Chapter Text
The stars had come out, twinkling gently. The sun lowered against the backdrop of the dark purple sky. A gentle cool wing breezed through the town, giving them respite from the hot summer heat from the day. The moon cast a silvery glow on the rivers streaming nearby and greeted the people of Turitopulis. Lights began to flicker on, one by one as people returned to their homes and families. All the houses were filled with chatter, laughter, and the familiar sound of cooking food.
All except one.
The Thaniyel household was devoid of life. Mayor Thaniyel was at his office, working on some bills to pass, to hopefully make the lives of the citizens better. But it was hard to think about the wellness of his people whilst his own son was in a hospital, recovering from a brutal fight with Player who, well, did it to save him and take the Venomshank, but its aftermath had both of them in the hospital. Player had already recovered and was on their way to get the next sword, whilst Griefer was still recuperating.
The lead surgeon said he’d be okay. The doctors said the effects would be reversible. They said that Brad would be discharged soon.
Soon.
He looked down somberly at the papers. He wouldn't be able to focus, not with his own son- his own child;, in such a situation. He put away the papers and locked the door to the office and went over to his jeep. He’d look at them tomorrow when his head was clearer. That's what he’d been telling himself.
-
It had been a week since the whole battle thing. Since he became a plant dog. Whatever it was, he didn't care. The fluorescent lights still blinded him- that was a constant. Another was the buzzing and whirs of the machinery. The plants that stubbornly clung to his arms was also a constant. A constant reminder of what he had done.
Despite his spotty memory, he remembered the voices. They lied. They lied. Why did he even want power in the first place? Why did he chase after it? He groaned, putting a hand over his eyes, the leaves brushing against his face. He hurt Mayor Thaniyel- he hurt his dad. He stabbed himself with the Venomshank and now he’s here.
On one hand he's glad that he doesn't have to deal with that stupid punk who beat him, that they’re far from Turitopulis. That they took the Venomshank with them. On the other hand, he wants to beat up the stranger, take the Venomshank from them, fall into the cold grasp of the voices again.
They lied.
Those thoughts plagued him ever since he woke up. He despised the Venomshank, and he despised himself for ever trusting those voices. But there was an echo, calling him to take the Venomshank. He had to stop him from jumping out of bed a couple of times, the call was so strong. And he hated himself for that.
He hated the voices- misguiding him, he hated himself when he followed the voices despite knowing their true intentions, he hated his dad for hiding the fact he was the guardian of the Venomshank, when they promised to never hide anything from each other when he was a child.
Not like he kept that promise either.
He didn't tell his father about his highschool friends. He pretended to not know when his father stressed about the spray paint graffiti on the side of Teatime. He never mentioned when his friends left one by one to go to bigger cities for better job opportunities. He ignored his father when he asked why he was acting unlike the son he knew.
He hated it when his dad spoke like that. But he loved his dad at the same time. It frustrated him so much.
The whirring of the machine continued in the background. It was a constant. Just like how the sun always sets and the earth always turns, the distant buzz will always be in this hospital. Until he leaves. He’s still recovering from the multitude of surgeries, but he might be let out in two weeks if all goes according to plan.
That's two weeks of absolute boredom, aside from the occasional visit from the father. But he didn't come often, which he could understand due to his work. Picking at flowers could only entertain him so much, and looking outside the window to the same view everyday was no doubt killing the brain cells he had. He wished he went outside the crib or his room after he graduated high school. He might at least have somebody to talk to besides his online friends...
The arm on his face shielded his eyes from the burning glow of the lightbulbs. He wished they would turn it off at night and rather let the natural light from the moon and stars fill the room. Sure, they dimmed the lights at around 9 or 10, but it was still on. He just wanted to be shrouded in darkness for once.
Damned light sensitivity.
He’d try to sleep. It was hard to do that, considering the bright lights. The room was too cold. The beeping of machines in the background. The leaves uncomfortably sticking to his arms. But he’d fallen asleep here a total of 5 times. He could do it. Better than to try and sleep rather than stay up and be bored out of his mind.
He never noticed when the lights dimmed, nor did he notice the passage of time. His short coma was to blame- having skewed his internal clock and only being able to tell the time by visual and sound cues.
But Griefer did notice when the noise of chatter and groans of pain lessened. The nurses and doctors would be working their night shifts now. The other patients would now be asleep. Lifting his hand off his face, he realized just then the lights were not as bright as before.
“F1N4LLY, 0H MY D4YS…” He muttered, his eyes getting rest from the constant squinting and pressure. It was most likely 10 or 11, and if sleep had eluded him this far, then there was no hope of trying to force him to sleep. He’d only end up bored out of his mind with nothing to do.
He sat up in bed. The doctors and nurses encouraged movement to recover faster. Something along the lines of preventing blood clots and other complications. He couldn't remember- it was the first day when he woke up and he was disoriented and dazed when he was assaulted with too much information by the nurses and the fretting of his father.
He looked around. It was a familiar sight. The white walls were washed in a dim, yellow atmosphere and the window showered the room with soft white light. It smelled of antiseptic and a bit bitter. He was tired of it. He wanted something new. To break the constants.
He pulled the scratchy blanket off him, as he tentatively put his feet on the ground. They were still weak, and he probably had a while of physical therapy until he could walk normally again. He slowly stood up, putting most of his weight onto the bed. Damn it. Damn this. He hated being so weak. He was supposed to be Griefer. He was supposed to be strong.
He took a step and almost fell, catching himself on the edge of the bed. He groaned, slapping his hand against his face, the leaves rustling and laying gently on his head. Griefer lay there for a few seconds before stubbornly pushing himself up again. He’d be more prepared. He’d be stronger.
It was most probably 12 by the time he was confident taking a few steps. But that had exhausted him. He flopped onto the bed, weakly pulling the blanket over him. Despite its rough texture, it was comfortable, and light. He was content. He was safe. He closed his eyes and drifted off to a light sleep, bound to wake up soon from the hustle and bustle of the doctors working to keep other patients alive.