Written for @amonthofwhump's March Madness challenge, bracket 2, tropes: stress position and defiant whumpee.
Rated: teen
Warnings: drugging
Pairings: none
Word Count: 2,131
Summary: Hiccup is drugged and captured by Viggo Grimborn, who ties him up in a terrible position and leaves him there for hours. Hiccup can only be untied if he gives away the location of the Dragon Eye lenses.
Hiccup’s legs were bent at the knee, and then his calves tied to his thighs. After that, his arms were wrenched behind his back, tied together tightly, and then also connected to the ropes on his thighs. Then, so that he couldn’t possibly sit to alleviate the stress and pressure from the position, his arms were tied to what was probably a hook in the ceiling or a rafter. All of this happened while he was blindfolded, and he was much too drowsy and out of it to make much complaint or protest. Someone had put something in his food or drink, he figured. That should have alarmed him, but the drowsy feeling was all-encompassing.
He couldn’t remember much of what had happened. He’d been with the Riders at a tavern in the Northern markets. They’d decided some beds would be nice for the night rather than camping out, and they’d needed a meal, so they’d gone there. It was a bit of a dangerous place, but Hiccup had felt fine with his friends around him. They would protect each other.
But they hadn’t. Maybe his friends had been drugged too.
Hiccup whined in discomfort as he began coming back to himself. All his weight was on the ball of his foot and his prosthetic, and by proxy his stump. And he was tied up like he was flexible, (which he was), but holding this position for a long while was cramping his muscles.
“You look delightful like this, my dear Hiccup,” came a familiar voice from the other side of the room. “If only you didn’t have your clothes.”
“Viggo.” Hiccup growled out his name. Of course it was him. He couldn’t just leave him alone, could he?
Footsteps as Viggo came up to him. The blindfold was abruptly pulled off, and Hiccup shook his hair out of his eyes, blinked against the light. It was coming from a few lanterns set up around the room. It looked like… a bedroom. Was he still at the inn? Why was Viggo doing this in a more public place?
“I see your confusion, Hiccup,” Viggo said. He pulled a chair up to him and sat. Oh, how Hiccup wanted to sit. He tried to, but that just pulled horribly on his arms, and he gave a small cry, then went back into the terrible position he’d been forced into. “Yes, we still are at the inn. I was renting a room for a few nights and saw you and your friends. My Hunters had no issue acquiring all of you. A few words to the cook and a sleeping draught was put into your drinks.”
“Where are my friends?” Hiccup snapped, meeting Viggo’s dark gaze. He was upset that Viggo had so much influence here, that he’d managed to get innocent people involved in this, doing his bidding.
“Oh, they have a room to themselves.” Viggo crossed one leg over the other. “I’m sure they’re much more comfortable than you are right now.”
Hiccup yanked on his ropes with every part of his body, found that they were much too tight. He groaned. He didn’t know how long he could hold this position, but that didn’t matter. He would have to hold it as long as Viggo wanted him to.
“What do you want?” Hiccup asked, exuding anger. Yes, he was angry. He was angry that his friends had just been trying to have a relaxing night and had now ended up like this, angry that Viggo had taken his friends, angry that he had so much influence, and especially angry that he’d left him in this pose. The only hope was that the dragons hadn’t been found. They’d told them to hide on the far side of the island and to not get into any trouble. But how would they know their Riders were in trouble? He couldn’t possibly look to rescue from them here.
“The Dragon Eye lenses you have in your possession,” Viggo stated, steepling his fingers together. “I’m missing quite a few.”
“Go suck a dick, Viggo. I’m not giving them to you.”
Viggo laughed lightly, shook his head. “Oh, I appreciate your defiance.” He stood, pushed the chair back. “If you need anything or change your mind, just yell.” He walked across the room, ruffled Hiccup’s hair as if in affection, then left. Hiccup heard the click of a lock.
Now that Viggo was gone, Hiccup tried getting out of his position. He twisted and tugged and pulled. All that did was increase the strain on his muscles, and he was left panting, head hanging down. The ball of his foot and his stump were hurting. His calves were burning as if he’d been running, and the tight rope across his thighs ached. He was tired still, but there would be no sleep now.
Hiccup was in for a long night if he didn’t want to give over the lenses, and, well, he didn’t. It was bad enough that Viggo had the Dragon Eye. It would be worse if he had all the lenses. He would hunt dragons down to extinction, just like he’d tried taking the last Buffalord. It was worth this pain and suffering, wasn’t it? Dragons weren’t some kind of mindless animal to be hunted for sport and money. They were intelligent creatures with their own ways of life.
So, Hiccup would take this suffering.
---
For a long time, he took it quietly. Sweat beaded on his forehead, dripped down over his eyes and onto the floor. He was breathing hard and all his muscles were on fire. He could take this. He could, he could!
After some time, quiet sobs began to leave him. He hadn’t imagined that simply being tied up could cause so much pain. His body was protesting so badly. If only he could sit, take the weight off of his foot and prosthetic.
Would Viggo let him out of this if he told him he’d say where the Dragon Eye lenses were? Or would he have to give the location before being untied? It crossed his mind to call for Viggo, but, he wouldn’t. He didn’t know how loudly he’d have to yell - he was probably just in the room next door.
Hiccup pushed those thoughts away. He wouldn’t yell for Viggo. He wouldn’t!
But, he and his body couldn’t keep this up forever. Eventually he was going to break. Let it be later than sooner, he figured. He had strength of will, and he wanted to show it.
Bit by bit, his will began to spiral down like water in a drain. The ropes and the position were becoming much too painful, and he was panting and crying; he just couldn’t stop himself.
“Viggo!” Hiccup yelled. “Viggo, please!” He wondered if his friends could hear him. He hoped not, but Viggo had probably set it up so that they could. He was sadistic like that.
Eventually, through his agony, Hiccup heard footsteps, then a key in a lock. The door swung open and Viggo entered.
“Hello, my dear. Get any rest?”
“Fuck you,” Hiccup spat, actually wanting to spit on him.
“Hm, and here I thought this would break you,” Viggo said. “Apparently you need some more time.” He began leaving.
“Wait, wait!” Hiccup knew he couldn’t take this anymore. Viggo stopped in the doorway, hand on the knob. “I-I’ll give you the Dragon Eye lenses.”
Hiccup could almost hear Viggo smirk in satisfaction. He came back into the room and closed the door. He came close to Hiccup, crouched down so that he was eye-to-eye with him. He took him by the jaw, forced him to look at him.
“Tell me where they are first.”
“B-back on the Edge,” Hiccup got out. Sweat trailed down his face, almost touching Viggo’s hand. He was trying so hard not to make any sounds of pain. He didn’t want Viggo to hear them. “In my hut. There’s a locked chest near my desk. Only I have the key.”
“And the key is…?” Viggo prompted.
“In my bags,” Hiccup said, bags that he was sure were with the rest of the Riders, bags that had probably been ransacked and searched through.
“Ah, so that’s what that key is for.” Viggo let go of Hiccup, patted him on the head. “Good boy.” Hiccup growled at the praise. He didn’t like it one bit.
There was a shing! as Viggo drew a dagger, and then he was slicing away at the rope connected to the rafter. Hiccup dropped down to the floor on his side, unable to halt his fall. He sobbed in relief now that the weight of his body was off his foot and his stump. But the ropes around him were still there, still too tight. Viggo knelt down to cut those off of him, and Hiccup couldn’t help crying with each braid of rope that was cut. He didn’t know what to do with his body once all the rope was gone. It hurt too much to move, so he lay curled there. The most he did was bring his arms forward, and that hurt his shoulders immensely.
“Come on up, Hiccup, my dear,” Viggo said. He put hands under his arms and pulled an unwilling Hiccup up to stand. Hiccup fell when he did, his foot and stump much to sore to hold his weight, and where he fell was right into Viggo’s chest. The man caught him, held him, and Hiccup didn’t know what to do. Viggo could keep him standing, but what was the point of standing if it was only by this man’s wishes?
With a grunt, Hiccup pushed himself away, and he collapsed onto the floor, more spread out than he had been before, his body screaming with every motion.
“Hiccup, I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t want help from you,” Hiccup said bitingly, glaring at Viggo through his tears. He tried crawling away, but his body protested, and he fell again. Oh gods, this was so embarrassing. He was so hurt he couldn’t even move. And Thor, he was tired. He just wanted to rest, somewhere far away from Viggo, if that was possible.
“Doesn’t matter,” Viggo said. He came up to Hiccup again, picked him up as if he weighed nothing. “Because you need it.”
Hiccup tried struggling in Viggo’s arms, but his muscles begged him not to. So, he stopped, and he let Viggo lay him on his back on the bed. He couldn’t help it, and moaned in pleasure and relief when his prosthetic was taken off. His boot was taken off as well, and Viggo sat on the bed, put Hiccup’s legs in his lap, and began rubbing at his foot. Hiccup gave him an odd look, one eyebrow raised.
Viggo chuckled, as if about to make a joke. “Aftercare is important, my dear. And besides, I have no reason to treat you badly now that you’ve told me where the lenses are. I’m not all bad.”
Viggo shook his head, but said nothing, continued massaging Hiccup’s foot. After some time of that, he reached for his stump, and Hiccup wanted to pull his leg back, but couldn’t.
“D-don’t touch me there.”
“I’m sure it’s sore, darling. Allow me to help you.”
Hiccup made a grumbling noise, but didn’t say anything. He was right about his stump being sore. Viggo rolled up his pant leg, then began massaging the scarred flesh. He inspected it too, as he did this, and Hiccup didn’t like his eyes on him there.
“Does this still cause you pain?”
“Sometimes.”
“Mm…” Viggo mused. “Now, where are your dragons? I’m sure they’re hidden somewhere on the island.”
Hiccup sighed. He’d already given away the Dragon Eye lenses, but he couldn’t give away their dragons.
“Promise me you won’t capture or hurt them,” Hiccup said.
Viggo looked him endearingly in the eye. “I promise.”
Hiccup closed his eyes, hating himself. “They’re on the far side of the island. Let us go to them. You’ll only scare them if you go with your Hunters.”
“We do have to escort you though,” Viggo said.
Fuck. Hiccup realized that. But hm, maybe there was a chance for escape. Once they got the dragons, they could fight their way out of there, and Hiccup would never have to give up the Dragon Eye lenses. He would have to have them moved of course, put on a different island for safekeeping. Maybe Mala would take them.
But all that could wait. For now, Hiccup was receiving what felt like a very nice massage, though it was coming from his greatest enemy. Terribly confused, hating everything and himself, Hiccup fell into unconsciousness.
“All the shadowed glimpses, scattered fingerprints align”
(Theocracy - The Master Storyteller)
~~~
For @amonthofwhump, March Madness challenge - bracket 2.
(you can also find this on Ao3)
Prompts: nightmare, choking | Ficlet | word count: 443 | rated teen
Fandom: Prodigal Son (Malcolm Bright, Gil Arroyo) | Gen
Warnings: see prompts, mentions of a knife wound, general topic of trauma
Thanks, @the-one-and-only-valkyrie for beta reading!
The invisible force of wrong and fear came to him through the darkness after all, entirely expected but still cruelly in the sense of the fact that there was nothing he could do about it.
The dark cloud swept over him like a wave made out of sticky oil, burying his subconscious in its grave, a bed he succumbed to eventually after a certain period of time, as much as he loathed and dreaded it.
Somewhere, in the back of his mind, he heard himself starting to whimper.
We’re the same, my boy.
Most of the time, the disembodied voice in his mind during the nightly hours of half-existing sounded like his father.
No one can hear you scream out here.
Sometimes, it sounded like John Watkins, angry but hushed voice echoing through a room underground that Malcolm was not in anymore, having recovered from the knife wound if not from the additional trauma.
It was a hell of a camping trip.
His subconscious scrambled to get away from the voices, whimpering turning into whining, his hands struggling against the bed shackles that were supposed to save him from further injuries, teeth biting the mouthguard hard, neck muscles straining. He threw his head around, wanting to escape the unmistaken feeling of doom and obliteration coming closer.
Its been too long, Malcolm.
“Hnng. No!”
An invisible weight suddenly settled on his chest, and on his throat, outgoawaywakeup filling his thoughts and his very being. He could feel his mouth falling open in a desperate attempt to suck in more air, the guard toppling out – but the cloud still surrounded him, sticky darkness holding him prisoner in his own mind.
The darkness had hands, fingers touching his mind, contaminating, poisoning him.
We’re the same.
The back of his head was pressing against the mattress under him, his lungs trying desperately to breath.
You’re going to die, Malcolm.
And you will be reborn as me.
He heard a yell, muffled and far away and close to his ears at the same time, and he distantly felt a light pain chasing through his wrists.
“Hey. Hey, kid. Calm down.”
Gil’s voice broke through the cloud of darkness like the sun in the sky did. He snapped back to awareness with another yell, blinking and snapping his mouth shut, his body becoming limp.
“It’s okay, Bright. I’m here.”
He stared at the ceiling, gulping and sucking in air – the invisible weight gone, leaving only a trace of dread and strain behind. A hand appeared on his shoulder, was gone a second later and reappeared on his forehead. Malcolm closed his eyes, concentrating on Gil’s cool fingers.
Emma, finally rescued from Sinister’s lab, begins her road to recovery. But, even while she’s freed, she finds that Sinister’s grip on her isn’t quite gone.
The mattress could have been the hardest thing in the world and Emma still would have found it comfortable. She sinks into it, feeling the pressure come off her body after so long spent either strung up or lying on a hard floor. Her joints don’t ache, her hip isn’t sore, and it doesn’t take long for her to fall asleep.
When she wakes next, the sun is beginning to set, and there’s an orange glow to her room. Emma sighs and closes her eyes again, having no intentions to fall back to sleep, but to instead lay contently in the shadow of the setting sun. One month. One month she’d spent locked up, away from the sun and any view of the outdoors. She hadn’t realized how much she missed it until the day she’d nearly escaped.
And then—
The sound of scissors at work echoes in her head. She cringes, tightening her still-aching wings against her back, pulling the blankets tighter around her. It’s a sound she can’t escape, and the feeling of a cruel hand taking a grip of her feathers. And with those comes the crushing knowledge that until she molts again—in one year— she can’t fly.
She can’t fly.
Can’t fly. Can’t fly. Can’t fly.
She’ll molt, eventually, she always does, it happens every year. But it’s knowing for that entire year she’s going to be grounded. Unable to join her teammates in the skies. And every time she thinks about why, she’s going to remember the sound of the scissors, the even snip snip snip as it ate through her feathers, Sinister’s tight grip, the toothed clamps biting into her wings.
Emma pulls the blankets over her head. All she wants to do it hide away for the next year, until her ruined primaries fall out and regrow. She doesn’t want the X-Men to see her like this, not shattered and grounded. Hank already has, when he cleaned and treated her wings and cleaned the blood off her face, and even one of the team seeing her is one too many.
Please, please make it stop.
It’s going to haunt her at every waking moment. It’s going to haunt her in her sleep. The sounds, the feeling, she’s never going to be able to forget.
She pushes herself further into the bed. Every inch of her body still aches, even with the pain medications Hank had given her earlier.
And then, a knock at the door.
Emma lets out a soft, strained sigh, reluctantly pulling the blankets down from over her head. Come in.
Jean slips through the door, gently shutting it behind her. “Hey.” She sits at the edge of the bed; Emma doesn’t mind. Jean’s quiet, gentle company is a welcomed change from what she’s had. “How are you feeling?”
Emma takes a breath and groans. She’s slept all night and well into the next day, but she still feels overly exhausted, like she could sleep the rest of today and into the next. “Tired,” she whispers. Her voice still feels raw, it’s still hoarse from her month spent screaming at Sinister’s hands. “Sore.”
“I’m so sorry you had to go through that,” Jean says softly. “To think that I’ve almost been there…” She shakes her head, wings fluffed, a haunted look in her eyes. “I would never wish that on anyone.”
And years ago, he was intent on using Jean Grey in his experiments. But we stopped him.
Emma remembers that. She sighs heavily. “Nor would I.”
“Emma—” Jean reaches for Emma’s shoulder; Emma flinches away. Too many violent, ill-meaning hands have been on her wings already, she can’t bear the thought of any more.
“Don’t—”
Jean draws away. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Emma says wearily. “But please, don’t touch me until I’m ready. I need to be...left alone.”
“Of course.” Jean pauses. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Not unless you can—” Emma stops herself. “No. No, thank you.”
And then they’re silent; Emma, watching as the sunlight in her room fades under cloud cover; and Jean, sitting quietly at the edge of Emma’s bed.
“Jean,” she says softly.
“Hm?”
“He clipped my wings,” Emma whispers. “I can’t fly.” A wave of nausea sweeps over her. She’s thought it so many times, had the thought rattle in her head and makes her sick in her heart and her stomach, but she’s never said it out loud. To hear the words out in the world for the first time is something else entirely. She closes her eyes, gulping.
For a moment, Jean says nothing. Emma imagines her wings are fluffed at the very thought.
“Emma, I’m so sorry…”
And then, after another, “Can I see?”
Emma opens her eyes, expecting to see some twisted kind of morbid curiosity in Jean’s eyes; as though her clipped wings are some kind of sick amusement. What she sees instead, is a kind of concern, wanting to see how bad the damage is, if there’s any hope of salvaging whatever’s left.
“If you must,” she whispers, and closes her eyes as she pulls the blankets down far enough to extend one wing. She doesn’t want to see what’s left, she doesn’t want to see what kind of damage Sinister had done to her wings. She’s already seen the bloody marks he’d left on her wings, the cuts and empty spaces where he’d ripped out feathers; she’d stopped looking at the new injuries after Sinister clipped her.
For a while, Jean says nothing. Emma doesn’t know if she should be relieved or terrified, if she would rather Jean be silent or not.
Then finally, the tanager lets out a breath and says slowly, “Are you...are you sure?”
Emma snaps her wing back, flinching at the pain that comes with the action. She opens her eyes, expecting a sneer on Jean’s face, but what she finds instead is...confusion. Genuine confusion.
And it lights a fire in Emma’s stomach. Didn’t Jean hear her? Sinister had clipped her wings. She can’t fly. Her throat scratches as she forces out her next words. “Yes, I’m sure, I--”
I felt him take a handful.
His harsh fingers digging into her wings as he took the scissors to her flight feathers. The snap as the scissors cut through the feather shaft.
She knows what she felt. She knows what she heard.
She shudders, curling tighter. Her voice lowers to a whisper. “I’m sure.”
“Emma, I--” Jean says, gently, but still confused, and sounding like she’s about to try to convince Emma of something. “I don’t doubt anything you’ve experienced in the slightest, but...but there’s no damage, Emma. All of your flight feathers are intact.”
Emma blinks. All of your flight feathers are intact. No. No, that can’t be, it can’t. Sinister had cut them, she felt it, she heard it, she knows what he did, and it was all because she had the audacity to try to escape. She rolls over halfway, wings tightly folded against her back. “They can’t be,” she breathes. “He cut them, I know, I—That’s not possible.” She knows what she felt, she knows what she heard.
“I know,” Jean says, and still, it’s so gentle, and it nearly drives Emma mad, “I do, but…” She shakes her head. “They’re all intact. I swear to you, Emma, they are. Not a barb out of place.”
“No,” Emma whispers. She pulls the blankets tight around her, shaking. It’s not possible. It’s not possible. He cut them, I watched him cut them. I felt it. I felt everything. How could that be? How could her flight feathers be perfectly intact? She knows what she felt, she knows when someone clips her wings, it isn’t possible, it isn’t, it can’t be, it—
Something occurs to her then, that wrenches her gut and brings tears to her eyes—and damn it, she doesn’t want to cry now, not in front of Jean— and she grips the pillow until her hand aches. She sniffs heavily, fighting to keep her voice in control.
“He’s— he’s a telepath, isn’t he?” Emma doesn’t wait for an answer. She buries her face in the pillow. He’s a damned telepath. I had that collar on—
“Yes.”
One word is all it takes. Emma sobs into the pillow, even as every breath she takes hurts her ribs and her shoulders. Sinister had never clipped her wings, had never been anywhere near them, but he’d made her think that, an illusion, from one telepath to the other, and she couldn’t tell because she’d had a power-dampening collar on.
“Oh, Emma. I’m so sorry.” She can hear Jean sigh and feel her shuffle closer, and all at once Emma wants her to stay and leave and get away from her— But Jean stays. She stays, and she rubs circles on Emma’s back, between her shoulders, and says nothing while Emma cries.
It’s not the revelation alone, it’s the month of pain and exhaustion and gnawing hunger and her failed escape attempt catching up to her. The realization that Sinister had made a fool of her—had put her under an illusion and let her spend the rest of her time thinking she would never fly again—that cuts her deeper than any scalpel.
And once Emma’s worn herself out, she lays there, sniffling and blinking stray tears down the bridge of her nose, still with an iron grip on the pillow. She can’t deny she’s grateful for Jean’s company.
The feeling she’s left with isn’t catharsis. It’s a deep, aching, heavy hurt. The kind that makes her chest tight. She’d been duped, and she’d let it happen.
But what she feels, more than anything, is betrayed.
“Don’t blame yourself,” Jean says softly. “It’s not your fault. You couldn’t have known.”
I know. But I wish I had. Emma takes a deep breath. The sun peaks back through her window, warming her face. A reminder that her freedom is here to stay, and so is the sun. And with that, and Jean’s help, she’s able to sit up at the edge of the bed.
Emma takes a tissue Jean offers her with a whispered “Thank you.” She wipes her eyes, blows her nose, and leans over, elbows on her thighs. Her body aches. The exhaustion comes back, tenfold. She’d like nothing more than to go back to sleep and wake up two days later.
“Why don’t you take a look?” Jean offers after a moment.
Emma’s wings feel heavier on her back. She’s not sure she wants to. “I don’t know that I want to…” What if Jean had been lying to her, too?
No. She would know it.
She looks up at Jean. “Stay with me.”
“I will.”
Emma braces herself. She’s stopped looking at her wings since Sinister supposedly clipped her, she doesn’t know what they’ll look like. Hank had bandaged and stitched every little thing he could find, more than Emma ever realized she had. Even if her wings aren’t clipped...they’re still going to look incredibly rough. She doesn’t know if she’s prepared for either of those things.
But she takes a breath, and slowly gingerly, mindful of the stitches and bandages, opens her wings, and one by one forces herself to look at them.
The feathers are stained pale red. Purple suture sticks out from underneath feathers. Awkwardly placed yet effective pads of gauze sticks out at odd angles, noticeable in the gaps between her feathers. The evidence of the very real damage Sinister had done is there.
What isn’t there, or rather, what is, are the tips of her flight feathers. Rounded and untouched, not even the slightest evidence of a pair of scissors having ever touched them. She’s missing one, one of the ones Sinister pulled for his catalogue, but that one will grow back, as will all the others she’d lost. But the rest of her primaries are there. There, and intact. Just like Jean said.
The tanager was right.
She leans into Jean’s shoulder with fresh tears. It’s not relief that makes her cry, not entirely, but a combination of relief and hurt. She hasn’t been clipped, she hasn’t been grounded. She can still fly. She can still feel the wind through her wings and the sun on her back. There’s nothing that will stop her once she’s fully healed.
She’d thought for so long she’d been clipped, and Sinister had let her think it for so long, just to keep her from running again. And that? That’s going to hurt her more than anything.
Klepto and Pyro belong to @commandalore-cody I hope I wrote them right.
Prompt: Stress Position
tw: stress positions
Hunter's muscles felt like they were on fire, and with how he was, maybe they were. Hunter let out another gasp of pain, muffled by the gag that had been tied around his mouth. He was panting heavily and was gasping again. Tears leaked out of his eyes involuntarily at the pain. Strands of his hair fall from his ear and Hunter saw that it was white. Strands of his hair had turned white. He closed his eyes in pain before snapping them open again. He couldn't afford to pass out. His head dropped again.
He saw boots enter his vision and a hand grabbed his chin, forcing him to meet the eyes of the man who forced him in this position in the first place. Atlas' face was twisted in a sick grin. Hunter could on gasp against the gag as involuntary tears dripped from his eyes and trickled down his face. He didn't want to cry in front of the enemy, but he could not help the tears that streamed down his face. Atlas laughed cruelly and flicked the strands of Hunter's hair that had turned white.
"I'm surprised you lasted this long," said Atlas, lazily before letting Hunter's chin go.
Hunter's head sagged down and he began to see spots. He hurt everywhere. He felt like he was floating outside his body as he's ears rung. His mind went blank.
They were almost there, Hippolyta could see the top. She flapped her wings and clutched her scythe as she landed on the top of the mountain. She found Hunter immediately. On one knee, holding Atlas' burden. He was shaking, gagged, and covered in sweat. He raised his head weakly, and Hippolyta could see that he was crying. Strands of his hair had turned white, and they clung to the side of his face. Lyta could tell Hunter could not stay that way for much longer.
"Atlas," Lyta snarled
Atlas turned to face her.
"Child of Thanatos," he greeted smugly.
Lyta lunged towards him while the bad batch plus Pyro and Klepto made their way up.
"Small fry, how to we get Hunter out?" asked Wrecker
"Hold on," said Lyta.
The teen attacked Atlas relentlessly, driving him until he was even with Hunter. After running a quick analysis in her head, Lyta swung her scythe and slammed it into Atlas' chest, sending him flying. He slammed into Hunter, knocking him out from under The World. Hunter tumbled away, his limbs visible shook and with her advanced eyesight, Lyta could see he was gasping in pain. Wrecker raced to his brother's side, while Atlas roared in rage.
Wrecker wrapped his arm around Hunter's shoulder and pulled him into his chest. He pulled the gag off with his other hand before wrapping his arm under Hunter's knees and lifted him up, carrying his bridal style.
"Let's get him out of here," said Lyta
"Aw, man I wanted to burn something," pouted Pyro
"You burned like six people on the way here," said Klepto, who was holding on tight to Pyro, as his sense (which he used to see since he is blind) were muddled.
"Well, yeah, but I wanted to burn more," said Pyro and Klepto just groaned.
"Later," said Lyta, "Let's catch a bus,"
The bus rolled across the pavement, and Lyta gazed behind her. Hunter was slumped semi-conscious, slumped against Wrecker. He still looked weak. Crosshair and Tech sat on the other side while Klepto and Pyro sat beside her. Klepto had the window seat, yet Lyta was confused as to why the blind trooper had chosen the window seat if he couldn't even see. The bus stopped as they arrived at Camp Half-blood. Wrecker carried Hunter while the others trailed after. Lyta checked out a few more times before following the clones through the barrier that protected camp.
Tw: whump of a minor, blood (implied), child abuse, Pong Krell, loss of limbs
Misago tried her best to do what her master told her, she really tried. He wasn’t happy with her or her progress. Why couldn’t he see that she was trying? She always struggled with anxiety and depression before she became Master Krell's Padawan, but it only seemed to get worse. She was on the floor of the training room, panting. Her vision swam and her wings ached.
"You stupid Padawan get up, your training is not done!" Krell snarled, towering over his Padawan.
Misago curled in on herself, fear in her eyes. She expected the hit, but that didn't mean it hurt any less. Misago whimpered as the hit slammed into her. She heard her master activate his saber.
She didn't really register the pain, but she did register the smell of burning flesh. Misgao glanced down numbly. Her right arm and wing were not longer attached to her body. Her vision went white as searing hot pain flared through her and she screamed.
After that everything was a haze. She was aware someone had picked her up, but she was unsure who. She was floating in a white world of pain. She knew there were tears coming out of her eyes and everything hurt. She closed her eyes and blacked out.
She woke up gazing at the pristine white ceiling of the medbay. She blinked her eyes. She moved to brush her hair away but nothing happened. She looked over and panic seized her. Her arm and wing were gone. Only a bandaged stump was all that was left of her right arm. She began to hyperventilate, eyes blown wide with panic. She shoved herself off the bed and slammed onto the floor. The noise summoned Yami as the medic raced over as Misgao curled into a corner.
“Ad’ika, hey,” Yami crouched down.
“My arm. M-my wing?” Misago gasped out
“Gone, kid, the General cut them off,” Yami said, not bothering to sugarcoat it for the young padawan, “The general contacted the temple, said you lost your arm and wing in an accident during battle. Their getting you some battle prosthetics”
“I-I, what, what, what,” she kept repeating “what” over and over again as her brain tried to cope with the trauma.
Yami took a seat in front of her.
“Hey, ad’ika, what are 5 things you can see?” asked Yami
“T-the bed, the medical e-equipment, you, the d-door, Specs,” Misago said, as Specs walked in.
“Good, 4 things you can hear,” said Yami, soflty
“The a-air conditioner, the medical stuff, S-specs’ footsteps, your breathing,” Misago gasped out.
“3 things you can touch,”
“The floor, clothes, the wall,” said Misago, her breathing wasn’t as ragged
“2 things you can smell,”
“The sterile smell of the medbay, shampoo,”
“Okay, good, 1 thing you can taste,”
“Iron,” whispered Misago
“You want a hug kid?” asked Yami softly and Misago nodded.
Yami pulled the small teen into a hug, holding her close and the small girl cried into his shoulder. Specs knelt down and placed a hand on the girl’s back and rubbed soothing circles. They stayed that way for a while.
