spacejail | Certain People Aren't Dead AU

"M'good-" He's fine, he can walk it off, they don't need to dock him points for this. "Objective's shot to hell but I'm fine. You don't-"

And it looks like white armor what with the glare and the shock and all, of course it's white armor and he doesn't mean to flinch back, not really but the last time it'd been white it'd been Wyoming and that had nearly killed him. But Ohio's too damn tall and too damn graceless to be that mustached motherfucker; he gets close and the silver clicks and it's safe. Ish. He sucks in a shaky breath and tries to focus on here and now. Which is- Situation FUBAR.

Fun times.

"Ohjesufuckingchrist-" Biofoam stings. "Sonovabitch- ow. Ow, motherfucking-"

Edited 2018-03-20 05:55 (UTC)

They have a couple of minutes at least before Lane gets the shuttle. You don't park your ride where your enemy could just go take it. Saunders is busying himself with re-securing the guns to move, and then scouring the bodies real quick for anything useful. Ammunition. Grenades. Communications gear they can send back for analysis. Part of Ohio has the awareness to be proud that the kid's learning.

It would be all fine if it weren't for York.

"Easy. It went to shit, but nobody else got shot. Lane's getting the shuttle and we're going to find help."

That's what has his thoughts racing right now. It's going to have to be somewhere onworld. Throwing people in the freezer for a slipspace jump back to actual medical help is possible, but it's desperate and as likely to kill York as anything with a wound like that.

"We'll skate back to Nazca."

Scenic Nazca, their current wretched insurrectionist hive away from home. A real inspirer of confidence in shit situations. At least wandering mercs in ex-UNSC kit are standard fare out here, they've blended in so far.

"Why is it always the stomach? I have abs. I am proud of the abs-" Humor, strained and stressed as he lets his head fall back against the dust, blinking through his visor at the terribly bright sky and shadow that Ohio casts. So.

Bleeding out again. Probably going to happen. Man, he really isn't lucky enough to avoid death a fifth time. She's bound to come and collect for good. At least he's not alone, and that's a weird thought to have. The pain fades little by little and nothing feels broken. Torn to shit but- he might live. Might. Not a lot of stock to put in might. "Promise I won't lose a kidney to pay for the surgery and you got a deal."

Gallows humor- when in doubt? Poke fun. It's hard to poke or find fun but damn if he isn't determined to try.

Ohio doesn't quite laugh, he's too worked up, but he makes a little bitten-off huff. It caught him off guard.

"They're phenomenal."

At least, so he remembers. They were all pretty aware of the state of everyone else's musculature by the time Freelancer was said and done. And really, if there's a time for jokes it's when you're waiting for transport while your friend is bleeding (less now, stabilized, hopefully) in your arms.

"I'll try. I'm pretty goddamn scary, after all."

This would be a joke too if it weren't... sort of true, these days. He's different from the affable midranking smartass York knew. Something broke in Ohio, and the ragged edges have torn through. There's a menace to him sometimes, real anger that surfaces in a way that isn't cute or funny in the moments where his composure cracks.

He doesn't like how frequent those are becoming.

Luckily, he has other things to think about as he watches for the shape of the shuttle. When it does come in, raising a cloud of dust, he shifts to shield York from it with his body.

"Saunders! Help me with him!" he calls over the engines.

Could he do this himself? Yeah. Is it better if two people can keep him level? Definitely. Time to move.

"I'm not that fat-" He grumbles, but it's more dignified than a fireman's carry and less likely to pop the seal of the biofoam- so he takes it lying down. As best he can. Every step stings in that distant way that comes from quite a few of the good drugs pumping through your system and the level of detachment only ever provided by shock. It's easier to let Ohio handle this for awhile.

Not dying is all he can really expend the effort on, anyway.

"This job sucks. I say we keep the money and take a vacation." They've earned it. Or at least he earned it. Saunders might've- he reaches out to tap their knuckles together, proud of him for looting the bodies. "Good job."

Recovery is important, he thinks, deeply in need of recovery. "D- how long till..."

He's not sure what. But the cool wash of green is a disant echo as his voice trails off, exhaustion starting to seep in.

They get York settled as much as they can. Saunders pauses, a little surprised by the acknowledgment, and the best he can do to answer is to duck his helmet a little in an almost embarrassed gesture. It's more than he ever gets from their usual freelancer. The snapped orders he's been getting today are more their typical speed when things have gone wrong.

"Drinks with umbrellas all around," Ohio grumbles. He feels a little bit sick inside, and is already getting frustrated with himself for it. It's not even like he's the one wounded, it's not even like he's officially accountable for York the way he is for the other two.

Once they have the guns and salvage on board, Ohio's steps up front to lean over Lane's shoulder and tell him where they're going.

For the trip, though, he's with York. He might lose York. The man swept back from the dead and into his life in a way that makes this feel unreal and impossible, like it's not fair to lose somebody after you've barely had a chance to have them back and start to know them again.

But fair has never had anything to do with it, has it? Not for them.

Getting back to Nazca is uneventful. It's warm in the shuttle because it's a warm planet even with the climate control going. The engines are steady. Saunders picks over what he's found, but doesn't talk. He keeps shooting nervous glances at the freelancers, and eventually slides up into the cockpit to sit next to Lane. Lane looks at him for a moment when he does, then back to out front without a word. There's some kind of comfort in knowing somebody else is at a complete loss, at least.

The town grows like something malignant on the horizon as they buzz in, and Ohio leaves the boys to watch the shuttle (and York) while he figures this out. He hates how long it takes to find somebody who knows what they're doing, he hates that it's hard to negotiate from a place of cool disinterest when you obviously have a dying man on your hands.

But it does get done and he's calmer on the report back, at least a little bit.

Seeing York again makes his stomach twist as he comes back up inside the shuttle.

"York, you holding up?" he asks, half just checking for consciousness.

"M'good, boss. S'just a scratch." Helmet cracked off for the moment so he could breathe- York's eye is unfocused, his expression loose. Glazed. Could be shock, could be medication, could be exhaustion but it's all tangling together in one big searing ache at his gut that won't go away, an itch on his nose he can't scratch, and a vague notion that he's supposed to be gearing up for spiral.

"Just. Gotta get used to the left side. We can work through it, right D?" And that's- a little more and a little less than delusions. A little more in that he actually hears, not remembers, hears, some kind of response. Lingering echos of the digital mind that lived alongside his for so long. A little less in that it's quiet, detached. Reciting lines from memory rather than performing in full. There's a job, he'll get it done. Needs to-

Levering himself up is painful, but he tries. Can't look like a sad sack.

Can't let them knock him down a few rankings but this isn't-

The pain locks him back to this moment. To the silence in his skull and the silver armor next to his and-

"...any luck finding a surgeon?" Like he didn't just have some kind of flashback to the fucking grenade and the misery afterward.

Boss. The boys call him that sometimes, but hearing it out of York (seriously out of York, not even a joke) means he's not all together. So does talking to D.

Ohio remembers. The taste of blood in his mouth, almost unable to think from pain, choking out Pi's name because he needs her and of course she's there and it's the only thing that makes sense-

York tries to push himself up, and it seems to snap him out of it. Ohio doesn't have to field this for the moment, and that's good because he's not sure how.

Maybe he should. Maybe not now, but... well. Ohio knows what it is to be left alone in that.

It wasn't good.

"Yeah," is what he says for now. He found a surgeon. They have help. Things are going to be okay.

"She's bringing something to move you on." One doesn't do surgery in strange peoples' shuttles for a number of reasons.

Ohio's posture straightens just a little, then, and something sly creeps back into his voice as he adds: "Good news. She'll take part of it in guns."

Mission fucking accomplished, team.

"Oh yay. Gurney surfing." Locked halfway between slumping on the pillows and being upright sucks, so he picks an option- pulling himself upright to lean against the headboard instead, panting with the effort. Fuck. Yeah. He sat up.

Go team.

Of course the payment option twists a pained, laugh out of him- something cut off and ragged, raw and wounded until he sucks in a sharp breath to steady himself. "Don't- don't be funny. It'll be a trial but don't. Be funny."

A moment, two, maybe five? Before he asks:

"How are the boys?" They weren't shot, sure- but seeing a guy on your team take a hard hit? Seeing a Freelancer down? Morale might get low.

Certain People Aren't Dead AU

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject