((Mina Mashall continued from There's No Greater Lie Than "A Good Day To Die"))
Mina had been panting in the shed, her pulse hammering, for maybe ten minutes before she collected herself enough to even take stock of her situation. She'd kept running after escaping Whitman, pushing herself further and further down dark streets, glancing constantly over her shoulder for pursuit. It was a tactical decision; she figured that if he were invested in tracking her down, increasing the amount of ground to search between where they'd parted and where she now was would exponentially increase the amount of searching he'd have to do to find her. Every moment in which he didn't catch up with her also offered more opportunities for him to get diverted. Mina told herself that she was mostly hoping for him to run into someone bigger and badder, but then admitted the truth to herself: really, in those moments when he'd held her, she'd have gladly taken a reprieve in the form of some easier victim to leave to doom to the fate intended for her.
At least she hadn't been badly hurt. When Whitman had dragged her back along the fence, her clothes had prevented her from getting too scratched up by the splintery wood, though the elbows of her army shirt were now visibly scuffed and the waistline of her skirt was getting tattered, most notably in the form of a long gash torn in the back below the elastic by the hook. Luckily, she had not been stabbed by it, though she had sustained some other minor injuries. She'd scraped her right knee in her landing, though her long socks had protected her lower leg from the dirt and gravel. She was also pretty sure she was sporting a number of hidden bruises.
Her knee was bleeding a little. She'd been fortunate enough not to get rocks embedded in it, but the droplets of blood dribbling and drying along the hem of her sock made her uncomfortable and she groped around for her first aid kit to bandage herself up only to remember it was still lying where she'd left it in the bag she'd abandoned when ditching Whitman. All she had now was her voice recorder—switched off in a quiet moment during her flight, almost compulsively—and her hook and herself.
Hoping to perhaps catch a break, Mina took more careful stock of her surroundings. The shed was fairly large, seemingly built for storage but also mostly cleaned out. Large, high windows on every wall and the door let in the moonlight, giving her at least some visibility. There were shelves, upon which lay a few scattered cardboard boxes full of screws and small pieces of wire and chunks of plywood. On the ground were a number of buckets, full of paint or primer or something. One of these Mina had repurposed as a chair. The floor was unfinished wood, rough and splintery, so she was trying not to have too much contact with it. Everything smelled vaguely of sawdust and metal and chemicals.
Tactically speaking, her scrape was nothing to worry about. By the time it could get infected and flare up, she'd probably be rotten and bloated anyways, a corpse stuffed into a closet or dropped off the pier, flesh peeling and maggots wriggling where her tongue had been. As a matter of comfort, though, it was very much a big deal. Leaving it untreated felt like giving up, letting Whitman mark her in a lasting way, showing the world that she'd been on the wrong end of things. And Mina actually did have some materials to work with. A makeshift bandage would be, well, not nothing, but within her power. She just had to decide what she was willing to give up for it. Her army shirt she was keeping. It was tough and thick and a color that didn't stand out. She supposed she could shorten her skirt, maybe even increasing her mobility in the progress, but it was already a bit torn up and she did not relish the thought of running around in her underwear. Hadn't that happened to some girl about half a year ago? She was sure she'd heard something to that effect. One of her more sickeningly brainwashed classmates had laughed about it, and Mina had yelled at him. No pants, and set herself on fire. No, that was not going to be Mina.
So that left her tank top. It was already red, and it was totally expendable. She could tear off the bottom third or so, convert it into an impromptu crop top, and then just button her shirt over it instead of leaving it open like a jacket as she had been. Then she wouldn't have to think about it again. She picked the hook up from where she'd left it on the ground, pulled at the hem of her tank top, and was about to tear at it when she realized that maybe she didn't want to be slashing with a rusty hook right next to her stomach. So she set the hook back down for a moment, shrugged off her army shirt, and pulled her tank top over her head.
Yep. Even in the faint light, the bruises along her ribs and upper arms were clear to see.
It's Not Me, It's You
Phase 2 (13-24 Hours), Expecting company
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
((Charlie Cade Jr continued from Quietus))
Recollecting what you'd been taught about the principles of injury treatment and first aid was rather difficult when the aid which was required was dealing with an arrow impaling your abdomen.
Oh. Sorry. Bolt. Crossbows fired bolts.
It was more important to Charlie than it should have been to make that distinction. One had to be correct about one's cause of death, right? Make it clear for the coroner.
The adrenaline which had carried her through the fight and flight had now burned away. In its place was sickening nausea and constant shivers, each tremor causing a fresh wave of pain to emanate out from the shaft through her gut.
Charlie could feel it shifting around each time she took a step. The flesh around it was sucking close and tight, creating a natural seal but raw and agonising with even the slightest of movement. She didn't even dare look at the damage, just clasping her hand to the bolt and trying to keep it as still as possible as she moved. It was all that she could do to stay on her feet, let alone move quickly. This needed treating now, but treating needed to take place somewhere safe. Otherwise, she was dead. Stone dead.
Her breath was ragged, coming in little snatches. She'd tried to catch it a couple of times, and each time had needed to bite down on her sleeve to keep herself from screaming as the deeper inhalation had once again caused the lodged bolt to move.
For all that, Charlie was lucky. Lucky to be alive. This wasn't a cut like the one Peters had sutured for her. A little further to the side and the bolt would have gone straight through her stomach, her actual gut rather than just her side, and she'd already be dying. Further up and it could have hit her in the chest, pierced a lung or her heart. Lower, and it could have shattered on her pelvis, leaving pieces of itself buried, or torn through her thigh, opening an artery...
The list went on. This was agonising and it was still far better than it could have been.
And could still kill her yet, Charlie reminded herself. Having the shaft lodged in there did mean that the bleeding was staunched, for now, but she was still losing blood. Moreover, she didn't need to be a doctor to know that having a foreign object perforating her abdomen was a threat to her life.
This wasn't just a cut. Botch this, and she would kill herself as sure as a shot to the heart.
Eyes blurred with what she told herself was pain, not tears, Charlie finally landed upon a potential refuge. She'd been walking--hobbling--through the street, not daring to approach any of the houses, lest she run across somebody. Finally, she saw a large shed, set a little out of the way from the house it belonged to, bushes rising high on one side. Good enough. It would have to be.
Charlie stumbled up to the door, reaching for the latch and twisting it, leaving a bloody smear on the wood. Her legs were trembling. She needed this, needed just to res—
—Someone was here.
Her right hand, the offhand, had the knife in it within a second, but the motion was too much, sending vertigo spiralling around her head, another stumble, and then the pain was back, and Charlie fell to one knee, barely keeping hold of the blade.
Her eyes finally focused through the blur.
Under other circumstances, she might have scoffed at finding Mina Mashall half dressed, again. In this situation, though, that was far from her thoughts, dashing with the panic of running across someone, of getupgetupgetupyou'regoingtodie, of the fact that Mina looked a little worse for wear and maybe this wasn't it after all, of the knife in her hand and whether she had even enough to take a swing, let alone defend herself.
A million and one things rushed through her head.
She settled on a wry twitch of the mouth that was something akin to a smile but closer to a grimace.
"Mina."
Recollecting what you'd been taught about the principles of injury treatment and first aid was rather difficult when the aid which was required was dealing with an arrow impaling your abdomen.
Oh. Sorry. Bolt. Crossbows fired bolts.
It was more important to Charlie than it should have been to make that distinction. One had to be correct about one's cause of death, right? Make it clear for the coroner.
The adrenaline which had carried her through the fight and flight had now burned away. In its place was sickening nausea and constant shivers, each tremor causing a fresh wave of pain to emanate out from the shaft through her gut.
Charlie could feel it shifting around each time she took a step. The flesh around it was sucking close and tight, creating a natural seal but raw and agonising with even the slightest of movement. She didn't even dare look at the damage, just clasping her hand to the bolt and trying to keep it as still as possible as she moved. It was all that she could do to stay on her feet, let alone move quickly. This needed treating now, but treating needed to take place somewhere safe. Otherwise, she was dead. Stone dead.
Her breath was ragged, coming in little snatches. She'd tried to catch it a couple of times, and each time had needed to bite down on her sleeve to keep herself from screaming as the deeper inhalation had once again caused the lodged bolt to move.
For all that, Charlie was lucky. Lucky to be alive. This wasn't a cut like the one Peters had sutured for her. A little further to the side and the bolt would have gone straight through her stomach, her actual gut rather than just her side, and she'd already be dying. Further up and it could have hit her in the chest, pierced a lung or her heart. Lower, and it could have shattered on her pelvis, leaving pieces of itself buried, or torn through her thigh, opening an artery...
The list went on. This was agonising and it was still far better than it could have been.
And could still kill her yet, Charlie reminded herself. Having the shaft lodged in there did mean that the bleeding was staunched, for now, but she was still losing blood. Moreover, she didn't need to be a doctor to know that having a foreign object perforating her abdomen was a threat to her life.
This wasn't just a cut. Botch this, and she would kill herself as sure as a shot to the heart.
Eyes blurred with what she told herself was pain, not tears, Charlie finally landed upon a potential refuge. She'd been walking--hobbling--through the street, not daring to approach any of the houses, lest she run across somebody. Finally, she saw a large shed, set a little out of the way from the house it belonged to, bushes rising high on one side. Good enough. It would have to be.
Charlie stumbled up to the door, reaching for the latch and twisting it, leaving a bloody smear on the wood. Her legs were trembling. She needed this, needed just to res—
—Someone was here.
Her right hand, the offhand, had the knife in it within a second, but the motion was too much, sending vertigo spiralling around her head, another stumble, and then the pain was back, and Charlie fell to one knee, barely keeping hold of the blade.
Her eyes finally focused through the blur.
Under other circumstances, she might have scoffed at finding Mina Mashall half dressed, again. In this situation, though, that was far from her thoughts, dashing with the panic of running across someone, of getupgetupgetupyou'regoingtodie, of the fact that Mina looked a little worse for wear and maybe this wasn't it after all, of the knife in her hand and whether she had even enough to take a swing, let alone defend herself.
A million and one things rushed through her head.
She settled on a wry twitch of the mouth that was something akin to a smile but closer to a grimace.
"Mina."
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
When the door opened, Mina was staring at her bruises, wondering if she should take her bra off to get a complete survey, tank top in her right hand, left empty. She started at the rattle of the handle, looked up, and started again because of who it was.
Charlie. It was Charlie. Charlie who Mina had thought was an example of a propaganda-addled follower who was nonetheless too competent for the sorts of slip-ups Whitman made in his malice. Charlie who had killed... somebody, a boy Mina thought, but she couldn't remember who it was just now. Charlie whose side was smeared with blood, who had something jutting out of her.
The girl staggered forward, brandishing a knife in her right hand even as she dropped to a knee. Mina reached to her side for the hook, but realized she'd dropped her army shirt on it and didn't feel like taking her eyes off Charlie to try to dig it out was a good idea. She didn't really know what to do. She just looked Charlie in the face for a moment, feeling maybe even more exposed than she actually was. This was all wrong. Charlie was really bloody, far more so than the scrape on Mina's leg. Nobody was wearing anything purple. Charlie gave a pained, false smile, and said Mina's first name, and that was wrong too.
"H-hey, Charlie," Mina said.
What to follow that with? "How are you?" Charlie was obviously doing real fucking awful. "Are you okay?" Clearly she wasn't. "Please don't kill me?" It wouldn't make a difference, and might put ideas in the girl's head. "Are you about to die?"
Mina didn't want to know the answer.
She shifted aimlessly and uncomfortably, lifting her wadded tank top up to cover herself and then letting it drop back to her lap. If she had to, she thought she could maybe charge past Charlie, knock her over and get clear, but in doing so Mina would probably open herself up to at least one free slash. She didn't want to have to do that. Her father had told her a joke, once, that he'd heard from his CQC instructor in Basic: How do you know who won a knife fight? The loser dies in the street, the winner dies in the ambulance.
There were no easy answers. Maybe there weren't even any right ones. So Mina didn't deploy the reinforcements she'd promised her greeting. She just left it to fend for itself.
Charlie. It was Charlie. Charlie who Mina had thought was an example of a propaganda-addled follower who was nonetheless too competent for the sorts of slip-ups Whitman made in his malice. Charlie who had killed... somebody, a boy Mina thought, but she couldn't remember who it was just now. Charlie whose side was smeared with blood, who had something jutting out of her.
The girl staggered forward, brandishing a knife in her right hand even as she dropped to a knee. Mina reached to her side for the hook, but realized she'd dropped her army shirt on it and didn't feel like taking her eyes off Charlie to try to dig it out was a good idea. She didn't really know what to do. She just looked Charlie in the face for a moment, feeling maybe even more exposed than she actually was. This was all wrong. Charlie was really bloody, far more so than the scrape on Mina's leg. Nobody was wearing anything purple. Charlie gave a pained, false smile, and said Mina's first name, and that was wrong too.
"H-hey, Charlie," Mina said.
What to follow that with? "How are you?" Charlie was obviously doing real fucking awful. "Are you okay?" Clearly she wasn't. "Please don't kill me?" It wouldn't make a difference, and might put ideas in the girl's head. "Are you about to die?"
Mina didn't want to know the answer.
She shifted aimlessly and uncomfortably, lifting her wadded tank top up to cover herself and then letting it drop back to her lap. If she had to, she thought she could maybe charge past Charlie, knock her over and get clear, but in doing so Mina would probably open herself up to at least one free slash. She didn't want to have to do that. Her father had told her a joke, once, that he'd heard from his CQC instructor in Basic: How do you know who won a knife fight? The loser dies in the street, the winner dies in the ambulance.
There were no easy answers. Maybe there weren't even any right ones. So Mina didn't deploy the reinforcements she'd promised her greeting. She just left it to fend for itself.
They stared each other down. The three words they'd exchanged hung there between them.
There was a camera mounted on the wall of the shed. Its lense shone reflective black, watching them like the eye of an alien observer. Behind it a feed, people, whichever staff member decided what to show at what particular time during the Program. Did they have a rank? Military or civilian? This was a military project after all, but they could have been privately contracted.
It was a detached kind of observation she made. Might as well have been a million miles away.
But right here, in the now, it wasn't a million miles. It was present. Real. The US was watching. Uncle Sam.
Watching her dying.
Was it that it was Mina that set her off? Seeing the rebel, that frustrating, infuriating delinquent who had landed her in hot water (partially).
Would she have reacted the same, if it had been someone else? If she hadn't been bleeding, bending everything she had not to just start screaming in pain?
Maybe, maybe not.
Everything cracked at once.
Because what was the point? What was the point when people like Charlie could kill people like Dyne, were in here with each and every other person whose name had been called, when people like Vaitaki were protecting others and just staying alive? What was the point when Charlie could encounter Faye Xandora, someone she knew, was on decent terms with, should have been a comrade of, should they serve together, and the response was to kill her?
What was the point of all this? They were supposed to all be on the same side, even the ones like Mina who they were supposed to shun. But what did it matter, if the 'good ones' and the 'bad ones' were all in the same batch? What did the line between 'good' and 'bad' even matter, and who was drawing it? This wasn't war, this wasn't patriotism.
This was a slaughter.
Tears began to stream down her face, and once that was cracked, there wasn't any fixing it.
There was a camera mounted on the wall of the shed. Its lense shone reflective black, watching them like the eye of an alien observer. Behind it a feed, people, whichever staff member decided what to show at what particular time during the Program. Did they have a rank? Military or civilian? This was a military project after all, but they could have been privately contracted.
It was a detached kind of observation she made. Might as well have been a million miles away.
But right here, in the now, it wasn't a million miles. It was present. Real. The US was watching. Uncle Sam.
Watching her dying.
Was it that it was Mina that set her off? Seeing the rebel, that frustrating, infuriating delinquent who had landed her in hot water (partially).
Would she have reacted the same, if it had been someone else? If she hadn't been bleeding, bending everything she had not to just start screaming in pain?
Maybe, maybe not.
Everything cracked at once.
Because what was the point? What was the point when people like Charlie could kill people like Dyne, were in here with each and every other person whose name had been called, when people like Vaitaki were protecting others and just staying alive? What was the point when Charlie could encounter Faye Xandora, someone she knew, was on decent terms with, should have been a comrade of, should they serve together, and the response was to kill her?
What was the point of all this? They were supposed to all be on the same side, even the ones like Mina who they were supposed to shun. But what did it matter, if the 'good ones' and the 'bad ones' were all in the same batch? What did the line between 'good' and 'bad' even matter, and who was drawing it? This wasn't war, this wasn't patriotism.
This was a slaughter.
Tears began to stream down her face, and once that was cracked, there wasn't any fixing it.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
Even in the few moments the silence between the girls held, Mina had concocted a wide range of imaginary scenarios for how the rest of this encounter would play out. Most were bleak. Charlie would attack her, maybe successfully or maybe she would be stymied by her injuries, maybe she'd kill Mina or maybe just maim her, or take her hostage, or block the door, or maybe Mina would spring to her feet and grab the bucket of paint she'd been sitting on and swing it with all the force she could muster. But she'd never expected Charlie to burst into tears.
A month or two ago, Charlie crying in front of her would have filled Mina with, if not happiness, at least some measure of pride. She'd have been pleased to see the girl knocked off her high horse, brought down to reality and humbled. It'd've been better even than their brawl in the hall. Mina could have held this moment of weakness close, kept it warm inside herself, and every time Charlie had said anything about proper behavior or duty or the honor of the country and then met her gaze it would've been there waiting, a reminder that Mina had gotten a peek through the cracks.
Now, all it did was make Mina think that maybe Charlie really was dying.
Words still weren't coming. Mina's gaze slid back and forth, from the tears running down Charlie's cheeks to the blood running down her side. This was all wrong. Mina hadn't even done anything to make Charlie cry. She hadn't earned this. It was something private, and Mina wasn't supposed to be here. Charlie wouldn't want to be seen like this.
Mina held out her hand towards Charlie, offering her crumpled tank top like a handkerchief.
A month or two ago, Charlie crying in front of her would have filled Mina with, if not happiness, at least some measure of pride. She'd have been pleased to see the girl knocked off her high horse, brought down to reality and humbled. It'd've been better even than their brawl in the hall. Mina could have held this moment of weakness close, kept it warm inside herself, and every time Charlie had said anything about proper behavior or duty or the honor of the country and then met her gaze it would've been there waiting, a reminder that Mina had gotten a peek through the cracks.
Now, all it did was make Mina think that maybe Charlie really was dying.
Words still weren't coming. Mina's gaze slid back and forth, from the tears running down Charlie's cheeks to the blood running down her side. This was all wrong. Mina hadn't even done anything to make Charlie cry. She hadn't earned this. It was something private, and Mina wasn't supposed to be here. Charlie wouldn't want to be seen like this.
Mina held out her hand towards Charlie, offering her crumpled tank top like a handkerchief.
Stop crying.
Stop crying.
This wasn't her. She was a soldier, she was a patriot. She wasn't weak.
Charlie didn't cry. Charlie didn't shrink back in the face of her duty.
Stop. Crying.
Stop—
She couldn't. She just couldn't.
Mina reached out to her, and even through the tears, the incredulous look in Charlie's eyes was clear. Of all the people to run into, she would have ranked Mina near enough last on those that would offer help as a first reaction.
It wasn't much, but that was still more than the quality of their relationship warranted.
Charlie took the article from Mina's hand, briefly pressed it to her face and eyes. There was an odd and ridiculous moment where she hoped the sweat and tears on her brow wouldn't stain it too badly, but it swiftly passed. Sentiment, in a place which had no space for anything of the sort.
It smelled of sweat and stress.
The tears were slowing, although not stopping. Charlie handed the top back with a tiny nod.
"This needs to come out," she said hoarsely, and she wasn't sure if she was talking to herself or pleading with Mina.
Stop crying.
This wasn't her. She was a soldier, she was a patriot. She wasn't weak.
Charlie didn't cry. Charlie didn't shrink back in the face of her duty.
Stop. Crying.
Stop—
She couldn't. She just couldn't.
Mina reached out to her, and even through the tears, the incredulous look in Charlie's eyes was clear. Of all the people to run into, she would have ranked Mina near enough last on those that would offer help as a first reaction.
It wasn't much, but that was still more than the quality of their relationship warranted.
Charlie took the article from Mina's hand, briefly pressed it to her face and eyes. There was an odd and ridiculous moment where she hoped the sweat and tears on her brow wouldn't stain it too badly, but it swiftly passed. Sentiment, in a place which had no space for anything of the sort.
It smelled of sweat and stress.
The tears were slowing, although not stopping. Charlie handed the top back with a tiny nod.
"This needs to come out," she said hoarsely, and she wasn't sure if she was talking to herself or pleading with Mina.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
Mina took her tank top back, but wasn't sure what to do with it. Put it back on? It was dirtier now, and she'd taken it off in the first place meaning to tear a piece off to bandage herself, and, alright, the thought of cloth damp with Charlie's tears resting against her skin was a little weird. She settled for setting it on a nearby paint can that looked relatively free of dust, distracted as she did by Charlie's surprisingly-personal admission. She was struck once again by the feeling that she was seeing something she shouldn't be. The other girl must've been caught off guard by her presence. Charlie with the knife made sense to her—frustrating, terrifying sense, but sense all the same. Crying Charlie was an unknown quantity.
Had Charlie cried after their fight, somewhere private where not even her family would ever know?
"It's okay," Mina said. "It's okay to express yourself."
A split second later, her eyes drifted over Charlie again, she realized that she'd totally misinterpreted what the girl had meant. She wasn't talking about her emotions or her tears. She had—Mina squinted a little, trying to see more clearly in the dimness—an arrow or something sticking out of her side, blood seeping from the wound. It needed to come out. Of course Charlie was crying. Mina had been upset herself about being choked and getting her knee scraped. She was actually surprised nothing she'd faced had brought her to tears, and as the thought crossed her mind a pressure built in her chest, against her throat, and she swallowed twice to force it down. This was not the time.
"I mean, uh..."
She stumbled over her attempted course correction, looking Charlie in the face again. There were still a few droplets shining at the corners of the girl's eyes, and Mina quickly picked her tank top back up. As she did, though, she knew what she should do, what the right choice here was. It came to her with all the clarity it usually did, like when she admitted that stealing the things she wanted was probably less revolutionary and more selfish, when she knew she shouldn't stay silent as Charlie rejected Mr. Phillips' excuse and took all the blame, when she had a moment to turn around and instead chose to leave Marion for dead.
For once, Mina listened.
"Do you need help?"
Had Charlie cried after their fight, somewhere private where not even her family would ever know?
"It's okay," Mina said. "It's okay to express yourself."
A split second later, her eyes drifted over Charlie again, she realized that she'd totally misinterpreted what the girl had meant. She wasn't talking about her emotions or her tears. She had—Mina squinted a little, trying to see more clearly in the dimness—an arrow or something sticking out of her side, blood seeping from the wound. It needed to come out. Of course Charlie was crying. Mina had been upset herself about being choked and getting her knee scraped. She was actually surprised nothing she'd faced had brought her to tears, and as the thought crossed her mind a pressure built in her chest, against her throat, and she swallowed twice to force it down. This was not the time.
"I mean, uh..."
She stumbled over her attempted course correction, looking Charlie in the face again. There were still a few droplets shining at the corners of the girl's eyes, and Mina quickly picked her tank top back up. As she did, though, she knew what she should do, what the right choice here was. It came to her with all the clarity it usually did, like when she admitted that stealing the things she wanted was probably less revolutionary and more selfish, when she knew she shouldn't stay silent as Charlie rejected Mr. Phillips' excuse and took all the blame, when she had a moment to turn around and instead chose to leave Marion for dead.
For once, Mina listened.
"Do you need help?"
Charlie gritted her teeth, breathed out through them.
"Yes."
A moment.
"Please. I do."
"Yes."
A moment.
"Please. I do."
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
"Okay," Mina said. She took a deep breath. This felt more daunting than it had to be. She wrapped the tank top around her hand. Why? For better grip, maybe? So she'd have it immediately ready to stop the bleeding when the arrow was removed? So she wouldn't get Charlie's blood on her hands? It wasn't really important.
"If something feels wrong, tell me," Mina said. She didn't think there were any important organs or arteries or anything where Charlie had been hit. Mostly it was just a meaty part of the side, but Mina was no medic and the light was bad and she was distracted. She couldn't imagine what it felt like, and she couldn't say what was going to happen. She really hoped Charlie didn't die, and then thought that thought was a strange one. She corrected herself, told herself that she hoped Charlie didn't die here, in front of her, because that was the last thing she needed after the day she'd had.
"Get some bandages ready." Mina took another breath. One little point of solace was that Charlie was almost certainly not the person who'd opened fire on her earlier. Charlie didn't seem to have a gun, and the announcement had made it sound like her kill was up close and personal.
Right. Charlie had killed someone. That wasn't quite real to Mina yet. The girl had already been through a lot; the condition of her face spoke to that. It all seemed distant and irrelevant to the current moment, though. What mattered now was dealing with her wound. Mina decided that the tank top around her hand was so she could help staunch the bleeding. That was the most logical option.
Mina gingerly reached out. The shaft of the arrow felt hard, smooth, evil. She tightened her grip, trying to ignore the resistance and stability that was the result of it being embedded in Charlie's flesh. It wouldn't do to get halfway and then have her fingers slip.
"If something feels wrong, tell me," Mina said. She didn't think there were any important organs or arteries or anything where Charlie had been hit. Mostly it was just a meaty part of the side, but Mina was no medic and the light was bad and she was distracted. She couldn't imagine what it felt like, and she couldn't say what was going to happen. She really hoped Charlie didn't die, and then thought that thought was a strange one. She corrected herself, told herself that she hoped Charlie didn't die here, in front of her, because that was the last thing she needed after the day she'd had.
"Get some bandages ready." Mina took another breath. One little point of solace was that Charlie was almost certainly not the person who'd opened fire on her earlier. Charlie didn't seem to have a gun, and the announcement had made it sound like her kill was up close and personal.
Right. Charlie had killed someone. That wasn't quite real to Mina yet. The girl had already been through a lot; the condition of her face spoke to that. It all seemed distant and irrelevant to the current moment, though. What mattered now was dealing with her wound. Mina decided that the tank top around her hand was so she could help staunch the bleeding. That was the most logical option.
Mina gingerly reached out. The shaft of the arrow felt hard, smooth, evil. She tightened her grip, trying to ignore the resistance and stability that was the result of it being embedded in Charlie's flesh. It wouldn't do to get halfway and then have her fingers slip.
She was agreeing to help her.
Mina Mashall just agreed to help her.
And almost unbelievably Charlie didn't think she was lying, either. Mina was a lot of different things, but this wasn't a lie that she would tell.
Of course, this would be one hell of a time to be wrong.
Mina looked to be psyching herself up, and Charlie couldn't blame her. This was about the furthest place from where you wanted to treat an injury, field medicine at its finest—or most raw, if you like.
Mina's hand gripped the shaft of the bolt. Even that slight pressure sent fresh waves of nausea and hot pain searing through Charlie's stomach. Her breathing hitched for a second.
Charlie's hand went out of its own volition and covered Mina's for a second. Panic? Desperation?
Another shaky breath. She told herself that the trembling was from Mina, and not her.
Charlie looked into Mina's eyes, wondering if she looked as afraid as Mina did.
"Do it."
She let go.
Mina Mashall just agreed to help her.
And almost unbelievably Charlie didn't think she was lying, either. Mina was a lot of different things, but this wasn't a lie that she would tell.
Of course, this would be one hell of a time to be wrong.
Mina looked to be psyching herself up, and Charlie couldn't blame her. This was about the furthest place from where you wanted to treat an injury, field medicine at its finest—or most raw, if you like.
Mina's hand gripped the shaft of the bolt. Even that slight pressure sent fresh waves of nausea and hot pain searing through Charlie's stomach. Her breathing hitched for a second.
Charlie's hand went out of its own volition and covered Mina's for a second. Panic? Desperation?
Another shaky breath. She told herself that the trembling was from Mina, and not her.
Charlie looked into Mina's eyes, wondering if she looked as afraid as Mina did.
"Do it."
She let go.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
Charlie's eyes were very pale blue. Mina had noticed this before, had in fact had her face closer to Charlie's in the not-too-distant past, but it was only now that she found herself so struck by them. They were wide, the expression not a natural fit for her features. The girl's hand was a comforting pressure on Mina's, though not much more; the tank top wrapping kept her from feeling Charlie's skin.
Then, it was time. Charlie let go. Mina kept eye contact.
One more breath.
As quickly and in as straight a trajectory as she could, she pulled.
Then, it was time. Charlie let go. Mina kept eye contact.
One more breath.
As quickly and in as straight a trajectory as she could, she pulled.
A scream tore out of her in sync with the bolt.
If she thought she'd been in pain before, then that paled in comparison to this.
What was interesting about puncture wounds was that the puncturing object was often the only thing preventing the flow of blood.
Now the bolt was out, and the bleeding was most assuredly no longer staunched.
Charlie's hands clasped to her stomach with a fistful of bandages, but so was her back bleeding, so was—there was so much.
"Pressure!" she barked, or may have cried. "Help... close it!"
Charlie tried to jerk her head towards the first aid kit from which she'd pulled the bandages, but wasn't even sure if she managed to move her head in the right direction. She couldn't see straight, a black mass swimming behind her eyes, pulsing in time with the blood oozing from the wounds.
Oh god. Oh god.
If she thought she'd been in pain before, then that paled in comparison to this.
What was interesting about puncture wounds was that the puncturing object was often the only thing preventing the flow of blood.
Now the bolt was out, and the bleeding was most assuredly no longer staunched.
Charlie's hands clasped to her stomach with a fistful of bandages, but so was her back bleeding, so was—there was so much.
"Pressure!" she barked, or may have cried. "Help... close it!"
Charlie tried to jerk her head towards the first aid kit from which she'd pulled the bandages, but wasn't even sure if she managed to move her head in the right direction. She couldn't see straight, a black mass swimming behind her eyes, pulsing in time with the blood oozing from the wounds.
Oh god. Oh god.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
It was amazing how quickly hindsight kicked in.
Charlie screamed, and the blood started coming thicker, and Mina had this thought that maybe she'd once heard that you weren't supposed to pull foreign objects out of wounds until proper medical help arrived. This was the sort of thing for ambulances and hospitals, or at least triage and field medics, but none of that was applicable here. Leaving Charlie skewered would've probably been condemning her to a slow death, but right now it was looking like the alternative was just a speedier demise. Mina had really not been expecting this much blood, and for a moment she had no idea how to respond. Maybe she could've psyched herself up properly with another ten minutes if she knew what to expect. She wished she could just put the arrow back while they strategized more clearly.
Instead, she let it fall to the ground. She didn't hear it land. The grainy wood floor, the scent of sawdust and metal, the sting of her leg, all of these things had slipped away. Her attention was focused entirely on Charlie, except for that little part that was telling her that their position was now compromised by the noise, that anyone could be coming to investigate and they'd both be caught defenseless. There was no helping that. Charlie was pressing the bandages to her front, crying out instructions but more pertinently crying for help.
If she died, would Mina be blamed on the announcements?
There was no time to worry about that. It was pushed away with the concerns of prowlers. Mina moved quickly, though not as quickly as she'd have liked. Charlie's head was jerking around but Mina paid it no attention, quickly unwinding her wadded tank top from her hand and leaning in, reaching around Charlie and wadding it back into a ball and pressing it against the hole in girl's back. This brought them close together, almost into an embrace, because Mina was still in front of the other girl. Maybe that was bad. Maybe she was handling this all wrong. She could imagine it already, Charlie's eyes drooping closed, the girl going limp in her arms. Mina pressed tighter, bringing her head alongside Charlie's.
"What do I do?" she hissed, pleading. "I don't know what to do."
Charlie screamed, and the blood started coming thicker, and Mina had this thought that maybe she'd once heard that you weren't supposed to pull foreign objects out of wounds until proper medical help arrived. This was the sort of thing for ambulances and hospitals, or at least triage and field medics, but none of that was applicable here. Leaving Charlie skewered would've probably been condemning her to a slow death, but right now it was looking like the alternative was just a speedier demise. Mina had really not been expecting this much blood, and for a moment she had no idea how to respond. Maybe she could've psyched herself up properly with another ten minutes if she knew what to expect. She wished she could just put the arrow back while they strategized more clearly.
Instead, she let it fall to the ground. She didn't hear it land. The grainy wood floor, the scent of sawdust and metal, the sting of her leg, all of these things had slipped away. Her attention was focused entirely on Charlie, except for that little part that was telling her that their position was now compromised by the noise, that anyone could be coming to investigate and they'd both be caught defenseless. There was no helping that. Charlie was pressing the bandages to her front, crying out instructions but more pertinently crying for help.
If she died, would Mina be blamed on the announcements?
There was no time to worry about that. It was pushed away with the concerns of prowlers. Mina moved quickly, though not as quickly as she'd have liked. Charlie's head was jerking around but Mina paid it no attention, quickly unwinding her wadded tank top from her hand and leaning in, reaching around Charlie and wadding it back into a ball and pressing it against the hole in girl's back. This brought them close together, almost into an embrace, because Mina was still in front of the other girl. Maybe that was bad. Maybe she was handling this all wrong. She could imagine it already, Charlie's eyes drooping closed, the girl going limp in her arms. Mina pressed tighter, bringing her head alongside Charlie's.
"What do I do?" she hissed, pleading. "I don't know what to do."
The sound that tore out of Charlie's throat as Mina fumbled around with the injury couldn't rightfully be called either a scream or a curse, but there was certainly something resembling profanity mixed in there.
She felt light headed.
That was bad. Focus. Focus. You're losing blood, you need to concentrate.
Stop the bleeding or you're dead.
"Staples—or—stitches!" Charlie snarled, or at least thought she did. She wasn't sure if the words were only in her head. She hoped they weren't just in her head.
Were there even staples? Doubtful. This was an order of magnitude worse than butterfly strips.
Even though one hand was pressed hard to the wound in her abdomen, Charlie spared the other to grip Mina's shoulder, imprinting a bloody smear on the skin.
"Focus!" That was definitely aloud, a pained growl directly into Mina's ear. "Stop thinking—and do it!"
Of all the people to have her life depending on, to be bleeding out in the arms of...
...
.
She felt light headed.
That was bad. Focus. Focus. You're losing blood, you need to concentrate.
Stop the bleeding or you're dead.
"Staples—or—stitches!" Charlie snarled, or at least thought she did. She wasn't sure if the words were only in her head. She hoped they weren't just in her head.
Were there even staples? Doubtful. This was an order of magnitude worse than butterfly strips.
Even though one hand was pressed hard to the wound in her abdomen, Charlie spared the other to grip Mina's shoulder, imprinting a bloody smear on the skin.
"Focus!" That was definitely aloud, a pained growl directly into Mina's ear. "Stop thinking—and do it!"
Of all the people to have her life depending on, to be bleeding out in the arms of...
...
.
-
MurderWeasel
- Posts: 3442
- Joined: Mon Aug 06, 2018 9:56 am
- Team Affiliation: Jewel's Leviathans
Staples. Stitches. Focus.
Another deep breath, continued pressure.
Charlie's hand felt cool, slick against Mina's bare shoulder. There was blood, blood everywhere it felt like, enough to make Mina's own injury seem like the pathetic scrape it was. This was happening. This was where her life had led her. This was entirely unexpected and yet somehow felt almost right. It was sort of like she really had gone off to war, like she was serving her term alongside Charlie, except Mina had always expected that in such a situation she'd be more likely to roll a grenade under the girl's bunk than to pull her out of the fire. She could smell the blood, she thought, mingling with the wood and metal.
Stop thinking. Do it.
Okay. Okay, she could. Mina could. One more deep breath. Then she moved.
Mina slipped from Charlie's grasp, keeping the pressure up even as she changed which hand held her wadded shirt to the girl's back. The first aid kit was there, within reach, and Mina pulled it close with her free hand. She flipped through the contents, but it was hard to see in the half-light. She squinted, trying to make out the writing on each component. Face shield, useless. Thermometer, useless. Anti-fungal cream, useless. Gloves? A little later for that. At least she was pretty sure Charlie didn't have Hepatitis, not that it would even matter in a few days or hours or minutes when it was Mina bleeding to death. Bandages and butterfly strips, more of what they'd been trying. Was it working? Didn't seem like it. And not a sign of staples or thread.
Burn dressing. A lighter. An idea was forming.
"Don't think we've got that stuff," Mina growled. She sounded tense, edgy, and that wasn't going to be doing either of their nerves any good. Another deep breath. She wasn't so good at this not-thinking thing, at least not on command. She tried to force herself to sound calmer, to lie for Charlie's sake at least. Why was it so hard? Mina was great at lying.
"But we've still got options," she said. It was coming through as obviously-false cheer. That was probably not better. "We could cauterize it."
Another deep breath, continued pressure.
Charlie's hand felt cool, slick against Mina's bare shoulder. There was blood, blood everywhere it felt like, enough to make Mina's own injury seem like the pathetic scrape it was. This was happening. This was where her life had led her. This was entirely unexpected and yet somehow felt almost right. It was sort of like she really had gone off to war, like she was serving her term alongside Charlie, except Mina had always expected that in such a situation she'd be more likely to roll a grenade under the girl's bunk than to pull her out of the fire. She could smell the blood, she thought, mingling with the wood and metal.
Stop thinking. Do it.
Okay. Okay, she could. Mina could. One more deep breath. Then she moved.
Mina slipped from Charlie's grasp, keeping the pressure up even as she changed which hand held her wadded shirt to the girl's back. The first aid kit was there, within reach, and Mina pulled it close with her free hand. She flipped through the contents, but it was hard to see in the half-light. She squinted, trying to make out the writing on each component. Face shield, useless. Thermometer, useless. Anti-fungal cream, useless. Gloves? A little later for that. At least she was pretty sure Charlie didn't have Hepatitis, not that it would even matter in a few days or hours or minutes when it was Mina bleeding to death. Bandages and butterfly strips, more of what they'd been trying. Was it working? Didn't seem like it. And not a sign of staples or thread.
Burn dressing. A lighter. An idea was forming.
"Don't think we've got that stuff," Mina growled. She sounded tense, edgy, and that wasn't going to be doing either of their nerves any good. Another deep breath. She wasn't so good at this not-thinking thing, at least not on command. She tried to force herself to sound calmer, to lie for Charlie's sake at least. Why was it so hard? Mina was great at lying.
"But we've still got options," she said. It was coming through as obviously-false cheer. That was probably not better. "We could cauterize it."