Latest Posts by sticks-and-stones-are-great - Page 2

—Why is his pain so slutty?

Frank Castle + Blood

Whumpay - Day 6

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Russian Roulette Mini Challenge 6 -Torture - False Execution Original Work - Down in Goldonna

Alana hugged Ziggy tightly. It was over. Thank goodness. They could go home for the night and get some sleep. But she felt something strange; Ziggy’s hand was reaching around her waist. Alana drew back a little. And Ziggy almost skipped away from her embrace.

He waved something at her. In the dim light of the nearby streetlights, Alana saw a soft and supple sheen. She reached to her belt. Her revolver! Ziggy had her revolver.

As he stepped back he stopped in a pool of light. His grin was broad and crooked. And his eyes- Alana’s stomach dropped. She felt the blood drain from her face.

His eyes were black. Ziggy was possessed. But how? And by who?

“Ziggy?” Alana called out to him, hoping she was mistaken, hoping this was some sort of prank.

“Ziggy’s taking a nap right now. He’s so tired.” The Thing said with Ziggy’s voice. It stretched with his body and ran Its hands over Ziggy’s chest and waist. “I’m in the driver’s seat for a little bit.”

Alana fixed her eyes upon the revolver and darted forward. This Thing may be in control of Ziggy, but it also had Ziggy’s weaknesses. Ziggy was underweight. Ziggy was unconditioned.

The Thing danced back, grin growing wider somehow.

“Ah, ah.” It chided.

Instead of pointing the revolver at Alana it pressed the barrel to Ziggy’s temple. “Don’t do anything stupid.” It warned. “Or I will kill him.”

“You wouldn’t.” Alana raised her hands to show she wasn’t going to try anything else.

Alana’s mind raced. How could any being possess Ziggy without his permission? Was this even possible? And then, everything fell into place. “You’re the shadow he talks about. I’ve seen you before, hovering over him. What is your name?”

The Thing opened up the cylinder of the revolver and began removing the rounds. Alana couldn’t see exactly what he was doing in the patchwork darkness.

“A name?” It chuckled. “Why should I have a name?” It tossed a handful of rounds over Ziggy’s shoulder.

“How did you do this? Did he let you in?”

It spun the revolver’s cylinder back into place. It placed the barrel of the gun back to Ziggy’s temple again. “I’m tired of this.” It whined with Ziggy’s voice.

Alana felt her hands begin to shake. “Wait, please don’t-”

“I’ve removed all the rounds except for one.” Using Ziggy’s legs, it walked forward, towards Alana and into another pool of light. Its black eyes glittered in Ziggy’s pale face. “Let’s play a little game.”

Alana tried to keep her voice calm. “We don’t have to do this-”

“Oh, I think we do. You don’t seem to understand who’s in charge here.”

“Ziggy is your vessel! Why kill your vessel?”

“Everytime you answer incorrectly, I pull the trigger. It’s a one-in-six chance, right?”

“Please, don’t-!”

The hammer clicked. Empty chamber.

Alana could not breathe. She could not breathe. She wanted to scream. Her friend was about to die in front of her.

“One-in-six chance, right?” It asked again.

“Y-yes.” Alana grated out, holding back a sob. “One-in-six chance.”

“Good. Now, who is in charge here?”

“What?”

Another click. Another empty chamber.

Alana heard herself wail and bit it back, trying to get her breathing under control.

“Alana,” It came real close to her, so close she could smell the shampoo Ziggy used in his hair. “Who’s in charge right now?” It whispered with Ziggy’s soft voice.

“Y-you.”

“Good. When I need something from you, what will you do?”

“I’ll do it, I’ll do what you want.”

“That’s right. You are so good at this, Alana.”

“Fuck you!” Alana sobbed. Her legs were shaking beneath her.

Another click.

“That wasn’t very nice.” It sighed.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“And when Ziggy wakes up, what are you going to tell him happened here?”

Alana hesitated.

Another click. Another chance. Time was slipping through her fingers.

“I’m sorry! Please! Stop! I’ll tell him what you want, whatever you want!”

“You’ll tell him he fainted. You won’t mention me.”

“I’ll tell him he fainted-!”

Another click. Oh god. One left.

“I won’t mention you!”

Ziggy’s body suddenly went limp, and as though in slow motion, he fell backwards to the grassy ground. The revolver bounced out of his hand. Alana rushed up and grabbed the gun then knelt beside Ziggy. She patted his cheek.

“Ziggy!” Alana choked out. “Ziggy, wake up.”

She opened up the cylinder and looked at the six chambers.

His eyes opened slowly. Focused on her. “Alana?”

There were no rounds in the gun at all.

“Yeah, it’s me. Are you okay? You fainted.”

The gun had been empty.

“I fainted? Why are you crying?”

MedWhump May - Day 2

Running out of time

Fandom - The Man from UNCLE (2015)

@medwhumpmay

Solo let out a soft: “Oh.”

Illya turned.

For one weightless moment, he saw Solo listing to the side. Head drooping. A flash of eyes, whites, rolled backwards. Illya caught him. He helped lower Solo to the floor while Solo apologized over and over.

He shouldered out of his jacket and folded it. “Here.” He murmured. He reached down and placed his hand under Solo’s head. “For your head.”

Solo lifted his head and let Illya place his jacket under it.

“Thanks.” Solo said. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do.” Illya settled beside Solo. He gently pulled back Solo’s shirt. Blood. A lot of blood. He found the wound on Solo’s side.

Solo hissed in pain. “It’s fine. Don’t-” Solo gasped and jumped as Illya pressed his handkerchief to the weeping wound.

“How long have you had this?” Illya looked away from the wound and leaned over Solo, looking into his eyes. Solo was still sweating from running earlier.

Solo averted his gaze, looking up at the ceiling instead. He smiled, but the lines of pain in his face told a different story. “Not sure.”

Keeping one hand on the wound, Illya placed his other hand on Solo’s cheek. “Solo.”

Solo still didn’t meet his eyes.

Illya stroked Solo’s cheek with his thumb. “Solo.” Illya repeated.

Finally, Solo met his gaze.

“This is a bad wound.” Illya stated, his fingers becoming wet as blood seeped through the handkerchief already.

“It’s not.” Solo panted softly. “It’s not.”

“You should not have hidden it. You just had surgery-”

“We were busy!” Solo ground out. He was paler than before.

“You are taking blood thinners!”

“I was covering you!”

Illya sighed. He got up. “I’m going to see if there’s any medical supplies.” He took Solo's hand and placed it over the wound to keep pressure on it.

Illya didn’t find much, a few band-aids, expired aspirin, and an ancient thermometer. He found some old bedsheets however and carried them back to Solo’s side.

When he returned, Solo was a few shades paler, sweat beading on his forehead. Illya held his hand to Solo’s cheek again.

“You’re cold.”

“No, I’m good. I’m good. I just need a minute to rest.” Solo murmured. His hand had fallen away from his side, no longer putting pressure. There was a small pool of blood on the floor beneath him.

Illya began to rip the bedsheets and press them to the wound. Illya piled more makeshift bandages on top. He looked back at Solo's face. His head was sagging to the side. His eyes were half closed.

“You are running out of time. As soon as you’re out, I’m picking you up and we’re going.”

Solo was deathly white. “M’fine.” He sighed.

Illya bandaged the leaking wound as best as he could with the bedsheets. He tied it as tight as he dared around Solo’s ribs.

“We are getting out of here now.”

No answer.

“Solo?” Illya looked up from his work.

Napoleon’s eyes were closed and he lay very still.

“Napoleon?” Illya reached up and pressed two fingers to the pulse point on Solo’s neck. His heart rate was quick. Much too quick.

Illya grabbed Solo and pulled him into his arms. “We’re going.”

Solo said nothing, limp and clammy against Illya’s body.

MedWhump May - Day 1

@medwhumpmay

Under Anesthesia

Original Work - (No Title Yet)

“It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Cyril let out another soft groan from the backseat. Kemp risked a look back and in the shifting shadows cast by the streetlights passing by, he could see the sweat glistening on Cyril’s pale face. Kemp twisted forward again to face the road, swerving back into the correct lane.

“Cyril?” He called.

No answer.

“Cyril! Talk to me.”

“Hurts.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Not-” Cyril let out a whine as Kemp took an exit at the last second. “Not your fault.” Cyril’s words were breathless, and quieter than before.

“It is.” Kemp nodded, though he knew Cyril couldn’t see him. “It is my fault.”

Silence.

“Cyril?”

Cyril moaned.

Kemp dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “Just keep pressure on it, okay?” He read the street names, looking for the right one. In the dark, they were hard to read. So Kemp had to slam on the brakes when he spotted River Street.

Cyril gasped.

Kemp winced. “Sorry.”

Kemp parked the car and hurried around to the backseat. He flung open the door and hit the ceiling of the car to turn on the interior light. Cyril lay across the backseat, his head towards Kemp and his feet braced on the opposite car door. His eyes were closed.

Kemp bent down over Cyril’s upside down face and gently patted his pale cheek. “Hey, Cyril.”

Cyril’s eyes opened. “Hey.”

Kemp could not keep the smile from his lips. “Hey.” He almost got lost in those beautiful eyes. “Hey.” He said again, relaxing a little.

Cyril leaned into Kemp’s hand, his skin cool and clammy.

“Are we there?” Cyril whispered.

“Yeah, yeah. We’re there. I need to get you inside. Is- Is that okay?”

Cyril nodded and closed his eyes. Kemp guessed that he was bracing himself for the pain. As gently as he could, Kemp gathered Cyril into his arms. Cyril managed to stay mostly quiet, but Kemp didn’t miss the soft moan that Cyril tried to hide. And he didn’t miss how Cyril’s head rested on his shoulder. Warm and heavy. It felt right.

Kemp carried Cyril up the garden path and to the front door. “Cyril?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you ring the doorbell? Hands are full.”

“Oh, right, yeah.”

Cyril reached out with a shaking hand and rang the doorbell. He left a bloody fingerprint on the button.

“Jonah.” Kemp sighed in relief when the door finally opened.

An older gentleman stood there with mussed white hair and a flannel robe. He paused for a moment then nodded. “Oh, Mr. Kemp. How can I help you?”

Kemp felt the warm weight of Cyril’s head against his shoulder again. “I need that favor.”

The gentleman stood aside and let Kemp and Cyril inside the house.

Sometime later, Kemp was hunched over the kitchen table, nursing a cup of strong black coffee. Jonah was in the back room, working on Cyril. He would fix Cyril. He would fix Kemp’s mistake. Kemp took another sip of the coffee and winced at the bitterness.

It was Kemp’s fault that Cyril was injured. All his fault.

“Mr. Kemp.”

Kemp started and stood up too fast. He steadied himself by placing a palm on the tabletop. Jonah stood in the doorway, wearing white gloves and a surgical mask pulled down around his neck. “He’s asking for you.”

“What, it’s done?”

Jonah shook his head.

Kemp hesitated a moment. What was going on? What was the problem?

Kemp ducked into the brightly lit back room.

“Cyril?”

Cyril winced and opened his eyes. He was pale and shaking and sweating. He looked terrible. “I’m sorry.”

Kemp stayed in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t like hospitals.”

Kemp hesitated a moment, shuffling his feet. He sighed and walked over to Cyril’s side. He looked so… scared. What was wrong with him?

“This isn’t a hospital.” Kemp offered.

Cyril looked around at the equipment that surrounded the bed he lay on. “It kind of is.”

“You have to let him work. You’re hurt.” Kemp gestured to the gunshot wound in Cyril’s thigh.

“Stay with me.”

Kemp met Cyril’s eyes. He was definitely scared.

“Until I’m asleep.”

Kemp pulled up a chair and held out his hand. Cyril’s pain-etched face softened a little. Almost a smile. And he took Kemp’s hand.

Kemp held his hand until Jonah came in. Until Cyril faded out. And all through the surgery.

Whumpay - Day 5

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Truth Potion/Serum/Spell Mini Challenge 5 - Torture - Recorded/Broadcast Torture Original Work - Blackburn

“How is he?”

Morgan Lynch stopped as he was passing the doorway to the parlor, took a step back, and saw Professor Collins sitting there.

“Oh.” Morgan tried to school his face into something less upset. “He’s fine. He’s…” Morgan trailed off, searching for the right words to describe it.

Ennis was upstairs in one of the guest bedrooms, tossing and turning. He was sweating and pale. His eyes were sunken. And Morgan had heard him muttering softly in his sleep. He was not well. That much was obvious.

“Sleeping.” Morgan finally said.

“Good, good.” Professor Collins gestured to the opposite armchair by the fire. “Would you join me?”

Morgan hesitated a moment more. He’d rather not. He’d rather sit in the kitchen and stew. But he nodded and smiled. “Thank you.” Morgan sat down opposite the professor.

“Tea?”

“Uh, no. Thank you though.” Morgan didn’t really like tea.

“Something stronger?” Professor Collins tried again.

Morgan shook his head and that made him notice his throbbing headache. This whole night was just too much for him. He was exhausted. And so very confused.

“It can be a bit of a shock, I’m afraid.” The professor stood up from his armchair, stroking his very white beard. It contrasted starkly with his dark mane of hair.

“What?”

Professor Collins limped over to an old phonograph and began to fiddle with it. “Mr. Ennis Hunnicutt’s gift.”

“Oh.”

Morgan could not help but have Ennis’s face flash before his mind’s eye, deathly white, with eyes rolled back, and speaking in that strange language. The syllables that Ennis had pronounced were chilling. Morgan didn’t understand why. But just remembering the sound of it. The way the unknown words wormed their way between his teeth, made it difficult to breathe, had Morgan’s heart racing even now.

Morgan cleared his throat and tried to calm himself. “Is it a gift?” He asked. It seemed more like a curse.

“Most certainly.” Replied Professor Collins. “In all my years of research, I have never found someone as gifted as he.”

Morgan swallowed hard. What did that mean? What kind of gift would do so much harm? “What is he?”

The professor straightened up. He was gingerly holding a wax cylinder. “A medium.” He answered. Seemed to consider it a moment, then added. “Of sorts.”

The professor held up the wax cylinder. “I have this here, a recording of one of Ennis’s trances, would you like to hear it?”

Morgan felt a wave of revulsion rise in him. “Why do you have-”

“It’s quite short, I assure you.” Professor Collins had already turned around and was loading the cylinder into the phonograph. “It was recorded years ago, when the Divine Order was still intact.”

The Divine Order? Morgan was lost. But he had no energy to object. In fact, he felt a sick sort of curiosity. Before he could decide whether he wanted to hear this recording or not, it began to play.

The sound was rough and difficult to make out in parts. But most of it was clear enough to understand.

A scratchy, high-pitched voice rang out first. A woman’s voice. “The twenty-second of December, in the year nineteen hundred and fourteen. And it is our Ennis’s birthday. He has been dosed with the serum and is ready to speak with us.”

There was a shuffling sound. Then more speaking. “Ennis, my darling, can you hear me?”

A pause.

And then, Morgan’s heart clenched.

“Yes, I can hear you.” It was a young boy’s voice. A child. He spoke dreamily, doubtless due to the substance they had given him.

“Make the first cut.” The scratchy-voiced woman ordered.

Young Ennis cried out in pain over the recording.

Morgan jumped to his feet, his lips tingling as he felt the blood drain out of his face.

The recording continued, Ennis’s sobs becoming a soft background melody to the scratchy woman’s voice. She spoke a string of strange syllables that rang nauseatingly familiar.

The sobs ceased suddenly.

Then, young Ennis began to drone, slurring his words. “The Eater of Stars, Endless Maw, approaches. Nearer and nearer-”

“Make the second cut!” The woman screeched.

Morgan felt sweat break out on his forehead.

Young Ennis cried out again, the sob turning into a long wail and more words. “The Eye is open and we shall all walk through the doorway. Arrival! Arrival is nigh!”

“The third cut!”

“I am the Tooth of the Eater! I will bite the Stars!”

A shuffling sound and the high-pitched breathy voice of the woman rang out. “Where is the doorway, Ennis? Tell us where it is!”

“Burning black. The teardrop.” Ennis’s voice slowed to a drawl again. He struggled to speak. “The… Eye is… The Eye open.”

“Bind the wounds. He’s bleeding too much.” The woman hissed. “Ennis? My darling? Stay awake, please.”

Someone in the background cried out. “Call the doctor!”

Then silence.

Morgan started. Professor Collins had stood up as well and was unloading the wax cylinder from the phonograph. Morgan ran a hand down his face and took a deep breath.

“What the devil was that?” He spat.

The professor looked up, surprised but still calm. “As I said, it is a recording of one of Ennis’s trances.”

“But-” Morgan searched for words. “They were mutilating him. He was a child. I don’t understand.”

“I’ll explain.” Came a soft voice from the parlor doorway.

Morgan whirled around. Ennis stood there, still waxen pale and sweating. He looked so weak, leaning on the doorway for support. His eyes stood out starkly in his face, the firelight flickering in them.

Whumpay - Day 4

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Vivisection Mini Challenge 4 - Torture - Begging To Be Killed Original Work - The Sleeping Stones

(content warning - graphic violence)

The silvery light of the glowing noose illuminated the tears running down Ylen’s cheeks from below. He rushed to grab hold of the rope of light, and reeled back with burned hands.

“Alixor.” Ylen gasped. “Alix, what are you doing?”

“You did this.” Alixor sat down heavily in the dewy grass, panting and sweating as though he had just run miles. The spell had taken almost all of his energy. “You did this.” He gasped. “When you refused to help me.”

“What?”

Ylen fell to his hands and knees. His eyes were wide and stared into Alix’s face.

Alixor looked down to the ground, averting his eyes from Ylen’s stricken look.

“You refused to help me.” He said again, much quieter than before.

“Alix, I-”

Alixor pounded his fist into the wet grass. “You won’t help me!” He screamed. Alixor looked to Ylen again. Braved the terrified eyes. “You won’t help my people!”

A beat.

Ylen’s face softens.

But instead of looking scared, Ylen just looks sad.

“I will not kill for you. That is what you mean.”

Alixor shook his head. No, Ylen can not change this. Ylen is wrong.

Ylen continued, voice becoming stronger, the furrows of rage in his face becoming deep in the silver light shed by the noose around his neck.

“I will not use my power to kill.” Ylen said.

Alixor shook his head again, feeling tears pouring from his eyes. “You won’t help me.” He sobbed. “I need help.”

“I am not your weapon. I am your friend.”

“We are not friends. Not anymore.”

Ylen fell silent at this. With shaking hands, Alixor pulled out the rest of his supplies from his bag. When he set the ornate knife on the rock, it rang out softly against the stone. Ylen started and stared at the weapon. But he asked no more questions.

Ylen remained quiet as Alixor finished the spell and bound his hands and feet to the ground, spread-eagle.

Ylen said not a word when Alixor picked up the knife and crouched over Ylen’s body.

He only looked at Alixor. Studying him. Eyes shimmering with the light from the luminous ropes.

“I’m sorry.” Alixor sobbed.

“No.” Ylen smiled. “You are not.”

Alixor plunged the knife into Ylen’s belly and began to carve. Ylen screamed and struggled, but the shining ropes held him fast to the ground. Alixor’s vision was blurred by tears. He continued to cut and cut, laying Ylen’s body open to the air. Exposing every facet of the god’s existence. When Alixor finally found Ylen’s heart, the ground was soggy with blood.

The crimson organ beat wildly in the god’s chest, cradled in a nest of blood and bone and sinew. It was hot. Burning. It almost smoldered.

“Please.” Ylen wheezed.

Ylen had watched Alixor’s every move. Almost like he was committing this atrocity to a memory that would soon be gone.

Alixor wished Ylen would screw up his eyes and just scream. Rather than this. Rather than pleading with him. Anything but this.

“Please.” Ylen repeated. “Please kill me.”

Alixor set down his knife, now slippery with viscera.

“Please don’t use my power for this.”

Alixor had long ago run out of tears. He was feverish and thirsty at this point. Dizzy with the heat of Ylen’s burning body. Who would have thought a god of wildfire would boil on the inside? Alixor braced himself and reached for Ylen’s heart with his bare hand. He wasn’t thinking. He wasn’t lucid. The cold night spun about him and he gasped for breath.

The heart seared his flesh. Alixor cried out but did not let go. He pulled and tore and wrenched and ripped and twisted. The heart came free. Alixor slumped down on the ground, clutching at his scorched hand. The heart flopped onto the grass and continued to beat.

“Please.” Ylen continued to whisper.

Alixor sobbed, great heaving sobs that nearly choked him. He vomited bile. Then lay there for a long time trying to catch his breath.

“Please don’t use me to kill.”

Alixor, laying on his side, watched the heart continue to beat. It steamed in the cold night air. His hand throbbed. He had to do this. This was the only way. He had to save his people. This would give him the power to save everyone. Alixor reached for the heart again with his blistered hand.

“Please.”

Alixor’s mouth was scalded when he took the first bite of flesh. It hurt even more when he swallowed down the second. Agony bloomed in his stomach. He was on fire, from the inside out. Still, he ate.

Ylen watched him. “Please.”

Alixor kept eating.

Whumpay - Day 3

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Made A Lab Rat Mini Challenge 3 - Torture - Branding Original Work - My Name is Evil

For twelve hours a day, every day, Evelyn had been tested.

They asked him to build from schematics. They asked him to design schematics. They immobilized him in the same chair and had him direct others to build machines.

They gave him drugs. A lot of drugs. They would dose him with something that made him nauseous and faint and dizzy and asked him to complete tasks. Solve equations. Answer their questions. Blindfolded. Ears plugged. Starved. Sleep-deprived. Sedated. Hot. Cold. Dizzy.

Over and over and over.

He was tested under every possible circumstance. Every possible test. Until now.

Evelyn winced as the needle probed beneath his skin and into a vein.

Evelyn wanted to pull away from the needle and the IV bag and everything they were about to do to him, but the restraints kept his wrists, ankles, and chest firmly pressed to the chair. He swallowed hard. The IV needle was taped to his skin and the nurse left the room without even meeting his eyes.

The door hissed and clanged shut.

Evelyn only had a minute or two to try and calm down before the door opened again and someone else entered.

The lady wore a strained smile and a nice suit. She sat down, keeping the table between her and Evelyn. And ignoring him, she began to shuffle through the papers she had brought. After what seemed like ten minutes or so, she spoke.

“My name is Ms. Brown, I am the Assistant Deputy Supervisor at the Bureau of Extrohuman Affairs and Regulation. I am here today to give your official status and category as an Extrohuman, witness your tagging procedure, and answer any questions you have. Do you understand?”

She never looked at him, not once.

Evelyn opened his mouth to speak.

The nurse came back.

Ms. Brown continued. “Evelyn Earl, your tests indicate that you place with the Enhanced Category, subtype Intelligence, archetype Crafter, division Mechanics.”

The saline was cold and Evelyn began to shiver. Of course he was good with machines. That was obvious. Why did they have to test for it? Why?

The lady continued. “Established legal precedents necessitate a procedure to display your status upon your person, this is sometimes called tagging. Once this procedure is completed, displaying this status mark will be used in conjunction with other identification you carry in order to comply with requests for identification. Please give verbal confirmation that you understand this procedure.”

The lady stopped talking and looked up at Evelyn. Staring at him.

Finally looking right into his eyes. Nothing in her expression indicated that she was looking at another human being. He may as well be another piece of paper that needed initials and dates.

Evelyn started when he realized he was meant to speak.

“Oh.” He licked his dry lips. “Right, yeah, I understand.”

The lady made another note on her papers. The room was so quiet that Evelyn could hear her pen scratching.

Eventually, the lady looked up and nodded at the nurse. “You may proceed.”

The nurse wheeled a cart with a machine closer to Evelyn. The nurse turned it on and the machine began to hum. Evelyn only began to panic when the nurse began to untie the front of his gown.

“What are you doing?” Evelyn felt his heart begin to quicken.

The nurse bared his chest and disinfected the skin over his heart.

The lady with the papers got up from the table.

“What is the procedure?” Evelyn asked, panic edging his voice.

“Identification.” Was all the lady answered.

The nurse leaned in close, holding something like a pen, which was connected to the machine by a cord.

“What is that?” Evelyn could not tear his eyes away from the strange pen.

The nurse turned and looked at the lady.

The lady shrugged.

What was tagging?

When the pen first touched his skin, Evelyn thought he had been cut. But when the smell of sizzling, burning, charred flesh filled his nose, he knew this was false.

Evelyn let out a scream and struggled to get away from the electrocautery device. But the bindings held him firmly.

The pain continued and amplified.

Evelyn thought he could hear the pain. Like barbed wire screeching through his ears.

He screamed again. And again. Evelyn felt sweat bead upon his forehead and roll down into his eyes, stinging and hot. He sobbed until his throat became raw. It went on and on, for what felt like hours.

Then, the hum of the machine ceased. The nurse moved away. A crinkling sound

Evelyn was left panting. He cracked his eyes open and saw the nurse was unwrapping bandages.

He could not stand it any longer. He needed to know.

Evelyn looked down to his chest, to the spot over his heart.

Shiny, bleeding burns. The smell of cooked flesh. Skin crackling.

A series of numbers and letters. They meant nothing.

But they were now branded into him. Into his flesh. Tagging. Identification.

Evelyn let out another sob.

Whumpay - Day 2

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Paralytic Drug Mini Challenge 2 - Torture - Whipping Original Work - Doorway in the Sky

“It’s going to hurt.”

“Can’t be that bad, right?”

Ash frowned at Mel and sighed loudly out of his nose. “You ready then?”

Mel nodded.

Ash jumped, slammed his hands down on the table, and swept their food trays off. The hard plastic clattered loudly on the tile and the food painted the jumpsuits of the nearby people.

Mel’s wide eyes goaded Ash on.

“The fuck did you say?” Ash shouted.

Then he threw himself across the table and tackled Mel to the ground. One punch to the nose got Mel’s blood flowing. Several guards jogged over and tried to pull him off her. Soon enough, Ash felt a prick on the back of his neck, and then nothing.

He stopped wrestling Mel and reached back. There was a dart sticking out of his neck. He yanked it out and saw the yellow band about the metal casing. His lips went numb. His fingers tingled. His hands fell to his sides.

And Ash slumped to the tile floor, hitting it cheek first. It hurt like a bitch.

Mel lay beside him and met his eyes. She grinned through blood-stained teeth.

Ash would have smiled if he could. But he could not. He had been hit with the yellow banded dart. The paralytic. Oh good.

Ash’s eyes slipped mostly closed as he was hauled from the floor. He could still hear and feel everything. Plastic restraints were tightened around his wrists and ankles. Which didn’t make much sense since he was paralyzed.

Ash watched the floor flash by beneath him. His head, hanging limp, bobbed with every step the two orderlies holding him up took. Their grip on his arms hurt. But there was nothing he could do.

They were buzzed through several doors. The hallways became quieter. The floors became cleaner. Whispers all around him.

Finally, Ash was brought into an office and propped up in a soft chair. With his chin resting on his chest, all Ash could see was the plush, patterned carpet and a pair of shiny, black shoes.

Drool dripped from the side of his mouth.

“Lift her head.”

A pair of sweaty hands clamped onto Ash’s cheeks and propped his head against the back of the chair. When the orderly stepped away, Ash was looking up into the face of Dr. Palmer.

Dr. Palmer gave Ash a small smile then held up his penlight. “You know what to do, look into the light.”

He shone the light into Ash’s eyes and leaned in close.

Ash could smell coffee and disinfectant on him.

“Mmhmm, pupillary response is good.” Dr. Palmer leaned back. “Good, good. Now I’m going to ask you some yes or no questions, would you please blink once for ‘Yes’ and twice for ‘No’? Demonstrate by blinking once for ‘Yes, I understand the instructions.’”

Ash rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

“This will go much quicker and easier if you cooperate.”

Ash blinked once.

“Thank you.” Dr. Palmer made a note on his clipboard. “Now, is your name Ashley Durham?”

Ash blinked once.

“Is your birthday the twenty-second of June?”

Ash blinked once.

“Do you know why you’ve been brought to my office today?”

Ash blinked twice.

Dr. Palmer chuckled and set down his clipboard, taking off his glasses to polish them a little with a handkerchief. “Ms. Durham, Ashley, I think you know why you’ve been brought to my office today. You were fighting. Again.”

Ash looked around the office as Dr. Palmer talked. He spotted the curtains on one wall almost immediately.

Dr. Palmer’s eyes flicked up and focused on something behind Ash’s left shoulder. He nodded. The pair of orderlies picked up Ash by the shoulders again, holding him upright in a standing position. Ash’s head fell back and he was able to see Dr. Palmer’s faint smile.

Dr. Palmer turned around, walked away, and took a cane from a stand across the room.

“Ashley, why would you want to hurt your best friend?”

Ash would have shrugged if he could. He just couldn’t move any part of his body right now, other than his eyes. And he could not help but look at the curtains again.

Dr. Palmer returned to Ash and the orderlies, brushing against the curtains as he went.

There was a flash of sunlight as the curtains rippled.

Ash drew in a quick breath and felt tears form in his eyes.

“Seeing you hurt your friend has hurt me.” Dr. Palmer stopped in front of Ash, blocking his view of the curtains.

This was Ash’s first glimpse of sunlight in months.

Months that had stretched on and on, feeling like decades. Or centuries. It has been so long since Ash had felt the warmth of sun on his skin. So long without daylight.

Dr. Palmer had a window. The only window Ash had seen in the Institute.

Ash hungered for sunlight. He felt something feral and innate rise within his belly and chest.

Dr. Palmer was still speaking.

Ash ignored him until Dr. Palmer took Ash’s chin in his hand. Warm, soft fingers stroked Ash’s cheek.

“Ashley, would you please listen to me? I want to help you.”

Dr. Palmer angled Ash’s face away from the window and towards him.

“Blink once for yes, twice for no.” Dr. Palmer’s voice dropped down to a murmur.

Ash could feel his breath on his cheek.

“Are you listening to me, Ashley?”

Ashley blinked twice.

Dr. Palmer sighed and removed his hand from Ash’s chin and wiped the drool off his fingers on the front of Ash’s jumpsuit.

“You’ve let me down. And what’s worse is that you’ve let yourself down.” Dr. Palmer stepped back and nodded at the two orderlies holding Ash.

Their grips tightened.

Dr. Palmer disappeared. Then his voice came from behind.

“This hurts me more than it hurts you.”

Ash focused on the curtain. The tiniest sliver of sunlight was poking, needle-like, through a gap.

The blow came down upon Ash’s shoulders. He heard it before he felt it.

Ash gasped and choked on the drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

The cane landed again on his back, a swift stinging blow. Loud as a gunshot in Ash’s ears. Bruising. The cane felt as though it were made of fire.

Another blow.

Ash heard himself groan, low and guttural.

Another blow.

Ash panted. Felt tears rolling down his cheeks.

That little finger of sunlight. Through a window. From the outside.

The last blow.

Dr. Palmer reappeared. He was saying something again to Ash but Ash had long ago tuned him out. Ash was dragged out of the office, back down the clean hallways, out of the quiet, and back into madness.

Hours later, Mel returned to their cell. The door buzzed shut and the lights out warning was given.

“Ash.” Mel whispered close to his ear.

Ash, laying belly-down on his cot, turned his head.

In the harsh fluorescent lights from above, Mel’s nose was purple and gray with bruising. One eye was blackened and swollen.

“Tell me.” Mel murmured.

Ash looked into her eyes. “I saw sunlight.”

Mel’s face crumpled into a watery smile and she kissed Ash’s forehead. “Thank you.”

“When we go,” Ash spoke so quietly he could barely hear himself.

“We go through there.”

“I’ll go with you anywhere.”

Ash turned his head away and faced the wall again. He stared at the hundreds of tally marks he had made. One for every day he had been in the Institute. “One more thing.” He whispered.

Mel’s fingers brushed gently through his hair. “What?”

The lights went out.

“Before we go, I’m killing him.”

Whumpay - Day 1

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Strapped To An Operating Table Mini Challenge 1 - Torture - Tortured For Information Fandom - The Man from UNCLE (2015)

When the two telephone calls came, one after another with a twelve second pause in between them, Solo shrugged into his coat. Then sat back down in the armchair and looked up to the clock. Three o’clock. He would have to wait until nightfall, roughly three more hours.

Coat on, knee bouncing, and barely reading his paperback book, Solo waited the three requisite hours.

When the distant cathedral bell began to ring out six o’clock, Solo was out of his chair at the first toll, and out of the front door by the third toll.

When he stepped out into the chilly night air he forced himself to slow down, lit a cigarette, and begin a slow and circuitous route towards the dead drop.

Finally, he wandered into the abandoned brickyard. The city was quiet around him.

Ears pricked, Solo flicked his cigarette away, and crouched by a low, crumbling wall. He pulled out the specific brick. It grated pleasantly against its brothers. Solo retrieved the small package from the hollow and replaced the brick.

It was done. He straightened up.

Then the world exploded.

Bright light.

A blow to his nose. Another to a kidney.

Solo found his face pressed into the gravel of the ground. He could taste the brick dust. And the blood gushing from his nose and down his throat.

“Tie his hands.” Someone hissed.

Solo was grabbed and pulled to his feet.

The searing light was shone into his eyes again and Solo groaned. He panted around a mouthful of blood. His hands were roughly tied. Then, with a firm grip on each arm, he was frog-marched to a nearby car and shoved into the trunk.

The door was slammed shut. Complete darkness.

Moments later, the engine roared to life.

Solo caught his breath. He only had a few minutes to puzzle through this. The first order of business was to untie his hands. This was easy enough. They had made the mistake in tying them in front instead of behind his back.

As soon as his hands were free, he blindly reached out and explored the trunk’s locking mechanism as best as he could. The back of his head throbbed in time with his racing heart. The jolting car ride caused wave after wave of nausea and dizziness.

He vomited. His skull rang out, hot with agony.

Solo spat, groaned, and with shaky hands got back to work on the lock. They must have hit him pretty hard.

After a few minutes, and with the help of a lockpick he had in the lining of his coat, Solo popped open the trunk. He was careful not to open the trunk fully and eyed his surroundings. They were bouncing down an old dirt road with only trees on either side. Lovely. The middle of nowhere.

Well, no time like the present.

Solo thrust the trunk door open fully and jumped.

The guidance of 'tuck and roll' felt more like wishful thinking at that moment.

It was a whirlwind of pain.

Finally he found himself flat on his back, looking at the night sky. So many stars.

Solo rolled over and retched again but nothing came up. His head, obviously, was still very painful. He gasped for air, keening with every inhale.

The sound of screeching brakes and slamming care doors.

Shit.

The sound of boots pounding the dirt road. Towards him.

Solo tried to get his legs under him but fell, pain lancing up his left leg. He hit the ground, hard. As rough hands grabbed him again, he saw that his foot stuck out at an odd angle. Broken.

Time dilated. Solo could only focus on breathing. At one moment, he found himself in the backseat of a car, held upright between two men. The next, he was being pulled from the car, foot dragging on the ground. He screamed. And retched. His skull felt as though it would explode. Solo blacked out.

It was the grating agony of his ankle and foot that woke him. Blackness. Until Solo cracked his eyes. A dim room. He could not move.

A moment later he was a little more awake.

He was bound tightly to a table, the ceiling and it’s lone light-bulb looming over him.

The door at the far end of the room opened and two men stepped through; one was older with gray hair and rolled up shirt sleeves and the other was younger, fair-haired, and tall.

And then the questions began.

The haze of his broken ankle and throbbing skull covered Solo like a pall. He could not keep up. As soon as he understood what they were asking him, they were on to the next question. And when they did not get answers quick enough, they cut off his clothes and resorted to other methods of persuasion.

Why were you at that brickyard after dark?

They pulled a cloth over his head and drowned him in cold water.

Who planted the information you retrieved?

They put out their cigarettes on his bare skin.

Who do you work for?

They pressed hard upon his broken ankle and made him scream. They ground the bones against each other. His left lower leg was swollen and almost black with bruises.

Solo did not talk.

He fell into a stupor and woke only to pain. He wished for death. Anything but this.

Hours passed. Maybe even days. He lost track. He did not care. It was eternity either way.

So when he felt the shackles around his wrists removed and someone beginning to work on the shackles about his ankles, he lay there quietly and let them do as they wished.

He gasped when the band about his broken ankle fell off and the blood began to flow again under the bruised flesh.

A warm hand was pressed to his cheek. Gently. That was odd.

“You are awake?” A soft voice.

Maybe he had gone insane. Or maybe this was a new way to torture him.

Solo opened his eyes and saw the blurry face of Illya hovering there.

He certainly hadn’t expected that.

Solo licked his cracked, dry lips. “It’s difficult to tell.” He rasped. In the harsh light from above, Solo could see the lines about Illya’s mouth tighten.

“Come.” Illya began the process of helping Solo off the operating table. “We must go. Where are your clothes?”

Solo had begun to violently shake, his muscles cramping hard, as he tried to stand. He could not speak through the shivering and only shook his head.

Another frown from Illya.

Solo became afraid. The shivering made him ache. The room spun about him. If he was not helpful, would Illya leave him behind? If he was too slow, would Illya decide he was just too much trouble to rescue?

Solo swallowed hard against a dry throat.

Then he straightened up. He tried to still his shaking. And he only leaned on Illya for a little support. Finally, he was able to speak. “They cut them off me. They’re gone.”

Solo felt rather than saw Illya nod. “I have a blanket in the car.”

“Let’s go.” Solo hissed.

Solo had one arm across Illya’s shoulders, while Illya held Solo close to him with a warm grip on his waist. Illya’s hand on his bare, bruised skin was so warm. And gentle. Together, they limped slowly out.

Solo stared only at the floor was they went, focusing on keeping his balance and moving as fast as he could.

He didn’t want to be left behind.

The cold night air hit him and Solo suppressed another bout of violent shivers, groaning with the effort to stay upright.

“Nearly there.” Illya murmured softy, his voice rumbling against Solo’s bruised chest.

Illya sounded almost like he was trying to comfort him.

Solo heard a car door open and he was lifted inside, laid across the backseat. The door closed. Then the other back door opened, another gust of cold wind, and Illya slipped in beside Solo.

“The blanket.” Illya whispered as he laid something warm over Solo’s bare limbs.

Maybe Illya said something else. Solo wasn’t sure. His ears were ringing. And he was sinking. He was falling. He felt the warm hand on his face again. Then nothing.

Merry Whump of May 2024 Prompts

Event tags: #mwm2024 #themerrywhumpofmay #mwmday[X]

Thank you everyone for your patience in waiting for this post. We can't wait to see what you create this year! Have fun!

Image text under the cut-

Transcription:

ABOUT THE EVENT

The Merry Whump of May is an event run by @wormwriting and @painsandconfusion. There are 31 days of prompts to be completed each day of May. Feel free to do as much or as little as you’d like. 

Prompts can be filled in prose, poetry, art, or any other medium you resonate with. 

There will be participation and completionist medals in downloadable pdf format.

Prompts

01 - Breathless “Get back in there” | Ring box | Cliff

02 - Scorching “Don’t you dare.” | Glasses | Storage Shed

03 - Lost “See what happens.” | Screwdriver | Club

04  - Forgettable “Who are you?” | Lamp | Alleyway

05 - Strained “Put that down.” | Electrical wires | Plane

06 - Suspicious “You thought you could get away with this?” | Barbed wire | Riverside

07 - Fallen “Forget about them.” | Piano | Edge of town

08 - Pitch black “I’m fine.” | White-hot blade | Passenger seat

09 - Frostbitten “You’re nothing” | Blanket | Parking lot

10 - Jaded  “Revenge is a dish best served.” | Mask | Rooftop

11 - Numb “Pretty little thing.” | Bracelet | Stairwell

12- Known “Let me hear you.” | Garrotte | Desert

13 - Restless “Tell me how it feels.” | Needle | Trail

14 - Punchable “I just want you.” | Rock | Closet

15 - Stone-cold “Let me hold you.” | Candle | Cellar

16 - Naive  “Say aaaaa-” | Whip | Library

17 - Hungry “Wait, are you afraid of me?” | Fork | Lake

18 - Conditioned “Why do you love them?” | Record player | Ballroom

19 - Distracted “Rot in hell.” | Soup | crate

20 - Alone “Don’t tell me you forgot about me.” | Lipstick | Training grounds

21 - Charismatic “Sit.” | Vial | Balcony

22 - Charred “It’s been too long.” | Straps | Rafters

23 - Overthrown “Close your eyes.” | Rock | Truck

24 - Shadowed “Break a leg!” | Plants | Cave

25 - Practical “I’ve always loved the rain.” | Bottle | Shop

26 - Resilient “Get in.” | Pocket | Marsh

27 - Mistrusted “You’re trembling.” | Dagger | Couch

28 - Loyal “Smile.” | Water | Workshop

29 - Reflective “Chin up.” | Trap | Office

30 - Tenacious “Did you have a bad dream?” | Paper clip | Doorway

31 - Broken “Last one.” | Key | Under the bed

Alternate Prompts

Hidden

Waking

Betrayed

Garish

Garden

Theater

Docks

Street corner

“Lean on me.”

“I don’t have regrets.”

“Take me.”

Shoe

Ribbon

Corset

Crown

—Why is his pain so slutty?

TW: MEDWHUMP/MEDICAL LANGUAGE

Hi everyone! @whumpetywhumpwhump here- I noticed there doesn't seem to be an official Medwhump May running this year, so I'm running one myself :)

I appreciate it's pretty late in the game to be releasing prompts, but I was waiting to see whether the official page was going to post anything before deciding to start mine. Hopefully a few of you would like to get involved (even if it is short notice lol)

RULES!

No AI-generated content

Please tag this account if you post your challenge submissions on Tumblr and use the tag 'medwhump may' (as in the tags of this post)

For completionists, all 31 days must be completed (using either the daily prompt or an alt prompt)

When creating content for chronic illnesses and seizures, PLEASE USE THE RELEVANT WHUMP TAGS INSTEAD OF THE GENERAL TAGS. e.g 'seizure whump' rather than just 'seizures'. This avoids important tags being flooded with whump fics

Have fun!

I will update these rules if necessary! Happy whumping!

Please reblog this to get the word out :)

babe wake up new whumpay prompts dropped. like last year, im posting early for more time to prepare

Welcome to Whumpay 2024! Up above you will see the basic prompt list and down below the cut you will see it written out in a list, as well as three mini challenges (and by extension, the extreme edition)

Rules are the same as usual

You only have to use one (Or two, if you’re doing the extreme edition.) prompt a day! But you’re welcome to use multiple if you want to, and it still counts for both.

I know the description of the blog says it’s a writing event, but if you want to draw or make other kinds of content, that’s cool too.

Have fun, tag content warnings (such as noncon, graphic violence, etc) and try not to be crushed by the mortifying ordeal of posting your writing.

This is a pretty chill event so you can start posting whenever but I’ll be reblogging posts made to the #Whumpay2024 tag throughout May. For real this time.

These all also apply to these three special mini challenges, consisting of a 7 day, a 10 day, and a 14 day prompt list.

EXTREME EDITION: This year's extreme edition doesn't have its own prompt list, but instead, youll be taking all three mini challenges in order along with the main prompt list. Some of these fit pretty well, others less so.

1 - Mad Science:

Day 1: Strapped To An Operating Table

Day 2: Paralytic Drug

Day 3: Made A Lab Rat

Day 4: Vivisection

Day 5: Truth Potion/Serum/Spell

Day 6: Russian Roulette

1 - Attacks, Mental & Physical:   

Day 7: Heart Attack

Day 8:  Asthma Attack

Day 9: Animal Attack

Day 10: Panic Attack

3 - Ineffective Medical Care:

Day 11: Medical Torture

Day 12: Withholding Medical Treatment

Day 13: Medication Tampering

Day 14: Injury Brushed Off

Day 15: No Anesthetic

4: Mindfuck

Day 16: Presumed Dead

Day 17: Memory Loss

Day 18: Stockholm Syndrome

Day 19: Phantom Pains

Day 20: Love Potion/Spell

Day 21: Role Reversal 

5. Nature's Revenge

Day 22: Slowly Running Out Of Air

Day 23: Natural Disaster 

Day 24: Struck By Lightning

Day 25: Snowed In

Day 26: Heatstroke

6. Traps & Trauma

Day 27: Caught In A Net

Day 28: Traumatic Touch Aversion

Day 29: Used As Bait

Day 30:  Flashbacks

Day 31: Choose Who Lives

Mini challenge #1: Torture

#1: Tortured For Information

#2: Whipping

#3: Branding

#4: Begging To Be Killed

#5: Recorded/Broadcast Torture

#6: False Execution

#7: Shock Collar

Mini Challenge #2: Dialogue

#8: “Why are you doing this?”

#9: “Don’t look.”

#10: “You look awful.”

#11: “Who did this to you?”

#12: “No one is coming for you.”

#13: “No one cares about me.”

#14: “Don’t lie to me.”

#15: “Stay with me, please.”

#16: ”You’re scaring me!”

#17: “You’re a monster.”

Mini Challenge #3: Aftermath

#18: Fighting Against Caretaker 

#19: Seeking Revenge

#20: Taking The Blame

#21: Barely Conscious

#22: Disassociation

#23: Carried To Safety

#24: Scars

#25: Unhealthy Codependency 

#26: Infected Wound

#27: Survivor’s Guilt

#28: Touch Starvation

#29: Abandonment Issues

#30: Cradled In Someone’s Arms

#31: Adrenaline Crash

Alt Prompts:

Death Game

Came Back Wrong

Attack The Injury

Healing Malfunction

Left For Dead 

Mistaken Identity

Dazed

Trapped Under Rubble

Drowning

Disowned By Family

Hostage Situation

Have fun everybody!

Y O U   L E F T   M E   T H E R E!! requested by anonymous

Mediwhump May - Day 8

"Scared of Blood"

(Dark Shadows 1966)

@mediwhumpmay

Willie knew he’d made a mistake before he’d even slipped. He had been sawing a piece of wood to size to repair the floor. A hand in the wrong spot. The gulf of time between realization and the consequences. He knew he had messed up. But he could do nothing to stop it. 

The saw skipped.

White hot pain across Willie’s wrist, burning and tearing.

He froze.

Willie watched the blood bloom in the ragged wound. He let the saw drop to the floor with a clatter. He dimly heard himself panting. He couldn’t breathe. There wasn’t any air. His fingers went to his collar to loosen the buttons there but his hands were shaking too much. 

Dark spots danced at the edges of his vision. The room whirled around him. 

Blood ran down Willie’s arm from the wound, red and dark. He watched it drip onto the floor. 

No, please, no.

It couldn’t happen again. He couldn’t bear it if it happened again. 

Willie clamped a hand over the wound. He squeezed his eyes shut. That helped. A little. Not much. 

He couldn’t breathe. His heart raced and stuttered. He was dizzy and hot and cold and sweating and oh god-

Those teeth were in him again. 

He was alone in the dark. Alone with the monster. He was alone and no one was coming to save him. 

Willie scrambled backward across the floor until his back hit the wall. He pulled his knees to his chest. He held his bleeding wrist close to his chest. Covering it. Hiding it. 

Yes, hide it. If no one sees, he’s safe. No one can see it. 

Warm blood, slick against his skin, coated his hands now.

Don’t look at it. Never look at it. 

The wound throbbed and burned. 

Willie slumped down to the floor. It was dusty but cool. He was dizzy. He kept his eyes closed. He couldn’t breathe. He was dying, wasn’t he? Dying alone in the dark. Again. 

Ringing in his ears. Everything faded away. Faded to darkness.

Merry Whump of May - Day 8

“Did you read the fine print?”

Circle

Blinded

Field

(original characters/story)

@themerrywhumpofmay

“It’s the only way to know what happened here.” Rex shed his jacket and tossed it on the ground. The sun beat down upon them, searing and merciless. The cicadas sang and sang. With every weak breath of wind, the grass around them sighed and fluttered. The field was empty save for Rex, Stockton, Burden, and the last survivor. 

Rex rolled up his sleeves. “Stay back, all of you, until it’s done.”

“And how will we know when it’s done?” Stockton picked up Rex’s jacket.

Rex didn’t answer and walked towards the last survivor.

Tied to a stake in the middle of the field was a young woman. Was, a young woman. She had died three days ago and laid in the hot sun until now, and it showed. Rex had tracked her down and arrived too late. Always too late. 

The last survivor rasped and stood on unsteady legs as Rex approached. He needed to know what she knew. Tears stung Rex’s eyes as he drew closer. 

“I’m sorry.” He whispered. “I’m really sorry. We tried. We tried.”

The last survivor’s skin was bloated and dark with pooled blood. Where there were once eyes, dark, crusted sockets stared out at Rex. Rex looked up and saw the vultures responsible still circling overhead. Every so often, one flew close enough to noonday sun to blot it out. A shadow covering the field. Ragged and brief. 

Rex knelt as close as he dared. 

He had searched the minds of humans before and had become good at it. It was easy to read people, to open up their minds and read their innermost thoughts. But reading the dead? Something about it turned his stomach. It wasn’t the putrid flesh before him, or clicking teeth, but the act of uniting his mind with the dead.

Rex hadn’t told Stockton or Burden, but he wasn’t sure that it wouldn’t kill him. 

But he had promised to try. This last survivor, survivor no more, had known something important to their cause. And he owed it to her to try. He had to try.

Rex took the dead woman’s face in his hands and gently pushed the limp hair away from her sightless eyes. She tried to bite him. The bloody foam that oozed from her mouth and nose ran over his fingers, lukewarm and slimy. The stake and her bound arms held her back. Rex closed his eyes. The sun was harsh above and behind his eyelids he saw only red.

The last survivor rasped and gurgled. 

Rex took a deep breath. He began to read.

A moment. 

He began to scream.

The ground vibrated, shuddering and shaking. Waves in the field. A flock of birds flee, black dots against the pale, hot sky. The grass around Rex and the last survivor begins to die. It shriveled. It turned black. A circle of rotting darkness. Then, nothing. Only death.

Rex felt someone stroking his hair.

“You’re safe.” It was Burden’s voice. And Burden’s hand.

The rotting smell of the corpse still lingered in Rex’s senses, but Burden’s scent was chasing it away. 

Rex shifted a little. His muscles ached and his limbs shook with the effort. His head was resting on someone’s lap. Probably Burden.

“You’re safe?” Rex rasped. His throat was dry and sticky. He coughed.

“Yeah. Stocky’s getting you water. Hang on.”

Rex opened his eyes and saw nothing.

His heart clenched. 

Rex closed his eyes again, braced himself, and opened them. Nothing.

“Uh, Burden?” Rex reached out towards the hand in his hair. He gripped Burden’s rough, calloused fingers. 

“Yeah?”

“I can't see.”

Rex felt Burden become still and tense. Then Burden squeezed Rex’s hand.

A sigh. “Did you not read the fine print on those powers you got?”

Rex’s laugh was shaky. He felt a tear slip from the corner of his eye and trail down his cheek, pooling in his ear. “No, not really. Didn’t come with a manual, you know?”

“It'll come back.”

“Maybe. But I got the information. She saw where they went.” Rex didn’t think too hard about what he had seen when reading the dead woman. He had gotten what they needed and that was that.

Burden pulled Rex a little closer. “You shouldn’t have done this.” Burden spoke into Rex’s hair, his breath warm on Rex’s scalp.

Rex closed his eyes. He didn’t need them open.

Mediwhump May - Day 7

"First Night in Hospital"

(original characters/story)

@mediwhumpmay

“Family of Michelle Tate?”

Troy jumped to his feet before he’d even really registered what the nurse had said. Beside him, Daniel stood up too. 

“It’s Michael. He’s Michael.” Daniel sighed.

The nurse looked over the clipboard in their hands again and nodded. “You’re family?”

Troy felt Daniel’s hand on his shoulder. “We are.” Daniel said. 

That was kind of Daniel. 

He wasn’t Michael’s family. He was the one that had gotten Michael into this mess. He was the one who had pushed Michael too hard. Guilt sat in the pit of Troy’s stomach like a stone.

“Follow me.” 

Daniel followed the nurse, with Troy bringing up the rear. They led them into a room. The doctor explained Michael’s condition. Troy wrapped an arm around Daniel’s shoulders when the kid started to cry. They were told the visiting hours. They were told that talking to Michael would be good for him. And then, they were left alone. 

Daniel sat beside Michael’s bed and Troy didn’t, he couldn’t, he paced around the room. He was sore and exhausted and every step ached. But he couldn’t sit. He could barely look at Michael, lying pale in the bed, covered in tubes and wires.

But Daniel sat as close as he could to his brother without actually getting into the bed. He held Michael’s remaining hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb. And he talked.

“Mom and dad know. Mom’s coming tomorrow. I’ll be with her.” Daniel said. “I don’t know when dad will come, but he will. I’ll make him.” Daniel then looked back at Troy. His eyes were red and wet.

“I’ll come tomorrow too.” Troy reassured. “Sharon knows what happened. I called her earlier.”

Daniel nodded then turned back to Michael. 

“It should have been me.” Troy felt the words leave him before he realized what he had said. The ringing thought he’d had in his mind ever since he found Tate. The only thought. It should have been me.

“This isn’t about you.” Daniel kept his eyes on his brother.

Troy’s face burned with shame. “I know, I’m sorry, I-”

“It’s okay.” Daniel interrupted and aimed a smile back at Troy. “You’re hurt, you’re grieving, we say weird stuff. But this is about Tate, not you. He saved a lot of people today.”

“He’s a hero.” Troy murmured and wiped his eyes. 

Daniel laughed softly. “Don’t let him hear you say that.”

“Yeah.” Troy smiled too. “I’m sorry… I’m just so sorry this happened.”

“I know. Me too. But he knew what he was getting into.” Daniel said. “Troy, you didn’t do this to him. This isn’t your fault.”

And that was it. Troy crumbled. Tears filled his eyes. Snot ran. And he sobbed. Daniel got up from the chair and embraced him. Troy wept into his shoulder and hugged him back.

Merry Whump of May - Day 7

“Write what you know.”

Box

Magic

Cell

(BBC Merlin)

@themerrywhumpofmay

“If- no, when, we get out of here, I’m going to write a book about what an idiot you are.”

Merlin sighed and rested his head against the wooden bars. “Well, write what you know, I suppose.”

“How could you think stopping to ask for directions could ever be a good idea? I knew where we were going.”

“We were lost and they looked friendly enough.” Merlin turned away from the bars and looked down at Arthur. “Look, how long are you going to complain? Maybe we should try figuring out how to get out here?”

“You figure out how to get us out.” Arthur drawled from his spot on the floor. He was lounging on the one and only pile of damp hay in the cell. The bruises from the attack were still fresh and swollen across his cheek and eye. “I’ll continue to complain, thank you very much.”

Merlin gently rubbed the bump on the back of his head. He looked around the cell for what felt like the hundredth time. They had been taken to a sort of cave lair, a wooden holding cell built into the rock wall. It was sturdy. And they had a guard at all times. 

Merlin licked his dry lips. 

He couldn’t use magic. Arthur was here. 

They were stuck, for now. 

Why had they been captured anyway? Maybe they planned to ransom the prince? Merlin puzzled over it until his head began to throb again. He sat down and closed his eyes. 

“Don’t tell me you’ve given up.”

“I haven’t.” Merlin murmured and leaned his forehead against the lattice of wooden bars. “I’m thinking.”

Arthur barked out a laugh. “Good luck with that.”

Merlin frowned and made himself bite back several rude remarks. 

It was at that moment that a few more bandits, or whatever they were, appeared in the chamber and opened the cell door.

“Oh thank goodness, you’ve come to your senses-” Arthur got up from the floor.

“Stay where you are.” The woman who had opened the door, green eyes blazing in the torchlight, pointed at Arthur.

Then she pointed to Merlin. “You. Come.”

“Me?” Merlin swallowed hard.

“Now.” She ordered.

Arthur took a step forward. “Look, he’s just a servant-”

Another of the bandits pointed a crossbow at Prince Arthur through the cell bars.

Arthur stopped, hands raised. 

Merlin picked himself off the rough stone floor. His head throbbed. The woman then grabbed him by the collar and dragged him out of the cell. Merlin threw one last look at Arthur before he disappeared around the corner, deeper into the cave tunnel.

Merlin was taken to a smaller, darker chamber. The walls were wet and moss was growing there. He was forced onto a chair in the middle of the room. 

“My name is Deryn.” The green-eyed woman spoke while the others tied Merlin to the chair. “That’s all you need to know about me. As for my companions, ignore them. You will speak only to me; whether answering my questions or begging for mercy. Do you understand?”

Merlin swallowed hard. The ropes binding him to the chair were rough and were painfully tight. His heart was racing. What did they want with him?

“Do you understand?” Deryn repeated.

“Yes.” Merlin rasped. His head throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

“Good.”

One of the bandits handed a large, flat wooden box to Deryn. The wood was dark and cracked with age and carved with strange symbols. Merlin tried to make them out in the flickering torchlight. But they swam and danced before his eyes. 

Deryn walked forward and set the box on Merlin’s lap.

“Here.” She said, “Hold this for me.”

Merlin, arms bound behind him, could not help but watch as she lifted the lid off, wood scraping, and revealed an enormous, golden collar. It was wide and flat, resembling a darkly glimmering crescent moon. There were fastenings at the two tips. It was old. Very old. Merlin could sense it. 

Merlin licked his dry lips and looked back up at Deryn. “What do you want, Deryn?” He asked. 

She did not answer.

Deryn picked up the collar by the two ends, leaned forward, and fastened it around Merlin’s neck. It was heavy and cold against his skin. Deryn set the box aside. 

“This is a very ancient treasure.” Deryn circled around Merlin and ran a finger over the minute carvings on the collar. “It was found a long time ago and was passed down through my family. It’s been called a blessing. And a bane. Let me show you how it works.”

Deryn brushed a curl of her dark hair back, took out a bone-handled knife, and plunged it into Merlin’s gut.

Merlin opened his mouth to scream, to breathe, to cry. But he could not draw breath. The pain was a fire in his stomach. It blazed through him. He shuddered and realized he’d closed his eyes, tears leaking over his cheeks. 

He opened his eyes to see Deryn again. She pulled the knife out.

Agony again. Merlin began to wail, low and keening, each breath he took to cry out was misery. 

A wound to the stomach was a death sentence. No one could fix that kind of injury. Not even Gaius. Why had she decided to kill him? Panting and curled over his wound, Merlin watched Deryn wipe off her knife.

“It is a very powerful treasure. One that I’ve had to protect my whole life.” Deryn said. “It should reveal its purpose now.”

And just as she spoke, Merlin felt the pain intensify. He choked.

Every nerve around his wound began to blaze even more. He was dying. He had to be. How could he endure this? 

Restrained by the chair, Merlin began to tremble and shake, screaming and screaming and screaming. The collar was killing him. 

Hours passed. Or many minutes. Merlin could not tell. Sweat poured down his face, mixing with tears. 

Eventually, he noticed that Deryn had approached him again and lifted his shirt. Merlin caught sight of his stomach. No, it couldn’t be.

The wound was gone. There was blood. And a thin, pale scar. But no gaping knife wound. Nothing.

“It heals.” Deryn let Merlin’s shirt drop back down. “Painfully. So,” Deryn brought a chair over and sat down in front of Merlin. “I’m going to ask you some questions. If you refuse.” Deryn held up the knife. “You know what to expect. No surprises.”

Merlin felt the blood leave his face. He threw up all over his lap.

“Let’s get started.”

Sometime later, Merlin found himself being dragged, arms supported and legs limp. Then he was dropped. Someone was calling his name. Every inch of him throbbed, raw with remembered pain.

Merlin felt himself being turned over and he cracked his eyes open. 

He found Arthur above him and a rough hand touching his cheek. There was something soft beneath his head. 

“Can you hear me? Are you alright?” Arthur’s voice was far away. “Where are you hurt?”

Merlin could not help but attempt a smile. 

He wasn’t hurt anywhere. It was all healed. But he still shivered and ached. And it still felt like he had the collar on. He could feel its phantom weight around his neck, cold and heavy. 

“Fine.” He managed to rasp in answer to Arthur’s questions. Merlin closed his eyes again. He was so tired. “Not… hurt.” He sighed.

“How am I supposed to believe that when you’re covered in blood?”

“Magic?”

Merlin heard a soft laugh above him and felt a cool hand push his sweaty hair back from his forehead. He drifted. 

Merlin awoke to yelling. And pain. 

His eyes snapped open. 

Arthur was being held back by two of the bandits. 

And Deryn was there, standing over Merlin. “Come along.” She ordered. 

Swaying and still half-asleep, Merlin struggled to his feet and followed her.

The moss-covered cave room. The box. The collar.

It began again. 

But Merlin was ready. 

Last time, he didn’t know what to expect. But now he did. No surprises. 

As soon as Deryn fastened the golden, crescent-shaped collar about his neck, Merlin kicked out with every ounce of magic he had. 

He burned his bonds away. He threw Deryn across the room and heard her spine snap. Then Merlin ran. He knew the way. Falling, half-conscious, he ran to Arthur. 

Merlin raised his hands and ripped and tore the wooden cell to pieces. Wood splinters flew. Dust hung in the air. Shouting. Crossbow bolts flew. 

“Arthur!” Merlin roared. 

Merlin looked at one of the bandits and they burst into fire and sparks. Screams. 

They ran. Out of the cave. And into the cold night.

Merlin didn’t realize that they had stopped until he found himself in Arthur’s arms. 

“Don’t worry, we’ll get you to Gaius. He- he’ll fix you up, I promise.”

Arthur was laying him down on the cold, wet ground. In the light of a weak dawn, Merlin could see two crossbow bolts sticking out his chest. How had he not noticed?

Arthur’s hands moved to Merlin’s neck, around back, to take off the collar.

No. 

Merlin flung his hand out and pushed Arthur away. “Don’t.” He gasped. 

The collar was the only thing keeping him alive.

“Take out the bolts.” Merlin begged. “Not this.” He touched the gold collar. 

“I don’t understand.” Arthur’s eyes were wide. And frightened. 

“It’s magic.” Merlin’s thoughts were too fuzzy to properly explain. “It heals wounds. Take the bolts out. Let it heal me.”

Arthur moved forward, grimacing. “Right now?”

Merlin huffed out a laugh. “Should I schedule a better time for you?”

At that, Arthur gave him a watery smile. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay.” Merlin took Arthur’s hand and guided it to one of the bolts. “Let’s get started.”

WHUMPTOBER 2020

DAY 7 No 7. I’VE GOT YOU. Support - Hughie Campbell - The Boys

Hughie stumbles out of the van after it was rolled in a blast from a supe. It results in him getting impaled with a piece of metal, forcing Butcher and Annie to rush him to hospital.

@whumptober2020

Mediwhump May - Day 6

"Needlephobic"

(Mystery Men - 1999)

@mediwhumpmay

“What was he wearing?” Roy limped over to the curb, Eddie guiding him by the arm.

“Shingles.” Eddie grunted as they sat down together.

Jeff shielded his eyes from the flashing blue and red lights across the street. “He had fashioned them into some kind of armor. My forks were nearly useless.”

Roy grimaced as he stretched out his leg.

“You got him eventually, right in the ass.” Eddie added. 

“True.” Jeff sighed as he counted his leftover ammunition. “He deserved it. Especially for the nails. Why does one decide to use a nail gun when interrupting a performance of Shakespeare in the Skate Park?”

“Roofing.” Roy grasped the long nail embedded in the meat of his inner thigh and pulled. It slid free, painfully, covered in blood. Roy let out a long whine and held back a sob. “His theme is roofing.” He rasped. 

“Oh.” Eddie nodded. “The shingles, the nail gun, the-”

“The rebellion against roofless theater productions?” Jeff finished. 

“So weird.” Roy sighed. “But dedicated.”

Eddie caught sight of the bloody nail that Roy held. “Oh no, Roy, you should have let the medics take that out.”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.” Roy waved him off. “I’ve had worse. Besides, they’re busy with Mercutio.”

“I suppose-” Eddie cut himself off. “Oh come on, Roy, you’ve got one in your hand!” He grabbed Roy’s wrist and held it up.

The long nail had flown through Roy’s palm and the tip poked through the back of his hand. It wasn’t bleeding much, but that was because the nail was plugging the hole. 

Jeff frowned. “How many did he get you with, Roy?”

“I dunno.” Roy shrugged. He was tired and sore and thinking was hard. “ A few.”

“A few?” Eddie stood up. “How do you not know? Hang on, let’s do a count. I can’t believe I have to do this for you.”

“I can believe it.” Jeff stood up too. 

“Going to need a metal detector.”

“Come on, guys. I just wanna go home.” Roy whined. 

“Okay, so one in the hand.” Eddie ignored him and began to circle, looking for other nails. “One in the boot. Ouch, straight through your foot.” “Yeah, I was nailed to the stage for a minute.” Roy laughed weakly.

Jeff laughed as well then quickly stopped. “The one from his thigh.”

“Three so far.” Eddie nodded. 

“I think that’s it.” Roy grumbled.

“Let’s at least get you checked out.” Eddie offered his hand to help Roy up from the curb. “Also when was the last time you got your tetanus shot?”

“My what?”

Eddie looked over at Jeff, who nodded silently.

“Let’s go to the clinic.”

“Aw, man.” Roy whined.

Ten minutes later, they piled out of Eddie’s car and into the 24-hour clinic. It was quiet around midnight so the wait was pretty short. A nurse took Roy back, and Eddie and Jeff stayed in the waiting room. 

“How long do you think it’ll take?” Eddie asked Jeff, flipping through a sticky magazine.

“Oh.” Jeff thought for a moment. “Five minutes.” He answered.

“How about ten?”

“You’re on. I’ll watch the clock.”

Four minutes later, the nurse reappeared. 

Jeff stood up. “You owe me dinner.”

The nurse walked over. “Would either of you be able to accompany your friend? He’s…” She searched for a word. “Agitated.”

Eddie stood too. “We’ll both come back.”

The nurse led them back to the examination room. Roy immediately tried to leave as soon as she opened the door. 

“Eddie, I’m fine. Let’s leave. Get me out of here.” Roy spoke quickly in a low mutter. “Come on, Jeff, let’s go, let’s go.”

“Whoa, there.” Eddie gently corralled Roy back in, like a spooked horse. “They’re just going to give you a little check-up, Roy.”

“And a shot!” Roy’s voice almost squeaked. “I don’t-... I don’t like…” “Don’t like needles.” Eddie finished. 

Roy sat back down on the exam table, pale and sweating. “Yeah.” He whispered. 

“We know, that’s why we’re here.” Eddie reassured. “It’ll be really quick. You don’t want tetanus, right?”

“Lock-jaw, Roy.” Jeff chimed in, seating himself in a nearby chair. 

“That actually sounds better than the shot.” Roy said.

“You won’t even feel it.” Eddie said. “Besides, you’ve been stabbed before, Roy, how are you scared of needles?”

“I dunno. I’d rather be stabbed. Can they do that? Use a knife? For the shot?” Roy looked around. “Or a scalpel. Anything but…” He trailed off. 

“You know.” Jeff tapped his chin in thought. “This reminds me of the time we saved the blood drive nurses from the Blood Bandits and you lost so much blood that they just strapped you in the chair to give you blood with that absolutely enormous needle-”

“Okay, okay.” Roy hopped off the table. “I’m leaving.”

“I can’t let you do that, Roy.” Eddie stood in his way. “As your friend, I am going to make sure you get this shot.”

Roy laughed, pretended to back off, then feinted to the left, and made a dash to the right. He tried to get to the door. But he was full of nails and too slow. 

Eddie grabbed him. Jeff stood in front of the door. 

And then the doctor walked in. 

“What have we here?” She asked. 

All three of them stopped struggling. 

“Nothing.” Roy straightened his coat. 

“Nothing.” Eddie let go of Roy.

“Nothing.” Jeff picked up a fork he’d dropped. 

“I see.” The doctor put down her clipboard. “Well, which one of you is Roy?”

Jeff pointed at Roy.

“Thanks, man.” Roy sighed. 

“I will take a bullet for you, Roy, but not a shot”

The doctor sighed. “So Roy, you had an accident with a…” She turned a page. “Nail?”

“Nail gun.” Eddie corrected. 

“Okay, and how many nails?” “Three.” Roy sighed.

“We think.” Jeff added. 

“You think?” The doctor raised an eyebrow.

“Pretty sure.” Eddie admitted.

“Uh-huh.” The doctor paused for a moment, looked over each of them, then proceeded. “Well, let’s get those nails out, Roy. Then we’ll go from there.”

Roy nodded, almost green.

The doctor and an assistant bandaged the thigh wound and extracted the nail from Roy’s foot. The hand was last. Slowly, carefully, the doctor took the nail out and dressed the wound. She kept up a conversation with Roy the whole time, who was visibly relaxing. 

Once that was done, Roy sighed. “That wasn’t so bad. Could we save the-... the shot for another day.”

“No, we can’t.” The doctor answered. 

“Why not?”

“Because we’ve already done it.” The doctor stepped back. She had been blocking Roy’s line of sight of his other arm. 

The assistant was currently pulling a needle out of Roy’s shoulder.

“Oh.” Roy swayed. And fainted.

“There he goes.” Eddie sighed.

“He’s reliable.” Said Jeff.

Merry Whump of May - Day 6

“It's a long story.”

Knife Handle

Gagged

Under the table

(Original characters/story)

@themerrywhumpofmay

They awoke to pain. And drowning.

Omen opened their eyes, gasping, choking. Their eyes stung with water and their head throbbed. Skull felt split open. Can’t. Move. Can’t. Breathe.

Within a moment, Omen realized that their hands were bound behind them. Their ankles were bound together. And there was a gag in their mouth. 

They were wet but they weren’t drowning. Small mercies. 

Omen squinted up at the man holding a dripping bucket over them.

“Good.” He said and set down the bucket. “I was beginning to think that I’d bludgeoned you a little too hard.”

The man was dressed in a fine, dark doublet and hose that were stained lightly with travel. He moved to sit down at a nearby table.

Omen flexed their calf. He had missed the knife in their boot. Interesting.

Omen eyed the room. 

This was some sort of cottage. The floorboards creaked and were caked with dust. The fireplace had been lit but was belching smoke, meaning it hadn’t been cleaned recently. There was a lit lantern on the single table. And the window to the outside, beside the only door, spoke of midafternoon or late morning. The sun was bright and the trees swayed in a breeze, creating a shifting dappled effect on the floor. 

Omen could only hear the crackling fire and birdsong from outside. They were alone. 

Their possessions were tossed to the side, laying haphazardly on the floor. But nothing had been searched yet. Caey was safe. For now. 

Omen was laying on the floor, so that when the man sat down, he was still looming above them.

“I’ve been looking for you for a while.” The man took a swig from a waterskin. “You’re difficult to find, girl.”

Omen winced at ‘girl’. It shouldn’t have bothered them. That was the least of their problems right now.

The man continued talking. “I’d been hearing rumors for a while of a girl fighting in the False Queen’s little band. A girl matching the description of someone I killed several years ago.”

Omen’s belly turned to ice and they stopped breathing.

“I was contracted to kill a highborn lady suspected of aiding the escaped False Queen. And I did so. She was easy to identify due to a mark on her wrist, a brand. A very-”

The man roughly reached down and yanked on Omen’s bound arms.

They cried out through the gag. Arms pulled into a painful twist, shoulder sockets screaming.

“A very distinctive mark.” The man breathed, looking down at Omen’s wrist.

The wrist that bore the brand that he spoke of.

The man, the assassin from all those years ago, released Omen’s wrist, letting them fall back to the dusty floor.

“So, you lived.” He murmured.

Omen grunted around the gag. 

The assassin leaned down and pulled the gag out. “Where is the False Queen?”

“Fuck off.” Omen spat.

He popped the gag back in, wound back his foot, and kicked Omen in the stomach. Hard.

Omen struggled to draw breath. The wind was knocked out of them. Before they could recover, there was another vicious kick.

A blow to their nose. Stars. Blinding pain. Watering eyes. Blood streamed down their face and trickled into their throat. Metallic and hot.

Omen writhed, crying out through the gag.

They arched their back. Reached with bound hands into their boot. Felt the slim, bone knife handle, warm with body heat. Good. 

They grasped it and hid it behind their body, working on the bonds as best as they could.

The assassin paced around the cottage.

Omen sliced their fingers and hands. The knife was sharp. Blood made the process slippery.

“I’m going to ask you again.” The man circled back around to them.

The rope was cut. The bonds loosened. Omen pulled free.

“And if you say-”

Omen hurled the knife. It stuck neatly in the assassin’s shoulder.

He bellowed. 

Omen rolled away, under the table, and began to attack the rope that bound their ankles. Halfway through, the assassin came at them, their own bone-handled knife in hand. Omen scrabbled back with their legs untangled and the rope in hand.

They leapt on the man.

Spat blood in his face.

And it was quick work after that.

Several minutes later, Omen stood. Head throbbing, nose swollen and bleeding, and ribs maybe broken. They wiped off the knife and placed it back in their boot.

They limped over to their pack and belongings. With cut and bleeding hands, they prepared to leave. The diadem still lay within their pack. As soon as they touched it, Caey spoke into their thoughts.

“You look terrible. What happened?”

Omen snorted and spat blood onto the cottage floor. “It’s a long story.”

Mediwhump May - Day 5

"No Response"

(original characters/story)

@mediwhumpmay

Caldwell checked his pocket watch again. Bell was late. Bell was usually a few minutes late. But this was ridiculous. He was late by over an hour.

Maybe he had forgotten their standing appointment. After dinner, Caldwell liked to have Bell sit with him by the fire and talk at him for a few hours. He wouldn’t say it was soothing. But he was a man of habit. 

Caldwell walked to the window and looked out into the inky black of night, the roar of a late winter rainstorm pounding the glass of the windows. 

Well, if Bell wouldn’t come to him, he would come to Bell.

Caldwell grabbed his overcoat and top hat and strode out into the frigid storm. 

The walk down the cottage using the gravel drive was much easier than taking the pasture, less muddy too. Caldwell arrived in no time at the cheerful-looking cottage and raised his hand to bang on the door.

But before he could knock, the door was flung open and Mr. Bell’s farmhand, Hogyn stood there in an oversized raincoat and boots. Hogyn looked up at Caldwell, eyes wide. Caldwell looked down at the young man, mouth open. They stood there a moment more before Hogyn stepped aside.

“Come in, Lord Caldwell, please come in.” Hogyn stammered.

Caldwell did so. “Where is Mr. Bell?”

“That’s what I was going out for, my lord. He’s gone missing.” Hogyn jammed a large floppy hat on his head. “I’m afraid something has happened.”

Caldwell struggled to process this but proceeded forward. “I will help you. But what do you think has happened?”

“He’s been feeling poorly these past few days. And then he went out to fix the pasture fence in all this weather. I couldn’t stop him. He’ll catch his death, my lord, sir.”

Caldwell nodded. “Let’s go then. Are you ready?”

“Yes, my lord.”

“Good lad. Take the north end, I’ll take the south. We will meet in the middle.”

And they braved the storm. The rain that pelted down was icy and torrential. The wind ripped across the countryside and it was all Caldwell could do to keep his overcoat closed. His top hat was soon gone. Torn off by a gust. Caldwell headed to the pasture fence and began to work his way along it. He called out for Bell many times, his voice swallowed by the storm.

Caldwell lost the feeling in his ears and fingers. His boots filled with rainwater and mud. His clothes hung heavy, drenched and freezing.

He should have brought a lantern. He should have brought a search party. Bell should not be out in this. 

The thought that his dear friend was already dead kept whispering into Caldwell’s thoughts.

Tears mixed with the rain on his face.

Caldwell crested a small hill and realized that he’d almost finished searching his share of the property. And no sign of Bell. Unless…

Caldwell squinted through the downpour at a dark smudge. Something lying in the close cropped grass. 

Bell.

Caldwell ran forward as best as he could, slipping and sliding in mud and runoff. It was a person. In a dark coat. Laying face down on the ground. 

Caldwell turned the man over.

It was Bell. He’d found him. 

Bell’s eyes were closed and rain was beginning to pool in the hollows of his eyes. His dark hair was plastered to his face. He was very pale. So pale. 

Caldwell shook his friend. “Bell!” He called.

Nothing. No response. 

Caldwell put a hand to Bell’s cheek. He was cold.

Caldwell swallowed hard and took his friend in his arms. Carefully, slowly, he made his way back to the cottage. 

When he could, Caldwell looked to Bell’s face. If only he would open his eyes. Or stir. The man lay limp and cold against Caldwell’s chest. Bell was such an animated man. His eyes sparkled and he sang so sweetly. To see him like this, lifeless. So close to death. Caldwell felt his heart clenching.

Hogyn met him along the way. 

“You found him, my lord, is he?” Hogyn did not finish the question.

“He’s breathing.” Caldwell answered as they entered the warm cottage, dripping puddles onto the floor. “We need dry clothes. And stoke that fire.”

“All of us needs dry clothes.” Hogyn shut the door and began stripping off his coat and hat. “Lest we catch our death too.”

“No, no.” Caldwell set Bell onto his small bed with a sigh. “I can’t. I have got to go for a doctor. Bell is very ill.”

Hogyn had come over by now. “He hasn’t said anything.”

“Nothing.” Caldwell set his jaw and leaned over his friend. “Bell.” He gently shook Bell’s shoulder. Bell’s head sagged to the side. Caldwell pressed a wet hand to Bell’s wet cheek and stroked it. 

“Bell.” He urged again. Willing Bell to wake. To respond. But nothing.

Caldwell backed away, blinking tears back. “He won’t wake. Keep him warm. I will return with a doctor.”

Hogyn was stoking the fire. “What doctor would come all the way in this weather, respectfully, my lord?”

“The one I intend to pay very well.” And Caldwell dashed out into the storm again.

Merry Whump of May - Day 5

“Do unto others as you would bla bla bla…”

Bow and Arrow

Stalking

Cavern

(BBC Merlin)

@themerrywhumpofmay

“Quick, it went this way!” Prince Arthur hissed, leading the way into the cave.

Merlin furrowed his brow, panting, and shifted his pack further up on his shoulder. He stopped at the threshold of the cave entrance and looked up at the rocky ceiling and darkness within. Arthur was rapidly disappearing, his quiver of arrows on his back the last thing to vanish.

Something curdled in Merlin’s gut. They should not be going into this cave.

Besides, why would a startled deer run into a cave for safety?

A moment later, Merlin ducked into the cool dim shadows of the rock. He followed Arthur as best as he could, stumbling over loose stones. 

“Torch!” Arthur whispered from somewhere up ahead. “Now, Merlin!”

Merlin swung the bag off his shoulder and grabbed one of the torches, fumbling with his flint. 

When he raised the lit torch, hissing with fire, Arthur sighed. The Prince turned back.

“Finally.”

“Sorry.” Merlin grumbled. 

Arthur continued into the cave.

“Do you-” Merlin started, but Arthur shushed him. 

Merlin lowered his voice to a whisper. “Do you really think the deer ran in here?”

“Where else would it go?”

They had lost sight of the doe several times in the chase. Merlin speculated that it was probably anywhere in the forest but here.

“I suppose.” He sighed, following the Prince. 

As they walked, Merlin noticed something dark on the cave walls. He paused. Then moved over to it and raised the torch. The cave wall was covered in paintings. Very old paintings. In colors of dark brown, black, and reddish clay. And it looked like they were all paintings of the same thing. 

Merlin swung the torch around. The entire cave was covered in paintings of bears. 

Very large bears.

“Uhh, Arthur?” Merlin took a few steps back, back towards the entrance of the cave. “Arthur, I think we should go.”

Arthur turned back to Merlin, face illuminated in the torchlight. “Really, Merlin? It’s just a cave!”

The torchlight also illuminated a pair of yellow reflective eyes in the darkness behind Arthur. They blinked once.

“Arthur, run!” Merlin cried, and ran towards him.

Arthur faced the eyes and a low growl echoed around them, so loud that it bounced and seemed to come from all sides at once. Arthur raised his bow and nocked arrow, letting it fly towards the beast in the darkness. 

An earsplitting roar shook the cave.

They ran together. Stumbling and falling towards the distant daylight. The torch went out. Darkness fell suddenly. Merlin lost track of Arthur. The beast’s snorting and rumbling growls coming from all sides at once.

He was blind.

Merlin fell to the ground. His head bounced off a rock. Something wet and hot trickled down the side of his face. 

He peered into the darkness, using his gift to part the gloom for his eyes.

He saw Arthur on the ground.

He saw a massive bear over him. 

Merlin scrambled over. He jumped between the Prince and the bear. 

He had to stop it. So they could escape. 

Merlin extended a hand to the cave ceiling and reached with magic. Reached, and twisted, and tore a rock from the cave.

A fiery pain erupted into his back. Merlin screamed. 

He could not breathe. 

Did a falling rock hit him? He did not stop and pulled the rock from the ceiling so that it fell between them and the bear. A small barrier, but enough to give them a chance to outrun the beast. 

“Come on!” Arthur was still blind in the dark so Merlin grabbed him by the collar and pulled him towards the daylight. Towards the entrance. They ran and ran.

The full light of the outside hit them and they were surrounded by the green forest again, a cacophony of colors. And they kept running. 

Merlin fell behind. Every breath was an agony. He saw Arthur disappear over a small hill. He was gone. Oh well.

Merlin felt his knees hit the mossy ground. He was dizzy. And he could not breathe.

Oh well.

The next thing he knew, his cheek was pressed against damp, earthy-smelling moss. Someone was calling his name. Merlin cracked his eyes open and the daylight hurt. His head throbbed. His back, around his left shoulder-blade, burned and raged. Every breath an effort.

He was turned onto his side, the movement jostling the wound in his back. Merlin cried out, wheezing.

He looked up. 

His head was in Arthur’s lap. Prince Arthur’s eyes were wide and he was pale.

“I shot you.”

“What?” Merlin rasped.

“There’s an arrow in your back, Merlin. I shot you.”

“Oh.” Merlin closed his eyes.

So that’s why it hurt so much.

“Wake up!”

Arthur’s voice hurts too. But Merlin opens his eyes.

Arthur’s face is closer. “I’m taking you back right now. But not if you’re going to die on the way. I’m not going to the trouble of carrying a corpse all the way back, alright?” Arthur’s voice trembles and there are tears in his eyes.

Merlin nodded a little. “I would carry your body back, you idiot.”

“Yes, well.” Arthur wiped his eyes. “Do unto others as you would, you know, blah blah. Right?”

“I wouldn’t shoot anyone in the back either.” Merlin whispered.

Arthur hiccuped out a laugh. “Would you be willing to tell everyone you shot yourself in the back?”

“Idiot.” Merlin sighed, and closed his eyes.

Mediwhump May - Day 4

"Pain"

(Dark Shadows 1966)

@mediwhumpmay

As soon as Willie woke up, he regretted it.

Every inch of him ached. Stiff and sore. Lying down hurt. Getting up hurt. Might as well get up.

He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, groaning. His head began to throb. Dawn was just beginning to peek into the room, illuminating the dust and the rot. 

Willie looked back to his pillow. A dark red and brown stain lay there. His nose must have bled in the night. He touched his swollen and tender cheek. 

The flash of a wolf’s head cane and sharp words.

Willie left the bed and padded over to the mirror on the wall. 

He thought about things so far. He thought about the distant past that was a few weeks ago. Before he’d come to Colinsport. Before all of this. Before him. 

And nothing had really changed. 

And that struck a hollow, empty chord within him.

Willie remembered getting into scraps as a kid. Scraped knees. Busted lip. Talking big only to get hit again. He’d always been covered in scabs and bruises. 

When he became an adult, it was the same. The scraps were bigger. Brawls. He just talked bigger and bigger. 

The hits got harder.

But he learned how to hit too. And he gave as much as he got.

Willie thought and thought and tried to remember a single moment of this life where he hadn’t been bruised. Or bloody. Or in pain.

He drew level with the mirror, realizing he couldn’t remember. 

This was just how it was. 

His reflection stared back at him in the dim and cold morning light. 

A pattern of cane-bruises marched over his face, dark and thunderous.

Willie’s tongue found a tooth, loosened by the blows to his face. He wiggled it. Opened his mouth. Stuck his fingers in. And ripped the tooth out.

Blood covered his fingers and blotted his lips. He slipped the tooth into his pocket.

Willie smiled at himself, bloody and gap-toothed. 

At least his outside now matched his inside.

Merry Whump of May - Day 4

“Two birds, one bullet.”

Chess Pieces

Stubborn

Tower

(Original characters/story)

@themerrywhumpofmay

Rex did it without even thinking.

He saw the farmer raise his rifle. Saw the finger tremble. Stockton flinched.

The crack of the gun.

Rex just didn’t think.

He just wanted to protect Stockton, his friend.

Rex raised his hand and pulled the bullet away from Stockton’s head. It flew past his friend and slammed straight into Rex’s guts. A blinding punch of paralyzing pain. 

Yeah, he hadn’t really had the time to stop that too. Oh well. 

Rex heard the wind leave his lungs and he crumpled to the ground. Honestly, the ground was just much more comfortable. The sun was at high noon so he closed his eyes against it, his eyelids red with its heat. 

Someone was shouting. Probably Burden.

They had approached the homestead as carefully as possible. They needed some supplies and were willing to barter with the farmer. But the guy was scared. Rex couldn’t blame him. Bandits were everywhere. And they didn’t really look trustworthy to begin with.

So when Stockton and his big mouth had said something just the tiniest bit sassy, the farmer got a little more nervous than the situation really called for. Rex had tried to talk him down. So did Burden. But of course, Burden wasn’t a people-person. So Burden had made it worse.

Stockton had taken a step closer to the property line. And that was it. The farmer fired.

Thank god he only fired once. Rex didn’t think he could curve another bullet today. His belly hurt too much, every breath he took it felt like someone was digging a shard of glass into his intestines. 

“My fucking ear!” Stockton was wailing.

Rex cracked his eyes when a shadow fell over him. It was Burden.

“Hey.” Rex whispered. “Stockton okay?”

“He’s being a little bitch.” Burden’s eyes looked Rex up and down.

Rex felt a crushing pressure on his wound and a soft keening wail escaped his lips. 

“Sorry.” Burden was pale. Eyes wide. Burden was scared. When had Burden ever been scared? “I’m sorry but I gotta put pressure on it.”

Rex nodded.

Someone said something. Burden turned away, shouting an answer. “The moron fucking moved it. You’ve seen him move things before. He moved the fucking bullet! Happy?”

Rex closed his eyes again against the bright sun. It was a hot day. Why was he so cold?

“Okay, we’re going. Get ready.” Burden had turned back and murmured into Rex’s ear.

Rex nodded. He braced himself.

It wasn’t enough.

Burden’s strong arms slipped behind Rex’s shoulders and under his knees. As soon as he was lifted from the dusty ground, Rex screamed. Everything went quiet. His ears rang.

When Rex opened his eyes again, his head was turned upward. He saw the sun and sky disappear, replaced by the roof of a porch and then a doorway. The cool darkness of a home. He heard Stockton’s voice and the soft sobs of someone else. Stockton was explaining something.

“I’ve got you, Rex.” Burden said softly and Rex felt it. He felt the vibrations of Burden’s words through his chest.

Rex leaned his head against Burden’s shoulder and just tried to breathe through the pain.

“Where can I put him? There a table somewhere?” Burden shouted. 

“In here!”

Rex heard a sweep and the sound of many things hitting the floor. He angled his head downward and saw dozens of chess pieces rolling across the hardwood floor. And then he was laid out on a table, hard and shuddering beneath him. 

Rex eyed the dusty light fixture above him. 

Burden came into view again.

“Hey.” Rex whispered.

Burden tried to smile. “Hey.”

“Stockton okay?” He asked again.

“He’s still a little bitch, but he’s an alive bitch.” Burden sighed. “Pressure again.”

Blinding pain in his gut and Rex’s ears began to ring. Tears slid from his eyes and trailed down his cheeks and into his ears. 

“Ow.” Rex said softly.

Stockton came into view, covered in blood.

Rex reached out and grabbed Stockton’s arm. “You’re hurt.”

“Just my ear.” Stockton turned to show Rex a bloody, dark wound on his ear. A chunk of cartilage was just missing.

“Too bad it wasn’t your mouth.” Burden grumbled. 

“Mister, I am so sorry.” The farmer’s tear-stained face came into view. “I’ve never shot anyone before, it’s just some people have been showing up lately and-”

“It’s okay.” Rex tried to speak around the pain. He swallowed hard. “It’s okay, what’s your name?”

“Oh, Ed.” The farmer named Ed wiped his eyes on a handkerchief. “Eddie Lang.”

Rex held out a hand to Ed, only just now noticed his own fingers were covered in blood. “Nice to meet you Mr. Lang. I’m Rex. These are my friends Burden Chatham and Stockton T. Hunt.”

Ed Lang hesitated a moment then took Rex’s hand warmly. “Just Ed is fine. It’s nice to meet you. I am so so sorry I shot you, Mr. Rex.”

“Not a bother, Ed.” Rex’s eyes were drawn to a fallen castle chess piece on the table beside him. “I’m sorry we interrupted your chess game.”

Ed sniffed and smiled a little. “Oh, I was just playing against myself. It passes the time.”

“I haven’t had a good game of chess in years.” Rex wheezed.

“Alright.” Burden growled. “Enough. Mr. Lang- Ed, got any medical supplies? Better yet, there a doctor nearby?”

“Next farm over.” Ed answered. “Checked in with her a week ago, she takes supplies and pills as payment for services.”

“We can make that work.” Burden’s hand left Rex’s wound. “Stockton, pressure.”

“Right, yes, sorry.” Stockton winced when he looked at the damage to Rex’s guts. He went pale and then green.

“Don’t throw up on me.” Rex begged. “Please.”

“I won’t.” Stockton reassured him. “It’s the least I can do for my savior.” Rex rolled his eyes. “Sorry about your ear.”

“Don’t worry about it. Gives me character.” Stockton grinned. 

Rex smiled. 

Burden reappeared, speaking to Stockton. “We’re going to get the doctor. Ed says to watch his aunt. Thirty minutes tops.” 

Burden leaned close to Rex, putting a hand to Rex’s cheek. His fingers were rough and warm. “Can you hang on thirty minutes?” Burden murmured.

Rex nodded, looking into Burden’s eyes, the only kind and soft part of Burden.

Burden nodded too. Then disappeared.

The house fell silent. 

Stockton frowned. “What aunt?”

“Me.” Came a soft voice from across the room. 

Stockton screamed, jostling his hand against Rex’s wound. So Rex screamed. 

Stockton whirled around and Rex turned his head as best as he could.

There sat a wizened old lady, perched in an armchair with a tv tray in front of her. Several playing cards were laid out on the tray in a pattern.

“Pardon us, ma’am.” Rex nodded as best as he could considering the angle. “I would stand and introduce myself but-”

“You may have heard, I’m Stockton, this is Rex.” Stockton cut in. “Have you been sitting there the whole time.”

“The whole time.” Ed’s aunt repeated. “I’m Hazel Lang.” Her wrinkled mouth twisted into a smile. “I’m surprised Ed shot you.” She looked to Rex.

“Me too.” Rex grunted. 

“Two birds, one bullet.” She commented.

Rex didn’t dare laugh, but it was a little funny. “Playing solitaire, Miss Lang.” 

“Tarot.” She replied. 

“Neato.” Stockton said.

“Should I do a reading for you?” She asked. 

Rex thought for a moment. “Can’t think of a better opportunity, honestly. Read away.”

Both Hazel and Stockton worked to keep Rex alert and responding as Hazel Lang explained shuffling the deck. Rex clumsily cut it with his bloody fingers. And then she began the reading. 

Hazel laid out three cards on the table beside Rex’s head. “This is a basic reading, son: past, present, and future.”

“Okay.” Rex blinked and tried to keep everything in focus. 

They had changed out towels for his wound a few times. Rex had lost count. Each time Stockton went to grab another he’d looked more and more worried. 

Hazel flipped the first one. 

“What’s it?” Rex slurred.

“The Devil.”

He lost time as Hazel explained that this was his past.

That made sense. 

The second one was flipped. “This is the present. The Ten of Swords.”

“Can… I see?”

Miss Hazel held the card out. A man lay on the ground, pierced by many swords. 

“That…that sums it up.” He sighed and closed his eyes. 

“And the future. Oh.” Hazel Lang fell silent. 

Stockton asked. “Is that one bad?”

“Generally.” Hazel answered.

“Give it to me… s-straight, Miss Lang.” Rex opened his eyes. Colors were blurring together. 

“The Tower.” The elder pronounced.

The front door banged open. Rex heard Burden’s voice from far away.

“Sounds ‘bout right.” And Rex fell into darkness.

OLIVER STARK  Into The Badlands → 1.03 “White Stork Spreads Wings”

Mediwhump May - Seizure

(Original characters/story)

@mediwhumpmay

“That’s not good.”

“What now?” Caey drawled.

Omen stumbled over the corpse of the large salamander and fell to their knees in the leaf litter and decaying wood. The beast was still twitching, tendrils of cold fog rolling from its open mouth and lolling tongue.

The tiara tied to Omen’s belt vibrated and glistened, speaking directly into Omen’s thoughts. “What did you do now? Do not keep me in suspense.”

Omen drew in a shuddering breath and with trembling, bloody fingers, pulled up their tunic. “Not good.” Their words came thickly, as though it was difficult to speak.

“What?” Caey trembled at Omen’s belt.

“Got bit.” Omen fell onto their side.

“By the salamander?”

Omen’s eyes fluttered closed. “Got bit.” Omen repeated.

“Yes, yes, I know!” Caey actually sounded worried. 

Omen’s fingers clumsily untied Caey from their belt and brought the tiara to their forehead. 

“What are you doing? Shouldn’t you treat your wound?” Caey sputtered as Omen shoved him onto their head. “Omen?!”

Omen’s breaths became wheezing and they struggled to speak. “Venom. You have… to fix me.”

Now that Caey rested upon Omen’s brow, he could sense where their wound lay. It was a throbbing, ragged bite wound upon their left side, still bleeding, and the aforementioned venom was working fast. Too fast.

Omen’s legs began to stiffen and convulse.

“Omen, I don’t have magic. I can’t fix you, you idiot!” Caey shouted into Omen’s thoughts. Caey’s awareness was split between his own knowledge as an object of power, and what Omen could see. Now that they put him on their head, Caey would feel everything Omen felt. See everything they saw.

Omen was fixating on the pale, cloudy sky above, between the brown leaves of late autumn. Caey could feel the pain of tense muscles and the fire in their veins. Did they just want him to suffer alongside them? Why had they put him on?

“Ca-...ey.” Omen hissed through gritted teeth.

“Yes? What should I do? I do not know what you want me to do!” Caey babbled.

Caey could feel Omen’s heart racing.

“When I stop…sh-shaking.” Omen choked. Caey felt something warm, and thick roll from their mouth and dribble down their cheek. “Take control…walk me- to healer…p-please.”

Omen had never put Caey on before. 

Omen wouldn’t. Omen knew Caey’s power of possession. 

Omen trusted him now. 

Caey didn’t know how to feel about this. 

But he knew he would do it. He would save Omen. 

“I will.” Caey said quickly.

Omen’s body became painfully tight and wracked with convulsions. Every limb stretched taut to breaking. Their heart raced. Bloody foam spilled from between gritted teeth. Omen seized and seized for what seemed like hours. Eyes rolled back in their head. Caey could see only darkness. 

Caey, planted firmly on Omen’s sweating brow, rode the waves of pain with his friend. He spoke soothing words into their feverish mind. And as soon as the convulsions died down, Caey took hold of Omen’s body. They were broken and in so much pain. But he ran. Stumbling. Falling. Getting back up. And running. To save Omen’s life. He had to.

Merry Whump of May - Day 3

(Mystery Men - 1999)

@themerrywhumpofmay

Roy ducked into the bathroom, flung on the cold tap and splashed water on his face. It stung. Lukewarm and stale. Blood dripped into the grimy porcelain sink. Roy drank from the faucet and spat out pink water. He caught sight of his reflection in the smudged mirror. The lightbulb above flickered and blinked. He touched his cheek and winced. 

That would be a black eye tomorrow. 

The lightbulb flickered out and the bathroom went dark. 

“Ah, man.” Roy sighed, reached up, and unscrewed the dead bulb.

Bulb in hand, he pushed back out into the bar.

“Come on, Roy, chip in.” Eddie said as he counted cash out on the bar. Jeff was adding coins to the mix. The bartender was standing behind the bar, looming over them, arms crossed.

“What’s all this?” Roy slipped the dead bulb in his jacket pocket. He would tell the bartender about it in a minute.

Jeff looked back, nose crusted in blood. “We are paying the gentlemen for the damages done to his establishment in the scuffle.”

They happened to be walking by half an hour ago when they heard screaming coming from the bar. Turned out that five or so guys were robbing the place. Of course they had to step in. And it had gone the way it usually did. Badly.

But that’s what superheroes did. They tried. 

“Damages?” Roy sidled up and stuffed his hands into his jeans pocket for his wallet. “What damages? We got the guys, didn’t we?”

“Well…” Eddie started and trailed off as the bartender strode around the bar.

“Broken window?” The bartender pointed to one of the large front windows, shattered glass lying all around on the floor.

Roy frowned. He was tired, and dizzy, and sat down on a barstool. “When did that even happen?” 

“Two of them threw you through it, Roy.” Eddie supplied.

Roy nodded, then stopped, because his head hurt too much for that much movement. “Right, right.”

“Tables and chairs.” The bartender continued. HIs shouting was painfully loud. 

A table or two leaned on broken legs and a few chairs lay in pieces. 

Roy did remember falling into those. So did his back and ribs.

“And the upholstery!” The bartender pointed at one of the booths, the red leather pierced with several forks.

“That was him.” Roy pointed at Jeff. “He’s the fork guy.” “Thanks, Roy.” Jeff rolled his eyes and shoved his change across the bar. “Pay up already.”

Roy opened his sad, deflated wallet and pulled out his last few ones. “All I got.” And slapped it on the bar. “I’m going.”

And now he had no more money until payday. Great. Just great. He moved towards the door to the outside, limping a little. His knee was swollen and stiff.

The bartender blocked his path. “Uh-uh, oh no, look at this place. That isn’t nearly enough!”

Roy stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, one hand found the dead lightbulb. His fingers wrapped around it as the bartender continued to shout.

Roy nodded a little. “I understand. I can come back tomorrow and help clean-”

He was cut off. The bartender continued to point out every bit of damage, a finger jabbed into Roy’s sore shoulder.

Roy lowered his eyes. He grit his teeth. Breathe in. His head pounded. Breathe out. His heart raced. Felt the blood leave his face. He balled his hands into fists. Pushed past the guy.

Stumbled into the alleyway. Trying to breathe. Trying to stay standing.

Rouy staggered as far as he could go and leaned against the cool, brick wall.

Finally his ears stopped ringing. Someone was talking to him. 

Roy looked up. 

“Roy, you okay?”

Eddie and Jeff stood there, Eddie’s hand on his shoulder.

“We did break quite a lot of things, but he was quite unpleasant to you, Roy. Don’t let it get to you.” Jeff was trying to scratch away the blood from his nose.

Roy just focused on breathing.

“You’re not looking so hot.” Eddie sighed. “Are you hurt?”

“A bit.” Roy panted. “Maybe. Not really. No. I’m fine. I just- You know. Yelling. I’m fine. I think I’m gonna go-” He took his hands out of his jacket pockets.

“Jesus, Roy!” Eddie exclaimed. “Oh boy, do we need to get something on that. Jeff, you got any gauze left?”

“What’s wrong?” Roy blinked slowly.

Jeff did a double-take. “Oh my lord. I’m going to be-” He retched a little. “How did you do that?”

“What?” Roy was getting annoyed now.

“Your hand.” Eddie gripped his wrist. “Don’t touch anything.”

Roy looked down at his hand.

The lightbulb.

He had gripped it so hard that it burst. Exploding into his palm and fingers. His whole right hand was covered in blood and glass splinters. Funny. He couldn’t even feel it. 

Blood pattered down onto the gravel of the alleyway. “Hospital.” Eddie ordered.

“Hospital.” Jeff gagged. 

“Ah, man.” Roy fainted.