The Out
Prose about an injured OC.
Blue blinked, feeling the deep ache of unconsciousness tugging at his spine. The space behind his eyes felt heavy, pulling painfully at his already aching head. The details of where exactly he was and what exactly had left him in this state escaped him; the energy to care had also vanished. He floated in the limbo of damage, unsure whether to push back and aggravate the powers keeping him afloat.
There was certainly noise outside himself; somewhere amidst the blurry streaks people hurried about, outside the bubble Blue found himself in. It was a busy world. He faintly felt a jostling, as though he could really be a part of that business; it faded quickly.
So Blue hung there, fading in and out of awareness. The part that could formulate thought, close to dreaming, noted that the pain wasn't that bad, not really. It was annoying more than anything. He was so tired, and if that last nagging achiness could fade away, perhaps he could finally sleep.
The outside world had other ideas, of course. The noise only grew, and while there was no more sense of external touch, Blue caught his name once. His full name, really. Blue Fell. Weird for someone to say that. That could be a code word, coming from the right person. A small spark of worry dispelled the heaviness in his chest, creating a new, struggling pain. Unlike the other pain, Blue did not allow it to run its course. He rode it, trying to follow it to its destination in the outside. The sounds grew clearer, he could almost see the ceiling tiles above him.
However, there was a reason he was so tired, so heavy and disoriented. Nature won the fight, and before Blue could answer the call of the outside world, he slipped fully into the unconscious rest his body demanded.