Chapter Text
Tango crouched behind one of the lasting standing rooms from what used to be the active shopping center of this town's main street, of course before it got blown up by a villain with Tango inside.
His legs wobbled, sent shock waves from his calves to his lower back until Tango lost balance and he plopped upon the pulverized bricks and teared sustaining columns, shredded, scattered across the entirety of the crushed-tiled floor. What he couldn't stop thinking was that at the best case scenario, he didn't collapse above the piles of glass shards turned into dust by the sheer pressure of the explosion, the worse case and he'd be breathing glass dust right then. The air had the scent of ash, charcoal, and metal, clogged his nose, except he sniffed it anyway, still it carried no clue about what that room was used as before it was turned into smithereens. I messed up, so bad.
Is it worrying he could hear nothing but the hissing of his lungs? Tango panted, trying to regulate his own frenetic heartbeat, as his experience told him the adrenaline would die slow; and his arms ached right at his joints, in which, happy news! He must had fallen with his whole weight over his side, after the second impact from the bombs spread around the second floor. No doubt it launched him like a baseball, even from the floor below, where he thought he was—the shopping center was truly unrecognizable, it was closer to a building site than a actual building, the walls were down but the metal pillars impending the whole place to collapse over its own weight, the ground was filled with debris, and the ceiling had wires and ventilation tubes slipping out of the cracks.
Out of instinct, he searched his body for any fatal injury he could find, any slashed skin or folded bones, though he could tell his head was wrong in a bunch of different ways, starting from how his eyesight delayed when he tilted his neck.
At least, Tango was thankful he was capable of evacuate the building from any civilians, and most of the surrounding block, after he tracked the bombs, or this could've been a blood bath. However, his subconscious was smacking itself: at that point he should know better than think the Southerns would bluff about blowing up a building in the middle of a busy city in broad day light—how embarrassing.
His hands were useless—well, not literally, however felt like it—, he couldn't feel his fingers move as they trembled, and his palms were throbbing, his fingertips got murk with ashes and cement's powder. Tango curled his knuckles into a fist, tapping the palm of his hands, they're dry and humid at the same time, just odd, though he was familiar with the scent and feel of kerosene from his own skill.
He needed to go outside, where the Southerns were battling against the rest of his team, or he thought so, or the other heroes from Head of Heroes Department patrolling that for sure listened about the destruction of the mall. What he wished was his group didn't get to know it was him who evacuated everyone without giving them the heads up, regardless of how it seemed…unlikely. At his core, Tango already knew he was already doomed for another company scold, but if that was the case it wouldn't hurt to tell the villains how much of a stupid name Southerns was, again. Tango only needed to—
"Shit! Shit, shit."
Tango attempted raising himself up, leaning against the wall and lifting the upper-body, he couldn't suck in a breath quick enough when his left side stung, and he folded like a envelope, like he was being stabbed by a knife—for a moment he believed he was. He stumbled back over the floor, dug his heels upon the debris, and held his ribs out of instinct, then…he realized he couldn't feel any knife or sharp object where it pounded. Shifting to sit instead of planked upon the ground made his vision swim and clench his jaw shut, I wish I hadn't moved, was the single clear contemplation inside his mind as his side burned, would hurt less if someone was dripping hot water over him.
For confirmation, Tango tapped his side—his suit wasn't even ripped, his hero uniform was intact beneath his touch, he could trace the sewing with his finger tips, and the volume from the Kevlar fiber didn't felt torn at all…oh, that told him enough.
"I'm killing Impulse next time I see him," Tango grumbled. "I'll get him fired. I'll do my own fucking suit, from now on." Because if the fiber didn't received the damage from impact, his abdomen for sure did. Tango likely had the worst broken rib case in the entire world.
As a hero, Tango done the same procedure a handful amount of times, and he had been forced to watch the same workshops about patrol-safety done by HHD every two months: the full injure check. Tango shut his eyes, forcing his brain to forget about the absurdity of what was happening and remember what brought him there, because he was pretty sure today wasn't Incendiary Patrol Day at his calender.
The last thing he remembered was finishing the evacuation from the three floors, the place was awfully quiet but the occasional beeping from his helmet, it meant his communication with his team was open, and his heart rate was being streamed to the headquarters, which usually also meant Etho was tracking him down like a lost puppy. It was the sighting of Listener by an anonymous source that made him put on his suit that day, he was aware of the odd movement from Listener, one of the members from the Southerns, circling the mall like a shark looking for pray—and for the record, the other reason he decided to attend the call was because the villain and he didn't get along with each other.
He remembered the explosives, like two or three fireworks tied together with colorful wires, a handful of them, to a degree it was hard to know where they started or finished, except for Tango it looked fairly simple to disable, it didn't even had a timer, so how they blew up was a mystery. What he knew was that he wasn't at the heart of the explosion, but the impact sent his body flying. Tango passed out before his head hit the ground.
He breathed in, and out. He didn't believe he was amnesiac, the first good new of the day, the helmet must had held most of the impact of his head as the suit ought to do—right, Impulse?— , it would be hard to tell until he met with…uh, a doctor. Tango shook his head, his neck was pain-free, still, his side throbbed, made sense if he was tackled towards a sharp corner, it didn't feel like a good nap when he woke up.
He wasn't going to lie to himself and say the persistent ring over his left ear was normal, at these circumstances, the best case scenario he busted an eardrum, that could be healed over the next month, and wouldn't take him out of conflict; the HHD was seriously low on volunteers, slacking wasn't part of his plans, the Department couldn't take it; the last thing bugging him was his hands—those were just weird. The sensation was like his skill was active for hours on end, the proof was the accent of gasoline and the ash peeling from his fingertips, yet Tango couldn't grasp the memory of when he needed to use his fire, not even during the past-week.
"There you are, I found you."
His head whipped towards the voice, his eyesight swirled as if he passed the last two hours spinning. It sucked so hard, he couldn't hear footsteps beneath his buzzing ear. Regardless, he didn't need to see to recognize the voice, water-clear. The moment his pupils focused, he found a person gripping at the doorframe until his knuckles pale. Listener, with his blond hair and the purple kerchief wrapped above his eyelids, almost covering his nose—every time he met him, the hair length was a few fingers longer, he wanted to write it down for nagging next time, where the rest of his team could hear.
"What the hell do you want, fishy-face," Tango rasped, with his throat so dry he began coughing. "Wasn't you supposed to be doing your villanfication outside?"
"Shut up with that!" Listener yelled, made the walls shake. "Tell me, right now, what you saw, Incendiary." Listener spat. "I ain't asking. Speak the fuck up."
Listener face contorted into a bitter expression, it was wrong. Where was the ragging smug expression plastered onto his face? Where was his weapon, his bow?
With his elbows, Tango crawled a tiny bit away from Listener, it wouldn't look more than a pop of his neck. That wasn't normal, he could just tell the villain was not on his right mind, he was pissed off, genuinely, looked worse than himself, because at least he had his suit not ripped like they just went through with a cat fight, different from the state of the villain's lime-green jacket. Listener curled his hands into a fist. Tango knew all about the Southerns' quirks before they'd jump into a fight.
Quickly, Tango eyes darted around, his helmet didn't magically appeared inside of the room, it settled inside his core he had to accept no one was coming to 'assist' him today—his team would tell him 'I told you so', and he'd be forced to listen—, he couldn't locate any type of weapon he's capable to use against Listener but the the debris, and as much he didn't want admit it, if they started to fight one-on-one, he was going to lose at the first swing. Tango wasn't a physical fighter, he relied on his quick thinking and arsoning capacity most of the time, as well as the most delicate thread of hope everything would fix itself at the end of the year.
His only exit was to speak up, so he began doing just that. "I saw you planting the bombs, jerk. I don't know what would the Southerns want at a mall. I don't need to if I'm going to kick your ass."
Listener stepped towards Tango, his threat made the villain more angry, he had to bite a laugh away, someone needed to tell Listener their dynamic functioned the other way around. "They don't have nothing to do with this. You know exactly what I'm talking about. I won't let you run your big mouth around the HHD, and ruin everything we've been working for!"
Tango frowned, his breath trembled when scraped out from his throat. Nothing as nothing? Why would Listener do a solo mission? It was new, he—.
Before Tango kept talking, making the villain distracted, Listener jolted at him with empty hands. Could he run for it? No, running was out of the question when he couldn't shift himself an inch without making his stomach turn. The only way out was through. Tango seized a shattered brick from beside, and propelled it at Listener's face, it whistled as it rushed across the room, the villain ducked just in time for it not target his nose, however the kerchief was sliced across, just enough for Tango to see an ocean-blue eye peak through the fabric.
"Motherfucker!"
Listener kicked him to his side, and with the same movement he plopped above Tango's waist, pinning him upon the ground. Tango matched the swear, as his lower back was pierced with a piece of glass, it slowly slashing his suit's fabric while Listener wobbled above his pelvic. In a blink, a punch met his face; his tongue was bitten by his teeth with the violence from impact—his already dried throat was filled with the overtopped methylic blood taste, sent him choking fast.
"Shut up, Incendiary." Listener uttered, as he lifted his elbow again.
It wouldn't feel so humiliating if he knew why Listener wanted to beat the shit out of him. He attempted to comprehend the reasoning, at the same time his brain was digging into itself for tactics to help him flee—he really, really, really, needed to go home today.
However, it wasn't a lie when said it wouldn't make sense for a organization like the Southerns rob a shopping center, even less blow up one without a clear motive.
This type of big shows of power were usually tied to newer, smaller groups in a attempt to settle themselves at an already dominated territory; it could also be fruit of desperation for money, even if a mall wasn't the most common denominator at mass thieving—and as far as he could tell the Southerns wasn't in need of more capital than they already had circulating at the underground marketing. No important figure, either political, popular, or targeted, was reported to be strolling at the mall that evening, so an attack to set an example, or another inside rivalry heroes shouldn't know about, would be off the table.
What was the common factor binding the events together, what was he missing? They'd nothing to do with Listener, but who had?
Tango snatched out a hand to seize Listener forearm, and swiftly grabbed his left-handed punch with his free hand. The only way out was through.
Tango had his blood boiling, confusion, anger, desperation, determination, made his limbs numb, and his mind clear, while his brain commanded shots of adrenaline to rush through his veins; he welcomed it, the flame blooming at the pit of his stomach was fed, and Tango canalized it to his shoulders, and his elbows, and his wrists, as his muscles tensed up, then, his hands were set ablaze.
Fire was created out of thin air, blooming at the palm of his hands, unable to burn him because it was him, that was the nature of his skill. The grip he had over Listener arm tightened, and if it wasn't for his flames, Listener's next move would be a violent headbutt.
The skin beneath his hands sizzled, the terrible popping-noise, Tango tried to not sniff the scent that came out from it. Listener wailed, instinctively pulling his arms out from Tango's death grip, or attempting to.
Listener used his leg to twist around his own, and used his knee to kick Tango at his side. Tears formed in his eyes without his will as his side ached with the exact sensation of being cut open, it drained out all the oxygen from his lungs; still, he didn't let go, controlling his fire to not rise out of control—he was burning him, if he let his pain talk lauder than it has until now, Tango would reach the bone with little struggle. Listener stared as Tango's vision blurred, the blue the only color when the corner of his eyes began black in, his face was so close he could feel it hot, reddened, and the blue looked like a storm. This was the first time in three years battling against one another he was able to make his enemy rage, instead of the other way around, and he couldn't even be happy about it.
"Don't play with me!" Listener panted. "I will kill you. I'll—ah!"
On spur of moment, Listener's weight left his upper-body, Tango used the break to gasp for air. The ringing from his ears didn't compete with the thumping from his heart, he could feel it smashing his ribcage, and pulsating right at his throat. The adrenaline didn't allow his muscles to sag, his whole body was clenched. His second brain, as a hero, was going as his eyes dashed around the room looking for the villain. It took ten embarrassing seconds before he was able to comprehend what just happened.
Listener was dragged out from Tango by his armpits and tackled to the ground; he watched as the villain's chest rose and declined like a spring, and above him was an HHD assistant, he had his back turned towards Tango, regardless, the blond hair highlighted by pink, the sunrays seeping into his skin, across the building by its cracks, like himself emanated he's own light, this person was unmistakable for a list of distinguish reasons that played inside of his head like a chorus. Although, assistant felt off, it would be the wrong category to put that single, unique task-force, the illustration of a sheep skull sewed at the uniform sleeves gave Tango no doubt, the Death Sprout agent showed up for them. Their group could be tied to the Department, but they were a whole different division, neither hero or villain. That meant the fight was over, that was…
"Stop! It's done. This's DS!"
That was Zedaph.
He shouted above Listener's ear, and kept his balance while he struggled. Outside the room, Tango noticed, for the first time in hours, other people marching across the mall's remains, the other members of the task force. The attempt to follow his gaze towards what they were doing failed amazingly, their motions looked incredibly blurry, like a movie flashback, made he wish once more he wasn't at the edge of passing out.
"Death Sprout, please don't retaliate!" He repeated.
Death Sprout were seemingly magical words for the villain too, it worked just as good as a snap of fingers, and Listener slouched beneath the weight, giving up completely of the—his perspective—one-sided dispute they just had; it wasn't any different for him, Tango let his body slack, lying with his back against the wall. The DS turned the villain around like a pancake, ignoring the groaning from who he was treating, his hands petted the villains back, his legs, and his head; he knew much about DS's training to figure out Zed was searching for anything out of place, broken bones, skin cuts. Tango's heart sunk when he reached the arms, his posture stiffened, and Zed hissed.
"Zed—!" Tango grimaced, letting his voice die.
He shouldn't say his real name in public, what was his issue today? For a single rule in the whole safety-thing they were sacredly following, it seemingly flew outside his head the moment he felt a bit desperate; worse, he said it in front of a conscious villain. Tango could hope he had enough luck to compensate today, just little luck for Listener to forget about his slip up, when he get absolutely destroyed by a DS' skill.
His partner never once failed that specific ethic protocol, Zedaph posture didn't flinch with his name being called, neither sent a peak towards him by hearing his name, the job demanded he kept looking towards the arm and the hand as if his stare alone could traverse the blood, then that's what he did; a little more and Tango wondered whether Zedaph planned to heal him without using his own hands.
The DS climbed off of Listener's back, and the change of posture, unintended, showed enough for Tango be able to analyze the mess he made himself; of course he hadn't the self-control he targeted to achieve, it wasn't supposed to burn to the point of wilting layers of skin, Tango turned his face away.
"May I heal you?" Zed asked, the stander-question, without darting his gaze from the blood. "The tissue of your forearm and left hand are damaged, and this place presents high chances of infection. You'd be able to do the disinfection and do proper care at your own time, but it'll scar, permanently, may I say. If you authorize me to use my healing, I can restore it as before. The cost is a state of slumber until your body catches up with the healing-process velocity."
Listener sluggishly leaned upon the wall, and Tango was surprised by a forced grin torn over his face. "It can't be, like, partially healed, but I still can move on with my life?"
"Not that I'm aware of," Zed grinned back, "it's one or the other."
Listener looked for Tango's gaze, squinted towards him with one blue eye, it left Tango's head swirling, the implications of knowing more than he should. Either way, not a trace of hesitation strained the villain's shoulders, and when he twisted his head towards Zed he'd made his decision. "Oh, man. Whatever, do your worse."
Listener lifted his arms like an offering; for someone who were burnt to a crisp, he was for sure good-humored. The shift of behavior was instant, was artificial, was…he never saw any of the Southerns act like that over the course of his career, it bugged him more than while Listener acted blood-thirsty; gave him goosebumps. Of course, Zed couldn't tell the inconsistency, and legally wasn't allowed to care about the bigger picture, the reason behind Tango himself wasn't sure about, so his tranquil smile didn't shift a inch over his face. Zed rose his gloved hands and grabbed the arm and hand, he followed with measured movements and curled his fingers around the injury, similar from how he did to cause the harm Zed was going to fix; regardless of the sluggishness from his fingers, Listener flinched.
"It's still warm…" the Death Sprout murmured, thinking out loud.
Listener didn't bark a word out before a glimmering pink light blossomed at the ground beneath the villain and the DS, it swirled like a puddle disturbed by raindrops, the ripple of a peaceful lake. Gradually, the burn covering Listener's arm and hand shined up in yellow, brighter than their hair, it'd be easier to win a staring competition against the sun, Tango had to squint against the color because he couldn't leave his gaze elsewhere; the blood dripping upon the debris turned to yellow, golden, and naturally the villain collapsed over Zedaph's shoulder.
The most delirious part or him wanted to crawl towards them and push Listener away from his shoulder; it was a insignificant contemplation, and he swept it under the untouched bits of his brain. Tango settled to watch the magic flow and ooze from Zed for a minute, until it satisfied itself, and similar to a tap turned off everything stopped, the room turned dark again. Zed next move was to carefully hold Listener's collapsed body and lay him above the debris, Zed organized his limbs so the villain wouldn't be sprawled over the ground; the tugging and pushing had his head lolled towards Tango, Listener seemed very asleep, very peaceful, and very different from whatever was that show of sheer anger.
It also nudged his mind.
"Z— Healer-boy," Tango corrected himself; that time, Zed lifted eyebrow, "his mask. kerchief. Whatever."
The DS nodded, and placed his hand over the slashed cloth. "Got it!"
The lights were diminished when used to a not living being: a flashing of yellow and it was done, the cloth was sewed again. Or better, it was merged together like he never ripped it. The true nature of Zed's power was explained to him over and over again, but it was a difficult concept to grasp—as any magic was; the lie he told Listener was easier to explain, at the same time, he couldn't understand why Zedaph, or any other DS, constantly put out the work to find a new tale about its functionality; there was no mystery about how the Death Sprouts couldn't tell their own names to the public, the nature of their skill wouldn't be revealed either.
Zedaph stood up with shaky legs, and staggered towards the doorframe; for a moment, Tango felt his headache increasing because of him keeping his breath, in a split second, he thought Zed would just leave him there, and get a colleague to heal him, since his skill tire Zed to the bone, most of the time, and himself had told his partner he didn't need to heal him personally at every rare occasion they met at the field, except…after his day the thought of him leaving felt unbearable. He needed to get over himself.
It was quick for him to figure his fear was unjustified, without a better word to describe it, because Zed didn't leave, he sneaked his head to the area outside, and now Tango noticed most of the Death Sprouts he had seen before had left the building; his guess was they were helping civilians outside. Tango didn't want to think about it, but Zedaph was here, it meant more people were injured by the explosion, whom needed more assistant than a voluntary-hero that his only budget was his hero suit made by Impulse of the HHD; in all fairness, he couldn't imagine the range of the explosives—that little thing detonated a three story building, what did it do to the outside? Perhaps, his suit did save him from death.
He needed to stop thinking about the lives outside, or how he thought Zed would really walk through the door and leave him behind, or how he for sure had a concussion; his mind wasn't making any sense.
"We're safe," Zed said, still he kept his voice low, the same serenity he used to chat with Listener. Tango waited a second, knowing the whispering was going to drop, and sure enough Zed sighed. "Hi, Tango."
"Hello, Zed. How's your day going?" He could feel the smile beginning to tug on his cheeks.
He would be the last person on Earth to say it out loud, but Tango for sure thought about it more than handful amount of times, how Zed looked handsome when upset with him, brown frowned and tensed shoulders. Ridiculous, the last thing he should think about yet he couldn't stop pride from rising up on his brain. He took enjoyment from making Zed mad at him, when it was possible, even if it usually didn't happen when they were working.
In a blink of the eye, the DS had already walked up to Tango's face, and sat cross-legged upon the ground. His hair was tousled without a clear direction, the uniform Zed frequently complained about because it made him feel like a Christmas present, bright red with the Death Sprout symbol decorating his back and both sleeves, was wrinkled by his tamed fight with Listener. Tango wanted to rest his head over his partner's shoulders, and he did—his eyes were against the windpipe, shut away all the light from inside the room, the clarity really was stinging his eyeballs, he didn't notice. Zed hummed, satisfied, sliding his fingers at his nape, the noise climbed down his throat to his chest and it vibrated at Tango's cranium, the happy place between soothing and painful, ugh. His partner watched him grimace, then he plucked his head away from his clavicle.
"My day's going great, thanks." Zed broke the ice, his voice rough from the yelling. "Even better now that—"
"You've seen me?" Tango taunted.
"No. Now that I might've to cure a concussion so this's a good field day. I rarely can do one of those. Can't blame me for being excited."
Three fingers were lift in front of his face, but Tango couldn't let the joke pass him by, it was only natural for him. "Oh, you're excited."
His partner frowned. "I don't like the way you said it."
"I meant—."
"I understood what you meant, Tango." Zed shoved the three fingers up his face, it hit his nose and it burnt, such a jerk. "Now, how many fingers?"
"I can see your stupid fingers." Tango elbowed his hand away. At the back of his mind he considered his hands might be too hot still, and set his partner on fire was the last thing he needed that day, actually, he could resort on not burning anyone for the rest of the month, regardless of whether it was nearly impossible with the job he had—he hated the sound, the smell surely impregnated on his suit. "My vision isn't doubled, but my head hurts, and I'm not gonna' lie to you, I can't feel my left side, at all.
Zed looked at him with half-lidded eyes, it told Tango very clearly he was being stupid. "Your whole face is bloody."
"The jerk-face punched me, of course my face's bleeding."
"No, no, no. I mean you entire face, like your hair is dripping with red. Which, yeah, it looks nice, before you come asking."
He was going to ask, of course. What spoke louder was how concerning this information added up, he felt his heart-rate spike. He really couldn't feel the blood sliding off his face; now that he thought about it, he lost the sensations of a ton of his bits, his legs and arms gave up on trembling, or at least as far as he could tell; worse than feeling great amount of pain was the sudden end to it. Tango drew a hand towards his face, still unsure whether he wanted to see if his hand was on place, or the blood flowing from his head, but Zed was quicker. He grabbed his wrist, placing it above his own heart, keeping it there, where his palm where secure by the cupping hand.
"We're okay," he answer before he even wondered to ask. "I can cure you now."
Tango shook his head. "No, I need to— Zed, I need to know how, or, or why this thing—." he coughed, getting too agitated wasn't good for respiring, he should've figured it out by now. His imagination ran wild, he envisioned a fractured rib piercing onto his lungs, the image sent a shiver down his spine. "Fucking hell, how's the civilians?"
Zed tightened his grip of his hand. "I'm sure no one's as injured as you. The evacuation brought a bit of commotion outside, and some nosy reporters were hit, but nothing for you to be concerned. DS showed up even before the heroes did, since we weren't aware you had evacuated the building, and you forgot to ring anyone about it, jerk."
"I didn't know it was going to blow up on me. I promise, I remember thinking I could even disable it. That thing looked like cheap work, even for a villain."
"Tango, it's not about what you can do—."
"I know," he spat, and his ear rung with the silence that met his echoing voice. In all honesty, he had lost count of how many times they had the same old argument, with that recurring subject, before the volunteering training even, and he came to realize he's more sorry than angry.
After all these years, Zed could tell, too. His partner let go of his hand, and before it made his stomach turn, he flumped beside him, and Tango huffed with the weight from Zedaph's body leaning onto him. The warmth was nice, Tango dug his nose up the blond-and-pink hair, and tried to sniff the shampoo, but of course his nose kept clogged. Well, Zed didn't have a problem with blood since the start of DS training, so it'd be okay.
"Who was the group who got up here first?" Tango reached his hand, and tugged this partner's finger with his nails, his voice rough. "Tell me it's Scott and Pearl, I'll be so glad," he sung.
"I don't know these names," Zed's chest hiccuped with a titter, the sarcasm matching his. "But I guess you're talking about Hellhound and Cujo, but, no, they aren't here. There's new people. Their debut was today."
"New volunteers?" The thought pierced his interest, what was the last time someone new volunteered? Bdubs or Etho? Uh, not the most beacon of hope there was. Tango demanded, his tongue felt heavy. "Do we know them? Are they competent?"
"I think they're nice, as far as I know, maybe they disliked me because I wasn't very chatty. I was more worried about other things, you see? Like a hero stuck at…," Zed looked around, "pretty sure they sold clothes here."
"Oh, I was wondering just that."
Zed placed his hand above his head and tangled his finger between the hair-strands, it must be disgusting, with blood, concrete, and glass dust, but Zedaph didn't stop combing. He had the habit of doing an equal trick with Tango's hair when they wake up in the morning, while their bedroom were too warm among intertwined legs and the covers, and they never left the bed when the alarm told it was time to take the road and go to work.
"And yet you helped the villain before your heroic boyfriend, how embarrassing," Tango hummed, he didn't have real accusations behind his words.
Zed turned his nose up, as Tango knew he would. "We've been living together for two years, don't call yourself my boyfriend. Actually, here we don't know each other, heroes and villains are equally rubbish to me. That's why…Tangs, if you decide to go outside I won't stop you. Which I think you can't do, from how much you look like a punchbag right now. But I can't go with you when you walk out of that door, or, uh, limp through the hole in the wall?"
"I guess you're right. You're right," he sighed; getting up when Zed had that bitter tone was next to impossible, most of the time.
"I'm always right, Tango. Think positive, at least I'll be the one carrying you out the front door in front of a hoard of reporters." Zed sneered at the noise of Tango groaning. "Now let me enlighten you up."
The idea sounded terrible, and Tango groaned louder, but his voice was weak against the chorus from Zedaph's skill, it quivered the ceiling, the wires above ticking, didn't matter, the skill was wind shuffling the branches of a cypress, stomping over dry leaves at the sidewalk, the snapping of wood toasted by a campfire. He had the privilege of eyeing the pool of pink form again, now beneath himself, the store glimmered in pink similar to the sunset outside. Suddenly, his body began to sting from head to toe, at the depth of his mind he imagine he must be more hurt than he fist envisioned; the grip Zedaph had on his torso, where the skill was concentrated, resembled him of bad case of frostbite, it squeezed his breath away. It made him sure he was going to die.
He only wanted to…his eyes searched for something that wasn't the ceiling, something that wasn't the lonely clothes' store from a wrecked shopping center, and he found his partner's eyes; they looked purple and serene. Then, Tango allowed his mind to drift away. He only wanted to speak he'd be waiting for him at the hospital.