pain_train | SANCTUM INBOX

His brow furls. What's happened to her? He feels a stab of dread. Compliance came for her, he thinks. They couldn't leave well enough alone and now she's become their drone again.

Can he bring her back from wherever they placed her mind? It seems best to bring her out of it slowly and gently. Which for now means sounding authoritative. "At ease, soldier," he says in a strong voice.

There's something about that voice that tickles in her mind, but she keeps her eyes straight ahead and does her best to comply with at ease. Relaxes superficially at least. "Sir."

And wait. Simply wait.

He rubs his forehead. That didn't do much. "I need you to give an account, soldier," he says. "Where you've been for the last two days and who you talked to." That would at least let him know what she remembers.

The last two days.

Her mind is blank. She can't remember. That can't be right. There's a slight grimace of confusion as she mentally struggles grasps at anything at all, because she needs to. There must have been orders. There are always orders, nothing but orders. "Prior to reporting here, I was on patrol with Lieutenant Avarice. Special execution order 7619." A slight hesitation, a minor hitch in her breathing because she wants to say... wants to not say, and she shouldn't want anything at all. "Mission completed, but Lieutenant Avarice may be non-compliant."

Another, more palpable hesitation, but she continues on in the same clipped tone. "In accordance with directives, I must report myself as non-compliant as well. Sir."

Edited 2014-11-04 14:08 (UTC)

He scrubs his hand over his eyes. This doesn't make sense. He knows Avarice is dead. He also knows that if she'd been given a compliance assessment she wouldn't have been able to come up with an answer at all. And he knows this is wrong, all wrong.

"I have it on good authority," he begins. His voice cracks. "...that is not correct. Try again."

That wasn't the answer. Failure to follow orders. Her mouth goes dry. Failure.

Why did his voice crack?

Don't question. Soldiers don't question. They obey. So obey.

But she can't obey.

"Sir." There is nothing. No memory beyond what she had grasped in her vision jazzy and incomplete and now it's gone anyway. The tension starts creeping back into her, the heartrate displayed on the monitor going up slightly. Her mouth is dry. She's afraid. Soldiers aren't allowed to be afraid. Failure. "I do not know."

She does know what comes next. Failure to follow orders. "Do you wish me to report for assessment now, sir?"

"No," he says. He doesn't know what telling this will do but he knows how badly her being in this state is affecting him. He has his heart in his throat and he swallows thickly before continuing. "I know the answer. You've been injured. You're in the hospital. You spent your time with me. You don't need an assessment. You will never have another assessment again...if I can help it."

She does look at him then, meaning it to be furtive because his voice, what's wrong with his voice, command doesn't sound like that, there are no orders to it.

And then she can't look away. He looks familiar, like a friend, but she has no friends (soldiers neither have nor need them) and he's not in uniform and his eyes. She knows them, they're beautiful (beautiful things don't matter) and why isn't he smiling, it's so good when he smiles, but she doesn't know him, but she does--

Wrath looks back toward the ceiling. She flexes her fingers slowly, tries to speak through a suddenly very dry throat. "I do not understand, sir." Something is wrong, very wrong. Wrong with her, she can't remember, and she's scared, she shouldn't be scared, she never feels anything except the far off glow of anger that never quite seems to go away. "What are your orders?" This time it's her voice that cracks on that last word.

Edited 2014-11-04 18:43 (UTC)

There's a glimmer of recognition in her eyes, but then it's gone, and when she looks away again he presses his lips into a hard line. He'd been avoiding it, afraid it would jolt her too suddenly out of this state, but now he touches her hand—just resting his fingers against hers, not grasping. "Remember me," he says.

Her breath hitches. It's an order that makes no sense, she doesn't know him, she doesn't know anyone but the other soldiers, it's unnecessary. No, she does, she feels the pull of that recognition but it's ethereal as smoke and she doesn't know him. She doesn't know anyone, she doesn't need to.

But his eyes. She knows his eyes even though she shouldn't.

So she must look at him, because she will obey. Obedience first and always. She looks back toward him, searching out his eyes (she knows those eyes, she could drown in them, it's all stories and pain and laughter, but who laughs?) And then the things that make his face, brow line and jaw, the straight nose, and she knows these things knows them, it's like an evaporating dream.

Her lips move in a silent 'Sir?' Her head feels strange, like everything is sliding away and she can't grasp it. Her fingers twitch against his, and then she suddenly grips with desperate strength.

He has a name. She knows the name, like she knows that little point of contact at her fingers.

This is important, I wrote it a thousand times in my own palm. Whispered it. Prayed it.

She tears the name from the inside of her own head and speaks it raggedly, "North?" Yes. Yes that's it. She sucks in a breath, and she's shaking, can't breathe, can taste her heart in her throat only it tastes like cinnamon. "North, something's wrong."

"I know," he says. He squeezes her hand tighter, threading their fingers together as before. "Focus on me, okay, focus on me, and...?" And something. Something had to happen now. He bends his knees to bring himself closer to her face and places his free hand on her cheek.

And the change in angle changes something else. The bracket that holds her arm in traction flashes an image at him. He blinks and flinches away; he'd seen her, killing him, back in the tower. "Don't let it," he whispers, standing again. "Don't let it take you over."

Wrath holds onto his hand, white-knuckle tight. Focus on North, she can do that, that's easy, he's so close and he has petty eyes and why is it so hard to breathe?

What does she remember? She remembers driving her fist into the side of his head. She remembers him crushing her against the floor. She remembers him feeding her pie. And their hands, like this.

But it's all a jumble, and everything smells strange, and it's the emotions and sensations that come through. So she knows the taste of pie, and the sharp pain of breathing against the ribs he broke, and the exhilaration of finally tearing his helmet off and seeing his face in a startled moment before she let him pin her, and warmth, she remembers warmth too, and their hands together like this. But what it all means, the equations that firm this into linear sense are far more difficult. She presses her face into his palm, the little bit she can, and that's not familiar, is more like a dream but his eyes. She knows his eyes.

Even as she clings to his hand, her arm jerks against the frame restraining it and her eyes go wide. She knows these things too, the details fuzzy but the sensations still sharp. Restrained, can't move. She doesn't even have the name of the place on her mind, but the animal fear of it chokes her. How is he here?

"North you have to go. You have to go. They're going to get you, and I can't--I can't--you can't help me you have to go."

He strokes her cheek with his thumb. "I'm not leaving you alone." He isn't; he won't.

Wrath jerks her arm against the restraints again, then breathes raggedly against his palm. "No, no, no, no," she moans. "You have to go. You have to stay safe, North, please, they're gonna start any minute, and I don't matter anyway if they already have me." Because it's just matter of time, she believes, until the drugs start, and that damn taste of honey, and her eyes have tears in then again but she's angry, she's actually just angry, "It's not fucking fair. I don't want to forget you!"

Maybe she'll kill them this time. (Has she tried before? She can't remember. Be nice to the officers, Wrath. No, fuck the officers, she'll tear them apart with her teeth.)

"I'll call Whiskey," he says urgently. His hand goes from her cheek to securely grip her shoulder. "We won't let them in, him and me. They won't get you. They won't get me either. I'll stay here—whatever it takes."

"Whiskey?" Of course North could call Whiskey, they were all in the militia together, but--the mention of Whiskey makes her think hospital, and that's the smell too, disinfectant with no honey. She darts a furtive glance around and it's not what she expected (what did she expect?) but she focuses on North again, on his eyes.

She can remember his eyes. She can remember.

"Where--where is this? Where are we?"

"The medical center," he says. "You're safe here. You're safe." He hopes this calms her; her heart rate has been elevated for a good few minutes.

That actually does calm her. She knows the medical center belongs to Whiskey. Whiskey... he takes care of her, doesn't he? Trust and comfort, she knows that. He's her friend.

She makes an effort to slow her breathing, closing her eyes for a moment.

"The medical center. So... I had another injury." Yes. She remembers breathing against cracked ribs. North pinning her. "Is your head okay?"

And then... she fell. Her body jerks against the remembered terror and exhilaration and she pants out a couple of breaths, then tries to breathe deeply again. "Why were we fighting?" They work together. Will work together. It's still a jumble but she's trying to sort it out.

He moves his hand from her shoulder and brushes her hair back off of her ear, ignoring the question about his injury. "It doesn't matter," he says. "That's over. We're friends now; you know that, right? I take care of you. I won't hurt you."

"But it was a really good fight." She closes her eyes for a moment at that touch. She wants to remember that too. So much care in a simple touch, and it makes her feel warm and a bit strange.

"You do," she agrees. "You take such good care of me. You... feed me pie." Deep breaths. She lets her grip on his hand loosen a little, just so she can try to rub her thumb lightly over his, and that feels right.

Edited 2014-11-04 21:09 (UTC)

"I do. And I'm going to make it so you can paint, and I'm going to spend as much time here as I can." He pauses and licks his lips. "And you take care of me too. You make me happy."

"I do?" How she could take care of him at all while in traction--that's right, she'd broken almost every bone in her body this time, that was why she couldn't move--is something of a mystery to her. Have they known each other longer?

Does it matter? He's here now.

Wrath meets his eyes again, and smiles. "Then you should smile," she says quietly. "You have a really cute smile." She disengages her hand just enough to poke him in the palm with her index finger. "Beep."

That's her. With a relieved, quiet sigh his expression gentles into a small smile. "That's my smile button," he teases. "Good thing you found it."

Wrath grins. "Hah. You thought you could keep it hidden forever." But rather than engage in further poking, she nestles her hand--still a little fear-chilled--back in his.

"I put it where you'd least expect it," he says. He glances at their hands, looking pleased, then says, "I brought you breakfast."

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