This is not an update. There were some formatting errors and some misspelled words that really bugged me when I read through it. All I did was a little tune-up. And if anyone reading this is wondering about that other story, it should be coming soon. Everything I had written out, including the outline, got deleted off my computer. I've been rewriting it, slowly. I was discouraged for awhile, but I'm getting through.

Sorry, and thank you for your patience.

One of the earliest memories Chase has-or at least, one of the earliest memories Mr. Davenport will accept him having ("it's not possible to remember being IN THE WOMB, Chase")-is of Adam grabbing him by the arm to pull him over to a picture he had been drawing. He remembers crying out in pain at the harsh grip, but moved on easily enough to critique his brother's artwork. He remembers not remembering it until Mr. Davenport got home that evening.

"What happened to your arm, Chase?"

"Wha?" Chase replied curiously, twisting in an uncoordinated move to gaze at his bare upper arm. He looked on in wonder at the mass of dark purple and blue wrapping around his bicep. He gave it an experimental poke and let out a soft cry at the pain, tears welling.

"Oh, no. What happened?" Mr. Davenport picked him up and set him gently on the table, pulling out a med-scanner in one smooth motion. "Who did this?"

"A-A-Ada g-grab-bed m-me e-earl-lier," Chase hiccuped out. He was scared because Mr. Davenport was starting to look angry and now that he'd noticed it, his arm really did hurt-a sustained ache that just wouldn't let up. Not overly painful, but enough to make a small child cry.

"He should know better," Mr. Davenport snapped, face darkening in anger. Chase flinched.

Mr. Davenport didn't notice.

"It'll be fine though. It's just a bruise, didn't even reach the deep tissue." Mr. Davenport started to put the med-scanner away, shaking his head. "You guys need to be more careful. Your bionics aren't toys, you can't just play with them whenever you want."

"I-I sorry," Chase answered jerkily. His chest was seizing in an odd, unfamiliar sensation. His breathing was erratic and his lungs unresponsive.

"Oh, Chase, I'm sorry," Mr. Davenport responded immediately, scooping Chase's small body into his arms. "Don't do that, alright? Don't you ever apologize for someone else hurting you. This one is all on Adam, buddy." Mr. Davenport's hand was warm on Chase's back and traced a comforting path from his shoulder to the small of his back. He buried his face in Mr. Davenport's neck and focused on deep, calming breaths. He had his crying under control within a minute and Mr. Davenport was still patting his shoulders and 'shh'-ing him gently.

It is one of the most human memories Chase has.

Later, Mr. Davenport yelled at Adam for a long time about responsibility and abusing powers. With such a limited living space, Bree and Chase had nowhere to go to avoid the spectacle and were given front row seats to the five-star reaming of their older brother.

"But Mr. Davenport-"

"No, Adam, you need to be more responsible! I expect more out of you," Mr. Davenport interrupted, waving his hands animatedly. "You're the oldest. You too, Bree."

"What did I do?" Bree cried in objection, springing to feet from her spot behind the smart desk with Chase.

"You all take unnecessary and unprofessional risks with your bionics. It's time to grow up. You're setting a bad example for your brother," Mr. Davenport responded. "Chase is four years old! You're supposed to take care of and support each other, not dole out bruises."

"It didn't happen like that!" Adam defended himself, beginning to get worked up.

"I don't care how it happened, Adam! You shouldn't be rough housing with your four year old brother, especially with your strength. It's too dangerous. I don't want to see anymore of this. Understand?" Mr. Davenport had waited for resigned acknowledgement from the two eldest children before leaving for the night. Bree flopped down to the ground while Adam turned to his younger brother.

"Thanks a lot, Chase," he snapped bitterly.

"Wha did I do?" Chase answered nervously. He dug the nails of his right hand into his left arm harshly, leaving half-moon indentations. WhaT, Chase. You can't forget the 'T', he thought to himself.

"You just had to go crying to Mr. Davenport, didn't you?" Adam responded.

"Of course he did. He's such a baby," Bree added, tilting her head up from where she was lying on the floor. "Are you even paying attention?"

"Yess," Chase answered immediately, slurring his 'S'.

"It was just a bruise, Chase. Why do you make everything a big deal?" Adam asked before stomping to his capsule.

"What Mr. Davenport said goes for you too. You need to grow up," Bree told him severely.

Chase remembers sitting there for a long time after his siblings went to bed, digging into his arm until skin tore and blood welled. It didn't hurt, not really. He was caught up in thoughts of guilt and failure. By the time he retired to his capsule, he felt wrung out and ashamed he had made such a big deal out of a minor accident, upsetting his entire family.

I can be better, he thought to himself as he drifted off to sleep.

Chase remembers, out of all of his memories, having that thought most of his life.

By the time Leo showed up in their lives, Chase hadn't been sleeveless in years. He remembers Mr. Davenport's questioning glance at his request for long, heavy shirts and durable pants, but he had acquiesced easily enough. He probably thought it was a stylistic choice, not a practical one. He didn't know Chase was covering marks traced across his arms, back, chest.

It wasn't that bad when it started. It was just Adam, big 'Ada' pulling him around whining, "Chasey, see" and not paying attention to his strength. A handprint here or there, no big deal to cover and easy to ignore. He got used to the ache of popped and ruptured blood vessels quickly. Then, it got worse.

Mr. Davenport decided they were old enough for the 'real' training. He brought in weapons, and martial arts, and fighting. And Chase didn't stand a chance. He was adjusting his wardrobe, adjusting his daily activities, focusing most of his life around hiding the evidence of incompetence. He remembers the first bruise he got from Bree, when he was nine years old and they were practicing martial arts. He made to swing at her and suddenly she wasn't there and he was punching air. He stumbled, off balance, and she appeared at his side, knocking him onto his back with enough force to drive the breath from his lungs. Adam laughed.

Later, in the bathroom, he tried twisting and contorting his body before finally giving up and finding a second mirror to bounce his own reflection off of. His entire back was a mass of raw, bruised skin.

He sat on the edge of his chair for two weeks.

But it was still achievable-maybe not easy, but it wasn't awful by any stretch. They were still his family, and it's not like they were out to purposely injure him. They would never hurt him on purpose. It was all just a string of really painful bad luck, and he was the smartest person alive and he could damn well handle it on his own. He didn't need a daddy, or a mommy, he didn't need his big sister or big brother to babysit him like a small child. He was Mission Leader, and he would take care of them (even if they didn't know he did.

(Even if he could still do better.)

It got worse when Leo came.

In a lot of ways, his life got far better than he had any reason to hope when Leo came. He had a world of possibilities before him that Mr. Davenport finally seemed willing to consider-Chase was openly throwing around words like "education", "career", and "future". And Mr. Davenport was letting him! It wasn't just missions anymore. There was talk about the future of Davenport Industries, the next tier of education, and Chase had never been so excited to think about tomorrow in his entire life. Tomorrow had never had any potential of being different from today.

Beyond that, Leo brought a level of personal interaction Chase found himself sorely lacking. Leo was younger, impressionable, amazed by their very being and yet able to treat them like family. Chase had never been older than anyone in his family, and he reveled and flourished in the role of big brother. Which isn't to say he was perfect-though he would say it, if asked. But in that dark, secret corner of his mind that still wanted to dig nails into flesh and taste blood and feel pain, he knew he wasn't. Chase never got close to perfect. But Leo didn't seem to mind, so it was good. It was better. However, for all that Leo improved his life, there were some ways he made it worse.

One way he made it worse.

He encouraged their use of bionics unabashedly and endlessly. That in and of itself wasn't a bad thing, at least not on its own. His encouragement helped them grow and unlock parts of their programming they hadn't even known existed.

It also led to the creation of games like 'Bionic Brother Bounce', and no matter how many times Chase pushed black fingers into his pockets and told himself it's the same, nothing's changed, it's the same, he couldn't convince himself that this wasn't meant to hurt. It was so recklessly, pointlessly dangerous. It wasn't accidental or unintentional injury. It was pain for the sake of pain, and it cut straight through skin, muscle, and bone into his core. It tore straight through to that dark place and it burned.

Chase just picked up some concealer and considered buying hoodies.

After eleven years of covering bruises and hiding scars, Adam lost his confidence. It was the best thing to ever happen, Chase thought.

And sure, it was depressing to watch the big lug mope around, scared to exercise strength so commonplace it was an integral part of him. And maybe Chase felt a few twinges of regret after the first burst of joy at being bruise-free for the first time in memory. Not enough to do anything about it.

If Mr. Davenport hadn't approached him, he never would have even thought about attempting to draw out the old, cocky Adam. But Mr. Davenport's tight, drawn face and concerned words broke through to him. Because he'd been living with those bruises for so long to protect his family, right? Because no one should stress over something so small. Because he didn't make a big deal out of everything.

Because he was trying to be better.

So he went along with Mr. Davenport, because it would be selfish to do otherwise (and make his life's biggest work turn into his biggest waste of time). It didn't work quite like it should, but it did work. A few bumps and snags along the way never stopped the Mission Leader before, and it didn't this time. Not when the mission turned out a success anyway.

(And if his chest seized in an odd, vaguely familiar sensation, his breathing erratic and lungs unresponsive, every time he looked at his capsule, well, that was his business.

(And he could do better.)

Of course, he couldn't go back to his previous style after that. Mr. Davenport would naturally find suspicion there. So, feeling like a liar and wondering why he should act like this lifelong dance would look suspicious now, he bought a lot more concealer and trashed the hoodie idea.

But nothing ever ends halfway in a family with bionic superhumans, billionaire geniuses, and Leo (and a psychopath, they would come to find out, and really, what?). So it got even worse. In fact, Chase would daresay it got as bad as it could get-within the realm of reason.

Actually, maybe a little bit outside, tripping the borders of Joker-level insanity.

Because how was this violent, hateful 'team' atmosphere reasonable? How was it Chase against the bruises, Chase against the taunts, Chase against the 'Hustle and Muscle', Chase against the dark, and Chase against the failure? How could Chase be so singled out that the blanket of naive, childhood trust and sibling love become nonexistent in his life where previously it had covered all he knew?

And how was this reasonable?

It didn't make sense. It's not supposed to, idiot, he'd think to himself as his arm itched and his fingers twitched, it's called emotions. You robot.

And that's what it came down to. No matter how many times Bree would scream at him ("just admit it, you think you're better than us! Well, we know, you don't need to keep throwing it in our faces!") or Adam would glare at him ("why do you have to act like I'm stupid all the time?") or Leo would mockingly sympathize ("you're just gonna keep trying for perfect, aren't you? But you realize you put everyone else down when you do that?"), Chase knew the truth. The problem wasn't what Chase thought or said or did.

The problem was with what Chase was. The problem was how easily threatened they all were of him. Which had to be emotional, because it certainly wasn't reasonable. It wasn't even sane. Not when he was taping gauze to a bleeding wrist at midnight (on a school night, when he should have long since been in his capsule), or trying to avoid the cashier's eye as he slapped the biggest container of concealer they had on the counter, or dropping meals off the map because every bite felt like chewing glass and tasted like sand. Not when he was scraping for baggy clothes (short sleeves, because of Adam) and bleeding out right in front of them and the bastards didn't even notice. His safety and even his mental wellbeing seemed to be a trivial matter to them. No, not even a matter at all.

They don't care.

And, "Aw, I thought for sure his head was gonna explode!"

Sure, Chase could barely hear it over the blood pounding in his ears and the "SYSTEM OVERLOAD" shouting in his head, but it still broke through. It hurt. When he woke up later, he tried not to think about it. Because it didn't mean anything. It wasn't representative of anything and he was supposed to not make big deals out of nothing. It didn't matter how flippant Adam was, Adam was always flippant. Even if he had been choking on his own guilt when he thought Adam was dead, too stunned with grief to even think about ripping into his arm, it still didn't mean anything.

Except they wanted you to hurt, that dark corner of his mind hissed out as he looked over Adam's charred knee (because he protects his family, even if they don't want him to), except they didn't care about you.

Except they wanted you to die.

And when it all comes to a head with heat vision melting through his shield (his mind, it's burning a hole in his brain and he's going to die if he doesn't scream) and his system overloading and his half-starved, exhausted body starting to give out, he doesn't believe they would do it for him. The very foundation of his being-his family, his reason for breathing and living and working so damn hard, is cracked irreparably. He is seeing through a facade he had been believing his whole life, staring at an ugly truth head on. They would rather Chase die than deal with him any longer.

And doesn't it say something that Leo put his life on the line with the trust that Chase would respond to his memories of love and break free of his programming to protect his brother, and that Chase doesn't even think to try it with Adam or Bree? He doesn't want to see just how much it won't work. After his 'victory', surrounded by the shattered remnants of his life, his family strewn about the wreckage (how did this happen? I tried so hard-why wasn't I enough?), Chase felt a numbness wash over him. For the first time in a long time, he didn't have anything speaking inside of him-that dark place he could never quite gag and conquer was mercifully quiet.

When his body gave out, black overtaking his vision, his last thought was, please let me not wake up.

He wakes up.

He is wrapped in several blankets on a cot on the living room floor. Chase hasn't felt this warm and comfortable in a very long time.

Too long.

It isn't until he tries to push himself up into a sitting position-intending to look around, take in his environment, and figure out what exactly happened-that he realizes his entire body feels like one massive bruise. He is starving from days on the run without food (as well as improper eating habits for weeks prior), his entire bionic network has been overloaded twice in one day, and he has a massive headache that he is almost sure is Adam's fault. As soon as he moves this, as well as the aches and pains of sore muscles (from sleeping and sitting in stretched, tense positions for hours at a time), all make themselves known loudly and violently. He grunts in pain and everything flies into activity around him.

Adam, Bree, and Leo had been asleep in a tangle on a couch (which doesn't hurt to see, he doesn't care if he never gets sibling cuddles like that, it's such a baby desire anyway), but spring up and fight to separate their limbs at the sound of his pain. Tasha jerks herself straight from where she had been slumped by his bedside, hand resting on his forearm. Mr. Davenport jumps from his seat at the kitchen island. It all happens at once and is too fast for Chase to process in his groggy state. In the next moment Mr. Davenport is pushing Tasha from his side and taking her place.

"Chase! Can you hear me? How many fingers am I holding up? How's your head?"

"Mr. Davenport!" Chase shouts, shoving the man's grasping fingers away from his chest. They return, prying open his button-up and pushing something cold against his chest. "Can you stop?"

"Chase, you need to let me check you over. And you need to lay back down. Don't you remember what happened?" Chase kind of doesn't, so he shakes his head minutely and resists the pressure Mr. Davenport is exerting to try and force him into a reclining position. "Chase. You weren't breathing. I had to restart your heart."

...what?

"No way," Chase croaks out, and lets himself be manhandled into whatever position Mr. Davenport wants.

"Yes, uh...way? Look, you need to take it easy and let me monitor your condition frequently. You could go into shock, which could lead to cardiac arrest."

"Which could lead to death?" Chase guesses. He meant it to sound lighthearted, but after he says it he realizes it really doesn't. Someone gasps behind him and he doesn't care enough to see who.

"Yeah, it could." Mr. Davenport is silent for a moment, fiddling with a zPad that Chase assumes is currently on a read out of his medical status. "And Chase. We...we need to talk."

"About?" Chase infuses his word with as much teenage venom as he can. He is still aching and his headache is, if anything, getting worse. He has no patience for Mr. Davenport's particular brand of cryptic melodrama.

"About your bruises," Mr. Davenport returns easily enough. Which isn't his nature and would be worrying enough to gain Chase's attention, even disregarding the heart stopping sentence. Chase turns his head to stare in utter confusion and, he hopes, hidden terror. "And about your wrist."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I'm talking about this!" Mr. Davenport yanks Chase's arm up from under the blanket. His wrist has been professionally cleaned and bandaged. It looks surreal, and much different from his hasty job with tape and dollar store gauze. It makes it look real.

It makes it look like a problem.

"Donald, maybe now isn't the best time," Tasha says quietly, and her hand is on his head. He closes his eyes as her fingers comb through his hair and Chase is so grateful. He wouldn't have been able to tear his eyes away on his own. He tilts his head into her palm and she moves closer, twirling his hair around a finger with her other hand.

"Yeah," Mr. Davenport agrees in a quiet, emotionless voice. It makes Chase feel guilty, but he doesn't know why.

You hurt them. They're hurting because of you.

Why?

"Yeah, it can wait," Mr. Davenport is continuing. His hand rests heavily on Chase's knee. "Just...just know how much we love you. We're going to get through this. As a family."

"Yeah," Bree says suddenly from the couch, and she's pulling her brothers to Chase's side. "We're going to take care of you."

"You can go to sleep," Adam adds quietly. Chase can't remember ever hearing Adam be quiet. "We'll protect you. You don't have to worry."

They're hurting because you're hurting, he realizes dimly. It feels like a revelation of some kind, but now all his thought is slowing down and he feels comfortable and warm again. His aches are retreating-or maybe it's him retreating, falling deeply into nothingness. It feels like the kind of sleep he used to be afraid of, but he just can't find any fear in him.

His family will catch him.