Work Text:
Sunday Dec 7th, sometime around 1:30 AM
Winsweep straddled the motorcycle for a moment before turning the key, letting the night settle around him. The Kawasaki Vulcan hummed beneath him—something that cost him just over six grand and new enough he hadn't given it a name yet—the engine’s vibration rising through the seat and into his bones. It felt good, better than his old ride.
The street outside the house was quiet, washed in a pale yellow from the streetlights. Somewhere behind him, a door closed. Laughter faded. Diansu and Nox and all his other friends were still inside, still talking about nothing and everything, drinking and laughing as voices blurred together the way they always did at the end of a party when nobody wanted the night to end first.
Winsweep rolled his shoulders, stretched his neck once, and pulled his helmet on. Not his best one. He knew that. The jacket, too, needed an upgrade. He told himself he’d be careful. He always did. That's why he didn't drink, it wasn't a good look.
The engine growled as he eased onto the road.
By the time he merged onto I-25, the world had thinned. Traffic was sparse, headlights were rare and distant. The highway stretched out in front of him and the pale white lane lines flashing beneath his wheels in a steady rhythm. Thump—thump—thump.
The wind pressed against his chest and shoulders, cold even through the jacket. It pushed tears to the corners of his eyes until he remember to pull down the visor. The city lights of his home glowed faintly behind him, getting further away as he pushed the throttle.
80...
90...
95...
100...
His mind drifted.
He thought about how late it was. About how good the bike felt under him. He'd be saving months for this, and he wanted to go fast. Faster than he'd gone before. The road smoothed out his thoughts, pulled them into a single forward line. No past. No future. Just motion.
Winsweep focused back, merging over, decelerating and took the exit, The off-ramp curved gently, the engine’s pitch lowering as he eased off the throttle. The highway noise fell away behind him, replaced by the softer sounds of a sleeping neighborhood—distant dogs, a single car door slamming far away, the hum of power lines overhead.
He turned down the side street toward home.
That was when the world broke.
There was no warning. No screech of tires. No time to react.
Just light, bright enough to pierce through the tinted visor and blinding his eyes, and a sound that was too loud—and then...
Metal struck metal with a violent, hollow crack. The bike lurched sideways, ripped out from under him as if the road itself had decided to reject him. Winsweep felt weightless for a fraction of a second, stomach dropping, before the pavement slammed into him.
Everything became noise.
The roar of the wind as he was flung from his ride. The scrape of leather and denim against asphalt. A sharp snap as something—his wrist, maybe—hit wrong. His helmet rang like a bell struck too hard.
He rolled.
Once. Twice.
The sky flipped. The street flipped. Streetlight—dark—headlight—dark.
Then he stopped.
Silence rushed in, thick and heavy, broken only by barking dogs nearby and the fading growl of an engine accelerating away.
The driver didn’t stop.
Winsweep lay on his back in the middle of the street, staring up at nothing.
At first, he couldn’t tell where he was. The night pressed down on him, muffled, like he was underwater. His ears rang with a high, thin whine that swallowed everything else.
He tried to breathe.
His chest rose—then stuttered—then rose again.
Pain followed the breath in waves, spreading outward from somewhere deep inside him. His neck screamed first, a sharp, burning ache that made him gasp despite himself. Moving his head sent lightning down his spine, so he stopped trying.
Something warm trickled along his body, staining into his jeans, but he couldn't tell where.
He didn’t look.
The streetlight above him flickered, buzzing softly. The sound drilled into his skull. Each flicker made his vision blur, the world dimming and brightening.
His wrist throbbed—no, not throbbed. Screamed. A deep, grinding pain that cried out with his heartbeat. He tried to flex his fingers and hissed when the movement sent pain shooting up his arm.
Okay. Okay. He was alive. That thought came slowly.
his ride lay somewhere out of sight. The smell of oil and hot rubber hung in the air
Winsweep swallowed. His mouth tasted like copper.
His head felt wrong. Heavy like it was full of liquid. Thoughts slid around instead of staying where he put them. He tried to remember the crash again—what color the car was, which direction it came from—but the memory slipped away as soon as he touched it.
Time stretched.
The cold crept in next.
The asphalt pressed hard against his back, leeching warmth from him. His legs burned where the fabric had torn, skin scraped raw. He could feel blood pooling somewhere, but it felt distant—like it belonged to someone else.
He focused on sound instead.
The buzzing streetlight. His own breathing. Somewhere, a siren wailed far away, rising and falling, never getting closer.
Winsweep tried to lift his arm.
His wrist refused.
A sound tore out of his throat before he could stop it, raw and broken. He clenched his jaw, teeth grinding together until his head swam.
“Okay,” he whispered, though his voice came out hoarse and thin. “Okay.”
The word echoed strangely in the empty street.
Minutes passed. Or seconds. He couldn’t tell.
His thoughts drifted in and out. At one point, he was sure he heard Diansu calling his name. At another, he thought RAT was sitting beside him, arms crossed, scowling.
He blinked hard, trying to clear his vision.
The stars above him looked too bright. Too sharp. They swam when he stared too long.
He wondered how long he’d been there.
He wondered if anyone would come.
The pain never fully faded, but it dulled at the edges, replaced by a heavy, aching exhaustion. His neck burned with every breath. His wrist pulsed in sickening rhythm. His legs felt numb and hot at the same time.
Eventually—after an unknowable stretch of time—footsteps approached. Voices. Real ones this time
Light flooded his vision again, but softer now. Flashing red and blue. Someone knelt beside him “Hey. Hey, can you hear me?”
The words were muffled/ His mouth opened. Nothing came out.
“What’s your name?” the voice pressed.
Time meant nothing. Seconds, minutes—there was no difference.
“Sir, what’s your name?”
His tongue felt too big. His jaw wouldn’t cooperate. Panic flared before the words finally broke free.
“Blake,” he rasped.
A pause. Then: “Blake what?”
“Winsweep.” The name felt distant, like he was handing it to them instead of claiming it. “Blake… Winsweep.”
“Okay, Blake. Don’t move. We’ve got you.”
Hands slid under his shoulders, his neck. Something hard and cold pressed against the back of his head. The moment they lifted him, pain spiraled through his body, but felt muffled too. His breath tore out of him in a broken gasp. His fingers curled uselessly, shaking.
“Hey, It's okay.” someone said quickly. “Easy. Easy.”
The street tilted away. The sky vanished. All he could see were the lights now, flashing faster, closer, swallowing everything else.
Red. Blue. White. Red. Blue. White. Red. Blue. White. Blue. White. Red. Red. Blue. White. Blue...
The night disappeared...
The last thing he felt was motion—being carried, rushed, pulled toward the lights...
and then even that was gone...