[center][img]http://i.imgur.com/vcyTlTu.png[/img][/center][center][img]http://i.imgur.com/3R5vYYi.png?2[/img][/center]
[hr][center][color=silver]𝕊𝕖𝕡𝕥. 𝟟, 𝟚𝟘𝟚𝟘   / /   𝕌𝕊𝔸ℝ𝕀𝕃ℕ 𝔼𝕒𝕤𝕥   / /   𝕊𝕖𝕔𝕦𝕣𝕚𝕥𝕪 𝕆𝕦𝕥𝕡𝕠𝕤𝕥: 𝕆𝕓𝕤𝕖𝕣𝕧𝕒𝕥𝕚𝕠𝕟 ℝ𝕠𝕠𝕞 𝟚   / /  ~𝟙𝟠𝟛𝟘[/color][/center][hr]

Sounds and sights processed superficially.

Thoughts flickered on the lines of awareness and dimmed just as quickly. He was conscious and aware, but he wasn't fully present. Just enough of a mind left to manage his five senses and know when to stand and follow the guard who pulled him up by the arm.

It didn't matter where they were leading him. A part of him cared only enough to keep pace with the movements, so they wouldn't jab at him with the rifles or bark orders at him that made him instinctively flinch.

[color f7976a]"Heal."[/color]

He knew that command. Knew it like the embedded instinct that wired his mind to understand the capabilities of his power. Even that was muted, but he at least understood. Fingers found their way back to the shallow cut in his palm and pressure pulled on the wound.

The pain prodded at the haze in his mind, his static thoughts shifting into half-formed ideas and resignations as the instinct took over and spread the white mist around him, blurring his vision where tears failed to rise. Christmas blinked rapidly, catching just a faint aftertrail of his awareness from the panic that had scattered pieces of him into the far depths of his thoughts. Not enough to face reality, but enough to steady his whimpering breaths.

[color f7976a]"That's enough."[/color]

He obeyed and waited, eyes on the slate gray of the concrete because it was simple to grasp. Flat and monochromatic. Silent. 

It was something that didn't need thought. Just as easy as letting the flow of power take over when the soldiers commanded him to heal a second time.

Simple.

There wasn't enough of him around to [i]like[/i] simple so much as resign himself to it, so Christmas let the imposing uniforms of armored gray and black firearms move around him, let the curt sounds and commands that didn't pertain to him pass over his ears. If they wanted him to do something, they could insist. They could catch his attention. They could make it simple.

When they sat him back down in that room of flashing screens and he heard the shuffling of papers and clattering of pens falling from boxes, he thought--only for a second--that the air was too heavy with his unspoken fears. A small weight tucked into his pocket felt like the only affirmation he needed, so he floated fragments of awareness around that knife, knowing it would be there if all else failed.