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Logan Hitchcock

It had been an ugly hour. An ugly, sad hour that had gone by in a blur and lasted an eternity.

They’d promised someone would see him soon. He was a priority. He knew that from the hurried whispers and the timber of their voices when they reassured him the wait wouldn’t be long.

It hurt. It still hurt so much. The towel pressed against his face was soaked through, and the mess was - he knew people were staring. There was blood everywhere, vomit in his hair.

“I’ll be fine, “ and his voice was hoarse and shaking and they had to both know he was lying. He was shivering still, his skin sickly pale and clammy. But he hated that he’d done this to Rhys. He deserved so much better, and -

“I’m sorry.” His voice broke a little; he cleared his throat roughly like it was a mistake, as if he hadn’t been sobbing just a short time ago. He was still on the brink of it.

Pathetic.

Rhys Autenberry Hitchcock


He had been reading. He had been reading, curled up on the couch in their little townhouse, in their perfect haven of a home that they had spent the last several months turning into a safe space, and he'd gotten a call that had been less of a call and more of a desperate gasp for breath, a rattling, coughing sound.

From Hitch. From his husband.

He couldn't get the image of Eurydike lying on the ground, covered in blood, out of his head. Rhys put a hand to his face, digging the heel of it into his eye as if he could rub the memory out, erase it from his thoughts, but it pressed onward, pushing past even then.

"D-don't apologize," he said, gripping his husband's hand still more tightly. "It's n-not your fault. You were a-attacked."

He sucked in a breath that hurt and looked around, eyes falling briefly on a young girl who was sitting with a boy who looked as though he was probably her older brother. Rhys' gaze flickered back to the front counter, wondering if there was a way to expedite the process.

"We're gonna be fine. Are you still in p-pain?"

Otto Moor

"I really don't think this is necessary, Des," Otto protested for what was probably the fifth time since they'd pulled into the parking lot of the urgent care center. A new place, one Otto didn't think he'd ever been to, but considering the muddled state of his memories he couldn't really be sure of that. At the very least he didn't remember ever being there, but again, that wasn't reliable.

They'd been waiting for what felt like hours. First in the waiting room, then shuffled off to an examination room with a single chair and a padded table with a paper cover that crinkled loudly when either of them did so much as breath heavily.

There were so many better places to be, better things to be doing than just sitting here waiting for an overworked, overtired doctor to come look at a healing wound. Yeah it still hurt, and yeah it was a little more red around the edges than it probably should have been but Otto wasn't exactly gentle on his body, so it was to be excepted, right?

Or maybe Otto just really didn't like doctors or hospitals.

Sighing, Otto slumped back against the wall, thumb running across the back of Desdemona's hand as he looked up at the clock again. Ten past eleven. What time had they gotten there? "I'm sure we can just coat it with Neosporan and it'll be fine."

Shikora Mjoli

It hurt.

Shikora hated fighting. She hated fighting the individuals of the Negaverse. It seemed that some of them didn't seem to want to be doing what the Negaverse told them they should be doing, and it distressed her to have to fight back against someone who could be hurting inside. It distressed her to have to fight someone that perhaps she could help. It distressed her to have to fight someone who may have just been trapped or enslaved to a higher power's will. It distressed her to have to fight back against anyone. Do no harm, do no harm...

But the lieutenant hadn't relented.

Eventually, her own instincts for safety had kicked in, and Shikora, as Richtersveld, had swung back, feeling her body smack against the other woman's.

It wasn't before Shikora had taken some hits, though.

Holding her hand to her side, Shikora dragged her feet into the nearest urgent care center and headed to the front desk. When asked what had happened, Shikora murmured something vague about falling. Thankfully, if there was anything suspicious about it, it was let go, and Shikora was told to sit down. They'd take care of her after they dealt with a few other things.

When Shikora glanced behind her for a place to sit, she could tell why. There was a bruised teenager being held and inspected by her brother. And, perhaps more deeply alarming, there was a man who appeared to be missing something vital, covered in blood and vomit.

... She could wait her turn.

Zachariah Faulkner

How could he let himself be caught?

Zachariah glared back in the direction of the entrance as if it held the answers. It, naturally, did not. It was a ******** door.

What the ******** else did he expect?

He slumped a bit in his chair, looking up at the obscenely bright ceilings and their sterile, uncaring lights. The light may have bothered him if he had not already adjusted. It was interesting that even at night, they did not think of dimming the waiting room. Hospitals had a way of making sure that one knew they were in a hospital no matter the time. No matter the date. No matter the hour, no matter the minute, no matter the reason.

The reason.

He skimmed his fingers over his plaid button-up covered arm, pressing just deep enough send a shiver down his spine when they skimmed over a particular location, a particular groove--

Zachariah sighed heavily, rolling his head back forward and taking a look around the room.

He needed to think of something different, do something different, do something to--

He blinked once, twice, a third time squinted.

If he was looking for a distraction, he had found it. Something seemed wrong with his facial structure, swollen and bruised and bloody and, of all things, missing one of his visual instruments. There were residues of vomit, bodily fluids that he was fairly certain did not have any business being outside of the body cavity--

Distracted for the moment, Zachariah came to his feet, making his way across the room to stand nearby what he was fairly sure was the form of Logan Hitchcock. He was not entirely certain who that was next to him. Perhaps it did not matter.

"Hitch," ventured Zachariah, voice noticeably less steady than it had been last they met, "what the ******** happened?"

If she was being honest, Raleigh didn't particularly care about Briar's wants either- after they finally dusted the youma, she pleaded with Briar to go with her. Maybe they were fine but the youma had put up a heck of a fight and Raleigh was nothing if not persistent and far too stubborn to convince to go home.

Walking a few steps ahead of him, Raleigh went through the front doors of the urgent care center and then stopped in her tracks, taking in the sight before her. As Briar approached at her side, she glanced at him with a worried expression on her freckle-laden face. "I'm not sure why it surprises me that it's so busy in here," she said to him in a hushed voice.

"You find a seat, I'll check us in?" she offered to him. Before waiting for a response, the young blunette was already on her way to the front desk, limping slightly as she walked.

After checking in, Raleigh made her way back over and sat next to her friend. Leaning in close she whispered to him, "It might be a while," before nodding her head in the direction of the man covered in what looked like a mixture of blood and vomit. "I think he's a little worse off than any of the rest of us."