Page 107 of Property of Scar

Thorn closes his hands.

The roots respond instantly.

They constrict, twist, pull in opposing directions, and tear.

The screams cut off mid-sound as bodies give way under the force of it, ripped apart in a brutal, final motion that leaves the station echoing with the aftermath. Blood hits the broken concrete in heavy bursts, spreading fast between the roots that still hold what’s left in place, pinning it there like the fight hasn’t quite decided it’s finished yet.

Thorn doesn’t move from where he stands.

He doesn’t need to.

The fight comes to him, and nothing that does leaves whole.

“Ruckus!” The shout comes from somewhere to my left, buried in the noise of impact and movement, but he’s already there.

A rogue swings and misses by inches, but it shouldn’t have missed. Another turns at the mistaken moment, loses footing on level ground, and hesitates just long enough for someone else to end it. Ruckus walks through it all like he’s not even part of the fight, hands still in his coat pockets, expression untouched, while around him reality bends just slightly off-center for everyone who isn’t us.

Coil threads through the gaps like something that was never meant to have bones, his movement fluid and cold, appearing at throats, flanks, and blind spots before the rogues even register he’s there. His bite lands quick and precise, venom hitting the bloodstream before resistance can form, shutting them down from the inside out as their bodies fail in real time.

And Wreck doesn’t move around the fight so much as step into it, his pace unhurried, his weight settling into each step with the certainty of something that has never needed to rush anything in its existence. There’s no tension in him, no build-up, no visible shift that warns what’s coming next, and that’s the first thing that feels off, because everything else in this room is noise, violence, and motion, and he is none of those things.

The first rogue comes at him at full speed, claws out, body already committed to the strike, and he falters.

It isn’t physical at first.

There’s no impact, no block, no visible interference.

Something hits it before Wreck ever does.

I see it in the way its body locks mid-stride, momentum breaking as though something inside it has seized control away from whatever Mordain built into it. Its foot comes down too heavy, too slow, and for a split second, it just stands there, caught between movement and stillness like it doesn’t know which one it’s supposed to choose.

Then the fear hits.

Not the kind that makes something run.

The kind that roots it in place.

The rogue’s shoulders tighten, its spine locking as whatever Wreck is pushing into the space between them presses deeper, bypassing instinct and training, digging into something older than either of those things. Its head jerks once, like it’s trying to shake something off, and then its knees buckle from the simple inability to remain standing under whatever it’s being made to feel.

It drops.

Hard.

Hands hitting the cracked concrete, claws scraping uselessly as it tries to push itself back up and can’t. Its breathing turns ragged, the sound sharp and broken as it starts to understand, on some level, that it’s not fighting something it can reach.

Around it, the others begin to feel it too.

The pressure spreads outward from Wreck in a slow, suffocating wave, threading through the space and settling into every rogue it touches. One stumbles mid-strike, another jerks back from an attack it hasn’t even taken yet, and then the pattern repeats.

Knees hitting the ground.

Bodies locking up.

Control slipping.

The screaming starts next.

Not rage.