#his blood and the scar and his cursed-tool covered hand. and his uniform...

[halfblood-fiend]

Star Trek Bingo 2020: Vertical Prompt 4

SLEEPER AGENTS

Show: Discovery

Words: 2,440

Rating: Mature

Warning(s): graphic violence, blood, ptsd

Voq in the Mirror

Ash Tyler struggles to come to terms with his own identity while he is supposed to be undercover in the Mirror-verse. His mysterious stalker complicates everything he's fought for.

Note:  I really wanted to explore how Ash and Voq struggled to coexist before Voq was severed, without boiling it down to some weird split personality disorder sort of deal. I hope y'all enjoy (and that it makes sense lol).

HUGE thank you to @thenorsiest and @kiranxrys for beta-ing and smoothing out my Ash/Voq lines! :D

Read it on AO3.

From the moment he had left Michael’s Captain’s Quarters aboard the I.S.S Shenzhou that morning, Ash Tyler had felt the eyes of every crewmember on his back.

Crosshairs followed him throughout his morning shift of guard duty (the debatably pointless use of Security Officers in this universe), from where, he couldn’t quite tell. It kept Ash’s teeth on edge and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He looked over his shoulder. He waited for an attack. He felt it in his gut. But it was a quiet shift—occupants of the Agonizers aside—and he made it to the Mess for a lunch break without incident.

Ash chanced a furtive glance around the nearly-empty mess hall over a metal tray of tasteless replicated food. He picked an out-of-the-way table, far from anyone else in the room.

There was something to be said about the distraction of feeling like he was being watched all day. At least it had kept his mind on something other than—

Other than…

Shaking his head, he tried to clear the unwanted memories. When that didn’t work, he reached up to press the heels of his palms into his eyes so hard he saw stars. He controlled his breathing, willed his heart to be slow.

God, he hoped… he hoped Hugh was—

Ash dropped his hands to the table with a heavy thud, focusing instead on the dull ache of the impact. His stomach churned and heaved.

Certain he wouldn’t be eating anything today either, he abandoned the table, dropped his untouched meal into the recycling receptacle, and left the Mess.

Ash didn’t know where he would go yet—this ship was alien and uncomfortable for him—but he walked anyway. It was a stupid attempt to place distance between himself and his memories, he knew, but what else could he do? The only person who had any hope of understanding him was Michael, but only when they were in private. He would have to wait until the late evening to see her.

The crew he passed in the corridors leered at him from scarred not-quite-right faces. They were disconcerting and backwards. They were the last people he wanted to be around when his head was spinning, but they were his only company for now.

And then a thought occurred to him.

He couldn’t speak to Michael, but maybe he could visit Captain Lorca? Maybe he could comm the Discovery? Or both? Ash felt all he needed was a touch of sanity about now, a lifeline to the world that he knew to be his.

God, he hoped, with everything that he had in him, that he and Michael would still belong to that world when this was all over.

Making up his mind, Ash walked with more purpose. So it was somewhere around the Medbay when he became aware of his tail.

This person was sloppy. The tail hadn’t expected Ash to stop so suddenly. But when a passing nurse dropped his medkit, the contents rolling across the corridor, Ash bent to help without thinking.

As Ash reached behind him for a scattered hypospray, he caught the unmistakable tells of a pursuer out of the corner of his eye: their stunted halt, their quick about face, and then they disappeared around the nearest corner.

The nurse, flustered that someone would help him recover his tools, didn’t notice how Ash kept his eyes trained down the hall. His unblinking stare was rewarded with the tail’s head poking back around the corner, and, seeing their target was still crouched, they withdrew again. Didn’t even notice Ash was watching them.

They were a sloppy stalker for a world that was so paranoid, that was for sure.

Ash muttered a “you’re welcome” to the nurse without thinking as they both rose from the floor. He didn’t believe the other man had thanked him in the first place; forgot that manners were few and far between. Maybe for the best. Maybe he just looked like a sarcastic asshole now.

If that was the worst he would become here, then he would be grateful.

As he continued on his way towards the emptier lower decks of the ship, Ash heard his tail resume as well. He strained his ears and made mental notes.

Heavy footfalls made them male in sex and very likely of sturdy build. They maintained a five-meter distance but had quick steps—short in height; not necessarily an advantage. Probably new at this too, Ash thought grimly. If it were him, he would have erred on the side of caution and abandoned the chase for today. He would have assumed he’d been caught and fallen back to recuperate the apparent loss.

This person was, apparently, not so smart.

As he got on the turbolift at the end of the corridor, Ash weighed his options. To lose them? Or to confront them?

Losing them was attractive, but he was willing to bet it wouldn’t be easy for him in this unfamiliar terrain. He only had two allies on board, and Captain Lorca would be useless if they all wanted to maintain cover. Ash couldn’t even be assured of his safety in a crowd here. He could easily imagine these people letting two crewmates kill each other in front of them. It might not even ever occur to them to stop the fight.

Yet confronting his pursuer would be a sure altercation, and maybe even a sure death. Better to assume that everyone here thirsted for blood and couldn’t simply be spooked away by an act of force. Assassination seemed to be the most common way to climb the ladder in this awful place, and Ash was a very high rung. He had placed the target on his back himself, he realized, by putting himself so close to Michael. Should have thought of that. But it was too late now to regret that he didn’t.

For all his assumptions, however, Ash really wanted to know exactly why he was being followed, and—maybe worse—he wanted to ensure it wouldn’t happen again.

By the time his turbolift had opened onto the lowest deck, Ash had a plan.

His stalker could follow with the last turbolift log, and while he briefly considered scrambling the data, Ash decided it was more important to him to find out who it was that thought he was so important…

If someone thought he was important, then that meant they were trying to get to Michael, and that was unacceptable.

Ash jogged towards the laundry room and used his communicator to make a signal with no heading. He only hoped Discovery wouldn’t catch it and link up with him. What he didn’t need was for more questions to be asked, instead, he just wanted his tail to take the bait.

Several long minutes later, with his heart pounding in his throat, Ash watched as the turbolift doors opened.

His pursuer stepped out into the half-lit corridor holding up a tricorder, no doubt tracking Ash’s dummy signal. They indeed looked slight, but sturdy. Male, probably. Human, obviously. Their eyes were glued to their tricorder and now they took soft, cautious steps, with no idea that their prey had turned the tables on them. They hadn’t even bothered to check the corridor before stepping out. Amateur really. Ash had half a mind to be offended.

An easy target, to be sure.

He held his breath and waited for his pursuer to draw closer. Five meters. Two. One.

They took another cautious step and swiveled in Ash’s direction.

They glanced up from the tricorder screen. Ash launched himself forward.

With their hands full, Ash was able to get his full weight thrown into them. His momentum sent them careening backwards and with a jolting—THUD—his pursuer crashed into the wall across the way, their head smacking hard.

Blood red obscured Ash’s vison. An intense rage flooded his mind. It went beyond just him and his survival on a covert mission. It went beyond even Michael. He was filled with an intense disgust that seemed to be a part within him, but also without.

With a guttural shout, Ash’s hand curled in the Terran uniform and he slammed the stalker back into the bulkhead, their green eyes going wide for a moment. Their hands scrabbled for purchase against his chest, the tricorder falling forgotten, but Ash’s teeth gnashed hard and he ripped their hands from his own uniform with a power that was not his own.

Disgusting human! Daring to touch me! Daring to fight me! Feeble creature to hide in the shadows instead of besting me in outright battle!

Voq hissed at the Human man and slammed him back into the bulkhead. He grinned when the human’s head smacked against the metal once more and left a dent and a streak of crimson.

I will drink your blood and wring the life from you with your entrails!

The human shook his head, eyes dazed, but managed to pull his arm back and caught Voq with the heel of his palm. The blow knocked his head back and Voq cursed his frail human shell. But he barely let it stop him as he threw the man to the side and leapt upon his supine form.

FILTHY HUMAN!

The human scrabbled for purchase but Voq already had his conveniently long fingers around his throat. The man’s eyes bugged. Voq’s lips stretched into a cruel smile. He squeezed.

Then he grew tired of the waiting.

Yanking the man up by his throat, Voq slammed his skull into the ground. Once. Twice. Crimson splashed the floor when he yanked the man’s head up again. It lolled aside. Voq placed one hand on the man’s pale face, the fingernails of the other digging into soft flesh, and pushed with all his weight back into the ground with a wet and satisfying Crack!

He sat back on his haunches, threw his head back and roared in triumph.

Bathed in it. Less than honorable though it may have begun.

His second kill…

His heart raced in his chest.

He blinked.

Ash blinked again. He looked down and unwrapped his hands from his stalker’s throat. They came away bloody.

What?

He straddled the person on the floor, red blood pooling beneath their head, coagulating in their straw-colored hair. Cold dread crept into Ash’s limbs. He was heavy and shaking and couldn’t look away from glassy green eyes.

It had happened again.

Clenching his teeth, barely strangling a cry, Ash gripped his hair hard. A moment too late he remembered that there was still blood on his hands. The thought of it in his hair made him sick. He yelped and leapt off the body, revulsion hitting him hard in the chest and making him heave. Dry and painful.

He did it again. He did it again.

His face crumpled. A sob choked in his throat.

How does this keep happening?

As before, flashes of memory. Of blood and screaming and…her. The unthinkable one. The Klingon in the brig. He had never wanted to see her again and then there she was. She spoke words to him. Words that he didn’t understand but felt in his bones.

She did this. L’Rell.

But how?

Ash shook his head and the dry sob that had caught came out in a strangled mess. It was a pitiful sound, and he was glad there was no one down here to catch him like this. So broken. Confused.

He shook his head again and examined his hands. Another wave of nausea hit him, but he tamped it down.

Ash didn’t have time to be pitiful, and more importantly, Michael couldn’t afford for him to lose focus.

Wiping his hands on his pants, he struggled to control his breathing; wanted to control his heart and the swimming unease in his stomach but he knew that those were lost causes. Instead he settled for closing his eyes and trying to think.

He breathed.

In.

And out.

In.

Out.

In…

A strange calm settled over him. Cold. Almost cruel. But Ash…welcomed it. He needed it. He let it wash over him—swallow him whole. It seemed to cradle him, promising to make all this easier.

Simple.

Like sleeping.

Ash’s limbs grew heavy as the calm reached across his body. His thoughts didn’t feel like his own anymore. They became harsh, calculating—what Michael needed him to be.

He had won the fight against his stalker, as he should have. He was stronger than all of them, he knew. If that was the best his enemies would send after him, then this “Empire” was a laughable sham of one. Nothing compared to the Klingon Empire united behind Kahless and T’Kuvma.

But he had to make sure that nothing like this would happen again. Someone sought to attack him—to kill him—and an attempt on his life would clear the way to an attempt on Michael’s.

Ash felt his fingers twitch.

While it was regrettable to have lost the chance to get information out of his would-be attacker, making an example out of him would have to be good enough.

He knew what he had to do now.

The calm had helped.

The body wasn’t so hard to drag.

Ash ignored the silent stares. He hated the nods of approval. They churned a sickness in his stomach. He refused to look back at the long streak of blood.

It was a long march to the Mess Hall, but he tightened his grip on the corpse’s ankle and steeled himself with every step, drawing from that welcome calm conviction that had washed over him.

When he arrived, a hush fell over the half-filled room.

Ash raised his eyes to the people sitting at tables. The barbarians that lived in this universe watched him with barely masked trepidation.

Barely masked weakness.

He made slow eye contact with each one, wondering if the one responsible was here in this very room. He challenged every one with his burning gaze, almost hoping that someone would rise and fight. Maybe his true enemy wasn’t here, but he knew it wasn’t a big ship; Ash would find him soon enough.

With something of a snort, Ash bared his teeth. He summoned that strange superhuman strength from within him and heaved the filthy, mangled body of his attacker in front of him—in front of everyone—and left.

Yes, he’d find the culprit soon.

Then they would be sorry they had ever picked a fight with T’Kuvma’s own chosen Torchbearer.

Calm resolve washed over his body.

#Star Trek #Star Trek: Discovery #Disco #Ash Tyler #Voq #tw: blood #tw: violence #tw: PTSD #tw: mention of previous violence #AshBurn #Fiend posts #Fiend writes #Star Trek Bingo

[ifrit-ghoul-blog]

To Ashes

(continued from here.)

(part 2/2)

“Ghoul.”

The word cuts through the quiet dark, rippling through the void like a raindrop on still water. Awareness develops slowly; a soft process of becoming, of finding that there there is a body around the consciousness, sturdy and strong, that there is hard ground beneath kneeling legs, cold air caressing naked skin.

“Ghoul.”

Eyes blink, vision focusing, shapes taking form as pupils expand and contract, adjusting to the light. Lips part, sucking in air that is both life and death, cold and ash-filled, then another, and another, filling his chest, fueling the rapidly expanding awareness.

“Look up, ghoul.”

Eyes snap up immediately at the command, talking in the red robed figure watching with a closed expression. The cold eyes blink at the demon slowly before asking in the same quiet voice, “What is your name, ghoul?”

Name? Do we have one…? But there is nothing there in the recesses of its mind. Just quiet and static.

“We are… nameless,” the demon breathes, voice cracking and breaking as it stretches and tests its newfound vocal cords, words tripping on the ash-coated throat. The robed figure nods in satisfaction, their approval making its blood sing in happiness.

“You will serve the clergy and your master well,” they murmur, a hand reaching out to caress a cheek, wiping gray-white ash from speckled dark skin. “We chose you specifically for this task, rid you of the imperfections tying you down from coming in to your full potential. A new beginning, a clean slate.”

Stepping away from the ash-covered ghoul the cardinal motions to the waiting clerics, nodding at the first and second of them. “Get him cleaned up and provide him a new uniform.” He looks at the the third and fourth as the first two skirt around him after bowing slightly, going to speak softly to the kneeling ghoul. “Go make sure that his rooms have been thoroughly cleansed. It is unfortunate that we do not have the space available to house him somewhere else, so we make due with what we have. Keep nothing, burn it all without question. Failure will not be tolerated.” The last two brothers of sin bow and scurry away, leaving the cardinal to watch the other two clerics slowly help the ghoul to stand, giving him support as he relearns the function of his legs.

His eyes rest on the pile of ash the ghoul had been settled in, the only remains of his previous form and the granite altar. Five small, hardened puddles of melted silver mark where the chains and manacles had been, ruining the lines of the pentagram. A waste, for sure, but as he watches the ghoul totter after the two brothers of sin he smiles, knowing just how valuable a tool he’d just made.

Unseen to any, near one of the pools of silver, is a small splatter of gold. It’s the remains of a ring, melted down in the purifying flames, lost and forgotten beneath the ashes.

Basic functions slowly filter through, muscle memory coming to life. Legs move like this, knees bend like that, weight shifts, balance adjusts. Some ways down the hallway he pulls away from the cleric supporting him, body feeling weird and heavy but able to lumber along without tripping over his feet or tail.

The stone floor is smooth and cold under the soles of his feet, and at that realization the chill of the air becomes apparent, a shiver going down his spine, breath hissing through clenched teeth. Eventually he is lead through another doorway, one of the clerics splitting off to jog down the hallway while the other urges him to follow with a light touch to his shoulder. The floor of this place is different, not longer the smooth stone but instead rougher tile, and after another moment of staring blankly at the unfamiliar surroundings his mind seems to shake itself from it’s stupor. Baths, showers, washroom. The brother of sin guides him to one of the shower stalls, quietly murmuring “Call out if you need assistance,” before walking away. Ifrit stares after the man for a moment, blinking slowly before advancing to the knobs and handles set below the shower head, cranking on the hot water as high as it could go. As the water heats he glances at the items on a small shelf in the corner: soap, a washcloth, cheap containers of generic hair products. Ignoring them he steps into the spray of scalding water, sighing gratefully as the heat seeps into his body, chasing the cold away like the streaks of ash that darken the tile.

As he runs claws through his hair his fingertips graze something strange, something smooth and metallic around the base of his left horn. He touches it gently, finding it would turn after some gentle prodding without any pain, indicating it wasn’t something attached to the horn itself. He turns and pulls at it and it becomes loose, allowing him to slide it along the ridged curves till it comes off and he stares at it in his palm.

The heavy coating of ash slowly washes off, revealing a heavy gold band with intricately braided edges, glittering amethysts set alongside garnets on the face. Staring at it he wonders what it’s significance is, the metal heavy with more than physical weight but there is nothing in his mind that could explain such a thing. He sets it on the shelf as he reaches for the soap, turning his mind away from the piece to instead work at cleaning himself as he was bid.

He's leaning against one of the sinks dripping water all over the floor, peering at himself in the mirror, trying to find some bit of recognition in his reflection. He drags a claw down a maze of the blotchy dark skin, tracing along the bright speckles dotted across as his tail twitches. There's lines of old scars all over, the patterned skin masking them but he can feel them under his fingertips, a story mapped out on his flesh that he doesn't have any memory of. His mind is a clean, blank slate, just as the cardinal said.

The brother returns with armful of items, the first of which is a towel that he hands over, the rest seeming to be a folded uniform, complete with a mask and shoes. He dries off quickly, grunting softly in annoyance at the long strands of hair, combing it back with his claws to try and settle it yet it was an unruly mess. I'll just cut it off, what's the point of it anyways? It's just going to get in the way.

“You'll need to glamour them,” the brother shyly says when he looks at the mask, wondering how it fit over his horns. And just like that it snaps forward in his mind, the faint knowledge dredged from the deep recesses of his mind of the soft blanket-like magic to hide the most prominent of the ghoulish features. It's slippery at first but does not take him long to let it snap into place, blackened hide turned to pale skin, black curling rams horns replaced with the small horns common to the half-human ghoul forms. Pulling on the balaclava and mask he takes a last look in the mirror, straightening his cassock before he remembers the bangle he'd left in the shower stall. He goes and retrieves it, turning it over in his hand.

“What is that?” The brother of sin steps close, craning his neck to try and see what was in the ghoul's palm. He seems to pale when he sees the metal band, voice strained as he speaks. “Where did you get this, was it left in here?”

“It was around one of my horns.” His voice is still hoarse and gravelly, vocal cords needing more use to make it sound clean and smooth. He tilts his head slightly, noticing how the brother swallows heavily and takes a shaky breath. Why does the band bother him? What is it about it, is it cursed or something?

“Here, I'll take it.” The brother held out his hand, though now the thought of giving it up feels… wrong, like it's something someone else shouldn't touch. He can't disobey though, and reluctantly drops it into the waiting hand. The brother quickly pockets it, then motions him to follow. The ghoul falls into step easily, arms clasped at the small of his back at he stays a few steps behind the brother as they wind their way through the halls and corridors, up staircases and under archways. They finally come to what seems to be a dormitory section, the brother opening a door and ushering him inside.

“This is your quarters, if you need anything else, let one of us know and we'll do what we can. There's a list of your assigned duties, to attend to, if you have questions the clergy will be happy to clarify things for you.” And with that the brother darts away, as if he could no longer stand to be in the ghouls presence any long. The ghoul takes a moment to look around at his dwelling, finding uniforms hung in the closet and two guitars on stands, the desk having a phone with instructions on its use and the aforementioned list of work for him. But other than that, the place was cold, impersonal, devoid of anything that would say someone lived there. He takes off the mask and balaclava, sitting on the edge of his bed, feeling lost and adrift now that he’s alone.

Unable to stay still he sheds his fascia and cassock, laying them neatly over the chair at the desk before wandering into the attached bathroom. He finds scissors and a hair trimmer in a drawer and sets to work, trimming down the curly mass of soft dark hair, shaving the sides and back but leaving it a bit longer at the top. He runs his hands through it, admiring his job in the mirror and making a mental note to ask for some product to help style it a little. At least now it wouldn’t be as bad a mess under the balaclava and mask. Despite fixing his hair being a simple task he feel exhausted, worn out as if he’d been up and going for days instead of hours. He flops back down onto his bed, staring up at the ceiling and wondering why a strange, unfathomable feeling has lodged itself in his chest, till he drifts off to sleep.

#drabble #character rework #((the cardinal mentioned is not Copia))

[queenevaine]

Chapter 1:  Dwight

Dwight Fairfield was already a nervous person before being taken into the Entity’s realm.  He performed better than others under the stress of it all, and was able to lead them effectively. Experience in life or death struggles made him more nervous at every sound that was just a little too out of place.  He started always looking over his shoulder, should he find a quiet Shape watching him.  

When he woke up alone, he looked around in a panic.  The others never left him like this; especially not after learning what events pulled him into the nightmarish game.  He kept quiet, knowing better than to scream out in an unfamiliar woods despite the burned out fire.  He adjusted his glasses on his face, heart sinking to his stomach when a realization hit him.  

He did know this place; two years ago on that night his life changed forever.  No, this doesn't make sense!  He rested his hands on his temples, shaking his head clear.  This can't be right!  He slowly stood, the spots where the tents and cooler had been entirely clear.  This has to be some trick.  He looked up to the night sky, struck still by the bright, shining stars in the sky.  

The Entity didn't waste it's time on stars.  It was always a black, foreboding fog.  The sight of them now was a shock.  But how?  And why?  He sat still, just staring at the sky.  The others!  Where even were they?  And how am I ever going to find them?  He habitually brought his hand up to chew on his nails.  They were his only friends now, and he didn't want to lose them for the rest of his life.  

And he still had to figure out why he was suddenly here, and not at the campfire.  Did the Entity just decide it was bored?  He didn’t understand at all.  What if it was just me that got out?  He looked around the treeline at the thought of it.  What if they think I left them?  He swallowed, holding his arms to his chest and unsure whether or not the area around him was a fabrication.  

The sounds of the forest seemed so much more real than he was used to, and Dwight was attentive to every single one.  Every cricket, every breeze of wind, he heard them all, with a deep seated fear that just one wouldn't fit.  He had to be free, right?  He couldn't tell for sure, and he was terrified that wandering around would tear his bliss apart.  He lay back against the exposed dirt, closing his eyes and resting his glasses on his chest. Wait until the morning.

He woke with a start, hearing the distant sound of a dog’s bark. He was still at the clearing, right where he had gone to sleep.  The sun hadn't risen yet, but Dwight could see the colors in the sky just above the horizon.  He stared at it with awe, putting his glasses on slowly.  This is all real.  He heard a dog bark again, and slowly he stood, already thinking on how to explain everything to the people undoubtedly heading out here to camp.  

He looked down at his clothes and cursed.  They were still covered in his own blood, but you couldn't exactly be reassuring with that knowledge.  Oh, don't worry, this is all my blood!  Dwight could already imagine how that would go.  He groaned; there wasn't enough time to make himself look at least civilized.  He saw the dog before the owners, unleashed but definitely a Collie with a bright white collar. When it saw him, it paused, barking loudly at him.  

“Hey, Coach!  What're you barking at?”

The dog, Coach, kept barking at Dwight.  The owner ran to catch up, stopping when he made eye contact with Dwight.  Dwight bit his lip.  This looks terrible.  An anxious mess covered in blood.  Words failed him; he couldn't think of what to say.  The stranger pat Coach's side.  

“Hey man, you okay?”  

Dwight nodded, noticing now the Collie calmed down considerably.  

“Yeah, yeah I'm okay.  Just, kinda lost.”  

It was the truth, just not.. All of it.  This random guy didn’t need to know anything else.  The stranger seemed genuinely concerned, but that was probably because of the sheer amount of dried blood on his clothes.  

“Anyone you can call?  You could borrow my phone.”  

Dwight stiffened.  Did he have anyone?  He slowly shook his head.  

“Besides 9-1-1, I don’t have anybody to call.”  

The stranger’s expression softened, pulling out his phone with a nod.  

“Sure, just sit tight, alright?”  

With a nod, Dwight sat by the burned out fire.  Coach took a few steps forward, cautiously sniffing Dwight.  He held his hand out to it as the owner spoke calmly on the phone.  The Collie was more than happy to let Dwight pet it when the owner turned back to him.  

“Hey, sorry, what’s your name?”  

Right.  He took a deep breath before answering.  

“Dwight.  Dwight Fairfield.”  

The man repeated it over the phone, and Dwight went back to petting Coach.  He was a surprisingly soft dog for being the size of a small child.  Maybe I should get a dog.  

“Alright, paramedics should be here in about ten minutes.”  

Dwight nodded, realizing his hand was still on Coach’s head.  

“Sorry, I should’ve asked to pet your dog.”  

The man shook his head, patting Coach’s back roughly.  

“Nah, you’re good man.  Coach acts all tough, but he’s a big softie.  Isn’t that right, bud?”  

Coach barked happily, tail wagging as he tried to stand on his hind legs and lick his owner’s face.  

“Name’s Jack, by the way.”  

“Dwight.  But uh, I already told you that.”

Dwight stood to shake Jack’s hand, wrapping his arms around his stomach when Jack released his hand.  

“Where ya from anyway?  I come out here quite a bit.”  

Dwight paused.  I don’t still have my apartment, do I?

“Uh, I’m from around here, actually.  It’s a.. Long story.”  

Please don’t ask.  Please, for the love of God, don’t ask.  Jack nodded a couple times, looking around the treeline.  

“Well, I won’t pry.  Moved here last year from Montana, and honestly thought I’d gotten to know everyone that lived here by now.”  

Dwight just shrugged.  Damn it, Dwight, always the social failure.  The early morning was so quiet, they could hear the sirens from the campsite.  

“Well, paramedics should be here soon.  You seem like a good guy, so don’t hesitate to stop by sometime to chat, yeah?”  

Jack pulled out a scrap of paper from his pocket, scribbling his name, address, and phone number on it and handing it over.  Jackson Ferros.  Dwight stuffed the paper into his pocket, his attention turning to the two people in uniforms that jogged towards them.  He turned to watch Jack walk further into the woods with Coach, taking a deep breath to quell the fear in him.  He turned to the paramedics, letting them guide him along the trail.  

“We’re just gonna drive you to the hospital and check you over, okay?”  

He nodded to the woman, a shorter, stockier woman with a sweet voice and bright green eyes.  She clearly spent plenty of time in the sun, and she almost reminded him of Claudette.  

“Yeah, that’s okay.”  

“And you said your name was?”  

“Dwight Fairfield.”  

“Okay Dwight, are you hurt at all?  What is the last thing you remember?”  

Dwight rubbed his neck.  How can I even explain what the Entity is?  

“N-No, I’m not hurt at all.  At least, I don’t feel it.  A-and I last remember falling asleep by a campfire.  I was.. It’s.. complicated and.. Hard to talk about.”  

He sighed.  He sounded absolutely insane.  This time, the other paramedic spoke up, just as he started to see the flashing lights of the ambulance.  

“You’ve been missing for two years, Dwight.  If you want to, you could talk to a therapist on staff about it.”  

He simply nodded.  Are they even going to believe me?  He sighed, stepping into the back of the ambulance.  He looked around, all too familiar with some of the tools there.  How often did I have to patch myself up with some crude recreation?  He blinked back to reality when he heard his name.  

“Dwight?  You might want to sit down.”  

He mumbled an apology, sitting on the cushioned bench in the back.  The paramedics sat on the either side of him, the first one calling to the driver.  

“Good to go!”  

Dwight sat in the back of the ambulance, staring ahead as he thought about everything.  He probably didn’t have anything left, and the thought was daunting.  He thought back to the paper in his pocket.  I barely know him.  He bit his lip, looking down to the floor of the ambulance.  The thought of living his life as normal wasn’t one he had often, but he had to start somewhere.  He could be honest, about everything.  The way his co-workers left him, how he tried to get out himself, and the two years of hell in the Entity’s realm.  

Would it all even help?  He pressed his hand to his chest, looking up to the ceiling as he felt the soft, rhythmic beating of his heart.  His heart, not some indication of danger growing closer and closer.  He unbuttoned his shirt to check if there were any scars, anything to prove he had been impaled God knows how many times through his chest.  Yet there was absolutely nothing, no change in skin color, no tenderness to the touch.  The only thing Dwight had was the memory of the searing pain.  

“Dwight?  Are you okay?”  

The first paramedic spoke, and he could see the genuine concern in her eyes.  He really missed Claudette now.  He nodded, resting his arms in his lap.  

“Yeah, just.. Thinking.”  

He sighed.  She gave a small smile.  

“That’s okay, you’ll have plenty of time to rest and talk everything out at the hospital.  If it’s alright with you, I just wanted to check for any injuries.”  

He loosened his tie and lifted his shirt over his head, looking over the stained fabric.  It was an unsettling thought to be so used to it, that it didn't even faze him.  He kept his gaze on the metal floor as she inspected him for injuries, shirt bundling up in his arms.  She sat back, tilting her head slightly.  

“The blood on your shirt, is that someone else’s?”  

Dwight shook his head.  

“No, it’s.. Mine, but..  It’s complicated.  There were others too.”  

She nodded, holding her hands together.  

“You can explain everything when we get to the hospital.”  

He simply nodded, putting his shirt back on and closed his eyes, thinking about how to explain everything that happened to him.  

#QueenEve Writes #DbD Story: Freedom #Dead By Daylight #Dwight Fairfield