A wet splash hits his cheek, and he notices the burgundy tainting that white hair, tainting it, reminiscent of paint falling on the purity and beauty of a white rose. The blood seeped from his temple, and Sinbad noticed how concerningly thin the male was as he loomed above him.
In that moment, something inside him snapped. Smelling the iron and hearing the impending voices, sensing the danger, he bucked his hips up, flinging the male over his head, sending him reeling, though he bounced back to his feet as agilely as Sinbad expected, as fluidly as he would have in the life he had flashes of behind his lids and in his sleep. With the grace and fluidity of a practiced killer.
Sinbad stood, holding out his arms as the guards neared.
"What the fuck are you doing?!" The voice behind him snapped but Sinbad didn't turn, didn't acknowledge it. Ears privy instead to the not so distant voices.
"How in the hell did you let him get away?!"
"You were told… to be careful!" Shouts punctuated with sharp breathy intakes, with the desperate pull for air from those less athletically inclined.
"Stay behind me," Sinbad hissed. Ja'far made no response, or any move to disobey.
"Who are you?" The first grunt skidded to a stop in front of them, a taser in hand and a shot gun strapped to his hip. Sinbad didn't dignify the question with a response, glaring harshly instead. Another two men arrived, one panting heavily, the other giving a hard slap to the back of his head.
"You were explicitly told he was dangerous!" The other clutched his head, still unable to catch his breath. "What the hell did you do?"
"What did you do to him?" Sinbad growled, arms still outstretched protectively in front of Ja'far.
"None of your business rat," the first arriver, a very tall, broad man, with dark hair and a goatee.
"Step away from him," the other spoke, the one who had been scolding moments ago. Sinbad's toes twitched in his slippers, readying for action, to fight or flee, whichever he felt would protect the man behind him, the one that, though he didn't know in this life, had been so dear to him prior. The one he had never appreciated enough, that he had never told him he loved him, never been able to, .
Thoughts of his echoing mistakes made his hands tremble and kept him awake in the late hours of night, that caused him to be perpetually sleep deprived and somber, as much as he would try and present himself the way his old self had in his memories, feeling like that was a resemblance to his true self, to a self that wasn't bogged down by regret and self-loathing for the memories of how he had treated those close to him. To those who had been there for him time and time again, only to be thrown aside when it mattered with no explanation.
"What did you do. To. Him," Sinbad tried again.
"You have no idea who that is, or what he's done."
"I don't care," Sinbad spits through his teeth, his body desperately wanting to turn and face Ja'far, to look at him, to memorize his face and the lines of his face, the way his hair fell and his mouth set, but he stayed it, he held his gaze with the abhorrent person before him.
"How again, did he get away from you?" The man's fist twitched, as if he were eager to strike the man who had barely caught his breath, and was standing, though his posture was hunched and his breath still too quick. "Did you follow procedure?"
"I did! Mostly," the one choked, Sinbad's eyes passed between the three, dancing around, ears twitching as more commotion sounded.
"Mostly?! Are you kidding me?"
"He'd been catatonic for days! So I slacked a little, anyone would!"
"You could have gotten us all killed you good for nothing dumbass."
"Will you two shove it." Sinbad watched, putting together the large one was in charge, and the unfit one was obviously lowest in the chain of command. Most likely fresh, and probably siphoning drugs from the hospital, which he deducted was part of how Ja'far had gotten away from his lackeys in the first place.
Ja'far stumbled behind him and Sinbad turned sharply, noticing again the wounds on his temples, the way the clothing that hung off his body, draping to reveal most of his shoulder, and a more collarbone more prominent than it should be, had blood stains.
"Did you fucking trepanate him?!" Sinbad shouted, "I'll-" he was cut off by the cool pressure of metal against his neck, the sting as the hand holding it got a little too eager and broke his skin.
"Back away or I'll kill him," Ja'far says, his tone even and just as boyish as Sinbad remembered from his dreams, and though his life was balancing on the edge of a blade, he smiled, reminiscent of the days of their meeting, another time he had the pale man holding metal to his throat. Days when things were simpler, when it was dreams and adventures, rather than Kingship and diplomacy.
A taser sounded behind them and Ja'far jolted, falling to the ground in seizes as the electricity shot through his body, wracking his frame. Sinbad had never been tased, but he couldn't help but feel what unfolded before him was too violent, too much.
He lunged at the guard that had snuck up on them, landing a punch to the man's jaw, his fist resounding with a snap before arms wrapped under his own and crossed behind his head, his knees knocked out and he fell to them painfully.
"You leave him alone!" Sinbad shouted. One man had a gun trained to Ja'far, another kneeled beside him, a syringe in hand, and a last wrenching the long sleeve of his shirt of and wrapping a band around the limp forearm of his one time friend. "Stop it!" His eyes trailed over the exposed flesh, the skin rough and marred, new and old, angry red, fading purple and barely there white scars, bruises and dozens of puncture wounds accompanying the newest one as the attendant slid the needle into nearly transparent skin, unloading its contents into his veins.
A painful pull to his shoulder dragged his attention away for a moment, a violent thrust to his upper body and he fell to the ground, jaw colliding with the tile and reverberating down his neck, his teeth aching at the impact.
"Sir, calm down," the one behind him says. Both arms are tugged behind him, and the man is crouched above him, but he doesn't care. Not really. His eyes are trained on Ja'far. On the slim man, the one that had always been through too much, who seemed so frail but stayed so strong. Who's loyalty was as fierce as his blade, and whose heart was uncharacteristically large.
He was lying on his back, white hair splayed around him like a faint glowing halo, long spindly legs, one stretched out, the other bent inward and his arm tucked daintily across his chest, the other dropped unceremoniously to the ground when the attendant finished depositing the drug. The dark crimson stained his hair, dripping down onto the tile, staining the picture perfect white atmosphere. Even in this state, his face was taut, eyes closed, though they seemed ready to pop open at any moment, and the guards seemed to sense that.
"Give him another dose," the one behind Sinbad says, and Sinbad is frozen to the ground, their words hitting his eardrums, but not quite registering, their meaning slipping by, their sound processing in his mind but the words just not clicking together.
"That could kill him."
"And if he's not out until we get him tied back down, we'll be killed. You know how he is after sessions."
"He's a freak."
"It doesn't matter anyway, give it to him. It's not like we'll face a lawsuit if we lose him. No one's missing this trash."
"Is that true? The rumor?" Sinbad identified that voice as the newer guy, the one the others pinned the blame on when Ja'far was running down the hallway.
"Now is not the time to gossip Joseph."
"Yes, sir." The one replies dejectedly. One of them kneels by Ja'far again, tapping another syringe with pudgy fingers, not having to retie the tourniquet, not having removed it after the first go.
"Don't do that!" He heard himself say, and he struggled against the man above him, but made no progress in shaking the man off. "Fuck! Leave him alone!"
"You better shut up before I make you," the man said through gritted teeth, finding difficulty in maintaining his hold on Sinbad.
"You better," Sinbad hisses, thrashing harder, then stilling as he sees the rise and fall of Ja'far's chest slow to a cease, his pallor failing impossibly lower, turning a muted grey rather than the luminescent alabaster it usually was. Sinbad felt his jaw fall slack, and his heart skip a beat, stutter uncertainly in his chest, as he practically watched the life ebb away from the man on the floor not feet from him.
"Check for a pulse, don't just stand there!" The one over Sinbad, now that he is frozen in shock, is calling orders, but its all a dull roar at this point, words indistinguishable, the mild colors of the hallway blurring into a off white swirl in his vision. Then, as soon as it had faded, it's all back in focus, hypersharp and too much, too much color and too much to take in, and his blood is in his ears and his hands tremble with the pumping adrenaline and his head is swimming with anger.
"There's no pulse!"
"Start CPR, someone get a defibrilla-" and then he's cut off, thrown back against the wall and Sinbad is on his feet, gazing helplessly as one a male nurse issues compressions, watching the slack expression on the greyed skin of his friend, watched his head, with all his boyish features, rock with each shake to his frame.
"You're all monsters!" He yelled, and went to move closer when he heard a sickening crack as the compressions continued. "You, you killed him," his voice breaks and he falls to his knees, all the fight sucked out of him, dripping out his extremities as quickly as it had come, leaving a painfully numb feeling, and then he felt a pinch to his arm. In a belated reaction, he turns barely in time to see the needle withdraw from his skin, and he falls to the side, the last thing in his fading vision, is the nurse trying to force air into lungs that had been forced to stop by their own hands, and the sound of a drop of water, that he thinks may be a tear from himself, just maybe.
He wakes, and the light in the room is muted, but not artificial. He reckons it's probably afternoon. Not bright enough for morning or noon, and not dim enough for evening. He sits up, feeling a painful ache in his body and a weight in his chest like he hadn't truly felt in this lifetime. The only thing he could relate it to, were memories from his old life, and even they didn't hold a candle to this, this emptiness, this vast hole, that though was missing something, still felt like it weight a half ton, pulling him back down to the bed, willing him to sleep and not get back up.
Despite it all, he swings his legs over, knowing if he doesn't get up soon, he'll miss any chance of being able to get any food for the day, the hours of closed doors and locked handles drawing near. He didn't look forward to spending a night hungry, and judging by how long he had slept, he likely wouldn't find rest again for a good many hours.
As he moves, some of the weight in his body leaves, and he feels like his head and senses clear up a little as he gets the blood flowing, but he can't shake the hollowness, the distinct feeling of loss, but he can't fathom why. He, for once, didn't even dream. There were no memories to trigger this sense of loss, this unbearable pain, like an organ, or something vital had been removed from him, like his own hand or foot or heart had been amputated without him knowing or remembering, he just know it's missing, and its terrible.
He only gets half down the hallway when he sees Kouha, sauntering around with a sway to his hips, twirling one of the longer sections of his hair around his fingers.
"How are you Sinbad?" He asks, in his high, child like voice. Sinbad cringes internally, he's really not in the mood for these antics right now, not with the way he feels and his moderate urgency.
"I'm doing well ma'am, and yourself? How's your son?" He asks politely, knowing by now which mannerisms belong to Kouha, and which belong to him when he believes he is his own mother. It's so.. weird. That dynamic. Red eyes brighten, and it almost highlights the dark rims around sunken in eyes, and Sinbad wonders if the kid ever freaking sleeps.
"I've never been better. Kouha said he missed you yesterday though, that you weren't in the hall," Sinbad frowns at this, he was fairly confident in his ability to tell the two personalities apart, and he had been almost positive it had been Kouha he had seen at dinner yesterday, so was he wrong? "You look troubled dear," Kouha continues, laying a dainty hand on his shoulder.
"What day is it?"
"Thursday child." Sinbad's eyebrows shoot up. Thursday? It had been Monday when he had spoken with Drakon in the cafeteria, when he thought he had seen Kouha in the hall, and now it was Thursday?! Was he really asleep for two days? The more he thought about it, the more his head ached. He remembered going to bed early that day, maybe he had been sick and hadn't realized it.
"It's been nice to see you, I have to go though," he excuses himself hastily, speeding down the hallway and to the cafeteria area. He spies Drakon quickly, all thoughts of food and eating long gone. "Did you see me yesterday?" He asks, plopping down directly in front of his friend, feeling bad for a moment at the jolt that goes through the man's spine at his intrusion. "Sorry," he tacks on as Drakon processes the question.
"No, are you alright?" He asks, looking at Sinbad with all too receptive eyes. Sinbad is quiet for a moment, debating whether or not to disclose the truth, or to keep it to himself.
"I don't know. I don't remember the last two days." Sinbad admits, opting to go with honesty after all.
"I thought perhaps you had gotten in trouble for conduct again," Drakon says, "but you don't remember it at all?" He inquiries. Sinbad shakes his head, dropping it into his hands and pulling at his bangs.
"I remember going to my room, and going to bed, but nothing else."
"It's possible you just slept that long, and therefore have no memories of doing anything, because you did nothing." Sinbad doesn't move, that option having already come through his head, but that didn't explain the way he woke up, the feeling in his gut, or the nagging feeling that something was abhorrently wrong. He raises his head, giving a charitable smile to his friend, deciding to play it off, not wanting to worry Drakon, or draw nay attention to his potentially further deteriorating mental health.
"You're probably right. It was just… disorientating to wake up and find out it's two days later than it should be." Drakon smiles at him faintly, a barely there upturn of the corner of his mouth before he goes to stand.
"Well, if you'll excuse me, I have to go to my session," Sinbad nods at him, and that is all there is to their farewell. Once Drakon exits, Sinbad opts to go and scrounge up a little remaining food, and he settles back down to eat, the end of the free time quickly drawing to a close. He nibbles at his food, not particularly interested, but knowing he will be very hungry in a couple hours if he doesn't eat something, but for some reason the corner of the room is more interesting than the food on his plate.
He tucks a piece of bread into his pocket, stomaching as much of the rest as he can before tossing it. He sits there for a bit longer, not really wanting to return to his room so soon, and knowing the orderlies will come and ask him to leave, so it's not like he can somehow get locked out of his room, so he sits, letting his gaze space out and his thoughts wander, wander to a white haired friend with deceptively boyish features for a man approaching his thirties. To friends and adventures, to magic and swords, a place for brighter than this. One that had seemed so turmoiled at the time, but would be peace compared to this den of racism and war, genocide and of nuclear weapons, who would have thought metal vessels could be made to look obsolete? He sighs, and just as he is about to leave, the door opens, and he turns, as always, curious and nosy, to see who else is as late to the day as he was.
His heart stutters.
His pulse quickens.
And he could almost feel the rage radiating off of himself.
Ithnan.
Sorry that took a little while. I don't know how to manage stories, and I don't know if you've noticed, but I currently writing three different Sinja stories, and I realized two of them were heading in very similar directions, so I had to take some time out to remap one of them, and it's just been interesting. I hope you like, review and I'll try and get a new chapter out as soon as possible.