62.

                                    

                                          
content warning: death, abuse of power in a medical setting, violence, secondhand panic attack scene. sharp-eyes.
Whiteout
There's a stranger, passed out on a table. 
I can't look away, no matter how much I want to.
The table is smeared with red. Sharp-eyes doesn't like it when that happens; keeps everything neat and tidy. Way watches from the other side of the room, and I can see the terror in his eyes, even from here. He's so faded, in my mind a translucent shade of purple. This is entirely in character for him, I suppose--but somehow he still doesn't seem quite like himself.
"Whiteout," Sharp-eyes barks. "Pass me the scalpel." When he raises his voice, the whole room seems to tremble.
I pick up the sharp knife, turning it over in my talons. I could stab him with this knife. I could plunge it through his neck, I could watch him bleed over the floor, and maybe we could finally go home.
And even if I never stopped seeing it in my head, it'd be worth it. Wouldn't it?
I pass over the scalpel, and flinch as a sharp, white-hot pain rips through me. Sharp-eyes grimaces. "Pain medicine must be wearing off," he mutters. "Need to make another dose."
I don't ask what he's doing–he doesn't like too many questions. It sets him on edge, makes him sharp and electric. Not that he needs the help. He's not wearing Clearsight's bracelet today, surrounded by a multicoloured halo, making it hard to look at him without getting a headache.
I'm sure that bracelet must be taking away his powers. I've had a lot of time to mull it over. What other solution would alleviate his symptoms–but clearly not without a catch, since he never leaves it on for long?  As of late, he's resorted to old-fashioned medicine, a modified version of what dragons used to take after amputations or broken wings. The medicine doesn't stop his symptoms, but it does help numb him to his pain.
He snaps his claws, and the sharp scent of melting metal fills the room.
The subject lies asleep on the table, half of their body covered in plates of armour. A stack of metal plates lies in the corner. No matter how hard he tries, his laboratory is starting to fall out of order, tools bloodied and left uncleaned. 
Way covers his mouth with his talons, gulping. He looks away. He's fainted a couple times during these procedures, and shows no sign of improving. I remember the small dragonet who I'd look after, whenever his parents were busy. Back when he was younger, he never seemed to have trouble following my wild, elaborate stories, half of which I made up on the spot. We were never particularly close, but at the time he seemed like a good dragonet–soft and warm buried beneath a veneer of midnight blue.
He could be scared. But if he was so scared, he wouldn't have come back at all.
He could be weak. But if he were, he wouldn't have had the courage to leave in the first place.
There's something that doesn't quite seem right.
Sharp-eyes doesn't seem to notice Way's reaction. The patient squirms, and Sharp-eyes presses his talons to his chest, sending another electric shock through this poor, innocent dragon, who never asked for any of this.
"It's all about the brain. I can make them as physically strong as I like, but it won't matter if my soldiers can't think." I'm not sure if he knows I can hear him. "That's what you meant last week, right?"
It was. At the time, I thought if I tried to redirect him to a more complicated field of study, it might slow down his process, even if only by another week. Now, I'm starting to regret that decision.