[M] Subject 23 [Iodine & Ashen]

[The following roleplay is rated mature for reasons that may include, but are not limited to, violence, blood, coarse language, sensual situations and drug use. Reader discretion is advised.]

Blood-tipped midnight. Those were the words he'd use to describe the scene in front of him. Shattered pieces of laboratory equipment scattered across the scarlet grass. Marble counters littered the dirt in crimson fractals, and beakers and syringes had flown everywhere. Cages had been thrown open, their contents either dead or escaped by now. Had he been passed out long? The building lay in ruins, burying the parts of the laboratory no one had seen, no one had wanted to see. Were they still alive? He didn't want to find out. With the darkness shrouding his bloodstained body, he began to move, hobbling at first, then jogging away from the memories of his home, the ruins of his prison.

He didn't know how far he'd gotten, only that he could no longer see the smoking facades and the ash. Had he started a fire? He couldn't remember exactly what had happened, but he knew he had done that, had destroyed the laboratory, had intended to destroy the two other people in it. He looked down at his hands, a mixture of red and black, still dripping. Was that his blood? Theirs? How could he know? He tried to keep going, get further from this wreckage, but his legs could take him no further. Each step added a pile of bricks to his back until, after only two more, he collapsed onto the grass beneath him. He was under a tree, its leaves feathering overhead, providing a shield from the wrath of whatever god had allowed him to exist. Body raked with agony, he threw his head back onto the earth, and he shut his eyes.

By the time he awoke, the world was bathed in light. He'd left a trail from the laboratory; was it safe to lose that much blood? He felt lethargic, and drums pounded against his skull. Where... was he? Who was he? His name was... Matt? Matteo, his name was Matteo Ag... something. He'd been a test subject, and now he was escaped. As memories flood back to him, Matteo found himself wincing. He could barely remember events of that morning, let alone before then. How long had he been in that lab? Was he even a person anymore?

He tried to stand up, but his legs gave out beneath him, and he awkwardly fell onto his ankle. Wincing, he used the tree to steady himself before trying again. Around him was a field, and in the distance, buildings. Could he make it to one of those and get help? He looked back to his hands, now covered in brown, dried blood. He glanced at his body, his torn once-white shorts, his dirtied striped polo, his bare feet. Who would help him in this state, anyway?

Matteo needed to think of something to do. He had to get out of here, to abandon the trail of blood he'd left and to start a new life as a normal guy, except... A twitch of his shoulder had him brushing against the soft silk of angels, the feathery appendages he'd hated. His wings. He'd never find someone to help him, not with those things fused into his back. Matteo stretched the things, the all-white wings of a celestial being, spanning more than his own height in wingspan. They were speckled red now but mostly still white, the only part of him not drenched in blood. Tucking his wings against his back, they trailed lightly on the ground. He'd have to find a way to hide them, but how?

He was thinking too much. His migraine was blurring his vision, casting shadows across this new world. When had he last seen grass like this, or trees, or even the sky? Matteo pressed on, trying to ignore the pain with every step. He got several meters from his blood trail before collapsing again. Maybe this was where he would die after all. Maybe he was damned to stay with his mother in the afterlife, too. Bleakly, he stared up at the sky, at a shining ball worlds away. What was that? It peeked over clouds, burning brighter than his brown eyes could handle. He averted his gaze wondering if he had ever seen such a thing. This world had so many things to explore, but if he died here, he'd never experience any of them. Curling into a ball, Matteo cast a wing over his body, hiding himself. He didn't know what he could do. He didn't want to die, but maybe this murderer deserved it.

The country road was long and dusty as Quentinne drove down it. Dust flared up behind his old truck as he bounced along. He had been driving for hours, the highway giving way to field after field. There were only so many wild flowers one could count before one wanted to never see a flower ever again. His windows were open, letting the wind rush past him: pushing his black hair behind him, it’s shoulder length letting it fly even further backwards.

Rubbing his eyes, he stuffed down a yawn. He had been driving for hours after helping hide a few things from an old friend. He was a little unstable at times but overall a good person so he didn't deserve to go to jail if three guys were harassing him. Dark bags lay under his eyes and as he rubbed his chin he could feel stubble. Quentin just wanted to get back to his city, pick his dog up and sleep for an eternity.

Over the hill, he saw the city’s tall buildings in the distance and his rusty baby blue truck again a whine of protest. He tapped the side of his, muttering to himself and the car, “Just a little further.” He didn’t know who he was talking to as he could feel sleep begging him to shut his eyes.

Images of the few too many car accidents he had been in made his eyes snap open wider and suddenly he wasn’t so tired. Sleep could wait. He didn’t want to test his chances with lady Luck today. A few too many rolls of the dice over the past few days. His eyes flicked over to his rear view mirror, looking at the covered bonnet of his truck and his thoughts trailing to the bag inside it.

He shook his head, looking back out the window and his eyes catching a tree. “Gesù Cristo.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could think and he slapped both hands on his mouth. He panicked as the truck began to swerve into the other lane and he quickly put both hands on the wheel again, steadying his truck and sitting upright in his seat. Natural reactions from living with his mother still caught him off guard sometimes.

But what caught his eyes were the wings that stretched behind the tree before disappearing again. With his vision, he refused to go to the opticians, was blury from such a distance but he saw a figure fall and figured it must be the owner of the wings. He grew up a Christian before he simply didn’t have time for Church. It slowly began to wear on his of why god would let corruption and criminal stuff go on if he was real so he eventually turned his back on him. But seeing what could be an angel brought back a wave something he would rather not think about.

He stepped on the gas, knowing there weren’t any speed cameras and that police very rarely came down this road. He turned into a side by that housed an old kebab shop that was opened every now and again before climbing out of his car. He grabbed a hat, pulling it on roughly before jumping a bush and running to the tree he saw so clearly. To his right were the looming buildings of his city and in front of him, a man with white wings protruding from his back.

Mouthing the same swear word over and over again, he put his hands on his head and under his hat. He didn’t know what to do. He was no stranger to dead people but this was an angel for God’s sake. He closed his eyes, calming his thoughts down before he came to the correct ones. “Check for a pulse.”

Not being alarmed at all, Quentin withdrew his fingers from his neck and took a very deep breath. He wanted to scream but he knew that wasn’t acceptable and it could alert someone to their location, afterall, these were probably private lands. He measured the body and figured he could probably carry it to the car where he would properly think about what to do with the winged person.

He tapped his face, gently, hoping for a reaction as he bent down on one knee to inspect his wings.

Life was fleeting, he thought, and as Matteo lay there in the bleak field of this wild, unknown world, he wondered if it was worth it at all to fight the pain swirling in his chest. Was he about to die? His wounds had stopped bleeding by now, he thought, so unless there was internal damage of some sort, he would be fine. But something felt off, as if he only had to let go, to release this feeling in his chest, to breathe, and then God would take him, welcome him home, bring his angel into his embrace.

Matteo woke suddenly to a feeling at his cheek. His eyes flew open, the world crashing around him all too quickly. Squinting, he tried to make out what had brought him from his subconscious state. "Dio?" he asked, his voice light, foreign. Vision slowly coming into focus, Matteo noticed a man standing before him. The man went to examine his wings, and suddenly Matteo was filled with the familiar taste of self-loathing. Of course his wings were more interesting than he'd ever be. Of course his wings were the only reason he was still alive. They twitched behind him before tucking against his back, trailing to the earth. He shook his head and tried speaking again. "Mi scusi, mi sono perso."

As soon as his sentence was past his lips, Matteo knew something about it was wrong. This language, was this the tongue of the land? He'd learned another language too, hadn't he? His two fluencies danced in his mouth, struggling for dominance. "Sorry," he mumbled, his accent airy. Was that the right language? English, that's what it was called... right? His struggle to remember brought a sharp pain to his head. Biting it back, he moved to a kneeling position and tried to make eye contact with this stranger. His vision was still unfocused. Everything seemed so bright, too bright, like hospital halls and laboratory LED's. That damn circle in the sky, it was making things unbearable to look at. How could he turn it off?

Matteo cleared his throat and shifted his weight awkwardly. "Where... where am I?" he asked, his words slow and unsure. He had trails of questions for this rattled stranger, but he didn't want to overwhelm him. If he just knew where he was, he could gather his bearings, try to remember... Nothing looked familiar, anyway. The buildings all looked the same as any other buildings he'd seen, and the grassy field didn't betray any clues. If he could figure out where he was, maybe he could find his father and get some help.

Suddenly, Matteo realized how crazy this must have seemed. This stranger had stumbled upon a man with swooping wings, drenched in blood, lying half-dead in a field outside of some town. And now, he was asking about his whereabouts. Would Matteo ruin his chances of getting help if he scared this guy off? "I just... seem to be in a predicament," he added, trying to add a chuckle. He was trying to appear approachable, but with his blood, his accent, his bewildered demeanor, he wondered if he would suceded at all.

Understanding what was being said by the man, Quentinne stood up abruptly as he came back to the life of the living. Confusion rang circles around his mind: questions such as, how the hell did this person get wings and favourites like, why aren't you calling the police stabbed into his slightly not sane mind. Dio was God, he recognised that well enough and he was pretty sure the person wasn't saying, 'Give,' in Spanish when he just woke up. He ran a hand through his hair, his hat popping off slightly. His shoulders were tense as he was ready to bolt just in case the person attacked him. Unlike his father wanted him to, he didn't immediately stand his ground. The hours of training taught him that running was just as a viable option as was fighting. Though many saw it as cowardice, Quentin didn't want to get bodyslammed by those wings anytime soon. If he had wings, he would totally use them to slam into people he didn't like.

The man's words came out like they were wrong and unfamiliar, like an English person talking Italian without actually learning what it meant or something akin to a translator translating word for word. He watched the internal struggle of the person before he mumbled a sorry and he knew the English speaking side had won. He would try not to use any Italian in their conversation. He knew he could slip occasionally and no one would point it out because everyone understood what he said but it was annoying for the non-Italian speakers of the organisation. All in all, it was pretty funny to watch them try to figure out what things were being said and the internal struggle of asking for help afterwards.

His thoughts had trailed quite a bit and he noticed a sharp pain in the other's head. It was a small body movement but he had trained in recognising all signs of weakness and he saw the winged one kneel in front of him. Alarm spiked through him and he quickly knelt too. He didn't like standing in front of a kneeling person as it triggered memories of the countless people he had killed and this was his first "freedom" from his life in a long time.

The sun was behind him, right in the other's eyes and he saw the stranger's vision was unfocused. Quentin picked up on small movements but his own was stilted and robotic. Like he was going to do something but them a /kill prompt was jabbed into his body suddenly. "No need to apologise," He put his hand up in a non-threatening way. He was biting his tongue as to not start cursing but it was slowly making him lose feeling in his tongue. Where was he? He gulped and pointed towards the tall, grey structures in the distance.

"Just on the outskirts of the city," He answered, "North District of Kan Soe," He explained but he wasn't sure whether that explained anything. He gulped and looked at the bloodied being before dismissing the craziness of it for now. He had been through and seen worse. He knew it was a bit mad of what he was about to offer but he stuck his thumb behind him, standing up to block the sun from the man's face.

"My name is Quentin and I've got a truck back there if you need any help getting a place to stay for now in your current 'predicament'," He explained kindly. He had a few stickers he could put on if he needed to blot the windows. He used quotation marks around the word predicament before lending an open hand to the man kneeling. "You don't have to come back with me but at least let me help you out of this field so you can make a call to someone."

Kan Soe... The syllables waltzed in his mind, carefree, as if they should have been recognizable. Matteo searched his brain, the caverns of his repressed memory, but he came up with nothing. He didn't know where he was, and he didn't even know if this Kan Soe was anywhere close to home. He knew places; he'd been born in the United States, maybe, or was it Italy...? No, his mother had been Italian, had spoken her tongue with an English accent he'd never questioned. His father had been born... somewhere. As Matteo knelt there, this stranger talking to him, awaiting his replies, Matteo was suddenly overwhelmed by how little of his own life he could remember.

Did he have a father? He must have. Everyone had a father, and a home, and a lineage they couldn't forget. But what had his father looked like? His memory only provided him a shadowy silhouette, a tall man, a lanky man, hiding behind clothes too big. Was that his father? What did he sound like? Had he done anything with his son? If Matteo couldn't even remember his dad, what would he do now? He had no one else to rely on, except this stranger in front of him.

At the realization that this stranger had asked something, Matteo coughed awkwardly. "Sorry," he mumbled again. The stranger had introduced himself as Quentin, and he had offered a place to stay. Matteo was wary. Why would this person--why would anyone in their right mind help him in his current state? He chewed over his words. What could he say? What could he do? He looked away. Mamma would have killed him for what he was about to do, but Mamma was probably dead now, and he had to survive.

"Thank you," he said quietly, his accent leaking through his small syllables. "I would like to go with you," yes. Matteo stood up on wobbly legs and winced at the pain that suddenly shot up them. He took a moment to balance himself, wondering if he could even make it to... a truck? He didn't remember what a truck even was, only guessed that it was the car Quentin had come out of. He took a shaky step towards it, but the needle-like pain in his feet nearly sent him back to the ground. Almost as if on their own, his wings shot out behind him, giant things that stretched for several feet of a wingspan. They twitched awkwardly before tucking back against Matteo's back, dragging on the floor, leaving flurries of loose feathers flying to the ground.

He had to do this. Matteo was not going to let the pain stop him. He'd lived through years of pain, of relentless torture; he could handle some walk to his salvation now. Turning back to Quentin, he tried to offer a smile. "I am called Matteo," he offered. "I'm sorry to... to bother you. I do appreciate your help." His words still felt awkward, choppy. When was the last time he had spoken this much? His Italian tongue still struggled to interrupt, but he was trying his best to keep his two languages straight. Or, perhaps, three? Declensions suddenly rushed back to him, word endings in a language he had forgotten the name of. When had he learned three languages? Dismissing the thought to focus on Quentin, Matteo took another painful step. "I'm sorry I'm so slow," he muttered, struggling against every part of him telling him to lie back down and fall asleep.