I look through the visor and recognise that face. That voice. I feel bad for not knowing her name no longer. It's standing on my tongue, but I can't speak it nor think it. I look confused, as if through her sapphire eyes. I lift my left arm, now a stump, to extend it towards her. A mere attempt at it as the pain prevents me from taking it off more than an inch off the ground.
I look at myself as I lift my head. I could see so little, yet feel so much. I could see my right leg - gone. My left arm - gone. Cuts through my jacket, shirt and jeans. Shrapnel? I can see a piece of metal lodged into the right side of my torso, but I can't feel it. I try to grab it, but fail. I lay back to close my eyes, trying to escape this nightmare. Trying to escape the pain, but I only then my thoughts begin to race. Hachette was her name.
I want to go back. I want to see myself once more. I think it, wish it.
And yet, it doesn't work. I'm still here. A tear drips down from my left eye. It is so small, yet I could feel every little place it touched. And then it stops at an old, almost superficial scar I had for years now. I remember where I got it, too.
I remember that one time I went playing soccer with the others in my class. They never liked me, that's why I always got to be the goalkeeper. Sometimes my team would willingly let the ball slip, just so they could kick the football in my gut, face and anywhere they could - knowing I wouldn't let go. I always wanted to prove I can play. I remember when I took one to the face and lost balance. I fell on some stupid shards of glass laying on the ground, cutting myself in them. I saw them since before we started the match. I wanted to move them away, but I couldn't be seen slacking from my position. That was the first time I really bled. How far have I come since then, huh?
And now I'm here. I'm waiting for the end to come, yet it doesn't. As if a second figure stares me down, away from my view, observing what will become of me. It mocks me.
It was understandable given his current state, and the length of time between their last encounter that her name had been forgotten, slipped from his burdened mind by lack of relevance. Yet there was no memory of her ever showing concern for his well being, at least not physically. The neutral face and cruel gaze had shifted into worry at the weakness of his minor movements. Two individuals came up to the pod and reached in toward Vincent. Lifting him quickly from his position over to the hover unit, laying him down on it, before a quick pinch. A sense of bliss followed shortly after, Hachette was present at the head of the stretcher, the right gauntlet, even if cold placed gently on his shoulder, an cut had been made into his flight suit, her fingers holding what clothing they could out of the way to inject what was presumably an intense painkiller judging by the wave that came previously, a feeling of a cool breeze.
The hover stretcher began moving with the injured man upon it, through the eerie corridors of the vessel, presumably where Hachette had commanded previously. A tall man to his right side, following quickly as he scanned over Vincent's body to find the true extent of the damages, and another man at the end of the stretcher, applying pressure to the end of his leg with cloth in attempt to slow the bleeding until he was in an actual operating room.
Hachette took up position to his left, walking quickly as well as her hand remained on his left collar bone, looking down to him with a gaze that had returned to its usual cruel state. She spoke, a reminder, though it was far gentler than her eyes.
I can feel a cold hand holding down on my shoulder. And then a pinch. Despite the searing pain that was all over my body, I could still feel that one, small pinch. I don't know what it is. I can feel my heart race for a second, and then silence. Her words were slowly fading out to me, echoing as I blacked out. My muscles slowly start to relax, for the better or worse. My mind drifts away.
I see myself again. He's facing away from me, and I remain behind him, holding a gun in my right hand. Instinctively, I check the magazine to find one singular bullet. It is the same bullet I scratched my name over it. I look around confused, realising that everything scorched to the ground. I'm in the garden again, but the trees are scorched to the ground, still tortured by seemingly unending fire. The grass is dead around me, and the bench has burn marks all over. Yet I don't care. He doesn't care.
"Well...nuts. I guess we don't have a lot of time left on our plate, do we? A real shame, isn't it? When we got ourselves into this adventure there was confidence. Near innocence. We were having our own little adventure that we thought would end in a day or two. And now humans and aliens alike seem to be counting on us to save the world."
He sounded fairly disappointed by the end. His voice wheezing as if from the smoke filling the air around us. I look down to the gun I'm holding, cleaning a small smudge over its model description.
"We started off well. I-...I didn't think it would come down to this. I thought I would see the end of this and- you know. Survive? Most definitely leave Liberty, too."
I try to get up and sit beside myself, but I am gestured not to with a swift motion of his - my - hand.
"We were never meant to survive. Once our usefulness was over He would get rid of us. Either Him, or your "friends". Our, friends."
I look at myself. I know he puts a grave accent on the word "friends". I know what he's trying to say, and deep down I hate it. I hold the grip of my gun firmly.
"Oh, please. Don't be so surprised. Look at the past events. Look at what happened until this very unfortunate moment took place. Everyone hates us one way or another. Nobody genuinely cared for us. Damien was annoyed by our actions. Hachette who's tending to us now probably wanted you dead several times now."
He pauses for a second, before throwing off a scorched flower, soon to blend in perfectly with the dead grass around us. He looks down.
She doesn't end us now, because Raven doesn't want to. Hell...even Raven probably doesn't like us. She could be needing you until the moment we open that Gate for her. Then she'll blast us like the Xenos did. Like The Order did. We've got no real friends. We're just a pawn spread over several chess tables. The Xenos eliminated us off theirs. The Order did, too.
I stand up on a moment's notice, gripping the gun in my hand, holding it at myself who still stands on the bench. He turns his head to me. I had the face of a man with a thousand of regrets on the outside and another thousand on the inside.
"Raven isn't like that. And if you think like that you're not me."
I feel my heart race, itching to pull the trigger.
"That's true! I'm not you. I'm not a corpse on a stretcher with a few hours left on the clock. Have it your way! Don't listen to me again. Let us see where that gets you."
I give him a perplexed look. I get ready to pull the trigger, refusing to listen to myself. Yet as I do a flash of light behind the scorching trees blinds me.
And then I see Hachette again. Being there. I don't want to listen to myself. I must be lying. I refuse to believe what I said.
Hachette hadn't separated from Vincent's side for this ordeal, despite the fact she could have entrusted any of the the medical staff to his care. So at least, for whatever reason, being here was important to her, ulterior motive or otherwise. A large majority of the pain had vanished, but there was still discomfort in the form of pressure, restricted movements, he had been moved to an operating table. Two drones had joined the group, the scans completed.
With the data compiled, now all that was left was to hook the man on death's door up to IVs and various monitors, remove the obstacles, and to put him under. Hachette was distracted when Vincent's eyes re-focused, eyes cast through him for a few brief seconds, mixed emotions. The sapphire pair re-focused as they noted Vincent's gaze, and in turn her own returned to a cold disposition. Though indicated by a light squeeze of her gloved hand on his tarnished left shoulder, she was somewhat pleased he was still aware. She posed a question as the medical units prepared by beginning to allocate the various IVs.
I still feel the effects of those painkillers. Every part of me feels numb, almost unresponsive. I give Hachette a thumbs-up with my right hand as an answer to her question. My tongue feels tangled, barely responsive. I leave out a forced cough to clear my throat of the clotted blood residing within. I soon came to realise it was a fairly bad idea. Despite the discomfort I tried to mutter something. Say, something.
"Awa--"
I manage to spew out half a word, before remaining without breath. It feels like I can't breathe. As if someone is strangling me by the throat. My body reacts, convulsing as if trying to get some air in those lungs. I can't control it. It feels like an eternity already.
It felt all too similar to first time I ever interacted with the Triage. That very moment I broke through it and saw only the Dark Matter Storm. Alberta in its most dangerous form. I remember how I nearly lost myself in it. The faint lights guiding me. The ghost-like signals, communications between the already derelict Stations and ships laid waste by the Storm. And how thought at the time that I would be soon joining them.
As the reasoning for the coughing becomes clear, Hachette helps roll Vincent onto the more injured side of his chest, the larger of the two medical assistants helps hold his body up to avoid further wounds from the weight added to that side, the last thing they wanted was blood pooling in his "uninjured" lung. A medical droid shifts around behind Hachette and moves in front of Vincent, shining a light into his mouth in attempt to find visual obstruction. The second medical droid prepares oxygen tubing should it be required while the second medical unit walks over to Vincent's front, making an incision into his flight suit from which they use scissors to begin cutting down the center to release it from his body so they can get a much better look at the damage caused to his upper body.
The pain surges as I'm rolled over to the side. I can see with my own eyes what is left of me. I do not like it. I can feel cuts across my torso and see them bleed. I can see some of my blood falling off the table Hachette's people placed me on. I can almost feel a hole through my chest. I can hardly breathe, but when I do I feel something on my left side. Something sharp, uneven. A piece of metal lodged in me.
My mind begins to slip away once more. I focus to stay awake. I would pinch myself if I could. I would do anything for a jolt to stay here. Be here. I see Hachette's hand over my head with what I believe is a sort of flashlight. I grab it with whatever strength I have left. To me it feels like an iron grip, yet to Hachette I don't know how it would feel.
"Is Raven- is- she alri..."
I put that question with a half smile, knowing all too well it is as stupid as it sounds. I know to know she's safe. I want to know wether The Order went after her too ,but Ican't stay awake long enough to hear the answer, if there is one. I curse myself over it. I only blink once, and I find myself away from the operating table.
There is no garden. There is no bar. A flash before my eyes sends me away into...what seems to be Elgin. I'm in Raven's quarters, although everything seems...cracked. Out of place. Falling apart. I see myself at the other end of the table, savouring what seems to be a bag of chips. His voice echoes across the room.
"Great food. You should try it, you know. The taste of simple things can be all so satisfying once you've been through everything else there is on the menu. Not unlike what is to come for you."
I look down and see an unopened bag of chips. Same thing I am currently eating on the other end of the table. And then a gun to the right. My gun.
"Just to be clear. I have a very twisted personality - you know what? You. You have. Why do you go back and forth with this...everything? First we are on neutral terms. Then we go at each other's throats. Now we're back to square one. Can you decide for once who you are?"
I- he leaves a joyous laughter for a good minute, hitting the table as he does.
"I- I'm sorry! Pfft...y-yeah so...firstly. Ironic, coming from you. From me. Secondly, I've come to accept the way you are. Stubborn as always. Anyway, luck seems to be getting on your side. Hachette out there will likely save you. ...or eject your carcass into outer space. We'll see. I won't get to see how things turn out, because I'm old news. I've got no place in that noggin of yours anymore. And judging by how..."
A piece of the ceilling falls on the table. I look up. A stream of light shines down on the comically long table.
"This place is falling apart."
He looks up, then back to me. That smile of his fades away.
"I couldn't tell by the enormous hole above the table. ...sorry, sarcasm. Nonetheless whether you survive through this ordeal or not is decided by that gallic woman shining a flashlight down your throat. Who knows? Maybe she'll even see us having a u-uhm...dinner. It would be fun, but we don't have that time - or space - for that to happen. There's a gun you've probably seen the second you came to visit me. I believe you can already tell what the options are."
I grasp the gun with my right hand. It feels...natural, somehow. I already know the outcome if either head I'm pointing it at. Unfortunately, both heads are mine and it is best if I choose one of them. I aim it towards the me at the other end of the table. Eyes widened. The me on other end smiles. I'm holding back. I don't want to do this.
Another piece of the ceiling falls right next to me. It startles me, and I unwillingly pull the trigger. I see the bullet leaving the pistol's barrel. I see myself pulling the trigger while also being on the receiving end of the barrel simultaneously. Which one am I? I have no time to think this question through. The shot echoes throughout Raven's chambers.
The woman's grim expression did not change, the weak grip, the half smile, the tone of voice, the use of the name "Raven." As the desperate man faded away into what could very well have been his final moments, she said nothing. A short time would pass, though those attempting to save the man's life were drug through eternity. Plates removed, broken and shattered bones, bridged. His left lung shredded, a replacement forced. The hemorrhaging missing limbs properly bandaged until prosthetics could be given consent for. The surgery looking far more like an autopsy with each passing minute.
The final state of the body was left in a recovery pod within a medical wing of some kind, disconnected from the room by the glass surrounding him to avoid contamination, IVs strewn about over the almost grotesquely patchwork looking body, though it would look worse until it had a chance to properly heal. Taking into consideration the man had essentially been put through a blender, it was on the nicer side of things.
As the hours passed the woman had stayed, watching over the man, unsure if he would wake from this ordeal. Though staying was not necessary, perhaps spurred by guilt. All that could be done, was to wait.