pain

Sven hurts.

The screwdriver falls from his numb fingers and he would like to pick it up but he can't. He can't really feel anything, right now, can't feel his fingers or his toes, can't feel his heart or the breath that inflates his chest. He knows everything is there, if he could look down, he knows his body would be staring right back at him, but he can't feel a thing.

He knows it's just going to get worse from here.

And he's right.

Pain lances through his body, dancing up and down his muscles like the lightening had danced over the broken surface of Doom. It fills his bones, and clenches his teeth tight onto his tongue so that his blood fills his mouth and chokes him.

The wave of pain recedes, and Sven blinks past the tears that burn his eyes. He bends down, picks up the screwdriver and turns back to this broken, shattered toy that Hunk has given him to fix. He knows the rational behind this, knows that this is a way of making him feel like he's going to become whole again. As if fixing one, small, insignificant toy will make him whole.

It's one of his toys, too, a little mechanical puppet he'd made for the village children a life time away.

He can't see the tiny screws anymore.

He can't see anything anymore.

He hurts and he wants to know why nobody notices.

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