet away--when the rafters had exploded, showering beams, floor planks, and torrents of glass. He had to be trapped--or crushed--no, he couldn’t be crushed--Fubuki refused to believe he was crushed--entombed inside. Just think, he gagged, forcing himself to think straight. How would he get out? Where’s the exit? Where’s the exit?

It was then that he heard a trilling smash--the crystalline rush of a window pane bursting apart.

Heart leaping to his throat, Fubuki staggered into a sprint around the side of the house.

She sucked in a coppery breath and, raising her left arm high, twirled an index finger at the sky. “Tie them up!” she shouted.

“Yes, sir!”

And, while a team of six or so dragged themselves forward, reaching for what supplies they’d need to secure the Snake Pit’s newly demoralized members, Kris looked around and realized that her second lieutenant was missing.

“Ivan,” she gasped, turning to the knight standing nearest her. “Where did Rantaro go?”

He lifted his shoulder. “With the captain maybe?”

“The captain…?” It was then that, with a horrible sinking feeling, Kris realized that her father had disappeared as well.

---

“C-Captain…” Rantaro spluttered, his mouth half-filled with mud, his feet scrabbling against the washed-out roots that clawed at his clothes like fingers. His ears were ringing, caked with pulped leaves, and he couldn’t hear himself. A thin crimson line split the bridge of his nose, marking where his senior officer had tried to slam a sword through it, each bubble of blood licked away by the water running from his spongy hair. “Wh-what are you--? Captain! Captain!”

Lightning split the sky overhead and his eyes filled with its flash as it blitzed off the other man’s advancing blade. Rantaro’s heart leapt to his throat and he reflexively crushed his eyes shut. A blotchy afterimage of his captain, swirling and insubstantial, accompanied him still, his face sunken to black behind the visor of his rain-slick helmet.

Then, a dam seemed to break. A torrent of the glowing liquid burst from Shinoda’s screen, splashing down Salvager’s arm, slapping him across the chest and neck. He jerked his head, startled, trying to keep his nose clear of the stuff. Roar, however, gripped him urgently by the hair and forced him to take a faceful of it. Salvager spluttered and gasped, but the substance continued to pour over him. It sloshed up into his hair, matting it, and coursed down towards his ravaged leg, a thick fog building around him as the whitish mist continued to rise.

“Roar,” Venom hissed, kneading his intact knuckles anxiously against the top of his knee. “What’s--?”

“Just hold on,” the blonde man said. “Watch his leg. You’ll see.”

Venom pressed his mouth into a line, but didn’t argue, swiping the air clear and pinning back his bangs. Salvager’s infected leg, surrounded by a puddle of rank-smelling blood, had been drenched in Shinoda’s strange Wings, wrapped almost as if with a liquid cast.

“Hey, Storm,” Roar said, stepping up beside the white-haired scientist and knuckling him urgently on the shoulder. “I think we need to go. Like, now.”

“What?” the other man blinked, jostled by the nudge. He turned from his complex of player boards as if snapping out of a trance, his raised fingers, which had been dancing deftly across a digital keyboard, wilting, and shoulders dropping. “Oh,” he started. “I-I’m sorry, but not yet.”

“Storm,” Roar repeated, lowering his voice so the rest of their extraction team wouldn’t hear. Most of their officers were seasoned vets, of course, and had accompanied Storm to Floor 193 on dozens of past missions. It was Roar himself, actually, who was the team’s greenest member (despite his position as one of its dual captains), having barreled his way into the police force’s Tower retrieval division a mere four months ago--only eight weeks after his own rescue. Not that he was the newest addition anymore. Their debut junior, Honey Guten, had been assigned to the ranks a scant two weeks ago, and, as luck would have it, today was her first in the field. And, as such, it wouldn’t do for her to see her captains arguing so early on in the extraction. “Listen to me,” Roar hissed, mindful of her presence roughly a stone’s throw away. “I’ve got a bad feeling. I think we need to commence the extraction now.”

Storm shook his head decisively, white hair tossing. “We’re not ready,” he whispered back, equally aware of Honey’s proximity as he shifted slowly back to his white-on-black screens. “Salvager’s going to need the antidote once we get to him and Shinoda’s only seventy percent through the synthesis--”

“Look, forget the antidote,” Roar snapped. “Salvager doesn’t need it. He has the Wings--”

“We don’t know that,” Storm countered softly.

“I told you--I’ve seen them in his inventory.”

The doctor sighed, eyes roaming his collage of player boards, relocating to where he’d been interrupted. “But he could’ve used them at any point over the last six months. You know they’re only good for one use. We can’t count on them still being around.” With very little hesitation, he settled his fingertips over the holographic buttons on his keyboard and resumed typing, picking up seamlessly from his stopping point. “I want to have this ready for him before we go in for retrieval.”

“But I’m telling you,” Roar growled, raising his voice just enough to make both his and Storm’s gazes flicker to Honey. “I’ve got a bad feeling. I--! I… Oh, no. Storm?”

“What?”

“Is that surveillance footage live?”

The doctor didn’t so much as look up, consumed with his system. “Uh… yes. Why?”

“I’m leaving. Now.”

He startled. “What? Wait--!”

“Can’t!”

“No--Roar--! Roar--wait--!” Storm lunged sideways, his arm snapping out just fast enough to seize his fellow captain by the wrist. “You can’t go alone--!” But Roar sprinted out of his grip almost as if it wasn’t there. An energy rifle fell out of nothing into his fists and he called Storm’s override code, artificially boosting his speed stat to S rank, and, then, in an instant, he was gone.

Storm bit his teeth, fingers flexing in the empty air. What the heck?

“Uh… Sir?” Honey Guten, the new officer, piped up, staring in blatant confusion between her superior still in the room and the door her other one had just blasted out of. “Shouldn’t we… stop him?”

Storm glanced over at her, brow crinkling. “Um…” he started. They’d been trying to avoid a scene like this. “N-no.”

“But--”

“Storm,” Cuza Ackermann, one of the team’s vets, interrupted, abruptly stepping forward and seizing the shoulder of his captain’s uniform. His expression was drawn tight, his golden eyes wide. “Look.”

The doctor let himself be spun around, following Cuza’s raised index finger to one of his own player boards. The Floor 193 surveillance footage rolled across its screen--the surveillance footage of the elevator bay, specifically. There, just where he had last seen them, were Salvager and Venom, the two survivors they’d come to rescue. Only… Venom was holding something. A long, glowing blade. Leveled just above Salvager’s infected leg.

“They’re amputating it…” he breathed.

“What?” Honey gasped, scrambling up to his side.

Cuza frowned, his mind racing behind his eyes. “How far are we from that elevator?”

“Running?” Storm managed. “Thirty seconds. Maybe less.”

“You think Roar can make it in time?”

“I don’t know. But keep an eye on the feed,” The doctor shifted his weight, gaze drifting downward, to the antidote synthesis running on his system.

95% complete

He swallowed, stepping back to his control screen. “If Roar doesn’t manage to stop them, take the med kits, Ana, and Orochi, and get down there. It looks like Venom is planning to cauterize the wound, but it’ll still be a mess. They’ll need your help. Honey and I will follow you as soon as the antidote is finished.”

“Yes, sir,” Cuza nodded.

The new officer, however, shook her head hesitantly, dubiously. “The antidote? But… what good will it be by then?”

“It carries a natural sedative,” Storm explained, fingers falling atop his keyboard, slowly beginning to type. “And, at that point, I doubt Salvager will want to be awake anymore.”

“Get them out!” he shouted, gritting his teeth fiercely and ducking his chin against his chest. The burden was unreal.

“But…! Sir!”

“I’m fine--get them out! Quickly!”

He couldn’t see the man and his children escape--not through the disheveled, ash-chalked curtain of his hair--but strained to listen to their footsteps slamming against the unstable floor. Thud-thud-thud-thud, thud-thud-thud-thud. It wouldn’t be safe to release the beam until they had exited the house. And, well… maybe not even then. The immense pillar of wood would crash straight through the burned, weakened floorboards as soon as Shu slackened his hold. And it was likely that he himself would fall into the wreckage once it did… There was no telling how severe of an impact the landing would be. Certainly, he’d be injured--at the least he’d be injured--although a more painful, more permanent end was also quite possible.

And that wasn't any good.

Working his feet against the ground, he tensed, doubled the concentration of his magic, and gave the beam an experimental push. As his shoulders and arms began to shake and sting, quivering with the overload of the spell’s power, the column, releasing a tremendous groan, actually began to shift.

“Alright!” he gasped, feeling the give and heaving harder against it. His breath came fast and sharp with the effort, accelerating from both the crushing weight of his load and the effects of the amplified Resonance flooding his muscular system. “That’s it!”

One rearward step after another, he progressed gingerly backwards, trembling and straining as the beam creaked in its single remaining setting, the fractured end lifting--slowly--steadily--painfully--successfully--with each deliberate footfall. Shu grit his teeth, his lips peeling into a grim, mirthless smile.

This might actually work.

Very carefully, he relaxed his grip on the beam--only by the slightest degree--and shifted his fingertips right and left, feeling blindly for the edges of the pillar. There was the first and… the other one, too. Excellent. He drew a short, tight breath, tossed his head somewhat, clearing the dirtied snaggles of hair from his vision, and then--“AARGH!”--shoved. Up. Hard.

The wood of the beam whined as it was thrown into the air, and, for the brief instant it hung there, suspended, Shu pivoted on his heel, flipping around in just enough time to catch the full brunt of its descending momentum against his chest.

“Guh!”

The force of the blow drove him back several feet, the soles of his shoes skittering over the floor until--curling his toes and rerouting nearly half his magic into his legs--he managed to stop its downward swing. Above him, the single remaining setting released a protesting groan. It would give in soon. Not much time left. Huffing wearily, he fixed his grip over the wood, leaned into his stride, and, once again, began to push it upward.

There wasn’t any real hope, he knew, of securing the beam back in its original place--as tall as Shu was, he couldn’t quite reach that height--but, if he could lift it enough to attain the proper grip, and still had the strength remaining, it was possible that he could dislodge it from the ceiling completely. And, once it was free, he could--!

CREEEEEAA-AACHK!

The final support splintered.

The secure end of the beam broke.

Its weight came crashing down over Shu’s head.

Already?

He raised his hands--

Fired his Resonance full-force into his arms--

And caught only half the weight.

--What?

Beside him, someone choked and then screamed.

“AAAURGH!”

Shu jerked his head around, eyes widening as they landed upon the young man suddenly poised there, buckled to his knees and carrying the fallen end of the beam on his shoulder, which now looked misshapen and odd, the arm below it dangling uselessly, limp and awkward--likely dislocated. “Fubuki!”

The first lieutenant of the Raging Bulls, groaning and wheezing into his chest, raised his crimson eyes to the tops of their lids and stared at his captain. His pale blonde hair--usually arranged behind his ears--was scattered all across his forehead, falling down to his jawline and framing the deep crease of pain dug out of his mouth. “This,” he gasped, “is heavier than I thought.”

“Fubuki,” Shu’s heart raced, crawling into his throat. He wasn’t supposed to be in here! He’d left him to control the situation outside! “Your shoulder!”

“I-it’s okay,” the younger man managed, wrinkling the bridge of his nose as a weak, flickering aura of Resonance activated around his body--he was extremely limited when it came to magical abilities and couldn’t produce much power at all. What little extra strength the spell afforded him, though, he used to edge onto his feet, his dislodged shoulder jangling slightly at his side. Shu, watching him fretfully, shifted positions in response, lowering himself so that the greater burden of the beam rested upon his arms rather than Fubuki’s. “I just…,” the younger man’s gaze flicked between his own limp fingers and his captain’s kneeling position, a pained, regretful expression crossing his face. “I didn’t realize how much Resonance you were using, is all. It didn’t seem like you were having too much trouble…”

“If you walk towards me,” Shu managed. “I can set it.”

Fubuki winced. “Right now might not be the best time.”

“Well, you’re going to need both arms if you plan to help me carry this thing.”

“Ah-hah…,” the man let out a startled, humorless laugh, his eyes widening. “I guess you’re right…. Should we… meet in the center?”

Shu answered by taking the first step, advancing at a measured pace and slowly raising his end of the beam, leveling the burden. Fubuki, carefully estimating the proper pace to match his, wasn’t a second behind, his one good hand sliding determinedly with him along the pillar’s underside, bearing increasingly more weight.

“Alright,” Shu growled, face contorting with effort as he approached the center. Fubuki, his single arm effectively glowing with Resonance--even through the plating of his Bulls’ armor--looked even more spent. “I’m going to put this arm down”--he tapped the nails of his right hand against the wood--“and push your shoulder back in. It’s going to be fast and it’s going to hurt.”

“I figured,” the first lieutenant gasped.

“As soon as I finish, both our arms need to go up immediately. I’ll let you know what to do after.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Are you ready?”

In reply, Fubuki’s mouth twisted into a dry grimace and he turned, orienting his dislocated shoulder towards his white-haired captain. The canted joint drooped against its tendons, completely removed from its socket, and Shu bit into his lower lip, fighting down a distinct wash of revulsion.

Then, without warning, he dropped his right hand, bent back his elbow, and struck his palm against the side of Fubuki’s arm. The younger man seethed as his humerus slid back into his glenoid with a sickening click, but, wasting no time, he drove it immediately upwards, catching the bottom side of the beam. “Now what?” he shouted, voice roughened by pain.

“This way!” Shu hollered, and shoved the beam towards the back wall, loosening his grip to run to the far end of it. “Come on!” The deteriorating floor bowed beneath his weight.

“And the plan is?” Fubuki yelled, following behind.

“Help me push this out the window!”

“What?”

“Out! Hurry!” Hugging the width of the pillar, the Legend fed its end directly into the pane of glass, which shattered with a brittle crunch. “Drop it--now!”

CRASH!

The sill shuddered. Fubuki could have sworn the entire building swayed.

“Now push!”

They both threw their shoulders against the wood, digging their nails in to maintain any sort of grip, and shoved.

“One--two--three!”--push--“One--two--three!”--push--“One--two--three!”--push-- “One--!”

Offbeat but desperately determined, Fubuki broke their rhythm and, with a guttural shout, drove his pauldron against the beam’s rear end, the metal biting into the fractured wood. Splinters scattered and his boots slid wildly against the effort, even as the pillar slid nearly four feet further out the window. Now more than halfway free, it began to totter on the edge of the sill.

“That’s it!” Shu called, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking it from his eyes. As soon as he let go, though, the wild strands tumbled back over his forehead. “Just like that!” Apparently giving up on proper sight, he then dropped beneath the beam and seized its bottom side, heaving upwards, destroying its precarious balance and causing it to slip completely out of the window, falling in such a way that it landed upright, perfectly vertical.

He reached back and snatched the collar of Fubuki’s armor. “Now us!”

“What? Shu--!”

“The floor’s about to cave--come on! You first!”

Fubuki’s eyes widened frantically, darting from the sagging boards beneath his feet to the cracked-open window sill, still rimmed with tooth-like protrusions of glass. “Alright, then!” he managed, gripping the top edge of the frame as Shu pulled him up to it. He wrestled himself onto the edge, hastily kicked down the more dangerous fragments--they fell into the backyard below, toppling harmlessly into the soft, firelit grass--and then fastened his gaze to the top end of the beam, its flat surface staring at him from below. The distance to the ground wasn’t safe for a normal person to jump--Shu likely would've been fine--but… there was definitely another way.

Fubuki sucked in a breath, narrowed his stinging eyes, and leapt deftly from the edge of the window. For a moment, he felt as if his body were suspended in the open air, surrounded by the rush of dark, wind, and heat, but then he made contact with the pillar’s flat end. His knees bent--he quickly balanced his weight. The wood rocked slightly, but he immediately readjusted his stance, leaning forwards and buckling down, becoming absolutely still. Safe.

“Alright!” the first lieutenant exclaimed, staring straight ahead--to0 cautious to move and certainly knowing better than to risk turning around. “Now you!”

“Okay,” Shu grunted, backing up slightly from the window, his eyes roaming, sharply calculating the distance between the wall and pillar. The gap looks small enough. “I--!”

CRACK!

“Whoa!”

CRASH!

“Shu!” Fubuki flinched, his knuckles spasming into fists. “Shu--what happened? SHU!”

“It’s f-fine…”

“It doesn’t sound like it! What’s going on back there?”

“The floorboards broke… Nothing to worry about… I can still make the jump.”

“No--wait--just how much of the floor did you lose?”

“About half of it, I’d say.”

“What?”

“But only the side closest to the window--it had the worst flames eating at it from below… Ah-hah… I suppose it’s a good thing we got you out when we did…”

“Shu--the gap must be over twenty feet now--!”

“That’s fine. I can make it. Trust me, Fubuki.”

The lieutenant bit into his bottom lip, risking just enough movement to reach up to his neck. Searching numbly, he found the leather cord of his necklace and gave it a small tug, gently pulling a carved-stone pendant out of his armor. He squeezed the irregular shape in his palm, wrapping his fingers over it, steeling himself. “Yes, Sir!”

“Alright. Here goes. When I hit the pillar, I won’t be at an angle to land like you were. It’s going to fall. Are you ready?”

“Don’t worry about me, Sir.”

“Hold on tight--!”

Thud, thud, thud, thud--!

Fubuki braced himself, tightening his grasp over his pendant. The edges dug into the meat of his thumb, bruising the skin.

Thud, thud, THUD--!

The jump.

Crash!

His boots breaking the windowsill’s glass teeth.

Rush--!

Fubuki tensed, heart racing.

ANY MOMENT--!

ANY--!

Acting more on instinct than any real understanding of the situation, he locked his fist around the broken lip of the beam and kicked his body over the side.

A split second later, Shu collided with the wood, falling hard, his ribcage crunching against the top while his legs struck the body. He grunted and a wad of spit snapped out of his mouth.

Immediately, the pillar began to topple.

“Gotta get up!” Fubuki snapped, swinging around the side and pulling back on his captain’s shoulder.

As the beam rapidly fell into an increasingly horizontal position, they pulled each other upright--Shu clutching unconsciously at his chest--and caught their footing on the broadside.

Jumped.

Hit the ground.

Rolled.

Fubuki drove himself expertly back onto his feet, finishing his rotations standing.

Shu’s landing was rougher and, with a shout that was lost in the squealing of the capital fires, he ended, winded and wild, on his back.

The beam thundered to the ground behind them.

“Fubuki…,” Shu groaned, clawing himself upright. He'd taken his tumble directly through the portion of grass carrying the fragments from the broken window and was now bleeding from several places along his back, shoulders, and arms. He could feel the sting of the cuts as his muscles flexed, and wondered whether or not any glass had lodged into his skin. The only piece he was certain of was the shard that had become tangled in his long mane of hair and sliced open the side of his face--which was now hanging like an ornament against his chest. “You alright?”

“Yes, Sir,” the first lieutenant managed, ducking over to his captain, eyes swarming with alarm at the blood smeared across his limbs and cheek. “Are you good to walk?”

“Of course,” Shu grunted, accepting the younger man's hand as it was extended to him and climbing back onto his feet. The glass in his hair clinked and blood dripped from his jaw. It would take far too long to remove all of it before continuing on--and they most certainly had to move on. “Actually, Fubuki…,” the Legend started. “Do you have your knife on you?”

Promptly, the younger man fingered his blade--a standard equipment of his knight’s kit--out from its sheath on his belt and handed it over. He didn't question why Shu had asked.

Which was good, all things considered. Without warning, Shu slid the knife behind his neck, snatched his long locks of dirty, mangled hair together, and lopped them all off. Two feet of it flopped unceremoniously to the ground beside him.

Fubuki blinked.

It was… Sunday, he noticed, catching sight of the calendar on his nightstand. Nika had brought it for him and, at her insistence, Storm had been crossing off the days every morning. Dr. Kurenai--Storm--visited often, mostly just to check up on how Salvager was doing. He was responsible for the recovery of all survivors, so seeing him around the hospital was pretty normal, even though he didn’t know a thing about actual medicine. Wrong kind of doctor.

“I talked to Venom this morning,” Storm had said the last time he’d visited.

Salvager hadn't looked over, staring out the window at the drizzle peppering the nearby rooftops. “Is he okay?”

“Yeah. He beat that pneumonia and I was just in to ask about his prosthetics.”

Salvager had blinked. “Really?” He’d pulled his head around.

Storm nodded. “He said he wants the metal taken out of his arms. I’m measuring him for a new set this afternoon, and his surgery is scheduled for three days from now. I thought it might be good for him to come back to your room after that. What do you think?”

“I think that’s great. It’s been weird not having him around.”

“Right. How long were you guys teamed up for?”

“Six months.”

“Okay, then. Consider it done.”

“Thanks, doc.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Are you going to be in the operating room? For his surgery, I mean.”

“Oh, yeah. I’m the main robotics expert, so…”

“Have you done something like this before?”

“A few times. Survivors are experimented on a lot, unfortunately, so, whenever one escapes with alterations and wants them gone, it comes down to me.”

“Right. Makes sense.”

“It’s probably going to be a multi-day operation, though, so don’t expect him in for at least a week, alright?”

“You got it.”

Salvager hadn't seen the doctor since then. About… eight days ago.

Wonder how he’s doing, he sighed, rubbing his finger and thumb together, pinching the fabric of his blanket between the digits. Probably not too hot, if he had to be in for the entire surgery. That’s over now, right? Venom’ll be up here soon, won’t he? Salvager allowed himself an irritated huff, blowing a stray hank of hair from his nose. It’d be nice to get an update every once in a--

He blinked.

There, to the left of his hospital bed, was a new gurney.

“Venom?”

The young man lying atop the mattress groaned in his sleep. He was average height and paler than a blizzard, with lean musculature and wide shoulders. A scruffy fringe of light-colored hair grew out from his scalp, fluffing like a feather duster over his forehead. A hospital blanket was tucked up past his sternum, but Salvager could tell by the way the fabric fell to his sides that he didn’t have either of his arms.

“What?” Salvager moaned, running his fingers into his bangs. “Seriously? When did you get here? When’s your anesthesia wearing off?”

Predictably, the unconscious man didn’t answer.

Salvager stared for a few seconds and then inhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head. On release, he smiled. Whatever. Good to see you.

He rolled to his other side and fished the book Toko had given him off of the floor.

When he’d first been admitted to Storm’s survivor-exclusive hospital, he’d had to be treated for several Tower-specific illnesses and toxins. A lot of medically induced vomiting had taken place. The clean up and surgical correction for his miraculously yet haphazardly healed leg hadn't been much prettier. His family had visited him often, though. Often, they’d just talk with him. They would read books to him, sometimes, too. He’d asked his mom to leave one behind, once, so he could finish it the next day and, ever since, they’d been bringing him a few new novels each time they managed to make it for visiting hours. Sometimes, all four of them came. Sometimes, it was just Toko and Nika, or just his parents. Other times, only Chiharu--his mom--could come. He was equally grateful each time. It was a blessing to be alive, he knew. And to be able to see his family’s faces now, after seven years of climbing the Tower, so comparatively often… it was pretty amazing.

Reclining against his pillows, he thumbed open to his bookmark, pinning down the page with his knuckle. After a moment, he glanced over at Venom. Eh, he decided. Couldn’t hurt.

He began to read aloud.

…

“Geez. The end. I should have listened to Toko. This wasn’t worth the read at all,” Salvager gave a dry laugh, folding the paperback closed and tossing it up to the windowsill. “Well, whatever. Our nurse seemed to like it.” Earlier, one of Storm’s hired medical staff, there to check on Venom, had sat in for a few minutes to listen.

Listening to his reading was one of the nurses’ most peculiar interests, Salvager had noticed over the last few weeks. Well, listening to him slowly regain his voice was, anyway. Talking could be dangerous inside the Tower, so he’d simply stopped doing it. And, after seven years, he’d fallen almost completely out of practice. He was getting better now, though. “What did you think?”

“Wus… t-trrbull…”

“Huh?” Salvager turned sharply. “Venom?”

A few feet to his left, the light-haired man breathed heavily and only just managed to creak open an eye. “Th… buk… Not guhd….”

Salvager swept his legs over the side of his mattress, hobbling over to his friend’s bed. “Jeez. I didn’t realize you were awake for any of that,” he laughed. “How’re you feeling, kiddo?”

Venom sniffed, eyes sinking closed, and gave a slight head shake. “Tired…”

“Yeah, I’ll bet.”

“Can… yuhh… guh ‘way?”

“What? Go away?”

Venom sighed blearily, giving a barely perceptible nod

“Need some more sleep?”

Another nod.

Salvager huffed in amusement and knocked him lightly on the shoulder. “Okay,” he whispered. “See you later.”

“Th… thanks…”

…

Salvager had started a new book--a manga his dad had left for him--after waiting for Venom to fall back asleep, but must have been lulled off himself halfway through because, when Venom suddenly burst into sobs, he jerked awake, the graphic novel tumbling off his chest and spinning like a paper bird to the mattress.

“Venom!” he snapped, whipping towards his friend. Already, he was kicking himself out of bed. “Venom, what’s wrong?”

It took a second for his brain to catch up with his eyes and ears.

Venom was sitting up, and his blanket had fallen down to his waist. His arms, which now terminated a mere five inches from his shoulders, were raised, and he was staring at the bandaged stumps, bawling miserably. His chest shook with hiccups and a warbling rumble scraped out of his throat. Tears fell down his face, as thick as syrup rolling over the side of a jar.

Oh.

Salvager’s feet petered to a stop, stranding him only a yard from his friend’s side.

“I m-made a mistake,” Venom gulped, heaving and gasping, shaking his shortened arms in horror. “S-Salvager, I… I want… w-w-want--!” His voice broke off in a high-pitched hiccup and he slumped into his knees, sobbing fiercely, his shoulders shuddering, bobbing and shivering like pistons in an engine. “I shou-shouldn’t’ve…” he cried. “S-Salvager, I--!”

Salvager pointed to a spot by Venom’s side. “Mind if I sit there?”

The light-haired man choked off a sob just long enough to glance up, his scrunch-lidded eyes weeping out tears, and shake his head. His pale skin, seven-years divorced from the sun, was turning puckery and red, darkening like a rash over his face, ears, and neck. As a new shudder wracked his body, he collapsed back into his knees, his stunted arms folded against his chest.

Treading carefully, Salvager stepped up to the gurney and levied himself onto the mattress, lifting his knee atop the blanket for purchase. “Kinda scary, huh?” he whispered, reaching over and placing his hand against Venom’s back. He could try to reassure his friend now--remind him that Storm was making him a new set of prosthetics, that he’d only have to go without for a few days--but he didn’t think that kind of thing would comfort Venom now. I’ve actually never seen him cry before, Salvager realized glumly. Maybe it's the anesthesia or something, but… Dang, he’s really scared.

Leaning down, Salvager lifted his other arm and wrapped it over his friend, pulling him into a lumpy, awkward hug. Venom’s head of fluffed, shaggy hair bumped into his chest and his heaving shoulders set both their arms rattling. “It’s gonna be okay, man,” he whispered. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“I wuh-want my a-arms… m-my hands…”

“I know. This sucks. I’m sorry.”

“I-I should’ve just k-k-kept them. I made a mis-mistake…”

“You’re okay, Venom. Just breathe.”

“Salvager, I sh-sh-should’ve kept them…”

“It’s okay, man. It’s okay.”

…