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May 12, 2025

a/n; hello again I’m sorry I have the posting schedule of the creature from jeepers creepers 😔 back to our regularly scheduled story progression

this is actually 2 parts put together so kindaaaaa long & rambling but I took so long to get here that I figured some actual real progression was in order

(I think this is a Really Fun One but I also have a bit of a thing™️ for silas being sad and severely unwell 😀)

word count: 6.2k

tw/cw; human weapon whumpee, self harm, traumatic brain injuries, amnesia, lobotomies, captivity, rape/noncon, psychological torture, skinning, gun violence, sexual violence, misgendering, gore, military whump, mentions of bodily fluids

Seven is haunted by somebody he doesn’t remember.

Often in various states of undress.

It’s hard to explain how deeply uncomfortable it makes him. He thinks they have to be memories, dredges from his past life, at least something close. His conscience, maybe. He thinks he must’ve done something horrible to this person. He thinks he’s figured it all out.

For a long time, he’s been alone in this grey room, only his nightmares and vivid hallucinations to keep him company. He has a grey mattress, pushed up against a grey wall, wrapped in grey sheets he’d since sweat and bled through and that hadn’t been changed, not ever, not once. He pisses in the corner.

He hadn’t been able to figure out why he’s here — he doesn’t fuckin’ remember anything useful. He’d had a field test, a practice in slaughter, but he had failed to kill somebody he hadn’t recognized, somebody that remembered him from before.

Mercilessly, Seven is being punished for that. He’d been stripped and caned afterward for his failure, for failing to clear the enemy, but then he was closed in this grey room, this cell, and left by himself. For a long time, the flurry of doctors and surgeons coming and going to poke and prod and hurt him had been relentless. Seven has now been alone longer than he’d ever had people around him.

He thinks. Can’t really know for certain. The lights turn on and off, night and day, but the time between seems erratic, irregular, but even that’s hard to say. Time passes differently when he’s alone.

It had seemed like a stark overreaction to not kill one guy one time. He’d killed everybody else he’d ever been ordered to. In the short time he remembers, he’d killed a lot. He killed obediently. He didn’t kill Hat or whatever his name was, and that’s it? Discarded?

Then the nightmares had started. The hallucinations next. Now, Seven thinks he’s figured it out.

For a long time, it was just colours — splashes of blood, the inside of an opened abdominal cavity. He’s only ever been haunted by a single person, and he doesn’t know who he is. Sometimes, he sees him in grey, but it’s always Seven’s grey, Seven’s sweatshirts, too small for him because everything is too small for Seven but too big for whoever he’s imagining. It’s never made sense to him; when was somebody ever with him? Somebody without greys of their own? Somebody that small?

He didn’t belong here, whoever he was. He looked out of place before the backdrop of Seven’s grey room, even wearing his greys. He’s beautiful in a way that makes Seven squint when he looks at him. He’s beautiful in a way Seven finds strangely, deeply unsettling.

Except it has nothing to do with his beauty at all, it’s some other kind of instinct, a part of Seven that must’ve remembered what he’d done. Because he doesn’t see him in grey much anymore, he’s usually mostly naked, short skirts and stockings sometimes, and he’s always bleeding and he begs for help. Sometimes, for days at a time, he begs for help.

Slowly, it started to make more sense. Seven kinda started to put the pieces together. They don’t know he thinks, but he does, and he’s getting better at it the more that he tries. It makes sense. The way the nurses, the doctors, the soldiers always looked at him, watched him, flinched when he moved too quick or got too close. Why he’d been locked away in the first place, trained for slaughter. Why he’s locked up so tightly now.

He thinks, before, he was one of them. A soldier, probably, because that soldier from the field test had remembered him. Called him by name, but Seven can’t remember anymore what it had been. He thinks, during his time as a soldier, he did something horrible, something he doesn’t want to think about, something that’s coming back to haunt him now that he’s alone and has nothing else to do but think. They’d tried to wipe him clean after, make him some sort of monster, keep him of use to them somehow. Then he’d failed that test.

At this point, he isn’t sure why they haven’t put him down yet. That’s obviously where this is tilting. He’s a danger to the people around him, and he isn’t of use to anyone else. What else could they do with him?

He spends a lot of time beating his head into the grey concrete wall, trying to quell the thinking. It doesn’t work. Behind him, whoever he is, waves of white hair and big, sad eyes, cries out to him for help, and Seven doesn’t know how to help him. He doesn’t want to remember what he did.

The hallucinations don’t always touch him, but sometimes they do. Sometimes, he grabs at Seven’s ankles, his joggers, clinging to him, pleading with him. Once, he’d put a small hand at Seven’s back and said softly, “what are you doing?”, rocking up on his toes to try to reach up and put his hand between Seven’s head and the wall. For some reason, obediently, Seven had leaned into his touch. His gentle hand on Seven’s face had made him throw up all over himself. Later, he’d discarded his shirt in the piss corner. Since, the ghostly touch on the bare skin of Seven’s back has made him sick every time. He should’ve kept his shirt on, filthy or not.

He’s filthy either way. The room is filthy. He still thinks of it as being grey, but he can’t say there aren’t splashes of colour now, grime and filth and Seven’s different bodily fluids. It’s probably beyond help. Maybe Seven is, too.

Maybe that’s why they left him here. Maybe they don’t have the heart to kill him — maybe they’re too afraid. Maybe they’ve left him to rot.

Standing guard outside the armoured door, since Seven had reached through the meds slot with a shaking hand to gouge out the eyes of whoever was closest, is a pair of soldiers that Seven doesn’t recognize, but that knew him from before. He knows they did, they must have. They taunt him with a sort of familiarity, they reference things that Seven doesn’t know. They call him the dog — what the fuck is a dog?

They loiter outside Seven’s room day in and day out. Sometimes, they pull open that slot between them just to taunt him. They’re braver than a lot of the other soldiers have been — cocky. Being braver, though, doesn’t necessarily make brave, and they still won’t look him in the eye. They lock that slot as soon as Seven gets too close. They’re afraid of him, too, but they have a dislike for him in almost the same quantity, a dislike that extends far beyond the reaches of what Seven can remember. Did they know the blonde, maybe? The one that haunts Seven? Have they never been able to forgive him for what he did?

Not that they would tell him either way, but he wishes he could ask. For some reason, he can talk to the man that haunts him and nobody else. He suspects it’s because it’s not real, that he’s hallucinating it like he is everything else. Sometimes, in the rare moments he’s by himself, when the room is empty of ghosts, he’ll thump himself on the chest with his fist and try to force words out. It never works. It’s probably, Seven suspects, because the problem isn’t in his chest, it’s in his brain, or whatever fistful of meat he has trying its best between his ears. It doesn’t fire right, whatever it is, it doesn’t work like it’s supposed to. A part of it was left behind in a time Seven doesn’t remember, and he’s getting fucked as it comes back to him now.

He cracks his head into the wall again. Behind him, the ghost sobs. He has a cry that makes the inside of Seven’s chest feel cold. But then he takes a deep breath, and he says, “I’m sorry,” in the smallest, saddest voice Silas had ever heard. “I’m so sorry.”

And that’s weird. Who is he talking to?

Slowly, Seven peels the split, thin skin of his forehead off the wall.

However reluctantly, he turns. Immediately wishes he hadn’t.

Across the room, Seven is sitting on the floor, slumped back against the far wall. Except Seven is standing right here, so that doesn’t make any sense. He can’t remember if he’s ever hallucinated himself from the outside before, but it’s heavier, for some reason, it makes him sick in a different, claustrophobic sort of way. His skin crawls.

He’s sitting, slumped against the far wall, head tilted back and chest hitching as he drowns in his own blood. The ghost has both his hands over Seven’s opened throat, trying to quell the bleeding that’s seeping out from between his thin fingers like ink. A wasted effort, anyway, because Seven can see his intestine spilling out from the hole that had been ripped in his sweatshirt. The ghost is covered in blood — Seven’s?

Did Seven die? What the hell?

It doesn’t make any sense. What happened to him? He looks a lot the same as he does right now, in real time, still a freak. Does that mean he was a monster, too, before all of this? They hadn’t changed him because whatever he’d done?

What had he done? What the hell is he?

The ghost is trying to stop the bleeding and Seven is watching himself die. His hands are shaking — blood loss? Or had he carried that with him from before, too?

What happened to him?

What is he?

He watches, across a whole other lifetime and just a couple of feet, as he lifts a trembling hand, huge as it touches the cheek of his ghost. Then he does something weird with his hand, crosses the tip of his thumb and his index finger, and the ghost makes a sound that raises the hair on the back of Seven’s neck. Turning away, he looks back at the wall and a pain he doesn’t recognize throbs in his chest as the ghost cries for him at his back. The world, as he had been building it up, crumbles around him.

Seven’s always been a freak and he died once in the arms of a ghost that now haunts him. How could he be the ghost when Seven’s the one that died? Why is he being tormented by somebody that had mourned him with his blood on their hands?

What happened to him?

He beats his head back into the wall. The pain of the impact distracts from the pain behind his eyes as he tries so hard to remember. How can he not remember? What did they do to him?

Except he must remember, at least a little bit. It’s trapped in there somewhere and it’s coming back to haunt him, fighting tooth and nail to get free. It doesn’t want him to forget.

Why not? What does it fuckin’ matter? Why does Seven need to watch himself bleed to death? What does it mean?

Why is he here?

A small hand touches his back and the warmth of it is so real. Too suddenly, he whirls around to face it. Across the room, his gutted corpse and the ghost grieving him are both gone. Instead, the ghost is standing close at Seven’s side. His hand had been warm on Seven’s bare skin. He’s cleaned of Seven’s gore, dressed, instead, in a set of his hospital greys, rolled up at the wrists and the ankles. His hair is loose around his back and his shoulders, a sheet around him so white it sort of makes him glow.

He’s so beautiful. Whatever he is, whatever Seven had done to him in his past life, he’s stricken in this one by just how beautiful he is. He’s never doubted that his ghost is real, a memory from a part of his brain that’s trying to remember, because there’s so way Seven could ever have imagined, on his own, somebody that looks like this. He’s so beautiful Seven can’t make sense of him. And, sleepy, he smiles up at Seven, keeping one of his bare hands on his skin.

“Come back to bed,” he says softly.

He’s so beautiful that Seven can’t understand why looking at him makes his head throb behind his eye. He doesn’t remember him so he can’t understand why his gentle touch makes Seven’s skin crawl and his stomach turn. What else could it be if it isn’t guilt? What could Seven have done to him?

“Come on,” his ghost says softly. With one of his small hands he takes one of Seven’s and Seven swallows so thickly something clicks in his throat. “Come to bed with me.”

This can’t be a memory. He can’t have shared his bed with Seven. Why would he have? Something so beautiful and so human. How could he have trusted Seven like that? How could Seven have hurt somebody that trusted him like that?

Blood trickles, warm, down the side of Seven’s face. “What did I do to you?” He asks, thick around the lump in his throat. He doesn’t think he really wants to know but he asks anyway.

The ghost squeezes his fingers and his touch feels too real. He smiles up at him and Seven has to look away. “I’m fine,” he promises softly. “Come back to bed, Seven.”

Seven’s ghost has a strange, syrupy sort of accent. It’s unlike anything Seven had ever heard, just as surreally beautiful as his eyes and the lines of his collarbones and the shape of his fingers. Seven’s been certain he couldn’t have imagined it because he couldn’t have thought it up, had never heard anybody else speak in the same way his ghost speaks.

Except when he says Seven. It makes Seven lift his head again. He sounds different, wrong, and for a moment, Seven doesn’t know why.

He looks into the wide, dark eyes of his ghost and cold prickles at the back of his neck as he realizes he’d said it without his accent. Seven. He’d said it without any of the sugar or syrup.

Seven has his first real memory. The first one he’s really confident about.

“You never called me Seven.” He couldn’t hear how his name sounded in the ghost’s accent because he’d never heard it before. He never called him Seven. He didn’t know Seven.

The ghost smiles up at him again. His eyebrows pull together in the middle, pretty and confused. “Why would I call you Seven?”

Across the room, his ghost whispers, “leave me alone, Seven.”

Except he says it wrong, because it wasn’t Seven. It was —

He lifts his head and the warmth of his touch vanishes from Seven’s hand because the ghost is slumped against the far wall, head tipped back against it. He’s wearing a skirt that’s too short, fingers twisted into the hem, knees splayed so Seven can see the trails of blood tracked down the insides of his thighs. He tries to close his knees as Seven looks down at him and it looks like it causes him a lot of pain.

“I’ll be fine,” he says, but his voice is so small.

Is this a memory? Is any of this? “What happened to you?”

The ghost sniffles, wiping his bleeding nose with the back of his hand. “I’m fine,” he repeats. “Leave me alone.”

Clearly, he’s not fine. In the short time Seven’s spent looking across the room at him, blood has started to pool on the concrete between his legs. “Did I do this to you?” He rasps, even if he doesn’t really want to know.

“What?” He says. Tears spill over his cheeks as he looks up at Seven, eyelashes clumping together, and he doesn’t look real. This can’t be a memory because this can’t be real. How could Seven have done this?

Of course, Seven knows how he could’ve done this. With ease Seven could’ve done this. All he does is hurt people. Maybe that hadn’t been any different in his last life.

Then why did they bring him back? What more could they want from him? Why are there so many parts of him that want so desperately to remember? “Did I hurt you?” He asks, and his voice is so rough he doesn’t recognize it.

The ghost sniffles, trying to wipe his eyes again with the hem of his buttoned shirt. It almost looks like he’s wearing a uniform. His skirt is short, indecently, but it’s the same black material the soldiers' uniforms are all made from. His shirt is the same black buttoned shirt as their formals, except his is pulled open, tangled around his upper arms like somebody had tried to pull it off of him. Had Seven tried to pull it off of him?

But the ghost says, “what are you talking about?”, and his pale eyebrows scrunch together in the middle. “You wouldn’t hurt me.” He wipes his bloody nose again with his sleeve. “You know that.”

Does he?

Seven feels himself sway on his feet as the room spins quickly around him again. The world is pulled out from under him for a second time. He didn’t hurt him? Then why is he haunting him?

While Seven’s pulse beats in his ears, the ghost says, from his right, “Seven?”

Seven can barely hear him. He’s too aware of his own heartbeat and he doesn’t know why finding out he hadn’t hurt him felt the same in his chest as being hunted. He turns his head slowly, feeling so much of something that it’s too much and he’s almost numb. What’s going on? Why won’t it stop?

From the edge of his bed, the ghost looks up at him. His hair is pulled into two, neat braids and his dress is short and ruffled, demeaning. White socks pulled up over his knees, he sits on the edge of Seven’s bed with his ankles crossed and looks up at him with wide, shining eyes. He looks towards the door around Seven’s arm before looking back up into his face, a flush starting to bloom across the bridge of his nose.

“What are you doing here?” He asks.

It’s a hard question to answer. He doesn’t even really know.

Before he can even try to guess, his ghost tells him urgently, “you have to go.”

“What?” Seven says.

“He’ll kill you if he finds you here,” he breathes.

Seven turns quickly towards the door. “Who?”

The door is closed, of course. Armored and bolted. Seven, really, is alone in his cell, losing his mind in the dark, filthy and probably dying. Instead, he sees his ghost again, curled on the floor like he had collapsed just inside the door.

He’s naked but his skin is hardly bare, pale flesh gone black and red and purple with bruises and welts and bite marks. His head is down, his hair flowing around him, matted and turned pink with blood. His hands are tied behind his back, his shoulders pulled at an angle that looks painful and hitching irregularly as he sobs.

Seven staggers back and collides with the wall, closer than he had expected. If he didn’t do this, why does he have to keep seeing this? What is this?

Who is this?

Standing over him is a soldier Seven doesn’t recognize. He’s a big guy, tall and broad shouldered, bearded and dark haired, his uniform decorated with a large number of pins and patches and badges. He looks between Seven and his ghost and as he does, his lip curls in a snarl. Quiet and lethal, he realizes, “you’re fucking the dog.”

He laughs as he looks at Seven again, but it isn’t a humorous laugh. There’s something a little deranged to it. “Bad girl,” he scolds, clicking his tongue, and as Seven watches he tilts his face down and spits onto the ghost’s back. “I thought you were better than this. The fucking dog,” and he spits on him again before he looks at Seven.

Instantly, it makes Seven’s skin start to prickle. Something in his stare starts to reopen old scars, eating away at raised flesh like acid. What does it mean?

“And you,” he says to Seven, his voice like ice. “You ugly fucking mutt. Your girlfriend’s a whore.”

What the fuck is this?

Seven looks at his ghost, shivering at the soldier’s feet. There’s a bruise at his rib cage that looks like a handprint.

The soldier says, “now you get to watch how well she takes my cock.”

Seven hits his head against the wall. Puts his weight into it.

Pain throbs behind his eye but the hallucinations don’t slow down. A soldier is standing in front of him.

It’s a different soldier, that one from the training exercise. The one that Seven had hesitated to kill.

He smiles up at him, wavy brown hair and crinkles by his eyes that imply he isn’t a stranger to smiling. He isn’t wearing the uniform Seven remembers him in but his own set of prison greys.

What was his name? He said it to Seven. He recognized him.

He doesn’t look up at Seven with even a hint of fear — if he were even a little afraid, Seven would be able to smell it on him. He isn’t a stranger to people being afraid of him. That’s been his entire life, as far back as he can remember. Even the soldiers, always putting on brave faces, hands steady as they point their guns at Seven, stink of fear when they get too close.

Not this guy. He smiles up at Seven like he smiles all the time, like it comes naturally to him. He says, enthusiastic, “nicely done, big guy!”

Seven looks down slowly, at the intricately folded paper cradled delicately in one of his calloused palms. He has no idea what it’s supposed to be. Couldn’t even begin to guess.

“Aww,” the soldier says. “He’s gonna love it, dude.”

“What is it?” Seven asks, looking down at the crinkled folds of paper and back up at the soldier.

His eyes twinkle as he says, “tell him you made him a paper wren.”

Seven sees white. A flash of light behind his eyelids not unlike being shot in the face, but he doesn’t know why or where it comes from and staggers back, just a step, before that white heat bursts in his gut, too, and he vomits.

When he lifts his head, the soldier is gone and he’s looking at himself again, another version of himself he doesn’t recognize. His hair is knotted at the nape of his neck and there are lines carved out of his cheeks by his mouth as he smiles, embarrassed, at his ghost.

“A wren,” he says.

The little ghost gasps quietly, cradling that folded paper in his hands like it was something precious. “A wren,” he breathes, and Seven’s stomach turns violently. “You made this?”

“For you,” Seven says.

The ghost looks up at him, still so carefully cradling the paper bird, and the look he gives him makes Seven, from the outside, feel like he’s watching something that he’s not supposed to. That he’s intruding on something private.

Quickly, he looks away. Too quickly, he looks away, and the room turns with him, knocking him off balance. His back hits the ground with enough force to knock the wind out of him and when he blinks dazed light out of his eye and looks up he’s looking into the barrel of a gun.

It’s that same soldier that hurt him and his ghost. His hand is steady and his finger is poised on the trigger.

“You,” he says, “have been a very bad dog.” He keeps the gun pointed into the eye socket that Seven has always known to be empty. As far back as he can remember, he’s only ever had one eye. Is this how he lost it? Is this a memory?

Who the fuck is this guy?

Crouching at Seven’s side, he tells him, “for your disobedience,” soft and private, “I am going to put you down. Then,” and he smiles, an unnatural smile, one that doesn’t reach his eyes, “I’m going to make your whore girlfriend suck your blood off my fingers as I spread her open and fuck her over your ugly corpse. And I will not be gentle with her,” he tells him, just as soft but severe, a promise. “She will be begging me to stop.”

Not quite a memory, but an instinct, that same one that was making his skin prickle before, an anger he must have carried with him from his last life even if he never quite realized he was still holding it. Seven doesn’t remember this guy but he remembers how much he fuckin’ hates him. He remembers this for certain.

He reaches for him.

He gets shot in the face.

For a second, the pain is unbearable, indescribable, and just as quickly it’s gone. After being shot at point blank range, Seven feels the pressure in his face and tastes the gunpowder in his throat and then his concrete prison comes back into focus and he’s sitting with his back against the wall.

His hair is sticking to the sides of his throat and he doesn’t know if it’s with blood or with sweat. Both, likely. His chest is heaving and his hands are shaking, but his hands are always shaking and he twists them into the filthy material of his joggers in frustration. Uneasy and unpleasant, his heartbeat thunders in his chest and the side of his throat. To try and slow it, he throws his head back into the concrete wall as hard as he can.

He wants it to stop. How can he make it stop?

He doesn’t want to know. Not anymore. Not if it feels like this.

He hits his head again with a force that makes his teeth rattle. Even in the short span of lifetime he remembers, all he’s known is violence. Violence, and this lonely grey room. He’d maimed and mutilated, dismembered and decapitated, crushed and carved. He’d been shot, stabbed, skinned. He’d bled and been beaten to death. He’d died.

It’s never felt like this. Every time Seven has died it’s been bloody and brutal and miserable, but it never felt like this. Never. Something he doesn’t recognize expands in his chest, pressing so hard against the inside of his ribcage it feels like it might push it right through his flesh. Restless, it thrums beneath his skin.

Seven lives and breathes carnage. Whatever happened to him in his past life, whatever he might’ve done, whatever it is that he doesn’t remember, does it matter? In this life, in the one that Seven knows, he sits alone in the dark and pisses in the corner until it’s time for him to hunt. Seven is good at killing, but that’s all he’s good for. Whatever he might’ve been is gone. Whoever that soldier had seen, the one he hadn’t been able to kill, that isn’t who Seven is, not really. He doesn’t even have a fuckin’ name.

He isn’t smart. There’s a part of his brain that remembers something, that is trying so hard to tell him something, but Seven is too goddamn stupid to figure out what it is. Seven is so goddamn stupid that it hurts the more that he tries, not just the useless meat that passes as his brain but in his chest, in his heart and his lungs. The more he tries to think the deeper the pain settles, an infection that’s spreading, that’s making him weak. The only thing Seven has is slaughter and trying to remember is taking that from him, too. He wasn’t even shot, not really, he’s losing his mind alone, but his throat still sticks as he swallows like he’s scared. Fuckin’ scared.

He wants it to stop. How can he make it stop?

He hits head again. He can feel his scalp split against the concrete.

In his past life, the door to his cell is opened.

That same soldier enters, the one that had shot him. Seven’s reaction to him is visceral.

It’s that same instinct, the one that might be a memory, the same one that made Seven reach for his throat. It isn’t fear. That horrible, helpless feeling is quelled as soon as the door grinds open, washed away by the fury that rises in him like a fever. He might not remember this guy, but his hatred for him transcends what Seven remembers. He hates him so completely it isn’t in his brain but carried with him in the marrow of his bones, interwoven into his altered DNA.

Slowly, Seven tips his head back against the wall, lip pulling away from his teeth.

From just inside the door, from safely outside reaching distance, the soldier regards him with a cold sort of disgust. Then, too quick, it’s gone, replaced with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, that’s stretched too wide for his mouth. The way it pulls at his face makes Seven’s skin crawl with disgust. “I have a surprise for you.”

Silently, Seven raises his eyebrows. The concrete had scrubbed most of the skin from his forehead and brow bone and a fresh rush of blood leaks down his face, pooling, hot, between ridges of scar tissue.

The soldier’s smile tilts, a sneer, and it looks a lot more natural on his face. Just as quickly, he pulls it back into a creepy imitation of a grin, and he turns. In Seven’s memory, he watches as the soldier swipes his key card and leaves. It’s a really anticlimactic surprise and a really useless memory. Why would he need to remember this?

Seven has just a time to think that maybe none of these are memories at all. How would he know any different? He’d been trusting they must be some kind of memory, that they had to be, because they were all things he didn’t know or people he didn’t remember. How could he have come up with those things on his own? But Seven lives in isolation and the dark. Seven is a freak and a monster. Seven lives in a cage in his own filth and is released only for slaughter. That’s all there is to his life and he doesn’t know anything more than that. How does he know he didn’t come up with all these things on his own? Maybe it’s all just nonsense. Why is he choosing to believe somebody he knows doesn’t fuckin’ know anything?

Except the door opens again. The soldier returns. This time, behind him, he’s dragging the limp body of Seven’s ghost.

Whatever it is that was expanding in Seven’s chest starts to crack his ribs from underneath. The infection spreads to his blood stream. He can’t take a full breath in. His hands shake a little worse with the cold that’s seeping under his skin, into the tissue and the marrow of his bones.

Fear. It isn’t dying that scares Seven. It’s not the soldiers. Head tipped back against the wall, Seven watches his ghost get dragged against the concrete, and he’s scared. This scares him.

Why does this scare him? What is this?

The soldier has one of his gloves hands twisted into the ghost’s long, bloody hair. He’s breathing, but he’s limp, eyes closed and bruised and swollen, wrists and ankles knotted so slightly the skin around the binds had split open. He’s naked, bruised skin rubbed raw against the concrete.

“Surprise,” the soldier says. “You get to watch me impregnate your whore.”

That thing in Seven’s chest had started to leak acid and it tastes like bile at the back of his throat. “Get your fuckin’ hands off him,” he spits, and surprises even himself with the bass of his voice.

The soldier, however, only grins. “Off her?” He says, eyebrows raised in good humour. “Just wait till you see the parts of me that are going to be inside her.”

It’s instinct more than anything else that makes Seven try to get up. He doesn’t even think about it. Where the soldier’s hand is twisted into the ghost’s hair, it’s thinned so much Seven can see the scalp beneath, crusted with scabs, and it’s a tug in his chest that tries to pull him away from the wall.

The curved meat hooks sunk deep into his flesh pull him back into place.

With a snarl, Seven looks down at himself, and he’s fucked. He’s fucked. What could he ever have done to deserve this? His throat and his hands are both shackled to different spots on the floor. His back, chest, sides, and shoulders are secured to the walls and the ceiling with meat hooks poking out from deep within his tissue and muscle. He tries to push himself off the wall and the sound is wet as a strip of flesh is pulled audibly off his back. He snarls again. This is fucked. This seems more like a memory he would really have.

The soldier watches him with one of his wide, fucked up smiles, untangling his fingers from the ghost’s bloody hair. Limp, he falls to the concrete face down, and the soldier is quick to kick his legs apart, not taking his eyes off of Seven.

“No,” he snarls, and tries to pull away from the wall again, tearing a chunk of muscle out of his shoulder. “Get the fuck away from him,” he spits.

The soldier smiles a little wider. “You won’t like the things you see me do to her,” he tells him. “I promise.”

With a roar, Seven lunges, but this time, he slides away from the wall so easily he almost stumbles. Standing straight, he rolls out his shoulders and looks down at his ghost, clean and dressed in a set of Seven’s prison greys. He’s alone and unbruised, his hair pulled into a neat braid over one shoulder. He’s standing just close enough that it makes Seven uneasy.

“You must be the weapon,” he says.

He’s even more beautiful up close and the feeling it gives Seven is eerily reminiscent of fear. He tries to swallow around the feeling but he can’t speak. He nods.

“Robin told me about you,” he says, and he smiles up at Seven, who has no idea who Robin might be. But —

But could Robin be a real person? Is Seven remembering?

He feels like he’s been hit really hard in the head.

His ghost smiles, the single most beautiful thing Seven has ever seen. The brightest, too, after a life underground, and he squints as he looks down at him.

He says, “I’m Wren,” in his strange, syrupy accent.

Seven sees a flash of white before the ground is pulled out from under him.

He sat, slumped in the shower, head against the tile, hair sticking to his chest. Water beat against the exposed meat of his flesh, stripped of most of his skin. Chunks of tissue clogged the drain.

It was hard for him to keep holding his head up. He’d lost so much blood.

His ghost sat with him, kneeling in the water in a set of Seven’s hospital greys. His tears were washed down the drain with the blood and the water. He was clinging to one of Seven’s hands. It was definitely broken but he didn’t tell the ghost it hurt. He didn’t want him to stop touching him. “I don’t want you to keep dying for me,” he whispered. “I don’t want to watch you die anymore.”

“My Wren,” Seven said, lifting his other, trembling hand to cradle Wren’s cheek, so soft against his palm. “I’m gonna die for you as many times as I need to.”

Looking up at Seven from one of the mismatched couches in the common room, Wren had smiled so brightly it had knocked the wind out of him. Sitting at the ground at his feet, his back against the bottom of the couch, he’d been winded again when Wren had reached out to tuck a stray hair behind his ear and say, “your hair looks really handsome like that.”

“Little Wren,” Seven said honestly, “you’re so beautiful it makes you really weird looking. Kinda creeps me out sometimes.”

Wren laughed loudly and it was the most beautiful sound Seven had ever heard. How could he have ever forgotten it? “Thank you,” he said. “That’s very sweet.”

He’d been wedged into a bed not big enough for the bulk of him, Wren tucked safely under his arm. His head pillowed on Seven’s chest, one of his small hands twisted tightly into the material of his sweatshirt as he cried, fiercely stubborn.

“My Wren,” he said against his hair, rubbing his back slowly. “You should want better for yourself than me.”

“Stop it, Silas,” Wren said into his crewneck, firm despite the tears Seven could feel starting to soak through the material. “I want you. I don’t want anything but you.”

Silas?

Standing alone in the centre of his room, Seven vomits all over himself.

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