Present

He placed a single claw just above a vein...He made his decision just as the door burst open.

The man who understood sign language shoved his claw away from his wrist with a firm but quiet, "No."

Bug sighed, but didn't fight him. He was too distraught to really think straight. Yes, he'd failed Sam but it wasn't like Sam wouldn't forgive him, right? Sam had forgiven him before, and it wasn't his fault, it was not-Sam's fault.

Besides, killing her still wasn't completely off the table.

The man slumped against the wall next to him, and they didn't speak for a few minutes. Eventually though, the man asked, "Do you wanna talk about it?"

Bug turned to look at him. He knew he couldn't tell the man about Sam - and wasn't mentally prepared to talk about the other issues associated with the kiss - but that was really only half of the equation. What had riled him up the first time was the slap...and the order.

"You are not doing that again."

The harsh sting on his cheek.

The sudden rage and confusion, and the flood of flashbacks.

He could tell the man about those things and the man would understand.

Bug turned to the man and signed, "She hit me and gave me an order."

The man paused, then nodded. "I'm guessing you didn't like that."

"That's what people do to me at Lightfall. She just looked like everybody I hate."

The man slowly placed a hand on Bug's shoulder, not wanting to startle him. Bug appreciated his gentleness.

"I understand why you reacted that way. After what happened to you, you're allowed to go ballistic from time to time."

Bug nodded, glad that the man agreed with him.

"I need to call Bruce," the man said.

When Bug squinted at him, clearly confused, the man gestured to his chest, still covered in painful claw marks. "They need patching up."

Bug snorted and signed, "They're barely pinpricks. By tomorrow there won't even be scars - and that's with my powers cut off."

The man raised an eyebrow at him, and as proof Bug showed him the old cut from that morning's attempt.

The man sighed, trying to ignore the scar that was so obviously from a previous attempt. "Okay, fine, but you gotta clean them and get yourself a new shirt or Bruce will try anyway."

Bug nodded and looked at the man, waiting for him to leave. A few awkward seconds passed before the man said, "I'm not leaving you alone when you were about to commit suicide, like, three seconds ago!"

Bug pouted but understood. He straightened and pulled off his shirt, his old black combat shirt that was identical to every shirt he'd ever worn, and went to the sink to wash off the blood.

After a moment he noticed that the man was still just sitting on the floor. Bug turned to find him staring at him - or, more accurately, at his torso.

Bug blinked and gave the man a pointed look, but the man didn't seem to notice. Bug growled and that got his attention. The man levered himself off the floor and walked over to Bug, who automatically stepped backwards, bumping into the sink. The man wasn't exactly tall, but Bug was a classic shortie, and he found himself craning his neck to see the man's face.

The man gestured to Bug's chest, his voice barely a whisper: "Who did that?"

Bug looked down, and realised the man was staring at his scars.

The words carved underneath the large bumps in his sides probably shocked the man. As would the ragged pink flesh that encircled those spheres, set deep into his ribs. Pale white lines covered his chest, and the missing rib, like the missing collarbone, resembled melted wax. The raised and knotted flesh, intricately woven, on his left arm and upper chest would also be a concern, and that was only his front.

Bug had forgotten that this many scars wasn't normal.

"Peter." The man broke through his thoughts. "Tell me who did that."

"You know I can't." Bug ended the conversarion by turning back to the sink to finish cleaning his wounds, trying to ignore the fact that the man could then read the raised pink burn of "Property of Lightfall" on his left shoulder blade, the long white lines that were so obviously from a whip, the break in the skin just behind a rib that had been broken so badly it pierced through, and the word "Specimen001" carved on his right hip, wrapping around to his stomach.

Bug was still certain that there were that many zeroes purely because his torturer had felt like carving more, and not for any practical reason. That sounded like him.

Bug finished cleaning his wounds and walked right past the man, who was trying to get his attention, and went back to his room, hoping to find a new shirt. He had no clue of where to find one, but assumed he was meant to know - these people all thought he was their missing friend and, even though he technically was him, he didn't feel like this person in the slightest and was terrified of what they'd do if they found out he wasn't him.

Deciding that the wardrobe was a safe bet he reached in and, sure enough, found several shirts - all in a massive heap. Great.

"Peter." Bug's frustration with the man grew.

He turned to glare at the man, but paused when he saw his worried expression. Bug accepted the fact that he was just trying to help him.

"What is it?" he signed, finally responding to him.

The man stepped closer, again placing a hand on his shoulder to act as a comforting presence. "I know you're upset about what happened with Gwen, but she'll be fine if you just explain yourself and apologize."

Bug snorted, shoving the man's hand away, then inwardly cursed himself. He could have pretended to apologize just to get close to her - and then kill her - but he couldn't help it: the man had read their situation terribly.

The man frowned at his reaction. "What's so funny?"

Bug decided that he'd get a giggle at the man's expression, and explained himself. "I'm disappointed that she didn't die, not upset that I tried to kill her. I'm assuming you like her so maybe just keep her away from me if you want her throat to remain intact."

The man's face was priceless. "You want to kill your girlfriend?"

Bug blinked. Girlfriend? That did explain a few things, and it wasn't like she wasn't his typeWell, he'd thought guys were his type, but now wasn't the time for that train of thought. "She annoyed me and I don't want her to keep breathing, so...yeah, I guess I want to kill her. And break up with her, I suppose."

"But you love Gwen."

Bug shuddered. "No way. Too..." an adjective failed to present itself, "...nope."

"Articulate," the man commented dryly, and Bug was pleased to see that he'd stopped freaking out and they could have a real conversation. "Okay, I get that your feelings for Gwen might have waned in a year and a half, but I don't get how that turns to hatred."

"It's not really hatred," Bug tried to figure out the best way so put it, "I'd just like it if I don't have to see her again."

There was a slight laugh in the man's tone. "That can be arranged without killing."

"If you wanna do it your way, that's fine, I just like how permanent my method is."

"Please tell me you're just making a bad joke."

Bug shrugged. "I'm just saying what I'm thinking."

The man sighed and covered his face with his hands, sitting on the bed. "What the hell did they do to you, Peter? I knew that you'd be different but this is just... you're a whole other person."

Bug froze. The man looked up and noticed his horrified expression.

"What? What did I say?"