Muriel's shift was an hour from ending, and a call just came in. This meant that, nearly without a doubt, Muriel was going to be working for at least 5 more hours...and her next shifted was slated to start in 7.
Dave was already hustling towards the ambulance. The call was a possible hit and run, a single victim left in the street. About 4 minutes away in a weird part of the city. Kind of an industrial area by the water that was being gentrified into a neighborhood. Not a lot of foot traffic, usually. Dave drove as Muriel prepped. "I see her, still in the street, unattended," Came Dave's clipped, deep voice as they pulled up. Muriel grabbed the bag and a backboard as she jumped out of the vehicle. She assessed before walking up.
A woman lay prone in the street. No evidence of crush injury from this far off and from the way she was sprawled across the street Muriel was guessing this was what the police always reported as an "up and over." Another woman stood at the corner, about 50 feet away, clutching a phone. Dave shouted out to her "did you call this in?" The woman nodded, but then sprinted away.
"Welp, that sucks."
Muriel moved in closer. Dave came in from the other side. This is something they'd done hundreds of times together. Dave's training as a combat medic and Vet. meant he always circled 'round, so that they never came in together from the same approach. Muriel thought it a little silly, but respected Dave enough to humor him.
As Muriel knelt beside the woman on the ground she gasped. Dave didn't seem to notice, and Muriel usually worked from a remove -- she was good at treating injured people as bodies, as something distant from what she knew she was too...fragile -- but this time she was immediately struck by how beautiful this woman was. Her skin was dark, and despite the cuts and bruises seemed to be radiant. She was also tall, probably over 6 feet. She appeared to be middle aged, with long, coarse hair, done up in a thick, disheveled plait.
She lay on her back, eyes closed, mouth open, her arms twisted at unnatural, but seemingly unbroken angles. Her legs were rigid, oddly straight from likely having rolled a long distance.
Dave shouted, "ma'am!?"
No response.
Muriel gently felt for a pulse as Dave opened their bag. "She's got a pulse, slow and irregular."
Dave nodded, "okay, check neck and spine and I'll prep to get her airway."
Muriel pulled on her nitrile gloves and looked the woman over again. No signs of external bleeding other than cuts and other minor lacerations. The woman was wearing an ankle length, long sleeved dress. It was green and heavily embroidered in geometric patterns. Mostly green on green. Incongruously, the woman was wearing enormous, likely 3 or 4 sizes too large combat boots. Leather. Laced tightly all the way up.
Gently, Muriel felt under the woman's neck. Not broken. Moving slowly, she slipped her hands under the neckline of the woman's dress, which was loose enough for her to easily fit her hands under. She walked her hands gently along the woman's spine -- the woman was wearing a thick, slick feeling sweater under her dress, so Muriel didn't have the access she'd hoped for, but was still confident that the woman's spine was unbroken. Dave checked her hips and pelvis.
Dave's tone was always curt and to the point, "safe to move her?"
"Yeah, neck and spine seem good. Lets get her onto the backboard and into the bus to get an airway." Dave agreed and they got to work, quickly rolling her on to the backboard so that they could move her into the ambulance. As they lifted her the woman gasped a little.
In the ambulance Dave checked the woman's eyes. Her pupils were symmetrical, but unresponsive to light. "Check out her eyes."
Muriel looked, and was shocked. Shocked by what she saw, but also by the fact that it visibly shocked Dave. the woman's eyes weren't brown. They were gold. Actually golden. "Never seen that before."
"Me neither."
Muriel checked her pulse again. Weaker, more erratic then before, "lets get that airway set up and get an EKG on her."
Dave moved to the woman's head to place a breathing tube, while Muriel grabbed the sheers to cut off the woman's dress. She couldn't see any obvious fastener, and felt badly cutting through it. She started at the hem and worked up to give Dave room to work.
The sheers cut through the hem, and it was easy to work up the side. Muriel noticed the oversized boots again. Once she got to about the knee of the dress Muriel found a rhythm to the cutting, and was able to rip the dress all the way up to its neckline in one fluid motion without the sheers.
Before realizing she was even doing it, Muriel screamed: "oh my god!? what the fuck!?" A beat later Dave joined in, "holy shit!"
The woman was completely naked under her dress. No undergarments whatsoever. Just the dress and the boots. The woman's breasts, chest, and belly were exposed with the same radiant skin as her hands and face, but what Muriel had taken for a sweater were feathers. Sprouting from the woman's ribs and sides, wrapping around her back, were thick, pitch-black feathers. The feathers ran down her hips, fading to skin at her knees.
"What the fuck is this? Is it a costume?"
Muriel ran her fingers with and against the feathers on the woman's thighs.
"They're...not a costume," after a second, "I've...I..." before she could finish Dave interrupted. "Lets stabilize her. We can figure this shit out later." They got back to work.
Dave secured the woman's airway, as Muriel placed the EKG electrodes on her chest and belly. She had to forgo placing a few because of the feathers. As Dave started to breathe for the woman the monitor's alarmed. Muriel shifted, "starting compressions." She shifted her weight to be directly over the prone woman, and interlaced her fingers -- she placed her palms on the woman's sternum and started compressions. She felt ribs break on the 2nd compression. The woman was thin, ropy with muscle, but her chest seemed so frail to Muriel.
After 30 compressions, Muriel sat back. The woman's chest was slightly sunken, and was heavily bruised. As Dave breathed for her, her breasts and rib cage rose noticeably. Her stomach was lax, and soft making a bowl of her ribs and feathered hips.
Muriel glanced at the monitor, "heart rate is still irregular and thready," she listened at the woman's left breast with her stethoscope. She could hear a heartbeat but was starting to second guess what normal was here. She checked the woman's neck for a pulse. Then reached for thigh to check her femoral pules. She couldn't feel anything amidst the feathers. "Lets get her shoes off to check her pulse. I can't find one in her legs." She moved to unlace the woman's boots, but instead Dave pulled out the knife he always carried and expertly cut the right boot off of the woman's foot -- he'd had a lot of practice cutting off combat boots. As he did so Muriel whispered to herself "what the fuck." Dave did the same, cutting off the woman's left boot, too. She didn't have feet. Or, well, she had feet, but she didn't have human feet. Her feet were yellow, scaled raptor feet. She had 4 toes, all with wicked looking talons -- 3 facing forward, 1 back.
"I'm going to resume compressions..." Muriel sat back up and began to work on the woman again. Dave continued to manually breath for her. The monitor alarmed. "V-Fib."
Muriel sat back and moved out of the way as Dave brought the paddles to the woman's still frame. He placed one above her left breast, the other at her side right where her skin stopped and her feather's started. Muriel, "her feathers?" Dave shrugged as the defibrillator scanned. When it toned Dave said "stay clear" and delivered the shock. The woman convulsed, and the monitor screamed. The air immediately smelled of burning feathers. Dave said, "again" and shocked her again. This time the chirping of a steady heartbeat returned. He put the paddles away, Muriel took over breathing for her.
They both sat back, very quiet. As Muriel squeezed the bag the woman's rib cage expanded, her lungs filling with air.
This is the moment where they'd normally fly into action, getting the ambulance moving. "Where do we even go...do we take her to Mercy? What...what is happening right now?"
I'm in an alley. It's dark and rainy and I can't seem to find my way. My eyes are unfocused, my gait unsteady, and I'm close to collapsing. Was it that last pill I took? Or was it something in my drink? Regardless, I go down, gasping and gripping my chest as I feel my heart start to thunder behind my ribs.
You've been chosen randomly. The government needs to run tests. You should have read the terms and conditions of that last government website account you accepted without reading. I'm just doing my job when I drop the pill in your drink and wait for it to dissolve.
I am in no rush when I step outside, following you. I light up a cigarette under my umbrella as I watch you walk slower and slower. When it looks like you're about to go down, I walk calmly and carefully guide you to the nearby alley. I look like I'm helping a drunk friend.
I sit you down against the wall and text our extraction driver. He'll park the van here. I finish smoking my cigarette watching your mouth open and close like a fish, rainwater gathering inside just to drip out the corner of your mouth. Wet gasps escape your throat as you try spit it out.
"Be less noisy, will you?" I throw the butt of the cigarette to the side, hold your face and push smoke tinged air down your lungs. I can see it helps, but your eyes are still rolling back, your hands losing strength around your chest. "Don't be so dramatic. It won't hurt for long."
I give you another round of air. My instructions are to not do that, but they last half as long if I don't. And it's better if they last. One hand over yours, I push your chest against the wall, half as fast as normal CPR. I'm not trying to correct the pounding rhythm that is jumping against my hand. I can see you slipping away, as we intended to. Your hands fall to your side, your lips turning blue. Just before the last sparkle dulls from your eye and the van starts backing up into the alley I whisper:
Splitter's newest captive has fallen ill. Features F resus, multiple M rescuers, pregnant CPR, semi conscious CPR, mouth to mouth, agonal breathing, magic defibrillation, size difference.
A commotion raised in the pens. The newest herd of dark elves from the last raid had been loaded into quarantine to ensure they didn't have anything that might be catching, anything that might be of danger to the Horde. Usually these small sections of camp were full of wailing, but the sweltering afternoon was instead full of voices shouting, hands grasping for passing guards.
"Splittah!" one of the others called, "They're fussin' o'er one of the ca'tle!"
Splitter tipped his hand against the blade at his belt. As he drew nearer, he saw the women's pen, densely packed with willowy bodies, had made a circle around the center. Standing a full head and shoulders above the tallest elf there, he roughly shouldered his way to the clearing. The problem was made immediately obvious. Three women surrounded a fourth, propping her up as she seemed too weak to even sit up on her own. One of the women fanned her, another was dribbling water over her bloodless face. She was practically white, rather than the lilac hue of most of her race. They were all babbling in the elvish tongue, a language he had trouble understanding if it was spoken too fast. He gathered little else other than she was sick. One of the women was slapping her own chest, ardently repeating, "Heart, heart! Her heart!" Then in an exasperated huff, "Bloody barbarians, they can't even understand us!"
The larger orc grunted as he drew nearer. The sick one was a pretty thing, if a bit small. Her head was lolled back against her companion's shoulder, her eyelids weakly fluttering, sweat gleaming on her brow. In the loose garb of the prisoners, Splitter could make out the round bump of her belly. The Horde didn't often take pregnant women, they offered only another mouth to feed and they were fragile liabilities even before then. Normally she would have been left for the vultures in whatever village they'd plucked her from. Perhaps their captor hadn't noticed. Splitter would have to check amongst the raiding party to find who was responsible for the oversight.
Still, now that she was here, honor dictated she be taken care of. He knelt in front of her, wrapped his hand around her throat so his thumb rested on her pulse point. The crowd gasped and shouted, some of the women who'd been tending to her immediately leapt up, one even tried clawing at his wrist. "Don't hurt her!" she screamed. Splitter rolled his eyes and easily shoved away the interference. He didn't have any intention to, nor would be explain himself to cattle. He focused only on the erratic pulse throbbing in her slender neck. It was fast, too fast for a woman at rest, and he could feel the stuttering half-beats interrupting the regular flow of blood. Pressing an ear to her chest, he could hear it reflected there as well. Her heart wasn't beating properly.
Splitter grunted in irritation. The last thing he needed was a sick, breeded sow. The Horde had enough to deal with as it was. He had enough to deal with. But Yorgoth demanded civility of them at least in this- prisoners were to be given food, water, and medicine. So he ignored the protests of the gathered dark elves as he hauled the woman into his arms and stood with her cradled against his chest. Hands scrabbled for him as he moved through the pen, women trying to grab at the pregnant one and pull her free. A few were screaming a name. 'Cira'. Evidently she was well known in their village, practically everyone wailed for her. Even outside the women's pen, one of Splitter's men was holding a male elf against the mud as he fought and bellowed.
"Cira! Cira!" The elf locked eyes with Splitter as he passed, his face paling. He renewed his struggle, scrabbling against the hands holding him down. "Don't you touch her! You bastards! She is the mother to my child, she is my mate- Cira! Cira, please, open your eyes!" Splitter cast the grief stricken man only a glance as he passed on the way to his tent.
Inside, he laid her down on his furs. She breathed in short, noisy gasps now, her silver hair sticking to her face with sweat, her body damp. Splitter knelt at her side as he began tearing away the simple dress hugging her curves. It split easily under his hands, first revealing her milk swollen breasts, jerking with every halting breath, then her gravid belly, and at last the smooth expanse of her thighs. His gaze snagged for only a moment on the crop of white hair framing her pretty cunt. Like most dark elf females, she bore both the parts of a woman and a man. If she hadn't been bearing another man's pup, he might've enjoyed making a war bride of her. She was gorgeous, even in the grips of this sickness. Gently, he laid a hand on her chest, curving his thumb under one of her heavy breasts to feel her pulse limp along. His hand was big enough it covered most of her sternum, her heart stammered against his palm. On the brink of stopping. The faltering cadence would only last so long before it finally gave out. His brow furrowed.
"Come now, rabbit," he murmured in the quiet space, "Keep beating." To aid it in this endeavor, he ground the heel of his palm against her chest in a slow, deep rhythm, trying to match the faltering beats he felt tapping against his fingers. His other hand he laid over her stomach, ensuring he still felt the pup's heartbeat as well. That, at least, was decidedly stronger than the mother's. He rubbed a thumb over the curve of her stomach in a perhaps futile effort to comfort the life within. It must have been frightening, feeling the body keeping you alive begin to fail. He felt an odd sense of not wanting to scare the little thing as he ran his fingertips over the taut skin protecting it.
All of this he did as tenderly as he could, knowing he could have cracked her bones if he pushed with even a third of his real strength. He rocked his arm against her chest, trying to maintain a depth of only a few inches. This proved harder than if he'd had to put any of his strength behind the compressions, as his muscles tensed, trying to hold back.
Cira made little noises each time he pushed against her ill heart. Air squeezed from her lungs, she grunted in quiet pain, her lips parted with a gravely moan. After a few minutes of these slow compressions, she weakly pat the large hand squeezing her heart against her spine. "Please," she whimpered in a daze.
"I know," Splitter said quietly in her tongue, a language that always felt ill suited for his mouth, "Just hold on." "Hurts," she whimpered, her delicate fingers curled halfway around his thick wrist. "I'm sure it does. But I'm helping your heart beat." She shuddered under his hand, her eyes rolling up to meet his. They were dull with pain and foggy, yet still she held his gaze. "Why," she whispered, "Why are you... helping me..." Splitter continued slowly working his palm against her sternum, like he was gingerly kneading dough. "My god demands it," he answered simply. His eyes flicked to her stomach. "And I do not think either of you deserve to die." Cira took another shallow sip of air. "I've been... dying since I was born... My mother told me m-my heart was ... just too gentle for this world." Her words came out in grunts everytime he drove his hand into her chest, forcing air out of her body. The corner of his mouth quirked. "It does seem like quite the wilted flower," he chuckled, continuing to massage his broad hand in between her round breasts. She huffed a laugh, her pale lashes fluttering. Then her features began to dull.
"Keep talking to me, Cira. What was your mother's name?" Splitter urged. Her lips, losing their color, barely moved as she rasped, "Dina..." "Dina," he repeated, forcing her ribcage down a little deeper, "My mother's name was Menthra. Mine-" He hesitated, eyes flicking over her face. He didn't know why he felt compelled to tell her this, but he went on, "Mine is Agonem. The camp calls me Splitter." Cira winced as his next compression shifted her ribs near to the point of breaking.
Her chest bucked as she drew in a laborious sip of air. He watched as her eyes began to grow unconfused, her hand starting to slip. He surged forward and pressed harder against her heart. "No, no, Cira, stay with me. Hey, look at me-" He grasped her chin with his free hand and tipped her head up towards his face. No use. A sigh leaked from between her parted lips, and he felt her heart as it shuddered out a few more uneven beats, then went still in her chest. Ruby eyes stared sightlessly up at him.
Splitter huffed, double checking his fears with an ear pressed against the valley between her breasts. Nothing. No rasping breaths, no heartbeat. He rose back up and balled his hand into a fist. Again he strained to use just enough force to bend her without breaking. He brought his fist down with a hollow thump against her breastbone. Her breasts swayed, her head jerking with the force of the blow. Another. Her head dipped down and rolled to the side. Again. The solid thwack reverberated through the space. Still nothing.
With no response, he again laid one hand against her chest and began thrusting harder than before, the pace quicker. Her entire body rocked with the greater force. Her head danced against the furs propping it up, her shoulders jerked inward. Her rounded stomach rippled, her breasts rolled in against his hand. Glassy gemstone eyes stared off into the middle distance. Her face was slack. Splitter again wrapped his fingers around her throat, ensuring he could feel the pulse of his efforts in her neck. Indeed blood was being forced through her veins, he felt his efforts swelling in her carotid artery, even in the femoral pulse hidden between her pillowy thighs. But that was little comfort. She was so unnaturally still. So pale he could see the veins in her half closed eyelids. Her nipples had lost the rosy tint of before, nearly vanishing into the deathly pallor of the rest of her skin.
"Come on," Splitter growled under his breath, "Breathe. Breathe, little one." Aiding in this, he lowered his mouth to hers and tried to make a seal around her lips. Here, the difference between them made his efforts even more difficult. He engulfed her, easily twice her size, and his lips were clumsy and too wide for her mouth. He resituated so he covered both her mouth and nose and blew air down her throat. Her chest rose into his hand. Once. Twice. Phhhhh-phwah. Phhhhh-phwah. Her cheeks rounded, excess air expelling in a puff after each breath. "Fight," he whispered against her lips, "I won't be responsible for your death." His eyes cut to her stomach. It wouldn't just be her death. The weight of the two lives he held suddenly pressed down on him, heavy and insistent. The Horde was no stranger to taking lives. It was part of their credence, their religion. Yorgoth demanded blood. He was a god sat atop a throne of skulls, and his tributes were always paid for with the lives of the weak. But this woman was not his enemy. Nor was her unborn child. They had never wronged him. Like this, vulnerable, wounded, he could feel nothing for her but a deep fear of loss. He didn't want her to die.
"Cira," he hissed, pounding against her chest, "I will not give up on you. Do not give up on me." More than likely she wouldn't understand his native tongue were she conscious, but his language was made for blood oaths. It held more weight than the flowery prose of the elves. His was a promise.
Splitter knelt there beside her for what felt like hours, though it had to have been only a few minutes. Every now and then her lips would spasm open in a terrible sounding snore, like she was trying to breathe, but when he stopped and listened for a heartbeat, he could still hear none. Some death trick that made it sound like she might take a breath for herself. He fed her his own breaths every few cycles, awkwardly sealing his lips around the lower half of her face, even as air escaped where his tusks couldn't properly hug against her skin. He was actually starting to sweat. Having to restrain himself was taking a toll greater than if he could hammer against her ribcage with his full strength.
Suddenly the tent flap draw back and voices raised from outside. He spared a glance over his shoulder to see the male elf from before. Beaten, bruised, one eye swelled shut and with blood dripping down his nostrils, but there was a wild gleam in his one good eye. Seeing Splitter bent over his mate he threw himself at the orc, landing blows against his head and shoulders that did little but annoy the orc.
"What are you doing?!" the elf bellowed, "Get off of her, what have you done to her? Cira-" Splitter grabbed the male by the front of his shirt and easily made him crumple to his knees beside his dying mate. All the fight seemed to drain from him when he saw her staring blankly at the roof of the tent. "Cira," he rasped in a broken whisper, taking her face in his hands. He shuddered all over and nearly sobbed, "Gods, she's so cold." He again rounded on Splitter. "What did you do?!"
He rolled his eyes. "Nothing. Her heart stopped." The male gave a stricken moan as he buried his face against the hollow of her throat. How he'd managed to get past the guards, even wounded, behe had no idea. Splitter amended, "I'm trying to start it again." The dark elf looked from the corner of his eye at the hand laid against his mate's chest, uncomprehending. He cradled her head in his arms and straightened. "Can you do that? Make ... make her heart beat again?" Splitter nodded. "I've done it before. On drowned slaves. One heart is the same as another, illness or no." The elf placed a hand on Cira's cheek, her head settled in his lap. "I was always afraid of this," he murmured quietly, "Of losing her like this. She was always so fragile... I didn't even want her to get pregnant, I was worried..." He again looked at Splitter rhythmically thumping her chest. Then to the round hill of her belly. Then his eye slid back up to the orc. "Tell me what to do," he whispered. "Tell me how I can help." Two guards rushed into the tent, stumbling over each other to apologize for their incompetence and beg their lord's pardon, but Splitter silenced them with a raised hand. "Leave us." "But, Splittah, the slave-" "I said go." They knew better than to wait for the third order. The pair eyed the scene in confusion, the battered elf, the naked mate, their chief in the middle of it all. Still, they silently backed out of the tent.
Free of the distraction, Splitter grunted, his eyes trained on his task as his hand buried again and again into Cira's ribs. "I'm acting as her heart. You may act as her lungs. Pinch her nose with one hand and lift her head back, then breathe into her mouth. One full breath. Do this whenever I tell you, understand?" He nodded and shifted to lay on his stomach beside her, propped on his elbows. He murmured softly against her cheek as the orc pumped her chest, and took up his task when Splitter grunted, "Breathe!" Her chest rose into his palm and fell as she sighed out her mate's breath. He bid him again and he did so. Then he went back to squeezing her heart. Her mate laid his hand against her throat, brow furrowed in concentration as he felt the orc's efforts forcing a pulse through her body. "It's actually working," he marveled, "I can feel it." "It'll stop without me. Let me know if it changes, her heart might take up its own rhythm."
Her ribs shifted and her head lolled slightly as she again made that gutteral snoring sound in the back of her throat. Her mate jumped. "W-Wait, stop, she's breathing-" Splitter shook his head. "No, watch." He lifted his hand away from her chest and demonstrated how the artificial pulse stopped once more. Still her body shifted in the crude mimicry of a breath. Her mate shivered and Splitter continued shoving his hand against her breastbone. They worked in tandem, acting as her lungs and pulse while hers were absent. Every now and then Splitter touched her belly with his free hand to ensure he still felt the pup shift inside. His compressions were doing something, at least. Each one made her stomach shudder, carrying life to the child. Her mate looked to him again. "Can you save them?" The orc grunted a noncommittal reply. He wasn't sure. It had been some time since he brought her to his tent. The sun had been about to set when he had, but it was getting dark now. Had they really been here for an hour? Her pale, cool skin seemed to suggest just that. Could her heart even beat on its own anymore? It hadn't tried in all this time. Not even a flutter.
Once more she gasped in the back of her throat, as if hearing his thoughts. He recalled his oath. Didn't give up on me and I won't give up on you. He resituated his heel and pushed a bit harder between her swollen breasts, her body jerking under the renewed, more forceful compressions. "Breathe," he told her mate and he did. He had started crying, his tears rolling from his ruined cheeks onto her deathly still face. A string of spit connected their lips for a moment, then snapped. Splitter felt something shift in her ribcage and give. He'd broken something inside her. He only hoped he'd fix her by the end of this.
They went on like this for yet longer, both men exhausted and sweating. They got something resembling a heartbeat once or twice, and they would lean back in relief, only to lose it again a few moments later. Then at last, mercifully, her mate jolted. "Wait, I feel something!" He pressed his fingers harder under her jaw. "It ... It's strong but it doesn't feel right. It's not beating right." Splitter lowered his head to lay against her chest, grateful for a break for his tiring muscles. There indeed was something happening inside her chest. He heard a hummingbird patter in her ribs, too fast to sustain life. She gasped again, like she was trying to urge him to keep going. "She's fighting," Splitter said more to himself than anyone. "Good, little one, keep fighting."
The orc shifted her limp body between his hands. Her mate watched in confusion as he laid his hands against her chest and back, holding her like a broken toy. "What are you doing?" Splitter didn't answer. Just stared down at her pallid face. She seemed to be staring up at him. A silent plea. He gathered the storm between his palms, one against her breasts, one pressed between her shoulder blades, cupping her heart between. "Stand back," he rumbled. Then he loosed the charge.
Cira's body seized in the current. Her chest bucked against his hands, her head snapping and rolling to the side. The electricity made nearly every muscle tense, even making her legs jerk, her heels hitting the floor of the tent hard. Her head hung loose on its joint, and Splitter shifted so he cradled it in the crook of his arm. Her mate looked like he might vomit, but after all the time they'd just spent trying to save her, he didn't question further. Splitter once more listened to the rapid snapping of the muscle in her chest, finding it was still twitching out of rhythm. The storm gathered at the tips of his fingers. "You're almost there, Cira," he murmured, lowering his cheek against hers. "Now come back." Cira's body lurched and thrashed even more severely the second time. Her cheek hit his chest, her arms contracting against her torso in a sharp jerk. One draped across her gravid belly, and suddenly she was shifting as she took in a breath. The tent fell into utter stillness. Neither could believe their eyes. She was indeed breathing, not the intermittent snoring of before but actually breathing, groaning softly on every exhalation. Her mate lunged forward and drew her into his arms, cradling her against his body.
"Cira," he sobbed in relief, "My love! Gods, I thought I'd lost you." He kissed her face all over, peppering her cheeks and brow and the bridge of her nose. He rubbed her round stomach as if he might warm her and the child back up from their near death. Splitter sat back on his heels, observing the scene with a dull exhaustion. His duty fulfilled, he might have returned both of them to the slave pens so they may recover. That felt improper as he watched them. The bruised and battered elf and his freshly resurrected mate. The imprint his hand had made in the center of her chest felt like a brand, like he had laid claim to them both somehow by his actions, and Yorgoth would punish him for abandoning the pair now that they belonged to him. The male looked up at him in the silence.
"Thank you," he said quietly, "I'm... I am Zulin. I owe you a great debt. You've saved my mate and my son both." "Slaves cannot repay debts," he replied. Yet still, Splitter stood and left the elves to their reunion and went outside to tell the guards the slaves Zulin and Cira were to remain in his household, under his protection. He wasn't in the habit of keeping slaves for himself, but he found he did not like the idea of them being apart. After everything he and Zulin had done, he didn't want to imagine Cira having another incident in the pens, unaided.
So the merciless orc warlord found himself harboring a mother with a weak heart and her mate.
Subject_001's gestation has exceeded expectations, growing at a much more rapid rate than expected. The subject's abdomen has grown far beyond our previously anticipated size, and continued to swell several weeks past his due date. The experiment has begun to show extreme activity, seemingly testing the limits of Subject_001's abdominal walls, a possible sign that labor is imminent.
Close monitoring will be needed to ensure both subject and experiment survive, Subject_001 has proven to be able to withstand prolonged gestation and produce healthy offspring. Plans for future incubations will be made.
For those of you that don't know, I do fish science as a job irl. I've recently gotten into the idea of soldiers/mercs protecting scientists in dangerous locales, so I have a little game.
I'm your scientist, you're my bodyguard/merc/solider. I'm collecting data and something goes wrong.
What happened? How did I get hurt? How do you care for me?
Whump? Resus? Tell me!! I want to see your snippets!!
When I thought I saw everything, they bring a geologist into the mine.
We found interesting shit, they say. It's not the wording they used, but it's how I remember. Only this nerd can tell us if it's valuable shit or if it's dust and stone like the rest.
I'm muscle. I'm used to following the boss around in meetings. The coal business has been good to me - even if my companies are usually unsavory. Following you is supposed to be a piece of cake. The way I see it, you're just scraping the walls, hitting it with tiny hammers and picking up pebbles, mumbling fascinating every once in a while.
When my alarm beeps, I bark at you to put on your mask and tell you to hurry up. We better get out of here. I pick up my phone to write to the boss and tell him about the gas leak.
poof. A cloud of dark coal dust lifts up when you fall. I rush to you and find you gaping like a fish, your mask still in your hand. I place it over your face but it's too late. I can see your eyes unfocus. Wherever you are, you won't be walking out of here in your own two feet.
I hear the alarm again as I take you into my arms. I start the trek back up the mine. Another beep. I never heard to many his close together. My own vision begins to swim but I soldier ahead. One step, the other. This feels like hell. Like every step I take this mine gets longer.
When I make it to the elevator, I place you down and press the button. As we pull away, it gets easier to breathe. I fall to my knees while the elevator ascends.
"There, nerd. You owe me."
But you don't reply. Your mouth is hanging open, twitching as it takes a bluish tint. Your hand is closed around the tiniest sliver of glinting rock. This is what was taking so long.
A diamond. You found the boss a diamond. You've just made yourself indispensable. So even as my head spins, I hold your nose and open your mouth to give you only half fresh air. We need you alive.
A sort of Frankenstein Monster or Genetic Lab Aberration or a Clone that was made in a way that has lasting impacts in their life.
Maybe their lungs are too small for the size of their body. Maybe the artificial womb they were hatched in was too small for them to fully develop. Maybe their heart can't produce enough energy for the entirety of their body.
So it's more than just existing as a monster, but it's also dealing with the knowledge that these effects might have been on purpose to keep them in check.
Rain beats against the windows of the old church as wind rattles the branches. The Priest sighs, sitting down on the couch in his office, his head falling back against the wall with a soft thump.
He'd spent the entire day readying the church to weather the storm, for himself or anyone else who came to seek shelter. He lets his eyes slip closed as the first long rumble of thunder rolls across the sky.
A moment later, he's startled awake by a loud bang against the church's main doors. He jumps up, straightening his robes as he rushes to greet the first arrival.
When he swings the heavy oak door open, the front stoop is empty, until he looks down.
At his feet lay a tangle of pale limbs and blonde hair. And wings. Large, white wings.
An angel.
The Priest hurries, gathering the small thing into his arms to bring into the main chapel out of the rain.
It's nude, soaked to the bone and freezing as he lays it on the plush carpet. He pushes its golden hair away from its face before pulling one of its thin eyelids back. Its eyes are rolled back, the bright blue iris barely visible.
The Priest studies the Angel’s soft face. A drop of golden ichor drips from its nose and down its lips, while another drips from its hairline.
His gaze moves down to its chest, watching for the steady rise and fall of breathing, placing his hand under the Angel’s nose.
When he feels nothing, he leans down, pressing his ear against the creature's chest. He's met with still silence, and he wonders for a moment if angels are even burdened with the same source of life as humans. Do they even have hearts or lungs to hear?
He quickly supposes that he'd rather do what he could in the event it was dying to try to save it.
He rolls the Angel fully onto its back, its wings propping its chest into the air in a deep arch. He mutters a soft prayer before tilting its chin up and pinching its nose closed, sealing their lips.
The ichor coats his tongue, tasting simultaneously like the sweetest and most bitter thing he's ever known. The Angel's lips are cold against his own as he blows warm, life giving air into its lungs. Its chest rising and falling methodically with each deep breath forced into it.
After a few rescue breaths, the Priest moves his hands to rest against its sternum, flat chest pushed against his palm by the thick feathered wings.
When he presses down for the first compression, he hears a sickening crack as the brittle bones in its wings begin to pop. He murmurs quiet apologies as he continues pumping the Angel’s chest.
“27, 28, 29, 30!” He counts each compression aloud, his voice echoing around the empty cathedral.
He presses shaking fingers into its throat, praying fervently for that little patter of a heartbeat, but there's nothing.
He leans down, sealing his lips over the Angel’s again, its cheeks puffing out against his own with every breath.
“Oh, please, please breathe,” the Priest pleads, blowing in another breath.
He repositions himself over the creature's petite chest, pumping harder and faster as its shoulders bow in and its head lolls from side to side, each compression forcing a tiny hff from its pale lips.
“Father, please, help me save your beloved Angel from death,” the Priest prays, sweat dripping from his graying temples as he pumps the Angel's heart.
He leans down, blowing another breath into its ichor stained mouth. When he pulls away, a gold tinged string of saliva connects his mouth with its lower lip. He takes a deep breath in before filling its lungs again, its chest straining against his palm.
He straightens, lacing his fingers over its heart and starting another harsh cycle of compressions, its small ribs bending and popping under his hands. His own labored breaths and the little huffs of air pushed from its lips are the only sounds in the quiet church as the storm rages on outside.
When he finishes, he sits back, arms aching as his chest heaves, trying to catch his breath. He'd been told CPR was difficult for just one person, but he never thought it would be this hard.
He stares at the Angel’s limp form, trying to think of what to do as he brushes another golden strand from its cheek.
He's all but given up when he suddenly remembers he'd bought an AED for the chapel. Just in case, he'd said, hanging it on the wall near his office door.
He jumps up, racing to retrieve the small device and return to the Angel's side.
He drops to his knees, tearing the case open with shaking hands. He presses each sticky pad to the Angel’s chest as the machine whirs to life.
“Analyzing heart rhythm. Do not touch the patient,” the machine’s monotone voice drones. The Priest watches impatiently until the screen shows a squiggling green line.
“V-fib detected. Charging,” the machine whines as electricity builds, “Press the orange button now.”
The Priest takes a steadying breath before pressing his thumb into the button, releasing the shock. The Angel's body jerks, shoulders bending inward with the force of its muscles contracting, before falling still again.
The machine starts to charge again at a higher setting, and when the button starts to blink, he presses it again.
His breath catches as its chest arches higher, arms and legs spasming with the force of the current racing through its heart. A harsh hrk passes through gritted teeth as its chest slams back to the floor.
“No pulse. Continue CPR,” the machine responds, the high whine of the flatline echoing around them.
No. Nonono.
He flattens his palms between the pads, pumping the still heart. He can see his efforts reflected on the small monitor though uneven spikes and dips, and he counts aloud as he continues, “27, 28, 29, 30!”
He dips his head again, performing two more rescue breaths before pumping again. He continues for another cycle of thirty before the machine stops him to analyze.
He sits back, breathing heavily as his sweat soaked hair sticks to his forehead. The machine reads another shockable rhythm, this time charging to full power. When the button begins to flash, he jams his thumb into it.
“Clear!”
The Angel’s chest shoots upward, arms and legs jerking inward as its wings twitch. There's a loud choking sound as its jaw locks and its head falls back, before it drops back to the carpet with a soft thud. Its head rolls to the side, damp hair sticking to its cheek, but no sign of life.
The machine begins to analyze again as the Priest brings his rosary up to his lips.
When the machine reads another flatline, the Priest wraps his rosary around his fingers before lacing them over the Angel’s chest again.
“You! Will! Breathe,” he growls through gritted teeth, each word punctuated with a deep compression, “I was created to be above You and You must listen to my commands! The Lord God wills it!” His hands sink into its chest over and over, its heart squeezed roughly between its sternum and spine.
“V-fib detected! Charging.”
The Priest sits back on his heels, watching as the machine charges to 350J. When the charge is complete, he releases it into the creature's quivering heart.
“CLEAR!”
The Angel’s chest and hips rise off the floor in a high arch, its toes curling as its legs jerk from the electricity. Its wings spasm and twitch beneath it as its eyelids flutter, eyes rolling back. When it slams back to the floor, the Priest is already charging the next shock.
“CLEAR!” K-THUNK!
The Angel lifts off the floor again, its golden hair fanned out around its head in a crude imitation of a halo as it convulses.
When it slams back to the floor again, the machine’s monotone voice returns, “analyzing heart rhythm. Do not touch the patient.”
The Priest doesn't wait for the machine, instead pressing his ear against the Angel’s chest. He’s greeted by the most wondrous sound he’s ever heard. Lub-dub. Lub-dub. Lub-dub.
His shoulders drop with a relieved sigh as he watches the little creature’s chest rise and fall. He shrugs his robe from his shoulders, draping it over the Angel’s petite frame.
He makes sure the small machine is still reading its vitals before standing with a low groan, hands braced on his knees.
I think I've earned a cup of tea. He thinks, as he leaves the little Angel to rest in the chapel.
