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“We gotta bounce,” Twice said, clutching his head in panic as chaos erupted around them.
“Agreed,” Compress said, stepping up behind Dabi. Dabi felt the cool weight of Compress’s hand on his shoulder.
Then, suction, strong enough to tug at the seams of his skin, the world tunneling into nothingness.
A harsh shove, like being hit by a train, and he was on his hands and knees on the ground. Not the concrete of the warehouse where the “new recruit” had ambushed them, he realized as bile scalded his throat. It was the familiar worn hardwood of the hideout. He gave into the wave of nausea that washed over him, retching and vomiting. He dry heaved, his arms shaking with the effort of holding his bodyweight.
As he staggered back, pressing himself against the wall, the dry heaving wouldn’t stop. His chest hurt, his jaw hurt, everything hurt. His heart fluttered hard against his ribs, making him cough. Heart attack? His skin prickled as panic set in. How long was he out? What had happened? What had they done to him? Where was-
“Easy, Dabi.”
The voice was distorted by the roar in Dabi’s ears. This was a dream, right? A bad dream? But… no, he knew the person in the orange suit. Mr. Compress. A teammate. Not a doctor, not a scientist. But was he real, or was this some sort of cruel hallucination?
“Can I touch you?”
Dabi blinked hard, forcing his eyes to focus. Mr. Compress had taken his mask and balaclava off, his brow furrowed in concern. His sweat-damp hair clung to his forehead and stuck out at odd angles, a jarring contrast to his usual refined appearance.
He had asked. Nobody ever asked. They either avoided him like he was diseased or stitched his patchwork body together with rough, clinical indifference.
Shakily, Dabi nodded.
Compress rested his hand on Dabi’s shoulder. Dabi tensed instinctively, but Compress wasn’t using his Quirk. He was just… there. Something about that was oddly reassuring. “Are you hurt?” he asked.
Dabi shook his head. Everything hurt and everything was numb at the same time. Without Compress’s hand on his shoulder, Dabi felt like he might dissolve, or the world around him might dissolve. “How long was I out?” he rasped.
“Out?” Compress tilted his head. “Oh, right. You were in the marble for about an hour.”
“An hour,” Dabi said to himself. Only an hour. Not three years. He had been in stasis, probably in Compress’s pocket, not under the knife, not in a strange, cold hospital room. Even so, the sharp tang of antiseptic clung to the back of his throat. His ears rang with the distant beeping of machines.
He dug his fingers into the hardwood floor until the grain bit into his skin. This was real. The faint scent of stale cigarette smoke wafted through the room, mixing with the warmth of old wood and dust. Each inhale filled his lungs with air untouched by chemicals, raw and gritty but familiar.
Safe.
Every slow, deliberate exhale eased the tension in his chest. He focused on the soft, steady sound of his own breathing, Compress’s breathing, the creak of the old building settling. The ache in his body dulled and the numbness faded. The hideout came back into focus - the watery light filtering through dusty windows, the worn couch with the cigarette burn on the cushion, Compress’s obnoxious orange suit that always seemed jarringly out of place in this run-down hole in the wall.
Chaotic. Messy. Real.
Compress’s voice broke the silence. “Usually people are… a bit disoriented when they experience my Quirk. I’ve never seen anyone react like this.” His voice was apologetic. “I’ve never seen you react like this, to anything.”
An unspoken question hung in the air. Dabi supposed he owed his teammate some sort of explanation. If nothing else, it might prevent something like this, such a pathetic display, from happening again. “I’ve lost time before,” he admitted. “Three years. I woke up… like this.”
Compress’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across his face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. That must have been… traumatizing.”
“Understatement of the century.” Dabi tried on his usual smirk, but it didn’t fit quite right. At least he could feel his skin again, the pull of the staples, the texture of his clothes, the hardwood floor beneath him and the grimy drywall at his back.
Compress’s hand still rested on his shoulder, a comforting weight that Dabi found himself reluctant to lose. His hands and legs still shook with tremors. He didn’t trust himself to stand, or even to move much at all. His limbs felt leaden, his head too heavy for his neck. He curled in on himself, resting his head on his bent knees with a resigned sigh.
“Next time,” Compress said softly, “I’ll give you a warning.”
“I’d appreciate that,” Dabi replied. “Tell anyone about this and your next disappearing act will be permanent.”
Compress chuckled. “Of course. My lips are sealed.” He squeezed Dabi’s shoulder reassuringly. “Do you need water?”
“I can get it myself. I’ll probably be here for a while. If the others ask, I overused my Quirk by doing something super badass.”