Hospital visits are already uncomfortable as they are.
There's always those distant, wet coughs echoing down the halls. That sterile stench of antiseptic that claws at your nose. Even the machines are beeping like they have somewhere else better to be.
But trying to explain why I, a sixteen-year-old, look like I just went twelve rounds with prime Mike Tyson?
That's a whole new flavor of awkwardness.
Honestly, it's humbling to say that the only reason I'm even here is; Peter, he would NOT stop pestering about a health check.
I would've toughed it out, let my body do the heavy lifting with the healing.
But it's hard to ignore him, especially when he's one of the few who genuinely cares for me... No homo tho.
So yeah… here I am.
Sitting on the edge of the exam table, hoodie zipped up, sleeves tugged low.
Trying to pretend the bruises and scars weren't there.
The door creaks open, and the doctor walks in—clipboard in hand and wearing that expression I bet they teach in medical school; polite concern, like everything's fine, even if you're missing a leg.
He's older—gray at the temples, tired around the eyes. Clearly not new to this. Probably seen his fair share of beat-up kids and bullshit excuses.
I beat him to it. "Skateboarding accident."
He raises a single brow without missing a beat. "S'that right? Must've been one hell of a skateboard. Did it fight back?"
I smirk. "Funny."
Then I snorted.
Bad idea.
Snorting hurts. A lot.
There's a pause while he snaps on his gloves, flipping through the chart. "You know..." he says, scanning the notes. "Legally, if I suspect abuse, I'm obliged to file a report."
"Yeah, I figured. But it's not that. Seriously."
He gives me a long look, like he's deciding whether to push or not. Then just sighed and set the chart down.
"Let me take a look."
I hesitantly unzip the hoodie, pulling up the sleeves. The AC air hits the bruises, not helping with the discomfort.
"Both pinkies—recent dislocation, poorly self-reduced. You did this? Without guidance?"
"Watched a video tutorial." I shrug.
He didn't find that amusing.
"Left fifth rib—possible non-displaced fracture. That's why it hurts when you breathe deeply or snort, by the way."
I nodded. "...Good to know."
"Multiple contusions across the thoracic region… surface lacerations, inconsistent in angle and depth. Some stitched. I'll guess—another video tutorial?"
I shrugged and nodded.
He exhales sharply through his nose. "Jesus. And the nose?"
"It's been broken before. Thought maybe I could crack it back into place."
His eyes are narrowing—Holding back a scolding. "You might've actually straightened the bridge, just a little. And that's the only thing you did right, and it was by pure luck. Anything else I should know about?"
"Splinters. But I plucked them out myself too." I hold up my hands—opening and closing.
He steps closer, inspecting my palms.
"Seems like dozens of them were there. Looks like you punched through a wooden fence."
He paused and looked up at me—inquisitively.
"DID YOU punch through a wooden fence?"
"Something like that."
He pulls back, peels off the gloves, and tosses them in the bin.
He squints. "And you're... Okay with all this? My nieces would be screaming in pain with just the splinters."
"...Yeh."
He doesn't smile. Not even a twitch.
"You should be in a lot more pain than you're letting on. Either your tolerance is alarmingly high, or you're too used to this kind of damage."
"I'd say the former. I'm not a masochist."
He writes something down.
Doesn't show me what.
"I don't know what you're mixed up in, Kid. But this isn't normal. These aren't just bruises. These seem like fight-for-your-life type injuries."
I shift my gaze to the floor.
He doesn't press. Just says. "I'll patch what I can. But if this is something 'constant'? I hope, for your sake, that you stay away from it. Okay?"
"Yeah... Thanks Doc."
He doesn't ask any more questions after that. Just mutters something under his breath about how this generation's getting bolder—or dumber—and sets a tray of tools beside me with a tired clatter.
And I can't help but think, that this whole 'hero' thingy?
It's starting to feel less like something noble... and more like a bad habit I can't quit.
Something that makes people look at me like a junkie.
And I just keep chasing it out of guilt, or I don't know, whatever warped reason my brain thinks that makes it okay.
And It just keeps kicking me in the balls—Cletus, Stick. Who's next? Galactus?
---
Eventually—after getting scolded for my stellar DIY medical career, being re-stitched, having my nose rearranged, and being obligated to use crutches to keep my pinkies from collapsing on themselves—I was cleared up to go.
Not before one last lecture from the doctor, of course.
But he did give me a lollipop on the way out, so… That's a silver lining.
The hospital bill? Covered by my parents.
They're not that awful, just distant.
But fuck them anyway, that'll remind them that they havea kid.
Anyway.
You know what a bad habit really is?
It's that THING you know is fucking you up, slowly, quietly—but you keep doing it anyway. Because some deep, shameful part of you likes it.
For me? Apparently, it's playing Hero.
That—and not telling Peter that I'm out again.
Because here I am—almost midnight.
In a piss-reeking alley behind some run-down bar, watching two guys, splash gallons of gasoline against the bar wall like they're painting it.
They're methodical about it too, moving with a sort of casual efficiency, as if this is just another boring Monday night for them. No rush. No panic.
One drags a trail down to the door like he's leaving a fuse, while the other makes sure to cover as much of it in gas.
The air reeks of it. You could probably light a match three blocks from here, and this whole place would still go up like fireworks.
And I'm just here, watching.
I mean, what are the odds I run into a pair of arsonists right after Cletus?
Bad, that's what the odds are. BAD.
---
So I step out from behind the dumpster I'd been crouched behind—hands low, voice steady.
Or at least, I hope so.
"Hey."
They freeze mid-pour.
The tall one looks over his shoulder, startled. The shorter one straightens up, slowly, holding the gas can like a briefcase.
They're both wearing these creepy full-face gas masks—the bug-eyed kind, with black-tinted lenses.
Although creepy doesn't quite describe them. It's more like something straight out of a nightmare.
But I already fought Stick AND survived... Although, I think he was still holding back.
Anyway, their clothes are plain, almost boring—like they're trying too hard to be under the radar.
It's one hell of a hasty deduction, but watching how they move?
These guys aren't weighed down at all.
Their clothes are light enough to run if needed, and thick enough to not burn if they don't.
The kind of clothes that won't fuse with your skin when put to the test—unlike my suit.
"I mean, I GOTTA ask." I say, stepping in with a forced-friendly smile, pointing with the chin towards the spreading puddle at their feet. "Is this, like, an insurance scam? Because—hey—I get it."
Neither of them reacted. Not that I expected a full-blown laugh, but... Damn.
They didn't even speak either, which makes it worse. A painful reminder that using humor to deal with my nerves still isn't a skill I have.
It just made the silence louder. Which made me even more nervous.
The short one shifted his grip on the gas can and took a step forward too.
Not quite threatening—but not friendly either.
I raise both hands, palms out. still casual.
"Easy there. Just making conversation. It's just that..." I tilt my head. "You don't look like the type of guys to own a bar, y'know?"
No words. Nothing.
Just the sound of breath rasping through filters and the quiet splash of gasoline dripping from a tilted can. Then they share look at each other.
Quick. Measured.
I shifted my stance—Not aggressive yet.
Just looser—Prepared.
To let them know I'm not backing off.
"Look…" I say, voice low now. "I didn't call the cops, alright?"
That's a lie, obviously.
"You'd heard sirens by now. I'm not here to screw with your little... Art project."
I gesture lazily towards the zigzagging trail of gasoline leading towards the Bar's back door.
"I just want to know why." I looked at the rundown bar, then back at them with a quivering half-smile. "Why this place? I mean—It already looks like a shithole, doesn't it? No need to make it worse."
Still nothing. Not a damn word.
"Okay, not to sound insensitive... but are you guys mute? Or just wearing mime makeup under the masks?"
The taller one tilts his head. Curious, maybe. Or confused. I don't know, it's hard to read through a gas mask.
Finally, one of the two talks—the short one.
His voice—raspy, low—makes my skin crawl.
Not Inhumane, but off. Like he doesn't use it much. Like talking is optional for him.
"...None of your business..."
I nodded, and pointed at him. "Yeah... see, you're not wrong." I take a half-step forward with a 'friendly' attitude, testing them. "But here's the thing—my bad habit is making things my business."
I need to descalate the situation and make time.
Which means... keep yapping.
"C'mon... You dump this place in flames and some poor bastard inside gets caught, that's on you. It stops being vandalism and starts being murder. You don't want that smoke. Just ditch the cans, and call it off. No one's seen your faces, I know I didn't. You can still ghost out of this, CLEAN, alright?"
They don't move. Don't utter a sound.
Just the slow creak of their gloves tightening against the plastic handles. Gaso still drips steadily, making thick blotches in the dirt.
The short one turns to face me fully, head tilted forward just enough to feel threatening.
"...You shouldn't be here..."
"Yeah, well..." I say, with a shrug. "I could say the same to you."
I take another step forward, just outside the trail of gasoline. Close enough to see their eyes behind the filters now—not really.
But I can feel them sizing me up.
Not threatened in the slightest.
I mean, who would be? Look at me.
But still, fighting now is a dumb idea—specially when you're trying to do something quick and clean.
Like burn a building to the ground and dip before anyone can link the match to the face.
It's inefficient. Noisy. Bloody. And worst of all—memorable.
The taller one flicks his fingers. Something metal—small, silver. A lighter.
My pulse jumps. "Wowowowow! Hey hey, let's all take a chill pill, and talk this out like... reasonable human beings, okay? And mainly, let's not go full 'Michael Bay' alright? Alright."
He doesn't open it, not yet. Just lets it dangle between his gloved fingers.
Warning me not to make any sudden moves.
But I've already messed it up for them.
Just me being here—talking to them—that was enough to mess this up.
I'm a problem now. A variable they didn't plan for.
"Look." I say again, slower this time. Less bravado. "I'm not here for a fight. But if you light that up... I'm CAN'T let you walk away from this."
Another look between them.
Another conversation I'm not invited to.
I hate it.
My hands twitch at my sides. I flex them once.
"Last chance, dude." I offer, voice low now.
"You put the lighter back in your pocket, walk away, and I forget I saw you."
He took a single step back.
For a split second, hope flared in my chest.
Then—click. He sparks the lighter.
And just like that, the hope got extinguished before it even had a chance to breathe.
There's no flame—yet—but the sound of it blasted through the silence like a gunshot.
He holds the lighter up, eyes locked on mine behind that fucking mask.
Like a daring me to try anything stupid.
That's when the short one shifts his footing—just a step, subtle—I see it.
A big iron on his hip. A Crowbar, actually.
Great.
"Really...? Allllllrighty then."
This was going to get ugly.
_______________________________________
Word count: 2.130
Hey there, Dear Readers.
I wanna apologize, again, this chapter was going to be longer, but I got sick and it ruined the vibes to write anything.
If it's any consolation, I'll update this chapter later with a fight and an advance on the plot, for now it's just filler. Sorry.
Sincerely, The Author
[Kick-Ass Pack]
Combat Skill (Basic): This skill comes with some basic fighting necessities—like sharper reflexes. But it's mostly aimed toward fighting with weapons. It didn't level up in that scrap with Stick because, no batons, no boost.
Pain Tolerance (Moderate): Wade doesn't stop feeling pain—he just doesn't care as much. The ability passively kicks in whenever the pain caused from a wound has already been noticed.