One-shot 1: Run, rabbit, run rabbit, run, run, run.

Summary: After the fight against the Kaiju in the dessert, things take a turn, and not necessarily for the better.

It was the throbbing pain in his leg that woke him up. Even though the agony was so intense that his brain had started to become sloppy and his vision blurry, he knew the bleeding hole in his thigh was not gone. He couldn't see it, but he could feel the wetness trailing down his leg to the floor, creating a constant pitter patter that now lived rent free in his head, pounding his brain like a hammer. Another thing that contributed to wake him up was his joints. His arms , crossed over his back and his legs, crossed under him, where being pulled savagely by something that forced him to keep seated uncomfortably. He could feel the blood trailing, also, down his wrists and ankles, that were bent in an awkward way to accommodate whatever was restraining him.

That had been six hours ago.

Now, his brain had decided that he deserved a little mercy, because he had been really well behaved. He hadn't moved an inch, keeping still and quiet just like they had told him, and finally the hole in his leg and his raw wrists and ankles had faded to the back of his head. If he concentrated, he could barely feel a slightly uncomfortable beat. Like a heart had been placed where his joints were supposed to be. It was not perfect, nothing in this world is, after all; well, except mom's hugs, of course —why hasn't she come?—, but it was an improvement. They did say that something like this could happen, so they were, at least, telling the truth. He liked the fact that he hadn't been lied to. That was nice.

The muzzle was not so nice, though.

But he deserved it. He did. If somebody tried to burn him alive, he would also want them to not be able to do it. So he understood why he was wearing a muzzle; that hadn't been nice of him, he new. But, in his defense, he had been really mad, especially after waking up. His leg was hurting a lot, and they had not been polite at all, so he had obviously been not pleased and responded accordingly to his feelings: with rage.

But he wasn't angry anymore. No, no, no. He was not angry, he was calm and collected. He was a cloud. All fluffy, and soft and spongy. All nice things, so obviously they should take it off now, right? The muzzle —and the chains— was not necessary anymore: he had promised to himself that he was going to be well behaved, so it make sense that they would take it out now. Why had they not taken it out? Maybe they hadn't heard him, even though he had spent close to an hour screaming for someone to come —to save him—.

At least he now knew the muzzle worked good. Oh, how good it worked. It had long strips of something similar to leather, but way more durable, that went from his mouth, all around his head, and were secured at the back with a padlock. On the front it had a metal ball that went inside his mouth, the part that was supposed to stop him from talking, and then something akin to a button on the outside part of it, and at first he had thought it stupid. Why put a button on a muzzle when it's strapped to the head? The answer came when, after it being secured, the guard pushed it and agonizing pain forced a scream through his closed mouth.

Needles. A lot of needles.

They pierced his gums, his tongue, the roof of his mouth, they scratched his teeth. It had been so horrible that he had lost consciousness for another hour or so before waking up again, close to drowning in his own blood and forced to swallow it. At least his mouth was numb enough to give him a break.

That had been four hours ago. The clock in the wall said so.

Once the pain his brain managed to focus in his surroundings, he took a look at the room he was being kept in, and recognized the bare concrete walls and the giant metal door in front of him. MEGTAF had never had much talent when it came to interior designing, but he had hoped that, at least, they would have the decency to clean a little the facilities. The green blood staining… well, everything, stank. A lot. And let's not talk about all the other weird looking smears on both the floor and the ceiling. They should be ashamed of themselves.

The red light coming from the door distracted him from looking for silhouettes in the splatters in front of him, making him look up as the big red numbers changed: the timer showed two zeros and a thirty. It was coming to an end. Did that mean he could go after? Maybe if he behaved the last thirty minutes they would call his mom —where is she? Why hasn't she come yet?—, and that way she could tell them that this was a mistake. That he hadn't done anything. That he wasn't the bad guy. Yeah, exactly, it made sense! When they came back he would explain to them that it had been a mistake, that he hadn't done anything and then mom would take him home. And everything would be alright again. Because mom made everything alright. Always…

He had been so distracted by the tingling sensation of the blood of his wounds caressing his skin that he didn't notice the timer coming to an end; four big zeros faintly illuminating the massive room. It was when the doors opened that he jerked his head up, swallowing a pained groan and pushing down the need to start hyperventilating. He had been good, they couldn't be here to hurt him more. Right?

Close to a dozen soldiers entered the room —cell—, armed with the biggest guns he had ever seen, and that was saying a lot, and another six men entered close behind pushing a wheeled platform with four attachments, one in each corner. What was that for? They wouldn't be able to take of the muzzle with that, let alone call his mom to come and get him. No, no, no. They wouldn't.

Without uttering a word they marched until they stood surrounding him, guns pointed at his head and helmets hiding their faces. They were really scary.

"Do not shoot to kill, the doctor wants him alive."

Shoot to kill? Doctor? No, no, no, they were supposed to let him go, they were supposed to take the muzzle off, they were supposed to call his mom —IwantmymomIwantmymom—.

The soldier that had previously talked abandoned his fiel of vision and stood behind him, touching the chains that kept him from movin and had his arms and legs numb. He tried to look at him, fear tearing at his mind the moment he was touched, but a strong hit to the back of the head and a hand grabbing the muzzle and forcing him to lower his head stoped him. He screamed, or tried to, when the needles pierced his mouth, and another hit to the head followed by a "be quiet" forced him to swallow his tears.

He was scared. This people were hurting him. He wanted his mom.

The chains were secured to the attachments of the platform before being unlatched from the walls, to ensure he wouldn't be able to escape. That wasn't a possibility, though, because he felt so weak, so tired and so sloppy that he doubted he would manage to take a single step. He was helpless, abandoned to the, apparently, nonexistent mercy of his captors. He wanted to cry.

"Alright boys, get on with him". A loud clank and the platform started rolling, being pulled by the six men that entered the room with it, and surrounded by the other dozen or so soldiers that where armed. He almost got blinded by the bright lights of the hallway they were carrying him through, long and sterile, boid of any scents or color. They were trying to disorient him, to keep him oblivious of his location.

He started to feel more grounded; the fog that clouded his mind wasn't completely gone, but it was almost as if the light was managing to slowly get him out of his sloppy state. Almost as if his mind had been trying to keep him dormant. He looked again at the soldiers around him, trying to see past their helmets and try to identify them, but the moment one of them saw him looking, he hit him with the back of the gun. He groaned, tears gathering in his eyes, and tried to keep quiet to avoid being stricken again.

"Fucking beast."

He pretended to not be hurt by the comment. He wasn't a beast. He wasn't a monster.

Mom said so —IwantmymomIwantmymom—.

After what felt like an eternity they arrived at a new entrance. This time it was a double door, human sized one; big enough to allow the platform to be wheeled inside. It was when the doors opened that, finally, the fog in his mind dissipated and the events of the last eight hours came down crushing him like a hammer. Hard and unforgiving.

It had been less than three days since his first ever meeting with his father, where he had been taken to kaiju territory and presented ad the new hair to the throne. Classes had just finished, and his mom had just called to tell him that Dr. Pytel wanted to try a new cream to treat his scaly skin, that had been ten times worse since his encounter with his father. Mom had been really upset about it. She said that it would be Barnes the one to take him there, and at first it had been a pretty normal flight, just like any other. Until that kaiju attcked.

The wheels of the platform and the voices in the platform were close to pulling him out of his mind, as if trying to stop him from remembering, but once they started arriving, it was as if his memories were competing with each other. There was no stoping them.

He had fought that kaiju, and then Belloc —Callhimcallhim— showed up, and then MEGTAF showed up. And they opened fire. They open fired with him in that ravine. They opened fire. And he could have died. But he didn't. No, no, no, he didn't, because Belloc —CallhimIwantmomCallhim— had protected him. He took him away from the fire, and fought against them, and he tried to tell them to stop, because that was his dad, and they were gonna kill him and… and… he surrendered.

"Chain him to the examination table."

He surrendered and then… then they took them to that cave… yes, there was a cave, wasn't there?

"Adjust the muzzle, I don't want it getting it off by any chance."

The pain in his mouth did nothing to pull him out of his numb state.

There was a cave, and then dad —CallhimIwantmomCallhim— went in there, and he looked sad, right? He was sad, because he wanted his mom, and… no, no, no. Do not loose track. You are so close.

Somebody touched the hole in his leg, and it hurt, but then he saw it. A soldier came out behind him while he was waiting for his mom, because he loved his momma so, so much, and shot him. A soldier shot him.

A white haired soldier shot him.

It was as if someone had pulled from a blindfold covering his eyes and letting him take a look at the world for the first time. Like he had never used his eyes in his life and now he had to learn how to see. Because he could see everything.

He could see Barnes, in the corner of the room, looking at him with what somebody may call pity. The pity you give a dying dog after being run over. He had his arms crossed over his chest, and appeared to be ignoring what the people around him where saying. In his hip was the gun that put a hole in his leg.

He could se the doctors, four of them taking notes and one looking at a monitor that had a scan of his body. They were talking, although it was hard to understand what they were saying. Too much light. Too much noise.

One of them got close to him and he tried to get away, but he was completely immobilized. The doctor flashed a light in front of his eyes, and when he held his eyelids so they wouldn't close, he felt nauseous. He didn't want to be touch. He wanted to go home, he wanted his mom —whyisn'tsheherewhyisn'tshehere—.

"April 13th, day one of project COLMENA. The hybrid presents disorientation, presumably for the mild sedatives administered thought the needles in the muzzle. He proved to be violent during the extraction."

Oh, so that's why he was so sleepy, and tired, and foggy. They had sedated him, but only enough to keep him helpless.

"The bullet wound has stopped bleeding and is showing signs of slow scarring, but the ones on wrists and ankles are still open and bleeding. We deduce until unchained, the subject won't be able to start the healing process."

He didn't like this doctor. He looked old, he smelled old, and his voice sounded like scratching a blackboard. He hated that sound. He was holding a tablet, or something similar, and was annotating something with a pen. The clicking sound was making him nervous, and the way the man looked at him made him want to throw up. He wanted to go home.

"Today we will be testing the subject's pain tolerance and healing process. Stage one: bone fracture."

No.

Panic clung to kim like a spider web to a fly. It suffocated him. Crushed him. Killed him.

Duncan did not want to die.

A weird sound came from above and his blood froze in his veins. It was a press.

"Apply pressure on the left leg. We don't want it dying from internal bleeding. Let's start with somthing simple."

No, no, no.

He looked at Barnes, desperation in his eyes, begging him to do something. To stop them, to save him. That man had watching grow up, from his first breath into this world, to his first day of school, to his first driving lesson. Than man knew-had to know he wasn't a monster. He wasn't a beast. He wasn't dangerous. He didn't deserve this.

He did nothing. The bastard had the nerve to even look away, as if watching them torture him was just too much. As if he didn't deserve some recognition. As if he was just a stray dog laying on the side of the road, waiting to die.

The press made a sound again, and he watched with his breath caught in his chest how it relocated itself until it stood barely four feet above his leg. They were going to do it. They were really going to crush his leg until it broke. They were going to do it.

Something in him snapped. Had they not be so focused on mutilating him, they would have found it fascinating how he was able to achieve such high notes with the screeches that were coming out of his mouth through the bloody muzzle. Maybe they would have noticed just how similar they were to the ones made by young animals when in distress, especially to call for an adult to assist them.

They wouldn't be too far from the truth, actually, because in his head, all rational thoughts had been replaced by a single one that repeated itself like a mantra. Somehow, in his panicked state, he had managed to form a coherent thought: mom would not be able to save him. Dad could.

"Dad, dad, please, I don't want to be here". The screeching became more intense, and his trashing made it sound even more desperate. He didn't know how he was able to make such noises, nor how he could feel almost as if his body was acting on its own.

The press started its descent, slowly but surely getting closer.

"Dad, please, I want to go home". The screeching became almost screaming, and his mouth filled again with blood. But he was doing fine. He was doing fine because he was being loud. —Louderlouderlouder—.

The people around him started to get nervous, but he was just too busy to notice. The soldiers pointed their arms at him. Barnes came out of his corner and yelled at the doctors to make him stop, because apparently his suffering was bothering him, and the doctors where taking notes and looking for something in a table full of medical instrument.

But he kept screaming. He kept screaming until he could feel the press grace the scales on his legs. Until the power went out and the people around him went silent.

The press stoped moving. The soldiers pointed the guns to the ceiling and the old doctor put the syringe back in the table.

Ah, right, the base was shaking.

"What the hell is that, colonel?" The old, ugly, doctor approached Barnes, that had taken a hold of his gun and was as tense and Duncan's chains were. Good.

With a shaky, teary, breath, Duncan screeched one last time. So plaintive that everyone around him held their breath.

"Papa, I don't want to die."

He finally got an answer.

The shaking stoped as abruptly as it started. With the power off it was hard to see, especially with his eyes full of tears of relief and pain. A roar, as loud and intense as a mountain, shoke the room, making the ones standing run to the walls and away of the center of the room, where the examination table was placed. The ceiling was starting to break, like a sand castle being dismantled by the curious hands of a child. Like butter being cut by a knife.

A glowing eye, like the ambers of a fire, picked through the opening. It once had felt cold, almost soulless like. Now, though, now it was warm, and save, and alive. A rumbling purr, so loud that it almost deafened him, echoed through the room, and all Duncan's worries faded away. It was almost as if nothing of the last eight hours had happened. He felt like he was floating.

Belloc pulled the opening in the ceiling until his head fit through it, slowly getting closer to the tiny body laying in the center, bloody and oozing fear. He stoped when he was close enough to grace him with his nose, and Duncan gave another plaintive moan, trying and failing to get closer to his fathers head. He wanted out. Now.

Belloc was not planning on making him ask for it again. He ripped the press off its hinges with his teeth and spit it far away form Dunca, making a dent in the wall and making some soldiers scatter away.

He carefully nuzzled the boy, trying to assess the damage. He could feel his accelerated breathing through his chest, the rib cage going up and down against his snout, strong and constant. He moved up, to his face, and the sight of that black thing dripping blood and strapped to his sons face made him snarl, huge pearl white teeth in display. Far from being intimidated, Duncan tried again to get closer to his father, almost fearing that at loosing contact the kaiju would just disappear. Belloc continued his inspection, deliberately ignoring the cowering humans in the room; if they where still there, it meant they had no way out. He could focus on his child first; dinner would come later.

He moved down next, to the bullet wound in his thigh. Although it had stopped bleeding it looked tender, and the whole leg was covered in dried blood. The boys pants lay underneath him, having been cut open by the doctors when they strapped him to the examination table. Duncan didn't seam to be aware that he was only in his underwear, laying cold, and weak, and so pale in that white sterile room. Belloc's snarling became even louder.

Duncan whined. He was getting restless, he wanted to get out of there now, and Belloc was taking his time to do it. So deep into his instincts, he was unable to understand that a careless movement fron the kaiju could cause him serious harm, especially if his father didn't know the extent of all his wounds. Belloc rumbled back to him, trying to be reassuring, and finally decided that his assessment was over. He pulled his head back, forcing himself to ignore the boys panicked hyperventilations at the thought of being abandoned, and breathed a controlled flame all over him. Duncan instantly calmed, knowing that his father wasn't going to leave him, and not even a few seconds after, he felt the chains keeping his tied to the table melt, being no match for his father's fire. He was free.

Desperation palpable in his movements, he pulled his arms and legs free, groaning from the pain of his numb limbs and his raw wrists and ankles, and sat up eagerly. With shaky hands he pushed the muzzle's button, and finally the needles retreated inside the metal ball. He was fast to rip the leather strips around his head, spiting the demonic device and all the blood that he had tried not to swallow. His mouth hurt a lot.

"We are going home." Nothing more needed to be said. Belloc retreated from the hole he made in the ceiling and replaced it with his hand, that swiftly picked Duncan up, careful of the wound in his leg. The first time his father had picked him up it had not been a nice experience; he had felt trapped, compressed by the unforgiving giant hand, the scales scratching at his skin uncomfortably. Now, though, the warmth that before had been overwhelming felt like a God-sent, and the tight grip only helped in reassuring him that he was safe.

Belloc pulled him close to his chest, letting his inner fire intensify to warm the boy up, and looked at the vermin still lingering in that lab.

The child was safe now. Dinner could be served.

(…)

Hours later, in the safety of his father's grasp, listening to his loud heartbeat, Duncan's panicked state would fade, bit by bit, until his mind and voice would again be under his conscious control. With his mothers arms safely around him, asleep after hours of crying and apologizing for not arriving on time, he would think about the last moments lived until his father took him to kaiju territory, to his nest, where his mother waited desperate to see him. Where she would ignore the blood staining Belloc's teeth, and simply lay with them to sleep as if it was an activity engraved in her system; something she had done before.

He new later, when the morning arrived, a lot of things where going to change, but right now he could not care less. He had other things to worry about; like the screams of his father's victims; especially the ones from a white haired man, that seemed to take especially long to end.

Author's Note: Hello, Oreo Shakes! I'm Evie, and I've been posting on AO3 this ongoing one-shot compilation for a while! I've decided to upload it here too because I think it could help reach more people from this Fandom and being more life to it!

You can find me on AO3 as EvianaMalcolm if you want to!

I'll be updating the rest of the one-shots little by little in the next few days, but if you want to read ahead you can go to the other site!

English is not my first language, so I hope you're patient with me hshshshs

Don't be shy and comment if you like! I'd love to hear your thoughts!