superhuman

EIGHT

Pete's issued to the infirmary after the fight.
It'd been difficult - Spencer had to use his powers to convince him to even go along, and when he'd been stubborn, Brendon had sent over "calmimg vibes", as he reffered to them, to calm him down.
And he has never been more bored.

-

The walls of the infirmary are an ugly off-beige shade, with a tinge of red in them, as if someone tried to wash off blood that was a little too stubborn.
The floor is a similar shade, although it's got more of a greenish yellowish tinge to it - like vomit.
The tiled ground is cold under his bare feet as he pads across it towards the sink - his lips are chapped and he's just about crying for water.
He inhales sharply as he moves - shattered ribs complaining straight away. His left hand stings sharply in three fingers; he doesn't need a medical report to tell him he's got broken fingers - he won't be doing hand to hand combat anytime soon, though.

His right hand ghosts across the almost jokey hospital gown he's dressed in; it brushes against his knees and is made of a thin, gaudy fabric colored in pale turquoise and trimmed in white. He's cold, and stares down at his bare legs with disdain; there's goosebumps crawling across his skin, and he can feel more even where the gown covers.

With a heaving sigh, his hands brush against his ribs, and he lets out a light groan of pain. He hasn't noticed how much weight he's lost until now; he was never fat, but he's gone from toned, lean muscle to being able to count his ribs. And with at least three being broken - one feels like it's snapped, even - he certainly misses having that extra layer of protection over his bones.
He catches sight of himself in the tiny, dirt streaked mirror above the sink, and almost has to do a double take - it doesn't even look like him. Has it really been that long since he'd last seen a mirror? Or even showered, for that matter?
His hair is growing out, for the most part; it's once neat, clean quiff is still cropped short, yet it's far from the bleach blond it used to be. He raises a shaky hand to his head, running his hands through the now-black strands.
His cheeks are matted with built up dirt from being punched into the ground too many times; small cuts scatter his cheekbones and forehead. A particularly nasty bruise covering the expanse of most of his left jaw stings as he gingerly presses two fingers against it, the pads of his fingertips brushing against the inflamed, slightly purple flesh, making him hiss in pain.
His eyes don't even look like his own, and that scares him more than anything else. They are not the shade of warm liquid whiskey, the same honey-brown as his mother's, not anymore.
No, his eyes remind him of a wild animal's - shimmering almost iridescently, cold and calculating, with a twinge of not-quite all there behind his eyes that scares him half to death.
He stares, transfixed, curious even, before rage, sweet rage, overcomes him; his fist pounds into the mirror and spiderweb cracks crawl across the surface.
He pants, his fist stinging and his ribs screaming for mercy, and he stares one last time, worrying about the.. thing he'd become.

-
His outrage seemingly alerts the nurse - well, the man casted as a nurse. He's skeptical of his qualifications, naturally, but the taller, slender man with the beaming smile and the fading dyed curly hair doesn't seem to recognise his distrust; he simply coaxes Pete to pull off the gown -he's luckily wearing boxers underneath - and tugs off the heavy black sunglasses covering his eyes to see him better.

They're heavily scarred and unrecognisable; the irises themselves a creamy white-blue-grey color. He's blind, Pete realizes, and he tries not to jump in horror.

The man turns, letting out tiny chirrup sounds, almost too high pitched for Pete to quite hear, as he navigates towards the sink. Pete watches in fascination as he uses this to shakily grab a glas, turn on the tap and fill it up.
The man turns, and lets out an almost disapproving chirp noise as Pete tries to touch his hands and bat them away. Instead, the man raises the glass to Pete's lips, forcing him to drink.

The water is cold and sweet down his parched throat, and the man lets out encouraging chirps as Pete swallows more and more of it. When it's all gone - the man makes sure of it twice - he grins, before petting Pete's head affectionately, and mumbling something incoherent.

For someone blind, he's surprisingly adept with his hands; he rebandages his ribs as quickly as possible, and helps Pete clean the built up dirt on his skin too.

After about half an hour of this, he's decidedly mended enough; the chirping man, who's dressed him in a neat button up shirt and some clean jeans, leads him out to the main hall, chirping to himself nonsensically with a half smile across his face.

The two walk towards the twisting maze of hallways to get to a place he's never seen, marked outside with "Dining Hall".
Chirp Man turns to leave as Pete goes to open the door, but he can't help blurt out a 'wait'.
He turns, scared yet curious, awaiting his reply.
"I, uh, never got your name." He grinned sheepishly as Chirp Man looked perplexed, before nodding.

"My name is Josh."

Then he was gone.