He was about a hour out from base when he started getting weird messages from flight control, and then half an hour out when they stopped all together. He'd frantically tried to contact anyone, but all he got was static, or - on some frequencies - a lot of different frantic voices overlaid over each other and impossible to interpret. It had to be his equipment. It was all that made sense.
He'd been scheduled for his landing, but with no way of confirming with flight control, it was impossible to say how safe it was going to be. Who knew if they'd scheduled someone else to come in. But he was running low on fuel, and couldn't afford to divert. He'd just have to eyeball it on his way in. Risky, but he was feeling increasingly on edge even if he couldn't explain it.
"Tower, this is Firefly, coming in to land. Hope you can hear this," He added with a mutter into his radio. He received nothing but static. The lights were lit up for him, at least, and there wasn't anything he could see on the runway. So he pressed a kiss to his fingers, then to his mother's picture on his dash, and went in for the landing. Everything was fine, not a single bump, until--
"Holy shit--" He hissed as his headlights lit up someone on the runway. They only barely managed to get out of the way of the plane. He came to a stop, popping the cockpit hood up, utterly confused. Where the hell was his tech team?
He heard the scream before he saw anything - a gut wrenching, horrible sound - and just managed to touch the tarmac with his feet when he saw it - two people tussling on the ground, one of them screaming bloody murder.
"Hey!" He yelled at them, running over. "Hey, get off h--" His words stopped dead as he watched one of them tear out the other's throat with their teeth. He stood, staring, in shock - even only lit by the runway lights he could see the near pitch-black blood streaming from the attackers mouth.
It turned to look at him, wild and crazed.
"What the fuck--" He said to himself, already fumbling for his gun and stepping back. "What the fuck--"
The man - creature? - launched itself at him, and Poe reacted with pure automatic instinct. Two bullets, right in the centre of the skull. The thing collapsed, dead instantly, stopped in its tracks. Poe could see the eviscerated corpse of its previous target some twenty feet behind it.
He could feel his hands start to shake as he forced himself to look away. Command. He needed to find command. He needed to find command right now. Where was everyone?
She'd woken up to the sound of a blaring alarm and the monotonous drone of a pre-recorded announcement echoing through the hallways. Her head ached, a dull throb behind her eyes that made it hard for her vision to adjust to the light, at first. It took a few moments for reality to sink in, the memories resurfacing sluggishly. They'd returned to base in the dead of night, her and her team. Covert shit. Black ops. Strictly speaking, they weren't even on the official payroll — and if anybody ever got caught or killed, the government would wash their hands of it.
Andy hadn't gotten caught. Or killed. But she'd taken a bullet to the shoulder and was half-way to bleeding out by the time they'd made it back. That's probably what the IV in her arm was for — fluids. And morphine. Though glancing up at the bag hanging near her head, she could see it was empty. Nobody had been in to check on her in a while then. Likely owing to whatever the fuck was going on outside. Sounded bad. Were they under attack? Some kind of security breach?
Bad timing. She didn't have anything on her. Wasn't like she was suited up for duty or anything. Hell, she didn't even have anything on but her underwear and a hospital gown. Definitely no weapon. Fuck. Well. She didn't live through this job the past twenty some-odd years without being resourceful and scrappy as hell, so. Carefully, she eased the needle out of her arm, then swung her legs around to test herself. Steady enough.
One quick glance around the room, then she finally made her way out into the hallway.
What she saw there? It was —
God.
The chaos. The carnage.
Just as bad as any battlefield she'd never known.
If she'd panicked then, it would have been understandable. But she had a spine of steel, this one — had to, after all the shit she'd seen and been through, the shit she'd done — and she knew what she had to do. Survive. Make it out of here. Figure out what was going on and how bad it was outside. Bad, probably. This was a military hospital. On a base. If things were fucked up here, then... Well. First thing's first. She stole the boots and gun off a dead security guard in the hall. Shoved an empty biohazard bag full of medical supplies from one of the crash carts. Then made her way towards the nearest exit.
It didn't take her long to get a sense of what she was dealing with. She killed at least half a dozen of the infected before she finally stumbled outside, her hospital gown soaked through with blood. She had to make it to the airfield. Commandeer a craft and get the fuck out of here. To the next closest base, maybe. Before it spread. If it hadn't already. She wasn't an expert pilot, but she could get helicopter off the ground if she needed to.
By the time she made it to the hanger, the wound in her shoulder had opened back up. She'd slowed down, barely kept upright by adrenaline and sheer willpower. But she was almost there. Almost —
From behind her, she heard a rasping groan as one of those things grabbed onto her, sending them both crashing into the ground. Her gun skittered off just out of arm's reach, leaving her to kick and grapple with her attacker, her shoulder practically screaming in pain as she tried to force the torn muscle to obey her, to keep those damn teeth from catching her, just scant inches from her fucking face —
He didn't hesitate, this time. The attacker slumped on its prey, and Poe immediately ran forward and kicked the thing right off. It tumbled to the side, twisting, it's face torn open on one side from the exit wounds of his shots. He was breathing hard, standing over it for a few seconds, staring at it as if he was making sure it would actually stay down.
This was his fourth kill tonight.
Both the second and the third had tried to come after him.
Poe had seen plenty of action, but always from the sky. This was something completely different. He was almost as wild eyed as the crazed people that were attacking, his heart hammering as he finally focused his attention on the woman the thing had been trying to attack.
He stared down at her, his gun wavering a little, as if trying to decide if he needed to shoot her, too. Instead:
"... Scythian?" It had taken him a moment to recognize her. He'd only met her once, but--
The gunshots were almost deafening. At first, she wasn't sure where they were coming from — not until she caught her first glimpse of another person, rushing over to kick that sagging corpse off her body. Her arms gave up immediately once the weight was gone, dropping heavily to the ground as she wheezed out a pained breath. Fuck, her shoulder was throbbing, and she could feel fresh blood soaking the neck and sleeve of her hospital gown, sticking it wetly to her skin.
For a second, she just closed her eyes. Breathed deeply. Controlled herself. Controlled the pain.
Then he spoke. And she opened her eyes again, squinting at him through sweat-matted hair.
She knew him. She'd read his dossier once, when they were choosing a pilot for a mission a few years back. Couldn't remember what they called him anymore — there were dozens of pilots since, and she never bothered to get to know anybody they worked with outside her team. What was the point? Half of them would die before she ever saw them again anyway. But apparently this one was either good enough or lucky enough to make it. Lucky for her, too.
Finally, she managed to push herself up, her jaw tightening against what would have otherwise been a wince.
"It's from before," she answered in a clipped tone. "I'm fine. Just pass me the bag. There's medical supplies in there." The bag had been dropped during the scuffle, but everything inside would still be intact. Bandages and shit. Something to slow the bleeding. "You fly, don't you?" She was looking at him now, more closely than before. "You could get us out of here."
"Sure, 'fine' is descriptor I'd be using for you, right now," He answered back, the quip automatic even as his brow was deeply furrowed. He did as she told him, grabbing the bag and immediately tearing into it, finding bandages.
"Yeah, I fly. Where else do you think 'Firefly' would come from?" he asked, tearing open the package of the bandage, and quickly pressing the pad to the wound in her shoulder, before turning around to check the other side. Good. He could see the exit wound, but it was still scabbed over. He started wrapping the bandage tightly around both anyway, just in case.
"None of the jets are fueled up," He explained. His first goal had been to get to command, but the base looked like there had been an evacuation. Most of the trucks were gone. All of the big planes required a team to fuel them up, but--
"There's a rescue helicopter. It's always fueled for emergency standbys. Is it just you, or have you seen--" He wavered. He'd seen plenty of people. Just none of them that were sane and alive.
Firefly. That's right. That's what they'd called him.
She grunted when he starts wrapping the bandage around her arm, the noise followed by a heavy exhale through her nose as she willed herself to bear it. If there had been morphine in that drip earlier, it was wearing off by now. But she'd had worse. Plenty worse. Without a shred of self-consciousness, she tugs her blood-soaked hospital gown down a little to better exposure her injured shoulder, uncaring of the bare skin underneath.
"It's just me." Again, the same curt voice. She's probably given that reply any number of times during her career. It's just me. Just her, the lone survivor again, after coming back from whatever hell they'd sent her off to. "And we're going to get overwhelmed if we stick around on the off chance someone else made it. We have to get out. Now. Otherwise there's nobody left to warn everyone else."
"No argument from me," he muttered as he finished wrapping the bandage, tucking the ends in and tying it off before stepping back. He shoved everything back into the bag and hefted it onto his shoulder - right beside the other bag he'd already packed. His was mostly food supplies though. Batteries. A flashlight.
Ammo.
"Don't get your hopes up about warning anyone," he warned lowly as he reached down an arm to her, an offer to help her up. "I think it... it didn't just hit here. I lost contact with flight control before I even landed. I couldn't raise anyone on the radio. Even if the base went dark, someone else..."
He trailed off, swallowing.
"Let's just go. We can work out the rest when we're in the air."
She makes a half-assed effort to tie her hospital gown back up for some semblance of modesty, pausing only to pick up the handgun she'd lost when the thing had attacked her. "Thing." Because she's not sure what it was, exactly. A sick person? A dead person? Something else? But she's not a scientist. Or a doctor. It's not her job to understand. Right now, all she wants to do is make it out. Then they can plan and figure out the rest.
"Fine. Lead the way."
She gestures with her weapon. Good thing she's a steady shot with both hands because it's clear by the way her other arm hangs limp at her side that she's done all she can with it for now.
His mind is so far from anything sexual, at the moment, that he actually gets confused when she goes to cover herself up. But not for long.
He falls into step alongside her, one hand pressed against her back, mostly so he can keep spatially aware of her as they move quickly.
He hears the next 'thing' before they see it, scrambling and shuffling on the other side of a door. He hisses a note to Andy, preparing to slam the door open and shoot the thing, but--
But she's already one step ahead of him. Honestly, it's not so different than facing enemy insurgents or terrorists out in some remote desert somewhere. The muscle memory is there already. She doesn't have to think hard, just relying on her instincts — and as soon as she hears the noise on the other side of the door, she's moving, kicking it open with that ill-fitting boot and closing distance —
Only pain and blood loss keeps her moving the way that she's used to. She ends up leaning heavily in the doorframe, her arm slightly unsteady as she holds up her gun and fires three shots in a row at the thing just seconds before it can recover enough to reach her. Normally, she's not in the habit of wasting ammo, but she doesn't trust herself to kill with one shot right now. Better not to risk it. All the bullets in the world won't matter if she doesn't live to use them.
"Come on." She gestures to him, grunting with effort as she pushes herself upright again to keep going.
He knew she had to be good - no one got onto black ops, let alone survived it, unless they were good. But she just went and killed a man like it was a normal tuesday, while she was bleeding out.
"I'm right here," He reassured her, slinging an arm under hers and around her waist. It would hurt like a bitch, but it would give her support. Thankfully there was nothing else between them and the large bay doors, out into the hangar. The helicopter was right where Poe expected it to be, just outside on the helicopter pad, and he felt his heart do a flip of relief.
"She's still here," he breathed, as he started picking up the pace.
It does fucking hurt — but she just grits her teeth against it, just like before, her furrowed brows the only thing that betrays her as she leans on him, keeping up pace with him. Up ahead, she could see the helicopter. At least it was still there. Still looked like it could fly too. Good thing, because they sure as fuck could take a win right now.
"Going to be a lot of noise when we get her started up," Andy mutters, "Hope you have more bullets than I do."
If her math is right, she has seven left in the clip, one in the chamber. And she saw plenty more than eight of those things during her escape from the hospital. Who knows how many more could be lurking around.
"In my backpack," he said, thinking the same thing she was. "My hands are going to be full, though. You're going to need to fend them off." They got to the helicopter, a relatively tiny thing, but big enough to fit a person on a stretcher in the back. He popped the door open, helping her up inside, before slinging off both the bags to put them at her feet. He pulled out some of the ammo and dropped it in her lap.
"I can't make it go faster or quieter than it needs to," He apologized. "This is going to get a lot more rough before it gets better. You want the doors open or closed?"
As long as she stays conscious. Fuck. Maybe she should've tried to bring an IV bag or two with them. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Not that it does her any good now. She just has to last long enough for them to get airborne. As far as she knows, those things can't fly, so.
She settles in for the fight.
"Doors open." There's something hard in her expression. No fear, just focus. "Let's get the fuck out of here."
"Doors open," he repeats grimly. He grabs one of the headsets and puts it over her ears, before grabbing his own and climbing into the front seat. His heart is going a million miles a minute, but they're so close--
"Starting up initial flight sequence," he said, his voice audible both in the air and over the radio they now shared. Soon it would be too loud to hear except over the headset.
He started flipping switches, lights. The engine started with a dull roar. The blades started rotating soon after that, slowly at first, then faster, each swipe through the air getting louder and louder.
Somewhere nearby, one of those creatures screamed.
Her own heartbeat is steady in her chest. She barely hears him now. Barely even hears the helicopter as the engine starts up. She doesn't flinch when the screaming and groaning starts to get closer. Leaning with her back against the side of the chopper, she points her gun out the open door beside her and waits.
It doesn't take long. The noise draws them in from all around. Those things.
She doesn't know if they're still people or not. In the moment, she doesn't much care either.
Andy starts squeezing the trigger.
She was right about the eight bullets. There's dozens of them. For the eight she kills with those eight bullets, it feels like twice as many push forward to take their place. They're surrounded now, on all sides, and she loses both time and ground as she one-handedly reloads her pistol. But she's staying steady. Staying focused. Working to get the the fucking clip into her gun as they start to grab onto the landing skids —
He hears the crack of the gun dimly through the headset, built to block out the intense and constant noise of the helicopter. He doesn't flinch, but he does count them.
He tries not to count the swarm.
"Come on, come on," He mutters under his breath, going through his flight checklist faster than he ever has, his fingers flying over switches.
Half fuel. They hadn't finished refueling it before all this started. Whatever this was. He cursed under his breath. Fine. Better than nothing. They'd get off the ground.
The helicopter blades whirred faster and faster, and slowly they started to lurch off the ground. But Poe could feel the extra weight, even if he couldn't see it, and he swore again.
"They're gonna weigh us down! Fuck!" The helicopter lurched and swayed a foot into the air, another, three--
She can feel it too. The precarious lean as the helicopter strains to take off against the pull of all those things, grasping at the skids, trying to reaching her —
Fuck. Finally, the clip slides into place. She flips her grip in a heartbeat. Every second after that is punctuated by the sound of a gun firing. Steady rhythm. Bullet after bullet. Hard to miss when those goddamn things are close enough that their fingertips brush the edge of her hospital gown. And with each sickening pop, the weight on the chopper eases just a tiny bit.
She can't stop. If she stops firing for a second, the numbers will just overwhelm them all over again.
He can hear it, even over the radio. The steady sharp staccato of her gun. He can feel it in the sudden lurches as the weight shifts, but they're finally gaining height.
His lips thin into a tight line and he punches it the second he feels it's light enough. The entire helicopter tilts forward, the blades pressing into the wind as they started rising rapidly. He could still hear the gun going - could still feel the shifts as another body fell, this time several dozen feet to the ground below. They got higher and higher and relief started pouring into his chest as he heard the gun go silent.
"You alright back there?" he yelled over the noise into his mic. "Did we lose all our extra passengers?"
Sure. Gun's just about empty and she's a little lightheaded, but fuck it, they're airborne, aren't they? She didn't fall out the open door to her death either, so she'll take it. Could be worse, even if it's not by much. This is better than still being down there, waiting to get fucking torn apart.
FInally, she acknowledges him, glancing over her shoulder at him as she scoots herself further into the helicopter with a pained hiss of breath.
"...Yeah. Only you and me now," she finally grits out, closing her eyes as she sits there, giving herself a minute. She's just gonna rest. Just gonna rest her eyes. Yeah. Just...
It takes her too long to reply, and then when she does, she seems to fade out after. Damn it. She's lost too much blood--
"Hey. Hey," he snaps, trying to keep her awake. "Stay with me, alright? We can't go far on this fuel anyway - I'm gonna take us up into the mountains. Hopefully far enough away from those things that we'll be okay. But I need you to stay with me, alright?"
She may or may not have been dosing off. But when his voice cuts through the haze, she peers at him, a frown pulling at the corners of her mouth. She could argue that she'd just been resting, but she can feel how much her body's been through. Didn't even get a chance to recover from the mission properly, and her shoulder's still fucked up.
Hell, she's only human.
"I'm fine." She's not. But she has to be. What choice is there? "Just fly."
The problem wasn't the flying. The problem was the landing. He wanted to land somewhere unpopulated, but that also meant that there weren't easy airfields to access, or a helipad. He was already running out of fuel when he got to the mountain.
It was pure luck that he managed to spot a meadow between the trees, just in time. The landing was a little rough - a little bumpy - but they set down and Poe let out a shakey breath, closing his eyes for a second.
And then he was moving again. Both bags up, one over each shoulder, and then he was reaching for the Scythian, too.
"Okay, come on," he murmured. "I don't want to risk anything having heard us land. I think I spotted a cabin a few minutes walk south of here. We can head there."
She might have been starting to doze off again, but before she can reach unconsciousness, the swaying and bumping of their landing jostles her back awake again. Her shoulder still hurts. Still throbbing, inflamed and angry. The blood is making her filthy hospital gown cling to her skin, all tacky. But she's still alive. So there's that.
It's a good thing she thought to steal the boots off that dead security guard earlier, otherwise she'd be in for a cold fucking trek to that cabin. She's still freezing her literal ass off — the gown is thin, barely held onto her by a few strings in the back — but she doesn't let her discomfort show on her face. There's just the pinch of her eyebrows, like she's mildly inconvenienced by being half-drained of blood and treading unprotected through the snow.
She doesn't say much to Firefly. Saving her energy, maybe. Or just not particularly friendly. Some of both, really, though the truth is that it's taking all her focus to stay upright and conscious as they walk. It feels like an eternity before the cabin comes into sight, even though it can't be more than several minutes. She squints at the little building, her vision blurring a little, the world going out of focus before her knees suddenly give out and she slumps down into the snow.
He's a little better protected than her, but not by a hell of a lot. He had a jacket but it was barely a windbreaker, and it was significantly colder up here in the mountains than it had been on base. Poe was just hoping that it would also keep anyone else from coming up here after them.
He'd been slipping into his own thoughts as they walked, the adrenaline of the evening wearing off into exhaustion, his footsteps heavy. He should have been paying more attention to her - should have known that there was no way she was going to be able to keep going long with that wound in her shoulder. He was just to distracted, too stupid--
"Hey--!" He grabbed for her automatically when she slumped, but she slipped out of his fingers. "Hey, hey come on now, we're almost there. You don't get to give up on me now," He whispered to her, his breath harsh and tight as if he was trying to conceal it from the eerily quiet snow. He got his arms under her and hefted her up against him with a grunt. He'd carry her all the way to the cabin, if he had to.
She can barely hear him anymore, just hanging onto the last threads consciousness and drifting by the moment. Her eyelashes only flutter at the sound of his voice, snowflakes clinging to them as her struggling breaths fog in front of her face. She's a dead weight when he hefts her up, unable to help him or unaware enough of what's happening to even try. Nothing but willpower had been powering her up until now, and her body was running on fumes now.
If she could realize how pathetic she looks right then, she'd probably be annoyed with herself. It wasn't often that she found herself in such dire straits — not since she was much younger, and much less experienced. The Scythian of history were known as fierce warriors, and she'd earned the moniker with blood. She was the one you called in with there weren't any other options. When you couldn't afford to fail. When the stakes were too high to trust someone else.
And here she was now, an inch from blacking out, relying on some pilot she barely knew to get her ass somewhere relatively safe. Weakly, she clung to him, some reflex causing her fingers to tighten slightly in his jacket.
He felt his heart restart when her fingers gripped him. Still alive. She was still alive.
Somehow, he managed to half drag half carry her to the cabin, putting her down in a snow-dusted chair on the porch, while he tried to find a way in. The place had obviously been closed up for the winter but with a prodigious use of his elbow and the shattering properties of glass, he managed to find a way inside. He hefted her back up, dragging her in and laying her down on the thankfully queen sized mattress. It wasn’t made, but there were blankets and he piled them on her before quickly throwing some wood into the fireplace. It took almost twenty minutes to get the fire started and to get the broken window sealed up before he could return to her. She looked deathly pale, her breathing shallow.
His own clothes were soaked, now, the snow melted through, and he stripped off quickly before scrambling under the blankets with her. Fuck, she was cold.
“Come on,” he whispered, drawing her up against his chest and wrapping his arms around her, careful to miss the wound as he rubbed her down, generating heat with friction.
He might have been better off to just leave her there in the snow. If she'd been in fighting form, she would have been useful — an asset, at a time like this. But as it is, with her injured and weak, she's just slowing him down. She's a liability when he can't afford any. But he gets her to the cabin anyway — gets her into the bed and holds her close to his bare chest, offering her the heat of his body as she shivers, her own body making its stubborn but feeble attempts to warm up.
She can hear him willing her to survive. Come on, he keeps saying. Come on.
Fuck. She's lived through too much to die like this. She's dodged death a thousand times. This can't be the end. She won't let it. She —
She coughs roughly, curling towards him, her face buried against his throat. It's a strained mutter when she manages finally:
Honestly, her whole body hurts — the tingling pain of feeling returning to her limbs as she warms up, along with the same throbbing ache of her shoulder that's been plaguing her since she escaped the hospital. But it's nothing unbearable. Her heart is still beating in her chest. With her face pressed against his chest, she can hear his heart doing the same. So there's that, at least. They're both still alive, and that's something, isn't it?
"Is that what this is?" She's feeling well enough to mock him a little, even with her voice still rough and her body still shaking. Probably a good sign. "Medical attention?"
But she's not complaining. Not really. She knows she needs the heat. Won't be any use to anybody if her trigger finger falls off.
"Sure is what I'm calling it," he replied wryly, the quip coming easily, though her words cut the single-minded haze he'd been in. Oh. Right. Basically nude and groping someone. Yeah, he can see how that would come off.
"I'm a pilot, not a doctor," He adds after a few seconds. He pulls her closer and hisses a little bit. "Fuck, you're cold."
She mumbles the apology against his throat, using the word in a gruff way that suggests she probably doesn't apologize much — not that she can help how cold she is. Her body is trying — still shivering, through less violently than before — but she'd been half-conscious in the snow with little between her and the elements except a thin hospital gown and her underwear, so. Maybe she should just be grateful she's alive to feel cold at all.
"Did the supplies make it?" She tucks herself more against him, her legs brushing against his as she tries to get more skin on skin, seeking out that warmth. "You'll have to help me redress my damn shoulder."
This is what happens when I check my email before sneep
Her skin was like ice, and he wrapped his legs around hers when she went looking for them, one thigh pressing between her legs.
“We can dress it once you’re warmer. I don’t want you getting hypothermia.”
He could feel her warming up at least - thanks to him, the blankets, and the crackling fire.
He was struck suddenly by how intimate this was, but he couldn’t bring himself to disengage. He shouldn’t. She needed the warmth. It wasn’t anything untoward...
“I’m just glad you made it,” he admitted in a whisper. “I mean - not only because I wouldn’t have gotten off the ground without you, but...”
He trailed off. He didn’t know how many of his friends were even alive right now.
She doesn't think of it as intimate. Out there, on covert missions in hostile territory, she's slept with her team so tightly packed together that there was hardly room to breathe. They would go for months without talking to other people — sleeping, eating, bathing, and shitting together in some hovel. She'd had wounds all over her body tended to more often by her men than by actual doctors. Sometimes, all the things she's been through make her feel so detached from her physical form that it's a relief to feel anything at all.
The sentiment he whispers to her — that's more intimate than anything.
They're practically strangers. But he's glad, he says. Glad she made it. And not just because she's handy with a gun either.
"Don't be glad yet," her voice is a low rumble, muffled as she slips her good arm around him, just to help her press a little closer to his warmth. "For all you fucking know, I'll kick your ass and take your shit the second I can move."
“No, you won’t.” He says it with complete confidence. Sure, he might not know her, but...
“There was no one on air traffic control,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “It wasn’t just the base. I don’t know... I don’t even know how many of us there are, within a hundred miles. I don’t know how fast that shit is spreading.”
He was still rubbing her back, even though his muscles were getting tired.
That's a vulnerable thing to admit. At least, it seems that way to her. She isn't in the habit of making that kind of confession — something that might appear like sentiment or weakness. Maybe doing the military's dirty work all these years has hardened something in her. Or maybe it's just the burden of leadership. Not that any of it really matters now. The world feels like it's falling apart. And even if she thought she could front with him right now, he's still holding her shivering, aching body against his — taking care of her in the most vulnerable state she's been in for as long as she can properly remember.
"You're not alone," she finally mutters in response.
Carefully, she pulls away a little, just enough to look at him.
"Hate to admit it, but you probably saved my life. So I owe you. At least for now."
"Pretty sure that's mutual," he said, wryly. "If you owed me anything, you already paid it back."
Well. Except one thing.
"I know I'm breaking protocol with this," he murmured, arms still around her, even though he could actually see her face, now, etched in the warm fire light. "But I am pretty sure protocol is right out the window, so."
He wet his lips.
"I'm Poe. Dameron. You can call me whatever you want, but... at least this way if something horrible happens you'll be able to scrawl my name on a cheap make-shift grave marker."
She doesn't want to know his name. Not really. Because the second you start trading names and getting to know each other — then feelings get involved. Inevitably. Because that's what humans instinctively do. But sentiment is the last thing they need. Sentiment won't keep them alive. So she doesn't reciprocate. And she doesn't call him Poe.
"If something horrible happens, I won't have time for that shit," she mutters in response, "So try not to fucking die. At least not until my shoulder heals a little more."
It's a deflection, maybe. Something harsh she says just to keep the distance between them. As if that matters when they could be the last two fucking humans for a hundred miles and he's already holding her half-naked body against his. She seems aware of it, and after a few moments, she starts trying to pull away — even though her lips are still a little blue, her skin still cool to the touch.
It stings. Of course it does. But he's not actually surprised. Black Ops... they're not exactly known for their camaraderie. It would probably go against every regulation she knows, to tell him her name.
But pretty sure all this would break regulation, too.
"I solemnly swear I will try not to die until your shoulder heals a little more," He says dryly.
But when she pulls away, he shuffles closer after her.
"Come on. You gotta warm up. We can't risk you getting hypothermia."
Fine probably isn't accurate, not yet. But she's not so cold anymore that all she can do is lay there and uselessly shiver, at least. So she insists, pulling away from him again even as her Good Samaritan tries to make up the distance. It takes her a second at the edge of the bed, her legs still a little unsteady, but she tests her weight and goes for it, swaying only slightly and gritting her teeth against the uncomfortable tingling in her legs as all the movement brings circulation back to her limbs.
She manages to get over to the fire, bracing herself on the mantle with one hand for a moment. The flames cast flickering shadows over her body, the warmth washing over her. It's nice. Gives her the little something she needs to keep herself moving so that she can briskly strip off her filthy hospital gown and her underwear — both soaked with blood that's run down from her shoulder.
He doesn’t stop her. Her curls the blankets tightly around himself for a second, watching her.
He watches the firelight dance over her skin as she strips, and he feels his heart thump, a strange longing coming over him. Wordlessly, he slips out of the bed. He doesn’t move to embrace her again, just pulls his clothes back on and grabs a bucket, before heading back outside. A moment later, he returns, pretending his teeth aren’t chattering as he brings the bucket back to the fire - now full of snow - and sets it close to the flames to melt and boil.
Then he goes to fetch the bag with the medical supplies and drags it over.
She glances over at him as he returns with the bucket of snow, her dark eyes lingering on him for a long moment. Like she still isn't sure what to make of him. A few hours ago, he was someone she could barely remember — a codename from one mission, what might as well have been a lifetime ago. Now they're together in this, somehow. This apocalypse, or whatever the fuck it is. Now he's the only person she has left, as far as she can tell.
Her eyes drift away. She sits down by the fire, letting it warm her as she starts to peel the old bandages off — heavy with her old blood by now, almost completely dark with it. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses that shit into the fire to let it burn. There's a faint stench, for a minute, but soon there's nothing left but ash.
The wound in her shoulder is a clean hole. A bullet wound. The skin around it is irritated and swollen — but not infected. Small blessings. He's right though, they'll have to clean it and keep it clean, if she wants it to stay uninfected. It's not an exaggeration to say that with the shortage of supplies and medicine, an infection could mean losing the arm entirely.
"Help me," she murmurs lowly. She can't see her own back, that part of her shoulder where the bullet exited.
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sekkritaus2019-10-13 03:51 pm
Night of the Outbreak
He was about a hour out from base when he started getting weird messages from flight control, and then half an hour out when they stopped all together. He'd frantically tried to contact anyone, but all he got was static, or - on some frequencies - a lot of different frantic voices overlaid over each other and impossible to interpret. It had to be his equipment. It was all that made sense.
He'd been scheduled for his landing, but with no way of confirming with flight control, it was impossible to say how safe it was going to be. Who knew if they'd scheduled someone else to come in. But he was running low on fuel, and couldn't afford to divert. He'd just have to eyeball it on his way in. Risky, but he was feeling increasingly on edge even if he couldn't explain it.
"Tower, this is Firefly, coming in to land. Hope you can hear this," He added with a mutter into his radio. He received nothing but static. The lights were lit up for him, at least, and there wasn't anything he could see on the runway. So he pressed a kiss to his fingers, then to his mother's picture on his dash, and went in for the landing. Everything was fine, not a single bump, until--
"Holy shit--" He hissed as his headlights lit up someone on the runway. They only barely managed to get out of the way of the plane. He came to a stop, popping the cockpit hood up, utterly confused. Where the hell was his tech team?
He heard the scream before he saw anything - a gut wrenching, horrible sound - and just managed to touch the tarmac with his feet when he saw it - two people tussling on the ground, one of them screaming bloody murder.
"Hey!" He yelled at them, running over. "Hey, get off h--" His words stopped dead as he watched one of them tear out the other's throat with their teeth. He stood, staring, in shock - even only lit by the runway lights he could see the near pitch-black blood streaming from the attackers mouth.
It turned to look at him, wild and crazed.
"What the fuck--" He said to himself, already fumbling for his gun and stepping back. "What the fuck--"
The man - creature? - launched itself at him, and Poe reacted with pure automatic instinct. Two bullets, right in the centre of the skull. The thing collapsed, dead instantly, stopped in its tracks. Poe could see the eviscerated corpse of its previous target some twenty feet behind it.
He could feel his hands start to shake as he forced himself to look away. Command. He needed to find command. He needed to find command right now. Where was everyone?
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Andy hadn't gotten caught. Or killed. But she'd taken a bullet to the shoulder and was half-way to bleeding out by the time they'd made it back. That's probably what the IV in her arm was for — fluids. And morphine. Though glancing up at the bag hanging near her head, she could see it was empty. Nobody had been in to check on her in a while then. Likely owing to whatever the fuck was going on outside. Sounded bad. Were they under attack? Some kind of security breach?
Bad timing. She didn't have anything on her. Wasn't like she was suited up for duty or anything. Hell, she didn't even have anything on but her underwear and a hospital gown. Definitely no weapon. Fuck. Well. She didn't live through this job the past twenty some-odd years without being resourceful and scrappy as hell, so. Carefully, she eased the needle out of her arm, then swung her legs around to test herself. Steady enough.
One quick glance around the room, then she finally made her way out into the hallway.
What she saw there? It was —
God.
The chaos. The carnage.
Just as bad as any battlefield she'd never known.
If she'd panicked then, it would have been understandable. But she had a spine of steel, this one — had to, after all the shit she'd seen and been through, the shit she'd done — and she knew what she had to do. Survive. Make it out of here. Figure out what was going on and how bad it was outside. Bad, probably. This was a military hospital. On a base. If things were fucked up here, then... Well. First thing's first. She stole the boots and gun off a dead security guard in the hall. Shoved an empty biohazard bag full of medical supplies from one of the crash carts. Then made her way towards the nearest exit.
It didn't take her long to get a sense of what she was dealing with. She killed at least half a dozen of the infected before she finally stumbled outside, her hospital gown soaked through with blood. She had to make it to the airfield. Commandeer a craft and get the fuck out of here. To the next closest base, maybe. Before it spread. If it hadn't already. She wasn't an expert pilot, but she could get helicopter off the ground if she needed to.
By the time she made it to the hanger, the wound in her shoulder had opened back up. She'd slowed down, barely kept upright by adrenaline and sheer willpower. But she was almost there. Almost —
From behind her, she heard a rasping groan as one of those things grabbed onto her, sending them both crashing into the ground. Her gun skittered off just out of arm's reach, leaving her to kick and grapple with her attacker, her shoulder practically screaming in pain as she tried to force the torn muscle to obey her, to keep those damn teeth from catching her, just scant inches from her fucking face —
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He didn't hesitate, this time. The attacker slumped on its prey, and Poe immediately ran forward and kicked the thing right off. It tumbled to the side, twisting, it's face torn open on one side from the exit wounds of his shots. He was breathing hard, standing over it for a few seconds, staring at it as if he was making sure it would actually stay down.
This was his fourth kill tonight.
Both the second and the third had tried to come after him.
Poe had seen plenty of action, but always from the sky. This was something completely different. He was almost as wild eyed as the crazed people that were attacking, his heart hammering as he finally focused his attention on the woman the thing had been trying to attack.
He stared down at her, his gun wavering a little, as if trying to decide if he needed to shoot her, too. Instead:
"... Scythian?" It had taken him a moment to recognize her. He'd only met her once, but--
"Fuck, you're bleeding. Are you okay?"
no subject
For a second, she just closed her eyes. Breathed deeply. Controlled herself. Controlled the pain.
Then he spoke. And she opened her eyes again, squinting at him through sweat-matted hair.
She knew him. She'd read his dossier once, when they were choosing a pilot for a mission a few years back. Couldn't remember what they called him anymore — there were dozens of pilots since, and she never bothered to get to know anybody they worked with outside her team. What was the point? Half of them would die before she ever saw them again anyway. But apparently this one was either good enough or lucky enough to make it. Lucky for her, too.
Finally, she managed to push herself up, her jaw tightening against what would have otherwise been a wince.
"It's from before," she answered in a clipped tone. "I'm fine. Just pass me the bag. There's medical supplies in there." The bag had been dropped during the scuffle, but everything inside would still be intact. Bandages and shit. Something to slow the bleeding. "You fly, don't you?" She was looking at him now, more closely than before. "You could get us out of here."
no subject
"Yeah, I fly. Where else do you think 'Firefly' would come from?" he asked, tearing open the package of the bandage, and quickly pressing the pad to the wound in her shoulder, before turning around to check the other side. Good. He could see the exit wound, but it was still scabbed over. He started wrapping the bandage tightly around both anyway, just in case.
"None of the jets are fueled up," He explained. His first goal had been to get to command, but the base looked like there had been an evacuation. Most of the trucks were gone. All of the big planes required a team to fuel them up, but--
"There's a rescue helicopter. It's always fueled for emergency standbys. Is it just you, or have you seen--" He wavered. He'd seen plenty of people. Just none of them that were sane and alive.
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She grunted when he starts wrapping the bandage around her arm, the noise followed by a heavy exhale through her nose as she willed herself to bear it. If there had been morphine in that drip earlier, it was wearing off by now. But she'd had worse. Plenty worse. Without a shred of self-consciousness, she tugs her blood-soaked hospital gown down a little to better exposure her injured shoulder, uncaring of the bare skin underneath.
"It's just me." Again, the same curt voice. She's probably given that reply any number of times during her career. It's just me. Just her, the lone survivor again, after coming back from whatever hell they'd sent her off to. "And we're going to get overwhelmed if we stick around on the off chance someone else made it. We have to get out. Now. Otherwise there's nobody left to warn everyone else."
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Ammo.
"Don't get your hopes up about warning anyone," he warned lowly as he reached down an arm to her, an offer to help her up. "I think it... it didn't just hit here. I lost contact with flight control before I even landed. I couldn't raise anyone on the radio. Even if the base went dark, someone else..."
He trailed off, swallowing.
"Let's just go. We can work out the rest when we're in the air."
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"Fine. Lead the way."
She gestures with her weapon. Good thing she's a steady shot with both hands because it's clear by the way her other arm hangs limp at her side that she's done all she can with it for now.
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He falls into step alongside her, one hand pressed against her back, mostly so he can keep spatially aware of her as they move quickly.
He hears the next 'thing' before they see it, scrambling and shuffling on the other side of a door. He hisses a note to Andy, preparing to slam the door open and shoot the thing, but--
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Only pain and blood loss keeps her moving the way that she's used to. She ends up leaning heavily in the doorframe, her arm slightly unsteady as she holds up her gun and fires three shots in a row at the thing just seconds before it can recover enough to reach her. Normally, she's not in the habit of wasting ammo, but she doesn't trust herself to kill with one shot right now. Better not to risk it. All the bullets in the world won't matter if she doesn't live to use them.
"Come on." She gestures to him, grunting with effort as she pushes herself upright again to keep going.
no subject
He knew she had to be good - no one got onto black ops, let alone survived it, unless they were good. But she just went and killed a man like it was a normal tuesday, while she was bleeding out.
"I'm right here," He reassured her, slinging an arm under hers and around her waist. It would hurt like a bitch, but it would give her support. Thankfully there was nothing else between them and the large bay doors, out into the hangar. The helicopter was right where Poe expected it to be, just outside on the helicopter pad, and he felt his heart do a flip of relief.
"She's still here," he breathed, as he started picking up the pace.
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"Going to be a lot of noise when we get her started up," Andy mutters, "Hope you have more bullets than I do."
If her math is right, she has seven left in the clip, one in the chamber. And she saw plenty more than eight of those things during her escape from the hospital. Who knows how many more could be lurking around.
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"I can't make it go faster or quieter than it needs to," He apologized. "This is going to get a lot more rough before it gets better. You want the doors open or closed?"
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As long as she stays conscious. Fuck. Maybe she should've tried to bring an IV bag or two with them. Hindsight is twenty-twenty. Not that it does her any good now. She just has to last long enough for them to get airborne. As far as she knows, those things can't fly, so.
She settles in for the fight.
"Doors open." There's something hard in her expression. No fear, just focus. "Let's get the fuck out of here."
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"Starting up initial flight sequence," he said, his voice audible both in the air and over the radio they now shared. Soon it would be too loud to hear except over the headset.
He started flipping switches, lights. The engine started with a dull roar. The blades started rotating soon after that, slowly at first, then faster, each swipe through the air getting louder and louder.
Somewhere nearby, one of those creatures screamed.
"Incoming!"
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It doesn't take long. The noise draws them in from all around. Those things.
She doesn't know if they're still people or not. In the moment, she doesn't much care either.
Andy starts squeezing the trigger.
She was right about the eight bullets. There's dozens of them. For the eight she kills with those eight bullets, it feels like twice as many push forward to take their place. They're surrounded now, on all sides, and she loses both time and ground as she one-handedly reloads her pistol. But she's staying steady. Staying focused. Working to get the the fucking clip into her gun as they start to grab onto the landing skids —
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He tries not to count the swarm.
"Come on, come on," He mutters under his breath, going through his flight checklist faster than he ever has, his fingers flying over switches.
Half fuel. They hadn't finished refueling it before all this started. Whatever this was. He cursed under his breath. Fine. Better than nothing. They'd get off the ground.
The helicopter blades whirred faster and faster, and slowly they started to lurch off the ground. But Poe could feel the extra weight, even if he couldn't see it, and he swore again.
"They're gonna weigh us down! Fuck!" The helicopter lurched and swayed a foot into the air, another, three--
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Fuck. Finally, the clip slides into place. She flips her grip in a heartbeat. Every second after that is punctuated by the sound of a gun firing. Steady rhythm. Bullet after bullet. Hard to miss when those goddamn things are close enough that their fingertips brush the edge of her hospital gown. And with each sickening pop, the weight on the chopper eases just a tiny bit.
She can't stop. If she stops firing for a second, the numbers will just overwhelm them all over again.
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His lips thin into a tight line and he punches it the second he feels it's light enough. The entire helicopter tilts forward, the blades pressing into the wind as they started rising rapidly. He could still hear the gun going - could still feel the shifts as another body fell, this time several dozen feet to the ground below. They got higher and higher and relief started pouring into his chest as he heard the gun go silent.
"You alright back there?" he yelled over the noise into his mic. "Did we lose all our extra passengers?"
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Sure. Gun's just about empty and she's a little lightheaded, but fuck it, they're airborne, aren't they? She didn't fall out the open door to her death either, so she'll take it. Could be worse, even if it's not by much. This is better than still being down there, waiting to get fucking torn apart.
FInally, she acknowledges him, glancing over her shoulder at him as she scoots herself further into the helicopter with a pained hiss of breath.
"...Yeah. Only you and me now," she finally grits out, closing her eyes as she sits there, giving herself a minute. She's just gonna rest. Just gonna rest her eyes. Yeah. Just...
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"Hey. Hey," he snaps, trying to keep her awake. "Stay with me, alright? We can't go far on this fuel anyway - I'm gonna take us up into the mountains. Hopefully far enough away from those things that we'll be okay. But I need you to stay with me, alright?"
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Hell, she's only human.
"I'm fine." She's not. But she has to be. What choice is there? "Just fly."
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It wasn't a hard command to obey.
The problem wasn't the flying. The problem was the landing. He wanted to land somewhere unpopulated, but that also meant that there weren't easy airfields to access, or a helipad. He was already running out of fuel when he got to the mountain.
It was pure luck that he managed to spot a meadow between the trees, just in time. The landing was a little rough - a little bumpy - but they set down and Poe let out a shakey breath, closing his eyes for a second.
And then he was moving again. Both bags up, one over each shoulder, and then he was reaching for the Scythian, too.
"Okay, come on," he murmured. "I don't want to risk anything having heard us land. I think I spotted a cabin a few minutes walk south of here. We can head there."
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It's a good thing she thought to steal the boots off that dead security guard earlier, otherwise she'd be in for a cold fucking trek to that cabin. She's still freezing her literal ass off — the gown is thin, barely held onto her by a few strings in the back — but she doesn't let her discomfort show on her face. There's just the pinch of her eyebrows, like she's mildly inconvenienced by being half-drained of blood and treading unprotected through the snow.
She doesn't say much to Firefly. Saving her energy, maybe. Or just not particularly friendly. Some of both, really, though the truth is that it's taking all her focus to stay upright and conscious as they walk. It feels like an eternity before the cabin comes into sight, even though it can't be more than several minutes. She squints at the little building, her vision blurring a little, the world going out of focus before her knees suddenly give out and she slumps down into the snow.
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He'd been slipping into his own thoughts as they walked, the adrenaline of the evening wearing off into exhaustion, his footsteps heavy. He should have been paying more attention to her - should have known that there was no way she was going to be able to keep going long with that wound in her shoulder. He was just to distracted, too stupid--
"Hey--!" He grabbed for her automatically when she slumped, but she slipped out of his fingers. "Hey, hey come on now, we're almost there. You don't get to give up on me now," He whispered to her, his breath harsh and tight as if he was trying to conceal it from the eerily quiet snow. He got his arms under her and hefted her up against him with a grunt. He'd carry her all the way to the cabin, if he had to.
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If she could realize how pathetic she looks right then, she'd probably be annoyed with herself. It wasn't often that she found herself in such dire straits — not since she was much younger, and much less experienced. The Scythian of history were known as fierce warriors, and she'd earned the moniker with blood. She was the one you called in with there weren't any other options. When you couldn't afford to fail. When the stakes were too high to trust someone else.
And here she was now, an inch from blacking out, relying on some pilot she barely knew to get her ass somewhere relatively safe. Weakly, she clung to him, some reflex causing her fingers to tighten slightly in his jacket.
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Somehow, he managed to half drag half carry her to the cabin, putting her down in a snow-dusted chair on the porch, while he tried to find a way in. The place had obviously been closed up for the winter but with a prodigious use of his elbow and the shattering properties of glass, he managed to find a way inside. He hefted her back up, dragging her in and laying her down on the thankfully queen sized mattress. It wasn’t made, but there were blankets and he piled them on her before quickly throwing some wood into the fireplace. It took almost twenty minutes to get the fire started and to get the broken window sealed up before he could return to her. She looked deathly pale, her breathing shallow.
His own clothes were soaked, now, the snow melted through, and he stripped off quickly before scrambling under the blankets with her. Fuck, she was cold.
“Come on,” he whispered, drawing her up against his chest and wrapping his arms around her, careful to miss the wound as he rubbed her down, generating heat with friction.
“Come on, you made it this far—“
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She can hear him willing her to survive. Come on, he keeps saying. Come on.
Fuck. She's lived through too much to die like this. She's dodged death a thousand times. This can't be the end. She won't let it. She —
She coughs roughly, curling towards him, her face buried against his throat. It's a strained mutter when she manages finally:
"...I'm not dead yet."
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"Could have had me fooled for a minute there," He breathes lowly. "Anything hurt?"
... Stupid question.
"Anything new hurt? I don't want you getting frostbite."
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"Is that what this is?" She's feeling well enough to mock him a little, even with her voice still rough and her body still shaking. Probably a good sign. "Medical attention?"
But she's not complaining. Not really. She knows she needs the heat. Won't be any use to anybody if her trigger finger falls off.
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"I'm a pilot, not a doctor," He adds after a few seconds. He pulls her closer and hisses a little bit. "Fuck, you're cold."
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She mumbles the apology against his throat, using the word in a gruff way that suggests she probably doesn't apologize much — not that she can help how cold she is. Her body is trying — still shivering, through less violently than before — but she'd been half-conscious in the snow with little between her and the elements except a thin hospital gown and her underwear, so. Maybe she should just be grateful she's alive to feel cold at all.
"Did the supplies make it?" She tucks herself more against him, her legs brushing against his as she tries to get more skin on skin, seeking out that warmth. "You'll have to help me redress my damn shoulder."
This is what happens when I check my email before sneep
Her skin was like ice, and he wrapped his legs around hers when she went looking for them, one thigh pressing between her legs.
“We can dress it once you’re warmer. I don’t want you getting hypothermia.”
He could feel her warming up at least - thanks to him, the blankets, and the crackling fire.
He was struck suddenly by how intimate this was, but he couldn’t bring himself to disengage. He shouldn’t. She needed the warmth. It wasn’t anything untoward...
“I’m just glad you made it,” he admitted in a whisper. “I mean - not only because I wouldn’t have gotten off the ground without you, but...”
He trailed off. He didn’t know how many of his friends were even alive right now.
Or how many had turned into those things.
SUPLEXES U
The sentiment he whispers to her — that's more intimate than anything.
They're practically strangers. But he's glad, he says. Glad she made it. And not just because she's handy with a gun either.
"Don't be glad yet," her voice is a low rumble, muffled as she slips her good arm around him, just to help her press a little closer to his warmth. "For all you fucking know, I'll kick your ass and take your shit the second I can move."
ohhh senpai
“There was no one on air traffic control,” he murmurs, his voice dropping to nearly a whisper. “It wasn’t just the base. I don’t know... I don’t even know how many of us there are, within a hundred miles. I don’t know how fast that shit is spreading.”
He was still rubbing her back, even though his muscles were getting tired.
“I sure as hell don’t want to be alone.”
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"You're not alone," she finally mutters in response.
Carefully, she pulls away a little, just enough to look at him.
"Hate to admit it, but you probably saved my life. So I owe you. At least for now."
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Well. Except one thing.
"I know I'm breaking protocol with this," he murmured, arms still around her, even though he could actually see her face, now, etched in the warm fire light. "But I am pretty sure protocol is right out the window, so."
He wet his lips.
"I'm Poe. Dameron. You can call me whatever you want, but... at least this way if something horrible happens you'll be able to scrawl my name on a cheap make-shift grave marker."
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"If something horrible happens, I won't have time for that shit," she mutters in response, "So try not to fucking die. At least not until my shoulder heals a little more."
It's a deflection, maybe. Something harsh she says just to keep the distance between them. As if that matters when they could be the last two fucking humans for a hundred miles and he's already holding her half-naked body against his. She seems aware of it, and after a few moments, she starts trying to pull away — even though her lips are still a little blue, her skin still cool to the touch.
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But pretty sure all this would break regulation, too.
"I solemnly swear I will try not to die until your shoulder heals a little more," He says dryly.
But when she pulls away, he shuffles closer after her.
"Come on. You gotta warm up. We can't risk you getting hypothermia."
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Fine probably isn't accurate, not yet. But she's not so cold anymore that all she can do is lay there and uselessly shiver, at least. So she insists, pulling away from him again even as her Good Samaritan tries to make up the distance. It takes her a second at the edge of the bed, her legs still a little unsteady, but she tests her weight and goes for it, swaying only slightly and gritting her teeth against the uncomfortable tingling in her legs as all the movement brings circulation back to her limbs.
She manages to get over to the fire, bracing herself on the mantle with one hand for a moment. The flames cast flickering shadows over her body, the warmth washing over her. It's nice. Gives her the little something she needs to keep herself moving so that she can briskly strip off her filthy hospital gown and her underwear — both soaked with blood that's run down from her shoulder.
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He watches the firelight dance over her skin as she strips, and he feels his heart thump, a strange longing coming over him. Wordlessly, he slips out of the bed. He doesn’t move to embrace her again, just pulls his clothes back on and grabs a bucket, before heading back outside. A moment later, he returns, pretending his teeth aren’t chattering as he brings the bucket back to the fire - now full of snow - and sets it close to the flames to melt and boil.
Then he goes to fetch the bag with the medical supplies and drags it over.
“We need to clean it first.”
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Her eyes drift away. She sits down by the fire, letting it warm her as she starts to peel the old bandages off — heavy with her old blood by now, almost completely dark with it. With a flick of her wrist, she tosses that shit into the fire to let it burn. There's a faint stench, for a minute, but soon there's nothing left but ash.
The wound in her shoulder is a clean hole. A bullet wound. The skin around it is irritated and swollen — but not infected. Small blessings. He's right though, they'll have to clean it and keep it clean, if she wants it to stay uninfected. It's not an exaggeration to say that with the shortage of supplies and medicine, an infection could mean losing the arm entirely.
"Help me," she murmurs lowly. She can't see her own back, that part of her shoulder where the bullet exited.