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His ankle hurt.
Michael RoGhost Jr sat in a sterile room. He was stationed upon a hospital bench, stubby little fingers mindlessly picking at the blue paper underneath him.
“Mike Ro.” A warm, feminine voice called out to him, “Why am I not surprised to see you here again?”
The nurse smugly smiled, hiking her hands up to her hips as she shook her head playfully.
She began pulling miscellaneous medical treatments out of her pockets, chattering away at Micro incessantly. She kept asking questions about his school, homework, his friends, and even his new spot on the football team wasn’t safe from her passionate monologue. Everything she asked went unanswered.
“-but i’m sure you know much more about how the game works than an old wench like me, don’t you Mike?” Her soft eyes gazed up at him, and a wondrous affection pooled in them.
It made him feel a little sick
“Did my dad come this time?” A tiny voice erupted from his throat, dodging her new question.
The nurse’s face pinched, her smile turned shaky, and she busied herself with wiping an alcohol wipe over his knees. It burnt.
“No, i'm sorry, Mike. Not this time.”
“Not anytime…” He muttered bitterly, unable to stop himself from pouting.
Two large bandaids were plastered to his knees. Fat brown splodges against his purpled legs. He moved to lower his feet now that the nurse was done, before being met with a course of tutting sounds.
“Nuh uh, I don’t think so, Mr.” The nurse pushed him back onto the bench, sliding a stool under his bandaged leg in order to elevate it. Oh yeah, his ankle was hurting, wasn’t it?
After settling him down, she leaned forwardd—bandaid in hand— to try and cover the cuts scattering his face.
Micro jerked backwards, instinctively batting her hand away. The last person to touch his face had been his mother. It would stay that way.
“I’m not a baby. I can do that myself.” He mumbled, grabbing the bandaid from the nurse’s hand and swivelling to face the mirror.
Despite what he had just said, all the signs of youth clung to Micro’s face. The hopeful glimmer in his eyes, his missing front teeth, and the baby fat that stayed adhered to his face until he was thirteen. As he turned back, after applying the bandaid, he even took extra notice of his spider-man themed socks — though one was partially hidden by the cast around his leg.
He scanned his eyes back up towards the nurse; a gloved hand was stretched out towards him expectantly. He dropped the bandaid covers into her palm.
The lid to the biohazard bin flicked open, the nurse peeled her slightly bloodied gloves off, distractedly chucking them in along with the covers. “I’m gonna be honest with you, Mike Ro.” Micro’s eyes remained stuck on the flash of blue poking out of the trash. “You’ve got to stop coming in here.” It was such a bright blue. “I’m seeing you just about every week.” He likes blue. “It’s a wonder how you’ve not fallen apart or turned into a roll of bandages at this point.” When was the last time he saw such an intense blue? “At this rate, you’ll reach rock bottom before your twelfth birthday.” The nurse chuckled to herself.
Oh.
Bright blue crinkled eyes were gazing at him. Rotation laughed at some stupid joke he had just made about powering the zombie healing machine with the power of friendship.
Well, it had seemed like a joke at least.
Rock bottom, it turns out, feels like an oven.
Micro rose up, groggily wiping the sleep from his eyes. The thick, humid air was giving him a pounding headache and stifling his breath.
It seemed like he was in some kind of cooling tunnel, a solid copper tube saddled up to a larger dome structure. By the stench of the dust, it was apparent it hadn’t been serviced in a while, and by the sweat clinging to Micro’s brow it wasn’t doing much cooling either.
His head thumps to a similar beat as a death metal band’s. He lifts a hand to cradle his temple, quickly pulling away as a warm sticky substance coats his fingertips.
Oh yeah. Thinking back on it, he did hit his head on a catwalk when falling, didn’t he?
He draws his mind back to Rotation. Back to the boy’s form slowly shrinking out of his vision as he sank further down into the inky black of the void.
Shit. He probably thinks Micro is dead.
With a newfound fervour, Micro begins pushing himself off of the floor. He twists his torso, flecks of ceramic and dirt flying off his clothing. Then he tries to stand.
A searing pain wracks its way through his left leg. His muscles seize, each contraction yanking on segments of shattered bone. Okay, he thought, holding the twitching limb still, that might be a little bit broken.
Some may say smashed to smithereens.
He’s heard it both ways.
The grainy voice of the intercom cut through the stagnant air. Micro stilled.
“Access to the ground floor granted, please deactivate lockdown mode for access to other floors.” The familiar distorted voice crackled out, an accompanying staticy buzz droning on after each.
Micro glanced up, midway through picking shards of Onion’s crushed skull from out of his palms. He’d been wondering where he’d rolled off to. May he rest in peace.
If the intercom was playing, then it must mean that Orphan boy hadn’t left yet.
“Rotation!” He calls out, voice breaking on each syllable like a prepubescent boy’s. He rubs the base of his throat, where an itching sensation is starting to build. “Rotation! I’m down here!” He tries again. The noise that comes out sounds more like a raspy sigh than a shout.
The elevator clicks to life, and a loud, mechanical noise erupts throughout the building as it descends to retrieve Rotation.
Calling out for him was no use; Micro’s voice was hoarse and would be barely audible over the whirring of the machine. It was probably due to the nasty collision on his way down; crashing your larynx is no joke.
An especially chunky drop of blood splatters against his pants, a petulant reminder that he has other injuries. His head throbs a greeting ‘don’t forget about me, Michael, hehe’. He’s starting to feel a little woozy, and it’s hard to tell whether it’s the blood loss or the growing sense of dread boiling up in his gut.
He quickly comes to the conclusion that he can’t just stay sat here waiting for orphan boy to descend from the heavens as his saviour. Rotting down here in a crusty, mechanical tube is way more embarrassing than if he just died on impact. Meagon and orphan boy would never let him live it down. Or- not live it, in this instance.
Pushing the skin around his ankle, Micro felt an abnormal squish to the flesh. As he pinched his fingers together, he could almost feel shards of his bone inbetween them, though the sensation was hard to grasp over the sharp shoots of toe-curling pain it sent up his leg.
Sighing loudly, he starts army crawling across the floor, aiming to get close enough to a wall to use it as support. His forearms get coated in a film of filth, and the crawling kicks up dirt that he immediately inhales, but he continues. Mainly because Meagon would have his head on a pike if he just gave up now.
After reaching about half an arm’s width away from one of the walls, he begins to stand, keeping the pressure from his injured leg light on his tiptoes. Clouds of dust swirl around his legs as he brushes the dirt off his pants.
Despite the decrepit conditions of the tube, no dust had settled against the walls. Micro lifts a hand and holds it near the wall, feeling a warmth radiating off of it. He’s hopeful that the reason there’s no dust is that Woogie’s group has a secret love for cleaning abandoned areas and not because the surface is so hot it’s cooked off any ash that was previously on it.
He steels himself, doing a couple of the breathing exercises he used to do before a big game. Then he presses forward and slams his hand flat against the wall.
It's cold. The metal cools his sweaty palms. But the chill quickly becomes more like a white hot freezing sensation.
With a yelp, he yanks himself backwards, his broken ankle giving out and sending him tumbling back into the ground. The walls were scorching. So much so that angry welts began to rise where his palms had been touching them.
His ankle throbs dully; the fall had snapped it in the wrong direction. He doesn’t have to look to know there's bone breaching the surface of his skin.
Resentment fills his body as he concludes his ankle needs more support: if he wants any chance of getting out of here, that is. He thumps his head onto the ground, the air knocked out of his chest.
A network of poles sprawls out above him.
It’s most likely just pipes, considering how this is a cooling chamber and all, it seems insignificant at first… Then Micro’s eyes fall on a cracked segment that’s lined up against the walls.
A literal thread of teflon tape is keeping it sealed. As Micro strains his eyes, he can see it has somewhat loosened itself via the process of shaking, rumbling or twerking — shit, he doesn’t have a damn clue, he just wants to leave.
He stumbles forward, desperate strides that appear more like hops as he avoids one of his feet. With his uninjured hand, Micro reaches out to unscrew the rest of the bolt. It drops heavily to the floor.
So does his finger tip.
The poles seem to be the source of the heat; they most likely would’ve carried the cold water for the cooling tunnel. Yet, for some godforsaken reason, the water is hot, and Micro’s fingerprints have melted off.
He should have committed a crime before this and taken full advantage of the situation while he still could.
Unfortunately, the bolt wasn’t the only thing connecting the two poles. The smaller (desirable) one was lodged into a connecting joint on the larger. If he wanted that thing disconnected, he would have to pull it out himself.
Unshed tears fill his vision as he tries once more to grasp the connected pole. The marred, charred flesh of his palms aches as he grips it. A sense of unbridled fear fills his body as he realises the connected pole is an even more scalding temperature than the rest of the tube.
His skin feels cold and clammy. Blood thrums against his breached skin, spouting out of the burn holes in his hands like some kind of gory water fountain. A carpet of numbness engulfs his brain for a moment. He sits with the idle horror that dawns upon him as he realizes that climbing out of here is going to equate to scrambling out of the depths of hell with a hope and a ‘pretty please’.
An irritated groan escapes his lips. He sits up, clamping teeth around the secured section of the pole (making sure to avoid it touching the rest of his mouth). Micro wraps both of his hands tight around the loose end and yanks. The pole detaches with an audible pop.
After rolling up the ends of his pants, Micro peels back his blood soaked sock. With the elegance of a ballerina, he inserts the section of pole into his shoe, parallel to his leg, and secures it with his belt. He only wore that for style points anyway. The scorching heat of the pipe shoddily cauterises the open wound caused by the fracture.
The pipe provides a solid support. It eases such a substantial amount of pain that Micro finds himself slumping over his knee. Though as he leans into the support of the pipe, a twinge in the other side of his ankle screams out.
It would be great if he could find another one of these for the other side.
Micro casts his eyes back up to the network of pipes, keeping them peeled for any weaknesses in the foundation. Whilst he finds none, the higher his gaze travels, the more he realises that this might just be his ticket out.
Whoever did the plumbing for this place must’ve gotten their degree from a back alley heroine dealer, or they were just a clinically insane scientist, because the pipes were interwoven like this was a go ape course and not operating heavy machinery. Oh well, it was beneficial for Micro, meant he could climb it like a shitty ladder rather than scratching his way up the curved sides of the tube like a hysterical hamster, which was his original plan.
Steam rises up past him as he perches on the first couple of bars. He tries not to sob at the realisation that it’s his skin that has just vaporised.
Tears peek out of the corner of his eyes as he climbs. Orphan boy had claimed the machine needed two people to swap the infection, but with each clang of his mottled hands against molten metal, Micro felt like it could suck his life away as is.
He leaves goey, fleshy hand stamps each time he lifts them. There’s a morbidly curious part of him that wants to take a look at his palms. See if a hole has been bored through the muscle or if his flesh has just been tinged a delicate pink.
But he knows…
If he looks, he’ll throw up.
So he climbs instead.
The faint smell of barbecue wafts through the air. Micro wonders, with a distant terror, if it’s the scent of his own roasting flesh.
He forces his gaze to remain on the pipes above, rather than the scalding heat underneath his stinging limbs as it slowly tries to cook his meat.
Whilst his pant legs did a great job at stopping his skin from bubbling off the bone, it made it much easier for accidental slips. Each time his knees falter, he has to clutch the poles so tight he wouldn’t be surprised if his hands detached when he lifts them back up.
At some point, his shoe gets caught in the narrow gap between two pipes. Micro could blame himself for letting his injured leg flop around like a replaceable accessory, or he could blame the frontal lobe-lacking bastard who did the engineering for this place.
It doesn’t end up mattering. Tugging his foot free sends him spinning into the cluster of poles in front of him. His pant legs slide off the metal, and he loses his footing. As Micro begins to plummet, he starts scrambling to grasp hold of anything that could save him.
One of his hands frantically lock around a thin pipe. He belatedly tries to stop himself from clenching the pole too hard.
But it’s too late. His fingers curve a little too far around the pipe, puncturing the paper-thin skin of his mauled palms. Micro’s thoughts turn fuzzy. His limit has been reached. He begins to move on auto pilot, climbing through the net of searing pipes without so much as a flinch.
Even as the blistered and bloodied skin of his hands begins peeling —layers of muscle and fat curling back in on itself — he just keeps climbing.
He absently recognises the weightless feeling of his ankle as its support beam finally wriggles out of his half-on shoe. The belt that tumbles down with it is mourned more than the temporary pain relief.
His ascent speeds up.
The constant furrowing of his brows, in order to focus, reopens his head wound. Thick blood oozes down his temple again, mixing in with the unconsciously formed tears in his eyes.
There's a bright light. A lit torch.
Its beams are so tiny and feeble, it barely lights the entrance to the tube.
And yet, Micro squints his eyes, bracing himself against the light change as his withered hands finally perch on top of a solid surface. His muscles spazz as he lifts himself out and onto the catwalk. Everything hurts.
It’s not over yet.
His hands are too burnt up for him to crawl again; there's a crispy boundary of skin between his fingers which he’s actively trying not to think about. Instead, he shuffles across the walkway, only on his knees.
The gaps in the latticed material catch and snag his pants. They pull on loose threads and loose bones (courtesy of his decayed ankle). He grimaces pathetically as his climb induced adrenaline wears off, doing nothing to lighten the thorn-like scratching of the metal against his singed legs.
It’s a lengthy process — writhing down the catwalk as if he were a limbless puppy — but he reaches the elevator room eventually. Sure, he gets there soaked in sweat, with blackened fingertips, and skin smelling like over-toasted bread, but at least he gets there in the first place.
Grayleigh would be proud; he can imagine her cheering him on as he smashes his shoulder against the elevator call button pitifully.
The droning song of the descending elevator muddles with the screams of anguish ringing throughout his ears. It creates a drab cacophony of daunting noise; it’s the type of shitty song he’d make fun of Rotation for listening to.
A ding disrupts the melody of his brain damage song, the elevator doors slide open hesitantly. Flakes of rust chip off as they move, slipping through the holes in the lattice.
Micro shoots them a sympathetic glance before launching himself into the elevator. It feels a little pathetic when he immediately crumples into a pile on the floor, but his left leg is a bag of rotten jelly, and he’s too well-cooked everywhere else to do something about it.
He’s spat out the side of the building, the golden glow of the evening sun coats him in its hues. Despite its bright rays beating down harshly on the ground, the air was as cool as ever. It eased some of the blazing pain that had seeped deep into Micro’s bones as it rustled through his hair.
He chokes out a sob. Tears sprinkle his cheeks as he grins up at the sky. He had always loved the summer.
Beams of light reflect off the calm ocean waves. Micro moves towards it, steps heavy and sluggish.
The pulsating sensation in his ankle returns. Spouts of blood rhythmically spurt into his pant leg with each heartbeat.
He must look like a zombie, he thinks, amused.
The glittering glimmers of light dance across the water’s surface. It adds flecks of ambrose into the depths of blue.
He fumbles to get closer to the beach.
With each step, his foot squelches.
Wet noises accompany the pretty splatters of blood that trail behind him.
It hurts.
But the water looks so beautiful in this lighting.
A loud, ghastly inhale seizes his attention away from the ocean. Micro glances up, eyes catching on Rotation’s stunned face.
Thank god he’s okay.
Micro raises his hand. Blood pools at his wrist — a gnarly and grotesque sight. He drops it then switches to the slightly less gory side before giving Rotation a timid wave.
“Hi.”
Instead of wearing an expression of joy at seeing his friend safe and sound, he looks at Micro as if he had just spin-kicked a puppy, right then and there.
“Shit! You have got to be kidding me, already?” Rotation swings his arms around wildly, dragging his palms down his face with a defeated groan.
Micro let out a nervous chuckle, “Uhh, that’s a weird way to say ‘welcome back’, orphan boy.”
Rotation let out a pained whine, fat tears beginning to drip down his reddened face — they rolled down in waves. The sight was painful to watch.
“I can’t deal with two of you.” Orphan boy choked out: his breathing turning into an amalgamation of hiccups, wails and grunts. “This can’t be happening to me again.”
“What are you talking about?” A cold panic begins washing over Micro, “Was there someone else in there? Are you alright?”
A loud sob tears its way out of Rotation.
There was a glazed-over effect to his eyes. He seemed to look through Micro as if he weren’t actually stood right there. The concept made chills rise up his back; he felt sick.
“Not again.” Rotation screwed his eyes shut, a few additional tears dripping down as he did so, “It was bad enough with just Venus, I can’t do this with you too.” His voice was meek and shaky.
“Oh fuck, okay.” Micro stepped into Rotation’s eye-line, softly pressing his hands down onto his shoulders — a solid, warm weight. “Rotation, look at me.”
Rotation’s eyes dragged up the length of Micro’s form. His nails dug painful little crescents into his hands as he did so.
“I don’t know if you’re seeing that person again right now or not, but I'm real, okay?” His body shook under Micro’s hands, a constant tremor that seemed like it was just about to erode orphan boy down to just bone and nerves.
Micro bit his lip, a sharp pain shooting through his face as his canines caught on the chapped skin. Watching one of his closest friends in such a state tore him to shreds (more than his climb out of the machine had).
Another sob wracked its way out of Rotation; it was such a dismal and pitiful noise. His gaze began to drift from Micro’s face again.
With a settling sigh, Micro wrapped his arms carefully around Rotation’s midsection. He could feel the other tense as he began to hold him close.
Micro said nothing. He just pressed his ear into the crook of Rotation’s neck, listening to the panicked pitter-patter of his heart as it gradually slowed.
Even as his heartbeat calmed and his own arms cautiously snaked around Micro, he didn’t say anything. Just stood and listened. Enjoyed the warmth radiating off the feverish skin of Rotation. It wasn’t a sickly heat like that of the machine’s; it was not the type of burn that peeled your skin and left bubbling blisters in its wake. It was a gentle warmth. Slowly building up in his gut before spreading throughout his adrenaline fueled body.
Without an immediate goal to focus on, Micro’s legs began to buckle. The pressure on his broken ankle becomes too much, too quickly. His hands grip the scruff of Rotation’s jacket as he slips down, desperate to keep his only semblance of warmth in the bitter cold of the outside close by.
Instead of feeling harsh sands digging into his knees as he fell, Micro was hoisted back up and encased in the plush material covering Rotation’s arms. The other gripped him like a lifeline, equally as reluctant to let go.
“I thought you died– I thought I got you killed Mike.” Shakey fingers wobbled against his skin, holding him like Rotation was scared to break him.
Micro wanted to push orphan boy back in protest, to shake him violently as if it would be able to catch some common sense out of the air. Instead, he just wrapped his arms around him tighter, mumbling a response with his scratchy, beaten voice. “How would that have been your fault… You are a guilt ridden idiot, orphan boy.”
Rotation let out a wet laugh. “Stop calling me that.”
Micro almost never got to hear that laugh again.
He absently wonders about Grayleigh and Meagon. Will he ever get to hear their exasperated giggles again?
Rotation gives a playful smack to the back of Micro’s head. He lifts his hand again, most likely to hit him again, then pauses as crimson fills his view.
Micro leans his head backwards, cracking his eyes open a little wider to get a better look. Orphan boy’s face has paled; he’s about four shades lighter and shaking like a leaf.
“You good?” Micro asks brusquely.
Rotation quickly clutches his face. The rough pads of his fingertips prod his flush skin as he twists Micro’s head around like a joystick to inspect it.
It seems to calm the crazed expression staining Rotation’s face so he doesn’t raise a complaint.
His palms are warm and, despite all the panic-caused sweat soaking them, a comforting presence. Micro doesn’t pull away; he finds the touch grounding, which is, surprisingly, something he needs after nearly dying.
Who would’ve thought.
If it were under different circumstances, neither he nor Rotation would ever be touching for this long. If it were under different circumstances, Meagon or Grayleigh would have rounded the corner by now to interrupt. If it were under different circumstances, Micro would never let anyone’s hands come this close to his face.
And yet it happens.
It happens because Micro has fallen, and consequently crawled back up, a 30 foot drop. It happens because Rotation is actively having visions of his dead best friend, and only a minute ago did he think there was a new addition. It happens because Micro has wanted nothing more than to be comforted since he was 11 and sat alone in a sterile hospital room. He wanted it so much he ended up in Paradise City — a place renowned for flesh eating monsters — in search of something which he didn't even know the appearance of.
It also happens because the concussion (and potential brain bleed) is making his head feel really heavy and he can’t be bothered to hold it up on his own.
Rotation’s anxious breaths begin evening out. He adjusts his grip on Micro, wrapping one of his hands to feel for his pulse on his wrist.
They’ve been gradually sinking to the floor the entire interaction. Micro can feel the grains of sand coating his bloodied leg, caking into a shitty mud mask.
Fingers slip around Rotation’s own wrist, a tentative and gentle touch. He just needs to be certain.
The fiery pain of his fresh burns compressed against a solid surface is overshadowed by Rotation’s beating heart and the relief it brings him. Drips of blood coat the mass of their conjoined limbs. Rotation doesn’t seem to notice and Micro can’t find it within himself to care.
They sit in comfortable silence until the sun begins to drop below the sky. As the night winds begin to pick up, the echo of zombie noises fill their ears.
Then a realisation dawns upon Rotation.
He shoots straight up like a bullet, back on his feet in mere milliseconds. His eyes are owlish and wide, it reminds Micro that the trauma of the day won’t disappear so easily.
He shivers.
“You good orphan boy?” He asks with a pained grunt, Rotation’s quick movement having torn open his healing hands. Rotation grips his arm, yanks him up, then quickly shoves him away.
“Let’s keep looking for Meagon and Grayleigh. I don’t want something similar happening to them.” Orphan boy wears a stoic expression: sunglasses hiding the puffy red appearance of his eyes.
Micro gives a curt, confirming nod, quickly turning his head away to hide his growing smirk as Rotation clutches the hem of his shirt.
As they begin to trudge into the infested city Micro can’t help but make a comment.“Hey, i know i’ve been acting like a beaten dog, but you can let go of my shirt though, y’know?” He grins.
Rotation levels him with a steely glare.
“What, so you can fall again when i’m not looking?”
And for once, Micro has nothing to say.