Stephen wakes up in a medical bed, clearly being tended to for blood loss and exhaustion and whatever it was that happened to him.
Oh.
He groaned, pressing the palms of his trembling hands to his eyes. What...
He was alive, at least.
The memories of the awful things he'd seen...the awful things he'd done...the awful thing he'd been...how dare he succumb to that...that thing!? How could he attack his teammates...a kid, Kubo...he felt sick to his stomach and leaned over the side of the bed, sure he was going to retch. Fortunately they must have had him on some future medication because it didn't come, and he'd already probably emptied his stomach earlier. But the disgust was on a level he'd never experienced before. Disgust at himself.
He'd sworn an oath.
Do no harm.
He looked down at his shaking hands. A flash of those horrible scythe-things they'd been.
Instruments of healing, turned killing.
He felt ill again, the sensation of not-being-in-a-human-shape was starting to weigh on him and he just felt...out of sorts. He quickly threw open the thin blanket covering him just to make sure he had proper legs. Tattered clothes, but they were there. His uniform was shredded, though. He rubbed his face involuntarily, he could still feel like he had a beak though there was nothing there...extra legs...a shudder. He wanted to forget. His failure, his weakness, what he'd done to himself...
Strange
Oh.
He groaned, pressing the palms of his trembling hands to his eyes. What...
He was alive, at least.
The memories of the awful things he'd seen...the awful things he'd done...the awful thing he'd been...how dare he succumb to that...that thing!? How could he attack his teammates...a kid, Kubo...he felt sick to his stomach and leaned over the side of the bed, sure he was going to retch. Fortunately they must have had him on some future medication because it didn't come, and he'd already probably emptied his stomach earlier. But the disgust was on a level he'd never experienced before. Disgust at himself.
He'd sworn an oath.
Do no harm.
He looked down at his shaking hands. A flash of those horrible scythe-things they'd been.
Instruments of healing, turned killing.
He felt ill again, the sensation of not-being-in-a-human-shape was starting to weigh on him and he just felt...out of sorts. He quickly threw open the thin blanket covering him just to make sure he had proper legs. Tattered clothes, but they were there. His uniform was shredded, though. He rubbed his face involuntarily, he could still feel like he had a beak though there was nothing there...extra legs...a shudder. He wanted to forget. His failure, his weakness, what he'd done to himself...
...how could he forgive himself?