𝐎𝐍 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐒𝐈𝐃𝐄 𝐎𝐅 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘 || 𝐇𝐒𝐑

00. welcome to hell

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Incessantly, it drones on, matching the repetitive beat of his heart. With his eyelids too heavy to lift, it's all he can listen to - the whirring of a fan, the lub-dub in his chest, and, of course, the high-pitched beeping of the machine next to him. It's maddening.

A pained grunt leaves him as he tries to move. His abdomen screams in anguish, the flesh feeling as though it's about to be ripped apart by the seams. His lower wings are no better - cramped and crushed, they crumple against his body, cracks and pops sounding as he shifts.

It takes almost all his strength to squint his eyes open. His vision is blurry, disorientated, but he thinks he can see tiles.

Somewhere next to him, he hears wheels roll against clean floor tiles, and then the shuffling of cloth. Suddenly, a blinding light shines into his eyes. He immediately recoils, an unbecoming hiss escaping him.

"Reaction looks good, no cloudiness... You awake in there, birdie?"

Sunday squints out a glare, or well, he glares the best he can while having the sun in his face.

"Feisty. That's good," his company observes, but decides to take mercy on him anyway. Dark spots litter his vision as he blinks into reality, his eyes readjusting.

The ceiling isn't that outstanding, just the standard white tiles of any other hospital. There's a curtain hanger in the corner of his eye, and other than that, he can't see much else. He figures he must be in a hospital.

He tries to sit up again, but his arms, weakened by the fall, fail him. An arm catches and steadies him.

"Careful there. You're still recovering from the fall."

Sunday wearily looks over at who caught him. An unfamiliar face stares back. He's mildly surprised - he knows every worker on Penacony by name, so to find someone he hadn't met yet...

"How are you feeling?" they ask, helping him to sit up. "Dizzy? Pained? Ready to take another nap?"

He tries to focus on them, but can't as his gaze wanders to the rest of the room.

His earlier assessment proves to be accurate, or at least, he got the general idea right. It's smaller than he originally thought, and it isn't as neat and organized as the hospitals back on Penacony.

A doctor's desk stands in one corner, covered in first-aid kits, notebooks, and holographic screens. Standing besides it is a mini-fridge and a microwave, and a cabinet looms overhead - likely containing more medical devices. There's another bed other than his. It looks like it hasn't been used in months.

His gaze lands on the one thing that's painfully out of place in this room - a rifle, dark, long and equipped with a bayonet, lying in a display case alongside many other firearms.

Figures. A wanted criminal of his magnitude wouldn't be held in an esteemed hospital. He's lucky he isn't in a prison cell.

"I don't..." Sunday shakes his head. "Where am I?"

"You'll find out soon enough."

Indignation sparks. "I'm... sorry?"

His captor caretaker sits back on their office chair. They look to be around Robin's age, but their attire... To put it bluntly, it wasn't anything a respectable healthcare worker would be caught wearing on duty.

"It's best if you don't ask too many questions right now," they advise. "You can stress out later. Now, look at my finger."

"I-" Reluctantly, Sunday does as he's told, following their finger with his gaze as they move it around. "May I at least have your name?"