[Vaguely based on a mix of 4-5 and H20 timelines’ logic, leaning more towards H20]
—
[He feels cold.
His body curls in on itself, and he hisses lowly through his teeth, riding another wave of pain and nausea. Blood seeps into the torn fabric of his coveralls, through his fingers, and it drips onto the grass, leaving bright red specks against the lush green.
It’s not the first time this has happened. His body can take a great deal of abuse, but there’s a threshold, a point where it can no longer keep up and knit his wounds back together as fast as he earns new ones. He can regain his sight from a punctured eyeball, stabbed or shot; he can take six bullets and pick himself up off the ground; he can burn and his flesh will refuse to truly melt and burn. But eventually, too much recklessness makes his body rebel, desperately clamoring for more time to heal.
He only listens when it stops healing altogether, at which point he finds himself with wounds that don’t close, suddenly nearly as weak as a normal man after getting stabbed in the gut.
At least he’d managed to limp away from the little town he’d been in the middle of terrorizing, retreating to the safety of the woods. The thought of falling unconscious, being arrested, being trapped again had kept him conscious, frantic to remain on his feet long enough to avoid capture.
He slumps against a tree, clutching his bleeding wound tightly with one grimy hand, his gaze unfocused and face pale behind the mask. He manages to sit down and exhales sharply through gritted teeth, closing his eyes tightly. He feels vaguely light-headed, and he wills himself to keep awake, wary of the possibility that he’s been followed. Not that he could do much at this point.
He knows what he needs to do. He’ll sit here for a while, rest up, let his body finally recuperate and begin to put him back together. No matter how much it may hurt, he already knows he won’t die to a simple stab wound. He’ll stay in the area for a day or so, slowly get his energy back, and eventually everything will be back to normal. So long as no one finds him while he’s still healing, he’ll be fine.
Eventually, against his will, his head slumps forward. The mix of agonizing pain and exhaustion is too much to remain conscious, and he passes out shortly before dawn. His hand falls from his wound, no longer applying pressure, and blood pools in the dirt.]
The Shape and The Creature
—
[He feels cold.
His body curls in on itself, and he hisses lowly through his teeth, riding another wave of pain and nausea. Blood seeps into the torn fabric of his coveralls, through his fingers, and it drips onto the grass, leaving bright red specks against the lush green.
It’s not the first time this has happened. His body can take a great deal of abuse, but there’s a threshold, a point where it can no longer keep up and knit his wounds back together as fast as he earns new ones. He can regain his sight from a punctured eyeball, stabbed or shot; he can take six bullets and pick himself up off the ground; he can burn and his flesh will refuse to truly melt and burn. But eventually, too much recklessness makes his body rebel, desperately clamoring for more time to heal.
He only listens when it stops healing altogether, at which point he finds himself with wounds that don’t close, suddenly nearly as weak as a normal man after getting stabbed in the gut.
At least he’d managed to limp away from the little town he’d been in the middle of terrorizing, retreating to the safety of the woods. The thought of falling unconscious, being arrested, being trapped again had kept him conscious, frantic to remain on his feet long enough to avoid capture.
He slumps against a tree, clutching his bleeding wound tightly with one grimy hand, his gaze unfocused and face pale behind the mask. He manages to sit down and exhales sharply through gritted teeth, closing his eyes tightly. He feels vaguely light-headed, and he wills himself to keep awake, wary of the possibility that he’s been followed. Not that he could do much at this point.
He knows what he needs to do. He’ll sit here for a while, rest up, let his body finally recuperate and begin to put him back together. No matter how much it may hurt, he already knows he won’t die to a simple stab wound. He’ll stay in the area for a day or so, slowly get his energy back, and eventually everything will be back to normal. So long as no one finds him while he’s still healing, he’ll be fine.
Eventually, against his will, his head slumps forward. The mix of agonizing pain and exhaustion is too much to remain conscious, and he passes out shortly before dawn. His hand falls from his wound, no longer applying pressure, and blood pools in the dirt.]