#descriptive injuries

[kulai]

DAY 10, 11, 14 - 16, 17, 18 - 20, and 21 all-in-one post!

sorry im just getting really lazy posting it separately lol, check out the image description if you wanna know the specific prompt! xoxo

check out my twitter where i'm more active!

[frownyalfred]

Jason coming back from the dead angry and out for revenge using a crowbar as his weapon of choice only to bash in someone’s skull with one well-placed, Lazarus Pit-fueled swing and suddenly getting hit with a flashback of gargling his own bloody teeth and fucking losing it on the cobblestone of a random alley somewhere in the Narrows send tweet

[a-scary-lack-of-common-sense]

What is the lore on the cast on his foot?

It’s from the same car crash that gave him the chip in his tooth!

Basically, when Ford blasted his brain with Project Mentem, it reacted very badly because: 1. His head wound from his previous (attempted) surgery wasn’t fully closed, and 2. He had tampered with the machine to make its effects more potent.

But, then I thought to myself: wow, there is no way this motherfucker realistically survived malnutrition, sleep deprivation, mutilation (from Bill), a botched auto-brain surgery (in unsanitary conditions) AND getting basically electrocuted until his brain scrambled. I mean, plot armour is cool and all, but this seems a little excessive.

So, I was like: how can I get this guy to go to the hospital without having to call an ambulance to his place, and accidentally reveal the existence of the portal to the authorities wayyy too early in the timeline?

Solution? Hit him with a car.

[No blood version.]

So this is what happens: Ford wakes back up in his underground lab, disoriented, confused, and overwhelmed. In his dazed delirium, he somehow manages to leave his shack and finds himself staggering around in the woods aimlessly. Then, he walks into the road and gets hit by a car. He is sent to the hospital, and he gets a little bit better with their treatment so that he isn’t on the brink of death (although they were unable to pry the metal out of his head without causing serious issues). But ultimately, he freaks out when he wakes up in the hospital like a week later and instantly ditches the place, rushing back into the town streets. His injuries weren’t fully healed by the time he woke up though, so he was stuck with the cast and the chip in his front tooth.

[eldritch-ace]

Coming out as a Hey, Melissa! defender, she’s just girlie pop and I think catboy Paul and dogboy Ted are great additions to the lore ✌️🐈💖

[morecatswarriorcats]

Mother Dearest

[jasmines-library]

Lazarus Rising

WHUMPTOBER DAY 27: Prompt ‘scars’

Fandom: Batfam

Summary: after an accident takes your life, your brothers manage to find a way to bring you back. But it leaves you with a set of prominent scars that you struggle to come to terms with. But your brothers are there to help you realise that you are beautiful just the way you are.

Warnings: Death, description of wounds and scars, self hate.

Word count: 1.6k

MASTERLIST ⛤ WHUMPTOBER WORKS

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

It was a nasty accident.

An accident that had cost you your life. Your brothers had raced towards you, trying to haul the debris from the exploded building off of your body, but they were too late. You were dead. Still chest, blank stare, stone cold dead.

For a while, no one dared to move as Bruce cradled your bloody body. Not one of the boys attempted to hide the tears that rolled down their cheeks as you lay there devoid life in a pool of your own blood. The shrapnel had embedded itself if your back, and had sliced into other parts of your skin. You could see from the gash on your hand and on your cheek where you had tried to protect your face in vain.

The sight made Damian queasy and so he was the first to turn away, trying to burry the thought that he would never see the way you smiled with your eyes or simply hear your voice again.

Jason was the last to move. Long After Bruce had hauled your body away and his older brother had tried to pull him away gently by wrapping a strong arm around him. But all he could do was stare blankly at the crimson that stained the ground. It should have been him. He was the one who was supposed to be on patrol that night. But he bunked off and you took his place instead. His stomach knotted, tightening around him like a noose. He promised himself that he was going to find a way to bring you back.

And he did.

He didn’t want to tell his brothers what he was trying to do at first. But they caught on quickly after Jason was unable to hide the dark bags under his eyes any longer and they threatened to tell Bruce if he didn’t let up.

They were hesitant at first, but soon the four of them spent their free time delving into books and research. For a short while, their efforts seemed in vain and there were more frustrated sighs drifting across the room than words. But in one glorious moment, the words finally floated into Jason’s ears.

“The Lazarus pit.” He read from the screen what illuminated his small face in the dark. He had managed to find it after getting in contact with his mother and wracking his brain for something she had accidentally mentioned in passing. Talia was reluctant at first, but with Damian’s charm she was quick to give in. “My mother knows where it is. We can bring y/n back but…”

Tim, who had crowded round his little brother squinted. “But what?”

“She’s not going to be the same. The pit it-

It messes with your mind. And it might not work at all… there’s a time frame.”

Jason shook his head and pulled on his coat. “It’s better than nothing.”

~

The four of them carried your body gently towards the swirling green liquid. The pit was hidden in some sort of cave that had been dug out into some sort of lab.

“So this is it, huh?” Dick asked as they lay you down gently next to the pit. He could hardly bring himself to look at you. Your beauty was still obscured by the nasty gash that still hadn’t closed. He was so gentle as he manoeuvred your fragile body, as though just his fingers grazing along your cold skin would hurt you.

“Yeah.” Tim sighed.

“Keep your guard up. We don’t know how she’s going to react when she wakes up. She might be scared and confused.” Headed Damian who had practically recited his mother's words after committing them to memory.

There was little else said as they eased your body into the green liquid, watching as you floated just below the surface. It didn’t take long for the chemicals to take effect, stitching your skin back together and bringing more structure back to your bones and more life back to your skin.

Suddenly, you sat up with a gasp, flailing and splashing the substance of the edge of the pool as you dragged yourself out of it. Your clothes clung sticky to your skin. Your eyes were wide and didn’t settle on anything long before they were darting to the next thing and the next after that.

When Tim reached out to you your instincts kicked in, and you gripped his hand to flung him over your shoulder which caused him to let out a grunt as he collided with the stone.

Your mind was racing at a million miles an hour. You were scared. You didn’t know where you were or why every inch of your body was drenched in a dull but persistent ache.

“Y/n?”

You froze calming down for just one brief moment. You knew that voice and its gentle lilt. It was a voice you could picture a face with. Dark haired with stern eyes, but behind the facade was really a gentle boy with a soft spot for his little sister. You turned, tilting your head at the boy.

“Jason?”

~

You couldn’t bear to glance in the mirror anymore because they were all your gaze could settle on. Pale and spidering the scars crawled up your back and along your neck to your cheek. The pit had worked to some extent and although your mind was seemingly recovering and readjusting, the pit had failed to completely heal your skin, leaving a scar in its wake. Damian said it was something to do with the time scale. Something to do with the fact that the Lazarus put worked better on the dead the shorter they had passed.

You still couldn’t quite come to terms with that word. Dead. It sat in your mind like a weed. No matter how many times you plucked it, it always wormed its way back through the cracks.

For the first few weeks of being back at the manor, you spent a lot of your time trying to cover up the angry lines. The ones on your back were easy enough. You had just resorted to wearing a hoodie. Usually one of the boys’. They gave you a sense of comfort. But after a while, you began to miss wearing your own clothes. You missed being able to express yourself without it feeling wrong. So, there you were, standing in front of your full length mirror in your favorite top, staring at the scar.

There was a soft knock on the door before it peeled open, whining on its hinges and Jason saw you standing there. He couldn’t help the small grin that ebbed onto his lips.

You immediately tried to cover yourself. “Get out.”

“I-“ Jason didn’t want to move. He often feared that it he took his eyes off of you for too long then you would vanish again. Which meant that he was checking in on you much to your dismay. He was so proud of how far you had come in just a few short weeks. “You look beautiful, y/n.”

You recoiled. What? “Jason. Don’t look at them.”

You were about to pull on a hoodie when Damian’s voice peeped round the corner. He had grown impatient and set off with Tim to drag you to movie night. Dick went with them too, unable to shake his worry. Since you came back the four of them were constantly on edge, even if they didn’t care to admit it. “Is she coming or- whoa.”

Tim nearly squealed at the sight of you. “I thought I’d never see that top again.”

Your skin flushed as you sank down onto you bed.

“All of you. Out.”

“Why?” Damian implored.

“Because…I don’t like people looking at them. They’re disgusting.”

“Why the hell would you think that?” Jason was practically outraged at your words.

You couldn’t help it when your eyes brimmed with tears and your voice wavered. “Look at them, Jay!”

“I don’t see anything wrong with them.” Dick shrugged coming to sit next to you. “Do you?”

The rest of your brothers shook their heads.

You gave him a look.

Dick rolled up his top to reveal a long scar along his solar plexus. “Do you see anything wrong with this one?” He asked. Jason then pulled up the hem of his red top and shifted round on the mattress to show you the ones that littered his back. They were pinkish and resembled various different shapes. Or those?”

You shook your head. “No…it’s just. They’re everywhere.”

“So? They’re beautiful y/n. You’re beautiful. Does having a scar make Jason any less of a person that he was before?” Tim asked. You shook your head meekly. “Your scars don’t define you. No matter how much you think they do. You’re still the same gentle girl you were before.”

“Besides,” Damian chimed, “I think they’re really cool. Like lightning.”

You couldn’t help but chuckle at that thought. Your brothers always had a way of bringing light to a dark situation. It was just something that they did; they helped without thinking no matter the cost. You were glad to have them by your side, even if they did get a little annoying at times.

Although it took a little while, and a bucket-load of tears, your slowly began to embrace the scars. You began to express yourself in new ways that you hadn’t done before. In ways that brought a beaming grin to your face. And to your brothers. They were unbelievably proud and their hearts swelled. But it was one thing that you had learnt that really stuck out to you. That they loved you, just the way you were.

🕸 ⋆ ⁶𖤐⁶ ࣪⋆🕸

<- DAY 26 ⛤ DAY 28 ->

Taglist:

@deans-spinster-witch

@senjoritanana

@amaryllis23

[sporeclan]

[Next >]

Here's a little prologue! Hope you enjoy the backstory of this clan! I'm pretty proud of it, honestly.

Because there's a pretty low contrast on the text in some of these panels, I've written them down under the cut for anyone who's struggling to read it! I've also added some image descriptions to the images themselves :]

Moon ??

A new fungus starts growing in the clan's territories.

Soon, the Star-reach Tree succumbs to the fungus.

It spreads fast and eats most things.

Within moons, trees start falling.

The clans' connection to StarClan has been severed

Desperate for resources and lost without guidance, the clans are driven to war.

The loss of trees means loss of food and shelter for prey...

As a result, most prey evacuate the area, leaving the clans to starve.

...

War ravages the already weakened clans.

Only few cats remain when the dust settles...

And fewer stay for long.

The clans are no more.

A single cat rallies a small group of former enemies together.

Crowwhistle

has a vivid dream

SporeClan has been founded!

Moon 0

First moon of New-Leaf

[justaz]

s1ep13 merlin, believing he will be dead by morning, goes to say goodbye to arthur and he leans against the door of arthur’s chambers and watches the glow of the fire light his skin golden, full of color and life that it had been sorely lacking while the prince was injured. he stares at the softness of arthur’s features and pressed the line of his profile into memory for while he passes he will wish for nothing more than to see arthur one last time, his smile and blue eyes one last comfort before he passes on to the otherworld. arthur turns to stare at him and frowns at whatever expression merlin is making. the prince kicks a weak foot out at the chair next to him and motions for merlin to join him. merlin slowly shuffles over but ignores the chair completely. he stops in front of arthur who watches him with wary confusion. the tug of his lips and the furrow of his brow sickeningly endearing and merlin allows himself to be selfish and leans down to press his lips to arthur’s.

the prince is sat frozen under merlin’s touch but he can’t find himself to care much about that, not when he finally knows what it feels like to kiss arthur. he hopes that will be his last sensation before the ever consuming nothing, he hopes he will close his eyes one last time only to find arthur grinning at him and calling him an idiot before leading him into paradise where he can watch arthur smile, hear him laugh, and feel his touch for all eternity. he pulls away and leaves before arthur can gather himself to form a response, dropping the letter explaining everything on the table as he passes. so he allows himself to be selfish twice - to take from arthur and to give, to let himself know what is feels to kiss the man, to embrace his feelings for him, and to have the man know him for who he truly is. he wishes to pass peacefully with no regrets. somehow that revolves entirely around arthur.

only…he survives the whole ordeal and yeah has a gnarly scar on his chest but is otherwise fit to return to his duties. which include taking care of the prince. of arthur. who he kissed. and who most definitely know about his magic by now. yeesh.

[gallusrostromegalus]

For the OC ask I'd like to ask: betrayal or midnight (whichever you want, or both if you have the time/ energy)

Midnight: What keeps them up at night? Do they have nightmares? Fears? Anxieties? What do they do in the small hours of the morning when they should be sleeping?

--- It well past Midnight.

It was hard to tell in Las Noches, because the natural sun outside was just as dark as the sky, and the artificial sun Aizen installed under the dome never set. But the air was cooler, and marginally more humid.

Coyote Starrk was up, roaming the halls- he slept all day so Lilynette has the energy to play with their new friends. She liked to follow the older girls around, especially Ulquiorra's underlings, Cici and Vivi, and sometimes Charlotte, if the woman offered to play makeup with her.

Besides, it felt... normal to him, to roam at night. When things cooled off and quieted down and the other nocturnes came out to play. Hallibel, for one- Coyote wasn't actually sure when she slept, or if she did. The closest he'd ever seen is her folded in a corner somewhere, breathing deeply but as soon as he approached, she would open one eye and at least grunt her half of a conversation. Ulquiorra was usually out on the roof somewhere and he made for decent if somewhat gloomy stargazing company. Grimmjow was often stalking the lower levels, Aaroniero/Arruruerie emerged from their shadowy sanctuary to scuttle about the kitchen, and Szaylel kept not so much irregular as outright chaotic hours.

He was in the outer halls that go around the dome, artificial sunlight streaming in one side, silvery moonlight in the other, and all the noises of the night echoing between them. It wasn't actually being sociable, per se, but it soothed the lonliness to hear everyone about or not.

"AAAAOOUGH!!"

Mostly.

Coyote sighed, rolling his eyes and sped up to meet the howling.

"HAAAUGH! AAAAUG!" Wonderweiss cried, scrabbling awkwardly up a set of stairs and bouncing off the walls as he sprinted for Coyote, eyes wide and terrified.

"Hey, hey, calm d-OOF!" Coyote tried to soothe as the small hollow slammed into his middle, bawling. "OW! Dammit Kid! What's the big idea, howling like it's the full moon out- Oh. Fuck."

Weiss was sobbing, paler than usual, and going a bit funny at the edges. It happened sometimes when he was particularly upset- a third eye sprouting in the middle of his forehead, too many fingers on his hands, and two extra mouths splitting open on the sides of his throat- the ears had gone long and floppy again too.

"Okay, okay, take it easy-" Coyote kept his voice low, hands on the boy's shoulders, trying to calm him down. "-What's wrong, eh?"

"HOUSA! HOUSA ICK!" Weiss yelped, scrambling to his feet and trying to pull Coyote after him.

"Yeah, I don't know what Housa is- Alright, show me." Coyote sighed, getting up and allowing himself to be pulled along. Inarticulate as the boy was, he wasn't stupid, or prone to hysteria. The last time he'd had a howling fit like this, one of Szaylel's creations had gotten loose in the Menos Pits and grown to a nearly unmanageable scale in under and hour.

Weiss dragged him down the stairs and along one of the other external hallways, then deeper into the city, past the hall where Aizen held his interminable meetings-

"HOUSA! HOUSA!" Weiss called as they skidded down a little dogleg hall where one of the Shinigami lords was housed-

"Weiss!" Coyote hissed. "You're going to wake Tousen!"

"YAH! HOUSA!!" Weiss nodded, yanking open the door to the Shinigami's room and running in.

"Shit! I- I'm sorry sir, Weiss was worried about- Oh. Oh, fuck." Coyote realized with horror.

Tousen's room was a small, spare place- little more than a narrow bed, wash basin and desk before the heavily-barred windows. Coyote had never seen the inside of it before, but the pale strips of moonlight through the bars made Coyote realize Tousen wasn't here by choice.

The man himself was sitting on the floor, back against the wall next to the washbasin, the scent of vomit still fresh in the room. He looked awful; gaunt, and the wrong color- almost a dull gray rather than the warm brown when Coyote had first met him. His eyes were closed tightly, he was panting heavily, gripping his abdomen, and not responding to Weiss's calls and shaking his arm.

"Shit." Coyote hissed, kneeling beside the Shinigami- he was sweating and very hot to the touch, but moaned faintly. "Weiss- Weiss! Listen, I need you to find- fuck, um- Find me Paramia or Rudborne, okay? One of them might know what to do."

Weiss whimpered, looking between Coyote and Tousen.

"Go! I'll take care of him, okay?" Coyote urged, and with a final worried look at the shinigami, Weiss sprinted off.

"...Because I definitely know how to do that." Coyote sighed, looking down at the man. "Uh, um. Pulse? He should have one of those, right? Hey, um, Lord Tousen? I'm just gonna. Grab your throat. Yeah that's totally nonthreatening..." He muttered, looking around the room and finding his Zanpakuto on the bed.

Instead of biting him like Coyote would have done if someone had started poking his throat while he was barely conscious, Tousen instead rolled his head weakly in Coyote's direction, pale eyes cracked open.

"...Sssjn?" Tousen mumbled.

"What?" Coyote blinked. "Um, oh, there's your pulse... Yeah, I- I don't think it's supposed to be doing that." Coyote winced, the human's pulse not so much beating as rapidly vibrating under his fingers.

"...Sajin?" He asked again, reaching up for Coyote's face with a shaking hand. "Sajin? Is that you?"

"Who?" Coyote blinked. "Tousen? Can you hear me? What's wrong with you? Something you ate?"

"Sajin, I- I'm so sorry...." He wheezed, voice weak, hand dropping away before he could reach Coyote's face. "I- I need to get you up. Find a doctor- Do we have a doctor? Paramia knows how to do a good stitch-up, but... Fuck. Alright, come on, on your feet-" Coyote grunted, pulling Tousen's arm over his shoulder.

"AUGH!" Tousen shrieked with pain as he was pulled up. "Please! Please, don't- just let me be..."

"No way, you're the only guy here with half a brain and I'd really like to live through this whole war with the shinigami thing so I'm really countin' on you to pull through-" Coyote explained, getting one arm under Tousen's shoulders and pulling him away from the wall-

-there was an unpleasantly wet peeling sound as he stood.

Coyote looked over the shoulder of the man slumped against him to see a bright stripe of blood running down the man's spine and against the wall he'd been propped against.

"I'm so, so sorry..." Tousen whimpered. "I never- I never meant to hurt you..."

"Hurt ME? What the hell, you couldn't hurt a mouse like this, nevermind me!" Coyote yelped, scooping the small man into his arms and then nearly dropping him as he over-corrected. Tousen was much lighter than he should be.

LILYNETTE!! Coyote howled over their bond. WAKE THE FUCK UP!ITS AN EMERGENCY!

WHAT?! She snarled back as Coyote sprinted out of the little cell of a room, looking for someone, anyone-

Tousen's on death's door, we need to find a- a doctor, someone! He panted, searching the halls.

Do we even HAVE a doctor? Lilynette wondered back.

That's what I wanted to know! He grumbled, sprinting up the stairs toward the meeting room.

WHY WOULD I KNOW? WE SHARE A BRAIN, MORON!! she cried back. Fuck, Uh- Not Szaylel- I dunno, Charlotte? She knows a lot about skincare and diets?

Yeah, we're a bit past skincare- look, I told Weiss to go find Paramia, go help him? Coyote skidded into the meeting room to find the light on down the hall in the throne room. He turned the corner to find a tall figure walking towards there as well.

"Ulquiorra's back with the girl Lord Aizen wanted." Hallibel muttered through her mask and high collar. "...Humans aren't supposed to be gray, right?" She frowned down at Tousen.

"No they're not!" Coyote grinned up at her. "Please tell me I've slept through a staff meeting and that we've got an actual doctor, not just a mad scientist and a stitch witch?"

"Oh? What seems to be the matter with- oh. That's. Bad." Szaylelapporo oozed over, then grimaced at the man. "Well, get him on the table, I'll see what I can do-"

"Not you! A REAL Doctor!" Coyote spat, jerking away from him.

"EXCUSE ME?" The mad scientist squawked, aghast.

"Welcome, Miss Inoue-" Aizen's voice rippled down the hall from the throne room. Tousen whimpered, curling into Coyote's chest, shaking. Fuck, if Aizen locked him in that cell of a room, he could have poisoned him too-

"-to my kingdom of- What the hell are you wearing?" Aizen sputtered.

"Yes!" an unfamiliar voice replied.

"Oh, come on, how often do we get a chance to dissect- I mean- surgically assist a Shinigami?" Szaylel pouted, reaching for the shivering man.

---

"Mr. Cifer didn't give me a lot of details about the conditions here, so I tried to prepare for every eventuality I could!" Chirped the small mountain of clothes and camping gear that apparently contained Orihime Inoue.

"I- well. If one cannot be forewarned, one should be forearmed, I suppose..." Aizen muttered, thrown completely off script. "But as I was saying, please allow me to extend the full hospitality of Las-"

There was a brief flicker of bright light and sharp withdrawal of reiatsu in the hall behind him.

"That better not be a cero-" Aizen frowned.

BLAM!

"My dick!" Wailed Szaylel from some distance away, having been blown through several walls as well as castrated.

"Quitcher bitchin', it'll grow back!" Snarled Coyote.

Aizen closed his eyes, rubbing his temples with his middle and ring fingers, struggling to maintain some composure. "What are you doing Mr. Starrk?" He snarled, turning on his heel to confront the First Espada and instead walking face-first into the spectacular underboob cleavage of the Third.

"Are you the Kurosaki kid's medic?" Hallibel called, unperturbed by the fact she was lightly smothering her commander.

"Uhh... I mean I'm trained in first aid and I'm pretty good at healing?" Miss Inoue muttered as Aizen extracted himself from Hallibel's bosom.

"What the hell is going on?" Aizen hissed up at her.

"Great! Lord Tousen's dying." Hallibel explained to Miss Inoue, before looking down at Aizen. "Also, Lord Tousen's dying." She said pointing down the smoking hall where Starrk was emerging with a weak and pallid Tousen in his arms.

"Oh, come on Kaname, pull yourself togeth- oh." Aizen recoiled at the sight of his compatriot, and the way his spine had bled all down the front of Starrk's uniform. "Miss Inoue? Your skills are requi-" He spoke up only for the girl to brush past him without so much as a sideways glance, shed of her excess garmentry.

"Mr. Tousen?" She asked, eyes wide and already on the verge of tears. "Can you hear me?"

"I-Inoue?" he groaned, turning his ear towards her. "Where? Where's Sajin..?"

"He's fine, but you're not. Can you tell me what's wrong?" She said, taking his wrist and touching his face.

"S-stomachache. Started... I- I don't know. Can't sleep." he mumbled, head dropping back onto Coyote's chest.

"He- he also threw up, his whole back is bleedin' and he keeps apologizing to this Sajin guy?" Coyote added.

"When was the last time you ate or drank anything?" She said, pinching the skin on the back of his hand and grimacing.

"I- I don't know. Not for a while. Not... not worth it." he muttered, listless.

"Is the stomachache concentrated anywhere? and is it more like nausea or pain?" She asked.

"P-pain. Very painful." He hissed. "It's- lower right side."

Miss Inoue inhaled slowly, jaw set. "Is it better or worse if you put pressure on it?"

"Hurts- hurts if I take pressure off it?" He whimpered. "I- I can't- Where's Sajin? He, he was just here-"

"Well, Miss Inoue?" Aizen asked, strolling up and putting a hand on her shoulder. "Care to prove your worth?"

The girl was completely still and silent for a moment. Fear? Or some sort of delayed reaction? Aizen watched her for a moment, the girl's face expressionless.

"I need a sterile room, surgical equipment- scalpels, sponges, gloves sutures, the works- and the means to sanitize it, and at least two people to hold him still." she said, voice flat.

"Surgical equipment?" Aizen scoffed. "You misunderstand- I want to see what the Shun Shun Rikka is capable of."

"It's capable of restoring a hell of a lot when it comes to traumatic injury and blood loss but it doesn't work on infections or organ failure, so if you want Mr. Tousen to live through the night, you'll have to settle for my capacity as Surgeon." She said, voice quiet and clipped. "Sterile room, Surgical equipment, sanitary gear, assistants, please, before his condition gets worse."

"...What condition?" Aizen puzzled, and she sighed with exasperation.

"You! White hair and horn! Find me a room that is or can be rendered sterile!" She barked, pointing over Coyote's shoulder.

"What? Who died and made you queen?" Lilynette yelped.

"DO IT!" Coyote barked.

"Fuck! Okay!" She flinched. "There's- uh, Paramia's office. She's got most of the stuff you were yelling about. I think."

"Good. Mr. Starrk, right? Do you know where that is?" She said, gray eyes snapping up to the Primera Espada's own, and he actually startled a bit.

"Uh- yes, and yes?" he muttered, arching his neck away from her.

"Take Mr. Tousen there ASAP, get him on a bed and if there's any means of restraining him, I need him lying on his left side, everything on his right side from his hip-bone to the middle of his ribcage exposed. Understand?" She said, gesturing to Tousen's side.

"Uh, yeah, Yes, I'll go-" Stark muttered, backing up a few steps and vanishing in a burst of Sondido.

"Maybe I didn't make myself cle-" Aizen started with Orihime spun out of his grip and turned to face the rest of the throne room.

"Mr. Cifer! I presume you know where the kitchens are! I need drinkable water, any electrolyte beverages you have or failing that, anything with a decent amount of salt in it, and anything with caffeine."

"I don't take orders from you." he growled.

Miss Inoue stopped from where she'd been turning to Hallibel and glared back at Ulqiorra. "You said that if I followed you through that portal, I'd be joining Aizen's cause, body and soul."

"What?" Aizen mouthed at Ulquiorra behind her.

"Yes? And?" Ulquiorra agreed, glaring back.

"Mr. Aizen, may I then act in an emergency capacity under your authority for the purposes of keeping a member of this organization alive?" She asked, rounding on him.

What had been sad, soft gray eyes in Ulquiorra's recollection of events had darkened into the color of an oncoming stormed and sharpened around the edges in a way that reminded Aizen uncomfortably of how Unohana's disapproval could feel like a knife at his throat.

"...You have hidden depths, Miss Inoue." he smirked, pretending to be at ease if he couldn't pretend to be in control. "-And since you're being such a good team player, I will happily grant you temporary authority to see to Kaname's welfare."

"Thank you sir." She bowed her head. "Cifer! Kitchen!"

Ulquiorra sputtered for a moment and then skulked off.

"...This good favor of mine is entirely dependent on Kaname's survival and recovery, of course." He said, leaning down into her personal space, lips almost at her ear.

"Of course, Mr. Aizen. I would consider failure to save Mr. Tousen just cause for suicide as it is." she said, and then failed to elaborate as she turned to Hallibel. "Ma'am with the blonde hair! What's your name?"

"...Hallibel." She said, slowly cocking her head at the girl

"Thank you Miss Hallibel." Inoue bowed. "Do you have a good grip, and can you stand the sight of blood?"

"...Yes?" Hallibel puzzled.

"Please escort me to Mr. Starrk, I'll need your help." Inoue asked, pointing down the smoking hallway.

"Miss Inoue, what cond-" Aizen started to ask again, but the girl was gone in a blur as Hallibel promptly carried out her orders and followed Starrk's sondido with her own. "-ition are you talking about?"

"Fever? Vomiting? Severe pain in lower right abdomen? C'mon boss, even you know what's up!" Laughed Gin.

---

"So... have you ever done a surgery before?" Hallibel asked when they stopped at the door in front of Paramia's room.

"Ugh-" Orihime staggered for a moment, disoriented. "What? Oh, no- I've seen this one done before. Well, a video of it." She winced.

"Oh." Hallibel muttered. "Well. I've never seen a video of anything, so I guess you're qualified." She shrugged, opening the door.

"Miss Inoue?" a soft voice asked inside. "I'm Roka Paramia, I act as Medic here." She was a small, almost human-looking hollow with half her face covered by a humanlike skull, almost like the phantom of the opera. She also wore a green, cable-knit sweater, which was strange because it had to be at least eighty degrees in here.

"Oh thank god!" Sighed Orihime. "Have you ever done surgery before?"

"No!" Smiled Paramia. "I look forward to learning the process."

"Cool, I'm promoting you to Assistant Surgeon. Can you get the relevant tools out and sanitized?" Orihime nodded.

"I have already done so, as well as secured Lord Tousen to the operating table!" Paramia smiled, gesturing inside to where the shinigami had been strapped down to the stainless steel table. A small, childlike hollow curled up and whimpering beside him. Behind them, Starrk and Lilynette were standing awkwardly, unsure of what to do. There was a quiet sob from the table, and Orihime stepped into the room.

"Hey- I met you down at the river yesterday! Weiss, right?" Orihime asked, touching the boy's shoulder. He looked up at her, large purple eyes blinking slowly in recognition.

"Ohhimay?" he tried.

"That's right! I'm Orihime!" She smiled, patting his head.

"Augh!" Weiss sobbed, grabbing her shoulder and pointing to Tousen.

"OW! Easy, I'm not very strong- Thanks." She winced and Weiss relaxed his grip. "It'll be okay, I promise. I'm going to make Mr. Tousen better, but it's going to really, really suck for a bit but then he'll be all better, I promise!" She soothed, brushing a thick lock of blonde hair away from his face.

Weiss mumbled, looking between her and tousen for a moment.

"It's okay Weiss. I'll be alright." Tousen spoke up, voice little more than whimper. "Can you go guard the hall for me?"

"...kay." Weiss mumbled, shuffling off the table and out the door, crouching beside it, still peering back into the room.

"Thank you. And I'm really sorry for what's about to happen." Orihime bowed, hands holding Tousen's. He grimaced, but nodded and squeezed her hand in acknowledgement.

Orihime looked back at Paramia."What do you have by way of painkillers?"

"Oh, we don't believe in those here!" Paramia smiled.

Orihime blinked at her a few times, and decided to think laterally. "...What do you have in terms of alcoholic beverages or other recreational drugs here?"

"Oh! There's Tequila in the commissary!" Paramia nodded with excitement.

"Nnoitra's got Ketamine." Said Hallibel.

"He has WHAT?" Yelped Starrk.

"Ketamine. Yylfordt snitches it out of Szaylel's lab and they get high on the roof when Aizen's away." Hallibel shrugged.

"Ketamine would be very helpful, actually!" Orihime chirped, slightly manic. "Alright, Miss Lilynette? Go help Ulquiorra in the kitchen-"

"UUUUUGH." Groaned Lilynette.

"I know, he's a jerk." Orihime waved. "But he's also stupid, and probably forgot what I sent him for already."

Lilynette snorted with laughter and Orihime smirked. "I'll write you a list, make sure he comes back with everything, okay?"

"Yeah, I can babysit batboy." Lilynette giggled.

"Miss Hallibel? Do you think you can persuade... I'm sorry, I didn't catch their names-" Orihime waved.

"Yeah I can shake down Nnoitra for his stash." Hallibel nodded.

"Great! You both go do that and come back ASAP while we scrub up?" Orihime asked, giving them each a thumbs up, and the responded in kind before vanishing out the door.

"I must say, I'm very impressed with your capability for organization and command!" Paramia beamed as the two medics washed up and Coyote tried to figure out the best way to keep Tousen pinned to the table. "There was some discussion between Lord Aizen and Lord Ichimaru of abducting someone from soul society to fill in the role of chief medic, but I think you're the superior option so far."

"...Who were they going to take from Soul Society?" Orihime frowned.

"Oh... I can't remember her name. Lady Usagi or something?"

"LADY UNOHANA??" Orihime shouted.

"Yes! Lord Ichimaru suggested that abducting Lady Unohana would be more tactically sound, but Aizen dismissed the idea rather quickly- I'm sorry, have I said something humorous?" Paramia asked as Orihime crumpled to the floor laughing, and there was an amused wheeze from Tousen.

"We'd all be better off if Aizen had attempted to abduct Lady Unohana." Tousen laughed darkly.

"Yeah!" Orihime didn't so much grin as bare her teeth at the absurdity of her circumstances. "She would have reduced them both to bright red streaks on the wall and I wouldn't be here doing an unanesthetized appendectomy at one in the goddamn morning!"

[staycalmandhugaclone]

Fool's Errand Pt 10

Part (10) of Fool's Errand, the next arc of Doc's Misadventures! If you're new, start at the beginning with Touch Starved!

Sorry! I know I owe responses to that fluffy little holiday thing, but I really wanted to get this out, too! (Also... big sorry... you'll see why)

Warnings: mild suspense, vague injury descriptions, decent bit of cursing, minor character death (very minor), (is there a warning for a kid wielding a gun?)

WC: 3,403

Droids don’t need the light. Not like we do. In the darkness, only the automated sound of whirring gears and clacking metal narrate movements governed by near perfect synchrony. The silence that surrounded those movements was deafening. It was easy to forget just how dangerous those machines truly were when watching the incredible ease with which the soldiers of the GAR could tear through them. But up close, when nothing lay between us but darkness and an armor that suddenly felt far too thin, the droids were monstrous; emotionless; streamlined and refined toward a single purpose: destruction.

I tried not to think about the simple fact that the same was often said of the entirety of the clone population; how readily society at large welcomed beliefs of unthinking, unfeeling suits of armor in the stead of the very real people that armor concealed. I tried not to think about how that mentality might linger and fester into resentment and fear once the end of the war offered some hope of integration, nor of the unending hardships that were inevitable with such naïve mentality. As I sat crouched in the nook of the freezing ventilation shaft, I tried not to think about anything at all save the near impossible task of silencing my own heavy breaths, attention trained on the endless rows of automatons marching barely a handful of feet away from me.

Wrecker had made it to the maintenance closet several meters ahead, but I’d still been fighting to force the adhesive of the deceptively small explosive to seal with the chilled metal of the duct, and what few seconds that cost me proved just enough to force me to hide as the echoing orchestra of marching droids approached us. We knew they were coming. Thanks to Echo, we knew exactly when to expect every routine patrol scheduled to monitor these halls, but the sheer frequency of their presence was staggering.

Neither of us moved for several seconds after the last droid finally vanished behind the rear door.

“You alright?” Even whispered, my body tensed slightly at the suddenness of Wrecker’s voice calling through the speaker of my helm, and I had to release a quick breath before responding.

“Yeah.” I murmured, glancing back at the detonator as I carefully began easing my way out of the small shaft. “Had trouble getting this one attached, but looks fine now.” A quiet grumble reverberated around me, and I could clearly imagine the troubled frown tugging at his lips.

My eyes flashed to the timer in the corner of my HUD steadily counting down to the moment Crosshair was supposed to take out the decoy power transformer. We still had several targets to rig if we wanted to level the station in time.

Wrecker led the way forward without another word, quick strides shockingly silent. It would never cease to amaze me how easily the man before me could dance between the kind, boisterous goofball and this: lethal, efficient; movements far too quiet for the terrifying mass of his powerful form. I’d worked with astounding soldiers before, but these men were different. Boost, Comet, and Warthog were frightfully capable, but Wrecker and his brothers…

His hand flashed out, pointing to the spot he wanted the next charge placed. He didn’t pause before moving on to set his own, leaving me to my job without so much as a backward glance. Even now, after so many months of working with them, it still felt odd to be trusted so explicitly, but there wasn’t time for even a moment of self-doubt as I quickly dropped to a knee to begin working. Despite the utter simplicity of these explosives, still, Wrecker could finish two in the time it took me to prime one, but he showed no hint of impatience; merely moved on to the next spot until the room was cleared.

We both paused upon turning to the door. It was quiet. It shouldn’t be. By now, we should have been able to make out the distant chorus of the next patrol.

“Status.” Wrecker called, voice just loud enough to be picked up by the mic. My shoulders ached from how taut the muscles were. He didn’t talk like that, governed by that stark militaristic sharpness… not unless something was wrong.

“In position.” Crosshair responded coolly.

“En route.” Tech answered next.

“Wrecker, update.” Hunter’s order came in far crisper than the others, the Marauder’s comms undistorted despite the metal walls of the facility.

“Clanker’s missed a patrol. Pretty sure they haven’t noticed us, though.” He replied curtly, head pivoting behind us before turning back to the forward door as though half-expecting a troop of droids to come rushing in at any second.

“Crosshair, any change?” The Sargeant called. I could hear the growing tension in his voice and knew he was standing tensely over the intercom, hands grinding into the metal corners.

“No, but this sector isn’t supposed to have another patrol for over four more minutes.” Cross reminded him, voice low.

“Keep an eye on your escape routes,” Hunter instructed, “and report any more abnormalities.”

A series of ‘roger’s answer him in quick succession before Wrecker continued forward, heavy blaster balanced against his shoulder. My pistols felt miniscule in comparison, but I still held them at ready as he cracked open the door. Beyond was a cavernous room dotted with Separatist transports. If things went south, Wrecker and I would blow a series of bombs starting with two at either end of the massive bay, granting us an exit route while several other explosions went off at pre-set intervals to mask our escape. If it came to that, however, there was little hope in retrieving that little girl’s father…

“… don’t like this…” Wrecker muttered after muting his com.

“How many more do we have?” I asked, treading closer to him so my whispered words would reach him.

“Ten. Twelve if we wanna hit the control tower, but…” He let the thought trail off as he peaked around the corner of the doorway to stare at the massive sheets of metal suspended overhead on thick tracks.

“So, we finish those ten and re-evaluate.” I offered quietly. He didn’t respond for a long moment, the fearsome visage of that feral skull still studying the distant bay walls.

“Yeah…” He mumbled absently, but a few more tense seconds passed before he drew a quick breath and moved through the door, strides measured and quick, stance low.

Our HUD timers had been perfectly synced. I’d known that there would be no delay between that small clock striking zero and the distant rumble of an explosion preceding at least a momentary flicker of the lights. Still, my body snapped taut as the world around us trembled, even if only for a moment. And then the darkness descended in earnest.

Our visors were designed for this: to grant us clear images even in the darkest nightmares of distant worlds. Regardless, I felt myself tense, adrenaline flooding my chest as I studied every shadow of the now monochrome display before me. Already, the Separatist forces were responding, dozens of squads activating and filing across the vast expanse of the hanger in precise, unhurried movements. Several took positions at entry points about the bay, though most marched out of sight, undoubtedly en route to the now destroyed power station.

“Yuh got some fun headin’ your way, Cross.” Wrecker warned, large hand reaching into his bag for another charge, attention trained once more on the command post.

“They won’t find anything.” He responded haughtily, words only just betraying a slight breathiness as he sprinted back across the rocky outcropping surrounding the north end of the hanger.

“Imma see how many a’ these I can stick before the others get here.” There was a subtle glee in his voice, thrilled at the promise of even that simple challenge.

“I’ll keep watch.” I drawled slightly, the eyeroll audible amidst my quiet chuckle. That tension was still there; creeping across my skin and keeping the muscles stretching up my spine taut, but this was their world – our world: impossible missions with unending dangers in which we still managed to find some taste of joy.

“…Kriff.” Every wisp of that joy instantly went cold.

“Cross?” Hunter called quickly, voice full of the same sharp concern that turned my blood to ice. Wrecker had just begun setting the fourth detonator and visibly froze, waiting anxiously for a response.

“…trap… -utoff from… -ing around…” His rushed reply broke between bursts of static.

“Dammit, they’re trying to block your comms! Where are you?!” Hunter shouted. The distorted reply was too muffled for me to make out, but the pained shout that followed was nauseatingly clear. “I can’t reach you with the Marauder. En route on foot.” His words left in a growl, voice now muffled with that telltale distortion as he abandoned the protection of the ship, the sound of the ramp lowering in the background just loud enough for the mic to pick up.

I didn’t need to see Wrecker’s face to know he was struck with the same dread as me, and, with a sharp nod of his domed helm, motioned toward the rear wall of the hanger. I was already running when the first explosion erupted through the air, but the sudden scream that tore through the speakers was all I could hear.

“Crosshair!” His name shouted from me in a burst of panic, but his desperate cry didn’t stop. The natural rasp of his voice broke in choked gasps between sounds of an agony that left my skin crawling. Blasterfire shrieked behind me in rapid flurries. I didn’t bother looking back, certain that Wrecker was eagerly providing a distraction to cover my retreat, but the droids weren’t fooled.

A curse caught on my lips as I dropped into a sharp slide, just managing to dart behind a supply crate as a troop of B1s trained their sites on me, and the volley of shots that seared the metal casing left my heart racing even faster. My arm was moving before conscious thought registered what I was doing, hand snatching at one of the few remaining charges. I didn’t know if this would work, fully aware that some explosives were perfectly stable until intentionally set off with a detonator. Regardless, I launched the small device toward them, HUD automatically following my gaze to lock onto it as I raised my own weapons, standing to face down the dozen droids targeting me.

The scent of burnt plastoid filled my senses before noting the faint line of red seared into my shoulder pauldron as I pulled the trigger.

Ringing. By now, I recognized the disorientated daze of shellshock and clung to the sense of annoyance rather than any fear or pain lingering beyond that confusion. Move. There wasn’t time for this… Before the thoughts even solidified in my mind, I could feel my body struggling back to my feet, balance wavering precariously for several seconds even as I staggered forward.

“…!” A voice rang loudly around me, but it took a moment of actual concentration to truly hear him. “-oc! Wha’ happened?!” Wrecker. He was shouting. I glanced over my shoulder to see him quickly backtracking toward me and gave my head a hard shake in some vain effort to clear the lingering fog.

“…m… I’m fine!” I called out, lips sluggish. “Used a charge to… clear the path.” He looked toward me only briefly before returning his attention to the encroaching units. Still, I could see the air of hesitation in his movements, the reluctance to risk creating any additional distance between us, so I took that decision away from him, jaw set as I forced myself through the still smoldering crater blown into the thick wall.

Crosshair was still screaming, growled cries catching on choppy breaths muffled behind ground teeth.

“Hunter, do you have eyes on him?” I shouted, sprinting toward the cover of trees surrounding the station as I silently cursed the steep incline leading toward the ship.

“Not yet, there’s… - dammit -... They sent a kriffing… platoon after him.” I could hear the strain pulling at his every word, and that dread returned en force, fear spiking at the thought of how easily he could find himself incapacitated as well just from exacerbating his preexisting injuries.

“Echo and I can provide backup.” Tech offered. Even his voice held that deep worry.

“No – continue with the mission. We’ll be halfway to the Marauder by the time you’d even reach us.” He ordered. “Doc-”

“I’m already en route,” I interrupted quickly, “just send me your location.” He didn’t respond for a long moment, and I had to fight to keep from shouting my impatience.

That earlier fear was gone. I barely bothered glancing between branches in search of enemy troops, the threat of what danger my brief isolation from the others might pose forgotten in the echo of Crosshair’s pain. My entire focus was on reaching them as quickly as I could, cursing every fallen log and sleek boulder that hindered my progress.

“I’ve got him.” He was panting, pain clear in the breathy words, and my heart twisted at the endless possible reasons for that pain. The keening gasps still sounding from Crosshair’s mic were the only thing silencing some sharp rebuke demanding he stop. There was no right answer here; no way forward without the risk of a sacrifice I couldn’t begin to fathom.

“Might still be s… s’me droids… but think I got ‘m all.” His uncertainty was just as concerning as the slight slur dampening his smoky voice. That meant his focus was dwindling; that inhuman ability to feel the dance of electricity connecting the world around him was overcome by his own pain or exhaustion or something far worse.

“Dammit, Hunter! Just send me your location before you kriffing keel over!” I ordered harshly, no longer making an effort to mask that impatience.

“Tracker… tracker’s on… H… headed back.” Curses flowing unapologetically between ground teeth, I snatched the datapad from my waist, fingers stabbing at the screen far harsher than necessary as I locked in on his signal. The Marauder was just over a klick away, and Hunter’s signal was another half klick beyond that, speed frightfully slow as he made his way back.

“Talk to me, Hunter, or I’ll start using the karking pain scale questions.” I threatened, and was relieved to hear a huff of laughter. It was weak, but it was there.

“Damaged… damaged his helmet… Visor broke…” In an instant, that relief abandoned me. “Gave him… gave him what I had, but… it’s… it’s barely taking the e-edge off.” He panted.

“Burns?” I asked, straining to hide the depth of my fear at the very thought of what damage that might cause, but Hunter quickly dismissed that fear with something far worse.

“No… think it’s… There was a – a gas…” My stride nearly faltered. A gas… Chemical burns were far more difficult to treat…

“Listen to me: when you get him back to the ship, don’t try to rinse it out with water.” I instructed quickly.

“I kn- I know.” There was an unmistakable wheeze in the gasp robbing his retort of whatever annoyance he’d meant it to hold.

“What about you, Hunter? Were you exposed?” I made no effort to hide the harshness in my own voice, words quickly growing breathy as I sprinted from the base.

“N… no, my… my kit’s f-fine.” His response offered no taste of relief, the clear strain sown through each word quickly growing worse.

“Echo and I have secured a low-atmo speeder. We can reach you-”

“Ey, I think I see ‘im.” Wrecker interrupted.

“Ca- can you i-intercept?” Hunter’s vain attempt to maintain that indominable façade only further emphasized how just much he was clearly struggling.

“Uh… only if I start blowing stuff up early.” There was no glee in what should have been an overly eager plea, attention clearly torn between the task before him and worry for his brothers.

“Delay as – as long as you can.” Hunter ordered firmly. “Tech, Ech… Echo… con-continue a-approach.”

“Hunter, if you’re having trouble breathing again, you need to stop moving!” I ordered in a shout.

“Neg… neg’tive… Mar’der’s… in sight.” My lips curled into a snarl.

“I can’t carry you both, dammit!” There was a brief pause, and then,

“Roger.”

I was going to strangle him.

Sweat had long since soaked through my blacks. My muscles burned, blood like acid pounding through my veins, and I tried not to think about how loud my own breathing was, mic pointedly muted as I listened to quick bursts of communication bounce between the others illustrating the progress of a mission I struggled to find even a whisper of concern for. My own attention remained locked on the tracker beacon, noting how near to the ship Hunter and Crosshair finally were; how wretchedly slow their progress had become; how much distance yet lay between us as that accursed hill robbed my speed.

He didn’t check in when he finally stopped, their beacons stalling at the very foot of the ramp.

“Hunter, are you inside?” I asked. He didn’t respond. “Hunter, what’s your status?” I pressed, words growing harsher. Silence. “Hunter?! Cross, do either of you read me?!”

“The Marauder’s ramp appears to have lowered but hasn’t been closed since they arrived.” Tech’s voice was carefully even, but I could hear the faint rush of an anxiety that I had no doubt resonated between all of us.

“I’m almost there.” I assured them, and, mere seconds later, let out a sharp huff of relief upon finally seeing the very tip of the dorsal fin.

The first time I’d seen the complicated overlay of the HUD used by GAR equipment, it hadn’t been during my training to join the 104th. It was in the aftermath of a battle I’d only seen in the darkness of night, sneaking through ruined transports and far too much gore to ever be warranted under the guise of seeking peace. It was maybe the fourth such scene Emmy and I had visited. We didn’t even have a ship then; just us and a pair of overstuffed medbags with no thought toward secession or consequence or even what to do with those we tried to save.

We’d only found one soldier still clinging to life, and it had taken only moments to realize that nothing we did would save him from joining his brothers. He hadn’t blamed us. I think I wanted him to… but he merely got quiet when he understood… peaceful. He’d been a flirt, and I think we both fell in love with him a bit. He’d insisted we try his helmet on – had said something inappropriate about seeing his gear on a couple cute nurses. Neither of us corrected him, and I’d been shocked at the flurry of information that had bombarded me the instant it flickered to life before my eyes. He’d laughed. I’d never forget that laugh. It was free; weightless; haunting in a way that both crushed me and justified every risk we were taking in trying to offer what meager help we could. And then he'd died.

That nauseating hurricane of endless data and alerts was still just as overwhelming now as it was then, but I’d learned to filter it out, to prioritize only what was needed in that moment. When the sudden flash of a warning lit the screen, I didn’t hesitate; didn’t waste time for even a moment’s thought before my body dropped into a slide, just barely dodging the pair of blue bolts that screamed passed me as my hands instantly snatched the pistols from my hips, but then that wealth of data began to coalesce, and I quickly released my weapons, empty hands raising in surrender.

“Wait-wait-wait! It’s me!!” I shouted, wrenching the still flashing helm from my head, and my heart churned at the sight of the terrified girl cowering just inside the Marauder’s main cabin, at the horror and fear and overwhelming relief that left her near sobbing the instant recognition finally stole through her. Then I saw the two forms lying far too still at her feet. And that same terror ripped the air from my lungs in a sob of my own.

Next Chapter

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[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood - Danse Macabre

(The next grisly step in Blood of My Blood.)

The moon shines on a holy rooftop and a bloodstained street.

The music rises to a grim crescendo.

And a last dance is shared.

Ao3 link is here.

Time turned fickle for him after the first century.

He had not expected that. In truth, it had never occurred to him as he laid the foundation of his planned eternity. Irony distilled: A man chasing immortality without once thinking of how to pass the time. Even in his prime, he had been a child. Conquest was his only prize to chase until, as his men reminded him that they were only flesh, and his enemies smeared together under his hunger, and the sounds of steel and screaming blurred in the mad whirlpool that was his brain warring with itself for control, he had blinked. And suddenly he was a solitary shadow sitting in a ruined castle in the mountains he had blighted into his genius loci. Had a century passed by then? Had two? He had thought to ask one of the servants, only to realize there were none. No one in his retinue. No confidantes.

It was only him. A glutted Thing of power beyond human scale, huddled in its cave and desecrated earth. Alone.

There was no recalling how long or short the time was before he stole the first of his women away. A fair girl, almost as flaxen as—no. He would not think back to that. Forward, old devil, forward. Yes, he had snatched up the First in haste. Desperation. Someone to be a man for rather than the peasants’ monster. Then another. Another. A hoarder of pampered cats. But he had loved what they were, if not the women themselves. His pets. His pretty faces. His musical noise to fill up the castle halls with laughter, even if he was its target. And why not? He had let the malaise catch him. The ennui that even his instructors under the Mountain had warned him of.

Time turned into fumes for him in that period. The only thing that kept him aware of the calendar was playing the role of Count. A nobleman still had his duties to the swatch of country that was his and vice versa. Endless busywork and ever-increasing mountains of paperwork to slap him awake lest the wrong attention be drawn to the Dracula estate. Oh dear, has the old bastard finally croaked? Have his endless chain of lookalike descendants? No, not to worry. Still here. Always here.

Always. Always. Always.

Time rushed. Time crawled. Time turned to snowmelt between the itineraries.

Nights were his allies, at least. Those he could count on to stretch for him in his domain. An hour in Transylvanian darkness was three hours anywhere else. And the days! Oh, what a coward the sun became when his rule claimed the land! Sunrises limped and sunsets sprinted.

Tonight he wondered if time had done the same here. The night stretched and spilled like tar. Yet the notion brought him no comfort.

The night was going on too long. His senses reassured him that sunrise did still exist and it was coming, but for the first time in almost half a millennium of undeath, frustration made him suspect the dawn was purposefully withholding itself. At last the sun was taking its revenge by refusing a reprieve that would force himself and half the players of the night’s farce back into sleep. There would be no more intermissions, no more pauses. Tonight was to be an end or a beginning and nothing else, bar an ever more irritating slew of highs and lows. Every victory in the battle was chased by a fresh needle to the eye.

The woman had flung the sky—his sky!—at him. A stalemate until he struck her down with a fortunate shot. The boy was going to her aid now. Him and the freshly minted nuisance of a bride. But before he could go to congratulate the happy couple?

 Him.

A silver-white blur and a streak of red to mark his eyes. There was not even half a second to dwell on his wonder at the change in this creature. His thrall, his friend, his runaway beloved. Not before the Thing that had been Jonathan Harker was on him like a hound seizing a wolf. Not one of the lordling’s insipid pups, no; those mockeries of breeding were good only for rending rats and rabbits. If Jonathan Harker were any animal, it was a dog bred for hunting whatever beast looked at its sheep or its master.

And was he not that still? Was he not Master of the dog’s Mistress?

He tried to prove as much for an instant with his mind flung out to the woman only to be thwarted. His strike had done too much and her mind was too deep in blackness even to be stirred to his aid, let alone to pull Jonathan’s leash. Being caught in this revelation was what let his friend land the first blow. His Master struck him back. This earned him two strikes more and a startling view of the interior of the man’s mouth as it tried to bite his throat out. He’d never been on the opposite end of the surreal maw his conscripts wore. Sometimes the jaws of a bat, other times a wolf. Jonathan’s seemed to double up in a hideous way, bristling with teeth enough to fill an anglerfish’s mouth.

They grappled and tore, bit and struck, around and around in brute parody of a waltz. There might have been room in him to spit a comment to that effect, but for the boy’s darling wife. Her and her damned—ah, the burn declared otherwise!—blessed pistol. She was what was called a ‘crack-shot’ back on the lordling’s balcony. So many new holes had been made in his head. He had soothed himself to think that he had been starved, aged, distracted, her shots pure luck. It had not even occurred to him to bother with a trance.

Now he was fed back to his prime, she was perched atop the church, and his senses prickled in warning of what she wielded. The damned pistol had been replaced with something worse--a blessed martyr's weapon. He did not doubt that his speed and the girl's hesitance to strike Jonathan would be enough to thwart her aim. Probably. Still, there was no point in extending the risk.

“I’m afraid you must pardon me, my friend. The young lady is due for a meeting with her father-in-law.”

Crack.

Jonathan’s head broke the brick, but the wall had its revenge in a starburst of blood. His friend wobbled, but caught his arm and clamped it into solidity before the mist form could finish. How..? 

“I do not dismiss you,” Jonathan hissed. The whites of his eyes had gone rosy. “You have kept the Reaper waiting too long.” Was there something in the words or the will of his friend that anchored him? It must be so. He wouldn’t have suffered his next few injuries otherwise. It was only when Jonathan made a grab for the kukri that he left himself open.

Crack. Crack. Crack!

More broken bricks. Jonathan lay broken with them, groaning in a pillow of rubble. The white of his hair stained to crimson.

“Do not trouble yourself, my friend. I will tend to the children tonight.”

He was gone like a gust. An aching, bleeding gust, if one too quick for the little would-be markswoman. Nor could she dare to waste such precious ammunition on a gambled shot as he melted into the dark. The waning wedge of the moon was an admirable light on the scene, and aided twice over by the streetlamps. But mortal eyes could only strain so far. Pity.

His form congealed as he rose, the head of a dragon arching up to devour. His laugh turned the young couple's heads. It tickled to see how their faces went white before the sight of him. “My congratulations to you, newlyweds. I must have lost my invitation t—,”

Bang!

There went a holy bullet. And with such true aim! Yet it was a pointless shot, traveling through the cloud of him with no more effect than a pebble flung through fog. Even as it stung upon exit, he laughed again while his daughter-in-law chewed back a curse.

“I had assumed your gilded gnat of a father would have taught you the rules, girl. For shame.”

 As he hoisted himself to further educate on the matter, something drew tight around his ankle. Then pierced it. So quick and so tight that it tore through his Achilles tendon.

He snarled and twisted, glare aimed down, only for a sudden wave of horror to douse his rage. Anger drowned to that strange shuddering fear he had not known until that faraway day in Piccadilly. Back when he had seen the flash of steel and hollow burning eyes as his good friend gave chase to carve him open. Despite the familiarity of the dread, he did not recognize the figure crushing his ankle as Jonathan Harker. So much blood had fallen over the face and the face had so distorted with the rictus of its grin that he thought he was seeing a visitor from his years under the Mountain. Possibly one of his own tutors come to collect its due for the Lessons learned and the bodies piled. Or else something older. Colder.

Death leered up and spoke in his friend’s voice, “No more running. No more hiding in the mist.” The iron hand tightened again, this time cracking bone. Red rivulets painted Jonathan’s knuckles. “Twenty years of feeding cannot be washed away with a few nights’ gluttony. Blood of my blood,” he hissed, his fangs doubling in the open jaws, “your time has come.”

Jonathan tore them from the building’s side in a tangle of limbs and snapping teeth. A tangle that was impossible to be extricated from even when they landed in the churchyard and thrashed back to the street. There was not a half a second to be won without his friend pouncing again, ripping him out of the beginnings of fog form and back into the churning state of physicality. Injure, heal, injure, fight, injure, curse, injure, injure, injure. To his credit, he struck as many blows as his opponent, perhaps more. Each strike was given more venom than the last with his aggravation.

The girl was no doubt following them with the barrel of the gun, waiting for a clear shot in the whirling rush of them to make a new hole in him. An opening that became all the more likely as his friend kept hold, anchoring him to tangibility even as his flesh bruised or split. This, when Jonathan himself suffered damage upon damage, and that with but a scant dose of lifeblood in him. Even undead, his Harkers did so fuss about their meals. Such caution with the mortal chattel left his poor friend depleted. His healing grew slower and slower as his once and future Master beat him back for every blow struck.

And yet there was no shaking him. Jonathan cackled at the fact, sounding like so much shattered crystal. Undeath or lightheadedness had fully chipped through the silence that had once pinned his tongue when the man was called upon for violence. 

“Count, I am hurt!” he chided. “Why do you insist on leaving the floor? Is this not what you wanted? Here we are at last! In England, enjoying our overdue dance. Come, let me have your hand.” Jonathan’s bear trap mouth lunged out and would have torn said hand off by the wrist were his Master a half-second slower.

“Have it then.” His fist flew. Jonathan ducked and reached for— “It is my turn to be stung. I thought this was a gift.” He had to fight for evenness in the words. It was another battle in itself to keep Jonathan’s hand from swinging down with the kukri blade straining for his neck.

“It is! Only you must wear it closer.” Jonathan turned them as they spoke, trying to bare his Master’s back to the enemy. “A new brooch to have at your throat.”

The words turned some flagstone over in his chest and sent a hundred blind and bitter vermin running and biting through his heart. Strength surged. So did the clouds. A curtain was drawn back over the freshly-emerged moon just as the streetlamps doused all along the block. No audience from above to spy now. In the same tide of will, he finally tore the kukri free of his friend's hand. It rang against the street as it was flung aside, metal on stone. Jonathan lost a moment in throwing his attention after it in the new gloom. A moment was all it took.

He seized his friend in both hands and drove him down into the pavement.

Crack!

A heavier sound than what had come from the brick. Jonathan’s eyes rolled blearily in their sockets, but his hold remained steady. One hand gripping, another swiping for his Master’s face.

Crack!

“Stay down.”

Jonathan clung. His blood held, his hand held, he was trying to rise again, to—

Crack!

“Stay down!”

Crack!

“Why do you do this to me?”

Crack!

“Why do you make me do this when we both know how this ends?”

Jonathan sprawled dazedly in the rubble. His hands and his blood still gripped their Master. Scarlet streams ran from pained eyes. An image rose up of that childish night of gluttony inflicted to taunt the woman. His friend slumped, mauled and sluggish, dreaming traitorous thoughts of a flight from the window.

“You think you know…” Jonathan croaked in the present, “…but I see it. Tonight is where it ends. All of it. No victories. No conquest. None of us are yours anymore, Dracula.” His smile was not bitter. It was the tired curl he had seen the last night they had all lived in the castle. Ghoulish and sad and beautiful. It trickled until the lips blazed like red lacquer. “We never will be again.” 

“You are all mine,” his Master insisted back. His own hands tightened on the leaking heap of his friend. “The woman, our boy, you. She may have bled into you, but it is still my gift. Or do you think just because your Mistress sleeps for the moment, that you shall remain free of the leash I shall see her strangle you with? This is only where we start, my friend. We all have eternity before us. And all of it under my will.” It was his turn to smile. He tried to sharpen it, but found it creaked on his face until it was a mere desperate baring of teeth. “Undeath ends in but one way. Over 400 years of attempts and empty prayer have failed to deliver that end to me. You and the children and the thieving Jackal shall do no better. There is a Lesson waiting to be learned in that. A long one. But you will learn it. Or I will cement her in a wall for the next hundred years.”

To his shock, there was no horror on Jonathan’s face. Not even anger. There was only melancholy. His lips quivered, fighting not to part. Then:

“Or we could leave them,” came the whisper. “I was ready to, all those years ago. I think I may even have sold my soul at the time. There’s no telling for certain, but…yes. I think I must have for things to have gone this way. Before I ever became a Judas for my love, I was ready. I am still prepared, if that’s what it takes to free them from us.” One hand on his Master’s arm. The other clutching weakly at his lapel. “We need not chaperone or stain the family any longer. Let us go now. While they do not see.”

Either blood loss or the deeper weakness his friend had been seeding for twenty years almost paralyzed him.

For one starving instant, he caught himself imagining it. He pictured himself snatching Jonathan’s ragged form up in his arms and darting away into the night. His will was still supreme. He could sever the woman’s mind from his own and hide them in some secret corner of the world. If her mind wailed for her beloved to come running like a hound after its whistle, he could silence it. No amount of stolen sorcery could unmake that contract of their condition. Was it not how he planned to puppeteer the world from the beginning?

He could do it.

They could do it.

But no. He could have laughed or screamed as he felt Jonathan’s fingertips trace along his sternum. The claws growing and aligning. Oh, his dear Scheherazade and that magic tongue.

“Come. Hell is waiting for us, balaurul meu.”

Before Jonathan’s hand could drive forward and tear out the ancient heart—the metaphor made flesh—his Master seized the plotting fingers in his own crushing grip.

“No, my friend. No Hell. Only home.”

“Two names for the same place,” Jonathan grated. He was struggling again. Grasping, trying to rise. And still holding his Master solid. The fight would never overbalance in his favor without his fog or his focus. He had to. He had to… “We made a vow, she and I.”

“Jonathan—,”

“We will die before we return to you,” the gore-streaked face spat. “We will die before we let you have our son.”

“Yes. You will.”

CRACK!

Stone and skull fractured against each other. It was one of many sounds he had enjoyed over the centuries: The fragility of the human frame echoing in his ears. This time the noise was a knife in his chest.

Jonathan Harker slept in the crater with his eyes open. A corona of blood grew from his head in a monstrous halo as one hand fell away and the other hung limp in his Master’s fist. In the shattered skull, no thought or life paced. There was only quiet.

With a shudder, he squeezed the cold hand once before laying it aside. His fingers worked gingerly under what was left of his friend’s head, cupping blood, bone, and brain as one might try to save the yolk in a mangled egg. He knew the man was dead when he pressed lip and tongue to the slack mouth and felt no resistance. His last kiss went to the stained brow, cradling the corpse against him with a sigh.

“I am sorry, my friend. No, do not scoff. I mean it. I wanted none of this. We could be home right now. Our diavol safe and strong. Time wearing your compunctions smooth. No matter how long the Lesson, how harsh its teaching, time would win. And some night, this century or the next, happiness would find you. Misery breaks like bone under enough pressure. Joy is in its marrow. Was that why you did it? Why you betrayed me and our bliss to come? Was the thought of happiness in my arms so awful?”

Jonathan did not say.

The silence was answer enough.

He laid the carcass gently in the bed of pavement and swept a curtain of hair from the puckered brow. Even death did not bring serenity to the man’s face. He had watched his friend sleep more than once and had never come upon him without the look of a penitent begging Morpheus in his dreams for mercy or punishment. That such still existed in him as a vampire was as much a pain as a marvel. Undeath itself could not temper the martyrdom in him. It would need extracting like a tooth.

Perhaps. But first he needs a piece added. He left it behind so carelessly.

His thumb traced the bright stone at his throat before fishing out its mate from a vest pocket. The brooch glowed with internal fire under the waning moonlight, eager to return its rightful place. He closed Jonathan’s shirt collar and bowed to set the pin before a thought occurred—

Moonlight moonlight the clouds you lost focus the clouds are open and the street is visible she can—

— too late.

Bang!

A lance of fire shot through his hand. Blistering torture erupted there and made the injuries collected thus far feel like the nipping of insects. It had wounded more than flesh.

In his fist, snapped shut in pain, there was mere crystalline dust. That and a crumpled setting of ornate gold. Nothing more.

What clouds were left bayed anew with thunder as he snapped his head around. He found the lordling’s daughter taking aim again.

No more.

“No more,” he intoned to the air and to the hateful girl with her toy. He did not have it in him to relish the spasm of comprehension as the trance pierced her eyes and wrenched her rebelling brain into an obedient knot. Not even when he ordered her to lift the gun until it was level with her own temple. His son bleated once in horror—

“Lu, no!”

—thinking his Father meant to throw away a bargaining chip so foolishly. So painlessly. No, no. Nothing so easy for her. For any of them. Ah, and it seemed the boy’s cry was enough to rouse the limping mother at last. His will cracked at her like a whip:

Hold him.

A flare of fury from her, then another baffled cry from the boy. Good. Wonderful.

He looked again at his friend. His friend stared blindly at the stars. He paused long enough to slide the eyelids shut.

“Sleep, draga mea. This will be over soon.”

The promise made, he dashed down the street to retrieve the fallen kukri. He turned to mist a moment later and raced off to the climax of the night. Perhaps if he had turned back a final time, he would have reconsidered.

He might have hesitated in his return to the roof. (He did not.)

He might have stopped to examine his friend, the better to be certain he was dead. (Mr. Harker was.)

He might have wondered, just for an instant, if he did not feel Time’s seemingly infinite sand dwindling to its last grains in the hourglass. (If so, he would not admit it.)

But he did not turn and so did not see his friend’s face.

Dead and dismissed from the rest of the night's pending acts, Jonathan Harker was still. With the exception of his head. It had slumped to the side and its eyelids had slipped open. A proper corpse could do no more. If one could interview such a cadaver, he might have admitted that he had nothing to do with it. But something did.

Gravity? The final mindless motions of a dead body? Certainly.

Yet they had acted under a guidance that ensured the body stared in the direction of the church, of the ex-Master, of the eastern horizon made jagged with rooftops. And they had left the glazed eyes open for whatever audience might watch things unfold through the windows of a dead man’s unblinking stare.

If only to be sure that what was left of Jonathan Harker and Itself might witness the end of the dance.

[duoatomica]

"An angel makes itself look scary to pry away evil."

Grimmel's nightmare

(and very much the reason he has avoided killing light furies in 40+ years and only hunts night furies)

"Bloodstain"

"Once a common light fury, now something terrible, oh the things that I've done and deeply regret, hunting this one is the top one.

As I've said, a common light fury despite its reddish tones, a contrast to the blue standard of the species, this should've been enough of a sign that the creature wasn't just a normal, ordinary dragon such as the ones I've hunted for years.

I found it in the forest, drinking some water, at that time I was only about twenty years old, I was young, careless and proud, I decided to use my dragons to attack him. Again, I was careless, I just wanted to kill as many of the strongest, biggest, most dangerous dragons out there and seek my village's praise.

My deathgrippers pounced, the white dragon screeched and fought back, bit and scratched, it was also young and weak, it couldn't escape, atleast not with a wing, its eyes and its left front paw.

The dragon flew away with what was rest of its left wing, it surprisingly managed to take off with that little nub of bones and membranes the Deathgrippers had left behind.

I cursed, spat harsh words at myself and did something I wish I had kept my mouth shut not to do.

I swore, to Odin and above, that we'd meet again, one day, didn't know when. But one day I surely would see the dragon once more.

Three years passed, I had evolved little, but enough to develop some hunting skills here and there, I studied like a damned man, I improved some of my weapons, felt like a new man.

I was once again in the forests with my eight dragons, controlled by no one other than me. So I stood by a berry bush, feeling hungry, I bent down to pick some.

Why did I do that, for Thor's sake.

I heard something approaching, quickly, before I could react I was under a mass of snow-white flesh, being stared at by those empty eye sockets, drooled at by that mouth full of sharp teeth. That demon, it was back. I swore it would come back. And it did, but not how I've expected it to.

I was attacked ferociously, oh, the agony, only I knew the pain of those sharp claws like blades tearing my skin, those teeth trying their best to split my neck in two. I screamed.

My deathgrippers, as loyal as they are, showed up in an instant and again jumped at the light fury, mangling it, but that dragon was no longer a little cub. The battle between one and the eight was fierce, surprisingly the white dragon managed to kill two of them, leaving only six for me to keep.

I almost died that night, my body so mangled it was bordering unrecognizable, I still have a lotta scars, some awful pains here and there.

From that day on, the one who swore we'd meet again was the dragon. This demon has been in my mind since then, in my dreams, terrifying me, making me fear even the slightest movement in the corner of my room.

This bastard knows, it knows very well where I am now, he always knew, all its attacks are very precise and cautious, therefore brutal. I have grown older, stronger and smarter, I have found ways to penetrate that creature's mind, I can also know where it is, but by the gods, the migraines after these little mind-connecting rituals are nearly deadly.

This has been causing me constant paranoia, I may not know if this light fury is right behind me right now.

I've just checked, it isn't.

Ah, the name? I know it doesn't make sense for a cloud-white dragon to be named Bloodstain, considering the crimson red left in many fabrics and anywhere slightly stainable.

But the fool is the one who thinks that the name refers to it, me as the self-centered person that I painfully admit to be, it is a reference to myself.

Me and the blood pools that formed around my body after the attack, the stains on my long discarded clothes, I remember them as I remember my mother's name.

I concluded a long time ago that this is more than a living being."

-Grimmel the Grisly.

[angelwings-crossbowstrings]

Whumptober 2023

No. 1: “How Many Fingers am I Holding Up?” | No. 5: Debris

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (pre-relationship)

Setting: Prison era

Warnings: Head injury

‘Please, don’t be dead. Please, don’t be dead!’ The railing on the stairs wobbled— a testament to the poor solidity of the building— as you hurried down the two floors separating you from the archer. The both of you agreed to tread carefully when entering the old hospital, the look of it not inspiring confidence but the probability of what it could contain overpowering any hesitance. Medical supplies were scarce in this world. Two Tylenol tablets and a pack of gauze would mean everything in what used to be the simplest of situations. 

“Daryl?” You called as loudly as you dared after shoving open the heavy metal door to the ground level. The hole in the flooring was easy to spot with the beam of your flashlight, several feet wide with dust still rising from the collapse. Your stomach twisted when there was no immediate reply, but another call was not necessary when you saw a piece of debris shift. A low groan followed the movement. You would swear that the moisture in your eyes was from the dust in the air. 

You had to hold the light in your mouth to help move the rubble covering him, but there he was. A little worse for wear but in one piece and blinking up at you with a dazed expression. The flashlight was propped against some of the wreckage so that your hands were free to help him sit up. 

“Are you okay?” He blinked a few more times and pressed the heel of his palm to his forehead. He didn’t answer, minutely swaying where he sat. “Dixon, are you with me?” 

Daryl finally seemed to realize you were speaking to him and met your eyes, more than a little disoriented. “Huh?” 

Worry gnawed at your heart. “Are you alright? How do you feel?”

“Like I jus’ fell through the floor fer a half full bottle’a meds.” His speech was a bit slurred, his movements slow and jerky. He held up the aforementioned antibiotics and shook the bottle lightly. “Still got ‘em though.”

You couldn’t help but smile. “Let me look you over and then we’ll get out of here.” You left no room for argument. The archer quickly squeezed his eyes shut when the flashlight was pointed toward his face, swatting at your hand lazily. “Stop it, I need to look at your eyes, you big baby.” 

“Yeah, yeah.” He slowly peeled open one and then the other, keeping his hand in front of them while they adjusted to the light. After a few seconds, he dropped his arm so you could see two evenly sized, reactive pupils. 

“Good. That’s good.” Lowering the light, you reached for the back of his head before he could think to stop the unwanted touch. Your fingers quickly probed at a wet, raised area. 

“Hey! Tha’ hurts, woman!”

“You’ve got a decent sized bump on your noggin, Dixon. How many fingers am I holding up?” You had perfected the art of ignoring his griping over the span of months you’d spent with him, a feat that the others in your little apocalypse family wished they all could achieve. Or maybe he just wasn’t as grumpy with you to begin with. Your hand hovered between you, three fingers wiggling to get his attention. 

Daryl scoffed and began preparing himself to stand, nonchalantly flipping up his middle finger. “How many m’ I holdin’ up?” 

You sighed with a fond smile, dropping your hand to his arm to help him get to his feet. “Yeah, you’re okay enough to get back to Hershel.” It was a bit of a struggle getting him upright, and he swayed a little before you settled his arm over your shoulders. “I’m driving.” 

“Hell no, ‘ve been through ‘nough today.” His tone was gruff but not angry. 

“And I’d like to make it in one piece. I bet you see two of me right now, don’t you?”

“Wouldn’t be such a bad thing, don’ reckon.” 

You could feel your cheeks burn. You ducked your head when you felt him staring at you and pinched his side playfully. 

“You must’ve really hit your head, Dixon.”

[eggyolkguzzler-archive]

I would drag my bare skin against raw hot concrete and spend the entire hot summer under Shane’s nasty bed if I knew I could even get the slightest whiff of your gridball jacket

My brother in Yoba...

[gallifreyanhotfive]

I once tried to make a list of every single major injury the Doctor had ever gotten in every story I've watched/listened to/read, and I was immediately overwhelmed by the amount of shit this wet paper bag of a Time Lord went through.

Like guys I tried so hard, and the list got so long! But damn it, the amount of injuries/illnesses/possessions/etc this guy has gone through is too immense.

Like he got possessed? Again? By whom?

He's been infected with some sort of pathogen? Which one?

He's been tied up again? Regular manacles or in strappado?

He's been shot? Normal gun or time reaver or whatever horrible thing you can think of?

Stabbed? How many times this time?

He lost a limb? Which one? Was it his legs again this time? Or another hand?

Is one of his hearts poisoning him?

Has he been drugged and abducted again?

How many times have they been burned for witchcraft?

How many times have they been put on the rack?

Was he put through so much pain that he fell unconscious again?

Don't even talk about that one time he got beheaded; that audio sucked ass.

Did his brain get fried by an electromagnetic pulse?

Was he exposed to the full rays of the sun without SPF?

Has he been stuck in a time bubble for so long that he's forgotten who he is?

Does he have nerve damage again?

Did they have a heart attack?

Did they experience regenerative collapse?

Is he suffering through his symbiotic link to a a weak and dead TARDIS?

Was he stuck in his TARDIS for 10 years after being irradiated, unable to get to the console and about to regenerate?

I need to just end this post here, or I'll be adding things to the list for hours.