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Corpses. All Hope can see are corpses. PSICOM soldiers on the ground, soaked in blunt force wounds and bullet holes. They deserved it. They deserved it. They tried to kill him, everyone else he was with. But they were just afraid, everyone in the group are enemies of Cocoon. Pulse l’Cie. But Hope didn’t want this, he just wanted to go home with his mom, he’s not a bad person, and yet, and yet—
And yet he killed a man. Six feet away, blood from the head and blood on his Airwing. But it was self defense, wasn’t it? That man raised a gun at Hope, almost shot him. Every person that was not one of the group tried to kill him, or one of the others. And that was how it would be for the rest of Hope’s short life, ending with him either shot or crystal or Cie’th—
His Airwing slipped from his hand and clattered on the ground. He thought he might puke right there on the spot. He killed a man, he’s a murderer, he’s a l’Cie, this is his life—
He backed up until his back hit the crystallized waters, and then his legs gave out from under him. His vision blurred at the edges and he needed to run, get out of there, he can’t move, why can’t he move, he’s not hurt, is he? His throat is burning and tears are running down his cheeks and the others are calling his name. They aren’t yelling and yet it’s too loud, way too loud, he can’t find silence, where is it?—
Lightning was the one to walk over and kneel down in front of him. She put one hand on his shoulder and he was surprised at how intensely he felt her grip. His heart was pounding so fast, he felt like it would burst any moment.
“Breathe,” she told him, her voice blending in with the roar of everything else happening around him. “Deep breaths, Hope.”
He tried, he tried so hard, but he felt like his ribcage was crushing his lungs and his throat was swollen shut and he had no air and it hurt, it hurt, it hurt—
He thought he might be dying, having a heart attack, or even slowly turning Cie’th— that very thought made it all worse and he could do nothing but sob. He didn’t want to die, not now, not here, he wasn’t even fifteen.
“Help me, help me, help me,” he whispered, over and over, speaking so fast he was barely comprehensible. He was dying, he was hurt, he was in danger. He couldn’t say the things he needed to say, his voice couldn’t keep up with his thoughts.
Lightning used her free hand to wrestle off one of Hope’s gloves, and then took his hand into her own. It surprised him how well he was able to pay attention to how her hand felt, with rough skin and leather gloves and metal knuckle guards.
“Hey, you’re going to be fine. You aren’t dying, it’s just a panic attack.”
He wanted to feel upset, she sounded dismissive, but her tone was so matter-of-fact that he just felt relieved that she somehow knew that he wasn’t going to die. He gave a small nod, and took her hand with both of his and clung as if it were a lifeline.
With him leaning forward slightly, she took her hand that was on his shoulder and put it on his back. When she slowly moved her hand up and down, combined with her whisper of “Breathe, Hope”, he finally managed to take in a breath that wasn’t a tiny little gasp.
In and out, in and out. He couldn’t hear PSICOM soldiers. They were okay, right? Right?
“We’re safe?” he whispered, fatigue starting to mix with his fear. He was so tired.
“For now,” she replied.
He could only pray she’d stay with him a little bit longer, before PSICOM caught up to them once more.