Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
Selah whump-only path: Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight
<< Masterlist
++++++++++++++++++
Riko walks with his pack slung over one shoulder. He tugs on the straps, so the weight of restocked supplies sits closer to his body.
He never sees it coming.
A dark blur steps out, shoving him hard enough to lift him off his feet. He slams into lockers. His head impacts violently against metal.
“Watch the head,” someone says, low.
Riko clutches the side of his head, fingers slipping. Stares at the red smeared across his hand.
“Ow--fuck--”
Three men advance on him. He scrambles up, fast. They start spreading in the corridor, flanking him.
“Shit--”
He coils, launches from under reaching hands. Gets two steps.
A fist closes over the pack's straps. Yanks. His legs shoot forward, body pivoting midair. His back slams hard against the tiled floor. He hears something crack. He doesn't know if he'd be happier knowing it was a rib or a vial from the med pack. He does hate trying to account to the supplies master for damaged supplies...
He rolls, gets his feet under him. The sound of approaching footfalls has him scanning desperately for an exit--
A tall, lanky shape steps in slow, cutting him off. Riko’s heart hammers in his throat, fast and panicked, like cornered prey.
He forces a grin, wild and bright.
“Gentlemen,” he calls out, voice holding steady. “Three on one? Really?”
He chuckles loosely, boyish and disarming. It hurts to laugh, but he lets it roll through him, disguising a wince with a casual shrug.
The men keep coming, silent. His grin falters. He drops it fast, eyes darting. He thinks he knows them. The one in the middle, the name is on the tip of his tongue... he tries to remember, while the other part of his brain scrambles for any reason they might have him cornered like this with violence on their mind.
Hands lift, palms up.
“Hey, if it’s about the stim trades, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m not in on it. I can tell you who though. Good stuff, from what I hear. Untraceable.”
They circle, silent, patient. His heart rattles in his chest.
“Is this… is this about Myro’s girl? I don't go to that brothel. I’ve never even spoken to her. I don't even swing that way.”
Their silence thickens. His breath comes in small, frantic puffs.
“If-- if someone said I was talking about what happened near the officers’ quarters, it’s not true. I'm not a rat.”
He feels frozen in their flat, unyielding gaze. He swallows, sweat trickling down his cheek. His eyes darts between them, voice held teetering on the edge of steadiness. “Guys, come on--let’s talk about this.”
The middle one smiles, slow, like he’d been waiting for this.
"You talk too much, Riko."
A quick step, and the punch snaps into his solar plexus. His breath tears out of him in a silent cough.
His knees fold under him, his breath stuttering desperately in the vicious vacuum of his chest. His arms are locked tight over his midsection, trying to hold himself together as pain roars through him.
A hand seizes his hair, yanking his head back. Ceiling lights spin overhead. A forearm jams painfully against the back of his neck, forcing his throat forward.
It happens so fast. He catches a glimpse of an arm overhead, bracing against the lockers behind him, a boot pulling back--
He puts up his hand, too late--
The kick explodes into his throat.
His breath vanishes. He can’t even gag. Just claws at his neck, blood spattering out of his open mouth.
His eyes roll in panic.
His vision starts to tunnel.
The man who unleashed the kick is crouched in front of him. Riko's eyes are stretched so wide he's sure the whites are showing.
“Breathe,” the man says.
Riko's reaching mind finally closes around a name. Vetch.
Riko’s chest jerks uselessly.
Vetch slaps him. Hard.
“Breathe,” he says again, his tone as mild as ever.
A broken inward wheeze finally scrapes past Riko’s throat.
He collapses forward, hands balled up into fists, shaking.
Vetch stands up, gaze sweeping over the others.
“Okay,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.”
The two soldiers hesitate. Weight shifts. Eyes dart. The corridor is quiet except for Riko's desperate gasps and the sound of blood hitting the floor.
Vetch pauses, reading their unease. The big lug is frowning, like his personal morality is stirring. The skinny one is twitching with overwhelm. If he doesn't take this in hand now, they might-- no, they will bolt.
His eyes flick over them, then slid deliberately past, settling instead on the shuddering form in front of them.
His voice comes low, a quiet invitation. “Look at him now.”
He lets the silence stretch, the faint hiss of air filters underlining the moment.
Vetch lets their gaze follow his, down to Riko, hunched and humbled, his panting silence reading like contrition.
He slows his own breathing. Lets his anticipation seep into them.
Riko flinches, eyes darting up. It's like he feels something tighten in the air around him, like an invisible snare drawing taut. His breath catches, ragged.
Only now, Vetch looks at the other men. A drawn-out glance, deliberate. Pulling them into the promise of shared reckoning.
He smiles slowly, languorously. “Let’s see if he begs,” he whispers.
A dry, shallow laugh slips from one of the soldiers, sharp as a spark.
The other remains silent. But his stance shifts, heavy and sure.
Boots step forward.
Riko’s eyes widen. Their hands reach for him.
He tries to speak past the damage in his throat. “Wai--w--”
They strip him of his pack, kick it down the corridor.
His boots slip and skid, trying to find leverage. They haul him into the side access--where no-one will see what's happening even if they happen to glance down the main corridor.
He fights. Fingers scrabble to grab at the corner of the wall as they drag him past.
The skinny soldier rears back, boot aimed at Riko’s stubborn grip--
--and his kick swings wide as the soldier is yanked sideways.
“I said not the hands,” Vetch says, mild.
Riko doesn't have time to react. An elbow crashes into his shoulder. They throw him to the floor.
More kicks follow. Precise. Intentional. Not in a frenzy or uncontrolled rage.
Damage. Deliberate and calculated.
A kick smashes into his gut, lifting him a foot off the ground. The air leaves his body in a thin, helpless wheeze.
He tries to curl up, protect his head and midsection. But someone kicks him onto his back; stomps on his chest. His collarbone snaps. He tries to cry out--but what comes out is garbled, wet.
Then he sees the knife.
His heels skid on the tiles as he lurches backward, scrambling.
“Nn—no—,” his voice a shredded, wet rasp. “Stp—“
Hands seize his legs.
“Hold him.”
One restrains his arms over his head. Another leans over him, pinning his chest down with a knee.
His arms jerk, wrists twisting frantically in their grip. His face is white with terror.
They pull up his shirt. One of them mutters, like they are carving game:
“There. That’s where we want it.”
A finger touches Riko on the torso. That light impersonal touch against his skin feels worse than any of the blows that came before.
A gloved hand closes over his mouth. Above the tight grip, Riko’s eyes roll wildly from face to face.
He knows them. He's treated them, triaged them on the frontline.
The first stab comes in low. Just above the beltline. The blade sinks in, slow. Careful, like it's following an invisible diagram.
Riko bucks. Screams--but it's a muted, throttled sound beneath the glove.
Blood spills warm across his side.
His legs kick an uncoordinated rhythm against the floor.
“Deep enough?” the one who stabbed him asks.
Vetch nods. “Get the thigh next."
He thrashes with renewed desperation, catches one in the shin with a flailing foot.
Someone punches him in the gut. His vision goes white.
Then the second cut.
Inner thigh. Left side. Deep enough to nick the artery. Blood spurts. His body jerks violently.
He tries to reach his hands down to hold in the blood. The grip on his wrists is unmoving.
“Now the back. Turn him.”
A shuffle as they readjust their position, trying to maintain their hold on him. They flip him easily, between the three of them.
He digs his fingers into a grate, tries to pull away. The floor is slick beneath him.
Someone puts a hand over his head and presses down hard. The glove is warm and wet. Blood drips into his eyes.
Riko whimpers into the floor.
The third cut digs into the small of his back. The pain is instant and total. He feels the blade turn one way, then another. Something in his legs stops responding.
"That'll do." The voice sounds far away.
The world tilts quietly into the dark and a chasm yawns open behind his eyes.
His hands flex uselessly in the grating. He's blinking slowly, sightless now.
“He’s still moving.”
“At least he's not talking,” someone says drily.
They come off him all at once. Boots step back.
Someone laughs, dry, breathless.
“Fucking deer season.”
They shake his hands loose from the grate, haul the nerveless, awkward weight of his body up between them.
The toes of his boots stutter over grate as they drag him deeper into the maintenance recess. Tuck him into the shadows next to the generator. Take his bag with them.
The corridor fills again with the quiet roar of machines still doing their jobs.
++++++++++++++
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
Selah whump-only path: Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight
Riko hasn’t wept in years, but standing outside his pod for– what must be hours– no, days– he feels his edges crumbling. He’s about to cry. He really is. What the fuck.
Signal War /// Afterburn Arc /// Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4
<< Main Masterlist
Purgatory
Riko is on his eighth attempt, and he still can't get the door to his pod open. It would be hilarious, if he didn't honestly feel like he was dying.
He stares at the mocking red light on the door access panel, dull-eyed. Tries again.
Another beep. Red light. Again. Red light. Again.
It feels like purgatory. Time stretches meaninglessly.
He thunks his head against the door, and the impact reverberates through his skull. It feels light and empty, as if someone has packed it with hemo foam.
Riko hasn't wept in years, but standing outside his pod for-- what must be hours-- no, days-- he feels his edges crumbling. He's about to cry. He really is.
What the fuck. He's been stabbed, blown up, shot at by a sniper, glared at by Mish with her deadly laser eyes... and this door is the thing that finally crushes his will. This fucking-- goddamn-- cursed-- fucking-- fucked--
He drops his field pack on the floor next to his still-muddy boots and rolls his head on the door in anguish.
"Come on, man," he grates. "Get it together."
He takes a breath, working himself down from the heights of despair. His fingers don't feel like they're part of him, but he reaches them out toward the door panel again. Tries the code, carefully.
Red light. Beep.
He's going to die here.
He considers the possibility of folding himself onto the floor next to his field pack, in the corridor in front of his pod, and simply expiring.
Riko imagines his dorm mates stepping over him on their way to their shift. The cleaner mopping around him, shoving his bag closer to the wall to make way for that squeaky bucket on wheels.
He pictures Mish finding him. Would she cry? No. She'd be so pissed. She'd more likely kick him in the kidney because he'd promised to water the plant she gave him, and of course, he had to go and die just to get out of doing this one simple thing.
"It's not my fault," he mutters. "I'm trying my best."
Red light. Beep. Red light. Beep.
Purgatory. Stretching. Endless.
Finally he gets it right. He doesn't even know how. Green light.
The door slides open.
The relief almost undoes him. The urge to cry with hysterical relief rises. Is wrestled down.
He walks carefully into his pod, dragging his field pack in with him like a dead body. His head is a balloon, floating in untethered from the rest of him. He imagines it bumping against the low ceiling of his pod, making hollow rubber sounds.
He stops and stands in the middle of the pod, feeling out of place. Is he in the right room? He thinks so. The plant Mish gave him is on the desk, browning, a mere whisper away from death.
Riko feels a sudden kinship with it.
This is his room. But the light is weird. He always set it to low, but now it's too bright. And it's flickering. There's an obnoxious buzzing. He can't figure out where its coming from.
Time moves in staccato. He thinks he might be falling asleep between blinks.
It’s too cold in here. Or hot. His skin crawls.
He just needs sleep. That's all.
His boots are still on. He should fix that.
He drops onto the cot. The impact feels like a punch. The springs squeal despairingly, like a small creature being murdered. The sound grates against every nerve. And then he can't remember what he was supposed to--
Boots. Focus.
It takes him several long seconds. He lifts one foot, clawing his fingers around the fabric of his pant leg and dragging it up. Brings his foot to his knee. Fumbles at the laces.
His fingers lock and tangle.
Purgatory again. He'll be stuck here forever.
They'll find him here, mummified by the facility air filters, his fingers tied in knots in his bootlaces, dried and desiccated like his plant.
"We didn't notice anything," his neighbours would say, "There was no smell, nothing." And Mish would say, "That fucker said he'd water the plant, I knew he couldn't be trusted--"
He finally jerks the boot off, and drops it. It lands hard on the floor. A dead, hollow sound.
The other boot waits for him. Dread fills his chest, like dark water rising, taking up all the space between his ribs and under his sternum.
"Let's go," he grits.
He reaches for it. It's so... far. And getting further. Reality stretches like taffy.
The room tilts. Slow and wide, the floor rushing away from him, the walls stretching up and up and--
"No-- No, we're not doing that." He grips the edge of cot, grinding his teeth together, hard enough that he thinks they might be sinking into his gums.
The moment passes.
"Okay," he says cautiously. He reaches again for the boot.
He's bent over his knee, fingers trying to make sense of the laces, when a bright, red drop falls on the laces. A big, fat splat.
His hand goes up reflexively to his nose. "Ahhh fuck-"
He looks at himself in the mirror across the room. The lower half of his face is red, and blood has dribbled down the front of his shirt.
"Fuuuuuu-- not this again. Come on."
He tilts his head back. The light flickers.
Unfamiliar... It isn't the sickly grey non-light from the overhead panel.
This... shimmers. Dense and radiant and alive.
There are iridescent colours exploding impossibly in the space above his desk.
They are... His eyes cross, trying to make sense of what he's seeing.
Fireworks.
Explosions of light in his tiny, grey room. Luminous and layered and deep.
His brain stutters and twists, trying to understand the spatial logic of what he's seeing. It must be a projection. Or... or a hologram. Somehow installed in his pod as a prank. Someone must have... This must be a-- a--
Slow, silent bursts. Huge. Taking up real, three-dimensional space. Gold radiating outward. Rose pink. Ice blue. A deep violet. Impossibly saturated colours, searing themselves into his retinas, unfurling like violent exhalations.
They unfold with weight. Layered over each other, suspended in the sudden and immense darkness of his room.
His eyes open so wide he can feel the stretch of them in his face.
The hand he's holding to his face drops forgotten, onto his lap.
“Wow...” The word slips free before he knows it. His face is unguarded, held open by wonder.
He feels his jaw fall open. He must look stupid, but he can't bring himself to close his mouth. Because this-- this is--
It's real. He can see the reflections of the colours on his furniture. His eyes track the light as it ripples across old shapes... his desk, the wall, his field pack. Ordinary things made radiant.
Even the sad little plant has caught the kaleidoscope and is throwing a flickering shadow on his wall. The multiple shadows cast by his discarded boot are dancing in rainbow hues across the grey expanse of his floor.
And... he can feel the light on his face. Soft, jewel tones pressing into his skin with gentle weight. Flickering slowly across his skin. Rolling gently across his cheeks and forehead and neck.
Something unlatches inside him. Small. Vital.
A pause. A moment where the slow blooming intensity of colour bursts peter gently out. And then--
The fireworks multiply.
He watches, rapt.
They fill everything. Flowering bursts stacked atop each other, now too fast to follow. Silver, gold, then blinding violet-- each explosion bigger, more enveloping, swallowing the last. There is no pause or negative space between them. Light. Expanding. Crashing. Brighter--
His bloodstained fingers twitch on his lap.
So bright. So bright!
His eyelids flicker.
He tilts sideways. Slow, like a tree going down. The cot catches him. The springs give, then bounce once, gently.
Blood slips down his cheek in a wide arc. His throat moves meaninglessly.
A violent spasm. The cot rattles.
Slowly, his arms lock, hands curling into claws. His spine arches. Eyes roll back.
The bed frame shakes violently as his whole body convulses.
His wrist slams into the rail. His shoulders twist. His legs kick against the foot of the bed. His head lashes hard to the side, sending red splatting onto the wall.
Metal rattles under him. The cot jerks so hard that it moves across the floor. The boot still laced to his right foot kicks violently, sending the laces whipping back and forth.
No one comes.
He seizes alone, in a dim room, under flat facility light.
🎧 Accompanying music for this fic.
Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4 (more chapters pending. Check Signal War for updates!)
<< Main Masterlist << Signal War
Note: Yasss Riko is baaack. This is one of my favourite arcs. I really hope you guys enjoy it!
Taglist (comment or DM to be added or removed): @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14 // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer // @ziploc849 // @whumpacabra // @withdrawingramen // @starlit-hopes-and-dreams // @deadbvcky // @pumpkin-spice-whump (personal space, what personal space?)
CW: Planned violence, aftermath of stabbing/beating, manhandling, withheld medical help, general whump, minor!whump (but the attackers don't know).
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
Selah whump-only path: Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight
<< Masterlist
++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Riko pants around the pain, a wide arc of blood under him where he's been dragged into place.
One hand is clamped to his gut, the other reaching down toward his blood-soaked thigh.
A medic’s belt is cinched around it. Field-standard. Improvised. Efficient. Riko's hand flutters over it, making sure it's still dug in tight.
"Of course you used your belt."
A shadow falls over Riko.
He looks up, his face grim. Still holding himself together. Even now.
"How inventive." Vetch says quietly, his eyes moving admiringly over the makeshift tourniquet. "How resilient."
Riko’s lips move carefully. No voice. Only shape.
"F… y…"
Vetch smiles. Crouches unhurriedly beside him, crooking a finger under his chin.
Riko's face twists savagely. He jerks back from Vetch's hand, but not far enough.
His head gets pressed up anyway, exposing the bruising on his throat.
A distinct crescent of dark swelling, just above the Adam's apple. Too precise to be random.
“Had to read three surgical manuals to figure that one out. Didn't want to crush something vital. This... just clips the voice.”
Vetch tilts his head, admiring it. “Delicate work.” He runs the pad of his thumb gently over the bruise.
Riko's lip curls. He bares his teeth, feral and defiant.
A blood-slick hand raises into view, middle finger extended, shaky.
Vetch laughs, low in his throat. “You’re such a little shit.”
Riko swings.
The aim is off, but Riko flails his arm close enough to impact against Vetch's wrist and knock the man's hand away with more fury than force.
Vetch glances at the red smudge of blood on his skin. There's a look of approval on his face.
“Don’t wear yourself out," he says, almost fond. "You’ll need that energy.”
He pulls the medkit forward.
“C’mon, Ghosthands,” he murmurs. “Let's see you live up to the name.”
A pause, as Riko's eyes dart between him and the bag. Glances down at his gut, leaking dark blood over his hand.
Vetch can see him weighing the options. Sees the moment that Riko decides to go for the bag.
Because of course he does. The medic always fought even with the odds stacked against him.
Riko lunges for it, has to stagger forward on his elbows before he can snag the strap and pull it to him. Vetch lets him, smiling indulgently.
Riko's hands are shaking, and he fumbles the buckles more than once. Still, Vetch can see the muscle memory at work.
A frisson of delight skates up his spine.
“I've watched you do this so many times. Such fast hands. So sure.”
He crouches close.
“And now... front row seats.”
Vetch watches admiringly, taken by the confidence, the speed, the economical grace. The spare fingers moving with such honesty and elegance and precision.
Riko’s hand moves fluidly over the auto-injectors, pulls one out by feel. Primes it.
As if it has just occurred to him, Vetch reaches over casually. Cocks his finger and flicks the injector hard.
Riko’s grip is slippery with blood. He fumbles for it but the injector is jolted out of his gasp. It rolls through blood.
Riko swivels an incredulous look at him. Eyes wide with disbelief. He looks so young in that moment, his usual bravado and assurance knocked right out of him.
“Yeah,” Vetch chuckles. “What the fuck.”
The injector clinks softly to a stop against the wall. Vetch shifts, gets out of Riko’s way.
“Go for it. That’s the one you need, right? The coagulant.”
Riko doesn't respond. Just grits his teeth and starts to heave himself toward it. Each pull leaves a red streak behind.
Vetch straightens up, and walks slowly beside him. Observing.
“You know, it was hard to tell in the moment... lumbar cuts don’t always land. But watching you move like that…”
He smiled faintly. “Pretty sure I got it right.”
His boot comes down, sharp and deliberate, into the small of Riko’s back.
Riko screams, short and strangled, like his throat can't carry the sound. His hands scrabble, leaving desperate bloodstreaks on the floor.
He's nowhere near the injector. Still, he stretches for it.
Vetch leans. The sound that comes out of Riko is high and inhuman.
He goes limp.
Vetch steps off. Looks at the body in the floor curiously.
The toe of a boot goes under a hip. A flick of Vetch’s foot is all it takes to turn Riko over. His face is white and senseless.
“Not yet,” Vetch says. “We’re not done.”
He leans in and slaps him, sharp and loud.
He peers into Riko's face. No response.
Vetch grips his collar, yanks him upright, and rolls his fist hard on his chest. Once. Twice.
Riko lets out a hoarse gasp. His eyes flick open, wide and rolling. His breath puffs in short, fraying gasps.
His hand, on the ground. Still at first, then dragging across the floor, slow and searching.
Vetch’s voice drops.
“There he is,” he breathes. “Still reaching. Still trying."
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Vetch drags him up against the wall, props him upright.
Riko tries to speak.
Nothing comes out. Just a wet sound, broken in the middle.
Vetch waits for the sound to peter out before he nods sympathetically.
“I am sorry about the throat. As much as I like hearing you talk, I wanted to keep things honest between us, you know?”
Vetch reaches for the errant injector. Wiggles it in front of Riko’s face. His eyes are drifting, unfocused.
“Here. You've worked hard for this'.”
The coagulant injector, placed gently in Riko’s loose hand.
Vetch waits. The injector lays inert. Unused. Riko’s eyes roll again, and his head sags against the wall.
Vetch sighs. “Come on, Riko. After all the trouble I went through to make sure they didn’t touch your hands…”
He wraps Riko’s lax fingers around the injector, primes it for him. Pushes it into his thigh. Discharges the drug into the muscle, right through the fabric of his uniform.
Riko’s eyebrows tense, but his eyes barely focus. Vetch waits again.
Clicks his tongue.
He rifles through the med kit, takes out a stim. Taps the new injector gently on Riko's forehead
"No, you're right, time for the good stuff." He flicks off the cap, pushes the needle into Riko's neck. Its discharges with a hiss.
At first, nothing.
A twitch. Riko's face flickers.
And then Riko bucks violently with a ragged yell that sounds like it's coming from underwater. His eyes fly open, and his hands are up, his bloody fingers splayed open in defence. His breathing is frantic and jagged, and his rapidly blinking gaze jerks around the corridor before landing wide on Vetch.
Vetch is smiling.
"Welcome back," he says warmly. “Look what I've got for you.”
Vetch pulls the bag close, lays it open. Arranges its contents like a banquet. Patches. Sealants. Injectors. All there.
“Take your pick.”
He doesn't interfere. Just watches.
Riko's eyes are darting, awake. For a moment it's like having the old Riko back.
Even with one hand clamped over his gut, he moves fast and sure over the triage kit. Pulls hemostatic gauze first by feel, rips it open with his teeth. Stuffs it into deep the gut wound with two fingers.
He has to pause, squeezing his eyes against the wave of pain. Just two seconds, and then he blinks hard and continues.
Riko pulls the gel coagulant next, uncaps it in the same movement he aims it into his gut. His hands are steady. The sealant discharges with a click. Once, twice, three times. Riko bares his teeth in a grimace but doesn't let the pain stop him. He's sweating.
Vetch watches with delight. Like a child at a magic show.
Then things start to deteriorate. A slow smile starts to spread on Vetch's face.
The good part is coming.
Riko reaches again, now for the patch. His hands are shaking. What would have taken a quick tear and application, now takes long moments.
His fingers fumble. He applies the patch sloppily. It sits crooked and crumpled over his torso.
It will hold. Riko moves again.
But now his hands move erratically. He goes for the wrap. Drops it. It unrolls over the blood-smeared floor.
Riko watches it go, his eyes flickering.
Vetch holds out a another wrap wordlessly. It's a long moment before Riko looks up at it. He blinks as if he can't tell what it's for.
The response is delayed, but Riko opens his hand and reaches for it.
And Vetch lets go, letting it unspool messily over him.
Vetch grins wide.
Riko pauses, looking at the mess. His breath has gone short and shallow. He doesn't look up.
He starts unravelling the bandages, looking for the end. It catches on the velcro of his sleeves, tangles in his hands.
Riko is fading.
His hands aren’t just shaking. They are locking up. Lagging. Like his brain is sending orders his body can’t execute.
Riko finally finds the end of the bandage. Arches his back so he can thread it under him and loops it over his midsection.
He pauses a moment, panting, to catch his breath.
And the bandage starts running through his hands. He tries to clench his fingers over the strip, but they curl uselessly.
He looks up with difficulty. Vetch is pulling the fabric from the other end.
Riko tries to hold on, but his fingers won't respond. His head is sagging. He's barely holding it up with effort.
He watches his fingers twitch uselessly as the last of the bandage vacates his hands and goes in Vetch's direction. The wrap he'd almost secured is completely undone in seconds.
Vetch winds up the last of it between his hands.
"Kinda poetic, don't you think?" he says, smiling.
It is wasted on Riko.
Consciousness ebbs. His eyes flicker, and then he sags forward slowly, chest rising shallowly. The kit lays open in front of him. Vials and patches smeared bloody.
Vetch waves a hand in front of his face.
"Riko?"
Riko doesn't move.
Vetch waits. Ten seconds.
Then presses his thumb to the thigh wound.
Riko makes a strangled noise and jerks. His eyes barely open, unfocused.
Vetch sighs. Takes out a second stim.
++++++++++++++++++++++++
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
Selah whump-only path: Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight
<< Masterlist
Comment if you'd like be added to the taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14
CW: Lung injury, poisoning, suffocation, medical drug use, some use of profanities
Note: This chapter precedes the events of Selah.
<< Masterlist | Next >> (epilogue pending)
+++++++++++++++++
Something is wrong. Vale can feel it.
She puts up a hand, and her men stop as one body, even the new guy.
She toggles the infrared view on her visor, scanning the tunnel ahead.
When that turns up nothing, she signals to her team to scan the area. Each man triggers their own scan: acoustics amp, motion, low light, thermal.
She triggers a LIDAR pulse from the drones hovering overhead, and scans the 3D data that shows up on her visor.
One after another, her men send her the all clear.
There’s nothing.
Just the flat, echoing space of the abandoned transport passage they’ve patrolled repeatedly over the last couple of months.
Standard operating procedure had the air drones scout ahead before the platoon ever stepped into the tunnel.
Clear then. Clear now.
And yet...
Something is wrong.
"Fall back," she says into comms. "Fall back now."
There is a clatter of boots as the men immediately start reversing their advance, weapons held at the ready.
They're barely ten metres back up the way they came when it happens. Her HUD flickers and flares, and goes out.
The tunnel goes silent. Every head jerks up instinctively. The air drones are free-falling out of the air, spiralling on the way down.
One of them barely misses Vasko, exploding into a spray of plastic components that bounce off him.
She hears him hiss sharply on her left, but his voice is distinctly missing from the comm bud in her ear.
EMP.
She doesn't have to tap on her HUD to confirm it. Her visor is now eerily blank. No enhanced vision, no spatial diagnostics. The comm buds are silent in her ears.
It would be the same for everyone across the team.
She raises her arm and waves it backward emphatically.
Fall back, fall back, fall back.
She hears her men move faster. She cuts her eyes to them; they are on high alert, scanning the tunnel. Basha's gaze finds hers, steady.
She clicks her safety off.
And that's when the explosion shudders through the tunnel.
She feels it first, under the soles of her boots. A tremor, before the ground heaves violently and throws her into the air, and then the air itself slams her into the ground. An all-encompassing roar rolls over her, like reality itself is tearing apart.
++++++++++++++++++
When she comes to, the air is thick with dust and smoke, and ash is drifting down.
There’s grit in her mouth, all the way to the back of her throat. She coughs harshly, and that's when she feels it— a stab of agony in her chest. A tight compression that won't let her draw breath.
Ah shit--
She rolls onto her back, looks down. Her uniform is torn open, and there is a hole-- a hole on the left side. It is making hollow, bubbling sounds, gaping with every breath she tries to take.
Ah fuck.
She lets her head thud back on the ground.
At least the men are on their way out. She can hear them further up the tunnel where they had come in; the sound of effort and the scramble of boots on rubble.
The enemy must have set off the explosion to collapse the tunnel, with the intention to trap them here.
But why? Vale blinks her eyes to clear them, tries to see down the passage beyond the veil of airborne dust.
Nothing. And apart from the wet suck of her own compromised breaths, complete silence.
She cranes her neck to look behind her. Vasko is a dim bulk sprawled motionless on the ground. Vale doesn’t need his vitals scrolling across her visor to know he is dead.
There is a boulder-sized chunk of concrete where his head should be.
And now, boots. Approaching her.
She can't tilt her head up enough to see who it is, but the man reaches her in seconds.
It's the new guy. The medic that command rotated in for this patrol because they were short on medical support. His name tag reads R. Hann.
His face is grey with dust, tear tracks streaking his face under his eyes. She must look the same.
He gets on his knees beside her, his hands moving over her in a brisk trauma sweep. He quickly identifies the chest wound as the injury to prioritise and starts shearing her uniform open wider over it.
"I gave an order," she wheezes. "Fall back."
He gestures to his ears, and shakes his head.
"Sergeant, I can't hear you," his voice a notch too loud. "Was too close to the blast."
His hands are sure and steady as he swipes her skin clean of blood and grime, tacking an adhesive patch over the wound, careful not to seal it entirely.
But the patch provides no relief. She's blacking out. She can't get enough oxygen. Her pulls for air come with desperate sounds.
He leans close to her and says, again too loud. "I'm going to have to stick you with a needle so you can breathe."
He's already prepping the large gauge syringe as she nods unsteadily. He swipes her skin in a new place, and pushes the tip of the needle between her ribs without ceremony.
It hurts so bad, but she immediately feels the blessed release of pressure. For the first time in many long minutes, she inhales fully. The breath tears through her, feeling like both heaven and hell.
She can hear the hiss of escaping air through the syringe, and the medic nods at her, noticing the easing of her desperate breaths.
There's a burn building in her throat that makes her throat catch. The medic coughs at the same time, burying his face in his elbow as it rattles through him. His eyes water.
“Damn dust,” he chokes out.
Vale notices movement behind him. Not the movement of enemy soldiers, but the insidious seep of fog crawling along the ground towards them.
She tugs at his sleeve. "Gas," she says. "Tox... gas."
The medic turns, his eyes wide.
Vale's suspicions are confirmed. So he can hear her.
She catalogues the insubordination.
She'll need to book him.
She can't recall what the R on his tag stands for. She's seen it, likely on his transfer form, but the name didn't stick. These medics rotate in and out too quickly to make an impression.
A flicker of irritation at the thought of added file work.
Later. First, they need to survive this.
The medic has pulled up his rebreather. He's strapping it around his head, ensuring the seal is tight over his face. Despite the brisk movements, he takes every step to ensure a proper seal. Doesn't skip a single one.
The part of her that has tried to drill rebreather technique into her men reluctantly registers a spark of approval.
He even made sure to attend to himself first before her.
His hands reach to her hip, feeling for her mask. But when he pulls it up, she sees his expression tighten.
He holds it up for her to see. The mask is shattered, entirely useless.
The gas is reaching them. She feels the air turn acid. Her eyes start to burn.
She watches him think, his eyes swivelling between her, the approaching gas, and the tunnel exit.
"Go," she urges, pushing at him.
He takes a deep breath. Pulls the mask off his face and presses it into hers.
The dense toxic mist reaches them.
She feels the tug of straps against the back of her head, and all of a sudden he's up. His hand is hooked around the back of her vest and he's hauling her along the ground, running towards the end of the tunnel.
She's not a small woman. Years of military career have made her dense with muscle. Still he gets much further than she expects before he slows.
He lowers her onto the ground, and when his face comes into view, it’s gone red and purple with exertion. He exhales violently, an explosion of expelled CO2.
Still, his fingers are gentle when he taps the mask on her face. He waits till she nods. She knows to hold her breath as he tugs it off and puts it to his face, sucks frantically at the oxygen.
"Not too bad," he pants. We're just ahead of the worst of it.”
He pushes the mask back onto her. Puts her hand over it so she's pressing it hard against her face.
Again, that desperate race toward the exit. She winces with every bounce that jars through her.
This time, he isn't as swift, or as steady. His steps stumble and he wobbles slightly toward the end. He eases her down but drops to his knees hard. His eyes are wide and watering, veins bulging on the sides of his temple. The taps that land against the mask are more frantic that they were before.
His breaths into it are deep and ragged. "It's moving so fast," he wheezes, and looks back. Vale looks the same way. It's only been seconds, but the gas is nearly upon them again.
The medic-- Hann-- pulls in oxygen to the bottom of his lungs before he puts the mask back on her.
Again, his fingers curl around the back of her vest, and he's off.
The jostling movement hurts. Worse, she can feel the chest pressure building up again. She can't breathe, despite the mask she's got on.
He hauls her for longer now, but she can tell they aren't getting as far as they did before. He starts listing to the side, and his feet drag before he finally lets himself fall to his knees.
He’s coughing in deep, ragged barks, and his lips are turning blue. There’s sweat slicking his face and sticking the hair to his forehead.
Even though the visible fog is still behind them, the ambient air has slowly become more poisonous.
The hands that reach for the mask are fumbling and desperate, and he doesn't wait for her to indicate she's ready before he's pulling it off. But his other hand clamps over her nose and mouth so she doesn't accidentally breathe in the toxic air.
He's bowed over his knees. "Sorry," he wheezes, "was... passing out... needed... a breath."
The rebreather starts beeping. The oxygen canister is running low.
Vale feels the same way, her insides a shrinking vacuum devoid of air.
Her eyes are rolling. The mask is back on her-- she tries to breathe in, but her lungs are squashed small in her chest, and they barely inflate to take in the oxygen that the mask is feeding her.
He taps on her face. Shows her the needle in his hand. She feels the swab and a finger against her side, indicating where he's about to jab her.
Again, the hiss of escaping air, and her lungs slowly filling.
She can feel the bite of poison even through the mask. The seal must be compromised.
Her eyes are burning. Her lungs are full of fire.
The medic lets the syringe drop to the ground. The fog has crept up on them again.
His eyes are red and inflamed. He blinks against the unending flood of tears. He covers her nose and mouth again as he takes a turn with the breathing apparatus.
It lets out a long sustained beep. Oxygen depleted.
Vale’s eyes go wide. But the medic is pulling another oxygen canister from his pack. She recognises her own marker scrawl on it-- her name and the date she got it.
She hadn't seen him salvage it off her shattered mask, but here it is now.
Smart kid...
Her thoughts are going fuzzy.
His hands fumble as he connects the new canister, taking three tries before he locks in the primary valve. She can tell he's using the last dregs of the oxygen he's holding. His lips are pressed tightly together as if it's taking all his will not to open his mouth wide and let in the poison.
She's barely conscious herself, fighting with all she's got not to breathe in the toxic air. But she's aware enough to follow the old canister as it clanks from his hand and rolls into the approaching fog. The toxic fumes have reached the ankles of her outstretched legs.
He flushes the mask, presses it to his face and takes a single deep inhale from it before shoving it back onto her.
He glances at the deadly vapor behind him. It's crept up to her calves now.
"Almost there... not far..."
She hardly feels it when he pats her on the shoulder, and lurches to his feet. Drags her forward.
It feels like forever, but it's barely a few metres. She can feel the failing strength of very step and tremor of his muscles as shudders rattle through him.
His lips are a dark purple-blue when he pauses and reaches for the mask. He can barely see to pull it off her, and his hand is weak and lax over her face as he tries for a seal over her nose and mouth to help her hold her breath.
She's dying. She knows it. She can't breathe again. She feels the cold creep of blood loss and oxygen deprivation crawling up her legs and torso.
She watches him gag and gasp into the apparatus.
She'll be damned if this kid goes with her.
When he tries to push the mask back onto her face, she fights him. Pushes against his hands.
"Sergeant. Ma'am. Stop. Please..."
He's wasting precious air. Stupid.
She's dead already, he’s just too stubborn to see it. But he can still get out.
"Go..." she croaks. "Is an… order…" She coughs, and blood comes up out of her mouth.
Her hands beat at his as he tries to put the mask on her.
"Ma'am!" he wheezes, and there's a tone of exasperation in his voice.
He reaches into his med pac and pulls out a roll of bandages. His hands are shaking hard.
She watches incredulously as he barely manages to loop the bandage around her wrists and ties them down to her belt. He grits his teeth with concentration, clumsily trying to tie off the knot.
She tugs furiously at the makeshift restraint, tipping her head up to glare at him from above the mask he’s pressed to her face.
He coughs violently, his eyes glazing and half lidded. Bloody froth is starting to gather at his nose and mouth.
He swipes at it absently with his sleeve. Looks at the smear of blood on the fabric. He clenches bloodstained teeth.
"We’re… close. Last push."
He has to try twice before he manages to get his legs to take his weight.
He lurches up and ahead, covering ground in violent forward lunges. His progression isn't entirely straight, swerving to the sides every few steps.
She can feel the ground changing beneath her. More debris, rocks digging into her back.
They must be at the cave in.
There's a pause, as he looks up at it.
It's hard to speak loud enough for him to hear her, but she tries. "Go. Get out."
His hand slips off her vest-- dangles by his side.
Only for a second.
He readjusts his grip, looping the strap twice around his wrist.
She feels movement as he reaches into his bag, then a dull impact and a hiss against his thigh. The used stim injector rolls into view.
His pupils are pinpoints when he crouches down by her, and his hands jitter as he draws the mask up to breathe. He's beyond words now, veins and tendons standing out on his neck as he strains to inhale.
He straps the mask back around her head extra tight.
With an almighty heave, he hauls her bodily up over a huge boulder at the bottom of the cave in. But his motor coordination is shot. He fails to maintain his grip, and if not for the strap around his wrist, she would have rolled off entirely.
Still, it’s a promising start.
Maybe we'll make it out. I might have to write that report after all.
The next part is a slope of debris that shifts under every step. It only takes seconds for Vale to realise--
It's impossible.
He can barely hold himself upright, much less make progress with her. His balance is failing. Every fall has him floundering to get up again.
The incline is too steep, the rubble too loose under them.
He hoists her up a half metre more, and then they lose almost all their progress in an uncontrolled slide.
The tension on the back of her vest loosens, and she feels him shudder and give out. He falls to his knees next to her.
His face is grey, his lips and chin painted red. His eyes are barely focused.
He reaches toward her head, for the mask, and she turns her head so he can unstrap it.
His fingers flutter over it, and instead of unfastening it, he tightens the straps.
No. No. You idiot!
He sways... and falls face down next to her.
She jerks her bound hands up, trying to untie herself.
Her struggle seems to rouse him somewhat. She feels his hand close over the front of her vest, and impossibly, she feels his leg flex and his foot finds purchase against the shattered concrete.
A slow, monumental push. Her body shifts-- mere inches.
Rubble crumbles under them.
His body is tight and rigid against hers. His fingers, still curled into the straps on her chest, twitch spasmodically.
“Kid…” she whispers, her voice weak and whistling. “Medic…”
There’s a terrible, syrupy sound from him as he tries to breathe.
A jerk. And then he starts to convulse mindlessly against her. She feels his torso flex rhythmically as his diaphragm tries to draw in air that is cooking his lungs from the inside out.
It takes all she has to crane her head so she's looking up the mound of the cave in. She can see daylight.
She grits her teeth in fury.
We are so close. So close.
The medic’s spasms are abating, tremors petering out of his limbs. His body settles against hers, completely slack.
She yanks her arms up. Once. Twice.
The third time, the bandage finally pulls loose.
She reaches up blindly, and finds his face. Drops her hand over it as heavily as she can.
A dull smack. There's no response.
Her hand moves over his nose and mouth, searching urgently. No air moves across it. He's not breathing.
Need... to book him...
She tries to slap him again, but her hand lands next to his head. Her fingers close over a rock.
She closes it in her fist and flings it up the mound.
It simply rains scree over them.
She tries again. And again.
She's losing strength.
A rock finally goes over the top. She hears rocks rattle on the other side.
Nothing happens. Nobody comes.
She's blacking out. Everything is tunnelling and fading.
We tried. We really did.
Rubble scatters down on her.
And all of a sudden, a hand is wrapped around the front of her vest and is lifting her bodily into the air. She sees Basha's panicked, relieved face.
"Sarge!" he bellows at her through his mask. "I've got you!"
He clears the mound in three steps.
+++++++++++++++++++++
In the sunshine, she's laid on her back. The rebreather is beeping rhythmically.
Just in time, just in time, just in time.
Basha pulls the mask off her, flinging it to the side. She takes tiny sips of fresh air. Her lungs still won’t rise fully. But she can hear the blessed approach of a medical air transport. It's close.
The medic is dropped down next to her, his head lolling. Vale turns to look.
Basha swipes the bloody froth out of his mouth, trying to clear his airway. His tongue is blue in his slack mouth.
Basha's hands are urgent, pulling the medic's head back. He starts compressions.
The medic's hand lies in the grass close to Vale.
She reaches for it; sees the vest strap is still looped tight around his wrist, buried in his clenched hand.
She stops short.
I gave him an order.
"Medic--"
She brings her hand down hard. The slap cracks out into the air.
Basha is still pressing on the unmoving chest. Now sealing his mouth over the downed man to breathe into him.
The medic's name tag hangs off his chest, peeling off from his uniform.
He disobeyed. Repeatedly.
She lifts her hand. Brings it down in a mighty smack. Her rage has given her new strength.
"Hann--"
Still nothing. She wishes she was close enough to reach his face. So she can slap the sense into him.
You stubborn-- you idiot--
She strikes his hand again, putting all her fury into it.
"Riko!"
The hand springs open, releasing the strap.
Basha's resuscitation rhythm doesn't stop.
Then--
The medic takes in a loud, ragged inhale. Chokes wetly, breaking into a volley of violent coughs.
She turns her head up into the sky, and exhales a heartfelt "Fuck," into the air.
"Yeah, fuck," Basha agrees.
He folds to his knees between the two of them, reaching to tilt the unconscious man's chin up so his airway remains open.
The strap is dug in so tight into the man's wrist that Basha has to use his knife to split the nylon.
He lays the arm on the medic's chest, where it slowly starts to lose its awful, unnatural hue.
The name tag has come off him almost entirely. Basha tugs on it and slips it into the medic's pocket so it doesn’t get lost. Pats it.
Vale is glaring at the sky, shaking her head. “Should’ve… obeyed orders…” she grits out.
The medical transport is blowing grass and debris into the air. It lands with a thump close to them.
Basha looks at the man passed out on the grass; at the wrist with its deep abrasions, the bloody crescents that his stubborn grip had cut into his palm.
His voice is almost lost in the roar of engines cycling down.
“Glad he didn’t.”
Vale keeps glaring at the sky.
The medics swarm the prone bodies, and Basha gets out of the way.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Note 2: Words do a lot to encourage me, so if you're at all willing and able, please leave me a comment, message or ask. You can simply paste in your favourite line or moment. I'll even take an emoji or random punctuation! (only if you're keen though!) And if you'd prefer I NOT reply, leave me a speak-no-evil monkey emoji in the message 🙊 Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoyed this fic as much as I loved writing it. An epilogue is likely to follow this chapter.
<< Masterlist | Next >> (epilogue pending)
Comment if you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14 // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer // @ziploc849 // @whumpacabra // @withdrawingramen (If I could make a plushie of my tag list, I would, and it would get so many hugs.)
Note: So this is basically the fic where I came out to myself as aroace. Yeaaahhhhh
Setting: scifi medical, militaristic, wartime world.
Location: Hollowroot Medical Facility
CW: Partial nudity (don't worry, no undies come off) // jokey mentions of sexual relations, but nothing explicit // coming out (kinda?).
Masterlist
Surface Tension
Mish woke up to the obnoxious sound of bleating coming from the door. The voice was unmistakably Riko's.
Mish groaned.
How was the noise coming through the door? It was meant to be sound proofed.
Another bleat. A long, sustained "meeehh" that was somehow both nasal and guttural. Annoying. Piercing. Shredding through her precious somnolence.
Mish dragged her hand over her face. Maybe if she ignored him, he'd go away. She squeezed her eyes shut and pulled the pillow over her head.
"ThunderGoat to DoomSquirrel. Come in, DoomSquirrel."
Mish ground her teeth together.
The simulated sound of static followed. "Bzzsstt. Come in, DoomSqui--"
Mish launched herself violently out of her cot, and made it to the door in three strides. She yanked the door open, and Riko fell in, in an ungainly sprawl. His lips were still pursed from having been pressed to the seam of the door.
He was still wearing his med tech uniform. Dishevelled, as usual.
"Riko, if you're here to raid my stash of snacks again, I swear I will end you."
Riko rolled onto his back. Pressed his head against the floor so he was looking at her upside down. Prone, he pushed himself across the floor toward her. His wiry frame took up almost all the floor space.
"I'm hurt you'd think that's all I want from you. Maybe I'm here for a booty call. Maybe I need a friendly listening ear. Maybe--"
His hand rose towards her snack basket. She slapped it away, lifted the basket abruptly out of reach.
"Noooo..." he moaned with feeling. His splayed fingers followed the basket as she moved over his head and stashed it in the tiny alcove above the sink. He dropped his hands dramatically onto his chest.
Mish picked up her pillow from the floor and sank tiredly onto her cot.
"What do you want, Riko. My shift starts early. I really need sleep."
He rolled over, and raised himself on his elbows. His face split in a mischievous grin.
"This is better. Bring a towel."
+++++++++++++++
He keyed a long sequence into the door pad, whistled a note that sounded uncannily like the unlock tone, and the door slid open.
It was the therapy pool. Glowing in the dark. Steaming gently. Empty.
She had never seen it empty.
Mish's mouth fell open. "Riko! How?"
He hustled her in, and the door hissed shut behind them. He giggled giddily.
"A couple of months back, I saw that the pool was due for maintenance. I tweaked the maintenance timelog so the system would think it would take twelve hours instead of ten."
"But the coma patients and the hydrotherapy protocols..."
"Two additional hours in a stasis pod isn't going to kill anyone."
Mish squealed, her hand over her mouth.
"I haven't swum since I was... since..."
"Since you were ten. You told me."
Her eyes wide. Delighted. Her eyes turned to the pool. She was vibrating with barely contained joy.
"Go."
"I'm going."
"Go, Mish."
"Give me a minute."
She took a deep breath. Then dropped her towel on the floor and started stripping out of her standard issue sleepgear to her undergarments.
Before she was done, Riko was streaking past her in his boxers. He let out a yodel that reverberated off the tiled walls and cannonballed into the water. Mish joined him seconds later, laughing wildly.
+++++++++++++++
The only light came from inside the pool, casting luminous turqouise ribbons across the wall tiles. Steam hung in the air, moving slow.
Mish was on the edge of the pool, kicking her feet slowly under the water. Riko surfaced next to her, pushing wet hair out of his eyes.
"The water tastes weird. Why does the water taste weird?"
"Med gel," she said. "From the stasis pods."
"Yuck." Riko shuddered.
A long, companionable moment of silence. Vapour curled up from their skin.
"What's that?" she said, jerking her chin at a barcode near the inside of his elbow.
Riko looked down to where she was pointing.
"This? Ah, yes... First tragic loss of my young life. The barcode for NeuroPop gummies. No idea why they'd discontinue them.”
Mish rolled her eyes. "People were having hallucinations."
"That was the point of them."
"How about those?" She pointed out a little row of tiny food icons on the side of his torso, along his ribs. A little apple. A rice cake. A noodle cup. She couldn't see the rest around the curve of his ribs. Each one looked like it had been tattooed at a different time.
He looked. "These? First things I ate after each time I almost coded on the frontline."
Mish's face went still, but she didn't say anything.
Riko smile quirked. "My favourite was the Zenthian mandarin orange after shrapnel almost got me. Ever had one? Orange, not the shrapnel. I'd run through fire to have one again. The noodle cup is a close second--"
He saw her face. Redirected smoothly.
"Hey, show me one of yours."
"How do you know I have any?"
Riko flicked a drop of water at her. "You do."
"I do." She grinned. Peeled back the waistband of her shorts to expose a tattoo on her hip bone. An elegant line, like a reed, bending.
"A reminder to flex, not break."
Riko smiled.
She pulled her leg out of the water. Turned her foot so he could see the tiny x on the back of her heel.
"To remind me not to go backwards."
Riko rested his chin on one hand and reached out his other, tracing the x with a finger.
"Beautiful. And I have a snack barcode."
Her nose crinkled with her smile. "Without it, how would anyone know how much you cost?"
Riko laughed.
The water lapped softly.
Riko spoke first. "Hey, how are things with that doctor guy? The devastatingly good-looking one with the white temple streaks?"
Mish sighed. "Dr. Venn? Ended."
"No. I thought he was just your type. Distinguished. Mature."
"Whiny. Needy. Entitled."
"Ah."
She looked at him. "I heard Killi asked you out."
"Yeah, she did."
"She's cute."
"She is." Riko blew bubbles under the water line. Then thought better of it.
"We went out a couple of times. I felt bad to say no. Her eyes... that woman weaponises the way she looks at people."
Mish laughed. "Yeah, I've seen it."
"She started trying to unbuckle my belt after the second date. I told her my lab results were technically clean, but I was still itching."
Mish barked out an inelegant laugh. "So that's why that story's been spreading."
Riko chuckled. He went quiet.
"I don't think I'm built that way. For anyone."
Mish tilted her head, studying him. Something unreadable passed over her face. She made a noncommittal sound in her throat.
The silence stretched between them.
Then, lightly: "Not even for me?"
The silence changed. Took on a frozen edge.
Riko looked up slowly at her, stricken.
Mish grinned. "Look at your face. You've survived blasts and hallucinatory snacks, and this is what ends you? Weak."
Riko laughed with relief, his hand clutched over his heart.
"God, Mish."
Silence stretched comfortably between them.
Riko looked up at her again.
"Thank you."
She looked at him. "What for?"
"For... I don't know, really. For not... For not... steering it somewhere I couldn’t follow.""
She dripped water on his head. “Wrong coordinates for me too.”
He took her hand, put it against his cheek and leaned into it.
The moment ended gently. He pulled himself out of the water, sat beside her.
"Grav's been asking me when we're getting together," he said.
"Yeah, the girls in my unit have been asking the same thing. And Venn is still trying to get back. Annoying."
Riko shrugged. "I don't really care."
"I do." Mish swirled the surface of the water with a finger. "It's exhausting."
"Just ignore them." He wiggled his long fingers in the air, like he was waving away a bad idea.
Mish frowned.
"What if," she said. Riko angled towards her, and he watched the crease between her eyebrows smooth out.
She turned to him. "What if we... just... stopped denying it?"
Riko looked at her. A grin started spreading on his face.
"Let them think we're smoochy heart buddies? Let them think we're doing the boinky doinky?"
Mish made a face. "Nobody calls it that."
Riko pushed out his chest and thudded his fist against it. "That's because they have no poetry in their soul."
"Would you mind? It would save me so much... energy."
“Mind? I would love it. Takes me off the meat market. Plus, think of the fun: locking ourselves in closets, moaning rhythmically, knocking things around, coming out with stupid grins and fetchingly tousled hair--”
"Oh God, I am starting to regret this--"
A sound at the door. Both their heads whipped around.
The beeping of the keypad and a muffled curse behind the door. "It won't open-"
Both of them at the same time: "Shit."
Then Riko, hissing, "Go!"
They ran for their clothes and towels, scooped everything up and pelted for the side exit, their laughter edged with mild hysteria.
+++++++++++++++
This one's a standalone story featuring my OCs in a pretty whumpy story universe, but this specific story isn't whumpy at all.
Genre-wise It's more fluffy? But it's particularly close to my heart, because it was through doing some research on orientations that I came to realise that not only is my OC Riko aroace, but I myself am too. Blew my mind and destabilised my reality for a while.
if you're up to it, leave a comment! Even if its an emoji. I'll promise I will love it and try to eat it.
Over and out ⚡️
++++++++++++++++++
Masterlist
Comment to be added to the tag list for the stories in this universe!
His nosebleed spatters an erratic pattern on the white floor. Behind them, his dragging feet smear it into a broken trail, like a painter drunkenly wielding a brush.
Featuring: QPR, collapse arc, panicking caretaker, medical whump, whumperless whump
CW: Febrile state, mental confusion, seizures, nose bleed
Signal War /// Afterburn Arc /// Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4
Cold Spray
RIko's neck is arched, his eyes rolled back in his head. He is convulsing where he lies, stretched halfway out into the corridor. The blue blanket has bunched uselessly under him, absorbing none of the impact as his elbows and knees jerk and thud against the floor.
Mish’s heart is pounding. She's seen dozens of people seize before.
But this is Riko. Riko shuddering against the floor, Riko arching in her grip.
Her mind flashes to the injectors she saw in his med kit. There was an anticonvulsant-- For a frantic moment, the urge to grab it and jab it into his thigh is overwhelming.
No.
She doesn't know what he's on. Doesn't know what's causing the seizures. She can't afford to make guesses.
The seizure lasts just under a minute. She knows because she times it.
Riko's last spasm sends his leg kicking out inside his room; something crashes unseen behind the half closed door.
“Riko?” she calls, and she hates how her voice cracks. He opens his eyes but they don’t track her. His throat moves without sound, his Adam’s apple shifting under blood going tacky.
She reminds herself that he's a patient and that she's a nurse.
But all she wants to do is sit here and hold him. She grips him hard, and her palms remember the sensation of his muscles bunching spasmodically against them.
His nose has started bleeding again. Blood is trickling into his hair, falling freely off his face to drip onto the floor. She can't stop looking.
"Stop it," she tells herself. "Get up. Move."
She forces her muscles to activate. Pushes herself up. And against every instinct, she turns away from Riko.
Help. She needs to get help.
Someone has to be here. They can help her lift Riko, carry him--
She bangs on doors, leaving red smears on them. Her voice comes out tight and compressed; "Help! Anyone! Someone--"
Nothing. Everyone is at the cafeteria for dinner. They’ll be here in half an hour, but right now the corridor yawns wide and vacant.
A cleaning bot hums along the seam of the wall in the distance.
Behind her, a soft scuffle against the floor. The sound of Riko starting to convulse again. The hiss of the door trying to close on him.
There is an emergency comm unit near the showers. If she runs, she can get there and--
A door cracks open down the hall. It's Grav, leaning his hefty frame out of his pod.
"Grav!" she gasps. "Riko! He--"
He takes one look at her face, flushed, stricken-- and looks beyond her at Riko’s body spilled halfway out into the corridor, his limbs twitching, blood running slick down his neck.
“Shit,” Grav says succinctly.
Behind him, Mish makes out the form of a woman, coming to the door. “Grav?” the woman says.
A head pops out. Grimma.
Grimma the facility nurse.
She's bra-less in a too-big t-shirt, black lace panties showing under the hem. Her hair is not in her usual severe bun, instead hanging loose and tousled around her face.
Mish's brain does a skip and a stutter.
Grav and Grimma. Wait till Riko hears about this.
Grimma's eyes snap to Riko. “Shit.”
And both of them are moving immediately, sprinting down the corridor.
They drop down next to Riko, tilting him onto his back. And even though Mish knows they have never officially worked together on a team, they act in tandem, as if they've been practicing.
Practicing! her mind howls, with inappropriate hilarity. The voice she hears in her head is Riko's.
They scan him quickly, the hands of a nurse and emergency med tech moving with experienced speed over Riko.
“Seizing,” Grimma says. “And burning. What the hell happened?”
“I-- I don't know-- I was trying to get him to the showers--” Mish says, tripping over herself.
“Good call,” Grimma says. “Grav, lift.”
Riko has gone still. They hoist him up, unevenly. His legs crook awkwardly, as if he's a broken toy.
They move fast, his arms slung loose around their shoulders, his skin searing the back of their necks. He hangs like a dead weight, his head swinging limp between them.
His nosebleed spatters an erratic pattern on the white floor. Behind them, his dragging feet smear it into a broken trail, like a painter drunkenly wielding a brush.
Ahead of them, Mish pushes the door open as they reach the communal showers. Riko is propped in the corner of the nearest stall, his head lolling on his shoulder.
Mish yanks at the showerhead, aiming it at his slumped figure. Swings the knob violently all the way to cold.
The blast of water hits him full on.
He jerks, limbs snapping up gracelessly; a puppet whose strings have been brusquely yanked.
“F-uck!” he yells.
His voice is high and furious, startled and cracking on the syllable. His eyes are wide and wet as he looks at Mish with a look of such abject betrayal--
Her heart clenches painfully and her knuckles go white around the showerhead.
Then his head sags, and he crumples sideways, sliding down the tiled wall. His legs fold awkwardly under him, his arms limp and extended across the tiled floor of the shower stall.
The water pelts down, uninterrupted.
His clothes go translucent, plastered against his skin. His bootlaces dangle into the drain with the weight of the water.
Mish starts to shiver. She watches as the blood on him washes away in pink sheets across the tiles, going around her work shoes.
And then, again.
His hands twitch first, and then his fingers splay and claw into shapes she has never seen Riko make. Seconds later, he goes into full-body convulsions.
He thrashes violently, his back arching. His jaw is clenched so tight it changes the shape of his face. His head jerks repeatedly, and she drops hurriedly to her knees beside him. She grips his head between her palms, trying to keep it from slamming against the tile.
Her knuckles are getting bruised.
Mish lets out a breath that sounds like a sob. But it's not. Because she's not crying, she's not. She's a nurse, this is a patient, she needs to get it together, this is just a patient--
“Hang on, Mish--” Grimma is already at the wall panel, slamming the emergency intercom.
“We have a medical emergency in the communal showers, level B12-- seizures, possible hyperpyrexia--”
Grav has picked up the showerhead and is keeping the water coming. She's completely soaked now, and there's blood pinking the knees of her uniform.
Mish holds him until he goes still again, and this time, he looks so gone that she has to press her shaking fingers into his neck to assure herself that his heart didn't stop.
He looks absolutely awful, like a bad copy of himself. As if someone ran out of colours except chalky whites and bruised greys and tried to paint him with their non-dominant hand.
She can see a sliver of his eyes through his lids, and she knows he's unconscious. Still, she peers past the clumped lashes, trying to see if she can find any spark of him in his eyes.
Blood is leaking out of his nose, spilling over her hands.
She's not a nurse anymore. She's just... she's just holding on to him.
She wonders if "fuck" is going to be the last thing he says to her.
+++++++++++++++++
The med team arrives in minutes. She tells them as much as she knows, which is nothing. Except the number of times he seized since she found him, and for how long.
They roll his sodden, limp body onto the gurney and strap him down, and as they push him out the communal showers, she makes as if to go with them.
Grimma steps in her way. Mish tries to go around her, but Grimma puts out her hands on her shoulders and grips hard enough that Mish stops.
"Mish, don't," she says.
"I have to go, in case-- maybe I can help, if they need extra hands, I can--"
Grimma shakes her head. "Mish, they've got him. They'll take care of him."
Mish's gaze follows the gurney as it is wheeled out of sight. Riko's face is white and insensate under the oxygen mask, his head tilted back. The last thing she sees as the door swings shut behind the gurney is his one bare foot, next to his boot, which is still laced onto his other foot.
"I need to go with him," Mish says. "He-- he needs his sock."
Grimma's eyes drop to Mish's hand, curled in a death grip around Riko's dripping sock. The one Mish had pulled off him as he was being strapped onto the gurney.
Grimma's gaze comes back up to Mish's face. It is strangely blank and distant.
"Don't do this to yourself. There's no waiting room where they're taking him. You'd see everything," Grimma says.
Mish blinks, as if waking up. She looks sharply at Grimma. "I'm a professional nurse."
Grimma purses her lips, and then says very kindly. "Not right now, you're not. You're his friend. And you're in shock."
A thick, soft towel comes over Mish's shoulders, enveloping her.
Grav.
He layers it over her, and holds her gently from behind.
Mish feels herself start to shake in his embrace. Her shoulders shivering. Something rattling loose inside her.
He holds her for a long moment. A slow squeeze, and then he lets go.
He hands a towel to Grimma, who accepts it, and starts to wrap it around her waist. She speaks quietly to Grav as she does so, they both look at her.
Mish feels like a child being discussed. Her fingers grip tighter over the sock, and she feels water being wrung out of it. She bends her head to look.
The runoff is pink. And Mish shudders, a convulsive, full-body shake that feels like she's a dog trying to shake off water.
Grimma is right. She mustn't go with Riko. She couldn't watch and not do anything.
"I'm going to go with them," Grimma says. "I'll let you know immediately when I know anything certain."
Mish nods numbly. Grimma gives Mish a shoulder squeeze, and then walks out the communal showers, still barefoot, a towel wrapped around her waist.
Now Grav's arm is around her shoulder, and he's guiding her out the door too. But they turn right, back towards the pods.
The cafeteria crowd is trickling back in now. Mish can see where some of them had accidentally walked over Riko's blood spatters, leaving footprints. They are hushed and wide-eyed, watching as Grav walks her down the corridor.
She's dripping water, leaving waterlogged footsteps in her wake. They are diluting the blood on the floor.
She's ok. She's fine. It's just water.
Someone is standing outside Riko's door, staring at the blood smeared on the floor in front of it. He looks up at them as they approach, concern plain on his face.
"What happened? Is that Riko's blood?" he says.
Grav makes as if to walk Mish past the room, but she stops. "I need to go in," she says.
Grav looks at her. "Did you leave something in there? I really don't think you should--"
She pauses. Worries her lower lip.
"My dinner's in there," she says. "Could you grab it for me?"
Before Grav can stop her, she steps forward and keys in the door code. The door slides open, and the man from the corridor comes up next to her, craning to look in. Mish can see the bloody cot from where she's standing.
Grav steps in, and pauses, looking around. He sees the trays she left on the counter, and grabs them, carefully stepping around the smear of blood on the floor in the shape of Riko's face.
"That's a whole lot of blood," the man says. "Is he ok?"
"No," she says. "That's from his nosebleed. I found him. He was seizing."
She turns and looks at him, and something in her face makes him say, "Shit."
And he goes silent.
Before Grav gets to the door, she calls to him. "Hey," she says. "Could you also grab the plant?"
She watches him glance around again, and reach over to pick up the plant, balancing it on top of the trays. He steps out, letting the door slide close behind him.
"Let's go," he says to Mish.
"Thanks," she says. "I don't want him to come back and find it all dried up."
She lets him guide her down the hall towards the elevators back to her floor.
"Hey, uh," the man says as they walk past him. "I'm glad you found him."
"Yeah," Mish says softly.
"He's, uh, one of the good ones," the man says, somewhat lamely.
Before the elevator doors shut, she sees the little cleaning bot trundle up in front of Riko's room. It pauses in front of the smears of blood and plays its teeny cleaning melody.
It makes something twist up inside her. Riko had whistled the same tune after spilling coffee all over himself.
It had made her laugh.
The bot glides over the blood, leaving clean floor in its wake. In a few seconds, it will be as if Riko had never bled there.
Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4 (Next chapters coming soon. Check the Signal War Masterlist for updates!)
<< Main Masterlist << Signal War
Note: The cleaning bot is a paid actor.
Taglist (comment or DM to be added or removed): @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14 // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer // @ziploc849 // @whumpacabra // @withdrawingramen // @starlit-hopes-and-dreams // @deadbvcky // @pumpkin-spice-whump // @hot-rangers-in-chains (staring at my taglist through foliage with binoculars)
Earlier in their dynamic, Riko might say "she's my squirrel", and Mish might say "he's the village idiot".
Then later as rumours start swirling around them being romantically or sexually involved (Facility gossip spreads like widlfire), Mish would express mild annoyance and say "there's NOTHING going on".
But Riko... Riko would start having fun with it. He'd lie differently every single time he's asked. He'd say "she's my cousin," or "we shared a cell in a Trakuan prison", or "I call her Mistress".
Or he'd start a really long, convoluted story that starts out entirely plausible, about how they grew up in the same neighbourhood, then lost touch when he joined the circus and she finished her studies, and then they serendipitously bumped into each other when they were both applying for the same job as the coveted WiggleBuddy cartoon mascot, and THEN they got arrested together for trying to sell banned NeuroPop gummies--
But after Surface Tension, they agree to pretend to be romantically involved. People generally nod with vindication, and tell each other "I KNEW they were hooking up".
Mish is relieved that people leave her alone after she says they're dating.
But Riko commits FULLY and starts regaling people with stories of their supposed sexual encounters, with entirely fabricated techniques that sound like they were invented by an over-imaginative middle schooler.
He swears they're real and that the gymnast at the circus taught him the Upside Down Boink with Underhand Grip and Flip, and then he tries to demonstrate with the salt and pepper shakers.... and this is usually when people tell him their shift is starting and they need to go.
Yeah.
But the real answer is that it's entirely platonic. Also, they would die for each other. So kinda like a QPR?
If Riko survives long enough to grow old, I can see him becoming the cherished uncle to Mish's kids, and occasionally being mistaken as her husband or their dad.
And the kids love asking him how he knows their mom, because he'll tell them some ridiculous story every single time.
Kid A: Tell us again how you met mama!
Riko: So! We were herding six-legged sheep on the plains of the Jombian wilderness, and--
Kid B: NO! You've told that one already!
Riko: What? Really? Oh right, so between the ages of 15-25, your mom was a pirate, and one day she captured a ship, and you know who was the poor kitchen slave in the galley? Me!
(Omg read the comments for more cool-uncle Riko lore.)
Some lore for the taglist! @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14 // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer // @ziploc849 // @whumpacabra // @withdrawingramen // @starlit-hopes-and-dreams // @deadbvcky
CW: Mention of side character's rape and beating, mention of violence, realisation that victim is a minor
Note: This chapter has less whump, but it's an important one to bridge the story. I've reorganised and rewritten some important information, due to the way I posted the previous chapters out of order. Because I was so rabid to share my whump with Tumblr.
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
<< Masterlist
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It's been twenty minutes. Long enough for the adrenaline to ebb out of his system. Jacek curls his blunt fingers into his palms to hide the tremors.
He sits on a storage crate, watching Serae jitter restlessly from across the room. Every motion looks jerky and abortive, out of place in the mellow atmosphere of the barracks winding down for the night.
There's the soft slap of a card game played over a cot, the low chuckle of men looking at something on a pad. Someone picks out a sparse tune on the guitar.
And then there's Serae.
He rakes a hand through his hair, before stopping suddenly to muss it up again.
Picks up a canteen of water and shakes it, listening to the water slosh inside. Then sets it back down instead of drinking from it.
Raises his hand to brush something off his face.
Stops. Stares at it like he doesn't recognise who it belongs to.
Jacek looks away. His gaze drop to his hands instead, where they rest wide and hefty against his thighs.
He flexes them, and turns them over to examine them.
They're clean.
They sting from the methodical scrubbing he'd given them, before he'd changed into the clothes they'd stashed near the showers.
His hands are spotless. He knows they are.
He checks again anyway.
His thumbs run slow shapes over his knees; tracing out the geometry of something that isn't making sense.
Something isn't right. Hasn't been right since they'd returned without Vetch. Now that the man is no longer with them, the certainty of the logic they'd acted under is falling apart.
Jacek is a slow thinker, but a thorough one.
He started working on the farm the moment he'd completed the compulsory basic education, and he'd never been a good student. But he was always able to figure things out if he took the time.
He closes his eyes, his thumbs still drifting over his kneecaps.
After Brennan died, Vetch had been a good friend. He shared smokes with him on the nights that grief sat boulder-heavy in his chest. Listened as Jacek hesitantly shared stories of his cousin and the farm they grew up on. The time they fell out a tree together and had to wear matching arm slings. The time they got into a fist-fight over a girl and she ended up breaking both their hearts.
Vetch remained silent most times, but one night, as rain tapped a broken rhythm on the tarpaulin overhead, Vetch had said very quietly,
"It must have been hard to know that medic kid passed him over for triage."
Jacek looked at him slowly, cigarette hanging forgotten between his thick fingers.
Vetch took a long draw from his cigarette and continued, still looking out into the rain.
"Maybe he thought a backwater grunt like him wasn't worth the time."
He shook his head. "Shame. Brennan would have lived."
Jacek watched his profile, silhouetted against the patchy light of the camp.
After that, it was as if his eyes were opened.
He saw the arrogance, the swagger, the meanness behind the laughter.
Once, Riko said something at the canteen table they were sharing, something that Jacek didn't quite catch, but drew scattered mirth from everyone else there.
Jacek had looked around, wondering if he was the butt of the joke. He was used to not catching things, of being just out of step with everyone else. Used to the ribbing that came with having that heavy rural accent that curled his every syllable.
Vetch had leaned into Jacek's space and said kindly under his breath, "Don't mind him, he's just a little shit."
Jacek was grateful for the gentle squeeze Vetch pressed into his shoulder.
He learnt to spot the showboating, the sneer behind the medic's words, the underhanded jibes made in his presence. How he spoke too fast on purpose, and with words too big for Jacek's limited vocabulary.
He'd seen it all for himself... except now he remembers Vetch's presence just off to the side. Shaking his head slightly with exasperation when Riko blustered and bragged, patting Jacek comfortingly on the back when Riko said something that seemed to hold the shape of veiled insult.
One night, after a few beers, Vetch told him what he'd seen on the battlefield.
"I was by the damaged transport on the east quadrant. I saw it all."
He spoke in the flat monotone of someone who found the memory painful, but was trying to find peace in the retelling.
He told of how Brennan had clutched, weeping, at the medic's arm, and how Riko's face had twisted in derision. Shook the dying man's hand off him like it was filthy.
How he had jabbed Brennan with a sedative instead of a coagulant, his fingers skipping past the injectors that would have actually helped.
And Vetch's voice went rough describing how the medic had mocked, "There now, you're through the worst of it," as he let Brennan fade.
Jacek had heard the words himself, through Brennan's open channel.
He had thought the words kind, then.
Vetch fell silent, the mouth of the beer bottle hovering close to his mouth.
And then he said very, very quietly. "I could kill him."
Jacek had never heard him sound like that before, scraped raw, with an honesty that sounded like it was being pulled out bloody.
After a long moment, Vetch shrugged as if he was shaking something off, and said with a chuckle, "Ignore me, I'm stupid drunk."
Jacek looked at his own beer bottle, his fingers strangle-tight around the neck.
When he spoke, his voice was low. "We don't have to kill him."
Vetch looked at him with an emotion that Jacek couldn't name; hadn't bothered to decipher in the moment.
But now, he would say it looked like... arrival.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Vetch showed them what to do. Showed him and Serae where to cut. Exactly how deep, holding his finger against the blade and indicating how many knuckles deep to push it in so it wouldn't kill the medic.
Because that wasn't the point. The point was to humble the man.
Days before, he brought them to the depot where they would ambush him, and he showed them what to do, and where.
Choreography.
He repeated the instructions like doctrine. Made them say them back to be sure they got it.
And he had added, "No head shots. And leave his hands alone."
They hadn't questioned him. Just nodded, obedient.
He was the man with the plan.
The night they laid in wait, tucked into the alcove, Serae was vibrating with nerves.
He jabbed at the air like he was about to enter a boxing ring, muttering viciously to himself as he skipped from foot to foot.
In the whispered stream of curses, Jacek heard the name “Kolcha”.
Serae caught him looking. Stabbed a savage jab into the air. “Do you know what the bastard did to her?”
Jacek nodded slowly.
The girl was a civilian from the next town over; had been working in the mess kitchen for a few weeks. She was found weeping behind the storage tent, beaten black and blue, her clothes torn off her. She'd been cradling her teeth on her lap.
Jacek thought they'd caught the one who did it, heard that he'd been sent back to be court-martialed.
He shrugged. Frontline justice was not a given, and there were countless reasons why a guilty man might get away scott-free, or an innocent man might be implicated.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor. Vetch put out a hand, and they readied themselves.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Riko had been different from what he expected.
On his feet, talking, he was the Riko that Jacek knew. But once he was on the ground, and Jacek's hands were on him... the uniform felt like a disguise.
There was lean muscle under the thick fabric, twisting and coiling to get away.
But something about the way he moved... it was the same kind of weight and motion Jacek had felt years ago, when roughhousing with his younger cousins back home.
And when Jacek had leaned his weight on Riko's chest with a knee to keep him down, crushing a desperate wheeze out of him, Vetch had let out a soft sound that made Jacek look up.
The man's face was avid, almost rapturous. His eyes were wide and bright, his lips parted slightly.
He looked like a man who had been presented with a long-awaited meal, and was about to dig in.
+++++++++++++++++++++++
Jacek opens his eyes. His fingers have gone still over his knees.
This had been... mapped. Scripted.
Vetch had wanted something, and had gotten it.
Used him. Used Serae. Even Brennan.
Jacek looks around, an awful feeling skating up his spine.
Serae is pacing in front of his cot, his hands twisted in his hair.
He looks insane; locked in some dreadful internal loop. But he stops short, his eyes peeling back wide, as Jacek stands up slowly.
Jacek's arms prickle all over with gooseflesh.
Vetch is not here.
Vetch is not here.
Something inside him settles like a boulder.
He walks out of the barracks.
Serae's terrified gaze skitters after him.
Minutes later, Jacek returns with officers. His hands are cuffed in front of him.
The barracks goes dead quiet as he points Serae out to them.
Serae’s legs fold; he wilts silently onto his cot as the officers cut across the barracks to him.
He looks petrified.
And at the same time, so, so relieved.
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed
<< Masterlist
(Jacek is what I’d call an Inadvertent Whumper)
Comment if you’d like to be added or removed from the taglist: @stars-hide-our-fires // @hueningplushie //@deerslayer14 // @elvenarcane // @thelazywitchphotographer // @ziploc849 (I’m licking my taglist and nobody can stop me)
