Isaiah sat quietly in a stiff wooden chair. It was as though it had been purposefully designed to be uncomfortable for the person seated atop it. But Isaiah suffered silently. From what he had gathered, he was the only alchemist to escape the battle unscathed. His perch 200 yards out had seen to that. His own health brought him little solace with his partner in shambles across the room from him. 

Fletcher looked bad. He lay in his pod, unconscious. Isaiah had not seen the punishment Gadrael inflicted on his partner but by keenly observing the wounds he was able to make a pretty good guess. The sling that cradled Fletcher's arm indicated a dislocation or break and the lack of cast indicated it was likely dislocation of the shoulder. It would have been popped back into the socket but had Fletcher been conscious he was sure there would have been substantial pain. 

The pain from his shoulder, however, would have paled in comparison to the agony his facial wounds would have caused. From what Isaiah could only assume was repeated blunt force trauma, the skin on Fletcher's face had been shredded. In the hours that Isaiah had sat by his partner's side, he had seen the impressive healing technologies of A.M.R.O slowly grow back the flesh covering the right side of Fletcher's face. When he had first been brought in, he had no cheek to speak of as well as a shattered cheekbone and nose. The bones had repaired faster than the skin. It had taken hours, the fact that it could be done at all was nothing short of miraculous, but new skin had knitted itself over the right side of Fletcher's face. A thin white scar ran diagonally down his cheek where the new flesh had come together but other than that just as he had before the battle. Only time would tell the state of Fletcher's mind, however.

***************************************************************************************************************************************************************************************

Fletcher slowly opened his eyes. There was a dull throbbing in his shoulder but it faded from consciousness quickly as soon as he attempted to stretch out his jaw. A searing pain rippled through his brain. The normal crazed look that Fletcher wore was unmistakably missing. His eyes were a fierce storm of calculation. He opened his jaw once, twice, three more times as he acclimated himself to the pain. He licked his lips and spoke,

"Where are we Mac?" nothing in his voice indicated he felt any pain at all.

"A safe house. The other asylums were brought here along with you after the battle with the Kings. The injuries were severe enough to warrant healing pods apparently. I also imagine we will be briefed on the next stage of our mission. It's my understanding that one of the alchemists was kidnapped,"

"Got it, thanks. I think I got pretty beat up. Is it bad?"

"From the outside you barely look injured at all. Your face will scar but not badly and you should be out of that sling by the end of the day given how rapidly we heal,"

"Good shit,"

With that Fletcher slowly exculpated himself from the healing pod. He rolled his neck around and smiled slightly at the resulting round of popping. A glance down informed him that he was naked. Some mesh shorts and a V-neck lay folded on a chair, presumably for him. After putting them on, Fletcher motioned to Isaiah that it was time to go. Isaiah nodded in agreement. 

The pair walked followed the smell of breakfast food into a large conference room where some of the other Asylums were already seated and eating. Before they could look up Fletcher contorted his face, slowly at first due to the pain, into the slightly insane visage he usually carried. Gone was the emotionless calculation. He was the Butcher again. This was what people expected from a psychopathy and Fletcher had long since found it better to humor the sheep. It made them much easier to hunt.

Surprisingly, the deranged lunatic look was not something that came naturally to Fletcher. The closest person he had had to a friend during his time at Innsmouth Sanatorium had been truly deranged. Fletcher had stored all of the correct expressions needed to fulfill the role of manic killer in the months leading up to his friend's murder and Fletcher's release. That was how it went. As a psychopath, Fletcher was born without the capacity for things like empathy or guilt. He was pure limbic system with a generous dose of selfish ambition ladled on top. 

As he slowly accumulated the proper facial expressions and mimicked emotions that come naturally to the sheep, he utilized them in a way that was almost clinical in its efficiency. Any woman he wanted would happily follow him home. At first, the sex had been enough. But then one day it wasn't. In a fit of rage he had strangled the girl he was with. From there, only killing would do. And so the Butcher was born.

"Isaiah! Look they have Bacon!" Fletcher's partner sighed, knowing that the his partner had raised the facade once more.

Fletcher pulled out a chair next to Cameron and began loading his plate with food, most of it stolen from Cameron's plate, "So, you guys get your asses kicked too?"