Daybreak Oneshots

How to Treat Burned Scales

Finley sat on a fallen log, staring through the trees dotting his surroundings. He could barely see a foot in front of him, yet squinted, searching for any sign of movement among the firs. The Mist was known for its lack of Mother Nature's events, so any of the trees' movements could not be attributed to the wind, but rather, something- or someone, trekking through the forest.

The lone fish never knew of the existence of forests prior to his entrance into the Mist, as he was acquainted with the underwater forests known as coral reefs. However, he had grown fond of the ones on land. It was quiet, sparse yet dense in certain areas, and a place where he could conduct his business without interruption.

His business consisted of nurturing any injuries he may have sustained from a younger girl's softball bat or an older man's issued firearm, or simply coughing up the oil that polluted his body. He loathed it. Right now, he was nursing some burns he received from the softball star's blonde-haired friend, hissing at the pain.

How did he put these on again? Finley racked his brain while clutching a roll of bandages tightly. Everything was blurry, and all he could see were somewhat distinguishable blobs of color. A large reddish spot coated his free hand, indicating a burn. He foolishly tried to block the flame earlier, thinking it would do something. All it did was make holding his weapon of choice, his spear, uncomfortable.

He wrapped the gauze around his hand, but groaned in pain, immediately yanking the bandage off. Why didn't the Mist heal this godforsaken burn already?! His uncovered eye twitched out of annoyance.

I didn't think I'd need help with this. He groaned as he got up, abandoning the log he sat on. He resorted to walking into the forest, unsure of where else to seek help other than a place he came to know like the back of his scaly hand.

Arlo's cabin. A place he occasionally visited whenever Arlo forgot to visit his cabin to replace his bandages, located on the outskirts of the survivor campsite. It worked out in his favor, he wouldn't have to worry about receiving stares from wary survivors. He didn't need anyone talking about how he needed a human's help with caring for an injury despite his innate hatred for humans anyway. For others like his fellow killer Cole... not so much.

He trudged through the dense forest, pushing aside stray branches and bush leaves, vaguely recounting the instructions to reach the camp. Soon enough, a wooden cabin came into view. It exuded a grim aura yet was previously a source of comfort for Finley. Keyword: previously.

He strolled to the door and knocked on it thrice with his good hand.

No response.

He knocked again.

Still no response.

He glanced at the window next to the door. There was a lack of light coming from inside. Arlo wasn't here. So much for help. He growled in annoyance, turning around to leave. Maybe if I sleep it off it will go away.

On his way back to his own cabin, he heard the soft crashing of water. He was nearing the beach. His pace picked up, trying to get himself not to look at the ocean. If he did his mind would fill with old memories he would never relive again. Of broken promises and lost friends. Of his mother whom he would never get to see again. He instinctively ground his teeth, attempting to ignore the swirling of the waves nearby. No way would he ever be ready to confront the tragedy that was his past. He would rather seek solace in the repetitive yet satisfying act of killing humans who deem themselves innocent and free of sin. He knew they were all guilty, even Arlo.

A familiar voice interrupted his train of thought, preventing him from continuing to berate humans in his head.

He whipped around, glaring at the sea. His eyes widened as his vision landed on a recognizable figure standing in the water, facing away from him. He wore what looked like a gray (and perhaps blue as well? His eyesight was poor, he couldn't tell if it was the ocean or the figure's) wetsuit, and something black around his waist (an utility belt? He knew the Watcher, a fellow killer, sometimes donned one along with his white hoodie and teal medical mask). His dark hair was dripping wet as if he had just taken a dip in the salty water. Finley felt dread creep up his spine just from watching the figure.