#military whump
Well this got waaaay away from me.
Whumpay Day 10
I Can Still Fight | “I can’t stop.” | ExhaustionThe jungle is dense and moist and thick with insects. Everything rots.
The medic scrubs antiseptic into the long gouge where the bullet clipped him. “You should go back to camp,” she tells him, wrapping gauze tight over it, “and stay there until this has closed up. If it gets infected, I won’t be able to save it.”
“If it starts to get hot, I’ll go,” he says. “We can hope for good luck.”Wounds don’t heal cleanly out here. But his does. He rubs his fingertips over it often, feeling the profile of it through the dressing and the plastic cover that keeps the rain out.
He wonders if he really is that lucky, or if his good fortune is the work of an unseen force moving, the ripples cast by something swimming beneath the surface. The jungle is hot and humid, but goosebumps shiver across his skin as if a cold wind blew.
Whumpay Day 2
From Dress To Dressing |“You’re not dead yet?” |GunshotHeavy boots pick through the bodies, occasionally pausing to nudge a limb aside enough to make a space to set a foot down. Gloved hands rummage through pockets and under clothes, searching with brusque efficiency.
One of the bodies moans when rolled over.
“Not dead yet?” grunts the mercenary, a little surprised.
“Oh god,” keens the injured man, clutching at his wounds.“Don’t – don’t do it – I have a family–”
“Relax,” the mercenary drawls, showing her teeth. “We’re not here for you.”
She goes down on one knee, ignoring the man’s continuing pleas, and frisks him roughly. That done, she grips the front of his shirt with one gloved hand and rips it open. A button, yanked free of its mooring, flicks away, spinning.
“What are you doing?” the wounded man mewls, voice only climbing in pitch as she draws a knife from its holster. “Oh god, what do you want?”
The mercenary cuts a wide strip from the front of his shirt, then another. The knife slides between fabric and sweat-soaked skin to open up the sleeve, then that too is rendered into strips.
The man’s hand is roughly jerked away from the first bullet hole, and he yelps as a balled up piece of fabric is shoved hard against the wound. A second strip, folded double for strength, is wrapped round the leg and pulled tight.
“You’re hurting me,” he wails, only to be cut off in a choked sound of shock as a third piece of fabric is shoved two-fingered into his open mouth.
“Bite down,” the mercenary orders brusquely, and returns to tying off the makeshift bandage.
By the time the second wound is dressed to her satisfaction, almost the entire shirt has been cannibalised for fabric. Only a section beneath the man’s back remains, and the shirt collar, trailing scraps and threads, around his neck.
The mercenary stands up, casts one last look over the man – wide-eyed, flopping like a fish, trying to spit out the rag from his mouth. Without another word, she turns and walks away.
A young officer in a villainous kingdom’s army tries to send a battalion on a mission they have no hope of returning from.
When the officer’s commander finds out about this, he’s sent to die alongside his men as punishment. But when the rival kingdom recognizes the officer among the enemy forces, they decide they won’t let him off so easily.
