Content Warning: brief but somewhat graphic description of injury.
PLEASANT DREAMS OF UNWARY THINGS
Beckett screamed in rage before lashing out one final time. Lightning blasted from his fingertips but there was so much blood in his eyes he missed.
He knew he missed the second he released. He could feel it. The way the lightning left his fingers and kept on going to wash uselessly against the wall of a building. Dissipating into nothing and not saving him at all.
Because the Knife Man was right there, close enough to touch. Close enough to be touched by.
His rage became fear and agony as the knife went in. All the way in. Cutting at him. Slashing at him. Digging so deep into his flesh that it vibrated through his bones. And there was nothing he could do to stop it. He was spent. Powers all burnt out from overuse. As helpless as any other victim of the serial killer.
He died. Over and over again. He died. Lying there in the trash of the alley. Splayed against the icy cold ground with air that smelt of trash and the approaching snow.
He died, and there was nothing he could do to stop it.
And then he woke in his bed, and it was the morning of that fateful day that would be followed by the night in which he died. And it was mysterious and strange, the idea of being given a second chance, unasked for and overlooked, but so precious nonetheless.
He woke up covered in sweat with eyes that streamed tears, and his heart pounded so heavy in his chest that he thought he was having a heart attack at first. Before he realized that he was alive, that it had been a dream. Only a dream.
Except it wasn’t a dream. He knew it wasn’t.
Because it was the morning of his last day, and the day that followed was EXACTLY THE SAME as the day he’d dreamed of, and he KNEW it was going to be followed by the night of his death.
But he refused to die.
He had been given a second chance. And he refused to waste it.
When the call came to face the Massacrists he didn’t hesitate, but he did bring more weapons. He brought more firepower and saved his lightning for when it was really needed. And when he confronted the cultists he didn’t hesitate and he didn’t mess around. He didn’t posture and he didn’t preach and he didn’t waste his time offering mercy the way he had the first time. Because that was how he’d let himself be worn down, that was how he’d let himself be distracted, and that was how he’d died.
He could tell his teammates were surprised by his ruthlessness, but there no time to explain. He knew the Knife Man was on his way and the dying was about to begin.
The Knife Man had cut through his teammates one by one and two by two and eventually he’d faced that monster alone and been the last to fall.
Not this time.
This time he knew where the Knife Man was going to appear. And he dodged the thrown blade that had scalped him the first time, that had taken the top off his skull in a blaze of pain to leave the bone hanging from tendrils of flesh to slap against the back of his neck.
This time he stepped to the side at the last second. Felt the whoosh of the knife past him. And didn’t hesitate to strike back along its path.
The lightning BLASTED from his fingers even as his lips drew back from his teeth in a snarl. And his eyes were clear this time, no blood blocking his vision, and he saw as the lightning struck. Saw the Knife Man limned in a crackling blaze of light so bright and terrible that his SKELETON shone through his skin before it crackled and burned.
Beckett struck out and DID NOT MISS.
He was a hero. Hailed as such in print and video media. Profusely thanked by the victims his team rescued from where they’d been imprisoned in a literal metal cage to await their sacrifice on an already bloodstained altar.
He was a hero, that’s what they called him, but Beckett knew the truth.
He was a survivor that refused to die.
He was Chronic Discharge. And no matter what happened, he always came back.
=END=
definition chronic: (of a problem) long-lasting and difficult to eradicate.
~Harper Kingsley
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