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These aren’t his lungs.
Sometimes, when he’s got nothing else to do, suddenly he becomes aware of everything and it’s all he can think.
These aren’t his lungs. This isn’t his body.
He flexes a hand tentatively, trying to gauge how much strength he has now. One morning they’d given him a glass of water and it shattered in his hand before he’d lifted it halfway to his face. Whatever the Patriots had been hoping to achieve with him had been cut short when Big Mama broke him out and the doctor said it showed. In small ways— apparently Raiden should’ve intuitively known his limits. Should know how to hold things without breaking them.
(He disagrees. ‘Cause not once in his life before now has that ever been a risk. Can’t think of a time in his life where he could rip the door off a car just because he wasn’t paying enough attention. But what did he know? He wasn’t ever anything more than a soldier.)
It’s hard for him to figure out how to adjust to something so… Unreal. Nanomachines had improved him, but this was like comparing a knife to a cannon, and half the time all he could really think about is how much it hurts. God sometimes it hurt so much he could barely stand to be alive, and he had no idea how much was for real and how much was in his head. Every breath made him want to scream because he was exhausted and in agony and all he wanted was to go home and apologise to Rose for the way he left and--
Sometimes, he wakes up with teary eyes and a raw throat. Embarrassed, but no one mentions it and neither does he. Never remembers his dreams, but he’s sure he knows what they are anyway.
The life he always wanted, being taken from him.
Over
and over again.
Because that’s all he has left.