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Scar lay curled up, eyes half-lidded, a sleepy haze dulling his mind.
He’d spent more hours than he could count in bed, but rest never seemed to come; he just felt... tired. Exhausted, even.
Not just physically—though that was enough, with his constant aches and pains. It was more than that. It felt like something deeper, a fatigue he couldn’t quite name but could feel in every inch of his bones.
He rarely ventured far from his base these days. When he did, it was with someone else or just to gather a few materials before his body protested, and he’d find himself trudging back, crawling into bed yet again. He knew he had things he needed to do—tasks to finish, builds to complete. But every time he thought about it, that same tiredness washed over him, dragging him back down into that endless cycle of rest that never felt like rest.
Scar’s stomach rumbled, a soft reminder that he needed to eat.
Logically, he knew he had to make something, knew he couldn’t go without food all day. But the thought of getting up, even just to put something together, felt like too much. He wasn’t even hungry, really. His body protested, but his mind felt detached, floating somewhere else entirely.
Like he was small, diminished—mentally regressed, if that was even the right term. He was just... not up to it.
It wasn’t that he didn’t want to eat, or that he didn’t want to cook. He did.
But there was something blocking him, an invisible weight pressing him down, making him feel like he was too small to do the things he needed to do. A scared child, too afraid to venture beyond the comfort of his walls, or maybe like a wild creature wary of unseen predators lurking outside.
It made no sense. He knew he was fine.
Knew that his friends were out there, scattered across the server, busy with their own projects. No danger, no threat that he could name or point to. And yet… he couldn’t shake it. Couldn’t shake the feeling of being tethered to his bed, his base, as if the outside world was too much to bear.
He didn’t understand why, and that only made it worse. He was just… tired.
The feeling of smallness had settled into Scar's mind the moment he’d opened his eyes that morning. He had woken up in the dim light, squinting against the shadows that filled his room on the train.
Even the faint movement of the walls around him felt too much, too loud, as if he were a child again—small, fragile, with a world too big for him to navigate on his own. He lay in bed, feeling shrunken, like a child in an adult's body with none of the energy that he was supposed to have.
It took everything he had just to shuffle out to the backdoor a few times, pausing just outside where he could watch his animals. They bounced around, playful, sniffing the air and chewing at the grass even if it was bound to make them feel sick later.
He watched them move freely, without hesitation, and envied them.
They were so alive, so simple in their happiness, their peace. But eventually, they all wandered back in, curling up around him in quiet, warm companionship. For a moment, Scar felt comforted, protected by the soft presence of his pets as they snuggled in, but it didn’t ease the weight pressing on him. Even in their company, he just… couldn’t shake that feeling of being drained and hollow.
He sank back into his chair, staring at the same spot, his mind too worn to keep up with the swirl of thoughts around him. He absentmindedly scrolled on his communicator, watching his friends chatter and send messages back and forth. He sent a few replies here and there, small attempts to join in, to feel connected. But his energy quickly waned, and he couldn’t keep up with the pace of conversation or the jokes that whizzed past him.
It would be fine, he told himself.
He didn’t want anyone to worry about him, and he could get by like this—at least for now.
He’d been here before, worn down to his very core, barely able to muster the energy to leave his bed, let alone his base. He knew, deep down, that when night settled in and the world outside grew quiet, someone would check up on him. One of his friends would swing by, ask if he’d eaten, maybe even cook him something. They’d sit beside him, keep him company, and make sure he was alive and alright.
But until then, he would wait in this strange, quiet limbo—feeling small, feeling tired, and still just… here.
Scar sat there, feeling the quiet ache of needing something more, something comforting. He didn’t have any of the things other age regressors seemed to have—all the small comforts, the soft blankets, the pacifiers or sippy cups, the things that made them feel safe and soothed.
All he had were a couple of stuffed animals, ones he’d bought himself long ago when he was still a teenager, searching for anything to make the world feel a little less lonely. And his chewelry—that was about it.
He ran his fingers over the worn fabric of one of the stuffed animals, a soft, well-loved companion that had been with him through so many nights like this. But somehow, today, it didn’t feel like enough.
It was almost as though a part of him was too old for these small comforts, while another part of him felt too small to be without them.
He knew he could go online, order himself the things he saw others with, the things that made them feel safe and cared for, but somehow… he just never got around to it.
He was a big adult, after all. A big boy, capable of taking care of himself. But the energy to do it—like so much else—was missing, leaving him sitting there, wanting but not acting.
His stomach growled, a dull reminder that he needed to get up, that he should make himself something to eat, that he should do the “adult” things. But he wasn’t an adult right now. Not at this moment. He was small, mentally regressed, sinking deep into that familiar feeling of being lost, almost childlike, just letting his thoughts drift.
In his mind, he knew he was alone.
There was no one here to comfort him, to tell him it was alright, that he didn’t have to do it all by himself. No one to hold his hand, or coax him to eat, or make him feel safe in the way he was craving. The loneliness settled heavily over him, like a weight on his chest, and he clung to his stuffed animal just a little tighter, wishing it could fill the emptiness.
He knew he could reach out, that his friends would probably drop everything to be there if he asked. But he didn’t want to be a burden; he didn’t want to make anyone worry.
So he sat there, still and silent, holding onto the small comforts he had, his mind drifting as he struggled with the quiet, heavy weight of being small, alone, and so very tired.
Scar wanted to do something—anything—to break free from the fog settling over him. But his body had other ideas. Every step he took felt like wading through thick, unyielding sludge, and the sharp, relentless ache of his chronic pain gnawed at him, each twinge and pulse of his migraine like a drumbeat against his skull.
It was as if his body was waging its own quiet rebellion, reminding him with every pang and throb just how limited he was, how little energy he had to work with. And then, there was that feeling of smallness, wrapping around him like a second skin, amplifying everything to feel bigger, heavier, harder.
Still, he forced himself to move, shuffling slowly to the fridge. His hand gripped the handle, and he tugged it open, the cool air spilling over him as he stared at the contents inside. But in that moment, even the sight of food just felt… pointless. A hollow, empty feeling washed over him.
What was the point of eating? Of filling himself up with something when he couldn’t even muster the will to care?
He knew he needed it, that his body would keep rebelling harder without it, but it all felt so impossible. He didn’t want to go through the motions of making food or forcing himself to eat. He just wanted to sink back into bed, to cocoon himself away from the world and drift into oblivion.
Scar closed his eyes, a pang of longing creeping through his chest. He wished, with an ache that felt almost desperate, that he could be held, cocooned in someone else’s warmth. He wanted to be cared for, to be looked after, to have someone take over the weight he was so tired of carrying alone.
It wasn’t that he needed a caregiver, exactly; it wasn’t about labels or roles. But he knew, in his heart, that he could benefit from one.
Someone to pull him out of these dark spirals, to remind him to eat, to help him navigate the pain and fatigue and that bone-deep weariness he couldn’t shake.
Maybe, if he had someone there to hold him up, he could actually find a way out of this endless loop of exhaustion and emptiness. Maybe then he could finally live, rather than just exist, rather than always feeling like he was clawing his way through each day. But as it was, he was here, alone, the cold light from the fridge spilling over him as he let the door drift shut, sinking back into the familiar weight of solitude and the yearning for something—or someone—to make this easier.
Scar’s gaze drifted aimlessly, too tired to really focus. Somewhere in the distance, he heard the crackling sound of fireworks—someone was flying nearby, maybe even toward his base. But he couldn’t bring himself to care, not enough to move or peek outside to see who it was.
He figured his friends would come in if they wanted to, and if they didn’t, well… that was okay, too.
Besides, he never locked his doors. What was the point? If he fell out of his wheelchair again, like he had before, having an unlocked door would make it easier for his friends to help. It was better this way, he told himself. So he lay there, sinking back into his thoughts, letting the world drift away as the weight of his fatigue settled deeper over him.
He barely registered the sound of footsteps, faint but steady, echoing down the length of his train. It wasn’t until he felt the quiet presence near him that he was pulled back into awareness. Slowly, he looked up to find Xisuma crouched down beside him, his familiar silver and purple helmet tilted as he scanned the space around Scar, likely looking for the wheelchair.
"Hey, Scar…" Xisuma’s voice was low, calm, carrying that warmth Scar had come to depend on. There was a touch of worry there, though, something in the way he paused, watching Scar with that patient gaze. “I just thought I’d check in. Haven’t heard from you in a bit, and, well… thought I’d stop by.”
Scar let out a soft, tired whine, sinking further into himself. He didn’t have the words; his mind felt too foggy to string together a sentence. All he could do was lift his arms, his silent way of asking for help, for comfort, for something he couldn’t quite name.
Xisuma’s expression softened, and without hesitation, he gently slipped his arms around Scar, carefully lifting him up. “I’ve got you, buddy,” he murmured, his voice a quiet reassurance. “Don’t worry about a thing. I’ll be here.”
Scar rested his head against Xisuma’s shoulder, feeling the steady beat of his friend’s heart beneath him, grounding him in a way nothing else had. The warmth of X’s embrace, the quiet strength in his hold—Scar let himself relax into it, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders even as exhaustion still lingered.
Xisuma’s voice cut through the quiet again, soft and reassuring. “Have you eaten today, Scar? Or maybe had some water?”
Scar shook his head, a slight, barely-there motion, but Xisuma caught it. He sighed, a gentle sound, and gave Scar’s shoulder a reassuring pat.
“No worries,” Xisuma said, his tone light. “Let’s get you settled, and I’ll see what I can rustle up for you. Just rest for now, alright? I’ve got you.”
Scar let out a sigh, a quiet, barely audible sound, and nestled closer, feeling something akin to relief. For now, he didn’t need to worry. He didn’t need to be strong or figure things out. Xisuma was here, and for the moment, that was enough.
Xisuma moved carefully, carrying Scar to one of the leather chairs near the corner of the train car, settling him down gently. Scar sank into the chair, its worn leather cradling him, offering a familiar sense of comfort and support. Xisuma stayed close, his hand resting on Scar’s shoulder for a moment, giving a reassuring squeeze.
“There you go,” he murmured, his voice soft. “Just rest for a bit. I’ll see about getting you something warm to eat.”
Scar watched as Xisuma made his way toward the small kitchen area, his bulky armour clanking faintly with each careful step.
The train car wasn’t exactly spacious, and Scar could tell that the narrow kitchen was testing Xisuma’s patience. The bulky armour, while comforting to wear, wasn’t built for tight spaces, and Scar couldn’t help but feel a faint spark of amusement watching him manoeuvre around, ducking to avoid the low-hanging lights and sidestepping the edges of the counters.
Xisuma seemed determined, though. He awkwardly but deftly manoeuvred around, pulling open cabinets and inspecting their contents. He found a small pot and placed it on the stove, the clang of metal against metal breaking the quiet of the train. Scar noticed how focused Xisuma looked as he rummaged, his hands moving carefully to avoid bumping into the cramped space.
Even with the occasional bump of his shoulder or a muttered “Oops,” Xisuma remained calm, a small, focused frown under his helmet as he carefully gathered what he needed.
As Xisuma worked, Scar couldn’t help but feel a strange sense of peace settle over him. The sounds of Xisuma moving about, the clinking of pots and pans, the soft rustle as he opened a packet and poured something into the pot—it was all so… ordinary. Familiar. Comforting.
At one point, Xisuma glanced back at Scar, catching his gaze. His eyes softened, and he chuckled, a quiet, amused sound. “I know this setup isn’t ideal for cooking, but I’ll manage. Just hang tight, Scar.”
Scar managed a small nod, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his lips. He watched as Xisuma busied himself with the meal, shifting between the small stove and the counter, handling everything with surprising gentleness. Xisuma eventually removed one of his gauntlets to better handle the utensils, his hands moving with practised care as he stirred the contents of the pot.
After a few more minutes, the faint smell of something warm and savoury began to fill the air, a comforting scent that tugged at Scar’s senses. The exhaustion in him seemed to ease, even if just a little, replaced by a sense of calm he hadn’t felt in a long time.
“Almost ready,” Xisuma called, turning off the stove and carefully ladling the contents of the pot into a small bowl. He brought it over to Scar, setting it on the table beside him, his hand resting gently on Scar’s shoulder again. “There you go, nice and hot. Take your time with it, alright?”
Scar looked at the bowl, the steam curling up in gentle wisps, carrying the smell of warmth and comfort. He managed a small, grateful smile, feeling the weight of the day lift just a bit. “Thanks, X,” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.
Xisuma returned the smile, nodding as he settled himself on the floor beside Scar’s chair, staying close. “Anytime, buddy,” he replied softly, his presence solid and reassuring. “I’m here for as long as you need.”
And as Scar took his first careful sip, feeling the warmth of the broth seep through him, he felt, for the first time in what seemed like ages, a sense of ease.
Scar held the warm bowl in his hands, letting the heat seep into his fingers. He took a small sip, feeling the broth's warmth spread through his body, grounding him. He knew he should eat more, take a few bites at least, but he felt too small, too tired. Even holding the bowl was exhausting, his hands trembling slightly as he struggled to keep it steady.
Xisuma noticed right away. With a gentle smile, he reached out and placed a steady hand under the bowl, taking it from Scar and setting it back on the table. “It’s okay, Scar,” he said softly, crouching down so they were at eye level. “Let’s take it slow. You don’t have to do everything on your own.”
Scar let out a quiet whine, wrapping his arms around himself, feeling the tension ease slightly under Xisuma’s patient gaze. He wanted to be stronger, more capable, but at this moment, he just couldn’t.
Seeing the struggle in Scar’s eyes, Xisuma spoke up gently, “Would it help if I held the bowl for you?” His tone was light, as though it was the simplest suggestion in the world, not something that should feel overwhelming.
Scar hesitated, then gave a small, shy nod, looking down as his cheeks flushed with embarrassment. He hated feeling this helpless, hated needing this much help, but something about Xisuma’s calm acceptance made it feel… okay.
“Alright,” Xisuma said warmly. He reached for the bowl and brought it closer to Scar, holding it steady, his other hand ready to help if needed. “Let’s try a few sips together. No pressure, just take your time.”
Scar glanced up at Xisuma, comforted by his steady presence, and leaned forward, taking a small sip from the edge of the bowl. The warmth filled him, soothing his stomach and easing the gnawing hunger, and for the first time in a while, he felt a flicker of satisfaction.
“There you go,” Xisuma encouraged softly, his voice a gentle balm. “Just a bit more. You’re doing great, Scar.”
With Xisuma’s patience and steady encouragement, Scar continued to sip at the broth, letting himself relax a little more with each mouthful. The bowl was nearly empty by the time he pulled back, feeling a touch more grounded. Xisuma smiled, setting the bowl aside, and leaned back, giving Scar some space to process, his eyes warm and understanding.
“See?” Xisuma said softly. “Just a little at a time.”
Scar let out a quiet sigh, curling up in the chair. He felt a strange mix of relief and vulnerability, feeling small yet safe. “Thanks, X…” he murmured, his voice small.
Xisuma gave him a reassuring smile, reaching out to gently place a hand on his shoulder. “You’re welcome, Scar. You don’t have to do this alone. Anytime you need me, I’ll be here, alright?”
Scar nodded, feeling the weight of Xisuma’s words settle over him, grounding him in the safety of that promise.
He knew that, for now, he didn’t have to be strong or independent; he could just be… himself, however small and tired that was.