Well, the kid had to admit it; despite all the ups, downs, assorted pratfalls and kicks to the ass, both of the emotional and very literal kind he'd taken over the years...

This, in particular, kind of [i][b]sucked.[/b][/i]

Laying there in the snow, on the side of a mountain, halfway naked and halfway drained of the red stuff all while propped up on his side by the four-foot piece of steel rebar sticking through his chest, This really was a new kind of low Malcolm had found himself in, all things considered. Not that he could really [i]do[/i] anything about it mind you; if the trio of bullets in his gut, the femur sticking out of his thigh and the grinding that rang through his chest with every breath was any indication— His number was pretty thoroughly up.

Though contrary to what you'd think, the longer he lay there, soggy and freezing in a heap of powdery snow painted in his own blood, the less he started to worry about it.

Maybe it was the hypothermia starting to set in. Maybe it was that crack to his noggin that made his head all fuzzy and made one side of his face numb.

Or maybe, [i]just maybe,[/i] after all the dumb shit he'd been though in his short, turbulent life... he'd just about stopped giving a damn.

...Well, save for his newly-acquired kickstand. That thing could just fuck right on off.

Letting out a slight, pained hiss as he shifted his shattered frame to try and better brace against the weight of the damned thing, an action that probably caused him more trouble than it was worth if the new wave of coppery red fluid that gargled up from his throat and also handily let him know that his left shoulder was also dislocated— Something he'd missed in the hodgepodge of everything [i]else[/i] that was wrong with him right now. Something he only acknowledged with a weak, rueful chuckle and a little shake of his head against the snow.

So, this is how he was gonna go out, huh?  

Survived all of his own shenanigans in the Blud, the night that led to his mum's death, a [i]literal goddamn train-wreck,[/i] and all the myriad of other shit over the past two years... and after all that, [i]he was gonna kick the bucket bleeding out on the side of a mountain in his [b]goddamn underpants.[/b][/i]

His train of thought paused for a second there, and his body went just a little bit more limp as something that tried to be another laugh gargled it's way up his throat.  

[color=orangered][i]'Yeah... that kinda checks out, in retrospect...'[/i][/color] the boy admitted internally, as the the rise and fall of his chest steadily began to slow down, and he strained to keep his increasingly heavy eyelids open. Eventually failing even at that.

His breathing became shallow. A cold numbness began to snake it's way up from his broken limbs to his bleeding core and the world around became increasingly more muted as a growing emptiness— a gnawing [i]void—[/i] spread steadily across his ailing consciousness, leaving him strength only for one singular thought;

[color=orangered][i]'...Time to pack it in.'[/i][/color]

That numbness worked it's way up his spine, but it didn't bother him much. Nor did the freezing cold, the howling of the wind around him or the labour of his soft, irregular respiration. All of it drowned out by an inky, black silence that consumed the world beyond his sealed eyes.

...But then, there was something [i]else.[/i] A dim, orange hue from beyond the veil of black that was becoming his world. With some reserve of strength from an unknown place, the boy forced an eye open, one last time... followed by the other. And the call of the void chipping away at what was left of his conscious mind abruptly halted. 

For there he found the first light of the rising sun.

Small threads of memories began to push their way up from the depths of his mind; of getting up extra early to sit on his dad's lap on the balcony as a small boy, of his mum coming home late from work in the early morning, passing out on the couch and him carrying her to bed in one of the few ways he had to show that he still cared... hell, even the clanging of the pot and ladle Vee used to use to get him out of bed when he was 'invited' to join her on a run at the crack of dawn.

The cold numbness receded. And an ebb of warmth slowly began to take it's place as his breathing regained it's strength.

He'd always loved a good sunrise.

His eyes turned towards the protruding bar of steel in his chest. And that smouldering ember of warmth in his body slowly broiled up in flame as he came to a particularly poignant conclusion—

[i]That he'd like it a helluva lot better without this [b]fucking thing sticking in his chest.[/b][/i]

Slowly, shakily at first, his one good hand rose out of the snow to grasp it, and he began to pull. A pained hiss became a gargled cough. Then a growl. Then a [i]scream[/i] that drowned out the grinding of bone and the mulching of flesh as inch by inch, the rebar came out the way it came in. And with one final wet 'crunch!' and a defiant [i]roar,[/i] the offending bar of steel was dislodged from his chest and promptly tossed away with all the strength he could muster as his head rose to search the area around him, eyes coming to rest on one tree in particular.

With that one good hand, and outright ignoring or no longer giving a shit about the agony that filled every fibre of his being, he dragged his broken frame across the snow towards it. Snarling, coughing up blood and swearing the whole.   

Oh, Malcolm knew he was going to die on this mountain.

But if he was going to control [i]anything[/i] about his own life, [i]it'd be how he met it's end.[/i]

[b]And goddammit, he was gonna get to watch that fucking sunrise.[/b]

With one final snarl of effort, the boy closed the last of the distance between him and the tree, and with considerably [i]more[/i] effort, hauled himself upward to rest his back against it. Chest heaving from the exertion as he finally got a chance to relax, knitting his eyes shut again for a moment, as slowly, steadily, a satisfied smile made it's way across his features.

But then... there was a crunch in the snow behind him... then another...

His eyes opened, wearily his head turned in the direction of whatever the hell that was, and then...

[b][i]"SomeBODY—"[/i][/b]

[hr]

[center][url=https://fontmeme.com/fonts/dirtee-box-font/][img]https://fontmeme.com/permalink/200622/d392c64f6167d9802de7a94057cc3966.png[/img][/url][/center]

[hr][hr]

[b][u]Keystone City, Missouri
Morning, January 1st[/u][/b]

[b][i]"—Once told me the the world is gonna roll me, I ain't the sharpest tool in the sheeeed...~"[/i][/b]

[color=orangered]"Mrrrngh..."[/color]

...And from under the covers, a pillow and about four hundred some-odd pounds of [i]dog,[/i] Mal was suddenly, but only barely, [i]awake.[/i] Clumsily and sleepily waving his free hand around in the vague direction of his alarm-clock radio in want... no, [i]desperate need[/i] from within his cushy coccoon to shut the damned thing up. This was not at all helped by his canine blanket's sudden decision to stop faking being asleep and immediately go after him with a pair of big damned paws chaotically bapping and digging at the only thing keeping him safe from an [i]aggressive[/i] amount of tongue and dog slobber.

This titanic struggle between a boy, flailing, half-asleep and trying desperately to slay the dread dragon of 90's Pop-Rock and his dog, [i]who was going to love him whether he wanted it or not and [b]would not be denied[/b][/i] lasted for all of forty-five seconds before the latter finally locked down on the former's struggling appendage and bodily [i]threw[/i] him from his bed and to the hardwood floor. Leaving our boy Mal [i]juuust[/i] enough time to groan, roll over onto his back and just [i]start[/i] to get up before being bowled over by his ecstatic pooch with enough force to send the both of them sliding across the floor in a heap and into his bathroom where his head would smack against the tiled walls, casting a definite failure upon his desperate quest to actually [i]sleep in today.[/i] 

Fortunately, the way he was now, he barely even registered the impact. Doing more damage to the wall than it did to him.

[i]Un[/i]fortunately though, it [i]did[/i] seem to come in time with the abrupt sensation that both hemispheres of his brain were attempting to part ways with one another as his vision flickered to some brief, incomprehensible swirl of orange and red. It passed as quickly as it came, as it always seemed to in the mornings. So fast in fact, that all he managed to get out was a pained hiss through clenched as his whole body tensed for a moment, before he relaxed resting his head up against the divot in the wall he'd made with his skull, staring at the ceiling as his now-empty lungs sucked in as much air as they could.

A few minutes of silence followed, until a quiet whine caught his attention. Wearily, his head turned downward, finding the face of his former assailant staring up at him from his lap, now very still and eyes wide and watery in a very puppy-dog expression of apprehension and remorse. 

Numbly, his hand went to her fuzzy belly, giving it a tired little rub. Something he was rewarded for with a (now [i]very[/i] gentle) lap on the chin and the light, rhythmic 'whap!' of her tail on the floor.

[color=orangered]"So, girl... ya hungry?"[/color]

The whapping only got louder with that. And despite his current state, Mal couldn't help but smile a little and give her a wee scratch under the chin. 

[color=orangered]"Aight, [i]alright..."[/i][/color] He said, giving her a few more affirmative pats on the belly and starting to lift the old girl off of him [color=orangered]"Just gimme a few minutes to get cleaned up, will ya?"[/color]

The dog, for her part, whined and wiggled a bit halfheartedly to try and get out of his grasp, but eventually gave up. Letting the lad roll her onto her feet and, with one final worried look and whine his way, slinked off out the bathroom.

Finally alone, Mal took a few more minutes to catch his breath... and wait for that ringing in his ears that'd been there since his little neurological anomaly a few minutes prior to finally wind the hell down. Before bracing himself against the wall and hauling himself up onto shaky feet in front of the sink. Opening the tap, taking a drink and splashing his face a little to help drive away those last little bits of residual nausea. Before opening up the medicine cabinet, reaching inside, picking out one particular little bottle and... [i]pausing.[/i]

He gave it a little shake.

No rattle.

With a low exhale, he calmly dropped the empty vessel into the trash, shut the cabinet back up again and with something that sounded an [i]awful lot[/i] like a defeated sigh, leaned his head against it.

[color=orangered][b]"...Crap."[/b][/color]

[hr]

A quick shower, a thorough brushing of his teeth and a clean set of clothes later, Mal emerged from his lair and ambled his way down the stairs, feeling— or at the very least [i]looking[/i] a little better for that hot shower.

...Aaaand, already the dog was upon him; More gently this time, though. Opting to just slink along next to him so her side was always touching his and rubbing her head against his chest whenever he stopped. Instead of, y'know, just [i]leaping directly at his face[/i] like the excitable, colossal pupper she was— Something Mal [i]quite appreciated,[/i] as a matter of fact, even if it [i]did[/i] make walking just a bit of a chore.

'Sides, he'd only have to put up with it for a few more seconds. And then there was a leftover t-bone steak that was just [i]calling[/i] his name, and if his supersensitive ears were telling him the truth, [i]Grampa Duncan was still dead asleep and [b]wouldn't be up anytime soon to tell him otherwise.[/b][/i]

A cheeky little grin started worming it's way across his features as he opened the fridge, took out the saran-wrapped plate in question, liberated it from it's confines and left it on the counter on the way to the cupboard that Sadie's big damned bag of dog-chow called home. And only seemed to grow a little more as he had to slightly wrestle the now (understandably) excited pooch away just a bit so he could actually open the bloody thing and grab her good noms.

And then abruptly melted away in a heartbeat as he found it [i]completely empty.[/i] Save for a sticky note in the back.

Mal froze. The dog froze.

[i]Time itself[/i] froze.
         
Before slowly, [i]deliberately[/i] the boy's hand reached inside and liberated the little bit of post-it from the cupboard's far wall, staring down at it with an unreadable expression.

[color=teal][i][b]"Mal, Buy more dogfood. -Grampa"[/b][/i][/color]   

Numbly, the cabinet was closed again. And staring straight ahead, the boy took in long, pointed breath and let out a low, deep exhale. His head began to pound again. From beneath his armpit, Sadie was looking him square in the eye. Silent, motionless, waiting to see what he would do.  

Turns out, what he would do was just sigh a little and scratch her behind the ear. Before his free hand rose up to the countertop, seized the plate bearing his precious, world-enhancing, big damned slab o' meat... and unceremoniously dumped it into her dog bowl.

[color=orangered]"Bon appetit."[/color]

[hr]

[b][u]Sometime Later...
Garrison Road, Historical District, Keystone[/u][/b]

Mal shuddered slightly as the world around him flickered back to that increasingly familiar red and orange, causing him to stumble a bit on the slush-covered sidewalk and brace himself against the red brick of a nearby building for a quick break.

These headaches of his were annoying when they'd first showed up a week or two ago. Now they were just plain getting [i]old.[/i]

...Well, bright sides; it wasn't too bad out today, so he could get away with just a ballcap and the polypropylene neck warmer Mari had got him a few years back instead of something like a beanie or an outright balaclava (though he still wore his grampa's old bomber's jacket— less for the cold, more for the comfort). Also, he didn't exactly have far to walk; his destination— [i]Kovalenko's Grub and Grocery—[/i] was only a block's walk away from home. And if Miss Kovalenko was still making those fried kielbasa sandwiches he'd eaten basically every damned Friday night after school when he was younger, he'd be killing two birds with one stone, then wouldn't he?

His stomach rumbled in agreement with that particular plan.   

Shaking his head slightly and giving a little snort, he steadied himself back onto his feet and carried on his merry way. Head down a bit and neck warmer pulled up, keeping a low profile just like his grampa told him to. Though in reality, the old man'd probably be a bit miffed about his little adventure here, being pretty adamant that he should generally [i]avoid[/i] places that might recognize him. At least, for now. And [i]especially[/i] not without him or Mari nearby.

Objectively, a smart thing to do, given his circumstances. In [i]practice[/i] however, it had become a bit of a sore spot between them; not being allowed to call Vee, Zoey or even [i]Kara[/i] to let them know he was still [i]alive[/i] was... well, [i]not exactly how he pictured [b]freedom[/b] would be like.[/i] 

[color=orangered][i]'Well, they've all probably moved on anyway...'[/i][/color] The thought occurred to him, and his vision flickered a again.

It still hurt like hell, though. 

The boy shoved those thoughts down. [i]Hard.[/i] And kept on walking. Distorting vision and ringing in his ears be damned— he knew the way well enough that he could damn well find it by just counting his steps. And if the old man wasn't going to let him talk to his friends, he could at the very [i]least[/i] let him get a goddamn sandwich while he did some groceries.    

Finally finding the place and entering with a quiet, though friendly little [color=orangered]"Pryvit."[/color], Malcolm didn't waste much time picking up what he came for; going up one aisle to grab a big bag of Queenco dog-chow, stopping by the fridge to pick up a bottle of orange juice and then down another aisle to grab the biggest damned bottle of ibuprofen he could find. Though it was a bit of a slower going than he'd like, what with the increasingly loud [i]ringing[/i] in his ears, that made him stop, check the prices of everything he picked up and do the math in his head when he realized he was probably going to be functionally [i]deaf[/i] by the time he hit the register, on top of the pain in his skull and the rapid shifting of his vision between normal and something out of a bad acid trip.

...And that the store already had a few people in it, one of which kept following him around and getting annoyingly close to his personal space. Though he mostly kept his head down and ignored the guy— not that the guy'd be able to hear a damned thing the asshole had to say over the ringing in his ears, anyhow. 

It wasn't until he finally got in line and felt something cold and metallic poke him in the back of the head that he put two and two together. And realized he [i]juuuuuust[/i] might've fucked up.

The tinnitus in his ears abruptly halted just in time to hear the racking of a shotgun behind him.

"Kid... what the [i]fuck[/i] are you doing?" A voice called out in front of him. "You [i]do[/i] know what this is, right?" 

For the first time since he'd actually been in there, Mal looked up slightly, catching sight of most of a man in some [i]really[/i] cheap looking jungle camo jumpsuit and a flak-vest with the word 'BAMF!' crudely spray painted in red across the front, though everything above his neck (which was festooned with one or two gold chains) was obscured by the brim of his hat.

"Man, kid looks kinda sick. Maybe he ain't all there."

"Shut up, Glen!" 

"...I thought we weren't using our real names?"

[b]"Shut up, Glen!"[/b]

Slowly, Mal's eyes swiveled to the left and towards 'Glen'; a more robust man dressed in a similar fashion to the man at the counter, though without the chains or the spray paint. A snub-nosed revolver under his belt as he shoved stolen twinkie into the mouth hole of his balaclava— Not exactly the picture of a hardened criminal, by any means.

"Leave him be." The MacAodhan boy's eyes snapped towards the counter again as that familiar low, husky tone of Kovalenko's hit his ears. Though the cold growl of her tone was something of a far-cry from the usually softhearted woman he remembered. "The register is here. Take the money and fuck off."

The double click of a hammer being cocked followed that suggestion, as 'BAMF guy' whirled around on the counter again, having to aim pretty high to stick his gun anywhere [i]near[/i] the six-and-a-half foot tall woman's face. 

And just like that, something... [i]old[/i] clicked into place in some deep, primeval part of Mal's psyche. The orange, red and now a bit of blue beginning to creep it's way back into his vision. 

There was no pain this time.

"If I wanted your opinion, lady, I'd put a hole in your head and [i]listen to the Commie lies spilling out of your [b]dead skull!"[/b][/i]

"...What the [i]hell,[/i] Mitch?"

[b]"SHUT THE [I]FUCK[/I] UP, GLEN!"[/b]

A low rumbling growl escaped the man with a shotgun, the one who'd apparently been following the errant teen around the store trying to politely inform him that he'd stepped into the middle of a goddamn [i]robbery[/i] as he finally spoke.

"Stop playing Hollywood, grab the money and lets [i]go."[/i]

The fact that Mitch seemed to visibly deflate at his words spoke volumes of what the man behind Malcolm was, something he noted in the back of his head. Right around the time those familiar distorted swirls of orange and red began to stabilize into solid shapes.

Some part of him was aware that he was now looking [i]through[/i] the visor of his ballcap, through their armour and even through the men [i]themselves.[/i] His hearing sharpening to pick up every little detail, from the slight crackling of the knee Glen must've blown out years ago to the drippy tap in the backroom.

Every muscle in his body began to tense, eliciting a slight crinkling from the bag of dogchow as his grip somewhat involuntarily tightened

"...In a minute." Mitch said, taking a step toward the seemingly mute teenager. "Kid's a bit of a weirdo, but I like his jacket. Think I'mma take it as a souvenir."

Another step forward, and his gun changed targets from the lady behind the counter to just under the brim of Mal's hat (Shotgun Guy taking his weapon away from the back of the teen's head and putting a bead back on Kovalenko in response), pushing it upward and off so he could look him in the eye.

"That sound alright with you, [i]Princess—"[/i]

He froze, eyes widening to saucers at what he saw and all that smug leaving his tone [i]immediately.[/i]

"...Oh God, [i]no."[/i]

Almost immediately, Mal's groceries spilled to the floor as he caught Mitch's gun and hand in a vice-like grip with his left hand that [i]crushed[/i] both and the crook's collar with his right, giving a firm yank to pull him into the headbutt that'd knock him out and terminate his scream prematurely. Shotgun Dude, for his part, immediately jumped back and held his gun at the high port, unwilling to fire the damned thing with Mitch's head being [i]right there.[/i] 

Glen, meanwhile, was struggling to get his revolver out from his belt and around his fat gut.

"Jesus [i]Christ!"[/i] The most professional crook in the room let out, a split-second before Mal spun around and swung Mitch at him with all the effort it took most people to swing a [i]twig.[/i] Knocking him right on his ass, and only giving him a split second to look up in wild-eyed panic as the teenager wordlessly proceeded to chuck his ad-hoc weapon at him like a spear and finish the job.

And that's about when Glen shot himself in the foot. [i]Literally.[/i] Falling to the ground with a loud scream and a chorus of swearing. But he [i]did[/i] manage to get his gun free, and with a war cry that was equal parts anger and terror, pointed his weapon at Mal and unloaded it as fast as his stubby fingers would move— Shattering the store's window and hitting his target exactly [i]once.[/i] In the shoulder. Which bounced off with a metallic [i]'Ping!'[/i] anyway.

It was at that moment that Glen pissed himself. 

And Mal, looking from the now very frightened man with soggy pants and a belly full of twinkies, down to the crushed glock at his feet and back again decided to arrange a meeting between the two via an abrupt bootfuck. Smacking the cake enthusiast dead in the nose with the mottled lump of steel and plastic, knocking him out, too.

A moment of silence followed all that. Until Mal finally let out a long exhale, and the world as he comprehended it returned to normal. Dull ache down the middle of his braincase included. He also suddenly became aware of the fact that somewhere in the middle of all that, he'd popped a bit of a nosebleed, something he mended with a quick yank down of his neck warmer and a wipe of his sleeve before pulling it back up, kneeling down, dusting off his hat, grabbing his groceries and heading towards the counter.

Even with his head down fishing for his wallet, he could feel the mountain of a woman staring down at him. And, frankly, it was more than a little bit awkward; Of course he [i]had[/i] wanted to meet her again, eat a sandwich, joke around and shoot the shit like the good old days.

This... this wasn't what he had in mind.

Maybe it was best if he just lef-

The woman in question sat down on her stool and rested her cheek in her palms, looking at him with a blank expression.

"Malo Borets', [i]is that you?"[/i]

He froze on hearing that old number, the nickname he'd earned the [i]last time[/i] he'd had to whoop someone's ass in her store. But obediently, his head turned upward until their eyes met.

[color=orangered]"Tak."[/color]

Slowly, [i]deliberately[/i] one of her hands slid out from beneath her chin and extended towards his shoulder, a finger finding it's way inside that fresh bullet hole in the fabric where it lingered for a second, until finally she withdrew it again and gave it a hard stare for a solid ten seconds before turning her eyes toward her customer and showing him the distinct [i]lack of blood[/i] on the end of her digit.

[i]"...Clearly,[/i] I need to charge more for the sandwiches." She said with an absolute deadpan.

There was a moment of silence. Then a snicker from him, a snort from her as she strained and struggled to keep a straight face. And then finally the both of them just burst out into a fit of laughter and she pulled him into a loose hug.

"Is so good to see you again, little one! Where have you been?" She finally asked as she released him, hands still on his shoulders.

[color=orangered]"Oh, ya know... [i]here and there."[/i][/color] Mal replied with a nervous scratch of his neck, suddenly realizing that for all his earlier desire to see a familiar face, he actually had [i]no clue[/i] what to tell them when he did.

Luckily for him, Kovalenko either accepted that answer, or was just happy enough that he was here [i]now[/i] that she didn't really care to pry further, as she threw on her apron and tied her blonde locks back. 

"So, kielbasa on white with honey mustard, tak?"

[color=orangered]"Uhh... yeah, tak. [i]Thanks."[/i][/color] The teen replied as the woman suddenly became a flurry of motion at the stovetop behind the counter.

"I'll try to fry it, but might not have time. Fat idiot emptied his gun into fucking [i]street.[/i] Police will be here soon." She called out in a... surprisingly casual fashion as she dropped a dollop of duckfat onto her pan and pushed it around with her spatula. "Speaking of, there are zipties in the far aisle, next to funnels. Would you mind making sure our idiots don't go anywhere?"

[color=orangered]"Yeah... sure..."[/color] Malcolm said, pushing himself off the counter and doing as he was told. Still just a [i]teensy[/i] bit weirded out by how well she was taking all of what just happened.

He didn't make it two steps before she whipped another curveball his way.

"...So when did the whole 'Glowing eyes' thing start, anyway?"

[color=orangered][b]"The [i]what?"[/i][/b][/color]