Scribbles and Drabbles

Last Icefire - Fisher's Capture

The blood leaked through his fingers and oozed uneasily. Barely any light came into the hole he'd crawled into to die. It hurt, and he wanted it to stop hurting. He didn't want to die either, but outside of his hole, the clownlings and jesters fought a monster from hell. The thing had crawled out of the crack into the sewers. Fisher had never been so happy to see the cartoonish face paint of the clownlings. 

They'd been hunting him. He was among the last of the 'Heroes' running around unchained and untethered. He sobbed as his movement sent white sparks under his eyes. 

"Fisher," Floatsom's voice floated down into Fisher's soon-to-be tomb through the tight hole, softer than Fisher was used to. The Mad Clown used to punctuate his words and sentences with laughter and cackling. He didn't this time. That was horrific. Floatsom didn't want to terrify him? A few months ago, Fisher would have said pigs were flying. Things were more complicated since Floatsom won. "You alright, my boy?"

"Peachy," Fisher said, gritting his teeth and trying to keep pressure on the wound on his side.  "I would appreciate Kylie's help, if she's available?"

"You'll have to settle for Script. Kylie's on her way, but you're losing blood fast," Floatsom said; a shift of shadow near him had the Mad Clown's visage. There wasn't space for Floatsom to shift through, but he could see Fisher. He couldn't help him.

Fisher wheezed, unable to come up with a response to that. He listened to the shifting and clanking of Script slipping through the tight gap and into his tomb. In the background was the fight continuing between the clownlings and the monster that came through the crack. Floatsom's shadows supported the structure to keep them safe. Script was younger than him by a year, and the two of them were the babies of both sides. They had a strange place in it all, too young to fight and too powerful not to get dragged into it.

"Sorry about this," Script said, hands hesitant as he checked Fisher over. He wasn't a healer, but he had medical training, and no one else did from who Fisher saw was in the sewer.

"Not your fault, Letters," Fisher said, his vision fading in and out. "Not your fault." 

Script tried to keep him awake, but it was too late. The world dimmed to nothingness, and his powers slept, dragging him down with a concrete chain. The pain didn't fade. It throbbed in the dim and kept him tethered to the world as Grim sat watching him. Fisher didn't argue, didn't bargain, not this time. He was tired. Grim stroked his hair, not taking him yet but comforting. 

The image of Grim watching him stayed fresh as he returned to the world. The pain had dimmed but pulsing, but he was out of the hole. He was in a hospital ward from the endless beeps of machines, but a curtain blocked him from the side. He was attached to an IV with blood going into him. He winced and sat up, before flopping back down as his side complained. He wasn't going anywhere.

He was maskless. He traced where his mask should be and tried not to worry. The villains were aware of his age and vague features, too. Script knew his face, but that was Script. 

"We have no intention of unmasking you in public if that's what you're worried about," Floatsom said, drifting into existence next to him. His cold hands landed on Fisher's arm and rubbed. "We're in the Esper hospital, and you're safe."

"Thank you," Fisher said, goosebumps running along his arms. Being alive was all well and good, but that meant he had a different problem to deal with. "How long was I out?"

"A day," Floatsom said, "You were lucky. We almost lost you."

"Fuck," Fisher said, trembling as he clenched his fists. He'd missed it. His sister was gone. Dying would be forgiven but this? She'd never forgive him for this. He'd missed his sister being stolen from him. "Fuck, fuck, fuck," he squeezed his eyes shut, trying to stop tears from falling. He yanked the IV, trying to free himself from the foreign intrusion, but Floatsom stopped him, holding his arm still. 

"Fisher," Floatsom warned, "Calm yourself. This was inevitable."

"Inevitable? How is? Oh," Fisher snorted, wiping tears from his cheeks. "Not this. This is inevitable, which is a good word. I missed the last time I was able to see my sister. That wasn't inevitable. Or was it? Instead of leaving the rumours alone and brushing off the others, I ran straight into danger like a fool instead of waiting like a good boy."

"Like a hero," Floatsom said, voice light, but the tease hovered. 

Fisher rubbed his eyes again and put his arms back on the bed. "I'll stick to fool."

"You'll see your sister again; we'll ensure it."

"She's being adopted. They don't let siblings have contact with others when they get adopted."

"If she's being adopted, there will be paperwork. Where there is paperwork, Script will see it. Script will find her and will follow where she goes. You'll see her again," Floatsom said, sitting on a chair and making himself comfortable. "You know Script will find anyone for you."

"They are moving her to a new city. I can't afford to travel even if you let me."

"Which we both know, I'm not," Floatsom said firmly. "We'll find a way. For now, you need to worry about healing yourself. After that, it will be a matter of getting used to the new order of things.  Which does include a strict age limit on fighting."

Fisher's lips twitched. "There always was. It's hard to control when you get into fights while living on the streets." Fisher's father had a mean right hook. He lived with him, technically. His sister had lived with their mother, but she passed. Fisher wasn't in foster care because no one looked too closely at his father. Fisher was functionally homeless if not legally.

"That stops now too," Floatsom said. "You'll stay with me and Script."