Rageball

Rage can't remember much.

He thinks - yes, he remembers his parents, thank the Caller. He remembers where he came from. Remembers his name, which is good. Remembers some of his siblings, though there had been quite a few of them; some clutches had already left home by the time he came to be. He can't recall the name or location of his last clan, but he remembers the sick-sweet smell of Plague air.

His mates...two of them, he thinks. They're little more than a name and a set of eyes in his mind, though if he tries hard enough he can nearly make out their faces.

He can't remember his children.

He knows, for certain, that he did have children. Everything from that point forward is jumbled, like trying to finish a jigsaw puzzle depicting mist. He recalls a hope, a healer, a strain, a pestle grinding, a thin pallid sheen bouncing off of eggshell. A wait, impossibly long but charged with emotion and energy. A tiny crik! in the night. Another. Another.

Everything after that - the moment it all had led to, what should have been his first proper glance at them - there had been the crack, but then - everything was -

How many had there been?

That's what bothers him the most. He can't recall their faces, their eyes, who they'd taken after more, who they grew to be. But just the number. How many children did he have? How many clutches had he raised? He...he did raise them, right?

He wants to try counting the ones he remembers, but the fuzzy memory slips away like sand the moment he begins. The names are long gone. In fact, he ever only makes it to one.

One foggy silhouette. One name that rings clear in the static.

Midas.