"Like I was saying, it's just a quick assessment. Nothing to be worried about. It'll be just like before."

There was a part of Elliott that wanted to roll his eyes at all this, as he followed the man down one of the many halls in the medical wing and into a smaller, quieter room at the end of the hall. The room was brightly lit, and the wallpaper was colourful, yet it still felt incredibly daunting. The other part of Elliott wanted to turn on his heal and run, but that would mean admitting defeat and worst of all, letting everyone know they were right about him. That he needed this assessment and the cracks in his facade were now on display for everyone to see. He was offered a seat in one of the two armchairs that faced each other. A small coffee table was set off to the side, a single lit candle in the middle and a box of tissues, which were edged more towards him. He settled himself into the chair, remembering to prime his sitting position, just right. Legs slightly parted, one arm draped over the arm of the chair, the other settled in his lap, shoulders back. Open body language. Something he'd mastered from the several interviews he'd taken part in. Relaxed arms, hands on the hips or behind the back, head up and smiling for standing. Perhaps a friendly hand on the back of his squadmate, but not too low, unless you wanted a scandal. Sitting. Sitting was different. Sitting was easier. It was the smiling that was bothering him right now. Not because he couldn't feign it, but because the man sat across from him hadn't stopped doing it since they'd met. He'd already forgotten his name.

Elliott watched him as he tapped his fingers on a tablet, swiping along the screen a few times for good measure before passing it to him. He gripped the device tightly, as his eyes scanned the series of questions in front of him

"I uh, don't th-think this the same thing I answered when I applied for the games," Elliott said, clearing his throat to continue. "That was uh...y'know, "have you ever killed anyone before?", type questions. This is…".

"A little different, yes," the man told him. "But, like we said in our letter to you...We just want to make sure you're doing alright."

He momentarily stopped smiling, appearing more sympathetic towards him. Elliott doubted his sincerity, as his eyes moved back to linger on the screen, reading the collection of questions in front of him.

"So, you're just going to rate those statements on how true they've been for you, over the last week, from "not at all", to "most of the time. Okay?"

Elliott nodded to show he understood but was simultaneously thinking of ways to cheat. He didn't want or need anybody to know what was going on in his head. He highly doubted anyone would understand anyway. How would they, when he barely understood it himself? He quickly tapped his answers to the first few questions onto the screen, barely taking time to read them, until his attention was drawn back to the man sitting across from him.

"Elliott?"

"Y-yes?"

He smiled at him again.

"Answer as honestly as you can, if you don't mind."

Elliott hung his head like a child who was just scolded for cheating on their math test, a small sigh escaping him as he crossed his legs in his seat, propping the tablet onto his leg, giving the questions a proper look-over for the first time. Only a few of them really stood out to him, causing his mind to flood with memories from the past week.

Q.5. "I have felt totally lacking in energy and enthusiasm"

"Hi", Octavio said softly, draping his arms over his shoulders. Elliott had leaned back into the touch momentarily, before rubbing at his tired eyes. He'd been sat as his desk for hours now, with the intent of looking over the accounts for the bar. He'd spent most of it staring at the wall instead, unable to force his mind to focus on his task.

"What are you doing?" the speedster asked him, moving his hands to rub along his shoulders.

Elliott sighed loudly, as he began to lightly tap on the keyboard in front of him, not applying enough pressure to actually type anything.

"Just trying to catch up on some work, baby. What are you doing?"

He could feel Octavio's lips on the back of his neck, briefly pulling them away to speak.

"I was thinking of going to bed soon. Vamos. I'll take your mind off work."

"I'm actually feeling pretty drained,'' Elliott told him, choosing a key at random to fidget with. "It's been a long week."

"That's alright, amor", his partner responded, continuing his nuzzling on his neck. "I can do all the work."

He leaned forward in his chair after that, pulling away from the runner, who retracted his arms, his heat barely lingering on the trickster's skin.

"What's wrong?"

"N-nothing. I'm just...Not in the mood."

He kept his gaze trained on the screen in front of him so he wouldn't have to look at his lover, as he continued to pick at the keyboard.

"You're never in the mood anymore."

Elliott stayed quiet, until he noticed his partner was no longer behind him and was instead making his way towards their bedroom.

"Where are you going?"

"Bed" Octavio told him, stopping to linger in the doorway, but didn't look back at him.

"Okay. I'll, um, be in later. Love you."

It was quiet but Elliott could still hear the sigh that came from his partner.

"Do you?"

Q.8. "I have been troubled by aches, pains or other physical problems."

Elliott remembers the pain that had plagued him for weeks, every time he'd reach for something or turn over the wrong way in bed. He could never quite get to it subside, no matter how much he tried to stretch it out. His shoulders, neck and upper arms were in a constant state of tension and it was heavily impacting on his performance in the games. It hurt to shoot a gun, he struggled with simple things like holding a door shut for his healing teammates. He was finding it hard to keep up to his squad, who could effortlessly hoist themselves on the rooftops for a better position, while the aches in his upper body made it difficult for him to follow. It wasn't until it started affecting his work at the bar did he really start getting frustrated, which only added to the problem. It was late and he was tired. It didn't matter that it hadn't been a particularly difficult shift. He always tired, regardless. It didn't matter that he had to drag his feet across the floor to get to the stockroom. He had work to do. What did end up mattering to him that night, was the crate of glass bottles that had clattered to the floor, after he'd reached to collect them from the shelf but his body decided to work against him. He slumped back against the wall, shortly afterwards, gripping his hair tightly. He forced himself to take slow, deep breaths, blinking away the tears that threatened to spill from his eyes. There were still a few regulars lingering around in the longue and he'd be damned before he'd let any of them see him cry over spilt spirits. It took him a while to regain whatever composure he could, opting to leave the broken glass and spilled alcohol on the floor for now, to deal with later. He left the stockroom and timidly made his way back to the bar, to grab a drink for himself. His fingers trembled around the glass as he swept a hand through his hair. Elliott had expected many things to trigger his inevitable descent into madness, but he never thought spilled alcohol would be one of them.

Q.9. "I have thought of hurting myself."

"So, anyway. After all that he still wouldn't take no for an answer. She said he tried to follow her back to her apartment and everything!", Octavio spoke, as he cut up some carrots on the kitchen counter. It was a slow process for him but he was determined to learn some basic cooking skills, especially after Elliott had been so happy with the lunches he'd occasionally bring him if he was in the workshop. The trickster wasn't really paying attention to the story his partner was telling, his focus trained on the pot on the stove that was bubbling away with the food they were preparing. He couldn't concentrate on anything else, except the steam that rose and hovered in the air. It moved so freely, so lightly. It didn't seem heavy or have to drag itself around like him. It was hypnotising. Everything else seemed to fade away. The sounds of his boyfriend's voice, the occasional scrape of a knife on a cutting board, the music that played in the living room. All of it melted away and he was left with the simmering of the pot and the sounds of his own breathing, as he reached out to touch it.

"I think he's a bit of a gusano, to be honest. I know Ajay can take care of herself but I still think someone should say something."

Octavio emptied the vegetables he'd cut up into a nearby bowl, turning to offer it to his boyfriend to add to the meal they were making. However, the bowl was quickly dropped back to the counter, with a clatter, as he rushed to assist the trickster who was holding his wrist against the steaming pot.

"Elliott! Elliott! Dios Mio, what are you doing?!"

The runner grabbed him by the elbow, snatching his arm away from the heat. He noticed how his brown eyes appeared glazed over as he lead him towards the sink. Octavio's heart was beating at an increased rhythm as he held his partner's arm under the cold, running water but it didn't stop the delicate skin of his wrist turning a noticeable shade of pink. His attention was soon brought back to the trickster, who was now wincing at the contact, his eyes beginning to well with tears, as if he'd only now realised what he'd done. Octavio didn't know what to say. This was so far outside the realm of anything he'd ever dealt with before. The only thing he could do was try and hold his partner as he began to sob and shake uncontrollably. Octavio quickly noticed that Elliott had no intentions of returning the embrace, instead opting to hold his arms protectively over his stomach. He swallowed. He'd seen his scars. They'd never spoken about how he got them but it was easy to assume the cause, since the trickster would often become defensive or distant at even their mention. For as long as he'd been with him, there had never been any new additions but he was quickly beginning to doubt that it remained that way.

"Show me" he said quietly, resting his hand on one of his lover's arms, trying to gently pry it away.

Elliott shook his head in protest, unable to speak, as tears continued to roll down his cheeks. He didn't want Octavio to know how weak he'd been. How he'd fallen back into old coping habits, from when he'd first learned of his brothers' disappearance. A vicious cycle of blaming himself, drinking more than he should and throwing himself into his work. At least then he had a reason to be like this. But now? He was weak. He couldn't bring himself to show his partner what he'd done. He wouldn't.

Q.14. "I have felt like crying."

Elliott didn't know why he did it. Why he kept putting himself through the same torture, over and over. He was desperate. Desperate for any string of hope he could find. He just wanted something to hold onto. Anything. He'd got talking to a group of ex-militia soldiers who stumbled into his bar, most of which were already steaming drunk by the time they arrived. He couldn't resist the urge to ask if any of them knew or recognised the description of any of his brothers. He knew it was a long shot but he couldn't help it. He needed to know something. So, he asked them and to his surprise, one of the men did know something. The name of one of them "sounded familiar". He told him he knew a guy, who knew a girl who knew another guy who might be able to tell him the information he craved. He met with this other guy, and they'd talked about it, but nothing in the Outlands works without compensation and he'd paid him. A lot. The guy took his description; Male, approximately six foot, brown hair, brown eyes, tattoo of the letter "L" on the inside of his right forearm, was training to be a barber before he enlisted, the second oldest.

Weeks passed, possibly even months, Elliott wasn't sure anymore. He wanted to contact his mother but decided against it, not wanting to give the woman any false hopes. They were his, for now. Something for him to hold onto. Until one night, he couldn't sleep, just like every night that week. It was some time after three in the morning, when his phone chimed with a simple text that read: "Check your inbox. We got him."

He'd rushed into the living room, hands fumbling on the keyboard as he sat as his computer, navigating to his emails. He read the email at least six times, scanning the pictures that were attached, his hands growing more and more shaky with every read. It was the wrong guy. Some other guy who didn't even come close to matching the description he gave. He paced the apartment after that, a cocktail of emotions brewing in his stomach. He was angry at the men for getting it wrong and angry at his own stupidity for trusting them in the first place. He was disappointed in himself for ever thinking he could have hope. He eventually let himself collapse onto the kitchen floor, with a bottle of whiskey in hand. The bitter cold of the tiles bit at his exposed skin and the alcohol burned at his throat as he cried. He cried so hard he didn't think he'd ever be able to breathe properly again. Why? Why him? Why was it always him who left disappointed.

Q.29. "I have been irritable with others."

Elliott rested his forehead against his desk, the coolness of the surface doing little to provide respite for the throbbing headache he had. He couldn't remember the last time he wasn't in some sort of pain, outside the games, or had gotten a decent night's sleep. His computer screen dimmed in front of him again, reminding him that he'd been sitting here for far too long and was still to achieve anything. He rose his head up to look at the screen again, a series of numbers and words jumbled in front of him as he rubbed at his temples. Why was such a simple task so difficult? It was hard enough to force his mind to focus, without the constant background noise coming from his partner on the couch. Octavio had been playing back the same footage for the past hour, trying to get that perfect edit of his performance in the games. It wouldn't have been so bad if it wasn't for all the gasps and excited laughter, he'd been adding.

"Tav!" Elliott raised his voice slightly, which gained the attention of his lover who peeked over the back of the couch. "Can you turn that shit off? I'm trying to work over here."

"Yeah, so am I." the runner responded. "You wanna see this awesome clip I got?"

"No. I'm busy."

"It'll only take a second! I combined the footage I got with the footage the drone got and...Oh, it's better if you just see it!"

Octavio began playing the clip again, watching as his partner got up from his seat and began walking towards him.

"Quick! You're gonna miss the best part!"

But instead of watching the video like he'd hoped, the trickster instead reached over and turned his laptop off, flipping the screen down for good measure. Octavio reached to swat his arm away but stopped, remembering the red mark on his partner's wrist.

"Elliott! What the fuck?! I hadn't saved my edits!"

His boyfriend made his way back to desk without saying anything, which only made Octavio more aggravated at the situation.

"Hey! I'm talking to you!" he called after him. "Mira, I get that you're going through something, right now. I don't know what it is, because you won't talk to me, of course. But you're acting like a real culo right now."

Elliott bit at his thumb nail and clenched his eyes shut. Now was not the time to start crying again. He could hear his partner shuffle on the couch behind him, as he began to speak again.

"Oh, so you're gonna give me the silent treatment?! That's real mature of you, Elliott."

"Shut your mouth before I give you a reason to shut it."

Octavio laughed but he obviously wasn't amused.

"See, normally something like that would sound kinda sexual but no. You don't want to have sex with me anymore, do you? You don't want to do anything with me anymore! You'd rather just hide everything from me and ignore me so you can do your precious work. Because that's all you do. It's gonna end up killing you one of these days."

"Well maybe I wish it would!" Elliott snapped back. "At least if I were dead then I wouldn't have to put up with you anymore! I wouldn't have to put up with any of this!"

He regretted saying those words now, as he passed the tablet back to the man who was still somehow smiling at him, after all this time. He was sure it was those few words that had gotten him into this situation in the first place. He was angry at Octavio. He knew he was the only one who knew about all this and he was most definitely the reason he'd received that letter. Although he was angry, he was more worried that the speedster would be disappointed in him, now that he knew what he was really like. How would anyone ever want to stay with someone like him? He was a mess. He was broken, and nothing he did ever seemed to fix that. He rubbed his hands together, wondering when his palms had gotten this sweaty. He quickly wiped them in his jeans as the man began scanning over his answers. He should've just kept lying. He'd told them too much and now they were going to deem him as crazy and tell him he didn't fit the role they wanted him to play anymore. They'd make him leave and that would give Octavio time to realise his life was better without him in it, and he'd be on his own again.

"Have you ever been to therapy before, Elliott?"

He looked back to the man who was now tapping a pen against his lips, occasionally using it scribble or tick something on the page in front of him.

"Uh…Y-yeah. I have."

"And how did you find it?"

Hard. Uncomfortable. Probably one of the most difficult things he's ever forced himself to do and promised himself he would never do again.

"It was fine."

"What if we found you a therapist here? We have quite the excellent group here, you know. Would you consider going again?"

No.

"Uh...I guess. M-maybe."

The man hummed in acknowledgment, before etching something onto his paper again.

"I think that's everything we need for today. I'd like to forward your files onto our head psychologist and psychiatrist, to see what they purpose is the best way to assist you."

Elliott followed the man as he stood, and walked him to the door.

"W-what do you mean? Assist me? I...I th-thought this was just a, I don't know...updating my files or whatever."

The man took his hand and shook it firmly, still smiling.

"We'll be in touch over the next few days. Take care."