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Thanatos could tell it was going to be a silent session as soon as Miguel walked in the door. A night spent in the general's office rarely boded well, and today appeared to be no different. "How about we go ears off for today," Than suggested, in lieu of a greeting, and Miguel nodded. He'd been meaning to try a new angle with Miguel, something to help express emotions that were difficult. Art therapy showed promising results with some clients, and for someone who struggled with specific words and giving himself permission to express emotions like Miguel, Thanatos hoped it could make a difference. He retrieved a sheaf of cardstock and a set of colored pencils from a drawer and began to inscribe his next statement onto the whiteboard they used for silent days.
Just try to translate what's going on inside to the page. Any colors or shapes you like. I'm not looking for anything specific or grading you on what you depict. This is your time. If you want to discuss them afterward, that's also up to you, I'll be here, but you may just leave if you'd like.
He slid the whiteboard over for Miguel to read and ducked under the desk for a moment to pull a stack of files out of his briefcase. It would be less uncomfortable for Miguel to be unobserved during the process, he reasoned. Thanatos had been told that the full force of his attention could be... unsettling. If he'd been paying attention, however, he might have seen the punch coming.
During a session, Thanatos habitually evaluated micro-expressions and other nonverbal cues to extrapolate a client's internal state and make informed decisions on what sorts of activities or redirections might produce desirable results. It was part of the challenge, the game of therapy for him, seeing the person in the chair as the opponent at the chessboard. Miguel's face was rarely quiet, even if it often lied, and watching it would likely have given Thanatos a hint toward the storm of rage and pain brewing behind those dark eyes. As it was, he was caught completely off guard by the chromed fist that crumpled his glasses, then his nose, and then reared back again to go for more.
It took a moment for his mind to even register the pain, so divorced was it from its usual context. By that point, his nose was a fountain of blood. "Miguel, why—" was all he got out before the next blow, which knocked him from his desk chair to the floor. Instinct took over. He curled himself into a ball with his arms over his head, the same way he had dozens of times before in dozens of enemy camps. The difference now was that he didn't have plasma at his fingertips as a recourse for once the beating stopped. He reached for it, but as usual, nothing came. If anything the smell of blood and the submissive posture had encouraged the chrome programming to shut off any part of Miguel's brain that considered it a bad idea to beat his therapist to death, and the punches only increased in force and frequency with each passing second. His cries fell on deaf ears. He noted the irony.
The taste of iron in Thanatos's mouth only intensified. He could feel his bones crunching and cracking, shards slicing through his soft tissues. Even with his arms over his head, lights exploded in his vision and he struggled to retain consciousness, slurring Miguel's name between yelps and cries he knew were fruitless. Much more of this and he was risking permanent brain damage and death. He had to do something, this wasn't a training exercise where Luis or Lanzo would stop just short of killing him, shake their heads and tell him to do better next time. In the field, there were no rescues and no one to take pity on him. Thanatos would have to make his own mercy, like he always had.
He reached for his magic once again, stretched his awareness into the hungry void that had been left there since he'd been discharged from the war mage corps. Still empty. Not a single ember. A decade of training and nothing to show for it but the scars on his hands and his psyche. He was more powerless now than he ever had been. He didn't even need all of it! Thanatos had never sought to become a god of fire and lightning and plasma and cold like the other mages, all he'd ever wanted was the strength to protect himself, and if he was lucky, those he loved. He cared nothing for the holy sword of retribution. All he needed was a shield.
Shield magic had always been his best skill. Even when his plasma temperatures were low and his casts were inconsistent, his shields were always durable and able to be held for hours. He used them during his assignments, whatever he couldn't get done with his mind and his tongue could be solved by a well-placed barrier. Back then, he'd taken it as proof that he did have what it took to be a war mage, he just needed to alter his approach, figure out how to apply those skills to other tasks. He'd never mastered it. It had nearly broken him when he'd reached for his shields in the infirmary cot after that doomed mission and gotten no feedback. The only thing he'd ever been good at, stolen from him by his own weakness, unable to be called upon even in his direst need. He'd be lying if he said that surprised him.
Darkness encroached on the edges of his vision. Reality blurred. Was he on the floor of his office, in the training room, or in a holding cell? The familiar buzzing of his magic underneath his skin, in his blood , superimposed over the hollowness he knew was truly there, letting him believe for just a moment at a time that there was something for him to reach for. Despite himself, he pushed again, grasping for diamond, not flame, and to his surprise, his plea was answered. A dome of force surrounded him as Miguel drew back for another go, and stopped the next punch's descent in its tracks.
Thanatos panted heavily. He was far from safe, channelling the magic burned in a way it never had before and he had no way of knowing how long he could withstand it, or if and when his newly reclaimed power would desert him just as quickly as it had returned. Not to mention that Miguel was already trying to find a way into his fragile respite. He was clever, it wouldn't take him long. If the shock of having his magic work had brought Thanatos out of a flashback, the pounding on his shield had him on the verge of a panic attack. He needed... he needed help. Someone. Anyone.
Solomon.
Shaking hands reached for his phone, miraculously still in the pocket of his slacks. His communicator was on the desk, unreachable, but he'd been in contact with Sol while on leave, sending pictures of artisanal tea leaves for a second opinion. He'd never thought that ridiculous hobby of his would be of any use. But it did mean that of the three telephone numbers he had saved in his contacts (the other two being Rea's and his mother's) Sol's was one of them. He painstakingly typed out the simplest message he could through the blood on his fingers and the trembling of his hands as they struggled to maintain the cast:
help
No punctuation or additional context, Sol would understand. He had to. Thanatos would never send a text that simple unless he was in genuine distress.
Chrome claws picked at the edge of his shield and he scrunched himself as far into the back of it as he could. It wasn't far. He had inches of extra room inside. Folding himself into a small space was something he was very good at by now, though. Being a trembling ball pressed into a corner of a dome, face soaked with blood and tears, didn't go very far toward making himself not look like prey, and he knew it. He was minutes from being eaten alive and there was nothing he could do about it. There was always a peculiar cold feeling that flooded him when he stared death in the face. Somehow it was… comforting. To know he was still the man he had been all those years ago.
By the time heavy footsteps sounded in the hallway outside, Thanatos had become quite confused. Didn't know where he was. The sounds… more chrome. Two of them? This one bigger, he couldn't stand up to both of them— What could he do? Couldn't run, couldn't hide. Needed help. No help coming. No rescues.
He couldn't even uncover his eyes to see what was going on between the two of them. All he had the strength for was to lie there with his arms over his head and his blood burning, aching, screaming to keep the shield going. He didn't know if the blood still streaming from his nose was truly rotten or if that was memory, if the subtle buzzing was the barrier flickering or his blood in his own ears or the chrome. No words from outside, just the whirring of servos and the clicking of joints and the growls and whines of two dogs communicating with each other. Two… Rex? And Miguel? He shuddered, and the radius of his shield shrunk by an inch.
A soft tap on his shield, the first in a while, made him flinch harder than any of the punches. "Than? It's me, it's okay. I need to get you out of here." He wanted to get out of here, he wanted to go home. Didn't want to hurt anymore, his blood was on fire— "To do that, you need to let the shield down, Thanatos. Let me help you."
Let it down? But… he'd gotten it to work for the first time in half a decade, didn't want to lose it, didn't want to go back to being a failed mage. Thanatos had been shaking from head to foot, straining his hardest to keep the cast going, and now he needed to drop it? Give up, again? How could he be sure he was safe? He was so tired. It hurt so much. The burning and the bleeding and the dying.
"Please, Than. Let me in, I want to help."
The shield flickered. Once, twice. Then dropped.
"S-Solomon?"