#I'll try to get the next chapter of Flickering posted soon btw

[bcdrawsandwrites]

Day 14: Bleeding Through the Bandage Characters: Otto Mentallis, Morceau Oleander Warnings: Blood, injury Summary: Otto could not shake the feeling that something was going to go terribly wrong.

Otto had never put much stock in premonition. As the concept of being psychic became slightly less taboo, more and more fortune tellers and the like had sprung up—people who insisted they could read the future through various means. Many were, of course, frauds, and most weren't even psychic to begin with.

Premonition always turned out to be more mundane than anything, when it was present. He recalled with amusement when one employee had been certain something terrible would happen in the break room, and it turned out to be the microwave burning out just before lunch. Other times it turned out to be the opposite of what was "seen," like when one intern had a premonition of some evil presence arriving the same day Nick Johnsmith was hired.

Honestly, Nick!

So when Otto himself felt a nagging sensation that something was going to go terribly wrong, he was inclined to ignore it. Instead he simply went about his day, tinkering with one of his drones.

Yet the sensation persisted, accompanied by the feeling that he should really check on Oleander's garage. The thought made him laugh—Morry's pet projects were never anything serious, and the last time he'd built something potentially dangerous, he hadn't even been able to get it out the door. Besides, Morry needed to be preparing to head to camp. There was no reason for him to be dilly-dallying around in his garage.

The feeling continued to nag at the back of Otto's mind like an unreachable itch, making it difficult to work. At one point he glanced at his toolbox, noticed one of his screwdrivers was missing, and, heaving a sigh, he finally broke away from his work to head toward the Otto B.O.N. It couldn't hurt to check, he supposed. Besides, he would need that screwdriver back eventually.

No sooner did he enter the garage than a terrible pop-BANG reached his ears. Something was flying at him, and he barely managed to toss up a weak shield just in time to reflect a few pieces of shrapnel.

"Good heavens, Morry!" he cried, dismissing the shield and heading in the direction the noise had come from. The shop was a mess, with random pieces of scrap and piles of boxes scattered every which way. "You need to be careful with this equipment! You could really injure—"

He rounded a tower of boxes, and the words died on his tongue. For a moment, all he could think was: That is far too much blood.

Morry was lying near a chunk of metal, and an angle grinder was sitting at his feet. The side of his face was covered in red, which was already seeping into his work clothes.

"MORRY!" Otto cried, scrambling over to him as Morry held a shaky hand up toward his face. When Otto reached his side, he found what little of his face was still visible beneath the blood to be deathly pale. The sight made him lightheaded, but he couldn't lose his wits now.

Otto frantically cast his gaze around the cluttered garage, searching for a red-and-white box. As he did so, he found himself rambling: "What were you thinking?! Where is your protective equipment?! What are you even doing here now?!"

Morry could only mumble incoherently in response.

He soon had the first aid kit ready, for all the good it would do, and had Morry seated in front of him as he frantically retrieved bandages and gauze. It was only then he realized there was no way for him to use them in this situation—the slice was vertical, crossing Oleander's entire face from his chin to his brow, including—Otto's stomach churned—his eye socket.

Not knowing what else to do, he gathered up the items and pressed them into the lengthy cut and guided Morry's hand to help him. Meanwhile, he put a hand to his temple, stumbling over a list of names he could contact and landing on Truman. Truman? I need your help.

What is it, Otto? If it's about your inventions—

There's been an accident. I need medical attention at the garage now!

Thankfully the urgency in his mental voice came across, and Truman agreed to send some medical staff over while he called an ambulance. Otto's shoulders sagged in relief.

"Okay, help's on the way, Morry," he said, turning back to the young agent.

His blood ran cold at the sight of the bandages already turning red.

"...Otto?" Morry said, his voice slurred and his gaze distant. "Somethin's wrong... with my eye..."

Otto wasn't sure what to tell him.

All he knew was that he'd be making a lot of bottled fear today.