"Goodbye Curly Head"

"Seven"

At first, there was nothing. Only warm, primordial darkness.

The vast emptiness - open plains of sweet, endless n-... No, that’s not right.

Slowly, all sensory faculties flocked back to the weary body, feeling a soft surface bending underneath its back. A dim glimmer lit his eyelids from the outside. 

His ears perked up. A raspy, annoyed voice seeped into his brain.

“... Seems like he’s waking up. Are we done, now? Can you get that thing away from my throat?”

Then, a young, calm one. Completely void of any and all emotion.

“No.”

Short and brief. It was met with an exasperated sigh. 

“... Look, it’s all over. Wham-bam, stitched up, sanitized, kissed on the forehead… You know how difficult it is, operating with a sword by my neck? What else do you want me to do?”

“Stay. There might be unforeseen complications.”

“Like what? I’m the doctor here, you know? Can you… Can you at least lower that fucking thing? I got the message, I won't try anything!”

“No.”

Once again, quick and simple. Andy slowly opened his eyes, only to be met by an unfamiliar ceiling. Specks of dust glimmered in the dim light seeping in from a window, half covered by a dirty, moth infested curtain. He squinted, trying to protect his precious sight. Seems like he was lying down in a hospital bed, connected to some sort of makeship IV bag. At least his clothes were all intact.

“... Your friend’s up. Don’t you want some privacy?”

His gaze turned towards the source of all that noise. Two figures standing by the foot of his bed, both sarkaz, one much taller than the other - wearing scrubs, crimson stains here and there. The shorter one, clad in a dirty, messily stitched poncho, with a conical straw hat atop their head held their arm out, pressing a long, thin blade to the medic’s throat. They stood completely still, their hand reacting to every little movement of the annoyed doctor. 

“... Okay. Thank you, doctor.”

With a simple flourish, they slid the blade back into its scabbard, which disappeared somewhere between the folds of their shapeless clothes. It was a move both graceful and utterly mechanical, executed like a typewriter printing letters onto a parchment sheet. Their empty, yet inquisitive eyes locked on the boy’s, delving deep into his skull. Andy felt his heartbeat quicken at the sight of the creature, immediately sitting up and pressing his back against the wall, as far away from the reaper as possible. His legs curled, hugged close to his chest. 

“Gods, finally. Sick freak…”

With an unamused snort, the doctor turned to leave, slamming the door behind. A few dry pieces of plaster fell from the ceiling, crashing against the short fiend’s horns poking through his hat. They approached the bed, arms hidden underneath the poncho.

Andy frantically turned to both his sides, searching for anything he could use as a weapon. Nuffer, Vinny, even a syringe, anything…

“I need to apologize.”

The bloodthirsty creature stood by his side, staring down into his eyes with those empty abysses of theirs. Andy could finally get a good look at his face - covered by strands of long, dirty, black hair, messily sculpted, untouched by the tragedy of aging. Hell, he had to be even younger than he was.