Scene 7-IV

Luke pulled his knees up to his chest, wedging himself into the very back of his chair, glaring at anyone who dared to meet his eyes. They’d checked into the clinic, Luke only providing them with the bare minimum necessary to be admitted, and predictably, the Oliver’s hadn’t come up. He’d seen Atlas starting to speak, and given him a small shock, which had him shutting up pretty quickly. The nurse had been all polite and everything about Atlas’s yelp, apparently so awed at having Fleet officers in her clinic that it didn’t matter how insane they appeared to the general public.

It had given him some interesting ideas about the benefits of electric shock therapy though.

His nose is still bleeding, the gauze pad the nurse gave him stuffed up the nostril, slowly getting soaked through, and some little brat sitting with his mum on the other side of the room is giving him funny looks. Luke snarls at him, and the kid blinks warily and huddles up against his mum, hugging onto her arm.

Atlas, seeing this, rests his head on his hand, sighing. “Stop scaring the children.” He hisses.

“Tell him to stop staring at me.”

“He’s three! Maybe.”

“So?” Luke says stubbornly, resting his chin on his knees. Atlas just sighs again, and ignores him.

The child in question has proceeded to suck his thumb, watching Luke with unblinking eyes.

“Captain Westerly? The doctor will see you now, in Exam Room Two.” The nurse says, gesturing to an open door with Luke’s file, and Luke leaps to his feet, nearly losing his bloody gauze. Atlas follows more sedately, shaking his head as the nurse hooks a finger in the back of Luke’s collar as he tries to hurry off, and passes him a fresh gauze pad. Atlas winces, knowing there will by an angry red bruise under the collar next time Luke takes it off.

Luke tosses the used gauze into a trash he passes on his way into the open Exam Room, and quickly replaces it with the fresh one before he drips blood all over the shiny lemony fresh clean floor. It dams the bleeding efficiently, soaking up what blood has already trickled down to his mouth. Once in the Exam Room, Luke turns the sink on and washes his hands quickly, coating them in sanitizer immediately after, and only then does he sit down, but not on the examining table, as it is intended for, but on the tall stool by the counter. Atlas pulls over a chair from by the coat rack, and folds himself into it, a little closer to the ground than he’d like.

Luke manages to sit quietly for about thirty seconds before he sets the stool spinning, kicking off from the counter each time past. The doctor comes in just as Luke has managed to miss time the placing of his foot, and tumbles off the stool. Atlas suddenly wants to just throw himself out a window, and is hard pressed not to follow through with that, large pane of clear glass across the room as inviting as it is.

“Good morning, officers. I am Dr. Caughn—”

Staggering to his feet, one hand pressed to his forehead where a new cut has opened, Luke turns to the doctor. “What?” He says.

“I don’t understand?”

“Luke, just be quiet for a m—”

“What did you say your name was?” Luke demands, blood leaking between his fingers and running down his hand.

“Dr. Caughn. I didn’t catch yours?”

“Captain Luke Westerly, you bastard.” Luke spits, and suddenly, suddenly, Atlas is afraid, and that window is looking better than ever.

Outside, the sky is darkening rapidly, storm clouds gathering, building, and the wind is screaming. Inside, the power flickers, once, twice, and they’re plunged into darkness, people out in the reception screaming as, all as one, the windows implode, glass flying everywhere.

“Luke!” Atlas shouts, taking cover behind the exam table, his face covered in a multitude of small scratches, the blood eerily lit as lightning flashes in the sky, forking wildly, and thunder rolls overhead, the building quivering to its foundation in the intensity.

Luke, predictably, ignores him, or doesn’t even hear him, more concentrated on the man cowering by the door, clipboard protecting his face, its back tattooed with glass slivers that fall to the ground in a crystal flutter each time he moves. Lightning is crackling underneath Luke’s skin, racing along the veins, feeding through the muscles, and he doesn’t just look angry, he looks scared. Atlas watches as lightning arcs from one of Luke’s hands, pale but steady, to the doctor’s body, and Caughn screams, body jerking and twitching as the electricity courses through him, his hair standing on end, his clothes singeing.

The transfer stops, and the man whimpers, burned and violated, and the wind is rushing through the broken windows, gathering around Luke, twining around him. The temperature in the room is dropping steadily, rapidly, and the pipes burst as the water in them is frozen. Luke’s breath is condensing as a vapor cloud, and molecules ride the wind in to join it, forming miniature storm clouds, electricity dancing through them, and snow begins to fall in a localized blizzard, the cloud growing to encompass the Exam Room, dumping heavy snowflakes on everything. Luke himself appears to be hotter than usual, the snow melting on contact, and puddles evaporating at his feet.

And that is when the twister strikes, having formed itself outside on Luke’s command, unnoticed by those inside. It screams through the first floor clinic, tearing everything to pieces, woods and plastic and metal and flesh flying through the air, smashing against walls and doors and glass, all the time adding to the tornado’s funnel, until a lightning bolt not far off sets the glass in it sparkling. People are screaming, shouting, and Luke is grinning, hands up, drawing the lightning down from the sky now that the roof is gone, and there is a steady stream of blood at the corner of his mouth, and from his nose, and the gash on his forehead.

The charge builds, between Luke and the cloud, and the air is crackling. In the lobby, the twister dies, suddenly, and it is silent. And then the lightning strikes, blazing a path through the sky, fire erupting in tree tops as it passes, and it slams right into Luke, as a second, slightly smaller, but no less terrifying bolt makes contact with Caughn, and the doctor doesn’t even have time to scream.

Luke soaks in the lightning’s energy, breathing in sharp pants as it fills him. Caughn is limp and scorched on the ground in front of him, skin burnt almost entirely off, and Luke nudges his arm with a toe, grinning as ash drifts to the tile. Electricity is bleeding out the cuts all over Luke’s body, and instead of leaving a blood stain in its wake, there are narrow and winding burns.

He feels… free. At least he thinks that’s what it is. Either way, there’s lightning under his skin, wind in his hair, and he’s standing in the destruction of a tornado, and if he feels more alive than he has in a long time, it’s understandable. He brings a hand up to his forehead, and it comes away red and bright. Luke squats down in front of Caughn, and presses his hand to his face, leaving behind a blazing scarlet handprint.

“I win.” He says quietly. “I win.”

And then he laughs, and then he cries, tears falling red, his entire body shaking, and he’s gasping for air now, and shivering, and the room is tilting, and oh god, his time is up.

Luke slumps sideways, sprawled out on the broken and filthy tile, and dark red pools under his head, and he’s sobbing now, hands grasping at the cold floor, legs and arms in wild spasm.

Every moment is a new struggle for air, and slowly, slowly, his lips are turning blue below the outpour of blood.

He coughs, wetly, and it’s blood, all blood, and he can barely see, tears too heavy with blood to fall, and he feels far too light and airy for someone collapsed in a heap because their body’s just too heavy to hold up any more and that would be the blood loss rearing its ugly head, he thinks, and if someone doesn’t do something quick, he’s going to die, because, damnit, his blood doesn’t clot on its own.

There is a scrabbling the corner, and someone might be shouting, but he doesn’t really know, because all he can hear is this high pitched ringing, and it hurts, reverberates through his entire body, chasing out the last vestiges of the high the lightning strike had given him. Dust rises in the air, or maybe he’s imagining it, but does it really matter anymore?

Yeah, someone’s definitely screaming, and he’s thinking it might be him.

His wrist is pulled away from his chest, and it is like so many knives, but they’re, whoever they are, wiping away the blood to check for the miniscule ‘O,’ because only an Oliver’s patient would be having this much trouble from a handful of scratches.

They must have found it, because he’s fairly certain that was a needle prick, and thank god someone’s gotten it figured out, cause no way is he going to clot on his own before all his blood drains from his body, and he feels like he’s thought that before.

Oh well…

Previous: Scene 7-III

Scene 7-IV

Next: Scene 7-V