Specimen 134 (dubbed: The Melting Man) was an unexpected entity the facility had gotten their hands on. Scientists of the facility had gotten ahold of a mystery substance, unknown origins or chemical makeup. But whatever the case, it was highly dangerous. Extremely corrosive and acidic and most things that touched it would end up quickly burned or melted. But at this state this was not the specimen, it hadn’t even been given a proper file… it wasn’t until a horrific accident involving substance and one of the research scientists. Dr. (REDACTED). Had come into accidental contact with the substance and quickly succumbed to it and vanished into it. Any attempts to retrieve any possible remains had failed… but much to the shock and horror of all of the research team. A new entity had emerged, one with shocking resemblance to Dr. (REDACTED). It had quickly gone on a frenzied attack before being detained. What was once a scientist, now a specimen to be locked away and studied. It has been a trial and error on making sure this particular entity remains properly detained due to its acidic substance, constant supervision of its surroundings is a must.
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I had been stuck on this one for so long, his wip taunted me so much,,, but I finally got some motive (as well as trying to distract myself) and knuckled down to finish it. Feel really bad for the poor guy, even though I think it’s great work by the end.
Boleskine House in late spring was almost gentle. The harsh Scottish winter had finally released its grip on the Highlands, and pale green unfurled across the moors in tentative waves. Inside, the fire in the great hearth still burned—more for comfort than necessity now—and the windows were thrown open to let in the sweet, earthy smell of heather and rain-soaked peat.
Lucy Page , as she constantly had to remind herself, stood at one of those windows, her hand resting on the swell of her belly, watching the light play across Loch Ness. At six months pregnant, she'd finally started to show properly—a gentle curve that Jimmy couldn't stop marveling at, his hands constantly seeking it out, his face lighting up whenever he felt the baby move.
She should have been happy. She was happy, mostly. But the headaches...
They'd started a few weeks after she'd learned she was pregnant. Small at first, manageable with rest and water. But as the pregnancy progressed, they'd grown worse. Sharper. More frequent. Some days she could barely lift her head from the pillow without the world tilting sickeningly.
But Lucy knew deep down, in the part of her that still bore the scar on her forearm, the part that woke sometimes in the dead of night with the taste of sulfur on her tongue, she knew.
He was coming.
Jimmy knelt by the record player, carefully placing the needle before returning to her side with a steaming mug of herbal tea, his green eyes soft with concern. He'd been so attentive these past months—almost obsessively so. Anticipating her needs before she voiced them, cushioning her with pillows, fetching her water, rubbing her feet when they ached. It was sweet. It was suffocating. It made her want to weep with gratitude and guilt in equal measure.
"Another one brewing, love?" he asked, his brow furrowed with concern, tracing a gentle line on her temple. His dark eyes, usually vibrant with life, were clouded with a quiet fear for her. "You get this look. Like you're somewhere far away. Somewhere dark."
She forced a smile, wrapping both hands around the warm ceramic. "Just thinking. About the baby. About... everything." She didn’t voice the deeper fear, the chilling, unspoken question that haunted her sleepless nights: what did this mean for the child growing inside her? What debt was finally being collected?
Jimmy set his own mug down and pulled her gently into his arms, his hands settling on her belly. "Everything's going to be fine," he murmured into her hair. "You're healthy. The baby's healthy. We're going to have a beautiful little—"
The pain hit like a lightning strike. Not a throb, but a searing, white-hot claw tearing behind her eyes, vicious and absolute. The gentle music warped, the firelight blurring into a violent, kaleidoscopic blur of red and orange. The mug clattered, unheard, to the stone floor, its contents splashing warm and forgotten. The room spun, threatening to pitch her into a black abyss. A gasp escaped her lips, choked and ragged, as her world tilted precariously.
Jimmy’s voice was a distant echo of alarm. "Lucy? What is it?"
But the words were meaningless. The pain consumed her, absolute and blinding. A blackness swallowed the edges of her vision, then the center. She felt the heavy, dizzying weight of unconsciousness claim her, her body slumping from the chaise, meeting the cold flagstones with a muffled thud.
"Lucy!" Jimmy's voice, sharp with panic, but it sounded so far away, muffled, like he was underwater.The thud was followed by the frantic scrape of Jimmy's boots on stone. He was beside her in an instant, his hands on her, patting, trying to rouse her. "Lucy, sweetheart, open your eyes! Are you alright? Is the baby alright?" His voice was a ragged blend of terror and desperate love.
Her knees buckled. She was falling, the floor rushing up to meet her, and then—
Nothing.
When Lucy’s eyelids fluttered, a heavy weight against her will, the pain was still there, a dull, throbbing presence behind her temples, but manageable now. Bearable. She was on the floor, the hardwood cool against her cheek, and someone was saying her name, urgent and frightened.
Lucy, please, love, please wake up—can you hear me? Lucy, the baby, is the baby—"
Jimmy. That was Jimmy. She blinked, trying to focus, and his face swam into view above her—pale, tear-streaked, terrified, his dark hair a disheveled halo around his pale features. He was crouched beside her, his hands hovering over her as if afraid to touch her, as if she might shatter.
"I'm—" Her voice came out hoarse. She swallowed, tried again. "I'm okay."
His hand moved to her belly, trembling. "Lucy, the baby—"
"The baby's fine." She could feel it—a small, reassuring flutter beneath her ribs.
And then she saw him. Standing behind Jimmy, just beyond his shoulder, as if he'd always been there.
Behind Jimmy, standing silent and impossibly still, was a figure that stole the very air from Lucy’s lungs. He was there. After all this time, a year and a quarter since her wedding, since her fragile peace had begun to knit itself together, he was back. And he was just as she remembered him: devastatingly, impossibly handsome, an unsettling grace in his stillness, his eyes like polished obsidian reflecting the fire’s hungry glow, holding an ancient, knowing malice. A tailor-made suit of the finest midnight blue draped his impossibly lean frame, a subtle sheen catching the light, his hands in his pockets, his expression one of amused curiosity.
Lucy's blood turned to ice. Her breath stopped. Every muscle in her body locked, rigid with primal, bone-deep terror. The fear that writhed on Lucy's face was not for her headache, not for the fall, but for him.
Jimmy, confused by the sudden, intense terror in her wide, unseeing eyes, followed her gaze. He turned slowly, his head swiveling, his body freezing rigid as his eyes landed on the exquisitely dressed stranger. "Who… who are you?" His question was a ragged whisper, laced with a fear he rarely showed, a fear that stripped away the rock star and left only a vulnerable man. Then Jimmy surged to his feet, putting himself between Lucy and the stranger, his body taut, protective.
The Devil's smile widened, slow and indulgent, like a cat watching a mouse puff itself up. "James Patrick Page," he purred, his voice smooth as honey. "The legendary guitarist. The mystic." His eyes glittered with dark amusement.
Jimmy took a step back, his hand reaching for Lucy, trying to pull her up, away. "Get out. Get out of my house or I'll—"
"You'll what?" The Devil's tone was conversational, almost friendly. He tilted his head, studying Jimmy like a particularly fascinating insect. "Call the police? Throw a punch? Please, do try. I could use the entertainment."
"Jimmy." Lucy's voice was barely audible, choked with fear. She was trying to stand, her legs shaking, her hand pressed to her belly. "Jimmy, don't—"
"Oh, Lucy." The Devil's attention shifted to her, and his expression softened into something grotesque—a parody of affection. He took a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze fixed solely on Lucy, ignoring Jimmy as if he were a nuisance. "Look at you. Even more beautiful than I remembered. Even more so now." His eyes dropped, lingering on the gentle curve of her belly. "And so successful." He began to walk toward them, each step measured, deliberate. His voice was a silken caress, full of honeyed venom. "An acclaimed composer. A rock star's wife. You've come so far from that broken little girl in Mississippi, haven't you?"
"Stay away from her," Jimmy snarled, moving to block him, but the Devil simply stepped around him as if he weren't there, his eyes never leaving Lucy.
"And pregnant!" The Devil's voice rose with delight, his gaze dropping to her belly. "How absolutely delicious. You're glowing, my dear. Motherhood suits you."
Lucy was shaking her head, tears streaming down her face. "Please," she whispered a desperate, raw plea that tore at her throat "Please, just leave us alone"
The Devil merely snickered, a low, guttural sound that raised gooseflesh on Lucy's arms. He bent, a predator closing in on its prey, his dark eyes never leaving hers. His hand, long and elegant, reached out. Lucy was paralyzed, unable to move, unable to scream. Her breath hitched in her throat as his cold fingertips made contact with the taught skin of her baby bump. An icy dread, colder than the deepest winter, spread through her, a terror that felt deeper than bone.
"Get away from her!" Jimmy roared, finally snapping out of his horrified stupor. Fueled by a husband's desperate love, he lunged, a wild, untrained attack aimed at the intruder. "Get your fucking hands off my wife!"
The Devil barely seemed to notice. With a lazy flick of his wrist, a surge of unseen force slammed into Jimmy's chest. Jimmy cried out, his body hurtling across the room, striking the opposite stone wall with a sickening thud before collapsing in a heap, gasping for air, and when he tried to rise, he couldn't—pinned by some unseen force, his limbs splayed, his eyes wide with terror.
"Mettle in my affairs, mortal?" The Devil's voice was no longer silken but a low, dangerous growl, echoing with ancient, primal power. "You'd do well to remember your place."
As Jimmy lay trapped, tears streaming down his face, clawing at the stone wall but unable to move, a horrifying clarity dawned on Lucy. Everything she had built – her marriage, her fragile peace, the hard-won sense of autonomy she'd carefully constructed – it all shattered around her like glass.
He didn’t want her anymore. He had been waiting. He had let her fall in love, let her believe she could have something pure, something untouched by him. And now, he had come for the one thing she couldn't sacrifice, the one thing that would twist her soul more than her own damnation – her child.
"No!" Lucy screamed, trying to move toward Jimmy, but her body wouldn't obey. She was trapped, a prisoner in her own skin, as the Devil turned back to her.
His beautiful face was shifting now, the mask slipping. The golden hair darkened, the smooth skin cracking like burnt paper, revealing something underneath—something ancient and terrible.
"You made your deal out of love," he said, his voice a low, rumbling growl. "You sacrificed yourself to save someone you cared about. Noble. Pure. Nauseating." His hand pressed harder against her belly, and Lucy whimpered. "But I'm not interested in your soul anymore, Lucy. I've decided I want something better. I've been patient. I let you grow up. I let you build this beautiful life. I wanted to see what you'd become. What you'd have to lose."
He pushed harder against her bump, and Lucy flinched, but she couldn't move—her body was frozen, paralyzed by some invisible force. His hand, cold as death, pressed gently against the swell of her belly.
"Your child," the Devil said, and his smile was a thing of nightmares—too wide, too many teeth. "Innocent. Untainted. A blank slate. So much more valuable than a broken little girl who sold herself for a man."
"Please!" Lucy's voice broke into a sob. "Please, take me instead, take me, I'm begging you, just don't—"
"Take you?" The Devil laughed, a sound like grinding bones. "I already have you, Lucy. Your soul is mine. Has been for years. But this—" His hand moved in slow, deliberate circles over her belly. "This is a bonus. A little interest on my investment."
"No!" Jimmy's voice, raw and desperate, from across the room. He was struggling against the invisible bonds, tears streaming down his face. "Please, God, please, don't hurt them, don't—"
"God?" The Devil's head swiveled toward Jimmy, his expression one of mocking pity. "God isn't listening, James. He never does. Not to desperate prayers. Not to broken people. That's what they never tell you in church—God only hears the righteous. The rest of you? You're mine."
"I know," the Devil said gently, almost kindly. And then his expression hardened. "But I don't care."
His hand, still pressed against her belly, began to glow—a sickly, greenish light that pulsed in time with her heartbeat. Lucy felt it immediately—a wrongness spreading through her, cold and invasive, like ice in her veins.
"No—" she gasped, and then the pain hit.
Lucy's eyes flew open wide, a silent scream trapped in her throat as a searing, impossible pain erupted inside her. It was not the pain of childbirth, not a natural agony, but a tearing, a rending of flesh and life itself. It was like nothing she'd ever felt—worse than the headaches, worse than anything she could have imagined. It felt like her body was being torn apart from the inside, ripped open by invisible claws.
The Devil’s smile widened, a true, horrifying rictus of triumph. His hand, still pressed against her stomach, plunged, ripped through her abdomen with an impossible, sickening wet sound, like cloth tearing and meat rending. Crimson blood blossomed violently on her shawl, soaking into the floor around her. His hand re-emerged, slick and dark, holding something small, still, and tragically perfect, shrouded in nascent blood and tissue.
In his grasp, impossibly, was something small and glowing—a faint, translucent shape, barely formed, pulsing with weak, faltering light. The soul of her unborn child.
"No!" Jimmy's voice was hoarse, broken. "NO! GIVE IT BACK! GIVE IT BACK!"
Lucy couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. She collapsed, her hands clutching her stomach, feeling the emptiness there—the sudden, horrifying absence where life had been moments before. Blood was spreading across her dress, warm and wet, and she was sobbing, great heaving gasps that tore through her like knives.
The Devil examined the glowing shape in his hand with clinical interest, then carefully tucked it into the pocket of his suit jacket, as if it were a business card.
"There," he said, his voice returning to that smooth, honey-sweet tone. "All done."
He crouched down beside Lucy, who was curled on the floor, shaking, sobbing, broken. He reached out and gently wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb, then brought it to his lips, licking the salt from his skin.
"Delicious," he murmured. "Grief tastes so much better than joy."
"Why?" Lucy's voice was barely a whisper, choked with pain. "Why?"
The Devil tilted his head, considering. "Because I can," he said simply. "Because you're mine. Because I wanted to see you break." He stood, straightening his suit jacket. "But look on the bright side, Lucy—your debt is paid. The contract is fulfilled. You're free."
"Free?" Lucy's laugh was a terrible, hollow sound. "You took my baby—"
"I took what was mine," the Devil corrected, his tone patient, as if explaining something to a child. "And now we're even. You gave me your soul. I let you live your life. And when the time came, I collected what I was owed." He glanced at Jimmy, still pinned to the wall, his face streaked with tears, his eyes wild with helpless rage. "You'll take care of her, won't you, James? She's going to need you. This sort of thing... it leaves scars."
And then, with a final, mocking smile, he was gone. The Devil was simply gone, taking the impossible weight of his malice and the terrible, fragile evidence of their unborn child with him.
Jimmy collapsed forward, the invisible force that had pinned him against the far wall releasing him with the suddenness of a snapped cable. He hit the carpeted floor hard, scrambling instantly toward Lucy. His legs were useless, his mind a howling void of panic.
“Lucy! Lucy, oh God, no, no, no!”
Lucy was a tableau of profound, unnatural loss. She lay on her back, her torso twisted slightly, her eyes wide and fixed on the ceiling where the shadows danced in the afternoon light. The blinding white intensity of the headache had been replaced by a searing, internal emptiness—a coldness that started deep within her abdomen and spread through her veins, chilling her soul.
The wound was impossible, yet horrifyingly real. Her maternity dress—the soft, floral fabric she had chosen that morning—was soaked in a crimson tide that blossomed outward onto the floor. There was no clean surgical incision, no natural rupture. It was a violation of matter itself.
Jimmy reached her side, his hands trembling so violently he couldn’t decide where to touch her. The sight of the gore paralyzed him. He couldn't reconcile the beautiful life that had been moving inside her just minutes ago with this sudden, violent absence.
Lucy focus remained fixed on the spot where the Devil had stood, the corner of the room now empty, but eternally stained by his presence.
Paid for. That’s what he had said. Her debt, secured by the soul of a life she hadn’t even met yet, was wiped clean. He had not offered a transaction; he had merely issued a receipt, paid in agony and blood.
She felt the residual warmth of the Devil’s touch fading on her cheek, where his finger had wiped away her tears before he licked them clean. That moment of intimate, obscene possession was perhaps worse than the physical violation. He had savored her grief.
A small, high-pitched whimper finally escaped her throat, not of pain, but of profound, existential abandonment. “He took him, Jimmy,” she whispered, her voice a dry rasp, barely audible over the rush of blood in her own ears. “The baby. He took him.”
He looked down at Lucy’s face. The fear was gone, replaced by a terrifying, blank resignation. Her eyes were not looking at him, but through him, seeing only the horror of the transaction.
“Lucy, we have to move. We have to stop the bleeding. Talk to me, darling, are you in pain?” Jimmy pleaded, his voice thick with tears. He gently tried to lift her head, terrified of moving her torso.
Jimmy, ripped off his shirt, a heavy linen garment, and folded it, pressing it against the worst of the wound, ignoring Lucy’s involuntary groan of pain.
“I have to get you to an actual hospital,” he said, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, operating purely on adrenaline and terror.
He slid one arm beneath her shoulders and the other under her knees, gathering her weight. Her body felt unnaturally light, fragile.
Lucy’s head lolled back against his shoulder.
Jimmy carried Lucy blindly toward the main entrance, his breath ragged, his only focus the car keys waiting by the door. He looked down at Lucy, whose eyes were finally closing, slipping toward the dark comfort of unconsciousness.
"Hold on, my love," he choked out, the words tasting hollow. He knew the debt might be paid, but the nightmare had just begun. The Devil had taken their son or daughter, but he had left them with something far more devastating: a life sentence of shared, unspeakable memory and a void that could never be filled. He had ensured that even if she survived, Lucy would never find peace, and neither would he. The price of her freedom had been the ultimate sacrifice, turning their marriage into a monument built on blood and eternal grief.
TW for Selfharm! (Delete the ask if it upsets you)
How would Yandere Technoblade react to a darling who self-harms regularly
Warnings: Yandere Themes, discussion of self harm, discussion of depression, suicide ideation mentioned, physical abuse mentioned
It'd upset him greatly. Its almost funny how different Techno feels about his darling getting hurt from him punishing them vs if they're hurting themself on purpose. It makes him rethink how he takes care of his darling. His physical punishments are nonexistent from then on and anything he thinks might be hurtful are left unspoken.
He already was careful to hide anything sharp before but now he's overthinking everything that they cpuld hurt themself with. What if they rub the rope hard enough to bleed? Yank on chains too hard and breal something? Similar thoughts about a lot of mundane house items too. In the end Techno alternates between vacating his darling's surroundings with potential tools to harm with and him supervising them while they use it. Also forces his darling to wear something on their hands like mittens since he doesn't want to.... you know. Consider taking their fingers if they pick or scratch at their wounds.
Techno always feel the worst when they get away with a chance to do it. Even if they are someone that tries to explain away that its cathartic, he knows its not good- take it from someone with too many scars to remember why he let them happen.
owan gave one last huff and leaned on her spear for support. She bent down and grabbed her magic focus from the flowers of the Menagerie.
Thank you, X'rhun.
A'quexta rushed over and started channeling aether into her, despite being winded herself. Rowan was too tired to stop her from doing so and accepted the magic. Khaliun, Thorsthal, and Lyse just sat stupefied at the events that had unfolded in front of them.
"He just... after all that effort, he just..." Thorsthal couldn't even finish his thought.
"I can't either," Lyse said, "But it's over now. Ala Mhigo is free."
"Is there a spare spear we can spit his head on?" Rowan asked coldly.
There had been a quiet after the group of them watched Zenos slit his own throat, but the new silence that took over the Menagerie was the sharpest Rowan had ever encountered.
Rowan looked to each of her friends. "Too drastic?"
"Too grisly," Khaliun shook her head, "Even for him."
"Rowan, you know we can't do that, right?" Lyse asked.
"Let the Thaumaturge's Guild take care of the body," A'quexta gave a look of concern.
"Right, right, I merely jest..." Rowan pulled herself up from the flower bed and turned away from the Garlean man's body. Mayhap it would be for the best that the disposal wasn't left to her.
i simply think it would be so sexy if y’all made tvd/flf verses because it takes place in the early to late 20s, includes gangs, spies, assassins, political groups, and other organizations and arts - and with some sci-fi aspects ( bugs that cause people to kill themselves into graphic, violent manners such as ripping their own throats out and chemical killings that ***FLF SPOILERS: turn people into mindless, controllable weapons)
Okay so yeah, instead of posting the entire fic (which isn't done yet because it's now almost 4000 words long and I have a problem) I've decided to just post the snippet that actually deals with the scene, to accompany my painting XD
I don't want the post to be too long in people's feeds, so it continues a bit more under the cut. Image ID can be found at the end! And you can check out my previous post to read another snippet :)
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“We’re not done yet.” Cody cautions Rex, “Keep your eyes o- General watch out!”
He watches in slow motion as a thermal detonator gets lobbed towards the General, right through the last few inches of space before the blast doors close with a hiss. Without thinking he pushes Rex aside, his training kicking in immediately, then twists his body to cover the General from the blast.
He feels it lift him off his feet. His vision flashes first white then black as he slams roughly into the ground. Distantly he can hear Rex yelling his name and what he thinks is Commander Skywalker. Pain lashes through him, his arm, his neck, but mostly his face. For a moment he thinks he’s gone blind before he realises that his visor has gone dark because his helmet is completely broken. It’s dented inwards so badly that he can feel the plastoid pressing against his cheek and forehead, the broken, jagged parts piercing his skin. He haltingly breathes in, lungs expanding painfully after having the wind knocked out of him by the blast. The movement causes pain to lash through his face and he feels warm blood welling up from the head wounds. But he’s alive. Kriffing hell he’s alive. And so are Rex and General Kenobi.
“Is he-?” he hears Skywalker ask, his voice thick with emotions Cody can’t quite place.
“He’s alive.” Kenobi says, much calmer, though there’s still something in his tone that betrays his tension. It confuses Cody in his dazed state. He simply did his duty, right? He protected his commanding officer. Now they should just leave him and get out of here.
But instead Cody feels the General kneel next to him, pressing two fingers to his neck to feel his pulse. He wants to reply, tell them that it’s fine, but even the tiniest movement causes the pieces of his helmet to shift and pull at his broken skin so he stays as still as possible.
“We need to get his helmet off.” Rex’s disembodied voice says and he feels someone put their hands on the edge of his helmet.
“Wait.” General Kenobi says, “I’ll do it. We don’t want to cause more damage.”
The hands leave his helmet. There’s the unmistakable sound of a lightsaber igniting and Cody squeezes his eyes shut as the hum of the weapon draws close to his face. He feels the weapon carefully cut through the outer layers of his helmet before it’s gently pulled away. He groans as the broken pieces of plastoid and his visor are dragged free from his skin.
He blinks at the harsh lights, the General slowly coming into view in front of him, Rex hovering close behind. Around him the others are taking stock of their ammo, looking for possible escape routes or checking on their injured brothers. Skywalker is on the opposite side of the room, studying the walls for who knows what. Freed of his helmet Cody can think a bit more clearly and a quick check tells him that his face has taken the worst of the blast. His arm and his neck hurt too, but nothing seems to be damaged too badly. He slowly pushes himself into a sitting position, still blinking as blood starts to drip into his eyes.
“Are you alright, Cody?” General Kenobi asks, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder and Cody almost shrinks away at the touch. He’s not used to this kind attention, he should just get up and get moving. Walk it off like the trainers used to say.
“Yeah.” He says instead, still a bit dazed, “Yeah, I’m okay, sir.”
The General doesn’t move his hand, instead he moves even closer into Cody’s personal space and stares intently into his eyes for a few moments. Kenobi's eyes are green, Cody absently notices, as he does his best to hide his anxiety at the sudden close proximity.
“You don’t seem too concussed.” Kenobi says, a note of relief in his voice, then moves back a little and offers him a hand, “Can you stand? We can’t stay here.”
Cody nods, taking the hand and pulling himself up. His head is pounding and his balance needs a second to adjust, but at least he’s standing. A bit forlornly he casts a look at his helmet, which is currently laying on the ground in two separate pieces.
“Here, let me help you clean that up.” Kenobi offers, ripping a strip of fabric from the bottom of his tunic. He grabs Cody’s shoulder again and lifts the cloth up to his face. Cody stands stiffly, his hands curled into fists and his eyes scrunched shut as the General tries to stem the worst of the bleeding.
“We’ll have to spray it with some bacta as soon as we can.” Kenobi says, and Cody opens one eye to see him looking over his shoulder, searching for his Padawan.
“Anakin,” he calls, “I think now would be a good time for your grand plan to get us out of here.”
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Image ID: [A painting of Star Wars characters Obi-Wan and Commander Cody. Obi-wan is dressed in his outfit from the first season of the Clone Wars. Cody is wearing his Phase I armor, minus his helmet. Cody is standing with his face and body angled towards the viewer. He has several gashes on his face, all bleeding heavily. He has his eyes scrunched shut in pain. His hands are curled into fists by his side. Obi-Wan is standing half in front of him, his back towards the viewer. He has his left hand on Cody's shoulder and in his right he has a piece of cloth ripped from his tunic, held close to Cody's face. He is looking in concentration at Cody's face. Behind them is a blurred ocean view, seperated from them by glass that has cracks in several places. The light from the water bathes both the characters in a soft blue light. End ID]
