🧪 Nuclear

born youngest of 8, Nuclear was no stranger to insignificance. whether that be his lack of skill and uselessness within his pack or the lack of attention given to him by his parents, Nuclear knew that most of what he had to offer was not enough.
and what do you do when people don't care enough to look at you? you make them.

the blood coated his fur. dripping, oozing, soaking. it drizzled down his jaw, joining the deep red blood painted on his chest.
Nuclear looks up at his pack surrounding him- no. not his. was it ever his? he stretches his paw in the puddle of blood beneath him. how ironic that the only warmth he's felt from his parents was spilt not from their words but from their throats.

he could not remember much after this, only a sense of panic and grief loosely tinting the faint memories of exile. even then, these memories threaten to overflow, choking him in the middle of the night and clawing him back to that day again and again.
Nuclear endures the nightmares alone, of course. not wanting to seek out Tala each night and refusing to let anyone else know, no matter how much Adonis worries for him.

however, he believes there's a bitter beneficialness in it (if not a horrifying curse), and maybe the memories aren't that bad if it reminds him why he made a pack in the first place.
so that no other wolf has to feel like that again.