[ orlando ] SAY GOODBYE TO THE SUN [ hoover]

[Orlando Hoover]

the memories, thoughts and experiences
of orlando hoover at various times in his life

[Orlando Hoover]

W I S H T H A T W I T H O U T M E Y O U R H E A R T
W O U L D B R E A K I N T O P I E C E S

careful calculated steps carried him across the wooden floor. each perfectly clean shoe silently moved over the contrasting light varnish. the tediously ironed slacks barely rustled as the lengthy limbs bent and then straightened to pull his body around in a succession of tiny movements all just to create a simple action. normally he would find such a process fascinating and would spend the hours he had been pacing this room studying the joints, muscles and other things that made such a thing possible for him. instead he paid no attention to the subject; his mind was a tunnel focused only on the dim light ahead. there was something eerie about this afternoon. the sunlight barely shined through the clouds and then hardly managed to make their way through the thin curtains that billowed around the few windows in the house which cast dark shadows all around the practically empty rooms. the sparse furniture was laid out around the house with such precision that could have only been done with careful consideration. there was no color in the house, only a range of grays to fill in the huge rooms. even he was wearing a simple black and white suit; his skin so pale, his eyes and hair so dark that he too looked like he was wandering in a greyscale world.

his eyes flickered towards the south; the pattering sounds of another pair of shoes disrupted his eyes from gazing out the bedroom window. a slow smile spread across his usually blank face, the expression immediately lighting up his eyes and giving the face some life. his grin could hardly rival that of the present company; logan macarthur's beaming smile was not one to be trifled with. the attentive steps changed their course, sending him straight to the winning smirk and right into a warm hug. they did not even have to exchange words for one another to know that both were truly happy just like this. if it were possible, the room became even more colorless in comparison. no matter how ridiculous it made lando feel, logan truly did color his world.

[Orlando Hoover]

A N D I F I C O U L D S W I M I W O U L D S W I M O U T
T O Y O U I N T H E D E E P B L U E S E A

there are days that sometimes not even the wind will move. sunlight, if there is even any, will seem to crawl across the planet's surface slower than usual. grass, flowers, and the very air around you will seem to dry up and slowly decay. it was a gloomy day; a darker day. even the sunny, cheerful colors of the tea cups spread around the floor tiles seemed saddened. they had been cleaned, bleached, soaked, scrubbed, wiped, and then washed again. they were not as nearly as overworked as the floor beneath them, which has been gone over with so many sponges, wash clothes, towels, toothbrushes and studied carefully for imperfections. there was a reason for this having to keep being redone. he couldn't risk any tears messing up the perfection, the spotlessness that had been achieved. he had to have something be the way he wanted, the way he needed it to be. everything must be perfect. the faultlessness continued up the crystal white, smooth walls of the entire house. there wasn't a scratch, a nick or a spot on any of the surfaces. there was no chipped paint, not a single speck of dust. there was not a single droplet of water stuck to the kitchen sink, any to those of the several bathroom ones. the huge shower doors of the converted guest bedroom were so clear that it was quite certainly hazardous to one's health because their invisibility meant walking right into it mindlessly. the grass of the front, back and side lawns - including that of the mini garden on the second floor patio - were level and flatter than the flattest plain. he had not spoken in three days, knowing that today was coming. he had eaten exactly twenty seven times today and it was eleven in the afternoon.

it was logan's birthday today.

[Orlando Hoover]

HOLD ON AS IF WE BELONG TO SOME PRECIOUS PURE DREAM
CAST OFF YOU HAVE SEEN WHAT IS BENEATH

his fingers moved in a circle against each other with the cotton between them as he carefully felt every fiber of its being. there were no skin on his fingers, and blood had crusted over the surface just as the shirt was soaked. besides his eyes moving from one camera's blinking light to the other spare and his nervous finger movements, the subject was still. they had told him to stay still while they preformed this, not wanting him to accidentally snap the needle in his spine again. he winced a bit as he pulled up the t shirt assigned to him a little higher so that it didn't touch the needles, which made them slightly scrape against the gentle tissues within him. he was growing more and more used to this pain he had to endure, his mind slowly but surely learning to block out any emotion no matter how much the institution encouraged it. it was a fact to him, so very logical, that feelings hurt. erase them and the pain would go away. he did not want to feel, especially at times like this. these experiments were teeth gritting.

as described, loud scraping noises filled the room as his jaw clenched. his eyes shut tight as they looked down the barrels of several guns, preparing for the feeling. it rained down on him like fierce rain, the bullets piercing his skin one after another. he could only try not to curl in a ball on the floor; the medications pumping into his spine keeping his instinct from killing every single one of the shooters in the room. his hands slammed to the metal medical table he sat on, crushing the steel in his fists like it was cardboard. a shaky whimper released from his mouth when the fire ceased, bullets embedded in all parts of his body sparing his head. with a whine he collapsed onto his knees in the fetal position, his eyes opening only to blink away the tears filling his eyes. it hurt so much.

"alright, that was subject 'orlando hoover'; dated march 4th 1977, injuries sustained but no termination. fire at will, people." the woman shouted to her associated. the young boy just closed his eyes tightly again.

[Orlando Hoover]

AND IF I WAS BRAVE I WOULD CLIMB UP TO YOU ON A MOUNTAIN
LIKE SOME ACTION HERO HOOKED ON DRUGS

his jaw tightened to the point where it caused him more pain than was being forced on him already. his fists clenched the table in the same place that he had dented with his hand print a previous test; at least hundreds of experiments prior to this one. but as the numbers of procedures he had to endure increased, the more he could remain -- or at least appear to be -- serene. he didn't even shed a tear. his eyes didn't fill up with brilliantly scarlet tears and no scream of agony escaped his parted lips. his teeth were barried; the shiny whiteness glittered in the light of the bright room. his fangs were more than visible; their sharp point being rivaled only by the hundreds of long, pencil-thick needles stuck to a metal place above him where he lay on his back. at the moment a tiny nurse was buckling the straps over his arms; pure steel was used though everyone was aware that it could not bind him. if he wanted to pluck a lung out of your chest like he was picking flowers, he would. they proceeded vigilantly.

the petite woman was in no way beautiful, but he stared at her as intensely as one would a work of the most extravagant art. she was pale in a way that she was more pink then beige; which contrasted oddly with her mousy hair. one could mistake her hair for red instead of the grayish amber, but he did not. he had studied this young woman enough to notice the slight difference. her eyes were grey. that was the entirety of his thoughts about her eyes, which proved them to be especially bland.

her chubby, almost childlike hands finished securing him before she made her way back behind the equipment stationed next to his head. right before she returned to her seat, the nurse noticed the subject was gazing at her. a blush and a pleasant smile made her face even more rosy colored. she was not used to the attentions of a man, even if he was someone she was about to stab hundreds of times in a moment. with a slow, deliberate blink he returned the smile; nodding for her to proceed. once again they exchanged gestures. waves bounced weightlessly through her hair when she nodded back. he shut his eyes, relaxed his clenched muscles and wait for the pain.

he opened his eyes. as his slender hand reaching slowly to touch his chest as he sat up, he realized something. there was no needles; there was no pain. his fingertips moved to his temple as he began to think straight. he must have been on medication again. it was the time he would ever dream. he carefully stood up with movements more gracefully then he would normally be able to pull off. his eyes looked around letting him know he was in the cells again. a quick brush of his hand over the back of his neck confirmed that he had been medicated perhaps after being tested on.

he let out a gradual, calculated breathe when his eyes landed on a much more colorful head of hair of a reading woman -- well a previously reading woman. now the book had fallen from her hands to the floor and her head hung sleepily. she sat in a folding chair outside of the cell he was in.he must have started to think about that mousy nurse since she slightly reminded him of this redheaded maid who he immediately identified as Holly. he smiled the same way he had smiled at the nurse all those years ago -- whose name proceeded to escape him -- and nodded in a silent agreement with himself. Holly was significantly prettier, and he thought very highly of her -- not bland at all -- grey eyes. plus she didn't stab him nearly as often.

[Orlando Hoover]

LOOKING IN THE MIRROR TO SEE A LITTLE BIT CLEARER
THE ROTTENNESS AND EVIL INSIDE OF ME

the sun is brighter today. how could that be possible? does the form get.. lighter? impossible. but somehow the rays of light shined through the skies like water pouring into a cup, washing over his face. it was the afternoon so most were heading out for lunch, but he had just been finishing his. it had been his last human meal, he had vowed. he would kill them no more. torchwood would help him; rehabilitate him. they would save him and everyone else again, like they always did. he was truly putting all his trust into the establishment; throwing away what had felt like the perfect life, the worst kind of guilty pleasure. he was tossing himself back into the control of the institute -- though he never really was out of it -- and making himself property again. he was something to be controlled. he direly needed it, that was more than evident. it still made his jaw clenched tighter a bit when he though on the subject. property. it was like being a child again.

as he pulled on a new crisp white shirt, even taking a moment to stare down at the tie given to him from his neighbor. she was incredibly friendly to him, though the checkered piece was not exactly his thing -- too much going on, to be honest -- but orlando knew that he was running out of ties. well, he still was in possession of a few, but blood was awfully hard to get out of the fabric. he would have to go out to buy some new ones, though he despised shopping. he planned just how he would go about this and when as he tied the black and white checkered tie around his neck, then smoothed his suit. he had not bothered with a jacket today, knowing it to be unwise to even bother. the jacket of the suit was his favorite part. he was not going to ruin one if he did not have to. even oven this particularly enjoyable meal.

with careful movements he carefully dusted the dirt off his shoes, then arranged a potted plant over the bones he had just buried in the subject's former backyard before walking back out to the street. a tired sigh escaped him, though no exhaustion was present other than the disappointment that the moment was over. as much as it disgusted him to admit it to himself, it was truly quite lovely to kill. it made him feel fuzzy all inside; the constant pain in his mind from the battling genetics ceasing with the taste of flesh in his mouth. it was like... well, indescribable. besides, thinking back on the experience would only make him more dampened on the fact it was over for now. his last human feeding... could this work? he had lived nearly seven years on the glorious chow before he had come to this decision. he was unsure of himself, unsure if he was strong enough for such a leap. hope would be illogical.

[Orlando Hoover]

**HEY YOU. yes you. i know this post is weird. i was incredibly bored.


AND ON HIS FACE IS A MAP OF THE WORLD
FROM YESTERDAY IT IS COMING

a faint tick marked the next move of one of the men; sitting across from each other in silence. the man who just moved his queen was not as nearly as tall as his company, but they both had glasses adorning their young, focused faces. "checkmate. again" the taller man murmured with a faint glint of a triumphant smirk in the background of his quiet and calculated voice. blue eyes that much outshine the innocence of the taller man's brown flickered from the board to the face sitting across from him. a delicate brow raises over his blue eyes, suggesting the uncommon look of slight surprise. "oh? the blue eyed man's voice was refined for such a young man. it was as if he was constantly smoking a pipe in front of a fireplace. however, the torchwood medical bay was hardly the place for pipes and fireplaces. even the tastes of patrick -- excuse me, it was now doctor patrick farrow -- would not allow such things in his esteemed domain. orlando hoover -- who was the taller-brown-eyed man -- was finished with a quick check up provided by doctor farrow -- who was blue-eyed-shorter man -- to take a brief look at and remove a bullet that had been 'misplaced' in hoover's thigh.

"oh?" hoover copied almost teasingly his superior's tone, even going as far as to mimic his expression. his eyebrows were thicker and he could raise his much higher from such practice of making fun of his -- he could guess this was the right word, though it never seemed to fit -- favorite medic; but the look of playful amusement was still clearly seen in his wide eyes. "oh," farrow said, leaning forward a bit. then the youthful doctor shook his head. "surely not..." he muttered with a small frown which indicted not anger but further stubbornness, which was common of the doctor. he studied the pieces carefully, examining like he would a patient; every detail taken in and judged.

"oh surely not not," replied the other man; a slender finger pointing to a steathly rook. the doctor adjusted his thickly rimmed glasses with a slow, friendly smile stretching across the usually tightly, slightly frowning lips. "checkmate again, it seems," farrow agreed, picking up a glass of milk since he drank nothing else and sipped it slowly. then he muttered quietly, before moving the glass away from his lips: "you clever bastard." hoover returned a wide, warm smile. it was not unheard of for the doctor to call him this, so he took it more as a compliment then a sign of anger. "i suppose so," hoover agreed, taking an equally slow drink of his warm water cup. "so, what now?" he asked as he set down his glass after a long, silent moment; staring at each other as if sharing a silent private joke. the time they spent together was usually in total quiet, just watching and observing each other much like they did the chess pieces. it was easy to see they both found one other amusing and intriguing.

"take off your clothes and get on the table, orlando." the doctor said calmly, standing up and setting down his glass.

orlando hoover, or just hoover as he was usually called back them, had known doctor farrow since he had first came to torchwood. they were around the same age, alike in some ways though terribly different in others as all people are. hoover was the pet, the toy or the equivalent to a frog in a biology lesson. farrow was the superior, the head of the medical department and a child genius. both were alien, just the doctor managed to hide it better. he was the closest hoover had to a friend, but hearing that still made him nearly inhale his water when he raised it for another drink.

of course doctor farrow was not thinking the same thing as his slightly younger friend was thinking. he just wanted to get a better look at his muscle structure makeup. maybe pump him full of some medication and cut off bits of him just so he could put him back together again. how very humty dumty, orlando would say with a curt roll of his eyes every time farrow suggested it. hoover was just glad to get a better look at the back of the outdated snug bell bottoms the doctor wore. the doctor quite professionally ignored any of the embarrassing physical reactions hoover had to the sight while he had him stripped and strapped to a medical examination table. he was nice like that.

it was right around this age -- which happened to be twenty one -- that they all began to realize the severity of hoover's species' urge to mate. male, female, human, elitherean; it did not matter too much as long as they got what he so wanted. it was a need less dire then feeding and more then sleeping. his urges were getting to be quite the problem -- he refused to give into them, since it was the only of his instinctual desires he could slightly control -- since the water bill had increased significantly since hoover's showers started lasting hours. celibacy did not suit him for obvious reasons. some suggested getting another elitherean to add to their alien stock. a cheery new nurse even suggested that they could breed the two. doctor farrow denied that idea and figured hoover would just learn to deal with it eventually. besides, they did not want any more human and elitherean mutts running around. too much trouble. instead hoover was withheld from showering for more than once a day, and only allowed a quick ten minutes to wash up. many of the staff would return home quite chipper though exhausted after they issued that rule. hoover was slightly more popular, though displeased with himself.

"you'll just feel a pinch..." the doctor promised, letting hoover hold his hand as the bond man drifted off into a medicated slumber.

[Orlando Hoover]

with precise but still wild movements, his fist traveled at the speed of a car and the strength of an elephant up from underneath the bottom of the ribcage, through the organs until the fist gripped around the still beating heart. within a split second his fist enclosed, causing the weak flesh core to pop like a balloon in between his fingers before his hand shot back out of the now dying man's stomach. his other hand's fingers were curved like claw around a small tin cup, then pressed up against the back of the same cup as he plunged it through the ribs, and around the heart of another man. his mouth snapped up the bleeding organ to swallow whole after he scooped it out, a hideous roar booming out from his throat. his shoulders were crouched a little as his hands tore the flesh away, or smacked into weak bodies to break their bones. his eyes were dark and feral; his pupils were as thin as a piece of paper and twitching around with the natural instinct to kill anything and everyone in his path. his neck was snapping around with zeal to get a bite out of any of the flesh in such a flurry around him. quick, inhuman and well-trained hands swatted the flat of blades away from his body, letting his teeth ravage the attacker. he ripped away the guns from those who had the time to shoot him or those who had not just run away from the thunderous snarling; pulling those arms out of the sockets before they could do more than watch the bullets hit him like he was having pebbles thrown at him.

orlando hoover was not in the mood to deal with this shit.

all around him were the remains of bodies; the bodies of those he did not know but truly despised. they belonged to the people who had taken his partner. they kidnapped his partner. i did not matter that the man assigned to him still made him cringe when he looked at his smirk, or that he was the same person who felt free to make jokes the first time lando had started to lick logan's leg after he had been shot; even though he had clearly stated the disinfecting and soothing properties of his saliva due to evolutionary genius. none of that mattered. these people had taken what he considered to be his. and there was no way that he was going to go through the assignment process again. who knows who else they could find to partner him with. worse than logan macaurthur? it made him cringe at the thought.

yet, he did have to admit there was something mysteriously charming about the man. his cocky stride or the excitement that would flood through his eyes while the adrenaline would pump through the spontaneous man's veins; everything about him was seemingly addictive and likable to some point. even lando found himself smiling slightly every so often at a joke his partner would make, or a fond grin spreading across his face when he watched logan use his incredible skills at their best. there had been instances when he knew that he did deep, deep down, care for the person he now spent the most time with; but usually he dismissed it. but now all he could think about, through the cloud of anger and the delicious taste of warm flesh in his mouth; was how much he truly, absolutely, dearly missed logan.

a brisk jog carried him through the warehouse as he ignored the shouting for back-up all around him. i did not matter to him the slightest how many more bodies he would have to rip to shreds, he had only one thing on his mind. he had already searched the makeshift cells, breezing past the pleas for help that the captives sent towards him; like he said, he only had one thing on his mind. there was no time to deal with those people, and right now he did not really care. no matter, the place would be torched soon. they would be prisoners no longer soon enough.

his mind was torn from the memory of their helpless cries; instead having to focus with a slow, deep growl from the very pit of his diaphragm on the row of armed and stationed people in front of him. on either side of all those present were concrete walls, thick and splatter with any and everything the mind could imagine; the most probable assumption being hundreds of layers, splatters and smears of blood. the floor was also concrete, as was the high ceiling. the thick metal doors were used as shields for the armed men in front of him; they hid in the rooms to reload and prepare themselves to fire. behind him he could hear another series of guns cocking, and men muttering orders on the communication devices against their ears. his eyes flickered upon those devices, from one to another and then again; the flashing red lights each of them had were the only light in the room so it cast an eerie glow over all their faces. it was not often that lando was arrogant, or that any sense of ego swamped through his mind; but looking around at all these people made him think one single, venomous word: pathetic. did they think they could kill him with their primitive but yet 'advanced' technology? years, and years of evolution had created him, though then was pulled back by his human blood. years and years and years of evolution has shaped one of the universe most perfect hunters and they thought they could grip to life using their toys. it only made the sound of his teeth gnashing together grow louder; he began to crouch slightly, his shoulders dropping so that he was looking at those around him from underneath his eyelashes like a rabid animal.

it was almost completely silent, just the faint sound of the communication devices beeping and all of their heaving breathes breaking through the calm. he was still, completely so except for his eyes darting about, dancing across each of their faces. but then a stupid -- oh so stupid -- one of them fired, the bullet just grazing lando's left upper arm. the silence only lasted for less than a second after that, because then he moved from his crouch to literally leaping through the air to pounce on the man, his hands ripping off the layer of skin around the his neck like he was unwrapping a present. with a loud roar the now headless body was thrown back into his comrades, the sound of bullets whooshing through the air now accompanying his snarl. it was no bother to him, his body twisting and contorting as he moved down the line to smash the heads of his enemies into one another, or to stab the butt on the gun through the chests of the attackers; and only to be shot several times at the most.

he was not sure just how logan had gotten himself into this mess. he guessed it may had to have something to do with the missing billions of mää (which was more than hundreds of millions of earth dollars) that this group of people had 'misplaced'. it had not taken lando more than a few hours to locate the so called secret base of the mob or whatever it was, and only ten minutes and counting to infiltrate it using pure force and occasionally the railing of the steps he had ripped apart to take care of some particularly large men a couple storage rooms back. now he was making his way through the former processing plant, dancing through the dead machinery like the ancient elithereans had moved through the icy tree-like plants of their planet. he was, in every sense and form, hunting and searching for his prize. except he did not plan to eat or mate with his prize. well... no. he did not plan to eat or mate with his prize.

the beeping sound from the devices of his attackers were gone now since they had been working only as long as their hearts stayed beating. time for the next round of storage vaults. after nearly another hour of looking around the warehouse, he came across a flight of stairs, which were heavy gaurded. he easily took care of them, then started his way down. anywhere that meant they had to have extra security, usually was the place that logan would be found. he took the steps three at a time for a bit, but then just climbed over the edge of the winding cement stairs and pounced down; landing on his feet like a cat would. he looked up slowly from his position, standing up gradually as he heard no sounds at all. did they not notice the loud thud of him landing in the middle of their top security cells? no, no they didn't.

that was because 'they' were now all already laying on the floor with various numbers of holes shot through them. there was only one cell and the door was open, a man striding casually out of it spinning a gun on his index finger. a giant smile spread across his face, revealing some impressively white and perfect teeth. "hey, man! what're you doing here?!" logan said blissfully, as if just running into his partner at a bar. he looked the blood drenched, panting and bleeding man over once then took an enormous bite out of an apple that had been about to be eaten by one of the guards. "you look like hell." he said through his full mouth. all lando could do was stare at him then with a wide roll of his eyes, he let out a heavy sigh.

worse than logan macaurthur? the mere possibility was simply exhausting to consider.

[Orlando Hoover]

he was glad that his body allowed him to be more sensitive than the average human, which he was feeling quite today. he could feel all the dimples, dips, curves, muscles, hairs, bones structure and, well, anything like a blind man reading a book of braille. even in nearly complete darkness like he was in now, only a soft glow coming from behind the shear curtain that hung in front of the window, he could almost see what he was touching must look like. a strong jaw bone, curving down into a rounded off point where cheek became chin; full and soft lips that turned up slightly at the ends; a delicately chiseled cupid's bow above the naturally pouty lips; thick brows over deep set almond shaped eyes; he could run his finger tips over the face for hours on end. but instead he moved his hand down a bit lower to the slope of the neck, touching where the adam's apple soft dent in the smooth surface, or where a day of stubble speckled the plain. he moved his hand lower even, tracing the tips of his fingers over the collar bone, like a wave in a smooth sea of torso. again his hand moved but this time upward once more to pass back over the silky smoothness of the neck, feeling the warmth of it.

his head rested on the shoulder, his other arm encircled around logan's head to feel the ends of his hair. one leg was crossed over logan's which were lying on top of lando's other leg. he pulled himself gradually closer and closer to logan as the time they had spent lying there together had gone on; not that neither of them seemed to mind. if anything, logan would snuggle up closer to him every chance he got, his head eventually slipping into a slumber and buried in lando's chest contently. this was the perfect time for lando to study his face, a face he had missed -- the word did not seem to be enough to express the severity of his longing, but this was no time to be dramatic; not at a happy moment like this -- for a very long time.

his hand lingered on logan's neck for a moment, halting the constant movement and tracing of the body. for a few seconds all he did was press his fingertips gently against the heat that the body gave off, and felt the blood pumping pleasantly underneath the soft skin. then he laid his entire hand against the neck, closing his eyes with a deep sigh. it was so... perfect. perfect hardly seemed to fit. blissful maybe? no. it was just right. just to feel and to be close to him felt wonderful. it made lando nuzzle his head close to him, hearing logan's quiet breathing... it was heaven.

his eyes opened, adjusting quickly to the darkness so he could see the dim outline of what was around him. at first he stared at his hand on logan's neck, then his eyes began to move just the slightest down the bare chest. he was, unlike lando who wore the wrinkled remains of his suit minus the jacket and shoes, not sporting anything more than some boxers. he could see all the waves of muscles down the torso, and the smooth curves of how each muscle formed the slight shadows on the skin. he wanted to do more than just stare sheepishly at it, wanting more than anything just to slip his hand discretely down from his neck to the chest, to the stomach... no. no. no. he was not letting any of those thoughts ruin the comfortable and at ease mood of this moment.

instead he took that as a firm -- he would like to stress: no pun intended -- sign that he should try to get some sleep. logan would awake soon from his normal light, brisk nap and lando had not gotten nearly enough sleep the night before after being called in by torchwood. instead he closed his eyes again, pulled off his tie and placed it on the bedside table, wrapped the hand that was on logan's neck around his shoulders and let himself drift off into a calm slumber.

- - -

his eyes opened, adjusting quickly to the mid morning light so he could see the suddenly bright outline of what was around him. at first he stared at his hand... on an empty pillow. which was lying on top of an empty bed. he was alone. there was no on there. slowly he rose to sit up, his back and arms stretching as his mind began to awake. the room was empty as normal, as plain and spotless as if no one lived here at all. the shelf a couple feet in front of the bed was empty except for a digital clock and his unused gun. next to him on his bedside table was his tie that he had taken off. it was all so... bland though. the white walls, the faultless floors, the unused ceiling fan with not a speck of dust resting upon it; it was like he did not actually use anything. even the light switch was unnecessary, instead a window cast a bright gleam throughout the room. his hand ran through his hair, his eyes blinking slowly. something had changed. somehow the room felt so suddenly and blindingly empty. it was quiet, complete silence except for the inhumanly slow breathing barely escaping between his lips.

at first all he could do was sit there.

he did not turn his head or move his hand to feel the empty spot next to him. the spot that had been filled what seemed like just seconds ago, so wonderfully filled. there was a sudden rushing feeling in his chest, like all the air had been vacuumed out of his lungs, and had sucked the rhythm of blood flow through his veins. his head began to feel like it was being compressed, squeezed and squeezed. his eyes open wider, as if peeling back in sheer horror to what was lost here and why the room had abruptly felt so arid without him.

logan was not in the room. it had been a week since he had come back... somehow. lando was sure of it. he was so sure that it had happened... but then he could remember, just yesterday when he had shown up at torchwood to get some injection. they had said the contents could cause hallucinations... he had had them before. this would not be the first time, but that did not make the feeling of his brain being enclosed or the feeling of his pulse halting or his lungs drying of air be any less. instead it made it worse.

he clutched at his chest, his other hand for his neck as the rushing began to increase; the feeling he couldn't breathe. his eyes widened even more, his face stricken with panic. for a moment he just gasped; his mind, which was too preoccupied feeling like it was going to suffocate, did not seem to want to tell the lungs to breathe. it too failed to feel to alert his heart to keep pumping. instead his blood just seemed to cool, to turn into icy rivers all over his body making his skin shiver. he gripped at his throat still, choking on his own breath and terror. he couldn't move.

he was still dead. he had to deal with this. he. was. gone. but here lando was again, again! having day dreams of holding him in his arms, with a happy and content partner cuddling up against him. here he was again, gripping desperately to the hope that maybe what he had seen and then played over and over in his mind was wrong. he wanted to be wrong. he wanted them all to be wrong. he wanted all this to be the actual nightmare. he wanted to stay in the illusion. he wanted it back. he was helpless. all he could do, with a sudden shaking breath, was begin to cry.

tears of blood streamed down his face, stinging his eyes with the salty and coppery feel it gave. both hands held his head now, pressing down as hard as he could as if now wishing his head would just get on with it and implode into itself. his heart was rushing madly now, beating so fast that it almost hurt to be alive. this couldn't be happening he couldn't take this. he whimpered, holding himself tight and rocking himself back and forth on the bed. he did not know how much longer he could take this; having him back then having him taken away from him again was such a mind boggling torture. he could not understand why his mind was doing this too him. part of him wanted to see him, to pretend and remain in bliss. the other part of him wanted it to end; for logan to just stay dead. all he wanted was consistency and structure and control. but instead he felt helpless and sobbed like a child.

[Orlando Hoover]

did anyone else ever notice all the dust that was in the air? one could see it most clearly when you shined a light in the dark. then all the tiny particles floating around through the air would be revealed and lando was not able to do more than stare blissfully at it. of course, he should be paying attention to the comity and their ongoing reciting of the rules and regulations; but he was not concerned. he hardly got himself into trouble except when it was out of his control, and even then they did not care too much. he ate a couple people? who cares. they had more important things to worry about. but one headless king from some planet named Zebalba and all hell broke loose. it would be amusing if it wasn't so ridiculous. they all seemed to take this very seriously, something about a political and safety uproar at the mentioned planet, but here lando was staring boredly into the lighting.

"the culprit has not been found. do you have any idea how the king of Zebalba may have had his head removed even though he was both heavily gaurded and his head previously attached?" one of them said, a tinge of sarcasm and bitterness through their voice. the man did not seem very pleased at all with the situation.

"negative, sir." he replied, with his face as blank as a clean piece of paper; completely unreadable. "analysis has stated that my psychic abilities are lacking. you should try asking a different individual. i am certain that agent Tasunke has a level of fifty six point eleven. you should try asking him for assistance."

it had taken years upon years for the personality trait of being a total 'smartass' to be trained out of him, or at least hidden. it was not until he had spent a few months around his partner, logan, that it began to surface again. he was so illogical; his tendency for spontaneity almost seeming idiotic if it wasn't continuously intriguing and occasionally successful. one would have to comment on the things he did or the way he thought. at first it was to show that no, lando was not fond of him. but now it was like they were sharing a private joke. they both knew that the other understand the situations they got themselves into and that they would have to deal with each other by now.

besides, lando was already starting to find himself caring for the individual, no matter how irrational at times. even then, it just added to his unquestionable charm. these past months had been, he hesitated to admit to even himself, the better of many. he had spent so long in solitude and emotional silence that the abrupt toss into the colorful world of mister macarthur was almost a relief. torchwood had not had the same sort of flair or pizazz that logan brought to the world, so it was quite the change for him. a good change.

"no idea at all? not even an inkling, hoover?" the same man said again, the irate tone in his voice rising slightly.

"negative, sir. analysis has stated that-"

"so it is just a coincidence that you and your partner were present in the palace's proximity at the time?" another said, cutting lando off.

"coincidence, sir?" he answered, a slight confused look on his face. "what is it that you are referring to? the fact he was heavily gaurded or the fact his head was previously attached?"

he and logan has been many places already. it was quickly learned that his partner greatly enjoyed moving around quickly, especially when he would get himself into trouble, which was almost always. he seemed to always find a way to somehow wind up in prison, be the start of a civil war on a planet he did not belong to, come in possession of the rare jewels of the Taurean orbit, or to -- on occasion -- have sexual relations with a particularly beautiful and bored queen so that it ended up that lando had to remove the head of her king so that logan did not get himself into trouble. the queen did not seem to mind it. she even gave them both a kiss goodbye. logan's was much longer, though she gave lando is a mischievous wink.

"you are being accused of murdering the king of Zebalba, orlando hoover." a woman said with a heavy, annoyed sigh.

"oh really?" he said, mock surprise and the look of confusion increasing. "what makes you assume that?"

"he was found headless, mister hoover." another added, his voice sounding stressed.

"oh really? why would someone remove their own head? is that not somewhat important to survival for most species?" concern now crossed his face. he was stubborn, he was not admitting to anything.

there was a chorus of people sighing and rolling their eyes. they had been here for nearly an hour now and most just wanted to leave. most were fidgeting and obviously did not care much about the death of the king of Zebabla. in fact, lando might have been the one who looked most hurt. the queen even wore a small little smile on the huge communicator screen on the wall behind the comity's table. she had let herself push out some tears at first, but now was just amused enough with giving obvious and filled looks to logan, who sat back at the agent seats behind the podium lando stood at and in front of the comity's table.

after a long pause, one of the board began to speak again. "several peoples of the planet say that they saw a tall, human male scaling the palace walls minutes before the king was found. what do you have to say about that?"

"why did the man not use the front gate? that would be much more sensible."

"he is you, mister hoover."

"who is me?"

"the man. the tall human man scaling the wall."

"but why did he not use the front gate?"

"the man was you, hoover." one of the comity spat, obviously not amused.

"sir, i am neither human nor tall. it may just seem so from your perspective, sir." lando replied to the slightly-shorter-than-average man.

"no, hoover. the witnesses meant he looked human.

"that who looked human?"

everyone pretended to ignore the burst of quick, rapturous laughter coming from a certain logan macarthur.

"you will face four days of solitary confinement without food including the incident being added to your and your partner's records. you will also apologize to the planet of Zebalba and state that you are incapable of controlling yourself. you and your partner are banned from the planet and its surrounding moons." one of them recited.

"acknowledged. but sir, may i ask you a question?" he inquired.

"proceed." the leader of the comity nodded with a stern frown.

"the king is alright, isn't he?"

[Orlando Hoover]

he was counting the hairs making up her eyelashes. there were an odd number. he ceased counting before he even started the other, his eyes drifting back down to the table in front of him. he had only met one person so far that had an even number of eyelashes on both eyes. his hands were at his sides, but not with the usual stiff posture. instead they hung like dry leaves stuck to a tree, as if they were barely holding on, the weight threatening to carry then away. he felt incredibly heavy, like he had suddenly been filled with lead. he knew it was impossible, and if he was he would not even be able to consider the idea since he'd be dead, but it still felt that way. his eyes were heavy, mostly closed and stinging with the dim light. all light seemed to hurt, making him just want to shut his eyes forever. he did not feel like moving or speaking or even breathing, the weight pressing down on him. it was like someone was slowly pressing down on his chest, pushing the wind out of him and making it increasingly harder to breathe. he was having trouble reminding himself to do these things. it was like his entire body was ready to just shut down out of pure exhaustion.

his mind was acting the same. he could not think or comprehend. he was not able to remember things or put together a fully formed sentence. he did not seem to think about anything, it was like there was just a blank screen in his head every second. occasionally a flicker would pass over the bright light that he seemed to be constantly blinded by, but it was never anything he wanted to see. seeing things, thinking or doing anything only made it hurt. he didn't want to anymore. there was no point.

it had taken him so long to come here, to move his feet, to find the correct room and then realize he was there or when he wasn't. it was so difficult and forced. he had to stop a couple times along the way, leaning his head against the wall with his eyes closed. he would breathe slowly, his body having to work exceptionally hard before he would start to move again. he never felt so tired. all he wanted to do was sleep, but of course he could not. he was having trouble sleeping lately anyway, not being able to sleep his needed eight hours a day. it was like he wanted nothing more to sleep, but he just couldn't. it was too much effort. he thought he wanted to sleep. but maybe he just wanted to close his eyes and not open them. that wasn't really sleep.

he was having trouble eating. in fact, he was hardly at all. he would get the food, sit in his cell, stare at it then slowly pick at the food. the guards that would usually supervise him said they had never seen him act this way. it was like the greatest pleasure in the world suddenly was as appealing as cutting off your fingers. it hurt and you were losing a piece of yourself every time. he was growing thinner and weaker, dark circles surrounding his heavy eyes for lack of sleep and the same white sweat shirt and pants replacing his suits. suits were not as great as they used to be. now they were just nothing. like everything else.

he looked back up at her eyelashes, then her eyes. killian had been speaking. had she? he did not notice. she probably had been talking to him these entire past minutes and he had not even paid any attention. he didn't see why he should. her words were insignificant. she was pointless. he did not understand why he was even here. it was nothing. like everything else.

she was looking at him like she had asked him a question, expecting him to answer. his eye lids closed then opened again gradually, making that look on her face blur then focus. his mouth slowly opened, and he inhaled. he had to think of something to answer with. his mouth hung open for a long moment, his mind scraping the bottle of the barrel to find an answer. he could not think of a single thing to say. what did he want to express? what did he need to reply with? his exhaled a little shivering breathe, trying to make his body do its job.

"make him come back," he finally said, choking on the air. "just make him come back."

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