#spp fic

There is a mercy in forgetting who he is. The past becomes an empty landscape, devoid of refuge. There no need to seek safety if there is none to be had.

He doesn’t try to search for landmarks that might hint to a story of who he is. Doing so sends stabbing pains through his head, and blood spilling out his nose.

Easier to simply drift into soft focus.

Unanchored in identity, there is no pain of reaching for the past or the future. No need for endurance. There is always only now.

It hurts, or it doesn’t. This is all there is.

They don’t bother with privacy when discussing him, not anymore. The words don’t matter, haven’t for a long time. They wash over him.

They’re pleased with his progress. He is finally ready for physical conditioning.

In the first weeks, they’d aggressively targeted his mental and physical condition, keeping him from food and sleep and even hydration. It made him easier to handle and break down, in every way that counted.

Now, weak and emptied out, he is ready to be built back up again.

There is a new med tech, a woman. She’s crouched in front of him, pressing electrodes onto his chest. She looks up at him to attach an electrode to his temple, but before she even makes contact, a flash of pain sparks behind his eyes. A flush of warmth cascades down his face, tasting of salt and iron. Red spatters on his bare chest and collects over the electrodes stuck there.

Why? He hadn't tried to recall anything. He tries reflexively to wipe his face, but his hand won’t rise. It is strapped down.

There is a commotion. Monitor alarms blaring. People asking urgent questions. Not at him.

But... there is a question, and the answer is right there. In front of him. He looks into the woman's face, frowning.

A pressure is gathering in his head, sparks igniting inside his brain. He's about to have a seizure, he knows the feeling. He hasn't had one for weeks now-- the answer, it--

His mouth opens; his tongue unsticks from the roof of his mouth with a click. He’s making a sound, “Sk... ssk--“

It’s there. Right there.

A word. It rises unbidden, spills out without him trying.

His eyes roll back. That empty, featureless landscape swallows him.

+++++++++++++

The woman is yanked back.

"What did you do?" the handler snaps. "His neurowaves spiked all over the place, and then--"

"I did nothing," she says back, tersely. "I was about to put the sensor on his head and he started glitching."

They look at him, stretched out on the floor, surrounded by med techs. His face is completely white except for the blood spattered over his face and chest. The convulsions have stopped. The neurowaves on the monitor have settled again to their usual wavy baseline. Placid.

They won't be able to move forward today, not until they figure out what happened.

The woman pulls off her scrub cap. "He said something."

The handler turns to look at her, frowning. "He hasn't spoken in weeks. What did he say?"

She purses her lips before replying, wondering if she remembers right.

"I think... he said 'squirrel'."

+++++++++++++

They watch the video feeds. He did say "squirrel."

They replay the video feed, overlay it with the recorded brainwaves, and narrow the flare of his reaction down to the exact moment. It was when he had seen the female tech's face. Her eyes had been narrowed in concentration then.

Nothing about her looked squirrel-like.

They don't know what it means. It doesn't matter. What matters is that his brain lit up in a way it shouldn't have, showing that he was accessing his memories. Or a memory.

The scientist who's been running the erasure protocol insists there is nothing left. But the results don't lie.

He's presenting his notes to the panel. "Maybe someone he was very close to... like a parental figure?" He sounds doubtful. "Or based on the age... a lover?"

He looks no more sure about that hypothesis that the first. "I can't see how anything could have survived the erasure protocol. We were thorough with him."

It sets them back weeks.

He's made to undergo tests. New ones. Ones where he is shown pictures of the female tech. Over and over again. They look carefully at the monitor and the readouts, mark things out in charts.

Then they show him images of other women. Similar to her. Same colouring. Similar features. Women whose eyes crinkle up the same way the med tech's did, when she was trying to put on the electrodes.

It's finicky work, but they target the areas that light up consistently when he's exposed to the visual stimuli, and burn those memories out.

Whatever was there, is gone now.

+++++++++++++

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 Signal War Masterlist /// Short Fics Masterlist /// Main Masterlist

(“Squirrel” ref)

Note: I couldn't progress on my main universe until I got this AU ficlet out of my brainnnnn. The scenario was squirming in there like an eeeeeeel.

He leans in close, hanging an arm over a knee. Watches Riko's face as he blinks dazedly at the kit. A hand hovers. Goes for something.

Vetch sees the change on his face before he registers the motion on his periphery.

Riko’s fist, low and fast, arcing toward him.

Vetch's reflexes kick in. He tips back; a crisp, exact maneuver that leaves him just outside the arc. A glimpse of Riko; teeth bared, eyes dark and narrowed with intent.

The swing is more desperate than it is forceful. Still, it's a close call. Plastic skids across his collarbone. Leaves a clean sting behind.

Vetch catches Riko's wrist easily. He turns the hand, looks at what is in his grip. An injector, the needle out. A fast-acting sedative.

He squeezes until Riko lets go. It falls to the floor with a small, plastic clatter.

Vetch touches his other hand to the scrape on his collarbone.

"A souvenir. Sweet of you."

Riko’s weight tugs at Vetch’s grip. He’s slipping down sideways, boneless. Vetch eases him down gently, lays Riko’s hand down next to the cheek that’s pressed into the ground.

The stubborn tamp of Riko's mouth is gone now. His breathing breaks through in short, rhythmic stutters; the sound of effort collapsing.

Tears leak from his eyes unnoticed, dotting the concrete. His eyes are hazing, the fury in them dimming with the effects of the stim.

Vetch is drawn in like a moth. He dips a careful finger into a wet spot on the ground. Smears it out as far as it will go, until the moisture peters out under his fingertip.

“God," he whispers. "You’re beautiful like this.”

Riko is fading again, used up already. His gut patch is soaked through. That last move had restarted the bleeding.

Vetch rolls the third stim between his fingers. One of the good ones. Red.

+++++++++++++++++++

He sits cross-legged beside Riko.

“Last one,” he says softly. “Gotta make it count.”

No response.

Vetch brushes sweat-damp hair from Riko’s face. Smooths blood from his chin with a thumb.

He touches the stim into the soft tissue just above the collarbone and triggers it.

Riko comes back gasping. A deep, awful sound. His eyes are wide. Horrified.

His eyes find Vetch, just for a moment. And then they slide right off. It's only been seconds, but Riko's gaze is already fragmenting.

He's barely surfaced and he's sinking again. Vetch knows he has precious few moments for the next part.

He guides Riko upright, tugging at him insistently, as if he is helping a drunk friend sit up. “There we go.”

Riko makes a small sound, like a child waking from a fever. His hand is over his gut, but loose, like he can't remember why he had it there.

Vetch crouches beside him.

"Riko," he whispers.

The word means nothing to a brain starved of oxygen. But the tone…

Something in it makes Riko still, just for a second.

“Hey... hey... look at me.” Soft, like a lover.

Riko doesn't.

The moment slips past untouched.

“Come on. You’ve got this. Stay with me.” Firmer now, like a leader coaxing strength.

Riko reacts, but not toward him. Something in him veers away.

Vetch reaches for the back of Riko’s neck. Cups it in his palm, thumb brushing quiet arcs along the hairline. Quiet, gentle contact.

“No one’s going to hurt you now,” he murmurs. Warm and enveloping.

Not fatherly. Something older. Something he knows will land deeper.

“You’re not alone.”

Riko is beyond thinking, beyond recognition. But he blinks slow, turns minutely toward Vetch.

Something opens, just a crack. It's all Vetch needs.

Vetch lets his hand slide forward, cradling the planes of Riko’s face. A thumb brushes away the blood and tears in one long, smooth stroke.

“You're safe,” he says, voice pitched low and warm.

And Riko, who has held himself through pain, failure, and mockery, finally gives himself over.

His head falls forward, and Vetch catches his cheek in his palm. Riko surrenders his weight into Vetch’s hand. Like a bird nestling into a hunter’s grasp.

Vetch smile stretches slow across his face. Soft. Satisfied.

“This,” he whispers, forehead touching Riko’s, “is the part I’ll remember.”

He holds him like that a moment longer.

Before his hand goes to the belt around Riko's leg.

He unbuckles it slowly, with care.

Riko's eyes flick towards it. His mouth moves but there is no sound. His hand drifts toward the belt, too low, too slow. It sags just before reaching it.

Vetch pulls the belt free.

Riko's gaze barely follows it, eyes emptying.

The result is immediate. Blood wells out of the wound, spills over the fabric of his leg. Unstoppable.

The weight of Riko's head is still in his hand.

Vetch leans in. Watches the pupils go wide and dark, the blinks slowing.

Breath brushes into his palm, light and staccato.

The lids drift halfway down. Don't rise again.

And he begins to fall.

Vetch catches him. Lowers him slow. Sets him down the way he would’ve landed.

He feels the fall move through his hands. Quiet. Complete. Claimed.

Small, wet, ugly sounds slip out of the slack mouth. Vetch can tell; Riko is absent. These are-- and his mind flicks to the medical manuals again-- agonal breaths. A body's final, mindless mimicry of breath.

Vetch thinks it's the most honest thing he's heard from Riko, ever.

Even as the body sags and stills, one hand keeps flexing in the air. It is not reaching for anything anymore. Just nerves firing without meaning.

Vetch leans forward and closes his own hand over Riko's. Softly.

"There now," he whispers. “You’re through the worst of it.”

He waits. Feeling Riko’s hand move gently in his, until it finally goes still.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Vetch stays on, as the blood slows its spread, and Riko's body goes slack in stages.

Vetch sits in the moment, with the air of a man still enraptured by the last luminous notes of a song hanging in the air.

This quiet, this stillness, it could so easily be mistaken for emptiness. But Vetch knows better.

He tilts his head. Studies the body with unhurried calm. The hand in his grasp is cooling, but he doesn’t let go. He runs a thumb slowly across the calluses on Riko’s palm, traces each one carefully. Trying to commit the feel of them into memory.

He has so many of them; memories. All of them snatched from a distance. A grin in passing. A glimpse of Riko's hands pressing down on a bloody, torn uniform, barely glimpsed through the chaos of a post-battle medic tent. His fingers, worrying at the edge of a bottle label; his laughter sparking under the clutter of bar chatter.

So many. But none of them his, not really.

But this. This is his.

Shifting position, he eases the body gently onto its back. Clothes cling to skin, soaked through with red.

He unfastens the collar, baring the throat and upper chest. Examines the bruises. The cuts. A finger drifts along the collarbone, pauses where it's kinked in the middle.

Vetch turns the face into the light. The head rolls easily... no resistance now.

Then both hands close over the throat. A gentle squeeze. Under Vetch's grip, something inside shifts brokenly. Blood wells up. Fills the mouth and spills slowly down the sides of the face.

“I always wondered what it would take to shut you up,” he whispers.

He lets go. Runs his thumb across the slack mouth, pressing the lips out of shape.

A sense of grateful wonder fills Vetch's chest. To see Riko this way, so pliant and unresistant. Not with a smirk quirking his lips, or his smart mouth talking, trying to manipulate attention away from himself.

Away, always away.

Now, finally still. Finally here, with him.

Two fingers push through. Past parted lips, lax and yielding. Past the still tongue, slick with blood, and to the back of his throat. No gag reflex.

He pulls back, wipes his hand on his thigh, and stands.

Despite standing a full head beneath him, Riko always took up more space than his frame warranted.

But now, from this angle, the slumped figure under him looks so much smaller. As if some internal framework has collapsed, left him hollow and folded into himself.

Experimentally, he nudges the side of the ribcage with his boot.

The body rocks. Loose and unanchored. Like... a thing. He watches the movement with fascination.

He leans in once more. His hand is slow with care as he runs his hand through hair pressed flat with sweat and blood.

He stays a while longer. Silent. Simply beholding. The moment too deep for words.

Eventually, the moment thins.

And then it is gone.

He straightens up. “Goodnight, Riko,” he mutters.

He kicks the body in the ribs. Hard enough for it to roll, landing in a slump against the wall.

A hand flops, landing palm up on the ground.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed

Selah whump-only path: Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight

<< Masterlist

Riko clutches the side of his head, fingers slipping. Stares at the red smeared across his hand.

“Ow--fuck--”

Three men advance on him. He scrambles up, fast. They start spreading in the corridor, flanking him.

“Shit--”

He coils, launches from under reaching hands. Gets two steps.

A fist closes over the pack's straps. Yanks. His legs shoot forward, body pivoting midair. His back slams hard against the tiled floor. He hears something crack. He doesn't know if he'd be happier knowing it was a rib or a vial from the med pack. He does hate trying to account to the supplies master for damaged supplies...

He rolls, gets his feet under him. The sound of approaching footfalls has him scanning desperately for an exit--

A tall, lanky shape steps in slow, cutting him off. Riko’s heart hammers in his throat, fast and panicked, like cornered prey.

He forces a grin, wild and bright.

“Gentlemen,” he calls out, voice holding steady. “Three on one? Really?”

He chuckles loosely, boyish and disarming. It hurts to laugh, but he lets it roll through him, disguising a wince with a casual shrug.

The men keep coming, silent. His grin falters. He drops it fast, eyes darting. He thinks he knows them. The one in the middle, the name is on the tip of his tongue... he tries to remember, while the other part of his brain scrambles for any reason they might have him cornered like this with violence on their mind.

Hands lift, palms up.

“Hey, if it’s about the stim trades, you’ve got the wrong guy. I’m not in on it. I can tell you who though. Good stuff, from what I hear. Untraceable.”

They circle, silent, patient. His heart rattles in his chest.

“Is this… is this about Myro’s girl? I don't go to that brothel. I’ve never even spoken to her. I don't even swing that way.”

Their silence thickens. His breath comes in small, frantic puffs.

“If-- if someone said I was talking about what happened near the officers’ quarters, it’s not true. I'm not a rat.”

He feels frozen in their flat, unyielding gaze. He swallows, sweat trickling down his cheek. His eyes darts between them, voice held teetering on the edge of steadiness. “Guys, come on--let’s talk about this.”

The middle one smiles, slow, like he’d been waiting for this.

"You talk too much, Riko."

A quick step, and the punch snaps into his solar plexus. His breath tears out of him in a silent cough.

His knees fold under him, his breath stuttering desperately in the vicious vacuum of his chest. His arms are locked tight over his midsection, trying to hold himself together as pain roars through him.

A hand seizes his hair, yanking his head back. Ceiling lights spin overhead. A forearm jams painfully against the back of his neck, forcing his throat forward.

It happens so fast. He catches a glimpse of an arm overhead, bracing against the lockers behind him, a boot pulling back--

He puts up his hand, too late--

The kick explodes into his throat.

His breath vanishes. He can’t even gag. Just claws at his neck, blood spattering out of his open mouth.

His eyes roll in panic.

His vision starts to tunnel.

The man who unleashed the kick is crouched in front of him. Riko's eyes are stretched so wide he's sure the whites are showing.

“Breathe,” the man says.

Riko's reaching mind finally closes around a name. Vetch.

Riko’s chest jerks uselessly.

Vetch slaps him. Hard.

“Breathe,” he says again, his tone as mild as ever.

A broken inward wheeze finally scrapes past Riko’s throat.

He collapses forward, hands balled up into fists, shaking.

Vetch stands up, gaze sweeping over the others.

“Okay,” he murmurs. “Let’s go.”

The two soldiers hesitate. Weight shifts. Eyes dart. The corridor is quiet except for Riko's desperate gasps and the sound of blood hitting the floor.

Vetch pauses, reading their unease. The big lug is frowning, like his personal morality is stirring. The skinny one is twitching with overwhelm. If he doesn't take this in hand now, they might-- no, they will bolt.

His eyes flick over them, then slid deliberately past, settling instead on the shuddering form in front of them.

His voice comes low, a quiet invitation. “Look at him now.”

He lets the silence stretch, the faint hiss of air filters underlining the moment.

Vetch lets their gaze follow his, down to Riko, hunched and humbled, his panting silence reading like contrition.

He slows his own breathing. Lets his anticipation seep into them.

Riko flinches, eyes darting up. It's like he feels something tighten in the air around him, like an invisible snare drawing taut. His breath catches, ragged.

Only now, Vetch looks at the other men. A drawn-out glance, deliberate. Pulling them into the promise of shared reckoning.

He smiles slowly, languorously. “Let’s see if he begs,” he whispers.

A dry, shallow laugh slips from one of the soldiers, sharp as a spark.

The other remains silent. But his stance shifts, heavy and sure.

Boots step forward.

Riko’s eyes widen. Their hands reach for him.

He tries to speak past the damage in his throat. “Wai--w--”

They strip him of his pack, kick it down the corridor.

His boots slip and skid, trying to find leverage. They haul him into the side access--where no-one will see what's happening even if they happen to glance down the main corridor.

He fights. Fingers scrabble to grab at the corner of the wall as they drag him past.

The skinny soldier rears back, boot aimed at Riko’s stubborn grip--

--and his kick swings wide as the soldier is yanked sideways.

“I said not the hands,” Vetch says, mild.

Riko doesn't have time to react. An elbow crashes into his shoulder. They throw him to the floor.

More kicks follow. Precise. Intentional. Not in a frenzy or uncontrolled rage.

Damage. Deliberate and calculated.

A kick smashes into his gut, lifting him a foot off the ground. The air leaves his body in a thin, helpless wheeze.

He tries to curl up, protect his head and midsection. But someone kicks him onto his back; stomps on his chest. His collarbone snaps. He tries to cry out--but what comes out is garbled, wet.

Then he sees the knife.

His heels skid on the tiles as he lurches backward, scrambling.

“Nn—no—,” his voice a shredded, wet rasp. “Stp—“

Hands seize his legs.

“Hold him.”

One restrains his arms over his head. Another leans over him, pinning his chest down with a knee.

His arms jerk, wrists twisting frantically in their grip. His face is white with terror.

They pull up his shirt. One of them mutters, like they are carving game:

“There. That’s where we want it.”

A finger touches Riko on the torso. That light impersonal touch against his skin feels worse than any of the blows that came before.

A gloved hand closes over his mouth. Above the tight grip, Riko’s eyes roll wildly from face to face.

He knows them. He's treated them, triaged them on the frontline.

The first stab comes in low. Just above the beltline. The blade sinks in, slow. Careful, like it's following an invisible diagram.

Riko bucks. Screams--but it's a muted, throttled sound beneath the glove.

Blood spills warm across his side.

His legs kick an uncoordinated rhythm against the floor.

“Deep enough?” the one who stabbed him asks.

Vetch nods. “Get the thigh next."

He thrashes with renewed desperation, catches one in the shin with a flailing foot.

Someone punches him in the gut. His vision goes white.

Then the second cut.

Inner thigh. Left side. Deep enough to nick the artery. Blood spurts. His body jerks violently. He tries to reach his hands down to hold in the blood. The grip on his wrists is unmoving.

“Now the back. Turn him.”

A shuffle as they readjust their position, trying to maintain their hold on him. They flip him easily, between the three of them.

He digs his fingers into a grate, tries to pull away. The floor is slick beneath him.

Someone puts a hand over his head and presses down hard. The glove is warm and wet. Blood drips into his eyes.

Riko whimpers into the floor.

The third cut digs into the small of his back. The pain is instant and total. He feels the blade turn one way, then another. Something in his legs stops responding.

"That'll do." The voice sounds far away.

The world tilts quietly into the dark and a chasm yawns open behind his eyes.

His hands flex uselessly in the grating. He's blinking slowly, sightless now.

“He’s still moving.”

“At least he's not talking,” someone says drily.

They come off him all at once. Boots step back.

Someone laughs, dry, breathless.

“Fucking deer season.”

They shake his hands loose from the grate, haul the nerveless, awkward weight of his body up between them.

The toes of his boots stutter over grate as they drag him deeper into the maintenance recess. Tuck him into the shadows next to the generator. Take his bag with them.

The corridor fills again with the quiet roar of machines still doing their jobs.

++++++++++++++

Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed

Selah whump-only path: Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight

<< Masterlist

He takes a breath, working himself down from the heights of despair. His fingers don't feel like they're part of him, but he reaches them out toward the door panel again. Tries the code, carefully.

Red light. Beep.

He's going to die here.

He considers the possibility of folding himself onto the floor next to his field pack, in the corridor in front of his pod, and simply expiring.

Riko imagines his dorm mates stepping over him on their way to their shift. The cleaner mopping around him, shoving his bag closer to the wall to make way for that squeaky bucket on wheels.

He pictures Mish finding him. Would she cry? No. She'd be so pissed. She'd more likely kick him in the kidney because he'd promised to water the plant she gave him, and of course, he had to go and die just to get out of doing this one simple thing.

"It's not my fault," he mutters. "I'm trying my best."

Red light. Beep. Red light. Beep.

Purgatory. Stretching. Endless.

Finally he gets it right. He doesn't even know how. Green light.

The door slides open.

The relief almost undoes him. The urge to cry with hysterical relief rises. Is wrestled down.

He walks carefully into his pod, dragging his field pack in with him like a dead body. His head is a balloon, floating in untethered from the rest of him. He imagines it bumping against the low ceiling of his pod, making hollow rubber sounds.

He stops and stands in the middle of the pod, feeling out of place. Is he in the right room? He thinks so. The plant Mish gave him is on the desk, browning, a mere whisper away from death.

Riko feels a sudden kinship with it.

This is his room. But the light is weird. He always set it to low, but now it's too bright. And it's flickering. There's an obnoxious buzzing. He can't figure out where its coming from.

Time moves in staccato. He thinks he might be falling asleep between blinks.

It’s too cold in here. Or hot. His skin crawls.

He just needs sleep. That's all.

His boots are still on. He should fix that.

He drops onto the cot. The impact feels like a punch. The springs squeal despairingly, like a small creature being murdered. The sound grates against every nerve. And then he can't remember what he was supposed to--

Boots. Focus.

It takes him several long seconds. He lifts one foot, clawing his fingers around the fabric of his pant leg and dragging it up. Brings his foot to his knee. Fumbles at the laces.

His fingers lock and tangle.

Purgatory again. He'll be stuck here forever.

They'll find him here, mummified by the facility air filters, his fingers tied in knots in his bootlaces, dried and desiccated like his plant.

"We didn't notice anything," his neighbours would say, "There was no smell, nothing." And Mish would say, "That fucker said he'd water the plant, I knew he couldn't be trusted--"

He finally jerks the boot off, and drops it. It lands hard on the floor. A dead, hollow sound.

The other boot waits for him. Dread fills his chest, like dark water rising, taking up all the space between his ribs and under his sternum.

"Let's go," he grits.

He reaches for it. It's so... far. And getting further. Reality stretches like taffy.

The room tilts. Slow and wide, the floor rushing away from him, the walls stretching up and up and--

"No-- No, we're not doing that." He grips the edge of cot, grinding his teeth together, hard enough that he thinks they might be sinking into his gums.

The moment passes.

"Okay," he says cautiously. He reaches again for the boot.

He's bent over his knee, fingers trying to make sense of the laces, when a bright, red drop falls on the laces. A big, fat splat.

His hand goes up reflexively to his nose. "Ahhh fuck-"

He looks at himself in the mirror across the room. The lower half of his face is red, and blood has dribbled down the front of his shirt.

"Fuuuuuu-- not this again. Come on."

He tilts his head back. The light flickers.

Unfamiliar... It isn't the sickly grey non-light from the overhead panel.

This... shimmers. Dense and radiant and alive.

There are iridescent colours exploding impossibly in the space above his desk.

They are... His eyes cross, trying to make sense of what he's seeing.

Fireworks.

Explosions of light in his tiny, grey room. Luminous and layered and deep.

His brain stutters and twists, trying to understand the spatial logic of what he's seeing. It must be a projection. Or... or a hologram. Somehow installed in his pod as a prank. Someone must have... This must be a-- a--

Slow, silent bursts. Huge. Taking up real, three-dimensional space. Gold radiating outward. Rose pink. Ice blue. A deep violet. Impossibly saturated colours, searing themselves into his retinas, unfurling like violent exhalations.

They unfold with weight. Layered over each other, suspended in the sudden and immense darkness of his room.

His eyes open so wide he can feel the stretch of them in his face.

The hand he's holding to his face drops forgotten, onto his lap.

“Wow...” The word slips free before he knows it. His face is unguarded, held open by wonder.

He feels his jaw fall open. He must look stupid, but he can't bring himself to close his mouth. Because this-- this is--

It's real. He can see the reflections of the colours on his furniture. His eyes track the light as it ripples across old shapes... his desk, the wall, his field pack. Ordinary things made radiant.

Even the sad little plant has caught the kaleidoscope and is throwing a flickering shadow on his wall. The multiple shadows cast by his discarded boot are dancing in rainbow hues across the grey expanse of his floor.

And... he can feel the light on his face. Soft, jewel tones pressing into his skin with gentle weight. Flickering slowly across his skin. Rolling gently across his cheeks and forehead and neck.

Something unlatches inside him. Small. Vital.

A pause. A moment where the slow blooming intensity of colour bursts peter gently out. And then--

The fireworks multiply.

He watches, rapt.

They fill everything. Flowering bursts stacked atop each other, now too fast to follow. Silver, gold, then blinding violet-- each explosion bigger, more enveloping, swallowing the last. There is no pause or negative space between them. Light. Expanding. Crashing. Brighter--

His bloodstained fingers twitch on his lap.

So bright. So bright!

His eyelids flicker.

He tilts sideways. Slow, like a tree going down. The cot catches him. The springs give, then bounce once, gently.

Blood slips down his cheek in a wide arc. His throat moves meaninglessly.

A violent spasm. The cot rattles.

Slowly, his arms lock, hands curling into claws. His spine arches. Eyes roll back.

The bed frame shakes violently as his whole body convulses.

His wrist slams into the rail. His shoulders twist. His legs kick against the foot of the bed. His head lashes hard to the side, sending red splatting onto the wall.

Metal rattles under him. The cot jerks so hard that it moves across the floor. The boot still laced to his right foot kicks violently, sending the laces whipping back and forth.

No one comes.

He seizes alone, in a dim room, under flat facility light.

🎧 Accompanying music for this fic.

Part 1 >> Part 2 >> Part 3 >> Part 4 (more chapters pending. Check Signal War for updates!)

<< Main Masterlist << Signal War

Note: Yasss Riko is baaack. This is one of my favourite arcs. I really hope you guys enjoy it!

There is a clatter of boots as the men immediately start reversing their advance, weapons held at the ready.

They're barely ten metres back up the way they came when it happens. Her HUD flickers and flares, and goes out.

The tunnel goes silent. Every head jerks up instinctively. The air drones are free-falling out of the air, spiralling on the way down.

One of them barely misses Vasko, exploding into a spray of plastic components that bounce off him.

She hears him hiss sharply on her left, but his voice is distinctly missing from the comm bud in her ear.

EMP.

She doesn't have to tap on her HUD to confirm it. Her visor is now eerily blank. No enhanced vision, no spatial diagnostics. The comm buds are silent in her ears.

It would be the same for everyone across the team.

She raises her arm and waves it backward emphatically.

Fall back, fall back, fall back.

She hears her men move faster. She cuts her eyes to them; they are on high alert, scanning the tunnel. Basha's gaze finds hers, steady.

She clicks her safety off.

And that's when the explosion shudders through the tunnel.

She feels it first, under the soles of her boots. A tremor, before the ground heaves violently and throws her into the air, and then the air itself slams her into the ground. An all-encompassing roar rolls over her, like reality itself is tearing apart.

++++++++++++++++++

When she comes to, the air is thick with dust and smoke, and ash is drifting down.

There’s grit in her mouth, all the way to the back of her throat. She coughs harshly, and that's when she feels it— a stab of agony in her chest. A tight compression that won't let her draw breath.

Ah shit--

She rolls onto her back, looks down. Her uniform is torn open, and there is a hole-- a hole on the left side. It is making hollow, bubbling sounds, gaping with every breath she tries to take.

Ah fuck.

She lets her head thud back on the ground.

At least the men are on their way out. She can hear them further up the tunnel where they had come in; the sound of effort and the scramble of boots on rubble.

The enemy must have set off the explosion to collapse the tunnel, with the intention to trap them here.

But why? Vale blinks her eyes to clear them, tries to see down the passage beyond the veil of airborne dust.

Nothing. And apart from the wet suck of her own compromised breaths, complete silence.

She cranes her neck to look behind her. Vasko is a dim bulk sprawled motionless on the ground. Vale doesn’t need his vitals scrolling across her visor to know he is dead.

There is a boulder-sized chunk of concrete where his head should be.

And now, boots. Approaching her.

She can't tilt her head up enough to see who it is, but the man reaches her in seconds.

It's the new guy. The medic that command rotated in for this patrol because they were short on medical support. His name tag reads R. Hann.

His face is grey with dust, tear tracks streaking his face under his eyes. She must look the same.

He gets on his knees beside her, his hands moving over her in a brisk trauma sweep. He quickly identifies the chest wound as the injury to prioritise and starts shearing her uniform open wider over it.

"I gave an order," she wheezes. "Fall back."

He gestures to his ears, and shakes his head.

"Sergeant, I can't hear you," his voice a notch too loud. "Was too close to the blast."

His hands are sure and steady as he swipes her skin clean of blood and grime, tacking an adhesive patch over the wound, careful not to seal it entirely.

But the patch provides no relief. She's blacking out. She can't get enough oxygen. Her pulls for air come with desperate sounds.

He leans close to her and says, again too loud. "I'm going to have to stick you with a needle so you can breathe."

He's already prepping the large gauge syringe as she nods unsteadily. He swipes her skin in a new place, and pushes the tip of the needle between her ribs without ceremony.

It hurts so bad, but she immediately feels the blessed release of pressure. For the first time in many long minutes, she inhales fully. The breath tears through her, feeling like both heaven and hell.

She can hear the hiss of escaping air through the syringe, and the medic nods at her, noticing the easing of her desperate breaths.

There's a burn building in her throat that makes her throat catch. The medic coughs at the same time, burying his face in his elbow as it rattles through him. His eyes water.

“Damn dust,” he chokes out.

Vale notices movement behind him. Not the movement of enemy soldiers, but the insidious seep of fog crawling along the ground towards them.

She tugs at his sleeve. "Gas," she says. "Tox... gas."

The medic turns, his eyes wide.

Vale's suspicions are confirmed. So he can hear her.

She catalogues the insubordination.

She'll need to book him.

She can't recall what the R on his tag stands for. She's seen it, likely on his transfer form, but the name didn't stick. These medics rotate in and out too quickly to make an impression.

A flicker of irritation at the thought of added file work.

Later. First, they need to survive this.

The medic has pulled up his rebreather. He's strapping it around his head, ensuring the seal is tight over his face. Despite the brisk movements, he takes every step to ensure a proper seal. Doesn't skip a single one.

The part of her that has tried to drill rebreather technique into her men reluctantly registers a spark of approval.

He even made sure to attend to himself first before her.

His hands reach to her hip, feeling for her mask. But when he pulls it up, she sees his expression tighten.

He holds it up for her to see. The mask is shattered, entirely useless.

The gas is reaching them. She feels the air turn acid. Her eyes start to burn.

She watches him think, his eyes swivelling between her, the approaching gas, and the tunnel exit.

"Go," she urges, pushing at him.

He takes a deep breath. Pulls the mask off his face and presses it into hers.

The dense toxic mist reaches them.

She feels the tug of straps against the back of her head, and all of a sudden he's up. His hand is hooked around the back of her vest and he's hauling her along the ground, running towards the end of the tunnel.

She's not a small woman. Years of military career have made her dense with muscle. Still he gets much further than she expects before he slows.

He lowers her onto the ground, and when his face comes into view, it’s gone red and purple with exertion. He exhales violently, an explosion of expelled CO2.

Still, his fingers are gentle when he taps the mask on her face. He waits till she nods. She knows to hold her breath as he tugs it off and puts it to his face, sucks frantically at the oxygen.

"Not too bad," he pants. We're just ahead of the worst of it.”

He pushes the mask back onto her. Puts her hand over it so she's pressing it hard against her face.

Again, that desperate race toward the exit. She winces with every bounce that jars through her.

This time, he isn't as swift, or as steady. His steps stumble and he wobbles slightly toward the end. He eases her down but drops to his knees hard. His eyes are wide and watering, veins bulging on the sides of his temple. The taps that land against the mask are more frantic that they were before.

His breaths into it are deep and ragged. "It's moving so fast," he wheezes, and looks back. Vale looks the same way. It's only been seconds, but the gas is nearly upon them again.

The medic-- Hann-- pulls in oxygen to the bottom of his lungs before he puts the mask back on her.

Again, his fingers curl around the back of her vest, and he's off.

The jostling movement hurts. Worse, she can feel the chest pressure building up again. She can't breathe, despite the mask she's got on.

He hauls her for longer now, but she can tell they aren't getting as far as they did before. He starts listing to the side, and his feet drag before he finally lets himself fall to his knees.

He’s coughing in deep, ragged barks, and his lips are turning blue. There’s sweat slicking his face and sticking the hair to his forehead.

Even though the visible fog is still behind them, the ambient air has slowly become more poisonous.

The hands that reach for the mask are fumbling and desperate, and he doesn't wait for her to indicate she's ready before he's pulling it off. But his other hand clamps over her nose and mouth so she doesn't accidentally breathe in the toxic air.

He's bowed over his knees. "Sorry," he wheezes, "was... passing out... needed... a breath."

The rebreather starts beeping. The oxygen canister is running low.

Vale feels the same way, her insides a shrinking vacuum devoid of air.

Her eyes are rolling. The mask is back on her-- she tries to breathe in, but her lungs are squashed small in her chest, and they barely inflate to take in the oxygen that the mask is feeding her.

He taps on her face. Shows her the needle in his hand. She feels the swab and a finger against her side, indicating where he's about to jab her.

Again, the hiss of escaping air, and her lungs slowly filling.

She can feel the bite of poison even through the mask. The seal must be compromised.

Her eyes are burning. Her lungs are full of fire.

The medic lets the syringe drop to the ground. The fog has crept up on them again.

His eyes are red and inflamed. He blinks against the unending flood of tears. He covers her nose and mouth again as he takes a turn with the breathing apparatus.

It lets out a long sustained beep. Oxygen depleted.

Vale’s eyes go wide. But the medic is pulling another oxygen canister from his pack. She recognises her own marker scrawl on it-- her name and the date she got it.

She hadn't seen him salvage it off her shattered mask, but here it is now.

Smart kid...

Her thoughts are going fuzzy.

His hands fumble as he connects the new canister, taking three tries before he locks in the primary valve. She can tell he's using the last dregs of the oxygen he's holding. His lips are pressed tightly together as if it's taking all his will not to open his mouth wide and let in the poison.

She's barely conscious herself, fighting with all she's got not to breathe in the toxic air. But she's aware enough to follow the old canister as it clanks from his hand and rolls into the approaching fog. The toxic fumes have reached the ankles of her outstretched legs.

He flushes the mask, presses it to his face and takes a single deep inhale from it before shoving it back onto her.

He glances at the deadly vapor behind him. It's crept up to her calves now.

"Almost there... not far..."

She hardly feels it when he pats her on the shoulder, and lurches to his feet. Drags her forward.

It feels like forever, but it's barely a few metres. She can feel the failing strength of very step and tremor of his muscles as shudders rattle through him.

His lips are a dark purple-blue when he pauses and reaches for the mask. He can barely see to pull it off her, and his hand is weak and lax over her face as he tries for a seal over her nose and mouth to help her hold her breath.

She's dying. She knows it. She can't breathe again. She feels the cold creep of blood loss and oxygen deprivation crawling up her legs and torso.

She watches him gag and gasp into the apparatus.

She'll be damned if this kid goes with her.

When he tries to push the mask back onto her face, she fights him. Pushes against his hands.

"Sergeant. Ma'am. Stop. Please..."

He's wasting precious air. Stupid.

She's dead already, he’s just too stubborn to see it. But he can still get out.

"Go..." she croaks. "Is an… order…" She coughs, and blood comes up out of her mouth.

Her hands beat at his as he tries to put the mask on her.

"Ma'am!" he wheezes, and there's a tone of exasperation in his voice.

He reaches into his med pac and pulls out a roll of bandages. His hands are shaking hard.

She watches incredulously as he barely manages to loop the bandage around her wrists and ties them down to her belt. He grits his teeth with concentration, clumsily trying to tie off the knot.

She tugs furiously at the makeshift restraint, tipping her head up to glare at him from above the mask he’s pressed to her face.

He coughs violently, his eyes glazing and half lidded. Bloody froth is starting to gather at his nose and mouth.

He swipes at it absently with his sleeve. Looks at the smear of blood on the fabric. He clenches bloodstained teeth.

"We’re… close. Last push."

He has to try twice before he manages to get his legs to take his weight.

He lurches up and ahead, covering ground in violent forward lunges. His progression isn't entirely straight, swerving to the sides every few steps.

She can feel the ground changing beneath her. More debris, rocks digging into her back.

They must be at the cave in.

There's a pause, as he looks up at it.

It's hard to speak loud enough for him to hear her, but she tries. "Go. Get out."

His hand slips off her vest-- dangles by his side.

Only for a second.

He readjusts his grip, looping the strap twice around his wrist.

She feels movement as he reaches into his bag, then a dull impact and a hiss against his thigh. The used stim injector rolls into view.

His pupils are pinpoints when he crouches down by her, and his hands jitter as he draws the mask up to breathe. He's beyond words now, veins and tendons standing out on his neck as he strains to inhale.

He straps the mask back around her head extra tight.

With an almighty heave, he hauls her bodily up over a huge boulder at the bottom of the cave in. But his motor coordination is shot. He fails to maintain his grip, and if not for the strap around his wrist, she would have rolled off entirely.

Still, it’s a promising start.

Maybe we'll make it out. I might have to write that report after all.

The next part is a slope of debris that shifts under every step. It only takes seconds for Vale to realise--

It's impossible.

He can barely hold himself upright, much less make progress with her. His balance is failing. Every fall has him floundering to get up again.

The incline is too steep, the rubble too loose under them.

He hoists her up a half metre more, and then they lose almost all their progress in an uncontrolled slide.

The tension on the back of her vest loosens, and she feels him shudder and give out. He falls to his knees next to her.

His face is grey, his lips and chin painted red. His eyes are barely focused.

He reaches toward her head, for the mask, and she turns her head so he can unstrap it.

His fingers flutter over it, and instead of unfastening it, he tightens the straps.

No. No. You idiot!

He sways... and falls face down next to her.

She jerks her bound hands up, trying to untie herself.

Her struggle seems to rouse him somewhat. She feels his hand close over the front of her vest, and impossibly, she feels his leg flex and his foot finds purchase against the shattered concrete.

A slow, monumental push. Her body shifts-- mere inches.

Rubble crumbles under them.

His body is tight and rigid against hers. His fingers, still curled into the straps on her chest, twitch spasmodically.

“Kid…” she whispers, her voice weak and whistling. “Medic…”

There’s a terrible, syrupy sound from him as he tries to breathe.

A jerk. And then he starts to convulse mindlessly against her. She feels his torso flex rhythmically as his diaphragm tries to draw in air that is cooking his lungs from the inside out.

It takes all she has to crane her head so she's looking up the mound of the cave in. She can see daylight.

She grits her teeth in fury.

We are so close. So close.

The medic’s spasms are abating, tremors petering out of his limbs. His body settles against hers, completely slack.

She yanks her arms up. Once. Twice.

The third time, the bandage finally pulls loose.

She reaches up blindly, and finds his face. Drops her hand over it as heavily as she can.

A dull smack. There's no response.

Her hand moves over his nose and mouth, searching urgently. No air moves across it. He's not breathing.

Need... to book him...

She tries to slap him again, but her hand lands next to his head. Her fingers close over a rock.

She closes it in her fist and flings it up the mound.

It simply rains scree over them.

She tries again. And again.

She's losing strength.

A rock finally goes over the top. She hears rocks rattle on the other side.

Nothing happens. Nobody comes.

She's blacking out. Everything is tunnelling and fading.

We tried. We really did.

Rubble scatters down on her.

And all of a sudden, a hand is wrapped around the front of her vest and is lifting her bodily into the air. She sees Basha's panicked, relieved face.

"Sarge!" he bellows at her through his mask. "I've got you!"

He clears the mound in three steps.

+++++++++++++++++++++

In the sunshine, she's laid on her back. The rebreather is beeping rhythmically.

Just in time, just in time, just in time.

Basha pulls the mask off her, flinging it to the side. She takes tiny sips of fresh air. Her lungs still won’t rise fully. But she can hear the blessed approach of a medical air transport. It's close.

The medic is dropped down next to her, his head lolling. Vale turns to look.

Basha swipes the bloody froth out of his mouth, trying to clear his airway. His tongue is blue in his slack mouth.

Basha's hands are urgent, pulling the medic's head back. He starts compressions.

The medic's hand lies in the grass close to Vale.

She reaches for it; sees the vest strap is still looped tight around his wrist, buried in his clenched hand.

She stops short.

I gave him an order.

"Medic--"

She brings her hand down hard. The slap cracks out into the air.

Basha is still pressing on the unmoving chest. Now sealing his mouth over the downed man to breathe into him.

The medic's name tag hangs off his chest, peeling off from his uniform.

He disobeyed. Repeatedly.

She lifts her hand. Brings it down in a mighty smack. Her rage has given her new strength.

"Hann--"

Still nothing. She wishes she was close enough to reach his face. So she can slap the sense into him.

You stubborn-- you idiot--

She strikes his hand again, putting all her fury into it.

"Riko!"

The hand springs open, releasing the strap.

Basha's resuscitation rhythm doesn't stop.

Then--

The medic takes in a loud, ragged inhale. Chokes wetly, breaking into a volley of violent coughs.

She turns her head up into the sky, and exhales a heartfelt "Fuck," into the air.

"Yeah, fuck," Basha agrees.

He folds to his knees between the two of them, reaching to tilt the unconscious man's chin up so his airway remains open.

The strap is dug in so tight into the man's wrist that Basha has to use his knife to split the nylon.

He lays the arm on the medic's chest, where it slowly starts to lose its awful, unnatural hue.

The name tag has come off him almost entirely. Basha tugs on it and slips it into the medic's pocket so it doesn’t get lost. Pats it.

Vale is glaring at the sky, shaking her head. “Should’ve… obeyed orders…” she grits out.

The medical transport is blowing grass and debris into the air. It lands with a thump close to them.

Basha looks at the man passed out on the grass; at the wrist with its deep abrasions, the bloody crescents that his stubborn grip had cut into his palm.

His voice is almost lost in the roar of engines cycling down.

“Glad he didn’t.”

Vale keeps glaring at the sky.

The medics swarm the supine bodies, and Basha gets out of the way.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

Note 2: Words do a lot to encourage me, so if you're at all willing and able, please leave me a comment, message or ask!

<< Masterlist | Next >> (epilogue pending)

The panel is barely listening. Some of them still bear the marks of the attack, even though he never laid a hand on any of them. One of them has a bruise on her face from falling to the floor trying to get away from him. Another has an arm in a sling. And there's an empty seat at the panel. The oldest among them suffered a heart attack, and it's unclear if he'll survive.

The scientist is still speaking. "Parts of his brain that had nothing to do with memory fired up... and the truly fascinating thing-- areas of his nervous system lit up too. It's like the memory of this woman, whoever it is, is embedded in his body--"

The most senior person on the panel waves at him impatiently. They don't want to know the details, they just want to know how to erase it. Her. This ghost.

“If we can get a clear sense where and how deep she resides in his... his system, we might be able to completely remove his memory of her,” one of the scientist says.

A white-haired woman on the panel looks doubtful. "Target the last memory? We tried that before, he'll just get triggered by another one--"

"No," the first scientist says. "We don’t hunt it down piecemeal. We get him to show us where she lives inside him. With the Hope Protocol."

The second scientist looks at him surprised.

"Sir," he says, his voice pitched low. "That's a torture module, not even real science-- our reputations--"

The first scientist looks at him. "Do you have a better solution?"

The other man closes his mouth.

A man with steel-rimmed glasses seated at the panel closes his folder with a snap. "We can't afford another memory breach. Fix him."

+++++++++++++

He's already blindfolded when they strap him to the chair. It's a new detail, but everything else is standard procedure. The line they thread into his vein, the electrodes. The sound of equipment being wheeled into the room.

He wonders if the blindfold is so he won't see something that will make him... what was it that happened that last time? They'd kept him drugged for days afterward. He'd only started rising out of his enforced haze today. Probably because they were going to run some new memory procedure.

The wondering is new too. Potentially dangerous. He cannot afford curiosity.

He lets his mind drift. It's easy. He simply beholds the emptiness of his own mind.

He ignores the deep gouges in what used to be a featureless landscape. Doesn't dwell on them. Dangerous.

The soft sounds of people gathering around him, working the equipment surrounding him. Murmurs, spoken over him, procedural and meaningless.

He feels the drug, seeping into the vein of his arm.

The talking around him quiets down, into a suspended, expectant pause.

And then... it starts out like an itch. But inside. Not in his brain. In his... everywhere. It feels like someone has stepped into the room, and his every nerve is tuned to their presence.

"It's starting," someone close to him says. "Play the vocal triggers."

Soft voices, layered and overlapping, play from the speakers in the room. The tonal quality of the voices modulates, dipping low, then rising higher. Now a breathy sigh, now a throaty laugh. The words are indecipherable, but something is shifting.

He's a pile of metal shavings, and a magnet is coming closer. His breathing is high and rapid in his chest.

A man's voice, "It's close, tweak the pitch down by a--"

He jerks his head up, and his eyes widen behind the blindfold.

She's right there. Standing by the door, glowering at him. And she's saying--

"What part of 'three days' did you not understand?"

It's... She's his--

Something flares inside of him. "Mish."

Another voice to the back of him. "We got it, we found it, it's perfect, it's so clear! Now we--"

He's trying to pull his blindfold off. He can almost see her, he just needs to-- He reaches again for his face.

There's a resounding crack as his right arm snaps. The leather restraint is an awkward weight hanging off his wrist.

The voices in the room rise in panic. "Sedation, we need sedation, he's broken through--"

He has his fingers hooked on the fabric, and he's pulling. If she's here, he needs to--

Mish. Mish.

"Just fucking jab him! Hurry!"

A sting on his neck. His hand falls away. Darkness. And Mish falls with him.

The dark is not empty.

+++++++++++++

His system lit up like a nuclear-powered Christmas tree, so violently bright against the dark of the monitor that it was no challenge at all to map exactly where she resided inside of him.

And then they burn it out. Systematically cauterise every pathway. Kill the ghost dead.

He isn't awake when it happens, so he doesn't know what is taken.

They test him. He doesn't remember her name. They run the Hope Protocol again. The monitor stays dark.

It’s supposed to have gone perfectly. That's what they tell the panel.

But now... the triggers are broader. Now it's not eye crinkles, or narrow hands clutching paper bags.

The panel watches the playback of the latest tests.

He protects a kill target because the male simulant is wearing white. Refuses to kill another because of the timbre of her voice. Freezes in place like a mannequin because a non-primary subject tilts her head.

He goes down in a hail of simulated gunfire in that scenario.

Nothing they do interrupts it. Not drugs, not counter-triggers, not stimulating pain through his suit.

In all, he fails more than three quarters of the missions.

In one, he kills everyone in the simulation, including the rescue target, leaving a peripheral simulant alive.

The panel sits and stares as he methodically hunts down simulants as they scream and scramble to get away, stepping through the blood of the one he was supposed to protect as the mission's objective.

It's the observation room incident all over again.

This is catastrophic. There is no viable use case for what he has become.

The man with the glasses leans back. He removes them, and stares into the mid-distance. "So... she's everywhere now."

The silence stretches so long that the scientist shifts and clears his throat. "Do we... do we terminate the project?"

The woman with the white hair finally sets her pen down. She pinches the bridge of her nose.

"No," she says. "We Sleep him. Maybe another team in the future will figure it out. And if not, they can decide what to salvage, if anything."

+++++++++++++

After they do away with his memories, they put him in stasis.

He doesn't know when it happens. It's like any other procedure.

But this time, when he eases into that inner landscape, the furrows and cracks in that once barren flat are teeming. Crawling with vines. Rustling with leaves. Dense and crowded and tangled up.

As with everything, he simply beholds it. He doesn't know what it means.

Only that it blooms now.

+++++++++++++

Part 1 // Part 2 // Part 3 Signal War Masterlist /// Short Fics Masterlist /// Main Masterlist

(“Which part of three days” ref) >> Read it. It might heal your soul.

Note: Haaaaa... and that's it for this ficlet. Apparently my brain really really needed to write an angsty fic on QPR yearningggggg. I hope you found it as satisfying as I did. This isn't a canon storyline, and will remain safely tucked away in the AU vault... OR WILL IT??

Riko's face twists savagely. He jerks back from Vetch's hand, but not far enough.

His head gets pressed up anyway, exposing the bruising on his throat.

A distinct crescent of dark swelling, just above the Adam's apple. Too precise to be random.

“Had to read three surgical manuals to figure that one out. Didn't want to crush something vital. This... just clips the voice.”

Vetch tilts his head, admiring it. “Delicate work.” He runs the pad of his thumb gently over the bruise.

Riko's lip curls. He bares his teeth, feral and defiant.

A blood-slick hand raises into view, middle finger extended, shaky.

Vetch laughs, low in his throat. “You’re such a little shit.”

Riko swings.

The aim is off, but Riko flails his arm close enough to impact against Vetch's wrist and knock the man's hand away with more fury than force.

Vetch glances at the red smudge of blood on his skin. There's a look of approval on his face.

“Don’t wear yourself out," he says, almost fond. "You’ll need that energy.”

He pulls the medkit forward.

“C’mon, Ghosthands,” he murmurs. “Let's see you live up to the name.”

A pause, as Riko's eyes dart between him and the bag. Glances down at his gut, leaking dark blood over his hand.

Vetch can see him weighing the options. Sees the moment that Riko decides to go for the bag.

Because of course he does. The medic always fought even with the odds stacked against him.

Riko lunges for it, has to stagger forward on his elbows before he can snag the strap and pull it to him. Vetch lets him, smiling indulgently.

Riko's hands are shaking, and he fumbles the buckles more than once. Still, Vetch can see the muscle memory at work.

A frisson of delight skates up his spine.

“I've watched you do this so many times. Such fast hands. So sure.”

He crouches close.

“And now... front row seats.”

Vetch watches admiringly, taken by the confidence, the speed, the economical grace. The spare fingers moving with such honesty and elegance and precision.

Riko’s hand moves fluidly over the auto-injectors, pulls one out by feel. Primes it.

As if it has just occurred to him, Vetch reaches over casually. Cocks his finger and flicks the injector hard.

Riko’s grip is slippery with blood. He fumbles for it but the injector is jolted out of his gasp. It rolls through blood.

Riko swivels an incredulous look at him. Eyes wide with disbelief. He looks so young in that moment, his usual bravado and assurance knocked right out of him.

“Yeah,” Vetch chuckles. “What the fuck.”

The injector clinks softly to a stop against the wall. Vetch shifts, gets out of Riko’s way.

“Go for it. That’s the one you need, right? The coagulant.”

Riko doesn't respond. Just grits his teeth and starts to heave himself toward it. Each pull leaves a red streak behind.

Vetch straightens up, and walks slowly beside him. Observing.

“You know, it was hard to tell in the moment... lumbar cuts don’t always land. But watching you move like that…”

He smiled faintly. “Pretty sure I got it right.”

His boot comes down, sharp and deliberate, into the small of Riko’s back.

Riko screams, short and strangled, like his throat can't carry the sound. His hands scrabble, leaving desperate bloodstreaks on the floor.

He's nowhere near the injector. Still, he stretches for it.

Vetch leans. The sound that comes out of Riko is high and inhuman.

He goes limp.

Vetch steps off. Looks at the body in the floor curiously.

The toe of a boot goes under a hip. A flick of Vetch’s foot is all it takes to turn Riko over. His face is white and senseless.

“Not yet,” Vetch says. “We’re not done.”

He leans in and slaps him, sharp and loud.

He peers into Riko's face. No response.

Vetch grips his collar, yanks him upright, and rolls his fist hard on his chest. Once. Twice.

Riko lets out a hoarse gasp. His eyes flick open, wide and rolling. His breath puffs in short, fraying gasps.

His hand, on the ground. Still at first, then dragging across the floor, slow and searching.

Vetch’s voice drops.

“There he is,” he breathes. “Still reaching. Still trying."

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Vetch drags him up against the wall, props him upright.

Riko tries to speak.

Nothing comes out. Just a wet sound, broken in the middle.

Vetch waits for the sound to peter out before he nods sympathetically.

“I am sorry about the throat. As much as I like hearing you talk, I wanted to keep things honest between us, you know?”

Vetch reaches for the errant injector. Wiggles it in front of Riko’s face. His eyes are drifting, unfocused.

“Here. You've worked hard for this'.”

The coagulant injector, placed gently in Riko’s loose hand.

Vetch waits. The injector lays inert. Unused. Riko’s eyes roll again, and his head sags against the wall.

Vetch sighs. “Come on, Riko. After all the trouble I went through to make sure they didn’t touch your hands…”

He wraps Riko’s lax fingers around the injector, primes it for him. Pushes it into his thigh. Discharges the drug into the muscle, right through the fabric of his uniform.

Riko’s eyebrows tense, but his eyes barely focus. Vetch waits again.

Clicks his tongue.

He rifles through the med kit, takes out a stim. Taps the new injector gently on Riko's forehead

"No, you're right, time for the good stuff." He flicks off the cap, pushes the needle into Riko's neck. Its discharges with a hiss.

At first, nothing.

A twitch. Riko's face flickers.

And then Riko bucks violently with a ragged yell that sounds like it's coming from underwater. His eyes fly open, and his hands are up, his bloody fingers splayed open in defence. His breathing is frantic and jagged, and his rapidly blinking gaze jerks around the corridor before landing wide on Vetch.

Vetch is smiling.

"Welcome back," he says warmly. “Look what I've got for you.”

Vetch pulls the bag close, lays it open. Arranges its contents like a banquet. Patches. Sealants. Injectors. All there.

“Take your pick.”

He doesn't interfere. Just watches.

Riko's eyes are darting, awake. For a moment it's like having the old Riko back.

Even with one hand clamped over his gut, he moves fast and sure over the triage kit. Pulls hemostatic gauze first by feel, rips it open with his teeth. Stuffs it into deep the gut wound with two fingers.

He has to pause, squeezing his eyes against the wave of pain. Just two seconds, and then he blinks hard and continues.

Riko pulls the gel coagulant next, uncaps it in the same movement he aims it into his gut. His hands are steady. The sealant discharges with a click. Once, twice, three times. Riko bares his teeth in a grimace but doesn't let the pain stop him. He's sweating.

Vetch watches with delight. Like a child at a magic show.

Then things start to deteriorate. A slow smile starts to spread on Vetch's face.

The good part is coming.

Riko reaches again, now for the patch. His hands are shaking. What would have taken a quick tear and application, now takes long moments.

His fingers fumble. He applies the patch sloppily. It sits crooked and crumpled over his torso.

It will hold. Riko moves again.

But now his hands move erratically. He goes for the wrap. Drops it. It unrolls over the blood-smeared floor.

Riko watches it go, his eyes flickering.

Vetch holds out a another wrap wordlessly. It's a long moment before Riko looks up at it. He blinks as if he can't tell what it's for.

The response is delayed, but Riko opens his hand and reaches for it.

And Vetch lets go, letting it unspool messily over him.

Vetch grins wide.

Riko pauses, looking at the mess. His breath has gone short and shallow. He doesn't look up.

He starts unravelling the bandages, looking for the end. It catches on the velcro of his sleeves, tangles in his hands.

Riko is fading.

His hands aren’t just shaking. They are locking up. Lagging. Like his brain is sending orders his body can’t execute.

Riko finally finds the end of the bandage. Arches his back so he can thread it under him and loops it over his midsection.

He pauses a moment, panting, to catch his breath.

And the bandage starts running through his hands. He tries to clench his fingers over the strip, but they curl uselessly.

He looks up with difficulty. Vetch is pulling the fabric from the other end.

Riko tries to hold on, but his fingers won't respond. His head is sagging. He's barely holding it up with effort.

He watches his fingers twitch uselessly as the last of the bandage vacates his hands and goes in Vetch's direction. The wrap he'd almost secured is completely undone in seconds.

Vetch winds up the last of it between his hands.

"Kinda poetic, don't you think?" he says, smiling.

It is wasted on Riko.

Consciousness ebbs. His eyes flicker, and then he sags forward slowly, chest rising shallowly. The kit lays open in front of him. Vials and patches smeared bloody.

Vetch waves a hand in front of his face.

"Riko?"

Riko doesn't move.

Vetch waits. Ten seconds.

Then presses his thumb to the thigh wound.

Riko makes a strangled noise and jerks. His eyes barely open, unfocused.

Vetch sighs. Takes out a second stim.

++++++++++++++++++++++++

Selah Arc: Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight ▸ Knife ▸ Duck and Weave ▸ Battle After Battle ▸ Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Choreographed

Selah whump-only path: Maintenance Corridor ▸ Now I Can See You ▸ Tourniquet ▸ Goodnight

<< Masterlist

Command said she was the best in her cohort. Nobody else operated the exo-suit like she did. He'd seen videos of her graduating test, where she walked up walls with barely any incline, like one of those fucking mountain goats. The clip that made the news was the one where she bounced off surfaces like she was-- as if she--

He can’t even describe it. It barely looked human.

A squints at her. He can hardly tell she's wearing it. It doesn't change her silhouette at all. If not for the stirrups that run around her boots, the gloves that show up under her sleeves, and the shoulder straps that peek through when her collar shifts, he wouldn't know she had it on.

Crouched behind the crate, she looks nothing like the steely-eyed exo-suit operator he'd seen on the news. He doesn't know how she ended up on his team. He's barely middling as a team lead.

It probably has something to do with B's last name.

A really doesn't think he has the leadership capability to handle such a high profile asset. He can barely handle B, who was the bottom of his graduating cohort.

A feels a vicious stab of resentment at being suspended in the middle of the shining top and the grotty bottom.

Speaking of which. B is still going on and on.

A sighs. Triggers his own comms. "Less talking, more doing, B."

A sees C purse her lips. Like she's suppressing a smile.

"Right right right," B says. "I'm going in now." He slips into the room.

A is really going to have to tighten up the language they use over the comms.

He rocks up on his feet, looking to C. She's already up, sim weapon at the ready, eyes on him and waiting for his sign to move.

Top of her cohort.

They move, taking the position B had occupied by the door before.

B has moved ahead too quickly. He's supposed to be taking cover behind the crates conveniently placed in the room for such a purpose.

Instead, A watches him round the corner, moving into the corridor.

"B, you're moving too fast, you're supposed to--"

B's comm channel is still open, so A hears the sharp intake of breath. And then a soft, "--the fuck?"

A's annoyance rises. He wonders if C will write a report on what a terrible team she's been assigned to, and ask to be transferred. If the team lead can't even handle a practice run without--

"Shit--" B's voice cracks through the comms. "There's-- fuck!" The last word sounds like he's a squeaky toy and someone has stepped on him.

They hear him stumbling and knocking things over through the comms.

That clown. A has seen B trip over his own laces before. The pinwheeling arms. The leg kicked up into the air. A real-time comedy.

That idiot. That fucker.

B voice cracks and pitches up hysterically. "Run run run!"

His footsteps clatter, echoing through the corridor.

C throws a look at A across the doorway. Gentle puzzlement. Mild consternation.

A grits his teeth. It's one thing to be saddled with the dregs of the academy, but to fail in front of someone who... Okay, maybe if he resets the entire practice run, he'll have a chance to win back some of his reputation.

He stands up, steps into the doorway so B can see his disapproval.

"Enough," he sighs. "Mission reset--"

B skids around the corner, and A sees his face, white and terrorised.

"No!" he gasps, "A, get down! Take cov--"

+++++++++++++++++++++

A can't breathe. He can't bring his chest to rise. There's something over his face. There's a ringing in his ears.

He thrashes under the thing weighing him down, and only then it occurs to him to open his eyes.

Someone's hand is over his face. He tugs it off, and it flops off without resistance.

A body is over his. He blinks hard, taking in the dusty hair, the torn collar, the bloody jawline.

It's B. B's body is on him.

Fuck. FUCK.

He coughs hard, and then finally takes in a big, gasping inhale.

He grasps B's uniform with both hands, tugging at the weight as he rolls himself up into a sitting position.

The entire warehouse they use for practice missions is in shambles. The crates are shattered around them, one of the walls of the room they had been about to enter blown completely open.

And B--

B is face up on his lap. He's coughing up blood, his mouth opening and closing, trying to breathe. His eyes are rolling, terrified.

"Bomb," he wheezes. "Numbers, red-- bomb!"

His panicked words send blood spray onto A's face.

A can feel the crackle of B's broken ribs under his hand.

Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck-- where is C?

He snaps his head up, and finds her, knees drawn up to her chest, seated against the wall that was still intact. Her eyes are huge and blank, her weapon clutched against her chest.

He tries to get up, but he feels agony stab through him, in several places. His leg. And... his chest. Collarbone? And ribs, all down his left side.

He rolls B's body as gently as he can, to look at his leg, and-- it's broken. He can feel the edges of his broken shin bone grating against each other. Yup. Definitely broken.

B makes an awful sputtering sound in his lap.

He smacks the insensate face. "B, you gotta stay awake, come on B."

Nothing.

A coughs. Smoke is filling the warehouse. He hadn't noticed that the room was on fire.

Stupid. Stupid.

He was going to get all of them killed.

C. C can get them up. With her suit.

"C," he calls urgently, as loud as he can. "C! Hey C!!"

Her eyes remain wide and unblinking, fixed in the middle-distance. Her mouth is moving silently, like she is praying. Or chanting. The smoke is getting so thick he can hardly see her.

A puts his hand to his ear, to manually trigger his comms. But the ear bud is missing. Oh wait, no, it's shattered. There are pieces of it embedded in his ear and the side of his face.

He checks for B's ear bud. It's gone, blown off him in the blast.

Without comms to radio back to HQ, and with them off campus at the practice warehouse... nobody will find them in time before the smoke overwhelms them. And they aren't wearing their combat vests with the beacon triggers on them. Why would they, this was just supposed to be a practice run.

They are well and truly fucked.

Practice Run: Part 1 ▸ Part 2 ▸ Part 3 /// More Team Alphabet: Rabid ▸ Endurance ▸ Accelerated Healing Factor /// Masterlist

🎨 Art for this arc: An amazing comic that @aikooki drew!