06-18-2014, 10:06 AM
Continued from Wounds
Two years in operational medicine and Torri had never seen a battlefield like this. The dying and mangled were always brought to her, carried to the relative safety of a field hospital off the front lines.
What she saw beyond the confines of their truck hardened the set of her jaw. The dead lay like incomprehensible lumps around them. Often mounded together in what she assumed were once areas of defensive lines. It was hard to be grateful that more of those lumps were disheveled arrays of traditional clothing; civilians transformed into insurgents, it was a sickening loss of life.
She'd done what she could for those in her immediate care. Once the trucks rolled to a stop, she oversaw the transportation of the wounded to nearby VTOL's. Most of the ones that were capable of walking themselves there had abandoned the convoy along the way to join their brothers. Torri only watched, pride mixed with anger, when a patient left behind his dogtags and stood his ground while they drove away.
It meant those patients that remained needed full assistance if not an actual litter to make it out of one vehicle and onto the aircraft.
The Legionnaire medic that assisted her was about to sprint off to see to similar transports, but not before Torri flagged him down. "Sergeant!"
She barked in her Officer-voice; she didn't use it often. He turned toward her.
She stretched out a hand, "If I don't see you again, thank you for your assistance tonight."
He nodded and accepted her hand. "It's Sergeant Decat, Raüli Decat, and the pleasure was mine, Capitaine."
They quickly said their goodbyes and Torri nodded that he go help his comrades.
That's when she scanned the field for Michael, and found herself blinking when she realized exactly who he was talking to.
She snapped at a nearby Legionnaire and pointed out a few specific patients. "Private, make sure everyone's on board. That one needs to stay flat. Put that one next to the wall so I can hang a drip over his head. Once they're on board, find out if the Custody supplies have narcotics and report back to me."
He wasn't used to taking orders from a doctor, let alone a member of the Custody forces, but the firmament in her gaze set such foolish hesitation aside. "I'm going to speak to your CEO."
She turned and strode toward the quickly deconstructed command center without looking back.
Behind her, the VTOL blades whirled with life. The rush of air billowed her coat and snagged strands of hair as she approached. Nobody stopped her.
Her face ached and her hands were cramped, but she didn't care. She was altogether disgusted with the entire trip to DV: both for how things turned out and the helpless role she played in it.
She spared a glance at Michael, but stood alongside him despite the instinct to flee from his presence lest he turn the intensity of his gaze upon her. She didn't like being frightened of someone, but he scared her to the core of her being. She felt like a child terrified of the monster under her bed. It was irrational, but she was convinced the monster was real nonetheless.
Jacques Danjou. She merely looked at the CEO as he interacted with Michael, his screens, his staff, and his men. It had been his voice on the phone, she realized, but she held her tongue despite the buzz of a hundred questions in her head.
Actually, words altogether seemed to have abandoned her. Perhaps they sprinted off to join their brethren in the night.
Two years in operational medicine and Torri had never seen a battlefield like this. The dying and mangled were always brought to her, carried to the relative safety of a field hospital off the front lines.
What she saw beyond the confines of their truck hardened the set of her jaw. The dead lay like incomprehensible lumps around them. Often mounded together in what she assumed were once areas of defensive lines. It was hard to be grateful that more of those lumps were disheveled arrays of traditional clothing; civilians transformed into insurgents, it was a sickening loss of life.
She'd done what she could for those in her immediate care. Once the trucks rolled to a stop, she oversaw the transportation of the wounded to nearby VTOL's. Most of the ones that were capable of walking themselves there had abandoned the convoy along the way to join their brothers. Torri only watched, pride mixed with anger, when a patient left behind his dogtags and stood his ground while they drove away.
It meant those patients that remained needed full assistance if not an actual litter to make it out of one vehicle and onto the aircraft.
The Legionnaire medic that assisted her was about to sprint off to see to similar transports, but not before Torri flagged him down. "Sergeant!"
She barked in her Officer-voice; she didn't use it often. He turned toward her.
She stretched out a hand, "If I don't see you again, thank you for your assistance tonight."
He nodded and accepted her hand. "It's Sergeant Decat, Raüli Decat, and the pleasure was mine, Capitaine."
They quickly said their goodbyes and Torri nodded that he go help his comrades.
That's when she scanned the field for Michael, and found herself blinking when she realized exactly who he was talking to.
She snapped at a nearby Legionnaire and pointed out a few specific patients. "Private, make sure everyone's on board. That one needs to stay flat. Put that one next to the wall so I can hang a drip over his head. Once they're on board, find out if the Custody supplies have narcotics and report back to me."
He wasn't used to taking orders from a doctor, let alone a member of the Custody forces, but the firmament in her gaze set such foolish hesitation aside. "I'm going to speak to your CEO."
She turned and strode toward the quickly deconstructed command center without looking back.
Behind her, the VTOL blades whirled with life. The rush of air billowed her coat and snagged strands of hair as she approached. Nobody stopped her.
Her face ached and her hands were cramped, but she didn't care. She was altogether disgusted with the entire trip to DV: both for how things turned out and the helpless role she played in it.
She spared a glance at Michael, but stood alongside him despite the instinct to flee from his presence lest he turn the intensity of his gaze upon her. She didn't like being frightened of someone, but he scared her to the core of her being. She felt like a child terrified of the monster under her bed. It was irrational, but she was convinced the monster was real nonetheless.
Jacques Danjou. She merely looked at the CEO as he interacted with Michael, his screens, his staff, and his men. It had been his voice on the phone, she realized, but she held her tongue despite the buzz of a hundred questions in her head.
Actually, words altogether seemed to have abandoned her. Perhaps they sprinted off to join their brethren in the night.