Sem título

I will take him into my arms as he struggles to remain in the same plane as me, slipping between the veil of life and death. I’ll call his name and shake him in a way that seems far to harsh despite my attempts to be gentle with his fragile body; I’ll to watch as his limbs flutter around helplessly, and his head lolls against my shoulder, his face remaining slack.

As his heart begins to fade, I’ll force my knuckles into his sternum, rubbing at it harshly until it is covered in bruises. I want to feel his weak attempts at whimpers and the hiss of struggled breaths, as I try desperately to force life back into his weakening chest, to make his dying heart beat a bit stronger, a bit faster. I’ll take seflish pride in knowing the pain I’m causing him is saving his life, even if something that could almost label as guilt or shame tears through my own heart.

I’ll try to help him breathe, even if I know my actions are futile; I’ll help him sit upright, laying him against my chest, fluid spilling from his lips as I use a single, gentle hand against his throat, gripped tightly around his jaw, to hold his airway nice and open, while also tilting his head slightly down to allow him to pass the fluid keeping him from getting air. Every time he begins to choke, despite lacking the energy to do so, I’ll use my finger to clear his throat of spit and fluid so he can attempt to breathe clearly. When he stutters through half a breath, choking before he can fully fill his lungs, I’ll press my mouth over his and give him some of my own breath, feeling his chest rise and fall, his cheeks pillowing and throat shifting as I do so, bobbing as he nearly chokes over the force of my air going down his throat, pressing gentle kisses to his lips between each breath.

Eventually, he’ll stop breathing against me entirely, and I will hear him gurgling on his own spit until he is too weak to attempt another, and feel his ribs stopping shifting with the far too intense effort it took to pull even the smallest amount of air into his body, and his weak attempts at coughs as his lungs give out, jerking his chest against my own pitifully, his head pulling back ever so slightly until he goes entirely slack. My own heart will ache and my stomach will tingle with something eerily similar to arousal as his heart follows suit, flickering out from its already slow rhythm until there is nothing but a sharp ringing in the air. I’ll shift the hand currently holding his airway open, letting his head sag and his airway obstruct almost completely, to press my fingers deeply into his carotid, wanting to feel for myself that he is gone.

Before I can even process the fact that his heart has truly stopped, I will quickly scoop him up into my arms, his head falling off my shoulder and sagging helplessly, causing his neck to extend in an exposed fashion, before laying him out on the bed haphazardly, surrounded by the muffed-up blue hospital sheets and myriad of lines and wires and tubes that curl around him like some sort of all-consuming halo, letting his gown ride up and become disheveled, exposing his beautiful skin; the boney curves of his chest, the way his ribs stick out ever so slightly to protect his weak lungs and weaker heart, the soft flesh of his belly, the sharp edges of his collar bone.

I’ll press my fingers to each of his leads, making sure they’re firmly stuck down where they are littered over his chest, and rearrange the wires so they lay nicely against his form. As I let my eyes scan over his unmoving body, I’ll tighten the blood pressure cuff around his thigh, just to be safe. I’ll card my fingers through his hair and study his emotionless face, pressing kisses over his closed eyes and to the corners of his cold lips.

As I half heartedly pump his chest with one hand, I’ll attempt to shove my suction tube down his throat with the other, trying desperately to do the job of 2 people, maybe three people at once, or more so, the work his body should be doing but can’t. I’ll hear the satisfying crackle of fluid leaving his wet lungs, all while his head bobs with each compression, his body offering no other reaction to the bowing of his ribs or the tube down his throat. I’ll struggle at the angle, having to abandon his heart to focus on his lungs.

I want to watch his lips turn blue as I struggle to suction all the fluid from his throat and lungs, unable to truly get any air in his lungs, no matter how many times I pressed my lips to his and blew as hard as I could, only to feel my breath gargle in his lungs. I’d shift his head over and over until I decided to place and OPA, slipping the plastic tube down his throat, finally establishing an airway; I’d use it to place a suction tube down his airway, into his lungs, finally clearing enough fluid give his body what it so desperately needed. I’ll press my warm, pink, lips to his cold, gray-ish ones, finding them sickly moist, but finally feeling air move through the plastic tube and down into his lungs, lifting his chest in the process, the warm air coming back cool.

Once I can get his airway stabilized, I’ll go back to his chest, finding his once pale ivory skin now tinted gray. His delicate ribs bow beneath my hands almost too easily, his stomach bulging and his shoulders jumping with each compression. The sound of the gentle gasps of air that leave him, almost whistling past the OPA, as I break his chest and the quiet but still harsh beeping of the EKG as it warns me of his dropping stats and the effects of my compressions on his sick heart filling my ears.

I want to make use of all those ports, filling him with fluids and drugs, desperately hooking him up to whatever I can get my hands on, anything that could potentially bring him back to me. I’ll send adrenaline straight through his PICC line, fluids and vasopressors through his IVs, trying to stabilize his dying body or bring back even the most feeble of heart beats.

I’d have to keep breathing for him, stopping my compressions when my shoulders begin to burn more than I can power through, only to drape myself over him, fingers in his hair, as I press our mouths together, breathing into the OPA, air filling past the plastic tube. I’ll repeat the action over and over again, filling my lovers lungs with air, reveling in the smoothness the airway brings to our one-sided exchange of air, how the air whisps out of it with a gentle hiss, how steady it feels when I place my hand to his chest, feeling it fill his moist lungs.

I still have to pause to suction him over and over, to keep him from drowning on his own fluids, but something about the action, feeding the tube down his throat and working it through his lungs, hearing the crackle of fluid, and even when I go back to breathing for him, his chest rattles every now and again despite my best efforts. His lips grow colder and colder against mine as time passes, but as I breathe for him again and again, they momentarily match my warmth before I go back to compressions, our last exchange feeling almost like a kiss, but surely cool when I abandon them.

I’ll pull his gown even further down to expose his full chest, and the bruises I’ve left, so I can press AED pads to his skin, feeling his bones shift beneath me as I press them to his chest firmly. I’ll shock him and watch his chest seize, and his head throw back, exposing his pretty neck, and his hands clenched tightly at his sides. I’ll shock him over and over again, each time with higher and higher voltage, his reaction to the shocks becoming more violent each time. After each attempt I’ll lean over and kiss him, gently apologizing for what I’m doing to him, only to shock him again even harder. Somehow the shame is arousing, knowing I’m breaking him, hurting him, only out of desperation.

I’ll need him to come back, I’ll beg him throughout the compressions, as my hands begin to wander from his sternum, and straying just slightly to the left, directly over his heart, because I need it to beat, I need to pump it directly so it can find the strength to restart.

I want his name to fall off my tongue like a prayer, over and over and over again, until there is nothing left in my mind. I want my actions, and my devotions to be like prayer to him, my attention to every facet of his being, even then, when he is dead under my hands, to be like worship. I want to break him, hurt him, destroy him in my attempts to revive him; burning his skin with each shock, breaking his ribs, bruising his beautiful body.

His heart restart after I’ve shocked him more times than I can count, given him more air than I can even begin to imagine, and broken his chest in a desperate manner. It’ll be weak and slow, I’ll have to guide it with my hands, continuing shallow compressions, so it doesn’t flutter back out of existence, until I grow too tired to keep up any consitancy.

I’ll switch to pacing with the AED, struggling to get it to catch a rhythm at all, turning the dial up more and more, worrying that he’s too far gone, that even though his hearts attempting to beat at the moment, its given up its fight and wants only to fizzle out and be left alone (little does it know I won’t allow that). but once it does, I’ll find pleasure in watching his chest jolt with each small shock of the pacer. I'll turn the volts up, much like I did the defib, and push his heart to be strong. I want to hold his hand as he begins to dig his nails into his palms as he is struck with pain. I can’t even bring myself to give him something for the pain out of fear of risking his heart stopping once more, even though I know it's cruel and most likely selfish to do so. I love him, I can’t lose him, I’ll torture him if it’ll keep him alive, pleasures lulls through my being at the realization.

His breathing remains non-existent, so I’ll have to keep breathing for him, keep giving him these kisses of life, knowing my air is keeping him alive, is keeping his feeble heart beating and his sad little lungs alive. I’ll switch to an ambu bag when I can’t keep his saturation up any longer, and his body has gone a sick grayish palor, far past that blue shade, for me to keep using my recycled air, and when I do, I’ll fill his lungs to the brim each time, and relish in the return of color to his skin. It was selfish to deprive him of real oxygen for so long, but the feeling of knowing I held him in limbo for so long is intoxicating.

I’d spend hours keeping him alive, holding him in my arms, sterile hospital sheets wrapped around his form in an attempt to work some color back into his skin, my lips pressing to every inch of skin I can get to, kissing him ever so gently, willing him with sweet words to stay with me. I’d breathe for him, with the ambu bag until my wrists grew sore, and only then would I indulge my need to fill him with my own air, pressing my lips to his over and over again until his stats dropped, before going back to the bag, taking breaks every time he’d start to gurgle on fluid reaching his airway, to suction fluid from his lungs once more. Maybe he’d code a few times, maybe he’d gasp a few of his own breaths, or maybe he would just lay there, letting me help him, letting me keep him alive with no struggle or resistance.

But eventually he’d flutter into consciousness, looking frantically through his lashes, eyes blown wide and teary, whining as his chest spasms with each jolt of the pacer, and gagging on the airway still sitting in his throat. I’ll insist he keeps it in for me, because I need him to be safe for me, that he still can’t hold his own airway and his heart can’t maintain its own steady beat, and that it's for his own good. I’ll tell him I’m sorry, that everything hurts, that he has to suffer through the pain because I can’t risk his precious little heart.

I’ll watch as he struggle, hands haphazardly trying to pull the pads off his chest or pull out the air way, gently restraining him as the struggle begins throwing off his heart rhythm. I’d bind them to the side of the bed, holding one hand in my own, stroking his cheek with the other. I’d promise him that I was sorry, that he had to leave it, that he needed it, that is was for his own good, that it would all be over soon. I’d kiss away his tears as he struggled to remain conscious, finding trust in his tired puppy dog eyes.

I won’t allow him to breathe on his own, not unassisted, no, I’d sit behind him, leaning him against my chest, his head rested in the crook of my shoulder, aiding each and every breath with the ambu bag, oxygen turned up full flow, making sure his chest fills completely each time. His lungs are still weak and soggy, I still need to suction him every now and then, which is harder now that he’s conscious, but twice as pleasing, cutting off his air so that way he doesn’t continue to choke

treating him seems to be a lot like that, ebb and flow, doing harm in the moment to do good in the future, hurting him to keep him alive, torturing him because I love him, shame turning into pleasure

I’ll watch his eyes roll back as he loses grip on reality, lashes fluttering, alarms blaring, fluid crackling through the suction, something twisting in me in the most divine way. Once I’m finished I make sure to give him deep, almost too full breaths, rubbing his sternum until his eyes snap open, flashing to me in a panicked manner. I’ll kiss him and tell him everything is alright, that I’ve got him, that he’s safe with me, because he is, I’d shift the tides to keep him here with me. He’ll look up at me, still scared, confused even, and in pain, but all I’ll see is trust, trust that I’m protecting him, trust that I wouldn’t be hurting him if I didn’t have to, trust that I love him and thats why I’m doing this.

He’d submit himself to me, letting his eyes fall blankly around the room, his own breathing completely stopped, not because he can’t, but because he knows I’ll do it for him, his body going completely pliant against me so I can shift him and hold him and work him however I need without any problem.

In time his heart will strengthen, part of me is too worried to take him off the pacer, but I do slip him some morphine, and he finally slips into a blissful enough state to sleep. I’ll slip out from behind him, settling him up on the pillows gently, making sure his airway remains stable. I’ll decide to switch him to a breathing bag, so he can breathe on his own, but I’m still able to assist when needed, giving me an opportunity to let my mind stray.

I keep part of my mind locked on his body, the sound of his breathing, the way his chest moves as he inhales, the spasm caused by the pacer, the force it takes him to get air in, the palor of his skin; another on the monitor, what his vitals look like, if any alarms are going off; a third on the bag, watching him inhale, deflating the bag slightly before it refills with air. But the rest is focused on him, his pretty face, the bruises I’ve left all over him, on his chest, his jaw, even his lips are all red and swollen. His ribs are battered beyond belief, there are surely burns under the AED pads from how long they’ve sat on his body, his palms are bloodied from how tightly he’s clenched his hands tight, but something about all that is beautiful, all tragic like. It makes me want to just sit and stare, and to be frank, I do. I sit and I watch, hushing him when the morphine begins to wear off, squeezing the bag when he struggles to breath on his own, holding his hand still bound to the bed all throughout the night, savoring his beauty, almost like he’s now too fragile to touch.

In the morning, I’ll take the airway out and let him breathe on his own, feeling an odd disappointment in my relinquishment of control, almost shoving it back in when he chokes hard, coughing up fluid into his lap, his eyes panicked, but a few blows to the back and a rebreather mask takes the edge off and eventually he settles back into the pillows, where he’ll watch me dazily as I rub his chest, trying to get his breathing to fully settle until he falls back to sleep. His heart rate remains steady so I begin to wean him off the pacer, lowering the voltage bit by bit until I feel sure I can take them off. All the while, he doesn’t say a word, his throat is bruised from my efforts, but he watches me idly, like he wants to say something.

He’s still sick, there's still fluid in his lungs, and his hearts still weak, his output is low and his rhythm is bradycardic, but manageable with atropine, his saturation fluctuates, but upping his oxygen helps that too. He watches me float about his room, doting or while I’m working on him, listening to his heart and lungs with the stethoscope (hissing at his wet lungs once) more pushing meds, suctioning his lungs, cleaning around his ports. He even watches while I’m looking at the machines keeping him alive, listening as I babble to him mindlessly. He smiles, leans back, chest huffing lightly;

“I love you,” I barely hear him, his voice is quiet and broken, he coughs lightly between each syllable, but he says it. He looks at me like I’ve hung the stars (and his morphine), holding out his sickly looking hand, which I take immediately. “You saved me.”

He smiles, his perfect, soft, glowing smile, despite everything else happening to him, lightly squeezing my hand to the best of his ability, his head sinking into the pillow like it takes all his strength just to do so, and in reality, it easily could. But that doesn’t stop him from pulling my hand up to his chest, right over his heart, where it's thumping against his splinted ribs. I go to speak, to assure him that of course I did, but he pushes me with a gentle look.

“I’m here, cause of you, you saved me,” his words are floaty, like he’s not 100% there, but he looks at me, eyes wide, sure of himself, before pulling my hand up to his carotid, letting my fingers find his pulse, weak and slow, but there. “I’m still here, and I’m going to stay here, because I have you. and you won’t let me go.”

He wraps both of his IV ridden hands around my arm, his skin cool against mine, bringing it to his mouth so he could kiss my fingers. It was odd, feeling the boy he had just spent hours resuscitating and stabilizing, be the one to take care of him, even as minisculely as he was now, but touch was far from foreign, and the look in his eye was far too comforting not to lean into.

It was evening when Gustav returned for the daily round of meds. A Fetcher he didn’t recognize followed closely on his heels. He didn’t recognize them most of the time, they aged out into more useful jobs or simply no longer found the work of caring for the Forge all that appealing. This boy was a bit older than the usual lot. Most found more permanent positions on the Pennydurren by the time they were fourteen, and this kid was sixteen at least, with the acne and peach fuzz to prove it. Still, Gustav was hardly one to judge a late bloomer. He hadn’t grown his last few inches or facial hair until he was almost nineteen. He pushed aside his questions as they walked past engineering side by side.

“Enjoy being a Fetch,” he sighed, plumes of soft grey smoke spilling from his nose. “You’ll miss it when they place you somewhere permanent.” “Imagine I will, sir,” said the boy, staring down at the tray of colorless paste, the cup of little pills, and the small vial sat beside it. He hadn’t looked up yet. Tav watched his throat work for the tenth time and arched a brow. “You alright?” “Heat’s just getting to me, sir." "Ah. You're from the lower cars, then. This place is a sauna compared to the cold back there.” He rolled his shoulders, dislodging a bit of sweat on his collar to let it roll down between his shoulder blades.

The kid tried very hard not to shake perceptibly.

As they entered the engine room, Gustav once more snubbed out his cigarette on the wall. “Where do sheep spend their vacations?" he called out, voice echoing on the metal walls of the chamber. Adam grinned, setting down his book and rising to greet him. "I don't know, where?" He slid his hands in his pockets and replied, rolling from his heels to the tips of his toes and back as he inflected, "The Baaaahamas." That won a genuine laugh from the Forge and he crossed to the two of them, taking his place at the angular throne in the center of the room. The cables protruding from his back looped into the divots carved into the back of the chair and Tav rolled a tray table in front of him. The Fetcher placed the tray of food and medication down and took a step back like it was poised to bite him.

Tav gave him a glass of water and gave a cursory look over of the various pills, noting the stamps of authenticity on gel caps and tablets. Satisfied, he handed them off, and Adam chucked back the small cup of pills into the back of his throat. Once he'd washed them down, he tilted his head, opening his mouth for the Keeper to inspect his tongue. He took him by the chin, turning his face from side to side to check his cheeks and said simply, "Up." to get him to lift his tongue. Once he was sure he wasn't cheeking any of it, he patted the Forge on the side of his face.

Adam wasted no time, hunkering over his flavorless meal with a spoon. "You're a new face," he pointed out conversationally, gesturing with his silverware. "Always a new Fetch pattering around the halls," sighed Tav, retrieving his stethoscope for a quick listen, which Adam was kind enough to stop wolfing down his dinner and allow him. His heart pounded, strong as ever, the chambers moving in a shadowplay behind his sternum. The kid watched this all, trying to force his breathing and heart to slow. "He looks a little pale," said Adam. "He's from the lower cars. Probably the first time he's had any kind of heat in his bones, I'd be shivering too," Tav replied.

The Fetcher thought he might be sick. He watched the Forge scoop another shovelful of mush and stuck it in his mouth, smiling at him around the spoon. He knew, staring into that kind face and those warm brown eyes, that he had made a terrible, irrevocable mistake. "I'm sorry," he whispered, shaking. The Keeper perked at that and rounded on him. "What was that?" His knees were shaking wads of gelatin as he turned and fled the chamber.

Tav's stomach turned to lead. "What the-" He took a few hesitant steps towards him, unsure what was happening, only knowing that it filled him with an unknowing dread. His eyes went from the boy's retreating back, shoving at the button to open the glass door and stumbling through, back to Adam. His gaze snagged on the empty cup as terrible realization dawned on him. He seemed to understand at the same moment, staring wide eyed at the cup and back up at Tav. Something had been tampered with.

"Do they not vet these fucking Fetches anymore?" he spat as he turned on his heel and bolted back to Adam's side. He was already barking orders over his comm watch, "Anyone nearby sees a kid booking it for the lower cars, grab him. Gimme an engineer, now. A medic too, if we can spare it." He didn't want to say they might have to switch to auxiliary power, mainly because he didn't want to think of it. An idiot separatist, smuggled into the Forge's quarters. Allowed to touch his food and medication. He was running through the list of dead men in his head when he felt Adam's warm hand on his other wrist.

"Tav," he said shakily, looking up at him with watering eyes. His mind ground to a halt. The urgency was stopped dead by the overwhelming need to comfort, and he knelt in front of the larger man to take his face in his hands. "You're alright," Tav murmured, not believing himself. "We just... we uhm-" His throat dried up. His initial response was to get him to throw up whatever he'd ingested the kid might have tampered with, but he knew the dangers of that. If it did damage going down, it would do damage coming up, and it might not even all come up. Not to mention the risk to his airway depending on the poison. It had to be poison. That was not the reaction of a boy innocently handing off food to the heart of the Pennydurren. "We..." he tried again, and again came up with nothing.

Adam's blood swelled in his ears. The light playing against his ribs and heart flickered with the rabbit quick gait of his pulse. Something acrid, a mild bitterness he hadn't noticed while he was eating, was creeping up from his throat to his tongue. Tav's stricken face wasn't doing anything to bely his fears. Something in the Forge's expression made him move and he shifted to stand, tilting his head up. "Just sit tight, alright? I'm right here, I'm not letting anything happen to you." He immediately went to fetch the EKG machine, leads, and a few other pieces of medical equipment they'd rarely had call to use outside the annual checkups. He deposited his load at Adam's feet as the Forge tried to get air into lungs that felt like wood in his chest.

Tav placed the leads in six spots across his collarbone and sternum, and connected them to the bulky monitor at his feet. It warbled as it flickered to life, mirroring his racing heart. Already it had climbed to 100 beats per minute, his chest rising and falling quicker. His Keeper wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his sinewy upper arm and was halfway through inflating it when one of the engineers stepped through the doorway.

Marsh was a man Tav had only had brief interactions with, and he had hardly got the question out when the Keeper hurriedly informed him, "That Fetcher was some kind of plant. I think he was trying to poison Adam." "Christ," the other man said, already rolling up his sleeves as he made for the engine chassis, "Who'd be so blindingly stupid? We’ll be sitting ducks without a Forge." "I have no idea, I need you to keep the pressure valves from blowing. His heartrate is spiking." Again, a large, soft hand fell over Tav's own. Comforting platitudes rose up until he looked up into the face of his Forge.

Blood leaked steadily down one nostril. "Tav," he ground out, the ancient monitor whirring louder as his heart shot up to 150 bpm and kept ticking up and up. "I can't... can't keep my eyes open." Even as he said it his head drifted back and snapped forward again, his dark lashes fluttering. His hair spilled across his face. It was paling quickly, his normally deep olive skin blanching, first around his cheeks, his hands, his feet, then spreading from the outside in. Blood pulled from his extremities, drawing into his torso to try and keep his vital organs fed as his body rang alarm bells that something wasn’t right. In the other cars, lights brightened and flickered, radios crackled from the sudden interference, and systems began to overheat as his taxed organ pumped too hard for his body and the Pennydurren both.

“It’s okay, you’re okay,” Tav hurriedly reassured him, cradling the back of his neck with a slightly shaky hand. He glanced once more at the monitors, his stomach bottoming out as the crackling display read 170 bpm. He was fully in tachycardia. Tav’s breath shook as he tried to control his breathing. Panicking wouldn’t help anyone. Not Adam, himself, or the hundreds of people who would be forfeit to the fog outside the Pennydurren if the Forge went dark. The fog, and the things inside of it.

He pumped the pressure cuff until it finally gave him a reading, but it had no good news to share. Adam’s blood pressure was skyrocketing the same as his heart rate. It wouldn’t be able to sustain itself like this. Already Tav could see the the ventricles snapping out as the heart filled a little and recoiling as it squeezed out only half the amount of blood his body needed. If even half. He scrambled for the emergency hatch nearby which stored all manner of antiarrhythmic medications. It had something for every contingency. If his heart beat too fast, if it beat too slow, if it wasn’t beating at all. Tav shivered at the last thought, nearly dropping the vial of amiodarone as his hands shook especially hard. Beside him, Adam’s breathing had turned into noisy, sucking inhalations.

“Try to breathe deep for me,” he told him as he drew up a dose into a syringe. “In through the nose, out through the mouth, try to hold it for a few seconds.” “It hurts,” Adam ground out through a clenched jaw, “T-Tav, it… hurts to breathe…” “You gotta do it anyway, alright? Even if it hurts.” He held his forearm still as he slid the needle into a vein, steadily depressing the plunger. The amiodarone flooded into his system, and Tav rubbed a gentle circle over the injection site with his thumb as he drew away.

Marsh cursed from across the room, struggling to secure a panel of the engine which had begun to bulge and strain against its riveting. It shuddered in tandem with the ventricles in Adam’s chest, like the machinery was a crude model demonstrating what was going wrong with his heart. “Damn thing’s about to pop,” he growled, and then it did, a sharp metal sound popping like a cork as one of the bolts shot off and ricocheted off the floor. “We gotta switch to auxiliary power, he’ll overheat half the train’s systems at this rate.” “Just do whatever you need to do!”

Tav was busy hauling the defib unit up from the emergency hatch. It had sat unused for decades, and he wasn’t even sure if it had any juice left, but the thing came to life when he hit the power button, ready to shock his heart into working order. He could see the shadow of Adam’s heart starting to skip and quiver every few beats, stumbling to keep up with itself. His head was slumped forward against his chest, his eyelids weighed down. He couldn’t even sit upright. Tav thought absently how he could work better with him on the floor or a bed, but knew the ports and cables hung from his back would prevent that. “Adam,” he began, cracking on his name, “C’mon, stay with me. Stay with me, kid.”

He grabbed a tube of conduction gel from the kit and applied a good amount on the metal plane of the defibrillator paddles, rubbing them against one another to spread it evenly. He clicked the 100j mark and watched the bar climb as it charged. Adam’s body shone with sweat, his breathing deteriorated into swallow sips at air. Tav needed only a glance at his chest to confirm he had gone from a dangerously high heart rate to ventricular fibrillation. The shadow of his heart was quivering uselessly. “I’m sorry about this,” he murmured more to himself than to the Forge, who was likely past understanding him by now. He settled the paddles between the EKG leads on his sternum and to the side of his ribs, the gel making them slick against his sweat soaked chest. He jabbed the discharge buttons.

Adam felt the mule kick him in the chest. His muscles spasmed painfully, head jerking back on his neck, the muscles of his chest jumping and his arms flinching inward. He loosed a pathetic sounding groan as the charge dissipated from his muscles, unable to do much more than sit there and whimper. There was another electric whine and he felt the cold metal squish against the spots the gel had made the first time. No, he thought but couldn’t find his voice, Tav, please, you have no idea how bad that hurt. There came another click and another violent current, rippling across his muscles. He managed to find his voice enough to yelp that time, his chest heaving as he struggled to draw in air and he began to moan on every exhalation.

“I know, I’m sorry,” Tav was saying but Adam couldn’t hear him. This was a deeply necessary pain he was inflicting, but it was still pain, and it hurt his own heart to do this to his friend. A spiteful voice called him a coward for even thinking that. Adam was more than a friend, they both knew it, but Adam had been too shy for confessions and Tav too stubborn. Now he was staring into those heavy lidded eyes as they glistened with tears, and he had the horrible sinking sensation of being too late. His chest ached to hear the crackling wheeze of his breaths, and he set the defibrillator down for the moment. His heart was beating too fast still, but it was beating instead of shaking uselessly, which was something at least. Tachycardia was only a little preferable to v-fib.

He rummaged in the emergency kit and cursed when he could find no oxygen mask. Wiping his sweaty palm off on his pant leg, he stood above the Forge and leaned his head back against his shoulders, mindful not to overextend his airway. “I’m gonna give you some air,” he told him, but words had long stopped making sense to Adam. He swiped at the blood under his nose with a thumb. He pinched the Forge’s nostrils closed with one hand, the other resting on the arch of his throat. He blew hot air into his mouth. Adam’s cheeks bulged, his throat flexing with the intrusion of another person’s breath forcing its way down into his lungs.

Delirious with pain, the mouth to mouth felt like one more agony to add to the list. It forcibly expanded his chest, warring with his own breathing patterns, and he moaned out the intrusive air against Tav’s lips. Just kiss me normally. Let me kiss you without all this awfulness. Another breath breached the sanctum of his airway. He felt the warmth of tears sliding down from the corners of his eyes. When the seal made of their mouths broke, he sobbed, and became aware of the hands holding his face. They were the last thing he was aware of before the lights abruptly switched off.

“I promise I’m helping,” Tav was telling him, running a thumb over his sweaty brow. “I know this… this must all hurt like hell, but I’m helping.” “How’s he doing?” Marsh called out, fighting one of the huge switches to activate the backup generators. Tav glanced at the heart monitor and growled, “God damn it- he’s fibrillating again!” He released his hold on his face and went to scoop up the paddled again, until he caught the movement out of the corner of his eye.

Adam’s chest bucked unexpectedly. Tav paused, taken slightly aback. His shoulder jerked forward off the back of the chair and he went still. Then it jerked again, and Tav had only a moment to react before Adam locked up in a seizure. The Keeper crashed into a seated position in his Forge’s lap, standing his shaking body up so he could press him against his chest. “Christ,” he sobbed, unable to contain himself a moment more. He was cracking in two. He held tightly to his charge as his body shuddered, shaking violently against him. Adam was bigger than he was, better cared for, and a few times Tav was nearly knocked out of his lap by the surging waves of his seizing. He held tight, hooking his feet under a panel of the chair to keep him there as he cradled his thrashing body. He pressed his cheek against the other man’s and heard his teeth click and grind.

“Please,” Tav whispered in a broken husk of a voice, “God, please…” Adam’s head knocked against his Keeper’s temple until a pair of large hands slid between them and kept his head still. He looked only briefly to see Marsh on the other side of the chair, helping to still his tormented body. Tav squeezed him a little harder and nodded his thanks.

He could feel Adam’s muscles tensing at random intervals under his hands. His throat gurgled as the muscles there were caught in the tide of spasms. His heart, dangerously overtaxed, had fallen out of fibrillation and back into tachycardia. It was pounding hard against Tav’s thin ribcage, where his own heart hammered in fear. It felt like Adam’s would punch out from his sternum and crack Tav’s ribs with the intensity at which it was beating. “It’s okay,” he whispered, lips brushing the shell of his ear. “It’s okay, I’ve got you… I’ve got-“

“Took you long enough,” he said when he spotted the younger agents stopped at the door. Michael was a tall and bulky man while Sasha was a short young woman. Some of the best, if you asked him, which was why they were the first he called.

“Are you ok?” Sasha asked as she moved forward as Michael looked around for any sign of an ambush.

“Peachy, except for the bomb I'm hooked up to,” Liam replied, motioning to the timer still ticking down.

“Hooked up to?” Michael, satisfied that there wasn't anyone else there, stepped into the room. Liam tugged his dress shirt open, revealing a large, stitched up gash just under his left collarbone where a block visibly sat under the skin.

“Last I checked, I didn't have an ICD,” the older man stated. “That timer is set to my heartbeat. Which is why I’m cracking jokes; I need to be calm or else it goes off a lot quicker than we can handle.”

“OK, so we just open the stitches and deactivate it,” Sasha said.

“The pain would make my heart rate spike,” he glanced nervously at the timer. “You’all have to stop my heart to pause the timer and safely deactivate it. Afterwards, use the medical supplies here to resuscitate me. Simple.”

“What?!” both of the other agents yelped.

“Absolutely not,” Michael insisted.

“Liam, we can’t kill you–” Sasha was interrupted, though, by the timer chirping as the older man's heart rate picked up, speeding up the countdown.

“We don't have time. Either do that or leave so I don't take us all down with me,” He growled.

The other two exchanged a look before quickly grabbing various equipment and rushing them over to the gurney. There was no AED, instead an older defibrillator model with manual paddles. Probably because an AED wouldn't shock a healthy heart, and the bastards that did this probably needed to stop it to set the bomb up to begin with.

This would be Liam’s second time dying.

“This is fucking stupid,” Michael swallowed thickly as he applied gel to the paddles.

“Either this or we blow up,” Liam breathed, looking down at the black, blocky defibrillator paddles the other man pressed to his chest, one under his right collarbone and the other under his left pectoral and to the side. “Ready?”

“We should be asking you that,” Sasha replied as she gathered various other supplies.

“On three,” Michael said. “One… two… three!”

He depressed the buttons on either paddle and the electricity discharged with a thud. Liam jerked, chest bucking and arms leaping from the gurney as an involuntary grunt was forced out of him by the muscle contractions. Just as quickly, he went limp, eyes vacantly staring straight ahead. The monitor screamed as a sawtooth line traced across the screen. The timer on the bomb froze and the other two let out a breath.

“Ok, start chest compressions while I cut the wires,” Sasha urged as she rushed over, scalpel in hand.

“While you’re using the sharp knife?”

“Yes, while I’m using the sharp fucking knife. Now!”

Miachael wisely didn’t say anything else as he stacked his hands to the center of Liam’s chest and started pumping. The older man's chest caved under the other man’s palms, ribs bending and creaking in protest as his sternum was forced to squeeze his heart against his spine. His shoulders shrugged inwards and his stomach bounced in time with each compression, a small huff of air forced from his lungs.

Sasha was quick to slice open the stitches where the small box laid just under Liam’s skin, blood spilling from the reopened cut. She pulled the skin back– Michael looked away so he didn’t gag– and started examining the wires. She carefully cut what she presumed were the necessary ones. The numbers on the bomb vanished completely, indicating its deactivation. She pressed gauze to the now open wound and taped it in place.

“We’ll worry about stitches when he’s back at the base. I’m not taking those wires or the device out yet because I don’t want to shred his heart.” Sasha looked at the screen. “I think that’s vfib, let’s try shocking him.”

She scooped up the paddles and pressed the charge button. Once she indicated for him to stand back, Michael all but leaped off of Liam’s chest. She pressed the paddles to their previous spots under his right collarbone and to his left side and pressed the discharge buttons. Again, his chest bucked and arms spasmed before going completely limp again. The sawtooth pattern was replaced with a flat line. Both of them recalled something about that pattern not being able to be shocked. Cursing, Michael restarted chest compressions without hesitation.

“Fuck. Uh… breathing. There’s gotta be one of those mask things here,” Sasha said quickly as she dug through the crash cart. She pulled a mask and bag from the cart, quickly assembling it and pressing the mask to Liam’s face and tipping his head back. “Pause.” Michael obeyed, stopping compressions. She squeezed the bag, watching Liam’s cheeks round as his chest rose. Once. Twice. “Ok, thirty to two.”

“One, two, three, four, five…” Michael counted with each shove downwards into the other man’s chest. The mask muffled the small huffing noises from Liam as air was forced out of him again. “..28, 29, 30!”

Again his chest rose and fell with the artificial breaths.

"One, two, three, four, five…” There was a crack and something gave under his palms. He ignored it and kept pumping. Moving blood was more important than broken bones. He paused after reaching thirty again, feeling the other's chest swell and deflate with each squeeze of the bag.

"After this round, switch with me.”

He continued compressions for another thirty count, trying his best to ignore the odd clicking he could feel from one of his ribs. “... 28, 29, 30!” He lifted his hands and took the bag and mask after Sasha forced another two breaths into Liam’s still lungs. Michael breathed heavily, not realizing how tiring giving CPR was until he was no longer single mindedly focused on acting as the other man’s heart. “There’s medicine we can use, right? Don’t they usually use epinephrine or something to help?”

“I think so? I don’t know how much to use, though!” Sasha grit out as she took over chest compressions. “..10, 11, 12, 13…”

Either he could blindly draw medication and hope he didn’t end up making sure Liam stayed dead, or he could focus on doing what he for sure knew he could do– squeeze the bag and breathe for him when Sasha stopped. Michael decided it was safer to do as he was instructed for now. If Liam’s heart didn’t go back into that sawtooth pattern that could be shocked by the end of this cycle, then they'd have little choice but to try and hope that they gave the right medications and in the right amount. Sasha reached thirty and Michael squeezed the bag. Liam’s cheeks rounded and throat bulged slightly as air was forced into his chest, only for it to be crushed out of his lungs with a harsh wheeze by Sasha bringing her weight down onto his sternum.

“One, two, three, four, five…”

Suddenly the dying man's jaw moved from under the mask.

“I think he moved! Liam?” Michael removed the mask. Sasha jammed her fingers into the pulse point in his throat as she stared at the still flatlined monitor. Liam's eyes were half-lidded and his skin bloodless looking, lips tinted blue. His jaw twitched and his mouth gaped open with an odd snoring noise.

“He still doesn't have a pulse,” Sasha relayed before starting chest compressions again.

“But he's breathing–”

“That isn't breathing. It means he's fighting, though. 15, 16, 17…”

Michael pressed the mask to his face again, ignoring the feeling of his jaw occasionally jerking. When the time came again to squeeze the bag, there was a tiny wheeze when he was forced to breathe.

The monitor beeped and both of them turned to look. The sawtooth pattern had replaced the stubborn flat line.

“Ok, vfib!” Michael exclaimed. Sasha backed off, breathing heavily, as Michael grabbed the paddles and set them to charge. He pressed them to Liam’s chest like before and pressed the buttons. Liam bucked again like before, and when he went limp, beautiful peaks and valleys appeared on the monitor instead of the flat line or sawtooth pattern. Sasha’s hand shot to his throat, fingers pressed into the soft flesh under his jaw.

“He’s back. Holy fuck.”

Liam's eyes fluttered and he groaned, hand clumsily coming up to the gauze tapped to his upper left chest. A bruise was beginning to form on his sternum now that there was proper blood flow. Michael grabbed his hand to stop him from pawing at the gauze.

“Easy, easy, don't touch it,” He soothed.

“Can you hear us, buddy?” Sasha asked, gently patting his cheek. His gaze blearily moved to her face.

“Yes,” he croaked. And then promptly passed out.

Desperately scanning the room, Austin locates a large trolley holding an AED, alongside an array of other equipment. He quickly wipes the foam from Kerians mouth before pulling the trolley over. Pressing a button, the AED emits a tone followed by a monotone robotic voice - "Attach pads to patient's bare chest". Austin tears the included package in half and pulls the pads apart, positioning one just above Keiran's left pec and the pressing the other against his ribs on the right. Plugging the wire into the machine, Austin is commanded to stand clear as the AED analyses Keiran's erratic heartbeat...

"Shock not advised, continue CPR."

With those words Austin jumps back on Keiran's chest, fuelled by desperation. The boy's ribs bend beneath his hands as his chest is repeatedly assaulted, each compression forcing a faint whisp of air from Keiran's mouth. After 30 chest compressions, Austin once again seals his mouth against his boyfriend's lips and blows a deep breath into his lungs.

The AED breaks it's silence with a tone followed by "Shock advised, do not touch the patient". Nervously, Austin places his finger on the shock button as the AED charges. A few second later, he releases the shock.

Keiran's slim body jerks as his chest twitches, his arms slightly bouncing at his side.

Analysing...

Shock not advised, check for a pulse.

Leaping towards his boyfriend, Austin harshly presses two fingers into Keiran's neck and is met with a faint pulse.

"I knew you could do it Keiran!" He whispers, lifting Keiran's limp torso in his arms and holding him close, feeling the boy's shakey breath against his neck.

_________________________________________

Cohl fumbled to grab the straps on Yui’s suit. They were just out of reach. His body kicked like he was swimming, but he knew he was doing nothing but expending energy. They both tilted weightless through the station as debris floated between them. He couldn’t get enough leverage to reach him as his internal systems sounded an alarm, the visor of his helmet blinking red with warning. One of his life support systems was failing. Cheap fucking equipment, he spit internally. They’d scavved both suits from a small military post that had been pelted apart by a meteorite swarm. Both men figured the military would have half decent space suits. They were wrong.

Yui weakly clapped against his chest and throat, his body convulsing in the air with the overwhelming need to breathe. He could only stare helpless at the two red goose eggs on his HUD. Oxygen reserves: 0.0 percent. He looked to Cohl in a panic. The other man was trying to push himself closer in suspension, but he was moving so slowly, and there was nothing to help him gain leverage. Yui would pass out before he reached him. And even if he did, what then? The romantic idea that he would share his oxygen reserves was sweet, and more or less keeping with Cohl’s chivalrous swashbuckler persona. But if he stopped breathing, flooding his helmet with oxygen wouldn’t do much. His lungs would stop working before Cohl made it over, he was almost sure of that. Already blackness crept in around the edge of his vision and Cohl’s stricken expression and his useless wading through empty space were growing darker.

“Yui, don’t pass out,” he shouted over the comms. The jerky movements were getting fewer and farther between. Cohl was beginning to panic himself. His own helmet was throwing out warnings to slow his breathing, but he couldn’t. He racked his brain for some solution. He couldn’t just keep floating like a jackass and watch him asphyxiate. He scrambled to pull up his remote ship controls. He could see their vessel through the huge windows circling around the abandoned station, haloed by a distant sun. The cockpit was empty, he’d told the ship to hover and wait for their return while they harpooned the station and reeled themselves in. Now he woke its systems, and began manually operating it. He swiped at the controls and urged the little ship to ram the nearest support pillar braced against the outside of the station. Their Hawk was hardly a match for the size of the huge spinning top they found themselves aboard, but maybe. Maybe it could make a difference. Otherwise… he didn’t want to think of otherwise.

The station groaned as the Hawk rammed against it and the room they found themselves in lurched. Cohl found himself being shoved to the side and smashed his ribs against a wall that rushed up to him, but finally, solid ground. He looked up to see Yui poised above him, and his heart lurched when he saw he had stopped fighting. His hands weakly flexed against the seal of his helm. “No, no, hold on,” he murmured under his breath, voice distorted by his helm.

Yui watched Cohl maneuver his legs underneath himself and kick out like a gold medal swimmer in the 100 meter. His lungs wouldn’t fill. His throat worked and his brain urged him to breathe, but there was nothing left. The last shallow pull of stale carbon dioxide made it down his throat and then nothing. His lashes fluttered. Pins and needles prickled in his limbs. Through hooded eyes he watched Cohl shoot towards him, dimly aware that he had tackled him and now grappled him around the waist.

“Got you,” he heard his voice exclaim over comms, though his mind was going dim, and he was starting to hear less and less. “Pretty sure I snapped off the Hawk’s beak, don’t be mad.” Arms encircled him as Cohl, his captain, his plucky rogue who earned every story about himself, shifted him so Yui’s back pressed against his front.

He kept him pinned there as he fumbled to disconnect Yui’s useless oxygen system. “You really made me look like an idiot back there, treading water like that,” he laughed shakily, unclipping one of his own oxygen tubes from his suit. It hissed and sputtered little clouds in the dark station and he attached it to the other valve, tightening it. He heard the click and then the hum as Yui’s suit once more flooded with air. He cupped his hand over his chest. “There we go, good as new.”

But Yui didn’t respond. His arms hung limply in the absence of gravity, his head rocked forward. Cohl felt his skin tighten in goosebumps. “Yui,” he said with some urgency, rapping a finger against his helmet, “Breathe in, bud. Come on, take a breath.” The terminal on his wrist blinked and he snatched his arm, lifting it to see what other god damn warning his suit was issuing this time.

CRITICAL CONDITION- RESPIRATORY ARREST DETECTED

He grabbed the collar of Yui’s helmet and turned it towards himself, urgently thumping his sternum with his palm. He called his name again and again, clutching at the second skin material of his suit as he turned to face him. He didn’t respond. Behind the glass, his face was slack, his eyes closed and mouth slightly agape. Blue was creeping into his lips. Cohl fumbled with his limp body as they tilted in the air. The stupid thing was supposed to have a failsafe for this, but it wasn’t triggering. He swore as he punched in the controls on the wrist terminal and the helm slid open. The light of the distant sun shone on Yui’s pale face. He probed his hand in around the edges of the helmet until he found the little nozzle tucked away to the side. He grabbed it, hooking a thumb over the bottom row of his second in command’s teeth and tongue with his other hand. He plunged the rebreather into his mouth and it latched, making a seal in his airway. Cohl once more wrapped his arm around the smaller man’s chest and felt his ribs flex as the thing breathed for him.

He looked at the readout again as his oxygen levels began to climb back up slowly. Too slowly. The fluttering little line of his heartbeat was quivering, hardly making spikes. Cohl closed his helmet again and wrapped both arms around him, braced against his midriff and across his chest. “Yui,” he pleaded again and shook him once, hard enough his helmet clinked off Cohl’s own. He made a fist and scrubbed his knuckles hard against his sternum, between the lithe muscles of his pectoral. The mechanical breathing swelled against his hand as the rebreather filled his lungs with the oxygen provided by Cohl’s life support systems. It forced his chest to expand and he heard a sigh crackling over their comms, expelling each breath given to him, his chest deflating in Cohl’s hands.

The terminal chimed and threw up holographic words. CRITICAL CONDITION- VENTRICULAR FIBRILLATION DETECTED. He knew it to be true. His heart was quivering into Cohl’s palm, shaking and uncoordinated, too fast to properly push blood through his body. He felt the nervous bird flitting against the cage of his ribs. He cursed softly and gripped him by the shoulder, spinning Yui around. There were four circular ports, two over the right side of the heart, near the shoulder, and two tucked up beside his ribs on the opposite side. He flipped the little latch beside these ports and the suit sucked closer to the skin, pressing itself especially firm in these spots. He watched as the little ports began to hum and glow brighter and brighter in the center of their circular, metal frames.

“Automatic external defibrillator engaged,” came a robotic voice from the terminal, “Select charge.”

If these things were worth anything, let them be worth this. Cohl tapped the 200j option blinking at Yui’s wrist. “Charging,” said the voice, the device whining. Yui’s muscles convulsed. Cohl had to grip him tightly by the arm to keep him from drifting away as the defibrillator discharged into his fluttering heart, making his whole body jolt. His head snapped back, his shoulders shrugging, back crooking. “Shock delivered. Analyzing rhythm, stand clear of patient.”

“Not gonna happen,” he murmured to himself, cupping the other man’s helmet to tip his head back towards himself. He only just looked over at the projected monitor when the voice piped up, “No pulse detected. Begin CPR.”

A flatline cut through the darkness of the lonely station. “No, you’re kidding me,” he hissed, cupping a hand over the center of his breast. Nothing. Weren’t these stupid things supposed to fix a fibrillating heart? They weren’t supposed to kill the person, right? His mind spun. CPR. CPR? How the hell was he supposed to do that? He couldn’t put any weight behind the compressions, definitely not enough to shove his heart against his spine. He gripped his shoulder with one hand and shoved the heel of his palm against his heart. He only succeeded in nearly shoving his body away from him entirely. He looped an arm around his shoulders and tried again; again, there was no way to get enough leverage for an effective compression. His eyes roved over Yui from head to toe, then their surroundings.

“Hang on,” he huffed, resituating himself behind him again. He slid both arms around him from behind, bracing a balled fist against his unbeating heart. Settling his chin against his shoulder, he thrust in against his ribcage, forcing it to bow in towards his spine. He’d never had to actually use the scarce first aid lessons he’d been forced to sit through, ironically at Yui’s insistence.

Something told him this was harder than normal compressions. He couldn’t put his weight behind it, or rely on the ground to help squeeze blood from his motionless heart. It relied entirely on the strength in his arms; those felt like they were ready to fall off with how hard his own pulse thundered through his limbs. He kept it up anyway. Yui’s ribcage shifted under his skin, bowing with each hard thrust and expanding with each breath. “C’mon,” Cohl grunted, “We’ve been through worse than this, huh? Huh? You’re gonna let-hngh- this shitty station- ungh- be where you die? Cause of a dumb suit malfunction?”

Again, Yui’s heart began to quiver in his chest, shaking the space between his ribs. “Shock advised. Stand clear of patient.” “Yeah, no, I’m good here.” Again, the ports whined and began to glow. The display showed the shaky line of his heart struggling to beat, beneath that the line marking the device as it charged to 250. Cohl instinctively wrapped his arms around him in a tight embrace. His breath was noisy in his helmet. “Come on, come on, come on…”

Yui’s body bucked, knocking against Cohl’s chest as his limbs seized in the current. His muscles tensed and loosened, his helmet clanging hard off Cohl’s own. “Shock delivered-“ “I know the stupid thing delivered the stupid shock,” he growled, pressing his palm flat against Yui’s heart. “Is he alive or dead?” “No pulse detected. Begin CPR.” “Fucking hell-“

He started the compressions anew, harder this time, if he could even do them any harder. He beat his second in against his chest, sweat tickling his brow and neck. His entire focus, his entire being, was centered on the man dead- not dead, no, he couldn’t be dead. He was destined to die in some awesome, awe inspiring way on a distant planet. Crushed in a salt avalanche, fucked to death by some charismatic mantis alien, shot in a card game with interstellar pirates. This was undeserving of him. This was how rookies died. They weren’t rookies. Cohl and Yui were wanted criminals, their faces graced holo posters in three different systems. Haruki Yui was not suffocating in an abandoned research base. He was not dying while Cohl still had breath.

As he shoved against his sternum, listening to the quiet “Huff, hff, haa, hff” as he forced synthetic air from his still lungs, he wasn’t paying attention to their surroundings. The quiet atrium might as well be a distant star. He didn’t notice the wall the two of them were floating towards until his back bounced off hard metal. Cohl kept bending his battered ribcage and craned his neck to look; his eyes widened. Gravity engine- the OFF button burned red in the dark. Life support systems- OFF.

“Jesus, yes, yes,” he gasped and flicked both switches on at once. The station groaned in protest as ancient motors whirred to life and air began to sigh once more through her vents. Cohl hardly had time to roll in midair and brace Yui in his arms before they were once more leashed by artificial gravity. It sucked them to the ground, slamming them both to the metal grating of a small platform. Something in his side cracked and the air squeezed out of Cohl’s lungs. He soundlessly wheezed, arms in a vice around his second.

His body hurt even worse with gravity weighing him down once more. His arms and legs were jelly. His muscles ached. It took him a moment, and he cursed every second of that moment, to roll Yui’s body off and push himself up on his hands and knees at his side. He tore off both their helmets, drawing in as deep a breath as he could manage. Stale air stuck to the sweat on his skin and he’d never been more grateful for it. “Okay, we can do this. C’mon…”

He descended on Yui’s chest, stacking his hands as he began to pound against creaking bone. At this angle, it was easier to feel the fractures he’d split through his second’s sternum, bone rubbing against bone. His head rocked, each compression causing a tide to roll from his shoulders to his fingertips, his feet. His belly bulged against the tight skin of his suit, snapping up as Cohl snapped down against his heart. Was he too late? Hell, had he even been doing any good before? These compressions felt more violent, going much deeper, and he couldn’t stop the little voice nagging that Yui was gone. Would he already be back if he’d found the damn switch earlier?

His hands sunk into the center of Yui’s heart again and again. He might have been saying something, but he wasn’t even sure. He was getting light headed from the rush of air and exertion. Even so, his entire body jerked as the robotic voice once more spoke, “Shock advised. Stand clear of patient.”

This time, despite how badly he wanted to just scoop him up into his arms, he sat back, staring down at his second’s moon white face. The suit’s oxygen system forced his chest to rise at regular intervals, even if the breath left his lungs, unable to stick.

“Charging,” it announced. The display flashed 360j. It emitted a few rapid beeps as it reached the end of its charge. Yui’s chest was pulled into into the air with a sharp jerk, his head snapping to the side, arms convulsing from the shoulder and then falling limp again. “Shock delivered. Analyzing-“

Yui’s throat came unstoppered and he drew in a rattling breath, loosing a moaning exhale. Cohl was at his throat in an instant, hooking his finger between his teeth. He took hold of the rebreather and it slid back, coming loose from his trachea with a wet gurgle.

“There he is,” Cohl almost shouted, cradling his neck, “There we go, deep breaths! Christ alive…”

Yui croaked something that might have been, “Captain.”