PSL no. 2: cruel wars

[presurgery]

CHRONOLOGICALLY -

i. alternate universe
ii. picture prompt
iii. quote prompt
iv. random scenario
v. psl
vi. stargazing
vii. psl
viii. psl
ix. psl
x. insomnia

Comments

[insuperiorstrength]

[ He wakes up at the feel of something jostling his body, of being dragged, and instantly grabs for what's in reach, his mutilated left hand (two fingers chewed to pieces between her molars but he's killed her now, it doesn't matter) connecting with a shoulder, an upper-arm. He breathes in raggedly, managing a long, uneven drag, feeling his one, un-collapsed lung fighting to respond, the other full of blood and fluids. Turning his head sideways, he spits blood onto the floor, just as his brain - slow now, too slow - registers John's scent, the sound of his familiar footfalls.

Blinking one, swollen eye open, his vision takes a long while to clear, though he manages to catch a glimpse of her form, the shape of her, dark and small and out of sorts. As she's been, he thinks, for most of her adult life. Ah, but everything hurts - the laser gun did what it was supposed to, of course. Badly built? Hardly. He groans, one leg caught at an awkward angle (and stuck there until the bone heals). Frowning, he raises his hand again and grabs hold of John, where ever he can get a grip of any kind at this angle. She's dead but he's alive. Most of them are. It's not good enough, it's not good, but war never is - when first you've realised, you learn to work around very different constants. Different values, different scopes.

He forces himself not to lose consciousness, blinking up at the ceiling, then at John. John, who is alive.

The goal, by most relevant definitions, accomplished. ]

[presurgery]

[ Little by little, in recognisable stages, Khan comes to - eyes (well, eye) opening and his hand scrambling for purchase along John's upper arm, shoulder, whatever's within reach, pretty much. John eases him down on a mostly untouched spot of floor, shrugging out of his shirt quickly to give him something to rest his head on. It's blood-soaked (Mike's), but more comfortable than the ground, so it'll have to do. Bare-chested, he gets to work on the other man, looking him over properly, checking out his most severe injuries (try with all of them), the external ones, the rest he'll need an x-ray machine and the works for, right? Broken leg, all those bloody holes... ]

I'm here, I'm fine.

[ John grasps his hand briefly, it's chewed up and bleeding, but still feels like nearness and intimacy. Shit, he must have difficulties breathing, with both his lungs shot to bits, air escaping through the open wounds. John releases him, moving over to grab one of the blankets off the nearest chair and folds it up, spreading it out over his chest. Then, he undoes his belt and straps it around the blanket and beneath Khan's back, tightening it up with all the strength he's got. It's an intermediate solution, far from perfect, but it'll keep the air in his system somewhat. And although Khan might not need it to actually, you know, breathe, like he doesn't need morphine to heal, it'll probably help his cells regenerate, if they're not lacking oxygen.

Only once that's done, a turned-over chair popped underneath his broken leg for support as well, does John stroke his hair (because, shoot him), mutter be right back and run to the nearest intercom panel, swiping his card over it and saying exactly four words: ]

Library. Bring medical supplies.