One-Shots [Boboiboy]

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Thunderstorm's eyes turned dark, just like the world in front of him. The floor swayed under him, and he suddenly felt cold, but he wasn't shivering. Instead, it was like a merciful, numbing aesthetic that granted him a peaceful death, away from war, screaming, and pain.

His consciousness was light, like a helium balloon attached to his body. Once the balloon pops or the string is snapped away, he'll be gone.

For once, his body felt so heavy. It wanted to melt into the metal ground he was lying on. It didn't matter if the villain was still standing near him, and his teammates were in the same predicament—he just wanted to sleep.

Vaguely, he could hear names. His friends' names. His name. it was coming from a familiar source, but he no longer had the energy or remembrance to recognize who they were.

The only thing that was on his mind was fog, and the overwhelming numbness. Some part of him knew he should be panicking, searching for a way to live; but he did nothing.

His eyelids began to close for longer intervals, the hazy imagery of a ferocious battle etching into his mind, the final memory before his end. As his final breath was drew from his lips, he closed his eyes, and there was nothing.

The first thing he noticed was that his body was numb, and the blurry figures who were zipping past the foot of his bed, their silhouettes nearly uncatchable. His mind was blank, but heavy with invisible thoughts. The next thing he took note of was that he was a patient, with an IV sticking out of his left arm and the thin hospital robe on his body.

He tried to think, to wonder why he was here, but his mind wouldn't cooperate. It was like the only functionality had been stripped from his brain, leaving only filled slots that had no residents.

The bed was soft, but he found no comfort. The air conditioning was cold, but it barely fazed him. He couldn't tell whether if it was day or night, or what his name was.

Apparently, his return to consciousness didn't go unnoticed. After squinting his eyes to adjust his vision, he realized that there were three figures standing over him, their heads hung over as if they were studying his reaction.

The amber-eyed figure screeched, "HALI'S AWAK—" Whack! He was then hit by his acquaintance, who had equally astonishing eyes of frost blue. "Hey! What was that for!?"

He could hear better now. That scream had jolted him back to his senses, but not jogged his mind's working rate. He lifted his hands, supporting himself as he attempted to sit upright, but his arms were trembling with weakness. The third figure helped him adjust his pillow for him.

Changing positions didn't help his case. If anything, he felt even more disorientated than before. He could see the three clearly now; their features were similar, but their eyes and physique was vastly different.

His eyes casted to his side, and he noticed more sickbeds with more patients, with similar appearances to the ones before him. He was the only one awake, as it seems.