reconditioned!dogma and wounded fox; i tried my best, anon, but this kind of prompt isn't really my kind of thing. 570w
The commander is bleeding out. Three four hooks his hands under his arms and drags him away, the plastoid plates screeching against the cheap durasteel floor of the warehouse.
Three four lost his bucket somewhere. The visor cracked in the explosion, and he took it off, because he couldn’t see, the HUD was going crazy, and the sound of his own breathing echoing around in the dark was driving him insane.
The underlevels’ air is damp and hot on his wet cheeks. Three four gasps, swears under his breath. The commander’s heavy: he’s trying to help, but the twitchy way he keeps moving his legs does very little. Three four bites his lip and tries not to think of what will happen if the second team’s too late.
This was supposed to be a routine patrol. The commander usually stays in the Federal District, coordinating the work of the whole guard and liaising with the Jedi Council, GAR intelligence, the CSF and the Senate Guard. Three Four shipped from Kamino a few weeks ago, but he’s—he—
Three Four pauses. His chest feels tight. He tries to breathe in deep, chokes, gives up and keeps moving.
He needs to get him out of there. The other team will be there soon; they know about the explosion, and there was a medic with them, and—and they’ll know what to do. Three Four’s no one: he just got on Triple Zero, and he’s been a drag on his squad. He knows he is. He gets twitchy sometimes and he can’t sleep and he knows he’s missing things. He knows he’s too old to be a true shiny.
Everyone knows the Guard is where the wash outs end up. Three Four can’t remember where he heard that, but he can almost picture that brother’s face: it’s just beyond his reach, right behind the fuzzy prickly awfulness that fogs his brain and makes thinking so very hard.
Something clangs on the other side of the warehouse. Three Four pauses, looks over his shoulder. The place is full of shadows; here and there he can see the bright red and white of the rest of the squad, the plastoid blackened and melted in places. They’re all dead. Three Four swallows: something sour and cleansing at once blooms in his chest, and it takes him longer than it should to be able to name it, to recognise it as what it is, as fury.
Voices. Speaking Basic, but with a thick Underlevels accent. Three Four curses again, and looks around himself, looking for somewhere to hide.
“The—the vats—”
The commander’s voice is a whispery creak in the quiet. Three Four immediately sees what he means, and he starts dragging him there. He backs into the crack between two of the big, empty tubs nudged against one of the walls, and then sits down on the floor, the commander in his lap. Three Four’s fingers find the gash at his side; the rebar went through the armour like it was made of flimsi, and it’s still there, lodged between two of the commander’s ribs.
“Please. My—my bucket.”
Three Four swallows and obeys.
They wait there for long minutes, Three Four’s chin on the commander’s head, his hair soft and damp with sweat against his face.
They’re both shaking, adrenaline and pain and blood loss. Three Four looks for the commander’s right hand.
