Dawn Chorus (Proxies x Reader)

"Get up," Masky snarls.

My limbs feel like jelly, body impossibly heavy. I try to get my arms and legs under me. The best I can do leaves me sprawled out wide like a reptile. My spine feels stiff and sore. I could probably scuttle along better this way at this point. I spit out dirt and clumps of grass. My mouth is a mud pit, grains of soil grinding and crunching between my teeth. I brace myself for a kick or hit as heavy boots thud over.

Masky digs his hands into my armpits and yanks me to my feet, holding me there until I can shuffle my legs beneath me and plant my feet solidly on the ground. My knees wobble, threaten to buckle. The red chaffing and purple of my ankle have calmed to more muted colors, less unnatural and more sickly. My arm hardly hurts anymore.

Two weeks of nothing. I've all but lost that time to my drifting awareness. Hoodie quietly manipulating the house into trouble. Toby rolling between anger and kindness. Masky leaving my injuries alone, too fuming to not make them worse and disrupt my healing progress. I spent the time mostly restrained, slumped on the living room floor with my back against the sofa, drifting in and out of consciousness, little food, little water, just like the basement. I've gotten better at reading the moon cycle, most of my awake time being late at night, staring out the window while they all slept.

This morning, Masky cut my restraints, gave me food and water, then dragged me out here and buried my head in the dirt with his boot. Two weeks of sitting, starving, dehydrating, this morning hadn't been enough of a recovery. This is probably my punishment, for stabbing and biting Hoodie, biting a few times across the last two weeks when I could do nothing else if they got near me. Masky started calling me a rabid dog. Toby barks at me now.

I stumble back a half step, find my balance. The ground is soft, only mostly dried from the rain a few days ago. The greenery around the yard is striped with yellow, orange, and brown. Nothing is that flashy, deep purply red I most associate with the season. A chill travels on the breeze, a warning, a reminder of the season's turn. Goosebumps break out across my arms. I only have leggings and short-sleeved shirts, clothing that won't cut it as it gets colder.

Masky takes two steps back, rolling his broad shoulders. He is still too close, close enough to grab me, close enough I can feel him in the air around me. I wait for his anger, the bite of his presence, but he just looks tired, maybe mildly annoyed at most by the slight curve to his lips.

"If Hoodie wants to play games," he starts to say, explaining before I can ask, "then I'll prepare you to play his games."

Without any clarification, the blur of his fist is heading towards me. He lets me see it. It's instinct by this point, drilled in by years of fist fights with my siblings, shuffling to the side, grabbing his arm, using his momentum and weight. I lock my leg behind his, bring my leg back against his knee, pull his arm forward. He doesn't lock his legs or adjust his weight, basically throws himself to the ground for me. That punch would have hurt if he had hit me instead of the dirt with a heavy thud. He coughs on the small cloud of dust from his impact; the top layer of soil is perpetually dry.

My movement isn't that of a small, scared animal. This is the first time he has tried to punch me straight on. The weapons, the kicks, the restraints, my erratic bursts of small violences had braced him for someone who would, at best, crumple to avoid the hit. But I haven't managed to surprise him. Instead, annoyance scrunches his nose, puckers his lips and turns the corners slightly down. Throwing him to the ground from his punch is my only trick, and I am going to pay for it.

Masky is back on his feet faster than I can blink. I have no time to break down and understand his movements. He is up and he is moving, barreling towards me with a hunch to his spine and a bend in his knees. There isn't a space for a real tackle. Still pain radiates from my gut and up my torso as his weight crashes into my stomach. His arms clamp around me like a Venus flytrap. He grapples me to the ground. I swing and beat on his back, his head, the back of his neck, his sides, movements irregular and panicked. He is a block of muscle. We hit the dirt and stir our own little dust storm. He rolls off of me and stands. A gloved hand is stuck out in an offering to help me up.