N/A: Warnings for mentions and actual display of violence.
The world is made of light and magnetic energy and his body seems about to break and so does his heart.
It doesn't take them very long to realize that his cuts and wounds heal fast, so they make sure to remind him that it doesn't mean it doesn't hurt. He asks over and over again where he is, what is happening and who are they, but he never gets an answer. They understand him, he's sure of it, because one night – or was it daytime? – he heard two men speaking in clear English. But this doesn't look like anywhere he's been, and even what looks like sunlight doesn't feel like it.
He remembers colors. Bright colors, and black, and white, and masks, but he it's like he's trying too hard to keep a dream alive. But his clothes are as brown as the floor he's lying in, and his memories are as fleeting as the air in his lungs, and he's trying to remember somewhere other than this small cell when someone arrives and even though he can't understand a word of what they're saying, he knows they're excited.
He now knows why. Apparently, even his healing abilities have a weak spot for what seems to be nth metal.
He's running fast, he's running so fast. The air is fresh and clean, and his feet crush the leaves on his way. All things around him are turning into a blur., but he's not lost. The green of the forest surrounding him reminds him of a different kind of green, and he lets his mind roam the green and the soft that comes with it.
His broken fingers hurt even more because of the cold. He doesn't remember ever being so cold. Maybe he used to live in a hot zone? Maybe he didn't, but someone spared him a blanket when the temperatures dropped?
His shoulders feel heavy from so much trembling and his breathing is short, shallow, fast. He feels like he should be crying if he had the energy, but he's all too concentrated in not dying hypothermia.
The word sounds are foreign in his brain as the cold sensation feels on his limbs. Who ever thought him that word? Was it English? Or has he learned another language?
"Hypothermie", he says, trying how this other word plays on his lips. It feels even stranger than the other.
The steps coming his way are heavy and slow and he coils himself against the corner. The ones who bring him food are different, faster, more agitated and busier, so he knows what to expect.
When the door opens, the figure standing there almost looks human. That man – or what is close to be one – is carrying something, and that is never a good sign.
His eyes take a couple of heartbeats to see that it's a long, thin object, with a sharp blade in one of its ends. It's different from the mace that they use, but he's sure it's going to hurt all the same.
The man throws him what he's carrying and it falls on the floor, near his bare feet. He knows he had shoes when he arrived, but he doesn't know when he lost them.
"Up," the man says, and he doesn't want to do so, but he's considering the lance now. Maybe he can use it. Maybe he can make a run for it, stab the man, and run away from wherever he is. "Try it."
So he does. He feels fast enough to grab the spear, but the weapon feels alien, even in his good hand. He's got a hunch he didn't use weapons very much and doesn't know how to, because he's attempt at attacking the man is pathetic and the spear is caught and taken away from him in no time.
The man makes a strange sound, almost as if he was quietly laughing, and shakes his head once, twice, three times.
"Not good enough. Yet."
But when he comes back, he knows how to hold the spear. The knows how to make the best out of the blade and he knows what it is to draw blood with it.
He knows he's a fast healer. Now he also knows he's a fast learner.
It's soft here. He's clean and he smells jasmines, but there are no flowers near him. But the scent is there, just as soft as the bed, as the sheets, as the blonde hair spread on the pillow next to him. He tries to reach out but his hands don't obey him, and instead of touching the golden hair and the golden skin, he just looks at the slender figure lying next to him and drifts back into a darker corner.
"Getting ideas, are you? Maybe this will make you think better next time."
The mace comes down, crushing his nose and making him hit his head against the floor.
There's a big explosion. It's red and yellow and his body is lighter. He feels happy.
The sky above the arena is red. It's not the good kind of red. It's heavy and aggressive. Like his boss. Like the two or three or ten challenges they brought before him the past weeks. They're always surprised with how fast he can move, but they really shouldn't be. Not at this point. Still they test him.
He knows their language know. He can't quite replicate the sounds, but he understands perfectly what they say, the difference of treatment pronouns and the inflexions that mark different verbal tenses. He never lets them know just how much he understands. For all they care, he only understand simple orders, but the main man is looking at him intently, examining him, measuring him up. The boss knows.
"What's your name?"
He holds the knife on his right hand even tighter.
"It doesn't matter," he answers. It's the truth. He's got his blade, he's got new shoes, he's warm and well-fed.
The boss seems satisfied with the answer, but neither of them express any emotions. They're gone.
"One of my partners has a particular troublesome problem to be dealt with," the boss says. "I thought you could be interested in the opportunity to...prove yourself."
He nods once and the boss growls in approval.
"We'll talk tomorrow, then."
He's not alone. He's never alone. There are people in the place he lives, and that are people to share his other moments with. He knows them, he's known some of them of for a long time, but he can't see their faces. There's handshaking, and hugging, and even lips brushing against one another, a hand brushing his hair away from his forehead and whispered words on his ear.
The boy is fast, even faster then he is. But he's a moving target, a blur of red and yellow, asking to be found and taken down.
He does just that. The thick rainforest is not enough to make him lose sight of the boy, but it offers shelter and a good hiding position.
The boy seems surprised to see him. He doesn't give him time. The boy is fast but hasn't learned what he has. He doesn't know how to handle a knife and doesn't know who to deflect a perfect stab at the right angle into his ribcage.
"Wal..."
The boy falls mid-word to the bed of green leaves, one hand to the chest, the other arm reaching out.
He looks at his watch. 1.5 seconds. Almost too slow. The looks again at the boy, the yellow and red catching his attention despite of himself. He's probably not much older than his target and if he hadn't gone through his training, he would probably be slimmer, like the boy.
He hears some branches and leaves ruffling and turns around and takes cover. It's his second target approaching and it's a good thing he decided to stay, because the woman now sees the body and kneels down, holding the boy close to her.
"No, not you too, please..." she whispers, and he steps out of his shelter. She had her guard down and he could have taken advantage of it, but her voice sounds interesting. Coarse and sad and though. It's almost something he can relate to.
She raises, turns on her heels and, despite the mask covering a good portion of her face, she can't hide the surprise. She's turning paler and paler, something that only become more noticeable in contrast with the burnt orange of her suit.
He notices all that in less then a second, and when her hand is going for the utility belt on her waist, he's already hit her in the face, throwing her a couple of feet away, her head hitting the bark of a tree. The mask shatters and comes undone when he's holding her by the neck and lifting her despite of her will.
And his body is weighless and he hears booming voice telling him about their wife and about spitfires and he knows magic is not real.
Her surprise becomes a kind of numb denial he can't understand.
"Go ahead," she challenges him and his fingers dig deeper into her throat. "Do it."
He's punching an alien and petting a dog, and the girl in the forest green outfit is there by his side.
"Do it!" Her voice is breaking and they're staring at each other's eyes. Hers are gray. He doesn't know the color of his own.
But he thinks its green because he thinks he hears her say it, but she's in a different set of outfit and he's holding her in his arms.
His hold on her falters, almost long enough for her to fight back. She does try and lands a punch at his face, but he's had worse. His knife is now on his left hand and she's holding him with her gaze while he holds her with his right hand.
He's walking down a beach near a green mount and there are voices ahead and he's not afraid of them.
"If you're not doing it," she whispers, dangerously. "Then I am."
Her right hand drops a switch and he knows what it is. Being as fast as he is also means he's a fast thinker. But he doesn't move. He doesn't make a run for it. He's fast enough to get out of the area of the blast, but not her.
For some reason, he stays. His fingers have less of the aggressive strength in them as he holds her, and the knife falls from his hand to the ground.
He nods, feeling as if his own throat had been almost crushed. Her eyes are heavy now and she nods too.
She's going to kill me. Tell her I love her.
"I'm sorry," she says and it almost brings a smile to his face.
"Don't be."
There's heat and there's light and the world is made of green. It's made of green fabric and golden hair and the smell of jasmines. It's made of running across the country to save a little girl and it's made of staring at a tv with a "no signal" sign on and it's made of kisses at New Year's and it's made of friends and family.
And it's made of Artemis.
He's glad he got to remember that one last time.