Game of Catch! [CLOSED]

Jon tasted blood, metal and earthy and grimaced as it dribbled down their face, following the curve of their mouth. It tickled obnoxiously and the urge to wipe it away was a fleeting distraction. Their head pulsed in agony with each frantic beat of their heart and they wanted nothing more than to close their eyes and take a very long nap. A week sounded nice. But, they kept their gaze glued to the crumbling weapon, chunks falling apart with tinny, faraway sounds as the enormous blade was reduced to nothing. Even when Cure let go and it clattered to the ground, it continued to be eaten away.

A thin laugh wheezed out of them, growing sharp at the end when they were shoved hard and Jon staggered gracelessly. The alleyway blurred at the edges of their vision and there was no staving it off this time. Struggling to stay upright took an extremely valiant effort and did little to save their image, hunched over with an arm curled protectively against their chest, bright silver eyes dulled to a subdued grey. Jon stretched out a hand, trembling as it hung awkwardly in an attempt to raise the bloodied limb coated in coagulated, clumpy metal that sloughed off their palm like flaking skin. Their connection to their Quirk had reached it’s limit but even without it, the metal would corrode until there was nothing left but rust.

“Try me, crazy pants.” Jon couldn’t see, everything blurring into one annoying blob of darkness, the beginning of a migraine worming its self into hyper focus and they inwardly cursed. Stupid, stupid, ugh, so stupid. They gulped a deep breath, grimace splitting into a grin, made all the more terrible by their bloodied state. Each breath felt like fire, like Cure still had their hand shoved in their back. They couldn’t lift that arm fully but they balled their fist as they faced the villain, only just realizing they weren’t alone.

Dragonball. Neko-chan. Everything came back into sharp focus and they tilted, slowly losing the battle to keep standing. This wasn’t a one on one death match any more and the voices of their fellow heroes in training spurred them on, giving them a second wind to... do nothing. Jon straightened, ready to face whatever Psycho Cure threw at them but that was as far as they got before the villainess bolted. Instinct made Jon chase and they took a single step before collapsing. A knee hit the ground hard and they swayed heavily.

“No,” they cried hoarsely, stubborn Lafayette to the end. They blinked slowly to clear their vision and Ryuu and Isamu hazed together. Great, and here they were, tear tracks and blood on their titties and nothing to show for it. Their lips tipped upward into the semblance of a smile, miles away from their usual gusto. “We, we have to st-stop her.” Jon slid to a hip, prosthetic twisted awkwardly under them and clumsily tugged at the front of their harness. Was it just them, or was it getting hard to breath?

Jon shot Isamu an incredulous look at the completely rational command and one could see the slow grind of gears in their head as the student contemplated ignoring it. They shifted to try and stand, losing the battle when their glove slid along the ground nearly sending them on their back. From their spot on the ground, Jon scowled like a child chastised, though the ire of that was directed at themself and the god-awful headache that was building in tempo. It streaked up and over the right side of their head and at the press of a palm above their eye, Jon hissed out at the accompanying jolt of pain. All right, dumb move.

“Yeah, whatever dad,” they slurred back, sinking back into their slouch though they stared back at the fence Cure had gone over. The simple looking barrier mocked silently and Jon contemplating hurling the rest of their orbs at it in defiance. The severity of the situation had yet to catch up fully and Jon resorted to the familiar. They exhaled slowly, breath shaky through parted lips. “Just when I was winning,” they muttered as Isamu looked them over, helping with bandaging their thigh where it oozed. Wiping their hand on the front of their shirt, streaking blood and liquid metal, the teen struggled with removing the nearly empty quiver they were using to lean back on.

“Can you help, with this?” Jon tugged on their harness and belt, words coming out stilted. “It unclips, in the back. Can’t breath.” They punctuated it with a sad look until the two of them were able to undo the bondage nightmare. A hand wave had to still any attempts at removing the harness, that was too much for them, jostling their head and side. What mattered most was the quiver that felt like it weighed a ton and without they could breathe a easier.

“I hate getting stabbed.” Jon said with the certainty and confidence of one who’d been previously stabbed. “Shit sucks.”

“My back,” they continued, trying to twist and look over their shoulder and immediately regretted everything. They muttered several, ear burning choice words and hunched over, willing the flash of pain to subside. It was nice subtle reminder that they failed horribly at stopping Cure. Their shirt clung wetly to their back and side, focused under their left arm, a neat cut sliced the material to reveal a sliver of bloody but otherwise unmarred skin.

“Weird,” was the simple reply, Jon’s focus steadily being pulled to the deep thrumming headache that was tap dancing its way into migraine town. They had to center themselves, balling a fist atop their thigh, heedless of Isamu’s handiwork as he stepped aside to call for help. Ugh, that probably meant doctors. No thanks.

“You shouldn’t.” Turning their head toward the fence again took too much effort, so instead they stared in the general direction of Isamu. “Go after her, ‘spretty dumb idea. I know this idiot who did.” Jon reflexively smiled, the effort marred by the drying blood smeared across their face. “What a loser.”

They accepted the pointed outbursts with the ease of someone used to being yelled. “You did good neko-chan. I didn’t hear anything going off. Guess the bomb diffusing was a success. Sorry I missed it.” Jon watched the feline student walk back and forth and shifted to try and find an easier position where the socket of their prosthetic didn’t pinch. “Come and star gaze with me, dude. You’re making me feel guilty.” The laughed, a little pathetically at the reaction.

Jon wasn’t sure how long they laid there, having slid into a more prone position, though not by choice. The migraine was fully on them and the darkened alleyway only eased some of the sensitivity. Pain helped focused them on the now, keeping any errant thoughts trailing back to Cure. Each time only made their head throb more and they reassured Isamu they were still conscious by tossing a thumbs up whenever asked. Talking hurt. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt and not in the fun, I did a good job, way.

Medical personal showed up, the bright flashing lights silent as they bounced off the alleyway walls. Jon groaned, squeezing their shut eyes tighter and tried to throw an arm over their head. A school official showed up moments later, not quite a Pro Hero but the lines were thin and most were still dispatched around the city and stepped aside with the students and officers to go over what had transpired.

Two paramedics with an ambulance cot wheeled over to the prone student, one kneeling beside them. “No,” Jon groused out in a low tone, an unsteady arm coming up to ward off blue tinted gloved hands as vitals were checked and injuries assessed. The arm was carefully but firmly pushed down. Not like they had any strength in it anyways. “No hospital. I’m not, I’m fine.” They grimaced as a light was shone in their eyes. “Quirk, migraine,” they got out before turning their head away, only for it be caught gently between hands and steadied.

There was a brief warmth as a hand was pressed against their shoulder, the paramedic’s Quirk allowing him to pull a basic checklist of everything that had happened recently. The medical officers looked at each other, speaking quickly and quietly and Jon only caught snippets of it. Trauma, laceration, blood loss, nothing they didn’t already know. The alleyway had a nice sprinkling of their blood to make a serial killer swoon. But there was a lot more blood than injury and the two didn’t match up, especially when one of the medical personal rolled Jon carefully to check their back, finding nothing.

“I’m eighteen,” they mumbled, as if their age had some merit and the teen forced their eyes open against the deep pulse of pain, squinted and groaned as that only worsened it. “Legal adult. No hospital,” they repeated firmly.