#writing off an injury

[icypantherwrites]

New Fic: Just a Headache

Summary: It’s just a headache. Lance knows it’s just a headache because it’s not allowed to be anything else as that would be a cause for worry and he doesn’t want to worry anyone. So it’s just a headache. It was just a routine mission that he absolutely didn’t almost die by a Druid during. And everything is just fine.

Story snippet:

“Sorry,” he whispered, feeling his cheeks heating even as he swayed slightly in the chair, squinting and wincing at the water and the light. “I,” he swallowed, “I guess I don’t feel well.”

“I’ll say,” Pidge muttered but Lance could hear her concern behind the bite. 

“Did something happen during the mission today?” Coran asked, brows furrowed with concern. “A knock to your head, perhaps, or—?”

Lance shook his head, regretting it immediately as his brain seemed to rebound inside his skull, but no, nothing had happened.

He’d made sure that no one except Keith knew about his near-death encounter, telling the rest of the team during the debriefing that Keith had dispatched the Druid while they were distracted by Lance and it was technically the truth and Keith hadn’t elaborated further, and he wanted to keep it that way.

Besides, this wasn’t related to that at all. 

It was just a headache. He was just a little tired.

Nothing to be worried about.

They had so many other far more important things to be worried about and this was not one of them. 

“It’s just a headache,” Lance tried to muster up a smile but it came out more of a grimace. “I’m fine."

Read it here

[sugarcoatednightshade]

thinking about how Humans Are Space Orcs stories always talk about how indestructible humans are, our endurance, our ability to withstand common poisons, etc. and thats all well and good, its really fun to read, but it gets repetitive after a while because we aren't all like that.

And that got me thinking about why this trope is so common in the first place, and the conclusion I came to is actually kind of obvious if you think about it. Not everyone is allowed to go into space. This is true now, with the number of physical restrictions placed on astronauts (including height limits), but I imagine it's just as strict in some imaginary future where humans are first coming into contact with alien species. Because in that case there will definitely be military personnel alongside any possible diplomatic parties.

And I imagine that all interactions aliens have ever had up until this point have been with trained personnel. Even basic military troops conform to this standard, to some degree. So aliens meet us and they're shocked and horrified to discover that we have no obvious weaknesses, we're all either crazy smart or crazy strong (still always a little crazy, academia and war will do that to you), and not only that but we like, literally all the same height so there's no way to tell any of us apart.

And Humans Are Death Worlders stories spread throughout the galaxy. Years or decades or centuries of interspecies suspicion and hostilities preventing any alien from setting foot/claw/limb/appendage/etc. on Earth until slowly more beings are allowed to come through. And not just diplomats who keep to government buildings, but tourists. Exchange students. Temporary visitors granted permission to go wherever they please, so they go out in search of 'real terran culture' and what do they find?

Humans with innate heart defects that prevent them from drinking caffeine. Humans with chronic pain and chronic fatigue who lack the boundless endurance humans are supposedly famous for. Humans too tall or too short or too fat to be allowed into space. Humans who are so scared of the world they need to take pills just to function. Humans with IBS who can't stand spicy foods, capsaicin really is poison to them. Lactose intolerance and celiac disease, my god all the autoimmune disorders out there, humans who struggle to function because their own bodies fight them. Humans who bruise easily and take too long to heal. Humans who sustained one too many concussions and now struggle to talk and read and write. Humans who've had strokes. Humans who were born unable to talk or hear or speak, and humans who through some accident lost that ability later.

Aliens visit Earth, and do you know what they find? Humanity, in all its wholeness.

[narikill]

aughdhshfjjsjcjdjfjsbgsknfjs <- leshy in this art probably

[ghostlysoaps]

Emergency First Aid

He finds Ghost in the bathroom, needle and thread in crimson-stained hands. 

White porcelain muddled with grime and blood, smeared across the cubicle glass. A bottle of something see-through sitting on the lip of the tub – the label near illegible by the fingerprints wrapped around it. Every detail pointing towards it being a scene from some B-list horror flick. Except it can't be. Because Johnny’s nails dig into the palms of his hands and pain has no presence in dreams.

Ghost's skin is almost as pale as the cradle he sits in. Johnny can see the stark blue of his veins through the fragile skin of his wrists. A far more flattering colour on him than red, it's why he pretends he doesn’t know where his favourite henley ended up.

"Get out of my fucking room, Soap."

Johnny nods and then proceeds further into the room, careful to avoid the droplets of blood staining the tiles in a fucked-up breadcrumb trail.

Ghost levels him with an unamused glare, a non-verbal "go away," ringing louder than if he'd said it outright. 

He ignores that too.

The stitching is neither crude nor neat when he leans in for a closer look. Serviceable. Bound to scar. It might have regardless, medical ain't miracle workers, but it might, might have left a thinner mark.

"Soap?"

Ghost's eyes are brown as jasper, doe-wide, extruding exhaustion and warmth – in spite of how much effort he puts into burying that bleeding heart of his. They track Johnny’s progress warily. Glides over him when he wraps his own fingers around the bottle, fingers a good half-inch shorter than the red stains already there. Johnny knows all this despite not looking. Because they've been here before. Too often for his liking. 

He sets about cleaning the tacky trails of blood from Ghost’s skin. 

"Johnny?"

Why are his hands shaking? They're not supposed to do that he doesn't think.

"It's just a scratch, I've had worse."

His tongue unsticks from where it lies dead and heavy in his mouth. "I fuckin' know. 'M not blind."

Warm, calloused hands envelop his own. They stop him from digging deeper welts into his own skin. Massages gently until Johnny, against his will, unclenches and unfolds like a flowering bloom at the first hint of sunlight.

"This won't be what kills me–"

"Haud yer wheesht! Whit this shoddy excuse fer sutures anything's–"

"–because I've no intention of leaving you yet," Ghost– Simon continues, as if Johnny hadn't interrupted him at all. "I've clawed myself back from the edge of hell more times than I care to count." He knocks their heads together, one hand moving to thread fingers though Johnny’s hair. "It's much easier now that I have something to come back to."

Johnny takes a moment to process and sift through the wreckage those words leave behind.

"Take yer damn mask off an' say tha' to my face," he growls.

And Simon doesn't hesitate for a second. He peels the mask off, his second skin, as if it's easier than breathing. As if Johnny’s words were the decree of a higher power he's helpless to obey. Scarred skin and chapped lips and dark circles blending into greasepaint greets him – a sight no longer unfamiliar, but a privilege to behold nonetheless. 

"I-" is as far as Simon comes before Johnny is surging forward to take his bottom lip between his teeth. He kisses him like something feral and starved. As if he could crawl into Simon's mouth if he tried hard enough. Push through muscle, bone and sinew to make space for himself in the hollow of his ribcage.

He doesn't like the anger with which he devours him – the ever-present companion snarling in his chest – but he needs him to understand. Thinks that if he tries hard enough Simon might taste the words lodged firmly behind his molars. I can't stand to lose you. It scares me to the point of losing my breath. I love you. I love you. I love you. 

For all his rage, for all the fiery passion with which he lashes out, in the end it all stems from fear.

"Could've at least gone to medical, ye absolute weapon," he bites out, one hand stressing over the skin right beneath Simon's wound.

"Couldn't stand the thought of anyone touching me," Simon murmurs, catching Johnny’s wrist the moment he goes to pull away as if burnt. "'S better now. I'd have told you to fuck off proper if I didn't–" he cuts himself off, the tips of his ears going pink.

Johnny fills in the blanks, eyes falling shut for the fraction of a second.

"Dinnae deep down wan' me to be here."

Simon shrugs.

Johnny exhales, leans forward and rests his forehead to Simon's shoulder, kisses him sweetly right after.

"Let me help you."

"Please." 

He's glad to be looking at Simon now because Simon, whenever Ghost has fled his visage, is an open book. And the way he's looking at Johnny? It's as if he'd taken every soft, sweet thing Johnny feels for him and is reflecting it right back.

With another steadying breath, Johnny gets to work. Gauze and adhesive tape, as quick as he dares so as to not prolong the pain. And when he's done he brushes his lips over the white bandaging, looking up through his lashes when the simple gesture of affection causes Simon's breath to hitch. Keeps to his knees despite the ache in them.

"You come to me next time," Johnny says, a plea more so than the demand he'd hoped for.

Simon reaches for him, cups his stubbled cheek in hand, thumb rubbing in broad strokes across a near imperceptible scar there – his next words ringing with the gravity of church bells and promises spoken within. 

"Alright, Johnny."

---

Prompts via @whumperless-whump-event and @seth-whumps

[shit-people-probably-didnt-say]

My brain came up with a situation™

Enjoy?

So, Jespers playing with Wylans hair and notices a scar just behind his hairline. He asks how he got it and Wylan explains that shortly after his Mother died (but didnt die) he was really unwell with the flu and had a massive fever

He was walking down the hall towards his room to rest and his Father started talking to him so he was stood there for a while trying to listen when he eventually passes out

He smacks his head open on the floor and instead of helping him his Father just walks around him…

Wylan eventually comes to, alone on the floor with blood all down his face

Although Jan didnt cause the injury the complete lack of care and concern has Jesper fuming. Like imagine just stepping over your severely unwell, unconscious 8/9 year old as he bleeds on the floor… (all for the “crime” of not being able to read)

Wyalns just like ‘I did say you weren’t going to like this story!’

Anyway do with this what you will

[raineandsky]

heyyyy i love your work! could you write about a hero who is given to villain as a gift from supervillain, and although villain is excited his enemy is in his possession at first, he starts to notice the hero is oddly withdrawn. by the time he realizes the hero’s been practically tortured (nothing graphic) by supervillain, he finds himself trying to clean the hero’s wounds. despite his hatred for the other, whatever supervillain did was a step too far. thank you! have a good day 🍀

i hope you have a good day too! thank you for the request as always :)

tw: implied torture/abuse, injury

“Well, I thought [Supervillain] catching you was funny,” the villain says slowly, “but this…”

There’s no words for whatever this is. Old bruises, dried blood. More wounds than the villain dares to count.

Maybe the supervillain’s use of the word ‘catch’ was underselling their part in the hero’s journey here.

The villain had noticed the uncharacteristic quietness, sure, the lack of sharp edges. He’d thought it might be a bruised ego. He thought being gifted the hero meant he got the hero, and not this empty husk that looks like him.

It all makes painful, unfortunate sense.

The villain unties the binds from the hero’s wrists. The hero doesn’t move. “You… you realise you’re not tied down, [Hero],” the villain tries after a second.

The hero glances down at the red raw lines biting his skin. “Yeah.”

The villain stares at him for a long moment. “Okay,” he says shortly. “On your feet.”

The hero lets the villain push him in an awkward shuffle into the bathroom. He watches as the villain rummages through his cupboard, pulls a box down, continues rummaging through that.

“Sit down,” the villain says shortly. “In the bath.”

The hero does as he’s told—a new characteristic, the villain notes—and slumps down in the bathtub. The villain manages to finally wrestle a first aid kit from the box.

“I’ll need you to take your shirt off, okay?” the villain says slowly.

The hero’s expression turns from blank to distressed in a second. “No, I—“

“It’s okay,” the villain cuts in quickly. “I won’t hurt you. I just need to see.”

Eventually, with a bit of gentle pushing, the hero lets the villain tug him out of his shirt. The villain had fully intended to keep his face straight, but he can’t help the gasp of disgust slipping out.

The blood and bruises he saw before are nothing to this. Red tears at every part of the hero’s skin. The villain doesn’t want to look, but if he wants to help he has to face what the supervillain has done.

A small washcloth gets run under the tap, the hero watching distractedly as water seeps into the fabric. The villain carefully sits on the edge of the bath, washcloth wielded in his hand like a shield. “I’m just going to get the worst of it off, [Hero],” he says slowly. The hero glances up at him blankly. “It might sting, but it’s not on purpose, okay?”

This is far from okay, it seems. The hero flinches and fights back tears every time the villain so much as touches him. The villain tries to soothe him as he goes, but he feels a bit like he’s trying to calm a wild animal and that feels unfair on the hero.

The hero looks awful without the blood to cover the worst of it. Bandages are cut and wrapped quickly. The hero sits silently, staring at a spot of scum on the bath in front of him, trembling slightly under the villain’s hands. It’s too much. The villain feels sick.

He has to help the hero out of the bathtub. The man looks like a mummy with how much bandaging the villain has thrown at him, but it should hopefully keep the worst of the damage at bay.

It’s strange, helping his worst enemy in his own home. He hates the hero, despises everything he stands for. But what happened to the word vigilante? What happened to trying to spread the kindnesses the agency refused to afford? The supervillain has gone too far. This is unforgivable.

The villain only has one bedroom in his little house. He offers the hero one of his shirts and sets him in the one bed he has. The hero, from the nervous glancing about and wringing hands, doesn’t like it.

“What—” The words catch on nothing. He clears his throat quickly. “What’s the catch?”

The villain stares at him blankly for a moment. Jesus Christ. “There’s no catch,” he manages after a moment. “I’m trying to help you get better.”

The hero looks more horrified by this. “Why?”

“So you don’t die? I’m not a monster, [Hero].”

The hero’s face scrunches up like he’s going to cry. “O—Okay…”

The villain steers him under the covers as he snivels and breathes in shuddering breaths.

“Some sleep will help,” the villain offers from the doorway. “If it helps, you can lock the door from the inside.”

He taps the chunky lock on the handle, and the hero nods. With a quick, slightly awkward goodnight, the villain lets himself out, and a few seconds later he hears the clunk of the lock turning on the door.

He flops down on the sofa with a sigh. He wasn’t intending to sleep here tonight, but the supervillain’s never been one to respect other people’s plans. It’s hard, dipping in places with use, the cushions paper thin from years of sitting on them.

The villain has always hated the agency. He certainly hates the hero. But laying on his uncomfortable sofa, his own bedroom occupied by an injured, traumatised hero, he kind of feels like he hates the supervillain more.

[bamsara]

Prompt Drabble: Stitched up wounds 🧵 🩹

Sun-Centric | Wordcount: 1,217 | AO3 Version

You weren't exactly the best coordinated or well organized person. Or maybe you were just super unlucky at times, it would explain all the instances of misfortune you've had, small or big injuries that shouldn't have happened but did so like the universe was just trying to spite you.

So you're not all that surprised when you stick your hand into the murky water of the kitchen sink to start doing the dishes, feel something a little weird, and pull it back out to see a steak knife hanging from the middle of your hand.

You hear Sun dropping the plates behind you on the table before the pain actaully reaches you. "Oh. Uh. Oops."

"Oops? You're 'oopsing' right now?" Sun's form is immediatly to your side, his job of collecting the remaining dishware forgotten as the animatronic grabs your wet wrist. Before he flips over your palm, the knife falls right out of your flesh, bits of blood falling with it, now a dark stain into the dirty water. "Oh, dear. Oh me oh my."

Sun's faceplate turns briefly to the car keys hanging on the hook by the front door, and you're quick to speak up. "We are not going to urgent care for something as small as this. I'm not footing that bill." The animatronic gains a sour look, but you're firm. "Not happening."

A disapproving pause, but the Sun looks back to your hand.

The pain is starting, and your mouth pressing into a line, sucking in a hiss through your teeth as the sting of the water forms a bloody ring around the wound. "Ah, fuck-"

"We told you-" He's tutting at you, flipping your palm upwards and holding it firmly with one hand, the other grabbing a paper towl and dabbing the wetness away. "I think I've told you several times that just throwing knifes into the sink for later was going to bite you!"

"Not my fault!" You flinch as he brings your hand down underneath the faucet, running clean water over the wound, "Knives just have it out for me! Remember that time-" He turns it off, and all but dragging you by the wrist to the bathroom, with your complaining all the while. "-the time with the rabbit?"

"Not a funny joke!" Sun sits you down on the closed toliet seat, a firm press on your shoulders as an unspoken 'stay put', turning on his heel and opening the medicine cabinet up. "Not funny! Very upsetting! And I'll be hearing none of it right now!"

The pain in your hand was spreading, but you're trying to laugh. "C'mon, it's-"

"Oh, would you look at that! It's our good friend, disinfectant!" He pulls the bottle out with purpose, a small first aid in his other hand, and holds it in the air with a tense smile. "Very important to use. Let's make sure that dish water doesn't make anything infected, shall we?"

You cringe in on yourself. "I think I'll be fine with a band-aid."

"Please." The Sun washes his hands, then lowers himself, setting the supplies to the side as he crouches in front of you. He holds your wrist again, turning it over, and the tutting as blood dribbles out from the small wound, sliding off your skin and dripping to the tile. Not the worst injury you've recieved, but definatly an annoyance. "I think you'll need a stitch or two. Maybe three. And wouldn't you know that robots tend to have very steady hands."

You wrinkle your nose as he pulls as he dips the bottle of disinfectant onto a gauze pad, and positions it over the wound. "Said the robot that was programmed to juggle-aUUUghhh Ow! Ow, fucking. Ow."

Sun uses his thumb to press the alcohol pad into your palm with a gentle firmness, and sends you a look when you try to jerk your arm backwards. "We have four arms! Do not make us use them."

"Unfair." You pout, watching as he pulls the gauze away now tainted with a slight color of red. A bead of wetness swells in your eye at the pain. "Mean."

"Hush." He speaks, and sounds like his other half coming in underneath his tone. Sun tosses the gauze, pulling out a small kit with one hand and thumbing away the single tear with the other. "This will hurt a little."

The pain is evident and not leaving soon, and the blood was no longer dribbling down your palm, so you look away as Sun threads the needle with careful percision, (large fingers are not, he does have steady hands) and lines it up carefully. You flinch at the first stitch.

He presses his fingers down onto your wrist, keeping it trapped against your own knee, and uses the thumb of that hand to keep your palm splayed open as the other worked. "Try not to move."

You breathe hotly through your nose. "I'm trying."

"And you're doing a very good job!" He's quick, focused. The wonders of expertise. He's not nervous because he's seen you survive worse, so the habit of speech comes naturally to him. "Good, good. There you go. Open your hand little more." A third stitch, and you groan at the realization you'll need a few more, but Sun keeps going.

"Almost done." Sun comes to the last one. "You're doing very good, sweetheart."

"Shut up." Your face is both hot in embarressment and in painful discomfort.

"Oh, you'd rather we'd be quiet?" Sun's smile is teasing, but comforting. He's probably trying to be distracting on purpose. "Cranky."

You open your mouth to retort, but the final stitch and knot is finished, and you fight to appear stoic at the sensation as Sun wipes the now-closed wound with a disinfected wipe again, pulling out another roll of gauze. "No more dishwashing for you, I'm afriad. You can leave those things to little-ole me!"

He wraps your hand gingerly, covering the cleaned and sutured wound with bandages to protect it's healing. You don't say anything, but you know he glances up every other second or so to see if you wince if the wrapping is too tight. The wrap is finished, a knot on the back of your hand, and you sigh. "I can just put a glove over it."

"How about you not do that?" The animatronic leans back, gathering the left-over supplies and storing them away back into the medical cabinet. You rise to stand, and he stops you before you can brush past him. "Hold on! We're not done here!"

You raise a brow, but you see it coming before he starts. Carefully, grabbing the wrist and not the hand, his takes a hold of the injured one, raising it slowly and gently up to his faceplate, leaning downwards until the bandage barely graces his teeth. "Mwau. It'll heal in no time."

You laugh. "That's so corny!"

"And it works! Scientifically proven!" He chuckles, turning to his side and gesturing for you to walk past him and out of the bathroom like a knight would welcome a charge into their castle. "Now! Dishes away! Not for you though. I ban you to couch duty."

"...What's couch duty?"

He winks at you. "It's the duty you do when you don't do anything."

"....Boo."

[skyward-floored]

More with Lost (Link oc). The first time Zelda faces him :)

...

Zelda wiped some dirt off her brow, exhaling as she pushed open the final vine-covered door of the dungeon. It had been a trek to get through it, especially with all the monsters that had taken over the place, but she had sensed a source of magic inside that felt... important.

She could only hope it was one of the sages she was looking for.

...Though if it wasn’t, at least she had found a boomerang that was pretty useful.

Zelda looked around the large room, roots curling around the stonework at the edges, a shaft of sunlight coming in through a hole in the ceiling. It didn’t look like anyone had been in here for a long time, but as Zelda studied the room, she got the odd feeling she wasn’t alone.

Then the door creaked behind her.

Zelda jumped, whirling around and raising her sword.

A dark figure stood silhouetted in the doorway she’d entered through, cape rippling slowly with the movement. He raised his head, and Zelda’s breath left her as she saw dark markings on his cheeks, horribly familiar eyes stained an unnatural reddish-purple.

Oh no, oh no it can’t be, it can’t...

“Link?” she breathed.

He didn’t react to her voice, merely stared at her, his eyes narrowed. The scrape of metal rang through the room, and Zelda’s chest tightened as Link drew his blade, dark and cold, his eyes still staring at her.

Then he bolted forward, and Zelda had to grab her shield, barely dodging a swing that would have taken her head off.

“Link!” she cried, but he didn’t appear to hear her, pressing his attack.

Zelda jumped to his side to try and throw him off, but Link didn’t falter, whirling around to attack again. She threw up her blade to block his, and only barely avoided getting his sword to her chest.

Their weapons locked with a scream of metal, and Zelda stared into the face of her best friend, stained by evil nearly beyond recognition.

“Link, Link please it’s me Link!” Zelda cried, straining against his sword with her own. “Stop!”

Link didn’t reply, those horrifying all-red eyes narrowed, and he let out a snarl. Throwing his weight forwards, he knocked Zelda off-balance and lunged at her, which she only barely managed to parry.

Zelda was no slouch in battle, but Link had been training with a blade practically his entire life. His swings were swift, and completely merciless. It was all Zelda could do just to stay on her feet against the barrage of attacks, barely avoiding getting hurt, or killed.

Not to mention the fact that every clash of their blades felt like it was driving a dagger into her chest.

“Link,” Zelda gasped, throwing her shield up against another of his attacks, “Link, fight this, please, I know you would never—”

His sword caught the edge of her shield, wrenching it from her grasp, and as Link swung at her neck, Zelda drew on her magic and blasted it at him in a panic.

An unnatural scream ripped from his throat, and Link stumbled backwards, clutching an arm to his chest. Zelda scrambled back to where her shield had fallen, and she stared at Link, both of them breathing heavily.

Smoke drifted from where her magic had hit his arm, and horror ripped through Zelda as she looked at the mark she had left on him.

She’d managed to score a hit right where there was a gap in his armor, and his skin underneath was nearly blackened, charred from her light. And while Link's expression had only barely changed, she could see the way his breath shuddered as he held his arm to his chest.

She’d hurt him, badly.

And if that was what just a small burst of her power did, what would happen to Link if she kept using it?

It's not worth the risk.

Link bared his teeth, pain creasing the corners of his face as he caught his breath. Before Zelda could get her knees to unlock, he was back on his feet and lunging at her, and she didn’t have time to fully dodge.

His weight hit her full-on, and Zelda cried out as she was thrown to the ground, her shield and sword flying from her grip. Link lunged, and Zelda closed her eyes as she fruitlessly held her arm up to defend herself.

But no blade pierced her.

Zelda’s eyes shot open, and she looked up at Link, frozen above her. His sword was mere inches from her throat, but he made no move to attack, staring at her blankly as his hair hung in his face.

His arms shook as the blade hovered by Zelda’s neck, and she stared up at him in shock as a bead of sweat dripped down his forehead.

She... wasn’t dead.

Zelda quickly scrambled out from under him and stood, retrieving her sword as she watched Link continue to shake in place. His lip twitched a little as the rest of him shook, and as Zelda watched him, she realized it looked as if he was trying to say something.

“Link?” she breathed, cautiously stepping closer.

His arms shook even harder, and his expression flickered for a mere second, pure horror cracking through.

Zelda sucked in a breath and extended a hand towards him, but before she could do anything further, Link lost whatever battle he was fighting.

He lunged at her with a shout, and pain exploded across Zelda’s face, a cry escaping her as she stumbled back. She fumbled with her shield as she tried to ignore the white-hot sting cutting across her nose, but It was too intense to ignore. Link had slashed her right across the middle of her face, and she could already feel blood dripping down her cheeks.

He pressed his attack while she was still reeling, and Zelda struggled to focus past the pain making her knees weak. She’d barely been keeping up before, but now it was impossible, blood streaming down her face, pain fogging her senses.

She only had one option now.

Link, I’m so sorry.

Zelda focused past the pain and gathered her magic again, her hands lighting up. Tossing aside her shield and sword, she thrust her hands out in front of her, Link’s face lighting up with the glow.

His expression turned to one of rage, but then it was obliterated as she blasted her light at him again.

A scream equally enraged and pained rang through the room, and Zelda dropped to a knee as Link reeled backwards, smoke drifting up from his chest.

Even with his armor blocking it, her magic had hit hard, knocking him backwards and sending him to his knees. He turned his eyes on her, panting heavily as smoke drifted around him. Zelda looked desperately for any sign of Link in them, but nothing but pain and rage shone through, a twisted version of the determination and warmth his eyes usually held.

Then he lifted a hand and twisted something on his wrist, and before Zelda could do anything, a burst of dark magic rippled over him, momentarily blocking the sunlight from above.

Then he was gone.

Zelda waited a few tense moments, waiting to see if he was truly gone, then collapsed to the ground, her breath hitching as she tried to catch her breath.

It was true. Link was the shadowy knight who’d been seen leading monsters, terrorizing villages, fighting against her men.

Any hope that she’d had that somehow it hadn’t been Link who was corrupted was gone, and as blood dripped off her face and began puddling on the floor, Zelda fought desperately against the urge to cry.

Link.

Her loyal knight, her best friend.

A voiceless pawn of the enemy.

Zelda bit her lip, pain still throbbing across her face. She desperately missed Link, his advice, his companionship, his steady presence at her side. The way he'd look at a problem from angles she hadn't even considered, how his stoicism melted over horses, the little wry smiles he'd send her over meetings and the pure kindness that was in every little thing he did...

All blotted out, or twisted into something unrecognizable.

The cut on her face stung sharply as a tear leaked out, and Zelda breathed in a shaking breath, fishing in her bag for a cloth. She'd already used the healing potion she'd brought with her, so all she could really do was try and stop some of the bleeding.

She dabbed at her face, tears coming to her eyes for a more painful reason, and she thought back to the brief moment Link had paused in his attack. A tiny flicker of hope rose in her chest as she remembered the horror on his face, how he hadn't killed her even though he easily could have.

He was still in there.

She had to believe that.

Zelda looked at the blood on her hands, and exhaled, feeling utterly exhausted. She got to her feet anyway though, and looked up at the shaft of sunlight coming in through the ceiling, bright and warm.

I'll get you back Link, I promise.

No matter what.

[strawberry-hachi]

Thinking about possessive Chigiri. Anyone would get scarily protective if they lost their dream. He lost his career and his passion over a simple injury. People avoided him because of how closed off he got and he refused to let others get near.

When you saw him again after his injury he didn't look at you once. Only giving you one word answers and nods. You understood how much it destroyed him but it was still hard to see the effects.

But then he started avoiding everybody. Holding himself up in his room and attempting to rot into the earth. Oftentimes his sister would end up calling you in tears because of his refusal to take care of himself.

So it's no wonder you began heading over to their house more to try and help him. It was still Chigiri. The boy that you had found yourself enamored with even before he got crazy good at football.

Albeit, it was not easy taking care of him with his mood swings and injury. Often you and him found yourselves frustrated with each other because of that lack of communication and progress. Regardless, you two worked through it because what was the point of a relationship if you couldn't help each other when you needed each other?

It was around the time he finally started healing, his stitches finally disappearing and finally going from a wheelchair to crutches did you begin seeing that change. How he would follow you everywhere if you were together, always close to you. How he would begin messaging and calling you if you disappeared on him or were talking with someone else (and while this did annoy you, you found it oddly adorable). He even began messaging you at all hours of the day even if he had nothing to say.

You weren't one to reject such affection and took it in stride but you'd be lying if you said it didn't worry you on his sudden switch up. Perhaps it's because he finally has energy to put into his relationship now but that thought only puts a pit in your stomach. Because what if he finds something else? You aren't willing to stay if you were only a replacement for something.

However what you learned right before he went off to Blue Lock was in fact the complete opposite. That only after he got injured did he realize how much he genuinely cared for you. Couldn't stop thinking about you. How he would sit with his phone in his hand wanting to call you even though he could barely move a muscle.

How more often than not he found himself dreaming of you. Wanting you. Waking up in a cold sweat upon realizing you weren't there. How as the days grew longer the more he realized that he needed you next to him always.

His injury most certainly messed him up but it also made him realize many things about himself that he wouldn't give up for the world.

---

"Where are you going?"

You glance back at him, "Groceries, remember? I'm still helping your mom and sister, idiot," You stick your tongue out at him, getting another blanket to put under his leg as he sits on the couch.

His once neutral face turns into a small frown as he sets his head down upon the couch. He sighs, briefly fluttering his eyes and you immediately can tell he's doing it on purpose. Prick.

"Do you need an ice pack?" You chuckle as he crosses his arms and blows a piece of hair out of his face.

He rolls his eyes, "I'm not a baby."

"you're kind of acting like one right now," You raise your eyebrows as he immediately turns to you.

He groans, "You've gotten so much bolder since you've had to take care of me."

You smile, "No, you just never noticed."

He opens his mouth to say something but quickly shuts it again. His brows furrow and his fists tighten.

"Sorry," you smile, "Anyways, do you want an ice pack?"

"No, I want you," He says lowly, almost coming out as a growl.

You blink, "I'm right here, aren't I?"

He extends his arms, "How much clearer do I have to get, idiot?"

You let out a little chortle as you set down the blanket, walking over to him as he quickly goes to knock you down over him.

You squeak as you fall atop of him, his arms going to wrap around you like a vice as his head goes into your neck and nuzzles.

"Are you trying to hurt your knee again," you say incredulously, "Don't knock me over like that," You laugh as you thread your fingers through his hair. It's softer than you last remember.

He hums into your neck as his hold tightens around you. You slowly relax into his hold as you realize he doesn't plan on releasing you anytime soon.

"You okay?" You ask quietly, your voice barely above a whisper as your breath brushes against his ear. You feel him shiver against you and it makes your heart swell.

"Yeah," he glances up at you with a heavy expression and your face flushes.

This idiot.

[newbornwhumperfly]

no place to run and no gasoline…

behold, a shiny new chapter for whumptober, i sure hope nothing horrible happens to anyone…😈😈😈��🥺🥺

whumptober 2024 • race against the clock | panic attack | “if only we could hold on”

CW: head injury, panic attack, near-death experience, dissociation, allusions to murder

title insp. by “stay alive” by josé gonzález

~

In movies, there’s always lots of blood. Not the little scrapes you get bashing a knee or an elbow or even a nasty bonk in the face. Onscreen. it’s bright and cheerful and gooey and it’s fun to imagine someone tossing a bucket of red paint on the actor. Strawberry syrup dripping off someone’s bashed lips. Food coloring pouring out of the nose. 

This isn’t a movie. 

And Claud’s head won’t stop bleeding.

And that scream can’t be him. Right? Just like the body falling into his arms can’t be Claud. It can’t be? She’s so tough, she’s so solid, she can’t be light in his arms, scooped up, pressed against his chest, her head can’t be so light when it thumps against his chest and the red pooling against his shirt can’t be anything but strawberry syrup and that high pitch of crying can’t be him?

He pitches, back and forth, dizzy, watching the spot on his shirt get bigger and bigger, and a hand grips over his elbow. Red-coated, sticky, strong. Bracing. 

Morja. Oh, fuck, Morja. His whole side red from carrying her. 

“Morja,” Cobi wails and it cracks and breaks and echoes through the tunnel. Long, concrete, carrying his sob far away, and the underground they are seems to crush in on his chest. He grabs back, clutching in the dark, gasping through the press of dark, blood, cold, all around them, his fingers slipping, scrambling, at Morja’s arm. “Claud, buddy, don’t fall asleep, pleaseClaudMorjawhat’swrongplease?-“

“Steady her head.”

“W-What?-“

Morja’s face, Cobi can’t make it out, it’s dark, so dark down here in these maintenance tunnels. Cobi’s headlamp flickering with how someone’s head is shaking the light all over the place and Cobi’s eyes are fucking blurred and the spot where Claud’s head is against his chest is wet and hot and oh no- 

The hand grips harder on his elbow, cups over his wrist, oh, okay, Morja is cupping one hand behind Claud’s head, her hair is so wet, all her curls are stuck together, glued to his hand. Morja forms it, a cup around the back of her head. 

“To steady, anotéros. Hold her to your chest t-to keep her head steady.” 

Morja’s voice doesn’t even echo, flat and cold, so quiet, and Cobi fucking clings to it. Fuck, fuck, fuck, his arms tighten, brace, under Claud’s legs (too limp) and her head (too bloody) against where he’s gasping, panting, fuck, that’s Claud, she’s bleeding?

“Gah, okay, ‘kay- I gotcha, Claud?”

A gurgled murmur makes Cobi heave a strangled sob again. Claudia, oh please, g-d, no? His hand is so big around her head, her head shouldn’t look so little? It’s not right. Claud’s quiet. That’s not right.

His eyes shoot up, the low light of their headlamps making Morja’s face a narrow shadow, streaked with red. 

“Get us out of here?” Cobi’s breath quivers in his lungs and he’s never felt smaller, less big, than this. 

But Morja nods. 

It’s like a fucking story, like a fairytale, but fucked all the way up, the way Morja leads them out of the tunnel, the way Cobi’s feet thud, long steady stable strides against the concrete. But aren’t all fairytales fucked-up? It didn’t feel this long getting down here. 

Follow the bobbing light of Morja and his lamp ahead, hold his friend, his friend, in his arms and walk, as fast as you can run without bumps, without hurting her, Claud is hurt. 

“Should- run- can’t hold her steady and run?-“

“Getting out is more important.”

How long has it been? It felt like an hour, it felt like barely that, sneaking slowly to not make noise. Was it really an hour to tiptoe down this tunnel to hell? Was it really the beginning of the day that they all got here, sneaking in, underground, for confirming a good checkpoint to sneak information?

What did they come here for that was so important?

Claud is bleeding, in his arms, and what could be so important? 

All he can do is heave breaths that sound like sobs he’s never made before and the burn in his arms is nothing, it’s nothing, she’s a sack of potatoes, she’s the most precious thing in the world. His side is sharp, he doesn’t care, his shoulders burning and he doesn’t care.

It hurts to breathe, he can’t breathe, but that’s nothing. His chest hitches and it’s fine, it’s fine cause it’s all steady, his fastfastfast crying isn’t gonna jostle Claud, he’s got her, doesn’t he? 

He can hold her. Please. She can hold on. Please. They can get out of here. 

Cobi’s neck cranes, cheek pressing against the top of Claud’s head, the soft cloud sinking all the way down to her scalp, hard and solid and not the wet part, and he holds her in place with all of his body.  

“Please hold on? Please, gotcha, girl, please hang on, gonna be o-okay-“

It’s faster, minutes, maybe - is a half hour a minute, a day - before the tunnel narrows, narrows, slopes upwards, into orange light spilling in from above. Cobi breaking ahead, emerging, gasping deep, crisp air. Up into tall grasses as high as a shoulder, wind on their faces. Cobi staggers, spins on the spot, skin feels sticky, face and hands all dry and crackling. 

“Need- need to check the- the perimeter, right? Are- we gotta do that?” He’s scrambling for what to do as he kicks at the debris, the discarded cardboard and plywood and bullshit covering their car, hidden in the ditch what feels like forever ago? “Don’t- gotta watch for, um, people coming for us-“

“There won’t be.”

Morja stalks up out of the black mouth in the ground, soft-footed, quiet. His red hands gripping his knives, long and black and curving and dripping strawberry syrup. Drip, drip, drip. Breadcrumb trail behind him into the tunnels. 

His face is nothing, it’s nothing, flat as stone, and red-all-over. A burst of cold wind whips across the field and Cobi shivers. No birds cry out here, no bugs, only pant and whimper and Claud’s broken groan. 

Where is Jorah? Where’s Sarai, where’s the Captain, where’s- No. there’s nobody out here. There’s nobody but them. Nobody but this guy, who’s barely more than a stranger, who’s somehow a friend, who carried his dangling partner half around his neck with blood on both of them. 

One of them a civilian, college basketballer, tank in title, an ox to lift heavy shit. One of them a soldier. bloody and calm, pounded through a meat-grinder to be this. 

“…C…C’b?”

“Shhh, I’m here, gonna be so okay, it’s gonna be okay. Gotta-“ So much blood, looks down at her and her eyes flick side-to-side, flutter, roll back her eyelids and Cobi springs across the distance between the two of them and his wail breaks the silence to pieces.

“Morja, help?” 

Those dark eyes flick up, no light in them, and when Morja reaches for her, Cobi can’t help but draw back, clutching her tighter. A whimper crawls out of his throat, eyes burning, streaming, they haven’t really stopped. That’s Claudia, it’s his best girl, she’s important. 

“Yes, anotéros.” Is the whisper that greets him and some of that black-slate-dullness shifts and Cobi heaves a sob as he watches Morja snick the blades back into their leg-sheath, as he glances up, up.

A blurring bundle of getting the trunk open, laying down the backseat, precious stupid fucking time as Morja crawls into the back and holds out his arms. Cobi can’t help sobbing careful as he feeds Claud into the embrace, handing over a piece of his body on a plate. But Morja’s red-flecked arms take the weight, bracing, steady, lowering her down to the carpet as red puddles there too. 

She’s small, small as him, and it hits him how Morja is small, how they’re both small, and how can that be? 

“Fuck- gonna be okay, Claud, please stay with me, that’s it, yeah- scoot over, get in front?- Claud, we’re getting you out of here-“

“You need to drive.”

“No- no, no, no way, I’m holding her.”

“I can’t drive.”

“Stop, Morja, man, don’t argue, please, it’s gotta be you driving us out of here!-“

“I can’t.”

“YES, yes you fucking can, you CAN, Morja, fuck, let me IN-“

“I. Don’t. Know how.”

Cobi’s shadow cuts across the two of them and Morja’s hands are cupped over Claud’s head and in the screaming he has already somehow squished a balled-up something to her hurt and it’s reddening.

Oh. 

Fuck.

Fuck this fuck this fuck this.

“Anotéros.” 

Cobi’s eyes blur and burn. 

“Sh- Claudia doesn’t have time.”

Please, g-d, don’t let her die.

“Be careful.” Cobi wrenches out, chest heaving as he drags the trunk closed, as he pulls himself away, somehow, into the driver’s seat, somehow grips the steering wheel with slippery palms, fuck, swipes them over and over on his pants, big drops splashing down on the streaks. 

Sticky red jam. 

He doesn’t know how he stops heaving, he definitely isn’t not fucking sobbing, but the rearview mirror shows Morja’s legs stretched out around Claud, bracing her in. Shows his arms stiff and stable as they hold her head stable. Shows his hands, red as they are, gripping Claud’s head, curly and precious and holding all of her in it, like the stem of something glass. Cobi’s hands stop shaking, the slick fumble over buttons finding what he needs, his sobs slow, they slow.

The balled-up thing Morja is soaking up her blood with is his own jacket. 

It’s that which Cobi know he can gun it, send this compact little monster of a car barrel up through the ditch, onto the flatland, grinding up dust to swallow up the nightmares behind them. It’s the way Morja doesn’t tip or jerk or tumble with the swaying of the rocketing car that makes Cobi know, somehow, know that Claud’s not spilling everywhere either. If Morja won’t fall, Claud won’t. 

“Stay with me, honey,” Cobi croaks, sobs crushing out of his lungs but his hands firm on the wheel. “Don’t die, don’t you dare die, just gotta get you home.”

~

do not fret, gentle readers, this is the first part of an arc, so, stay tuned for further suffering 🥺🥺🥺💖💖💖

taglist: @much-ado-about-whumping @haro-whumps @whump-tr0pes @i-eat-worlds @suspicious-whumping-egg

@whumpthisway @wolfeyedwitch @redwingedwhump @straight-to-the-pain @whumpzone

@stoic-whumpee @liliability @whump-me-all-night-long @whumping-every-day

@thingsthatgo-whump-inthenight @whatgoeswhumpinthenight @tears-and-lilies @kixngiggles @scoundrelwithboba

[luinhealthcare]

Does Hyrule mind teaching how to assess a patient??👉👈

"You... want to learn how to assess patients?" Hyrule asked hesitantly.

Wild shrugged. "What if I want to be an EMT?"

"You also said you wanted to be a chef in the hospital."

"I can do both, you know."

Hyrule laughed. "I suppose so. Well... we'll need a patient for this to work."

Wild immediately snatched Sky, who yelped as his friend snaked a hand around his wrist. "Sky's the patient, heaven knows he needs to be looked over anyway."

"Look who's talking, Mr. I-Have-Seizures-and-Don't-Tell-Anybody," Sky grumbled as he was manhandled to sit between the other two.

"Well, everyone knows now."

Hyrule and Sky gave Wild a scalding look. Adequately apologetic, Wild shrugged sheepishly.

"Anyway," Hyrule sighed, shifting his focus to Sky. "Assessments come in different forms. You've got a primary and a secondary assessment. Primary is kind of a general overview and checking for life threatening stuff, secondary is in-depth on what the issue actually is. Make sense?"

Wild nodded.

"Great!" Hyrule continued with a smile. "Okay. Sky's our patient. Sky, you got shot once, right?"

Sky nodded, and Wild balked. "He what?!"

"It was a long time ago," Sky waved a dismissive hand.

"Okay, so that's our scenario," Hyrule said, standing. "We're dispatched for a 21-year-old male with a GSW--"

"That means gunshot wound, right?"

"Yeah. GSW, conscious patient. That's all we've got. So, you get on scene, and the very first thing you do is check for scene safety. If the scene isn't safe, we're not going in. First thing you're taught in EMS - your own safety comes first, because if you're shot you can't help the patient. It's you, your partner, then the patient."

"How often do you actually listen to that rule?" Sky asked, raising an eyebrow.

"That's not what we're learning today," Hyrule waved off easily. It was pretty common knowledge that while he would never put his partner's life at risk, he'd gotten himself into dicey situations before. But he knew how to get himself out of those situations too. "So, we determine the scene is safe. Next, is our primary assessment. The purpose of this assessment is to check for life threatening things, and an overview of major body systems. Neuro status, bleeding, and your ABCs: Airway, Breathing, Circulation.

"The situation is pretty dynamic, like sometimes you walk up and somebody's got an arterial bleed and spurting blood everywhere, your assessment stops right there and you go fix that bleed. But generally you'll have time to do the entire primary assessment."

"Okay, so neuro and ABCs?"

"Yeah. And the good thing is that most of it happens all at once, you know? You walk up to Sky and he looks at you, then boom, you've got a good neuro - he's awake, he's alert. He may not be oriented, but you can figure that out by just talking to him. And by this point you can tell if there's life threatening bleeding. Then it's ABCs - is his airway patent, or open? Is he breathing, and is he doing so normally? Is his skin warm, dry, and normal tone for him? You can literally do al these things by just walking into the room and looking at him for five seconds. The primary assessment is done really fast and, the more times you do it, basically automatically."

"What would be an example of something being wrong?" Wild askd.

Hyrule glanced at him. "When I got on scene for your crash, you were unconscious and unresponsive--in other words, you were not only unconscious, but nothing would wake you up--and your breathing was gurgling sounding because you had blood in your airway."

Glancing at Sky, Hyrule said, "Sky can give us an example of a not great primary assessment, I'm sure."

Helpfully, Sky immediately flopped off the chair he was sitting on, collapsing to the ground with a crash. Wild laughed, and footsteps rushed from upstairs into the living room.

Twilight immediately froze in the entranceway, eyes wide and fixed on Sky. "Sky, what the--guys what the hell is hap--"

Sky perked up immediately. "Oh, sorry! I'm just helping Hyrule teach Wild!"

Twilight froze a moment and then sighed heavily, pinching the bridge of his nose and grumbling under his breath.

Hyrule smiled, pointing at Twilight. "He just perfectly showed a good primary assessment looks like! He walked in and saw the patient down on the ground, tried to figure out a neuro by calling out to him, and when Sky woke up he immediately could tell he was fine. Neuro intact, not bleeding, had a patent airway because he's talking, breathing normally, and skin looks normal."

"I hate all of you," Twilight groaned, walking out of the room.

"Okay, but by skin looking normal... what does it mean when it doesn't?" Wild asked.

"Your skin can tell a story," Hyrule explained. "If you're diaphoretic, which means sweating, something is likely wrong. Though it depends on context - if your patient's sweaty but they were just exercising, it makes sense. If Sky's sweaty on the ground after being shot, he's in shock. If the skin is cool, the body isn't circulating well - that can sap the color right out of your skin - the lighter your skin tone the more notable it is, but darker skin tones can become paler too. A lot of times with darker skin tones you'll want to look at their palms or their lips, that'll help you determine it. Another color is grey - that usually means cardiac and it's bad. So skin can tell you a lot!"

"How did my skin look?" Wild questioned, curious.

"Pale," Hyrule immediately answered. "Anyway. Sky's your patient. Look him over."

"Okay," Wild blew out a breath, approaching Sky and kneeling beside him. "So he's unconscious, that's my neuro so far."

"Can you arouse him at all?"

Wild poked Sky in the neck. Sky flinched. Wild poked again and Sky giggled. Wild's eyes widened in realization, and a mischievous smile crossed his face.

"Wild, wait--"

Sky started laughing hysterically as his friend tickled him, wiggling and trying to shove him away.

"Get--off of m--Wild you jerk--"

Hyrule chuckled. "Well, we're not taught to tickle our patients, but that works."

[wickjump]

grrr cross whump… grrrr making him suffer… grrrr giving him extreme amounts of injury and blood soaking his bones… grrr…

[3-2-whump]

Mini-Comfortember Day 4

Prompt 4: Still

A glimpse into Khaled's childhood, several years before he was taken

TW/CW: childhood injury. I really don't think I should have to tag that, tbch, but I guess I have now

Khaled whimpered and flinched as his father ran the rough wash cloth over his scraped knee. “Hold still, boy –hey, hold still!” Abba scolded, dabbing the wet cloth against the torn skin. There was grit and dirt stuck in the wound, and the abrasive scrubbing to dislodge the debris made the boy bite his lip as he suppressed his noises of pain. Outside the thin walls of the bedroom, his little brother’s high-pitched wails sounded over his mother’s soothing attempts to calm him down.

“Tell me what happened, one more time,” Abba directed him.

Khaled fisted his hands into the blanket on the bed where he sat. “I-I was playing, with Yusuf, outside, and-and he was getting too close to the road, a-and there was a car coming, and I p-p-pushed him out of the way…” He whimpered as a cold, stinging gel was smoothed over his knee. His brother was still screaming his head off on the other side of the wall, now accompanied by the cries of his newly-awakened baby sister. The sounds of his younger siblings’ cries sent a chill of dread down his small body. “I’m not in trouble, am I?” he asked.

His father sighed. “No,” he decided. He put down the antiseptic gel and reached for a pad of gauze and the roll of bandages. “You did good, you’re not in trouble.” He instructed the boy to hold the gauze to his knee as unfurled the bandage. “We’ll tell Ammi what happened, and we’ll explain to Yusuf that you were trying to keep him safe.” Abba wrapped the bandage securely around the gauze and tied it off at the side of Khaled’s knee. The boy experimentally bent his knee back and forth. It still twinged, and now it was a little difficult to bend with the bandages in place, but it felt a lot better. “Are you ready?” his father asked.

Khaled nodded. Abba stepped away from the bed to let the eldest son get to his feet himself, then he led Khaled out to the living room to explain to the rest of the family.

Le Tag List: @kabie-whump @rainydaywhump @whumped-by-glitter @skittles-the-whumpee @generic-whumperz @bamber344 @there-will-always-be-blood @morning-star-whump @a-la-whump @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @defire @phoenixpromptsandstuff @scumashling

[angelicsentinel]

Chapters: 1/21 Fandom: 名探偵コナン | Detective Conan | Case Closed, Magic Kaito Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Kudou Shinichi | Edogawa Conan/Kuroba Kaito | Kaitou Kid Characters: Kudou Shinichi | Edogawa Conan, Kuroba Kaito | Kaitou Kid, Black Organization Member(s) (Meitantei Conan), Haibara Ai | Miyano Shiho, Miyano Akemi, Hakuba Saguru, Hattori Heiji Additional Tags: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Time Travel, Magic, Action/Adventure, Torture, Getting Together, Slow Burn, Identity Reveal, Minor Character Death Summary:

Kaito uncovers a vast conspiracy from a most unusual source—a journal that purports to be from the future. Caught in the grasping claws of fate, Kaito finds an unlikely ally in detective Kudō Shinichi. They must work together to prevent a dark future, though the present Shinichi is suspicious of Kaito's motives.

-

Notes: So I hit my millionth word in dcmk alone this fic by a country mile. Time travel was a siren song I couldn't resist even after I told myself I'd never do this again. Many thanks to @chiikichai for picking up the pinch hit when the original artist ghosted me and being a wonderful partner; it was such a pleasure to work with you again, Doodle for listening to my inane rambling when I desperately needed it, Kir for being my biggest cheerleader and supporter, for not saying I told you so, and for betaing this monster, and @glitchedcatto for body doubling. Love y'all 💙

Don’t forget to check out Chii’s absolutely incredible art here! Go give it some love!

[corellianhounds]

All right, another question for the group: Any moments come to mind of someone surviving being stabbed by a lightsaber somewhere nonlethal, like the person wielding it missed their mark? (Specifically a stab wound, there’s plenty of evidence of people surviving slashes/decapitations)

Follow-up question, does that particular scene/media where it happens feel like it cheapens the severity of lightsabers in general? Does it feel unsatisfying for somebody to be able to recover from that, or is it a matter of it being frustrating because the aftereffects of the wound and the recovery time don’t feel like there are enough consequences for it to still feel like a serious injury? I.e., someone gets stabbed and is up walking around just a few days later, or the medical care they receive has them up and going again and it feels like it was barely an inconvenience? Basically, if I give it enough impact will you let me get away with it without backing out of the fic 😆

[shmorp-mcdurgen]

The catalyst

Recovered Black Mesa documents from the experiment, #2 of ____

(Pg. 1)

Stage Two: Resonance Cascade Simulation (RCS)

Section 2: Resonance Cascade Simulation

The Resonance Cascade Simulation (RCS) is a revolutionary advancement in Black Mesa’s incident prevention/preparation technology, where a replica of multiple wings of Black Mesa’s main facility were constructed to give the appearance of the real facility. Here is where the rest of the test will take place, as soon as the simulated Resonance Cascade Catalyst is complete. We hope that this experiment will prepare us in case of a real Resonance Cascade event, and thus can potentially prevent one entirely. 

Dr. Freeman is to be put in the RCS as soon as the Catalyst is complete and he is sufficiently unconscious. It is crucial to place him under anesthesia to not cause alarm as he is moved from the real Black Mesa Facility into the replica. (REMINDER: it is of UTMOST IMPORTANCE that Freeman is to be unaware of the test taking place, as to make this simulation as accurate as possible. Failure to comply with this rule will result in career termination.) It is to be noted that despite the simulated AMS failure being in a controlled environment, there is room for error and potentially even injury in the case of Dr. Freeman being within the chamber as it happens. However we believe the HEV suit will be enough to protect him throughout the process.

To make the RCS even more realistic, we have contained multiple species from multiple expeditions to [CENSORED TEXT] within the testing facility. Though it is to be noted that certain species remain too great of a liability to keep within the same facility as the subject. We hope these specimens will help make the cross-dimensional-travel of anomalies more predictable in the case of a real Resonance Cascade event happening, and more importantly, teaching us how to deal with, and/or dispose of these specimens.

Notes: Freeman is a smart man. Hiding the true nature of this test is for his own good.

Conclusion of section:

Power AMS to 105% to begin simulated AMS failure scenario

Begin RCS

(Pg. 2)

INCIDENT LOG: #40

TIME OF INCIDENT: 10:24 AM, December 13th, 1998

CAUSE OF INCIDENT: Technical Malfunction

PERSON(S) INVOLVED IN INCIDENT: Gordon Freeman

INCIDENT TYPE: Workplace Injury/death

DESCRIPTION OF INCIDENT:

At approximately 10:24 AM MST, a malfunction occurred involving the Anti Mass Spectrometer, where a stray beam struck Dr. Gordon Freeman between the lower Thoracic and Lumbar sections of his spinal cord. Due to this area being primarily the HEV’s visible undersuit rather than an armored section, it proved to not be enough to withstand the entirety of the shock. Freeman Suffered near instantaneous lower body paralysis, along with heart failure. Freeman also underwent convulsions, restricting his ability to remove himself from the situation. When the AMS had reached a state of stabilization, allowing personnel to enter the chamber, they found Freeman unresponsive aside from minor erratic muscle spasms. They found that his lower back was severely damaged, along with the HEV undersuit.

Damage to the HEV suit was minimal, though holes caused by the shock needed to be repaired. The protective cover over the Life Support Module was damaged, and unable to be reattached. However, the Life Support Module is still intact and functioning as expected. 

Freeman appears to be healing despite tremendous damage. The HEV suit took most of the hit, allowing Freeman to heal relatively without problem. Due to the HEV’s extraordinary biomatter repair technology, Freeman’s heartbeat has returned, along with stable brain activity and nervous system control, meaning he is no longer paralyzed. (It is to be noted that he awoke during examination, but was quickly put under anesthesia to prevent further pain, any potential alterations to the test results, and any further mental strain from the resurrection.) 

Planned initial Termination was going to be three (3) hours after the RCS had begun, however due to this horrible oversight from the engineers in the Lambda team, the first test had taken place prematurely. However, Freeman appears to have healed completely from this incident. This is promising.

FOLLOW UP ACTION(S):

Monitor possible HEV malfunctions

Monitor Freeman’s physical health and recovery from this incident

Resume test as initially planned without further delay.