Lightspiral: Eli -- SPOILERS

It was night, or what passed for it when the sky was continually lit with the same sickly green-grey light, the color of rotting flesh. He wasn't asleep, but it might have been better if he had been.

He didn't scream when it happened, although he would have when he felt something change inside him in a way that it never, ever should have, breaking and snapping and tearing until he didn't know who he was anymore, or where he was, or anything but that something was very very wrong and he couldn't do anything about it. He didn't scream, because he couldn't.

He was up and moving, but he wasn't; he hadn't told his body to move, there was no conscious signal from his brain to his legs telling him to stand and walk, and he knew where he was going, don't, stop, please—!

Hanna stirred as he entered the room, looking up—"Muh? Eli? What're you—" and then he grabbed the redhead by the throat, hurling him out the window violently, but it wasn't him, he wasn't doing it, it was this other thing—something else, something that had been put inside him and was controlling him and he couldn't stop</em>, he was hurting Hanna and he couldn't stop. "Help me!" he tried to scream, but his throat was blocked. "Someone stop me!"

They spiraled up into the sky, Hanna blazing blue, himself orange—how could he do this? How was he doing this? He had never—this wasn't—he was just an Agent, or had been, just a normal person with perhaps exceptional firearms skills, but nothing special. This wasn't right, this wasn't right, but he and Hanna were fighting and he couldn't even scream.

"Eli!" Hanna pleaded, "Eli, stop it! What are you doing? Stop!" And he wanted to, he wanted to, but he couldn't because there was this thing inside him that was making him fight. "Eli!" But that wasn't his name, it was just what he was called—sometimes—if Hanna called him by name, would he be able to fight? Be able to stop? But he didn't have a name.

"Stop holding back," he wanted to beg, "Kill me! Before I kill you, Hanna! Don't let me kill you!" But the thing inside him closed his throat and stopped his voice, and he could only hope that Hanna would be strong enough to kill him. I'm not your friend anymore, Hanna. You can't save me, so save yourself.

Stop this, stop this, he just wanted to close his eyes and die so that he wouldn't have to face what he was doing, wouldn't have to fight anymore. Somewhere down there Conrad was screaming, shouting the words he couldn't say—stop this, stop it, make it stop—but he couldn't turn his head to look, just keep fighting in the twisting spiraling flare of light—Worth was shouting, too, Hanna, stop holding the fuck back, you can win—Yes, Hanna, forget me, kill me, you're not fighting Eli you're fighting some thing wearing his face, just kill it because I'd rather die than hurt you—

When Hanna began to fight back, he felt like cheering, like crying, even though he'd never been inclined to do either, because maybe it would end soon and he would be able to stop, and Hanna would be okay, but something was wrong. Hanna was fighting, but not winning; he was still hurting, hummingbird spirals slowing as his blood spattered like rusty rain onto the ground. Someone was laughing; hateful, spiteful laughter like a child breaking a rival's toy, burning insects with a lens, malicious and gleefully cruel. If he could turn, break away—this thing, it would be put to good use if he could just end that laughter, crush it, burn it away into ash and less. But he couldn't turn, couldn't break away, and his orange fire was entirely focused on Hanna.

Every blow hurt him as much as—more than—it did Hanna, every time he looked into those blue eyes and saw pleading, stop this, Eli, what are you doing, stop it, stop hurting me—he wanted to, oh he wanted to, and he only hoped that some of that was reflected in his own eyes, the only mode of communication left to him. Help me, Hanna—kill me, let me die, I don't care if I die, but don't let me kill you.

Then he caught Hanna's hand, feeling the little bones crunch, and Hanna was screaming—Eli, Eli stop, Eli it hurts, let me go, Eli! Eli! Come on, Eli! Fight it, fight, I know you can! Come on… Please, Eli… Please… And he fought, he did, with that heartbreaking plea ringing in his ears (I'm trying, Hanna, I'm trying, help me), but he didn't know how to fight this thing that was in his body, in his mind—for a moment, he regained something like control, desperation flashing across his face for a painfully brief instant (help me) and he saw Hanna's eyes widen with recognition—Eli!—and then it was back, back in his head, and he was helpless as the orange fire flared around his—its—hand, plunging into Hanna's chest (N-no! No! Don't! they cried in unison, Hanna aloud, himself to the thing in his head, all pleading and prayers ineffectual) and withdrawing a bloody mess of flesh and electronics, the pulsing organ that had been Hanna's heart, and the piercing high unbearably human wail that broke forth from the boy's throat sent him reeling with overwhelming, too-powerful grief, guilt, something burning and breaking what little hope he had left even as the burst of energy from the now-empty chest cavity threw him spiraling down into a darkness he only hoped would be permanent.

I'm sorry, Hanna, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry…