endless list of otps: Jack Frost and the Tooth Fairy, Rise of the Guardians
Left central incisor, knocked out in a freak sledding accident. I wonder how that could have happened, Jack. Kids, huh? This was always the part I liked most. Seeing the kids. Why did I ever stop doing this? It’s a little different up close, huh. Thanks for being here, Jack. I wish I’d known about your memory. I could have helped you. Yeah, well... Look, let’s just get you taken care of. Then it’s Pitch’s turn.
a MASH AU: ROTG × HTTYD
[I am a bit skeptical about writing and publishing this. I already have a whole plot for this, I'm just publishing this first chapter to see what you peeps think.
Criticism is very much welcome]
WARNING: Some graphic depictions of violence
Characters involved (in this excerpt):
Captain Hiccup "Fury" Haddock
Captain Jack "Frost" Moore
Major Heather Weisling
Colonel Thuggory "Meathead" Phillips
Major Gorman "Grim" Gormless
Corporal Finley "Fishlegs" Ingerman
Corporal Trevor "Tuffnut" Thorston
Captain Samuel "Sandy" Hoffmann
**future chapters will involve a LOT more of the characters though**
- -
Pungent—the only word to describe it. The air stinks (probably because of the humidity), the smoke stinks (artillery fighters use too much powder and chemicals), the people stinks (they reek too much of dried blood and grime), the muck stinks (you wouldn’t know if someone shitted in here), the blood stinks (so stale, it gets everywhere)—this crummy war stinks (you don’t need a description for this).
Bullets can be heard from any point. Turn around and one of them might just hit. March ahead and suddenly, there’s death greeting halfway. It’s raining harshly, but there’s no thick mud around the boots, no sound of the titter totter of the raindrops, just traces of dust, dry soil and dripping blood—there’s the realization, this rain can never end. The raining of bullets, of shells, grenades—every explosive on the arsenal had been fired but still, it will never stop—all that was left was screaming.
All of it, I heard while patching up wounds in the operating room. When you’re four miles from the front, it’s not impossible to miss such heavy sounds and feel the small tremors in the earth. Dust gets in my eyes and I have to persist, even in the prickling pain, just to get my patient through. Four miles away is not enough distance to ignore the explosions—the war keeps going on and on, taking the next chance and the next to damage the other. If we could only take a day to close our eyes, not hear the explosions ripping everything apart, forget the war, even for a while and stay in that lucid dream forever, but the shelling was too powerful, even for all our dreams combined.
-
About several miles up from the ground, there was a deafening grumble of a million sounds pouring through. Every meter per second felt indifferent from a looping infinite number of time. Behind him, artillery fighters from both sides still duel. Below him, soldiers are advancing, carrying their rifles pointed up and helmets down. Smoke shielded their vision, apparently, a shell had just hit the ground. Multiple soldiers must’ve died but there was no time to inspect it for himself. It wasn’t safe to land in the middle of the trench and check on the soldiers there—he had orders. Orders that he has to obey—besides, there were already a handful of casualties aboard with him and it was only him who is unscathed. Passing through the smoke, it was already clear of soldiers. The trenches are left emptied, apart from the dead soldiers, and remnants of the war were very evident, very cold. The chopper pierced through the cold wind. It was winter but there wasn’t much snow—it melted already. The heat of the war was unbearable, even in the strongest snowstorms. The mud became too thick, too hard to pass through. Almost zero visibility on the ground because of the thick smog, but that wasn’t much of a challenge than winning the battle. Through the glass, he can see the shells firing away from the small hills and then he mumbles a little prayer, hopefully it hits something else and not him. The pilot turns a little over the right, the fog became a bit lighter and snow was much thick from the mountaintops. The pilot checked on the casualties aboard his chopper and felt relieved that there was still some slight movement. They were wrapped around in a lot of layers, shielding them from the winter weather, while the pilot had to endure the cold, piercing wind by himself. He headed straight into the mountain range just ahead and he huffed a breath of relief. It all looks much familiar now to him, and he felt much safer now that he was inside.
The chopper glided along the mountain range cautiously, his engine humming, out of the tension—finally. The sound of the bombings were getting fainter, but it didn’t mean they were out of earshot. From the pilot’s peripheral vision, he could see another chopper flying in a distance, going about the same direction he is. The pilot carefully goes around the mountain.
Finally, after a few minutes of flying still, from a distance, he could spot a landing pad—the landing pad of where he needs to go, and the pilot set gears to land.
There is a camp ahead, and he could see the tiny people rushing out. The commotion in the camp was something similar in the battlefield—like they were gearing up to start their own battle. The pilot slowly landed his chopper down the makeshift landing pad, a patch of elevated ground in the base of the mountain. Before long, the chopper was surrounded by jeeps and medical staff ducking and running towards it. The corpsmen unbuckled the casualties from the cots and carefully lifted them off and brought them over to the jeeps. The pilot released another breath, finally, he made it safely back without any trouble. He watched as the nurses crowded over the patients he brought in, and two doctors kneeling at the hood of the jeeps, undergoing triage. The jeep pulls away and drives back to camp slowly, carefully minding the patients, the doctors, the nurses and corpsmen assisting. It was up to the doctors now, his thoughts before pulling up again.
The jeeps made it back to the camp with no harm done. One of the doctors immediately jumped out of the hood of the jeep and watched as the corpsmen carefully lifted the patient off the jeep and into the ward. He yells out some instructions, an IV and a unit of plasma—he was a usual case. The doctor runs, towards the compound, which were filled with casualties in stretchers, awaiting triage. Later, another ambulance just arrived and the corpsmen pulled the doors open, retrieving the casualties inside and placing them down the ground with the other casualties awaiting triage. Another doctor inspects them, shouting instructions amidst the loud commotion in the camp. The corpsmen took another patient away and into the pre-op ward. The nurses follow along, helping them prepare these patients for surgery. The doctors hop along the casualties, tagging them and giving out instructions. The commotion around the camp remained bustling, especially with the newest arrival of a bus, full of casualties. One of the doctors flipped open the doors and entered, inspecting all the patients inside. A nurse soon followed.
When the doctor ducked down and inspected the next patient, he sucked in a breath and felt his stomach curl—the kid was dead. The nurse knew the look in the doctor’s eyes and bent over the window, calling out for the chaplain. By the time, the chaplain had arrived inside the bus, the doctor was almost done with the casualties inside—a lot of which are on a level two priority. The chaplain blessed the dead soldier with a prayer, a sad look in his eyes. The boy was too young.
The doctor suppressed the distraught inside him and finished doing triage on the wounded and the corpsmen cleared the bus of the casualties, bringing them in over at the ward. Some of the patients were already hooked up on an IV, while the others are being cleaned of their wounds and the blood that scattered over their body. The doctors suited into their scrubs and their masks were securely tied in their heads, their hands, brought up and suited in surgical gloves. They entered the operating room and found themselves a table where nurses and corpsmen were waiting. They can hear one of the doctors attempting on a joke—it was funny, but none really had time to manage even a chuckle.
The first wave of casualties flow inside the operating room. There was pressure, there was tension so thick, the scalpel wouldn’t have been enough to cut through it. They weren’t supposed to take so long on these operations. It was just “get the patient safe and stable, out of critical condition and move on”. It wasn’t their duty to perform such perfect surgery—not like what it was supposed to be. Over two hours passed before the next patients were brought in and the next and the next, until they stopped counting the hours, the number of patients and how much gloves and sponges, full of blood, were scattered on the floor. It didn’t dawn on them—(they weren’t even aware of the sunset) the windows were filled with thick fog and outside, light didn’t even shine—how long they were occupied inside.
There was a comforting thought though, that their patients transitioned and became much more conscious and didn’t need too much treatment. They knew that they were almost finished. Thank the gods.
Hours past, the clerk, largely built but very rickety, came rushing into the operating room, looking troubled and afraid. He went over to one of the tables and breathed a few deep breaths before he announced the news—and possibly get stabbed multiple times later—“Um… Colonel… everyone… c-choppers are coming—new casualties are coming in any minute!” he announced.
There was booing, grumbling, cursing and sponges filled with blood were thrown at him instead, “It’s not my fault the war keeps bringing us casualties—blame the Revolts!” he cried out before he ran outside the operating room.
“Damnit! We’ll never get outta here!”
“Put a clamp on it, Frost!” one of the nurses said.
“Would you stop calling me Frost?” he grumbled.
One of the doctors hurriedly finished bandaging his patient’s shoulder before he stripped off his gloves and his gown, “I’m going to go perform triage—anyone with me?” he asked.
“I’ll go with you” answered Frost before finishing the suture he made.
The surgeon removed his gloves and gown and exited the operating room. Entering the pre-op ward, they found a few more patients left, resting uncomfortably in the cots, enduring the pain they have accumulated. A young corporal and a nurse were watching them, checking their vital signs and making them much comfortable as possible. The two doctors grabbed some thick coats, slipped them on and went outside, the cold winter wind slapping them awake.
“Do you remember how long were we inside the operating room, Fury?” Frost, the lanky, brunette man, asked.
“I don’t even remember the last time I even breathed” answered Fury, the other lanky, brunette man.
“Attention, all available personnel—new wounded are coming in the compound, I repeat, new wounded are coming in the compound” the PA announced.
Medical personnel rushed out the ward and met with the doctors outside. The distant roar of the engines was heard, and jeeps and an ambulance were seen from a distance. From the sky, the chopper was closing in and landing. At least, it’s only one chopper. The corpsmen carried the casualties off the ambulance and Fury met with them and inspected the wincing and writhing patient, “I’m afraid this one needs to be treated ahead of the remaining patients” he said, “Start an IV and ten milligrams of morphine and a few units of plasma, he needs to be in a table, stat!”
The patient was taken into the ward. Fury climbed inside the ambulance and found another patient inside, the same state as the patient before. He repeated his instructions to the corpsmen on standby outside the ambulance. He exited the ambulance and rushed towards the other casualties. About half of them were already dying and dead while the other half still had a shot in life. A little later, he noticed the chaplain running out of the ward and rushing towards the dying men. Meanwhile, Frost was up on a jeep, going up the landing pad and meeting with the casualties on the chopper. Fury spared him a glance before he entered inside the pre-op ward and got rid of the coats. The last of the patients that were brought in yesterday were gone and in the operating room—which was a relief. The new casualties were many, but much lesser than the number of yesterday’s casualties. Good grief. Fury proceeded to scrub up and a nurse assisted him in putting on the gloves, the surgical gown and helped him reattach his mask. He entered the operating room once more and a wounded patient was already laid on the table.
Fury looked into the wound, which was off the pressure bandage. A corpsman took it off and threw it somewhere else and forgotten immediately. Fury winced, seeing how deep the wound was. His guts were almost sprawled out of abdomen, but Fury wasn’t as much disturbed. He had seen a few hundred of these before, he was just left to wonder what the kid had to go through to sustain this kind of injury. He turned to the nurse beside him, “Clamp and suction” he instructed the nurse.
The nurse grabbed the suction tube and placed it on the wounded abdomen, then, she grabbed the clamp from the table with her free hand, “Clamp” the nurse responded, putting the instrument on the doctor’s hands.
“How many out there, Fury?”
“About twenty of them, Thug” he answered, “Scissors”
Later on, Frost came bursting inside the operating room, in full scrub. A patient was brought inside, hooked up and nurses have prepped him for surgery. Frost stepped up as the corpsmen immediately pulled away from the table and exited the room. He looked at the nurse across him, clearly horrified of the sight in front of her.
“I don’t know what the heck happened to this guy, he’s got shrapnel wounds all over his thoracic cavity” Frost hurriedly said, “Raise this kid’s morphine to twelve milligrams—!"
“Pressure: 80 over 60”
“Give me some O negative blood!” Frost called, “Start an IV with a bore needle—c’mon!”
“If you’re gonna need some assistance, just call for anyone of us” one of the doctors said.
Tension loomed over the operating room again, apart from the clatter of surgical instruments and the mumbles of the doctors, there was a nerve-wrecking silence. It had been an hour already, many of the wounded treated in the operating room have been brought to post-op. A sergeant entered from the post-op ward and approached the colonel with a hesitant look on his face, “Colonel, I’m afraid we have insufficient space in post-op for the remaining patients” he said.
The colonel turned to look at the sergeant, “There’s no more room?”
“We have already moved a lot of spare cots inside and post-op is already flooding with patients, we couldn’t accommodate anymore”
“Get one of the tents from the supply room, set it up beside post-op, and you can put those who have light injuries inside” the colonel answered, turning back to the patient he was almost finished operating, “Suture”.
The sergeant responded and ran back to the post-op ward to do what the colonel tasked. After finishing patching up the patient, he raised his head and spotted a staff by the doors and called out for him, “You, corporal by the doors! Go check out how many are still in pre-op” he ordered.
The corporal pointed at himself, unsure of the colonel’s orders, “Yes!” the colonel called.
The corporal pointed at the door behind him and the colonel replied with another exasperated “yes”.
The young man entered outside the operating room and counted the people still in the pre-op ward, awaiting treatment. The corporal entered back inside the operating room, “About six more people, colonel” he announced.
Everyone in the room cheered. The colonel smiled, but it went unnoticed behind the large mask, “Okay, corporal—?"
“Corporal Thorston, Colonel!” he proudly answered.
“Thorston, bring in another patient”
Corporal Thorston nodded and rushed back into pre-op and came back with another corpsman and a patient between them. The patient was brought into the table and a nurse came by, holding up a couple of x-ray scans towards the bright light. The surgeon took a second to glance at his medical staff and nodded. The colonel studied the scans carefully before he got started. A nurse took over and prepped the patient for surgery, placing an IV on him and hooking him up on a unit of blood.
Over the other tables, another doctor had called in for the next patient and replaced his gloves with a new pair. Another doctor from another table was suturing his patient. Fury was still head deep in surgery, taking out shrapnel from the patient’s wounded backside. Another surgeon was retrieving a shrapnel from the patient’s abdomen. Frost was still operating on the same soldier he came in with and he was looking very much frustrated already.
“Frost, his pressure’s 60 over 40 and his pulse is 50 and I’m afraid is fading fast”
“Hey, Fury—I need your help over here” called Frost, “Start another IV, quick!”
“I’m sorry, I’m really busy here, I can’t leave this guy” Fury replied, apologetic.
“I’m available” called another doctor, walking over Frost’s table.
“Hey, Gorm” Frost greeted sweetly with an unnoticed smile.
“Knock it off, Frost” his rugged voice boomed.
“Yeesh, still as stony as ever” Frost grumbled, “You know, you should be the one called Frost, not me—you’re so cold”
Gorm ignored Frost and checked on the patient, “What do you need, kid?” he asked.
“I need you to help me with that retractor—I need to get his ribs apart” Frost replied, “I need to swoop in and find any shrapnel left in his chest. I’m afraid it’ll pierce the heart and this guy is lost”
Gorm adjusted the retractor and the ribs opened wider for a bit so that Frost could see inside the chest cavity, but blood flooded the chest cavity, “Suction, quick! I think I saw a small shrapnel near the spleen” Frost called.
The nurse quickly grabbed the tube and hovered it above the pool of blood. The chest cleared a little and Frost could see the chest cavity again, “Okay… lap sponge” he requested.
The nurse handed him the sponge. Frost dabbed the chest clean and threw the sponge away before he asked for a clamp. The surgeon was quiet, carefully pulling the tissue apart to reveal a much better view of the spleen, then he asked for a wheaty retractor which Gorm helped place. The shrapnel was very little, almost unnoticeable, but reflected enough light for it to be noticed. Frost swept it up with a pair of forceps and disposed of it in a tray. Frost gave out a relieved sigh as he placed the instrument on another tray of used instruments. Frost’s bright cerulean eyes shifted up and found Gorm giving a nod. His eyes turned up and found the colonel standing behind Gorm. He also gave out a nod and the side of his eyes crinkled—probably smiling, Frost thought.
“His pressure’s still low”
Frost hunched down again, ignoring the pain his back was giving him. He had been hunching down at this soldier for a couple of hours, his back was already crying and the rest of his body felt stiff. He could use a little rest, but it’s not going to happen anytime soon, especially with this soldier giving him a hard time.
“Goddammit, can’t this kid give me a break?” Frost grumbled underneath his breath, “I need a clamp”
After being handed a clamp, he went in again on the patient’s chest, trying to open some places where the shrapnel could have pierced. He was rushing now, going over the places he had already checked before to see if there were any strays he missed. That couldn’t have been possible though, but he kept checking. Gorm was willing to help him go over the chest again.
“Okay, I got the aorta” Gorm said.
“I need a retractor” Frost ordered.
“Nurse! Suction” Gorm called.
“I got no pressure”
Frost felt his heart skip a beat. He felt the life suck out of his own body, but he kept on, working around the clock mechanically fast—if there is still any chance to save this guy. He’d take it.
“Father!” one of the nurses called.
“No, no—I won’t give up on this guy—not now, after he gave me such a hard time” Frost argued, still going over the patient’s chest.
Suddenly, he felt a hand on his shoulder, trying to pry him away gently. He didn’t need to turn to know it was Fury behind him, “Don’t” Frost warned and Fury backed off.
One of the two nurses looked over at the priest with a desolate look, her face was a little sweaty, after all the pressure and tension in the operating room. Her tired, green eyes pleaded at the priest, looking down and meeting his eyes. The priest nodded and turned towards the table, fixing a cross with his hand and silently began to whisper a prayer for the poor, dying soldier.
“Father!” Frost scolded, catching glimpse of the priest praying, “Nurse—give me a knife! C’mon, I said give me a knife!”
But neither of the two nurses were respondent. They looked grim and sad, instead. The soldier’s fate was sealed—he was already dead and there was nothing anyone of them could do for him. The nurses had accepted that fate, but Frost still wasn’t giving up and grabbed the knife himself. He started working on the patient again. The priest had already finished praying, Gorm had already stepped away from the table, leaving Frost to work all alone.
“Frost” Gorm called, “The man’s gone”
“Frost” the colonel finally steps in, “There’s nothing you could do for him now”’
His hand was shaking. The knife hung dangerously too loose from his hand and could fall at any moment. One of the nurses gently approached him and took away the knife from his hand, settled it down at the table and slipped away from the table, taking her sorrow with her. Frost took a few strides away backwards and watched as Gorm started to close up the patient. He didn’t move, his breaths were very deep and slow, his eyes were wide open, staring at the dead soldier in front of him. I could’ve saved him. Frost repeats it in his head like a mantra, it was before he was startled back to reality by a hand dropping on his shoulder, “Jack” the voice called.
Frost blinked and turned over to Fury who had an austere look on his eyes. His emerald eyes and dark auburn eyebrows were crinkled and furrowed together, telling him to pull it together. The man’s hand left his shoulder and back to his side, “I’m sorry—I really am” he says, much gently.
“We’re doctors and it’s our job to save every life we could—but sometimes, we forget the last word of that sentence—could” said the colonel, “It’s war. Men will die, Frost, and not everyone we get our hands on could even escape that”
The colonel left the operating room, pulling out his gloves and gown on the way. The operating room was now mostly empty. Most of the staff were already outside, cleaning up and getting dressed back in their fatigues. Those left inside were some corpsmen and nurses in charge of cleaning the operating room. Sponges and bandages filled with blood were everywhere, almost filling the floor. Surgical equipment were sprawled on the tables, filled with grime and blood. Used IVs and plasma containers, all in a pile under the tables. Everyone could agree it was the epitome of hell.
Gorm had finished fixing the dead soldier and the corpsmen took him away. A nurse had started to clear the table off the instruments and clean the blood that splattered on it. The instruments, each being gathered and undergone sterilization. Everything was being cleaned as fast as the sleep-deprived staff could. It had been a painful seventeen-hour surgery. Give me a break already, grumbled each one of them.
Fury grabbed Frost and they walked out of the room, taking off their gowns and scrubs and putting on their worn-out fatigues and boots. Frost was quiet the entire time and Fury didn’t attempt to make conversation. Gorm didn’t lift his lip either and went out of the ward whilst slipping on his thick coat. Fury and Frost were the only ones left inside and the silence was deafening.
“So, ugh… do-do you wanna grab a little something at the mess tent?” Fury croaked.
“Eh… I don’t see why not” Frost replied, shrugging nonchalantly; his tone like his usual, cheery self.
Fury stood up, went over the laundry baskets and threw his scrubs in. Frost followed and they both grabbed their coats and stepped outside the ward.
Once again, they felt the cold winter wind slapped their faces, smacking them awake. Fury stretched his arms and yawned offhandedly, showing off his fatigue for all the war to see, “I could sleep for days!” Fury bawled out.
Frost managed a light chuckle, “I’m too tired to make a joke” he muttered with a small smile plastered on his face.
“Captains!” called out a feminine voice.
They both turned to the source and found a tall, raven-haired woman dressed tidily with a clean, but worn-out olive coat, her fatigue tucked in seamlessly, fastened with her garrison belt under and her boots tied securely. She had her hair in a loose braid from her tight bun earlier in the operating room. Her emerald eyes were gleaming with authority but with a hidden gloom and tiredness. She walked with her hands in her pockets, taking careful strides because of the muddy floor and the ice, “I just want to say you’re work in the O.R. today was commendable” she said.
“Oh, Heather—our beautiful goddess with hair like silk and voice of an angel” Frost coaxed.
“That’s major to you, Captain” Heather rebuked.
“Our beautiful major goddess with hair like silk and voice of an angel, I had a great time with the assistance of your hands today” Jack coaxed again.
The major rolled her eyes and went towards another direction, towards her tent. Frost pouted, looking dejected as he followed the major with his eyes as she walked away. Fury just laughed at Frost’s rejection, tears almost trickling down from his eyes. He just needs a laugh every once in a while.
“Someday, Fury, I tell you—you’re gonna wind up pining for a woman and she’s gonna reject you in lightning speed” Frost threatened, resuming his walk.
His walk was a bit relaxed now, Fury picked up on it right away. He was glad that his friend was reverting back to his usual self. The men had known each other since they arrived at the MASH unit. The jeep ride going there was very miserable, but each other’s company made it very bearable, at least. Their friendship has kept both of them sane for most of the time and with every minute of every day spent with each other, they would have known the other like a medical textbook. Fury followed his friend, catching up on his strides to walk alongside Frost.
“At least, I won’t be as disgusting in flirting as you are” Fury commented.
“You don’t even know how to flirt to girls”
“Let me tell you—I’m a genius at flirting! I’m a master” Frost boasted, “If flirting was a major, I’d have a Ph.D for it right about now”
“And how come you haven’t landed with one girl in this camp yet?” Fury countered.
Frost stopped to turn to look at Fury. They are just outside the mess tent now. They both could hear the clattering of forks, knives and trays and the faint chatter of the people inside. “Hiccup, Hiccup, Hiccup, my dear little boy… they don’t know how to respond to such genius, such magnificent, such graceful philandering I can muster” Frost responded with a playful smirk.
Fury opened the door to the mess tent and shoved Frost inside, “Eat. Your mind’s too bushed to think straight”
“No, I’m telling you—I’m a flirting professional slash genius”
-
At the end of the day, after I had dealt with the fire and the rain, did I find a little solace at the 6079. We had found solace in each other. We were family, that was something I have always been happy of. We shared the pain, the bits of happiness, the fear, the laughs, and the tears.
It was with the right companions did I managed to survive all throughout the war.
HEY u r da best. ok so fair warning hes like a wayy underdeveloped char so this isnt gonna be v good
hes from the town that zacharie used to live in before he ran away, and was the only other person besides doe who was cool to him. hes like 3 or 4 years older than zacharie and they werent like...friends like they didnt actively hang out but anthony worked at a gas station / food mart type thing and z and doe would go there all the time and talk to him. he’s like always tired eyes half closed and bored but hes nice and cool. he like... unintentionally influenced z a lot (w/o either of the realizing it) like he skated and z learns to skate... he went by anthony rather than a short version and z ended up going by the full zacharie when he came to squadtown... he works at a food mart and z ends up working a similar job....z only realizes way later that he had a total crush on anthony bc he thought he was str8 the whole time. anthonys just a real nice guy real friendly and thought z and doe were actually p cool. when z comes back a couple yrs later they visit him (now on the graveyard shift) and say like “hey anthony” and in his tired way hes like “oh hey z” and then like 10 seconds after they leave he comes running out like wide awake filled with emotion “HOLY SHIT ZACHARIE” thats p much all i have lol he only appears for a tiny bit during like... the story so i dont wanna develop him TOO much but ya thats anthony hes a sweetheart
