"Jake! Jake!" an assembly of young men in black cloth, plastic and leather huddled around a crumpled figure on the gymnasium floor. They removed his kendo helmet, allowing him to breathe, a sheen of sweat glistening across the boy's face. He was cradling his right shoulder with his left hand, his right arm dangling uselessly on the shiny wooden floor. Most of the others focused on him, asking him if he was alright and determining the extent of the damage; several others glared at Ddraig.

Ddraig cursed silently. This was even worse than any of the other recent injuries he had inflicted on the other members, none of them intentional. His fetterschwert-a training longsword-hung awkwardly in his hand as he stood apart from the others. Though he wanted to help as well, some of the others would explode if he got close to Jake right now; thus, he held back, stayed away.

Their instructor bent over and examined his shoulder. He pressed softly into it, inciting another agonized groan from Jake. "Yeah, your shoulderbone is likely broken. Let's get you to the nurse's office."

Several of the other students took him out through the door. The instructor watched them go before turning around and looking at the rest of the group. He made a shooing motion with his hand to the rest. He wanted to speak to Ddraig alone. After a few moments, the other Highschool HEMA members obliged, spreading out into smaller groups throughout the gymnasium again. Once they were gone, the instructor looked at Ddraig.

"This is getting out of hand."

Ddraig looked at him angrily and helplessly. "I know. It's not like I'm [i]meaning[/i] to, though."

"Meaning to or not, there's way too much difference between you and the others. Even in practice, you're hitting like a tank now. The sprained ankles were bad enough. Breaking his shoulder, though? How do you even [i]do[/i] that on accident?"

Ddraig hesitated. "Being in a three-on-one helps."

John gaped at him. "You guys were actually doing a three-on-one?"

Ddraig nodded. "Yeah. They asked me to. They're new and wanted to see..." he trailed off, unsure of how to say it.

"They wanted to see the local badass beat three guys at once," the instructor said, folding his arms. "Which means things get chaotic, which makes it much more likely for someone to get seriously hurt."

Ddraig looked downward, away. He nodded.

Silence for several moments. "Go home."

Ddraig looked back up at him. Anxiety and fear at what he was about to say filled him.

"Go home," he said, looking harshly at Ddraig, staring down at him, "and don't come back until I say you can. This is enough."

Ddraig looked up at him, mortified. That wasn't right, wasn't fair. Yeah, he had messed up-more than once. What was he supposed to do, though? Every time he actually meant to fix something, he only made it worse. He had been working and changing left and right to make it work for them, and they were going to freaking [i]kick him out?[/i]

"Coach, please, I-"

John put his hand up, cutting him off. "That's final. Leave. Now." Before Ddraig could say anything else, he turned and began walking to one of the other groups. leaving Ddraig standing alone in the middle of the gym.

[center]***[/center]

Ddraig kicked a garbage can on the quiet street, empty at that time of day. A dent formed in the ridged metal as it clanked and rolled a way, sent flying easily when so empty. Hollow. Alone. Freaking [i]everything[/i] was like a mirror for how he was even more alone. [i]Again.[/i]

It was far from the first time anyone he even somewhat had considered his friends had abandoned and betrayed him-actually, they pretty much always eventually did.

"Fuck them," Ddraig muttered quietly. He visualized bringing his blade down from [i]Ochs[/i], whacking his pommel violently into the faces of those ones glaring at him and taking his instructor's head and slamming John's head into the floor and ground until blood seeped out. It didn't help, though; the anger just grew with every graphic image, as did his self-disgust for wanting it. For [i]craving[/i] it.

Ddraig stopped for a moment and breathed loudly, deeply. It was time to think about something else. He looked at the bend coming up down the road; the hospital was just around the corner of buildings. The one where Dallas was.

That was a bittersweet topic. For once, he had done something good. Sort of. Maybe. Hopefully.

The wreck had been... well, a wreck. A [i]really[/i] bad one. A drunk teenager in one vehicle, and a driver who wasn't paying attention in the other, they had crashed in the late evening. Ddraig did not revisit the image of the twisted metal and leaking fluids and smoke-nor the explosive fire that later consumed it. Instead he thought of Dallas-which, perhaps, was actually worse. He had been a bloody mess in the car, the door crumpled against him. Initially, he had kept other people on the street from ripping him out of it. As his mother, an ex-paramedic, had taught him, pulling an injured person out of a vehicle was dangerous and could easily cause worse and even permanent damage. Therefore, you actually left them there, unless the car really [i]was[/i] liable to explode, as he had explained to other onlookers. Once some of the oil caught fire, though, Ddraig had to eat his own words and he himself had pulled the other young man he knew little more than in passing out. The tank blew less than a minute after he had gotten him out.

Unfortunately, even his heroics seemed to be marred by mistake and accident. Once the EA had gotten him to the hospital, it was discovered that Dallas had gone into a coma. The potential damage that could be inflicted by removing someone incorrectly rang in Ddraig's mind, and he wondered if he was the reason for Dallas's unconsciousness. The boy's mother certainly seemed to think so; she had exploded as violently as the car at him, albeit that didn't actually mean for certain that he was responsible. The doubt alone, combined with everything else, though, was driving him insane.

Ddraig had come by to see Dallas in the hospital before, only to be turned away every time. He felt... something. He thought he was somewhat responsible for him, as though he had claimed a part of Dallas's very life by saving him. At the very least, he wanted to see him through the entire ordeal, not just some coincidental moment of pulling him out of a fire. Actually help. He seriously wondered if the reason Dallas's mother had said no visitors was just to keep him away from Dallas.

In any case, though, the restriction of visitors had been lifted; the secretary had been kind and phoned him about it. He was still out, yet at least he could actually [i]see[/i] him now.

And speaking of which, Ddraig was there, hefting his backpack of black clothes and wrapped practice sword strapped to it over his back. He walked through the automatic doors and into the air-conditioned lobby gratefully.

While he understood to some extent, Ddraig really didn't get other people's squeamishness of hospitals. They were hardly as sterile as people made them out to be; there was plenty of dirt and germs in the air (likely [i]more[/i], actually), and besides that, they were [i]clean[/i]-far better than the oily rooms others like, where putting your hand on something left a greasy residue. The white color was actually welcome to him-white was the color of purity, of healing. It made sense for a hospital even by a color therapy approach (albeit, perhaps having a little more in the way of other colors would help). Regardless, though, he was actually more comfortable here than in places like school. Except for the frigging music. Ddraig [i]hated[/i] jazz.

"Hey," he said, coming up to the receptionist. "Good evening," he smiled warmly. The receptionist looked up and smiled in return when she recognized him. "I'm here to see Dallas."

"Alright," she said encouragingly. "Mrs. Robertson hasn't said anything about you not being able to come in, so there shouldn't be a problem. You know where he is," she said, nodding her head down the hallway.

"Yeah," he confirmed. He began moving towards the hall. "Thanks for calling me." His tone indicated his gratitude was genuine.

"You're welcome," she beamed before turning back to her computer. "Good luck!"

[i]I hope so,[/i] he thought. He doubted it.

The walk up was short, being familiar at this point. Soon enough he was going down the last hall-only there were several others in the doorway, moving inside.

That was odd. Dallas didn't have many friends. Even less so that he imagined would actually bother to visit him, and they didn't look like his family. And, as he drew close, he noted that there were too many for that, anyways. Besides that most of them were really freaking tall.

Nervousness tingled up Ddraig's legs, arms and back. He had really just wanted to see him, not be around a lot others-especially ones this talkative, meaning they were bound to ask questions. He was really wanting this to be a silent visit. Nonetheless, he continued on and stepped into the doorway. Dressed in a stark white fitting hoodie/sweatshirt half-zipped up, red T-shirt and black jeans, his color scheme was a little vivid-especially with his dark emerald-green hair-though not especially striking. His height, seemingly the only medium between the tall, shaggy hospital patient, an enormous blonde woman, and a tiny, adorable Asian girl with streaks of dyed hair.

And Mrs. Robertson. Fuck.

Ddraig stood there silently, wondering if he should come at a different time and his unease written all over his face.