#Near death whump

[jordanstrophe]

Caretaker thinks they're dead.

They see whumpee laying on the ground, they're not moving a muscle, they can't even see breathing. Caretaker checks their pules first, their heart doesn't beat until they feel whumpee's first.

[comfortingcatharsis]

A pair of characters that just had a narrow escape or very near miss and while neither is terribly hurt, they're both shaken, and stricken by the thought of what might have happened, and weak with both relief and the effort and adrenaline of their escape, and all they can do for the moment is cling gaspingly to each other for the physical reassurance that they're both safe.

[whump-galaxy]

The team is captured and lined up in front of their captors. The most defiant among them, of course, cannot keep their mouth shut. They mock, taunt, and jeer till one captor has had enough.

They grab the whumpee by the throat, asking if they really want to die like this. The whumpee bares their teeth with a defiant smile.

And spits directly in the captor’s face.

[linecrosser]

Febwhump 2024 - Day 11 - "I love you" (Alt prompt No.2)

Words wispered after a near-death-experience

[where-is-my-whump]

Hudson and Rex 6x07

[hufflepuffwritingstuff2]

Whumptober 2024 No. 15- Painful Hug | "I did good, right?"

“Hero!”

Superhero pulled the young crime-fighter into a bone-crushing hug. Hero winced at the impact.

“Don’t ever do that again!” Superhero scolded.

“Sorry…” Hero said.

“I am so proud of you!” Superhero continued.

“You are?”

“I am not letting you out of my sight for a second from now on!”

“Getting a lot of mixed signals here…”

Hero started to go limp in Superhero’s hold. Superhero felt something wet against their torso. They pulled away just enough to see red seeping from Hero’s suit.

“I did good, right?” Hero asked weakly, “I didn’t mess it up?”

“No,” Superhero said quickly, “no you didn’t mess anything up. You did good, you did great. But hey, Hero, you gotta stay awake. Stay awake for me all right?”

Superhero turned to the civilians at the scene, scanning the crowd for the paramedics. They practically flew over to the nearest ambulance.

“Help! Please!” Superhero said, laying Hero on a gurney.

“Wha’swrong?” Hero slurred.

“Nothing, everything’s gonna be fine,” Superhero said, “you did so good, Hero, you gotta keep doing good. I need you to keep staying awake. Stay awake, Hero.”

“Okay…”

Hero’s head lolled to the side as the paramedics strapped an oxygen mask to their face.

“Hero? Hero!”

Hero didn’t hear them. They had completely passed out.

…

Superhero sat by Hero’s bedside, holding their hand and rubbing circles into it. They were still asleep, the heartrate monitor and the rise and fall of their chest the only signs that they were still alive.

“Mm…”

“Hero?” Superhero asked.

“Ow…” Hero cracked an eye open, “did I fall asleep?”

Superhero nearly burst into tears. They shook their head, smiling.

“It doesn’t matter, you did good. You saved everyone. I’m so proud of you.”

“Yay…” Hero smiled.

Superhero meant everything they had said. Hero did good, but they were never letting them out of their sight again.

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[kybercrystals94]

Exposure

Read here on Ao3!

Whumptober 2024 - Day 10 - Prompts: Blow to the Head / Slurred Words / "I can't think straight."

Rated: T | Words: 1566

A/N: I am not a medical profession. Do with that as you will 🫠

Fear takes root when Hunter stops shivering. 

The temperature in the shallow cave has not improved, Tech knows that much. He has been monitoring the weather conditions closely, hoping that the storm will pass, that the interference preventing their distress signal will clear. Unfortunately, the concept of hope has little effect on natural events. Hope, however, does prevent panic, so Tech clings to the fragile abstraction, metaphorically, with both hands. His actual hands are numb, even under his gloves, knuckles swollen and sore. His fingers struggle to do what should be the simple function of unclasping his armor. 

“What are you doing?” Hunter asks, syllables slurring together almost incomprehensibly. 

“Removing my armor,” Tech states simply. It is far too cold to elaborate further. 

The Sergeant glares up at him blearily, mismatched pupils blown wide with concussion. “Why?” 

Tech does not explain. It is taking all his focus just to remove pieces of plastoid with clumsy, uncooperative fingers. If Hunter would simply be patient, he would be able to see soon enough. Tech liberates himself from his cuirass and backplate and moves to the challenging bits of armor clinging to his arms, silently cursing their smaller latches. 

“Tech,” Hunter growls. If he is aiming for authoritative, it is undermined by the weak breathlessness of his voice. However, it does renew the fervor with which Tech fights with his armor pieces. 

At last, Tech drops the last segment of armor from his upper portion, leaving him in just his thermal blacks from the waist up. He kneels next to Hunter and begins to repeat the process on his barely conscious brother. 

“What are you doing?” Hunter demands again, trying to pull away. 

“We need to get your body temperature back up,” Tech explains. His voice trembles, teeth clacking together. At least he is still shivering. That is a bright side. 

Hunter makes an indignant sound, as though it is Tech who lost his helmet and received a blow to the head rappelling down the cliff face in ice and snow. “By taking off our armor?” 

“We must lend one another our warmth,” Tech continues patiently, “which cannot be achieved through amor. Please hold still. 

Hunter slumps back against the cave wall obediently. He watches Tech work, blinking slowly. “I’m not cold,” he says. “Not anymore.” 

“I understand you feel that way,” Tech says. “That is a sign of moderate hypothermia. We must work to raise your internal temperature as soon as possible.” 

“Not safe,” Hunter mumbles. 

“It is our only choice at this juncture. Unfortunately, we lost our emergency packs in the fall. They will be buried in the snowfall dozens of meters below us by now.” 

Hunter’s brow furrows. “’s my fault.” 

“It was an unfortunate accident,” Tech corrects him. 

Tech finds some small sense of triumph as Hunter’s upper armor is more easily removed. He stacks their cuirasses and backplates near where Hunter is situated, retrieves his data pad, then sits down next to his brother. He draws the wounded man to his side. Hunter does not produce any warmth to share, merely absorbing Tech’s limited supply. With his free hand, Tech haphazardly arranges the larger armor pieces in what he hopes will be a small barrier from the elements. 

It will not last long. They will die of exposure if help does not arrive soon. 

If the storm does not let up soon. 

If their brothers do not find them soon. 

Soon. 

Soon is not on their side. 

“You’re shaking,” Hunter mutters drowsily. 

Tech wants to explain that shivering is a preferable state to Hunter’s; however, he merely jostles the man a little too roughly. “You have to stay awake,” he orders. 

Hunter utters something that Tech cannot make out. 

Tech answers nonetheless. “No. I need to rest. You’ve got the watch. Do you understand? You need to keep watch for the others to find us.”

Hunter becomes heavier against his side, deadweight. 

Tech shakes him again. “You must stay awake, Hunter.” His voice breaks, only partially from the intense cold plaguing him. “Please. Stay awake. Help is coming.” 

Hunter doesn’t respond. 

Time slips by. 

Tech isn’t shivering anymore. 

**

The landscape is white, clean, and dangerous. Crosshair’s sharp eyes slice across it, searching for imperfections, disturbances. Signs that their missing brothers are out there. Waiting for Echo to pinpoint their location is taking too long. Every lost second carries a heavy cost they can’t afford. 

Wrecker crashes through the fresh snow, pacing. “Where are they?” he demands. 

Crosshair tips his head, expression shielded by his helmet. “If we knew, we wouldn’t be looking, would we?” he snarls. 

“Not helping,” Echo tells him through comms. He’s on the ship, trying to boost the signal. 

Crosshair bites out, “Neither is he. Neither are you. They’re probably already dead.” 

“Don’t say that!” Wrecker stops his pacing and looms over Crosshair. He looks like he might lash out physically. 

Crosshair shifts, squaring up, wordlessly daring Wrecker to try.

“Both of you, knock it off!” Echo orders, ARC voice bladed. 

Wrecker deflates immediately, but Crosshair holds his ground a moment longer, claiming a weak and idle victory. He can’t see Wrecker’s face, but his body language, like his voice, is loud. The drop of his shoulders, the angle of his helmet. Wrecker is scared, like the rest of them. They all know the likelihood of Hunter and Tech surviving the elements without proper gear. Crosshair voicing it doesn’t change the terrible facts. 

He cannot bring himself to apologize in so many words, so Crosshair bumps against Wrecker’s arm, hard, with his shoulder. “If anyone could figure out how to survive, it’d be those two.” 

Wrecker’s posture lifts. “I know they did.” 

“I got something!” Echo calls out, making their in-helmet comms hiss in protest. “Putting in coordinates now.” 

Crosshair and Wrecker clamber on board, and the ship is already off the ground before Crosshair punches the button to close the hatch. 

**

Hunter wakes feeling trapped. 

He can’t move his arms or legs, bound by a strange, encompassing weight. His first, mind-addled reaction is to panic, writhing frantically to free himself from the swaddling confines of whatever is holding him.

“Hey! They’re just blankets, di’kut, kriff,” Crosshair’s voice snaps at him. 

The familiar, waspish tone of his youngest brother makes Hunter stop, and Crosshair helps him disentangle enough fabric to free his arms. “How many blankets are there?” Hunter asks, voice rough from disuse, throat sore and parched. 

“Too many,” Crosshair admits. “I don’t know where Wrecker keeps finding them. Thirsty?” 

Hunter nods, and Crosshair hauls him up into a sitting position and hands him an open canteen. Hunter takes a sip of the tepid liquid, the taste of added electrolytes bitter on his tongue. He makes a face. “How long was I out?” 

“Two standard days,” Crosshair says. “Really did a number on yourself. Concussion and hypothermia. What’s the last thing you remember?”

Hunter frowns. “The last thing I remember clearly was checking my cables before rappelling down the cliff face. We were going to hike to the rendezvous point.” 

Crosshair scoffs. “That’s it?” 

“I remember my head feeling like it got split open,” Hunter grumbles. 

“Not quite, but not for lack of trying,” Crosshair says. “Lost your helmet and your emergency packs. Tech is still annoyed about losing his favorite med scanner.” 

“Is Tech alright?” Hunter asks, turning to look at where the other cot is empty across the aisle. A faint recollection of panicked words filters into his muddled memories. Please. Stay awake. Help is coming.

“Hypothermia and exposure, but he’s recovering,” Crosshair says with a smirk. “He’s supposed to be resting still; however, he claims he heard a rattle in the ship’s console before the mission, and insisted he had to repair it now. Weak excuse, but Echo let him get away with it.”

Hunter chuckles, the remnants of his concussion protesting with a throb of his skull. 

Crosshair’s expression turns solemn. “We almost didn’t make it in time. When Wrecker and I got into that cave...we thought we were recovering corpses.” 

Another painful throb pulses, this time in Hunter’s throat as he imagines what that must have been like. He doesn’t want to imagine, doesn’t want to think of any two of his brothers lying so still that he thought they were dead. So, he pushes the horrifying thought away, reaching out and grabbing hold of Crosshair’s arm. “But you weren’t.” 

Crosshair scowls at the durasteel floor and gives one, tight nod. 

Tech comes into the hold, Wrecker right behind him. 

“Ah, you’re awake,” Tech says, something akin to warm smile touching his lips. 

Hunter smiles. “Thanks to you, sounds like.” 

Tech waves away the comment, taking a seat on the opposite cot. “How are you feeling?” 

“Smothered with all these blankets,” Hunter says, tossing a good-natured glare in Wrecker’s direction. 

The giant gasps. “You should have seen yourself before the blankets! Have you ever seen blue clones before? ‘Cause it’s something I never want to see again.” 

“I agree,” Crosshair mutters. 

“I assure you; such is an event I hope none of us experience a second time. On either side of the equation,” Tech says firmly.

There is a haunted expression in his brothers’ eyes, a lingering look of hope snuffed out. 

That nearly transparent memory returns. Please. Stay awake. Help is coming.

Hunter thanks the maker Tech was right. 

For all their sakes. 

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[promptsforyourwhumpfic]

Whump Prompt #1302

The whole ‘limbo moment where the whumpee sees a dead loved one who tells them they have to stay alive etc’ is touching and all, but what if the loved one was more aggressive?

Whumpee: “Am I dead? [Loved One] it’s so good to see you - I’ve missed you so mu-“

Loved One: “What on earth do you think you’re playing at? Get the hell back down there!”

Whumpee: “But- but it’s so painful.”

Loved One: *slaps whumpee*

Whumpee: “The hell was that for?!”

Loved One: “And now it hurts up here. Get back down there, you idiot, you’ve got people waiting for you. I’ll still be here when your time comes.”

[princessuncertain]

Near always winning as a plot rule is great because it makes for good Light angst, great Mello angst and AMAZING Near whump.

[comfortingcatharsis]

Melodramatic dying declarations or confessions to their companion by a character cradled in another's arms that suddenly become incredibly awkward when the apparently dying character survives and now has to actually address the confessions made and their emotions regarding them, not having expected to live to see their repercussions- they gasp out some deeply-held sentiment or closely-guarded secret; their strength fails and eyes slip closed... and they blink back to consciousness, warm, safe, wounds tended, weak and weary but very much alive... with their companion they confessed to keeping vigil by their bedside, ready to have words.

[whump-galaxy]

“I don’t like you, but I’m not gonna let you die here.”

“Why? You think you’re some hero for saving me?”

“No, if you’re gonna die, it’ll be because I killed you myself. Not some leg infection.”

[electrikworm]

Test Subjects: Part 6

previous next

Relationships: Crosshair & Echo & Hunter & Tech & Wrecker

Content Warnings: Blood and injury, Drug Usage, Emetophobia, CPR, Near Death Experience

Summary:

The immediate aftermath of Hunter and Crosshair's arrival at the Marauder as the Batch fight to get Crosshair's heart starting again.

Word count: 2’568

Read on Ao3

Chapter Text

Hunter heaves for air, adjusting the grip he has on Crosshair. He's made it out of the base, it's only a little further to the Marauder. Every step he takes, Hunter can sense her, closer and closer.

Crosshair groans weakly, coughing. He's been sick once more on the way, but hasn't tried to attack Hunter again. Hunter's ready to react if Crosshair were to throw up a third time, but he just wheezes.

“Just a little further, vod'ika” Hunter sighs, patting his brothers back. His leg is on fire, hot blood coating his skin, soaking his blacks. There's so much blood, Hunter can smell it stronger than any other scent, even Crosshair's own blood, the bile he threw up and the sweat running over his skin. Hunter grits his teeth and bears the pain of course, for his brother.

Crosshair's in a bad state, but Tech will have already figured out a solution. Tech always fixes the problems experimental substances cause, there's not a doubt in Hunter's mind that it wont be the case this time.

Hunter can practically smell the Marauder by now, the fuel fumes from the landing and dust it's picked up in space, as well as the familiar scent of their living space, their home. Limping a little faster, Hunter sighs softly. Almost there, almost safe. Then he'll finally get to sit down.

Crosshair wheezes loudly as Hunter shifts his grip on him. Despite his wiry frame, Crosshair is heavy, pushing down on Hunter's shoulder uncomfortably. But unlike the other times, Crosshair's breath doesn't go back to normal, becoming short, laboured gasps.

Fear grips Hunter's heart as he forces his injured limb to carry more than it should. Something is horribly wrong, he can feel it, almost taste it in the air.

Crosshair's heartbeat quickens, shifting to an erratic and irregular pace. Hunter's own heartbeat seems to want to match Crosshair's, thundering against his ribs as he starts running as best his bad leg allows him to.

Crosshair coughs, breaking out in a fit, then suddenly, Hunter's left alone with nothing but the sound of his own heart and breathing. A silence has fallen over Crosshair, over his body, his heart. It's the worst absence of noise Hunter's ever experienced.

Panicked, Hunter shifts Crosshair into his arms, holding him in front of his chest so he can see him as he hurries back to the ship. Crosshair's pale face is slack, just like the rest of him. His chest doesn't rise any more.

Hunter sprints the last few meters to the Marauder, feeling sick. This can't be happening, Crosshair can't die here. That thought is the only thing going through Hunter's mind and he takes the steps up to the ship two at a time.

Hunter can barely make himself form the words he needs to tell his brothers what happened.

Dropping to his knees with no regard for his own health, Hunter places Crosshair's still form on the floor carefully as chaos erupts inside the Marauder. He's aware of Tech and Echo's presence, but doesn't acknowledge them as he claws at Crosshair's chest plate, yanking it off his body.

Hunter's blind to the world as he places his hands on Crosshair's chest, extending his arms and pushing his weight down on his brother's chest. Nothing but how Crosshair reacts to the chest compressions matters to Hunter, everything else blocked out.

Distantly, Hunter's aware of some song they were taught to think of when applying CPR, but trying to recall it does nothing but piss Hunter off. It was something stupid, something to do with surviving. Who ever thought a song like that would be what someone wants to think of whilst a person dies in front of them, whilst their little brother dies in front of them, must have been crazy.

Hunter focuses his senses, hearing the organs shift in Crosshair's chest as he applies pressure. Ribs crack under the force, but that's nothing compared to death. Someone's cutting the blacks off Crosshair's chest, but even that doesn't keep Hunter from his mission. He refuses to let Crosshair die here.

Tech pushes Hunter's hands from Crosshair's chest. He wants to protest, but trusts Tech. Hunter wrings his hands as he watches Tech inject a hypo of unidentified substance into Crosshair's chest before applying electrodes to his skin. Hunter had almost forgotten they had a defibrillator. It's not like they ever used it.

Someone tells Hunter to stay clear of Crosshair, but he barely hears them over the blood rushing in his ears. Crosshair is still so horribly still. An painfully loud buzzing of electricity flares to Hunter's right, making him want to clutch at his head. It's like metal pipes imbedded in his brain is being hit over and over again.

Crosshair's body twitches, a controlled shock coursing through it. At the same time, Crosshair's heart reacts, twitching in response. Tech orders Hunter to continue the chest compressions, so he does.

Hunter keeps pressing his weight down on his brothers chest, once, twice with no response. Every time he fails, it's like the air around Hunter gets ticker, harder to inhale. Hunter keeps asking himself why it isn't working, what he's doing wrong.

Then Crosshair gasp, Echo just about able to flip him onto his side in time for more watery saliva and bile to pour from their little brother's mouth. Hunter's never been happier to watch one of his brothers throw up.

A shaky exhale leaves Hunter. It feels like an eternity since Crosshair's heart stopped, even if Hunter knows it's barely been a minute.

Echo wipes Crosshair's mouth before putting a breath mask on him, moving him onto his side more stably. Hunter's hands shake as he places one on Crosshair's wrist. He can hear the faint heart beat and ragged breathing, but wants to feel it too. If Hunter were to try standing up, he's sure he'd fall right back down.

Tech explains what they did with Wrecker, giving him blood to potentially dilute the drug in his body. Hunter's holding his arm out for the transfer before Tech's even finished. "Cross is bleeding," Hunter says, pointing at his brothers injured shoulder. Despite his best efforts, his voice shakes more than his hands do. Hunter's their Sargent, he should be level headed and calm at all times yet he's acting like a shiny. It's pathetic. Echo tends to Crosshair's injury with precision and care. He's doing so much better than Hunter is, managing to act like the soldier he was bred to be. It shows that Echo was chosen to be an ARC trooper for the skills he proved in combat and that Hunter's only Clone Force 99's Sargent because he was assigned that roll as a cadet. When Echo isn't watching, Hunter takes a roll of bandages from the med kit at his side. Hunter bunches some of it up and presses it into the wound on his leg. He won't make a fuss of his own injury. He can smell Echo's blood and Tech's voice is unusually rough, proving they're both ignoring damage to their own bodies. Tech connects Hunter's arm to Crosshair's swiftly. Hunter's already lost blood, but he can do with losing a bit more for his brother's sake. "They're stable for now," Tech rasps. There's something wrong with his neck for sure. The skin looks discoloured where his blacks don't fully cover his neck. "Watch them whilst I fly the ship." Hunter nods. There's no way he'd do anything other than watch his brothers. Echo is at Wrecker's side, so Hunter watches Crosshair. He still takes a moment to look at Wrecker, to listen to his breathing and heart. Both is weak, like Wrecker's body is struggling to keep up. But it's there. Wrecker's pale too and shaking. Echo, armed with the med kit, it trying to pull the glove off of Wrecker's burned hand. It's an ugly sight, skin coming with the item of clothing no matter how gentle Echo is. Hunter turns back to Crosshair. His chest is rising and falling, the motion almost steady. With his blacks cut, Hunter can see the damage he did to his little brother. Big bruises mar his skin, blood smeared from the cuts Hunter put in Crosshair's shoulder and hands.

Hunter had been slow. With getting to Crosshair, as well as subduing and bringing him back to the Marauder. They almost lost him and it would have been entirely Hunter's fault. Something in Hunter's chest seizes, making breathing hard. His eyes sting.

On top of everything, Hunter was also the one to accept the experimental stims in the first place. He should have told Tech to check over all the new supplies. A better Sargent wouldn't have neglected that.

Their two youngest vode could have died, almost did die. Kark, they might still do so if things take a turn for the worse.

The air is thick with the smell of blood and vomit, clouded with the heavy scent of fear. Hunter feels a little light-headed. He refuses to believe that's already from the blood loss.

Crosshair twitches and Hunter's immediately ready for his heart to stop beating, adrenalin spiking in his chest in response. But Crosshair's heart keeps going, just as weak as it was before. Something beeps at Hunters side, and only then does he realize that Echo's been alternating using the med scanner on both of their unconscious brothers.

Hunter hadn't even thought of that. His breath catches in his throat, the air hard to breath. He failed his vode and he continues to do so. If it weren't for Echo and Tech, they'd both be dead.

A burning sensation spreads through Hunter's chest and up his throat as his eyes flick between his unconscious brothers. He can barely hear them through the sound of his own heartbeat and laboured breaths. There must be something wrong with the ventilation in the Marauder, Hunter barely seems to gain any oxygen from the surrounding air.

Vision swimming, Hunter curses himself. He should focus on his brothers, but his mind wanders, finding it hard to stick in one place. Every sensation surrounding him, the smells, the Marauder's engine, the noises Hunter himself makes, it's all too much. Hunter can't seems to wade through the layers upon layers of stimuli, all desperate to pull the Sargent beneath its murky surface.

A loud snap in front of Hunter's face breaks through the overwhelming mist engulfing his mind. Echo's snapping his fingers near Hunter's head. Hunter wonders how long he might have been doing that.

Whilst the action does get Hunter's attention, it hardly gets him to focus. Their surroundings, what really matters, feels so distant. Hunter can barely keep a grip on it.

Something warm drips onto his hands and Hunter's blurry vision is pulled downwards to his shaky hands. He can't see anything, but he smells it now. Salt, specifically the saline scent of tears. Hunter hadn't even noticed that he'd started crying.

A soldier, even more so a Sargent, shouldn't be breaking out in tears whilst other trooper's lives are still at stake. Hunter's endangering them by loosing his composure, but no matter how hard he tries to clear his throat and wipe the fluid running down his face off, he can't calm down.

Hunter struggles to breath, his own body betraying him. He remembers all the trainers that used to shout at them for such emotional outbursts, though the additional guilt helps little to correct Hunter's behaviour. Sharp pain blooms in Hunter's skull, even sitting down he feels dizzy.

Then out of no where, arms are wrapped around Hunter's chest, drawing him close. Even with his senses preoccupied with his outburst, Hunter recognizes Echo. Hunter can't help but lean into the hug, head coming to rest on his brother's shoulder. Tears flow across his face and onto Echo's shoulder.

Echo seems to try and pull Hunter's composure back together with the embrace, and little by little, it works. Still unable to stop crying, Hunter becomes more aware of his surroundings.

He tries to push away from Echo when he remembers what Tech told them to do. “Wrecker and Cross-”

“I called Tech over, they're being monitored,” Echo interrupts him, like he's read Hunter's mind. Hunter is embraced tighter again.

Still struggling to get a hold of himself, Hunter tries to at least listen for his downed brothers as he clings to Echo. When he can finally pick the quiet thud of their hearts, interrupted by skipped beats ever so often, Hunter makes it his short-term mission to focus on that sound like Crosshair and Wrecker's lives depend on him doing so.

Hunter feels like a cadet, breaking down this badly during a crucial moment. He's a Sargent, he should be calming down his squad, not being the one needing comfort. On top of that, he's the eldest of the original Clone Force 99. Tech should be able to rely on his ori'vod in these situations.

When Hunter finally musters the willpower to remove himself from Echo he's shaking, barely able to look at the ARC trooper. Instead, he keeps his eyes on Crosshair. Tears still clouding his vision, Hunter relies on his other senses to keep an eye on his vode. Hunter mutters an apology, Echo patting his shoulder in response.

Hunter sways where he sits, blood loss affecting him more than he'd like to admit. He grits his teeth, reaching for the aggravated injury on his leg. This time, Echo notices, immediately grabbing Hunter's arm.

“Are you crazy?” he exclaims, loud enough to make Hunter jump. “You're bleeding this much and haven't told is to stop the transfer to Crosshair yet?” Muttering something Hunter can't quite make out, Echo pulls the needle from Hunters arm, with more care than the Sargent honestly deserves.

The puncture on Hunters arm is wrapped, and after Crosshair's is attended to, Echo helps Hunter with his leg. The armor is removed and the wound is covered in bandage material, tight enough to stem the blood flow. Hunter helps however he can, still feeling pathetic. He apologizes again, glancing over to Tech. Their pilot looks away hastily when Hunter makes eye contact with him.

“It's fine Hunter, we've all had a long day. Happens to the best of us.” Echo pauses. “But not the thing with your leg. Are you trying to die of blood loss?” The ARC shakes his head as he moves to the other side of Wrecker.

Hunter catches a glimpse of his face and Echo gives him a small smile, even in such a dire situation. The Sargent manages to return the gesture weakly. They're on route to Kamino and they've done as much as they could. Whilst Hunter helped little in keeping his brothers safe, at least he managed to give a decent amount of blood to Crosshair. Echo's right, it was dangerous but Hunter hardly cares. Rather he be in danger than any of his brothers. It's a risk he'd take any day.

Hunter goes back to wringing his hands as he watches Crosshair. The skin on his face is starting to feel tight from drying tears and Hunter inhales sharply to try and clear his nose. Now that he's had his little outburst he can go back to monitoring his siblings. Hopefully that was the last mistake he'll be making any time soon.

Mando'a Translation:

Vod/vode – sibling/siblings Vod'ika – little sibling Ori'vod - older sibling

[adrift-in-thyme]

Febuwhump Day 12: Semiconscious (Warriors & Time)

Ao3

CW for poisoning, vomiting, blood and injury, and a near death experience

————————————

He stopped seeing clearly long ago.

His surroundings are no longer distinctive shapes. No, they are mere colors now, smeared and edged in the glare of lantern light. It is as though someone poured oil out on the street and left it to be trampled.

Warriors stumbles over something substantial and nonexistent. Another wheezing breath tears out of his lungs. Everything tips sideways and he goes with it, tripping over his own feet. He collides with a lamp post, frightens a blurred figure, garners murmurs of “inebriated” and “not right in the mind.”

He doesn’t care. Not much is bothersome, he’s quickly realizing, when you can’t breathe.

Wildly, he glances around. The buildings lean right, then left, their glowing windows seeming to leer at him. The inn…he has to find it. That is where his brothers await, that is where he can get help.

Warriors gulps in air and gains nothing from it. The ground tilts. He goes down, bile rising in his throat. He has already vomited up everything his stomach contained. But his body is desperate, desperate to rid itself of whatever is killing him.

So, it tries again.

He comes up feeling no less dizzy, no less sick. If anything, it is worse now. When he shoves to his feet, his vision goes abruptly dark. For a moment, he is certain that this is it. This is when he collapses, surrendering to the bitter embrace of oblivion. But then it screams back into a mirage of shifting shapes and nauseating shades of vibrancy.

“Captain?”

Warriors blinks rapidly. Someone is standing before him – a woman he thinks. The visible edges of her expression convey worry.

“Are you well?”

He grins and it feels wrong. Lopsided, clumsy, sharp…a grimace more than anything else.

“Not to worry. ‘M fine.”

“Oh.” She frowns now. Or at least, he thinks that she does. Drunk, her silence screams. Irresponsible. “O-oh alright, then. Goodnight to you.”

It’s good a thing, his mind assures him, as Warriors gazes dazedly at her retreating form.

It’s a good thing that they think you’ve drank too much. Better than them knowing. Safer.

…yeah. Safer.

He is certain he’s going to be sick again. His lungs rise and fall, and nothing comes of their efforts. The ground churns like the sea in Wind’s Hyrule. If only it were warm here like it is on that beautiful beach. But no. Here it is icy cold.

He shivers, stops the failure of his equilibrium with a nearby wall.

Just find them. Find…find your brothers.

Darkness tinges his vision again, spreading like an ink blot on cloth. It grows from left to right, and he lists sideways, drifting towards it. Something catches his boot on the way over. He stumbles, fails to catch himself, crashes down in a tangle of long limbs and thick fabric.

“Oh, look what we’ve got here!”

Giant forms move in the borders of his waning sight. Warriors stares up at them, icy heat prickling the back of his neck and head. Everything smells and tastes of iron. Everything hurts.

“It’s the princess’s favorite little errand boy!”

Something flat and harsh connects with his cheek. Warriors’ head snaps sideways. He chokes, coughing blood onto the pavement.

Get up! His instincts screech. Get up and fight!

He ignores them. It’s so easy to do that now. They are usually so loud, so boisterous and unignorable, hardened and loudened by years of experience.

It’s nice to silence them for once.

“He don’t look so good. Looks like somebody already got a hit on ‘im.”

“Poison?”

“Seems like it. He reeks of something rancid and it ain’t whiskey. His breathin’ ain’t right either.”

“Well, then.”

A hand fists in his collar. The next thing he knows, the ground is falling out from beneath him. He hovers somewhere above it, gazing obliviously at the space before him. Something is there – or maybe someone – but he can’t make out their features.

“He’s all lonesome out here. Might as well finish what they started. It’ll be easy.”

He should be afraid. He’s not.

Warriors feels nothing now except pain. Well, pain and the curious sensation of drowning. Strange, he doesn’t remember seeing water anywhere around here. But maybe he’s simply floating in it, unknowing, unseeing. That would certainly explain how cold he is.

His body slams back into the ground, and what little wheezing breaths he had managed to garner abruptly flee. Dull panic slices through the haze for a split second – just long enough for him to grab a wisp of air. Then, it’s back, a fog as thick as the stuff hovering over Time’s Lost Woods.

Unavigatable. Unbeatable.

For once, he can’t win this battle. For once, he has an excuse to succumb.

And he’s not one for giving in – his stubbornness is practically unmatched – but throwing in the proverbial towel now…fills him with relief.

“Go on boys! Gut him!”

The words reach his ears, but he hardly hears them. And he certainly doesn’t comprehend. Everything is so very far away…

It’s odd how without oxygen the world grows soft.

His head flops sideways. Lazily, he blinks into the indistinct expanse of Castle Town. The colors run together more than ever now. He can hardly tell them apart anymore.

Its beautiful, he thinks, with a loopy smile. Like Arty.

The soft shink of deadly metal surrounds him. Pain streaks through his abdomen. He coughs. Blood spills down his chin and drapes his tunic in crimson. It is wonderfully warm.

Again, metal strikes. More blood, more warmth. More pain.

His eyes flutter. There is not much to see now. But darkness is beginning to be replaced with dazzling light.

It is as beautiful as Castle Town…maybe even more. It beckons him, envelops him like a hug.

Come, it whispers, in the voice of his mother, come to me, dear child. Rest.

Somewhere, someone screams.

Warriors smiles and it is a soft, gentle thing. He starts to step forward.

“No!”

Hands grasp his wrist, as small as a child’s yet, much too calloused to be. Warriors dares to glance over his shoulder.

Mask stands there, his green clothing even more vibrant in the world of white. Tears have turned his large blue eyes the color of Warriors’ scarf. His lip trembles, despite the way he has it between his teeth. And while his grip is strong, his expression is a rapidly crumbling wall.

Warriors feels the tug again, the call from the endless light. He needs to go. He wants to. Sweet Hylia, he wants to.

“Sprite…”

“You-you can’t!” Mask shouts, stepping closer. He is shaking, Warriors realizes. The child who has faced monsters larger than himself armed with nothing more than a cocky grin and a slingshot is shaking. “You can’t leave me!”

The tears fall and smudge the markings that have now appeared on his face. Shades of blue and red trickle down his cheeks.

Warriors blinks and suddenly, the child’s hands are drenched in blood. He gasps, stumbling back. But Mask holds on.

“Sprite, I’ve got to go,” he says, desperately, because he must see that he can’t remain here. It’s time…isn’t it?

“No. It’s not.”

Mask ducks his head, as a sob tears at his tiny body. Salty water plunks onto the ground. It sounds like raindrops.

A downpour on a sunny day. A child curled beneath his scarf, grinning mischievously. A beautiful woman laughing, face upturned to the sky.

A tear slides down Warriors’ own cheek.

“Oh, Link…”

“Please,” he croaks, soft now, vulnerable. Broken. “Please, don’t leave.”

A single eye meets Warriors’ two. A face marked by a war god crumples, every year, every battle, every loss written in the tears streaming down it.

The captain moves closer. The light seems to dim now, lessened by the aching in his heart. Time…Time should never look like that. If he could reach him, maybe he could make that pain go away.

Time drags in a trembling breath. Crimson-drenched fingers fist in Warriors’ scarf like he did so often as a child.

“I need you, big brother.”

Warriors take another step and another and another. He can’t stop now. The decision seems plain. Whatever is behind him, wonderful though it may seem, is not yet for him. Not when Time is looking at him as though he is his entire world and then some. Not when he can hear them now — the faint pleas of the other heroes.

His brothers. His family.

He reaches out, fingers brushing Time’s cheek. The hero’s breath hitches as he leans into his touch.

“I’m right here, Sprite,” the captain promises. “And I’m not going anywhere.”

With a sob, Time falls into his arms. Warriors closes his eyes and buries his face in his shoulder. And as they cling to each other, the endless white surrounding them comes crashing down.

[voidwhump]

Inspired by this

Ingredients: Injury, implied infection, heat stroke, falling off of a horse, near death. ~600 words

Back. 

Forth.

Back.

Forth.

Horses weren’t all that fast when they didn’t feel like they had to be. They were at the mercy of the rhythm of the horse’s walk, using all their strength to stay upright. The sun baked their neck and scalp. Every motion refreshed the pain of their tired muscles. 

Aggravated the throbbing ache behind their eyes.

Stoked the smoldering fire radiating from the hole in their side.

The horse could tell they weren’t all there, stopping occasionally, unconvinced her rider knew where they were going. So, energy they didn’t have went into kicking the horse back into a walk. And the cycle repeated. 

And repeated. 

And repeated. 

As the horse slowed to a stop, again, they took a moment to drag their head up to where they could look forward instead of down. Their body protested as it was pulled out of its forward slump, every muscle supporting the motion threatening to fail. They closed their eyes against it. Breathed. Felt the breeze against their sweat covered face and neck.

When they opened their eyes, they could just barely make out the silhouette of a village ahead, sitting low to the ground against the horizon. They weren’t going to make it, they could tell. But maybe they could make it to somewhere someone would see them. Even if it was only their dead body. So, with every part of their body displaying a ticking clock, ten minutes to failure, five minutes to failure, they continued. 

Three minutes.

Two minutes.

One minute.

They felt the exact moment when their core gave up. Strained muscles abruptly went slack without their authority behind it. It was their uninjured side finally betraying them, overworked from hours of holding double its usual load. That was the side they fell towards, their opposite foot briefly catching on the stirrup, iron on leather, giving them one more instant in the saddle as the horse stopped again, for the last time that day. They had the brief presence of mind to free their other foot from its stirrup as well. 

After that, the fall was over with quickly. They hit the ground shoulder first, the joint audibly crunching as it impacted. The pain immediately blended with all of their other hurts. They lay there, breathing. It was better, being on the ground. A lot of them didn’t hurt so much anymore now that they weren’t trying to do anything. The dust blowing off the dirt road stuck to their exposed skin. Their sweat washed some of it away, dripping to the ground in their peripheral vision. 

The wind blew again.

They lay there, sweating.

The wind blew again.

Eventually, they weren’t sweating anymore. What was left on them dried quickly, and they missed the cooling feeling. The sun was setting now, so at least they wouldn’t be so hot soon. They hoped the horse had found some water. 

They could use some water.

The sun set. It seemed faster than normal. They might not be the most conscious at the moment.

Or they were mistaken. Light flickered across the ground ahead of them, in and out of their field of view. 

In and out. 

Getting closer. 

In and out.

In their eyes. That was annoying. 

Something pushed them on to their back. Their body screamed. They didn’t say much.

They were lifted, which felt almost as bad, but at least they were back in their slightly curled position. Whatever picked them up had a much smoother walk than the horse, too. They faded out again soon enough.

[whump-galaxy]

Idk I really like two characters that have only crossed paths occasionally, eventually becoming each other’s support. Maybe they only met because they each had a friend in common. Maybe they were mixed up somehow and met by accident. Maybe it was always chance.

But, even years later, that flash of familiarity is all they need to collapse into each other’s arms. Thank god it’s you.

From that point forward, they’re bound together.

[where-is-my-whump]

Hudson and Rex 6x05