#fern whumps

[fern-writes-whump]

I feel like we don't talk enough about how uncomfortable having your hands tied behind you is, especially if it's tight.

Imagine having to sleep like that! How tired does whumpee have to be to be able to fall asleep while uncomfortable and in pain?

Also - whumpees being tied up for so long their hands lose feeling? Hello?? It would also hurt like hell when they get freed and blood starts circulating properly again.

[fern-writes-whump]

ooooh man this is a fun one :D

---

“I was going to kill you in front of your family. But this is so much better”

Villain was barely holding back his giggles, circling the wounded Hero. Neither of them could see the dozens of henchmen lurking in the shadows but there was no point in pretending they were alone. Hero was surrounded, he was finally helpless.

"I was going to take everything from you, destroy you completely one bit at a time." He looked like a child who was promised a trip to the candy store. "And you did all the hard work for me." He stopped right in front of him, taking a moment to gloat. "Should I offer you a job?"

"Fuck you!" Hero spat out, giving him the coldest stare he could manage with blood dripping down his brow. "I'm nothing like you!"

Villain clicked his tongue and sighed. "Oh don't worry, I know it was an accident. You've always been disappointing like that." He took another step towards him, grinning when he saw the way he flinched. "Though I must admit..." Closer. "...all that civilian blood..." He crouched down, looking him in the eyes now. "...I was almost impressed."

Before Hero could even think of a retort Villain's hand shot out and grabbed him by the throat. As much as he struggled he was too weak to do anything to free himself.

"Now I'm going to kill you, and the whole city will cheer for me."

“i was going to kill you in front of your family. but this is so much better”

[librathefangirl]

@whumpgifathon | Day 24: Magic | Magical Exhaustion Nowhere Boys | S01E11 | Felix Ferne

[pinkrangerv]

Could you gimme some whump ideas for fizzy via evil Ollie?? OwO

Kind of assuming you mean Fern\Izzy, not 'I am really excited about whumping Ollie' and\or 'I want to whump Ollie via a soda can' (you do you, but I don't have any ideas there). So let's see...

Fern's parents love her. She knows that. And her mother was relieved that she was one of the nice lesbians--Fern wears dresses and knows how to use a salad fork and she's polite in high society. It's important, after all. She needs to be able to be successful, because America is ruthless, just like...before.

(Where was before? Her mother doesn't answer. We're in America now, she says. That's what matters.)

Fern met Izzy, and Izzy wore suits and ties. Never a dress. And Fern hated her. But then Izzy stopped to help her, and her hands were gentle, and Izzy gave up the race for Fern...

Fern doesn't have other family. Just her mother. And she knows that her eyes are from Asia, and that her skin is dark enough so it's not China or Japan, and that means the options are...less good. Especially in America. Because the enemies America had in her mother's day, well...

Fern realized at some point that her mother is likely the only one left. And she realized at some point that she hates Izzy, because Izzy speaks a language she only partially knows, and it's a Mexican language, not one that's spoken in English.

Because the Americans who spoke it caught AIDS. And there's no one left from them, either.

Ollie half-understands. His father is gone. And when Zedd takes Ollie, Fern understands that was part of it--that Zedd became the part of Ollie that was missing.

So when Ollie sees Fern in the ridiculous costume, pretending to be a band...she's not surprised when his spell touches the part of her that misses the ghosts of family. The part of her that can still think is aware enough to almost find it funny as she falls--

But then, suddenly, there's Zedd. And Fern isn't stupid, she can read him, she knows his complaints and manipulation are because he wants children and love, he's just really bad at it. Zedd loves them, and he speaks a language that he imbues into their knowledge--a language and culture of aliens, but when she suddenly understands the word meri, the act of queer femininity, or mari, how Izzy is female and male in one person, then...

Ollie smiles. And Fern knows that Zedd offers him something like that.

Fern wants that for Izzy. She wants Zedd to approve of her lover, she wants to bring her Izzy home to her new father. To the man with a language she can speak, with words and advice that makes sense, who can give her the things that were always missing.

Fern has the Violet power now. Zedd can make a morpher easily. And Izzy will be happy with Zedd, won't she? After all, how many of her classmates said the same things--we make up our own words, because who knows what came before?

Zedd can fix this. Zedd can give them language, give them understanding. Zedd can save the world.

And Fern can bring Izzy home.

(And that odd feeling, when Zedd is disappointed or angry...that's nothing to worry about. Right?)

[evilwriter37]

hello!! I wanna hear about the research now :0

The line in question that I did a ton of research for: "It tipped over like it was a toy rather than a sixty-ton war vessel." - Infernal Fascination

Okay, so first I had to identify what kind of ship the Dragon Hunters from Race to the Edge use, which was very difficult because it's a fictional ship. So, I had to find something close to it. I can't remember which ship I figured out was closest to it in size and design though. (This was years ago.)

Then I had to fucking figure out how much the damn thing weighed. I can't remember if there was math involved, but I think there was.

Yep. I did all that for a single line, because I wanted it to sound cool and have impact about how powerful this dragon attacking them was.

[whumpprentice]

can't argue with beating up a blorbo as a coping mechanism but I hope you're doing well, take care of yourself xx

I'll rally as one does! Just need to be a little dramatic about it first 🩷 ur kindness is very very appreciated <3

[shrimpwritings]

Fern Biological Industries Training

First bit of writing and lore on here, ain't that fun??? Anyway. Please heed the warnings, this is gonna get pretty whumpy. CW: Mentions of auctions, unethical training, nonhuman whumpees, conditioning, brainwashing, animal abuse, multiple whumpers.

There are three subclasses that Specimens are categorized in by FBI facilities: Guard Dog, Royal, and Enforcer.

Royals are typically auctioned off or bought by wealthy people after thirteen to fourteen years of brainwashing training techniques. They're brainwashed into being sophisticated, polite, and intelligent in mainly physics and mathematics, but also bear knowledge to how to run kingdoms or businesses in a professional and nonaggressive manner. Royals lucky enough to be naturally born rather than genetically created are raised alongside their parents in training, and are treated fairly well by staff and trainers.

Outside of this system, buyers can request extra training or include stuff they want their Royal to know. This is also used frequently for Guard Dogs, though not as frequently for Enforcers.

Royals are identified by a crown tattoo on their wrist; a special gold ink is used for Ophidians and Sireni, and a gold feather-and-fur dye is used for Harpees, Vrynirs, etc.

Guard Dogs are trained much more violently and aggressively on top of the brainwashing techniques used for Royals. Guard Dogs, or simply referred to as "Dogs", are assigned one to two trainers to do who-knows-what with. Conditioning and abuse are looked over by superiors in favor of keeping an eye on how Royals are treated. Dogs are mostly genetically created, but ones naturally born are instantly taken from still-nursing mothers to be held in testing tubes and fed nutrients through IVs until they reach two years of age. The mothers are only used three times to breed each year, and are then sold to auctions or private buyers.

Guard Dogs are always identified by a cattle tag in their ear given to them by those who purchase them in an auction or are pre-tagged by their trainer or trainers by a private buyer.

Enforcers are Specimens trained to uphold some form of brutal, twisted law that is always mob-controlled. Similar to Guard Dogs, Enforcers have a violent training regime, though they're also enrolled in specialized classes to test their durability against being shot, stabbed, and sprayed in the eyes and nose with bear mace. The physical training for Enforcers are always a requirement whether their buyer wants them to go through it or not, and it's probably the most humane training a non-Royal Specimen can receive. Enforcers, much like Guard Dogs, are either genetically created or bred, though the mothers are forced to nurse and wean their litters before having them taken away for training rather than having them taken when they're still newborns like Guard Dogs.

Any Specimen involved in Royal, Enforcer or Guard Dog training are always brainwashed to forget the trauma they went through, though trainers have a say in what they want their Specimens to remember. Some, mostly for Guard Dogs, is very fucked up and has a huge toll on their mental health.

Specimen parents are brainwashed into forgetting their cubs' training or forgetting their cubs in general depending on what their buyers or trainers want. If a Specimen is naturally born and never met their parents, brainwashing them to forget who truly raised them is unnecessary. However, Royals are usually forbidden to forget their parents unless the circumstance calls for it, though Guard Dogs are not as lucky.

[fernlovesreanimator]

ur boy made a thing ^^

you’re an angel, I’m a dog (or you’re a dog and I’m your man) by FernIsGay

I’m gonna keep all my writing about Dan dying in here, for safe keeping ^^

[whumpiswonderful]

OOOH NOOO WHUMPEEEEE

im in pain fuck FUCK THE ANGST

Whumper is a shapeshifter. Throughout Whumpee’s captivity, they morph into Caretaker’s form to trigger, manipulate and test Whumpee. It breaks Whumpee down and crushes their spirits - but at least they don’t fall for Whumper’s games anymore.

Until one day, it IS Caretaker that rushes to their rescue. When Caretaker bursts through the cell door, Whumpee refuses to believe it’s real. Whumpee even tries to go back to sleep and ignore them.

“N-No… please… not - just not today, Whumper. I’m too tired.”

“Whumpee-” Caretaker’s voice wobbles, their hands shaking as they reach out, “It’s me- I’m here to save you-”

“I-I’m not stupid. I won’t try to escape anymore - promise…please don’t hurt me.”

“Whumpee, just look at me, please. It’s caretaker. We’re going home-”

“You’re not caretaker… It’s never caretaker… It’s always you.”

Whumpee fights and thrashes as Caretaker releases them from their restraints and tries to carry them to safety. When they’re home, they’re resistant to the care and attention they need. Pushing helping hands away, screaming and kicking. Whumpee is hysterical, crying out in anguish. Rambling promises to be good and swearing they’re not disobeying Whumper, they still think it’s all a test. They won’t look at Caretaker, they won’t stop begging to go back to their cell.

Whumpee truly believes that caretaker isn’t themself, that it’s Whumper disguised. What will it take to snap them into reality?

[fern-writes-whump]

You know what? I don't give enough credit to comforting actions paired with violent ones. I'm not talking about after either, I mean soft touches while hurting whumpee

A knife in one hand and the other stroking whumpee's back

tying whumpee in an uncomfortable position and petting their hair

injecting a sedative/poison and singing a lullaby

putting a blade through whumpee while hugging them <3

a hand on their cheek and the other around their throat

[onehoplessromantic]

Masterlist | Glen Powell

Jake “Hangman” Seresin - Tyler Owens

Updated: 11/3/2024 (link check)

!!authors!! if you want ur work removed please pm me

I’m back again with another one!!! It’s definitely not as lengthy as my other lists (yet) but I’m hoping to find some more for all three. I also figured I’d get a stake in this territory as the Glen Powell fanclub grows post-twisters. I hope y’all find what you’re looking for!

peace 💕

join the taglist here

fluff-> 🤍 | smut -> 🍋 | angst -> 🌧️ | major tw -> ‼️

Jake “Hangman” Seresin

𐚁 BROTHERS BEST FRIEND | @tongue-like-a-razor

13 parts | ongoing | 🤍🌧️🍋

Jake Seresin x Bradshaw!Reader

The trials and tribulations of falling for your brothers best friend.

𐚁 BRUISES | @ohtobeleah

8 parts | complete | 🌧️‼️

Jake Seresin x WSO!Reader

After a mission goes south, Jake finds himself captured by insurgents that show no remorse. But whats worse than knowing he failed his mission? Knowing that the Weapons Systems Officer who trusted him to bring her home safe was in the same cell as him. Collecting bruises that match his own.

themes of heavy violence, sexual assault, torture, 18+ content, minors dni, mature themes, being held in captivity, hostage style situations, main character death! whump, angst, conversations that discuss antisocial and antisemetic views

𐚁 ROCKS ARE ALLOWED TO CRACK, STARS ARE ALLOWED TO DIM | @sarahsmi13s

oneshot | wc: ~8.0k | 🌧️

jake ‘hangman’ seresin x fem!pilot!reader

everyone deserves someone to comfort them in their time of need, even the ones that always lend their shoulder.

angst, language, ptsd, description of accident, panic attack, injuries, descriptions of scars, flashbacks, fear of death, familial death (mentioned), crying, bottling up feelings

𐚁 THE WALLS ARE CAVING IN | @desert-fern

oneshot | wc: 5.5k | 🌧️🤍

Jake ‘Hangman’ Seresin x fem!Reader (known as honey bee/honey)

You are sunshine incarnate, the life of the party who is so free with your affection. Jake finds himself struggling to express his desire to be like you while wrestling with his past, what happens when it all comes crashing down around him? AKA Jake is both touch-starved and in love.

jake has a shit dad, angst, still fluffy tho

𐚁 THE BEANERY | @callsign-peach

oneshot | wc: ?? | 🤍

established hangman x female!reader

Jake goes from drinking the base’s stale coffee to bringing in cups from the cafe down the road from the hard deck, and the dagger squad is determined to find out why.

tooth-rotting fluff

Tyler Owens

𐚁 LIKE MOTHER LIKE FATHER LIKE DAUGHTER | @wisdomssdaughterr

oneshot | wc: 3.7k | 🌧️🤍

tyler owens x harding!reader

you had made a name for yourself in the storm chasing game; it was in your genes, being the daughter of the famous chasers jo and bill harding. tyler found your knack for knowing just what the storms thinking, a little infuriating and incredibly impressive

fem!reader, reader gets injured, mentions of blood and injuries, probably inaccurate meteorological info and medical info, angst, fluff, some hurt/comfort

𐚁 CHASE YOUR FEARS | @briefinquiries

oneshot | wc: 11k | 🤍🌧️

tyler owens x f!reader

you and your younger brother are road-tripping across the US when you encounter a tornado. Luckily, the tornado wrangler himself shows up to help.

tornados, fear, flufffff

𐚁 WORTH YOUR WHILE | @wisdomssdaughterr

oneshot | wc: 2.9k | 🤍🌧️

tyler owens x fem!reader

As the local weather woman, you shared an interesting rivalry with your hometown storm-chaser. While you always reported on the dangerous weather from a safe distance, Tyler barreled into it head-first. But things change in the night of the county fair when you find yourself in the middle of a storm rather than the safety of a newsroom.

dramatic fluff, hurt/comfort, description of tornadoes, language, description of injury, slightly inaccurate meteorological info

Glen Powell

𐚁 HEY THERE DARLIN’ | @shellbilee

6 parts | complete | 🤍🌧️🍋

Glen Powell x OFC (Billie James)

fluff, swearing, angst, eventual smut

ⓒ onehopelessromantic, November 2024

[librathefangirl]

Febuwhump 2024: Day 9 - Bees

[serickswrites]

On Three II

Part 1 Part 3

Warnings: captivity, torture, restraints, choking, strangulation, forced to watch, unconsciousness

Caretaker sat in silence. Whumper had left over an hour ago and hadn't returned. They sat in silence, just listening to Whumpee's ragged breaths.

It was the only thing reassuring Caretaker.

They had watched Whumper throttle Whumpee for hours. Watched and wasn't able to do anything. Watched helplessly as Whumpee gasped and kicked for air. Watched in horror as Whumpee went limp repeatedly in Whumper's arms.

Until Whumper grew bored.

They had squeezed extra hard the last time, leaving bright red finger prints on Whumpee's throat. "They need help!" Caretaker had shouted.

"They're breathing, they're fine," Whumper had growled. "I'll be back in a few hours when they're awake again. I don't like throttling them when they're unconscious."

Caretaker prayed that Whumpee would stay unconscious longer, slip into sleep so they could rest longer. But Caretaker knew their peace would come to an end. Knew that Whumper would come back.

They just had to find a way to escape. A way to break free. And then they could take Whumpee with them. Keep Whumpee safe. And most of all ensure that Whumper never throttled Whumpee again.

Tags: @tiaswritingsideblog @castielamigos-whump-side-blog. @whumpanini @whumpitisthen @gottawhumptheblorbo

@dont-be-gentle-please @ajgrey9647 @whumblr @elriehana @tigerjazz37

@fern-writes-whump @genuinelythioehat-is-whump @whump-i-did-it-again @whumble-beeee @whump321

@wingedbooknerd @watermelons-dont-grow-on-trees @mefattortoise @whumpedydump @fly-away-whump

@withdrawingramen @apokolyps @keeper-of-all-the-random-things

[curiositydooropened]

Ranged • 01: Firetower

You and Steve have been sent on a missing person's case, a park ranger in the Cascades went missing from his post after reporting a large area of downed trees. Could be something up your alley.

Pairing: special agent!Steve Harrington x special agent!Reader

Wordcount: 5742

Warnings: very slowburn, this fic is episodic, coworkers to lovers, angst, hurt/comfort, canon-typical violence, canon-typical gore, weapons, fighting, murder, viruses, decay, monsters *This chapter contains mentions of animal harm, blood, vomit/nausea, potential character death, and whump/bad injuries - also hey, I'm not a doctor and this fic is free, so my inaccuracies might bug you. xo

This blog is 18+ only. I do not give permission for any of my fics to be duplicated, reposted, or put into AI. Thank you!

Navigation • Fic Masterlist

---

Moodboard • 00: Prologue • 02: Home [Coming Soon]

Fire Lookout Tower 647 - Cascades

Fog blanketed the forest floor and just beyond, it coated the tops of trees, covering pine needles in vast, rolling smoke. Everything lacked saturation up here, everything but verdant moss and fern and branch, a sea of grey and green, damp and deep. The sunlight filtered in way far off, to the West, but everything out of its reach had begun to groan under the steady pelt of plummeting rain.

Rain pittered and pat against the tin roof and into the quickly filling bucket in the corner. Its splash zone had been haphazardly mopped with a shaggy old towel. 

You watched the landscape shift beyond the clouds, wrapped in wool socks and a flannel blanket while your partner took his turn retrieving fire wood from its drying spot beneath the tower.

His presence was announced by the groaning of stairs and the creaking of a rusted spring on the door. 

Steve had only smiled a handful of times since you met him, a painful stretch of soft features, the wrinkle never leaving his brow. To be fair, your job rarely warranted more than a polite grimace to townsfolk whose crops you’d left ablaze, whose family members you’d left on a slab.

Today was no different.

“This place is a shit hole,” he grumbled, rolling cut wood from his arms onto the ground in front of the stove. 

You hummed, knowing better than to argue something so trivial before he had his dinner.

He hunched to stoke the fire, now mere ashes and embers that glowed red in the little iron stove. He was soaked to the bone, dark hair clinging to his forehead and around his ears. He’d have to cut it again before your next return to Base. 

His hands were bright red, nipped cold and hard-worked, and you rolled your eyes at the pair of gloves he’d left on the rickety card table near the door. 

“Fucking rain,” he muttered, shoving kindling in hopes for it to catch.

With a sigh, you pushed yourself upright and reached for your own rain slicker on its hook. A puddle had formed and seeped through the floorboards, creating a patch of darkened wood that ringed with all puddles that had come before. “I’m going to get water to boil.” 

“Be careful.” 

The spring creaked. Rain gushed from dips in the roof and splashed loudly against rocks on the hillside. 

You glanced back at Steve. He was hunched in front of a started fire, worry etched between his brows. 

He shrugged. “I slipped at the bottom of the stairs.” He gestured to the mud that streaked his left pant-leg. “Be careful.”

You nodded and stepped out into the deluge.

The window coverings provided a good roof for the porch, save a few leaks here and there, and you clung to the side of the building as your guard rail to round it. You’d put empty buckets on the south end. All five of them had all overflowed. 

You picked the lightest one. You’d managed to haul it back across slippery planks, dozens of feet in the air, to the door before your right foot slipped out from under you. With a yelp, and the sting of bitter cold against your ass cheeks, you fell. The building teetered under your shifted weight, and you clung to the railing with pinched breath.

The spring creaked. Steve stood at the door with lumbered shoulders and that same frown, looking down a freckled nose at you. He picked up the bucket with one hand and held his other for you to take. “I said, ‘be careful’.” 

While the water boiled and Steve grumbled about canned meatballs, you stripped out of wet jeans and remained in damp Long Johns, removing your socks and hat and gloves to hang near the fire. 

The sun had already dipped far to the west, catching on split clouds in purples and oranges before it was swallowed up again by the grey. 

“You get the radio working?” Steve sighed, adverse to the quiet. 

You shook your head and stirred tomato paste around in the pot. After many meals with Steve, you were sure he grew up in the kind of household that only ate their meals on trays in front of the television. He could never really sit and appreciate the stillness. “Go ahead and tinker with it. Is there a game tonight?” 

“There was,” he deployed a long antenna and fidgeted with a few dials. Static buzzed from the plastic between his hands. “Might be too late. What time zone are we in?” 

“Pacific,” you explained. “Two hours behind.” 

You felt lighter after food. Warmth settled over your chest and shoulders, and you huddled further into your blanket. 

Steve’s hair dried a little, and you managed to coax him into taking one of your spare hats. The stitches stretched over the circumference. With a sigh, you slowly ripped out the project you’d been knitting and cast more stitches onto your needle. 

The radio hadn’t worked, too far out of reach to hear the score, and it had been discarded. Instead, Steve hummed, and the fire crackled, and your needles clacked against one another. The rain had died down, too.

“Think we’ll find him?” He asked, picking at the frayed stitching on the baseball he’d been tossing around.

Your target was the missing tower keeper, a man named Les Joplin who hadn’t reported in a few days after he’d gone in search of what he had described to dispatch as a rotten cropping of trees in the east acreage. 

You glanced back up at Steve, never knowing if he wanted you to answer honestly or not. Your fingers kept pace. Knit, purl, knit, purl. “Hope so.”

“My grandmother used to knit.” He nodded to the project slowly making way in your hands. 

You hummed. You’d heard this story before. A few months back, you began to notice a pattern to the information Steve had given you about his former life, only snapshots, hand-picked. You wondered if he had been trained this way, or if he still didn’t trust you.

The repeated stories didn’t stop you from prying for more.

“What’d you call you grandmother?” You asked.

“What do you mean?” He frowned back at you.

“You know, ‘grandma’, ‘granny’, ‘nana’?”

He snorted, rolled his eyes, tossed the ball a few times. “Grandmother.” 

You cocked a brow. “Grandmother? What, like the Queen?” 

There it was, the softest uptick of the corner of his lips, a flash of amusement in his eyes as he rolled them. “Exactly like the Queen. I was lucky if I got to address her as anything other than ‘ma’am’.” 

Another peak behind the curtain. You snickered and pressed on. “Mom or Dad’s mom?” 

“Uh…” He frowned again, mulling something over. “Mom’s. My dad’s parents were old as shit, died before I was born.” Another insight. 

“How’d they meet, your parents?” 

“Huh?” He blinked back at you, brow in a proper frown now. “I don’t know.” 

You’d lost him. You’d pressed too hard. With a sigh, you turned back to your knitting. Knit, purl. Knit, purl. 

He shook his head, and his sleeping bag shuffled as he stood and stretched. He set the baseball back on the little table, and it rolled until it met the pot of leftover spaghetti sauce. “Listen, I’m gonna take a leak, and we should probably think about getting some sleep. Early morning tomorrow.” 

You nodded, tucked your knitting back into your bag. “I’ll wash the dishes.” 

“Thank you.” He said, and he exited the little hut. The stairs creaked his whole way down. 

“Robin? No. No, Robin, no.” 

You awoke to Steve’s muffled cries. His sleeping bag shifted around a twitching body.

This wasn’t the first nightmare, and you knew it wouldn’t be the last. You didn’t know who Robin was, and the fear in his voice dimmed your hope that she’d lived.

You swallowed to clear the sleep from your vocal cords before speaking his name into the darkness. It took several tries, a full shout, to snap him out of whatever version of Hell his subconscious had pulled him in, and when he did rouse, it was with force.

He shot from his pillow, gripping the hilt of a knife stashed under it, and glanced around the room. “What is it? What’s wrong?” 

You sighed, tucked your face into your pillow, and murmured. “I’m cold.” 

“What?” He peered at you. 

It wasn’t a lie. The fire had gone out, and your toes had numbed slightly, and you’d argued with him when he agreed to the floor, so you were sure he was cold too. Maybe that had caused the nightmare. “I’m cold. Will you just get over here, please?”

You heard his groan, and a shuffle of sleeping bag as he pulled himself upright. His back and shoulders were silhouetted, broad and hunched. He wound his sleeping bag up between his fists, joints cracking as he made his way over to your cot. 

“Is there room?”

You shifted impossibly closer to the wall and hugged your sleeping bag to you to expose just how much room was left on the little cot. Not much, if you were being honest, but you were cold, and you had hoped your presence beside him might calm the terrors that plagued him.

He spread his blanket out beside you before asking if you needed a sip of water. 

You shook your head, but watched as he ambled across the room to the rickety card table for a swig from the canteen. 

The rain had stopped, but fog blanketed the windows on all sides. The sloshing of the water in his bottle sent a shiver through you.

“Alright, I’m coming,” he grumbled, and returned to slide himself into bed beside you. 

His arm came up first, once he’d settled, and you stiffened under his hold.

“What’re you doing?” You rubbed at tired eyes, trying to catch any glimpse of the curve of his nose.

“Warming you up, don’t make it weird.” He looped you in, scooping your sleeping bag up between the two of you. His other arm reached around your middle and pulled you close.

You weren’t surprised at his strength. He’d offered you a helping hand with more than one injury in the field. You’d seen him pull women and children from burning buildings. That one time he hauled a sheepdog from the river, both man and beast soaking wet and panting, dog tossed around his broad shoulders. 

“Better?” His gruff voice fanned your forehead, deliciously warm. 

You hummed, reaching aching cold hands out to warm against his chest. 

He hissed under your touch and wrapped your fingers up in his own. “Didn’t I tell you to sleep next to the fire?” He scolded.

“No,” you hummed, letting your eyes grow heavy again. “You told me to take the cot.” 

He grumbled something incoherent and adjusted on the tiny pad beside you. You knew he’d complain about a crick in his neck in the morning. 

“Night, Steve,” you mumbled. 

His nose tipped itself against your temple, and he sighed. “Get some sleep.” 

He slept after that. 

—

The rain made rivulets of mud and Earth. Where trails once climbed the mountainside, rocks and boulders now fell, surging into teeming river beds. 

Your boots squelched beneath you, each step a slip away from disaster. 

Steve stood a few yards ahead, more surefooted. He whipped at overgrowth with the business end of a machete. “Joplin!” He cried out, startling a few birds from their perches.

You glanced around, hand around the gun strapped to your thigh, just in case. If Joplin was eaten by a bear out here, or worse, you had to have confidence in protecting yourselves. “Les!”

Steve called your name. He stood with his machete extended, scrubbing at his tired eyes with the palm of his other hand. 

Just beyond him, the forest had been blighted. Root to crown, these massive conifers were decimated. A widow maker forest, limbs fell at odd angles, having melted from the trunk. Green grass and fern and vine turned to black ash. 

You cursed under your breath and took careful steps to meet your partner to ensure the ground didn’t swallow you whole. When you reached him, the rancid stench stung in your nostrils, watered your eyes. “Well, guess he wasn’t kidding.” 

You glanced back up to the fire tower, now a mere speck on the horizon. 

Steve’s jaw clenched. He nodded. “I’m gonna look for holes. Call it in, will you?” 

With a sigh, you stripped the heavy pack from your back. Your shoulders ached in relief. “Be careful.” You warned, and watched as he took off at a slower pace into the patch of rot. 

You kept an eye on him as you dialed, service spotty, but you were quickly patched through to dispatch. “Yeah, hi.” You offered up your badge number, called in reinforcements for a controlled burn. 

“How big is the affected area?” The woman on the other lined cracked her gum between her molars. 

You glanced around at the rot. This was small, relatively fresh. A chill rolled down your spine. You looked from Steve to the blanket of mist rolling downhill from the clouds. “About ten acres.”

“Alright, hon, we’ll get someone out there in the next day or so. Are you in need of emergency evac?” 

“No, we’re good to hang out until the crew gets here. Thank you.” She hung up first, and you pushed the antenna back into the device. Before you could shove it back into your bag, however, you heard a cry, a moan, really, in the distance, carried on the wind, prickling the hairs at the base of your neck.

“Steve?” You called out, standing up straight to survey the area. 

You heard it again, to your left.

You swung around. Steve was gone. You were alone.

You took off on a run to where you’d last seen him, careful not to trip over any loose roots, trying not to bump any more precariously hung branches from their roosts hundreds of feet in the air. You called for your partner, still clutching the piece at your side in one hand, the satellite phone in the other. 

The noise was louder now, a grunt and a groan, two noises, two distinct voices. 

You stopped, surveyed your surroundings, posted up on the good side of a half-rotted stump. 

“Can you walk?” Steve’s voice hissed from nearby. 

Your heart thumped wildly in your chest. You swung around, gun out, pointed toward the sound. 

“I broke it,” another voice, unfamiliar, croaked. They were beneath you. 

Rounding the stump, you found a hollowed out bit of ground wherein your partner was hacking away at the vines curled around the leg of an emaciated older man. This man was coated in mud and slime, curled hair sticking to his head. You sighed in relief and holstered your weapon. 

“Les Joplin?” You asked, taking a few steps to the edge of the hole. 

Both men jumped. Steve frowned back up at you before hacking away at another root. 

Les gulped, nodded. Shit, you’d left your pack at the edge of the rot. 

“Think you can limp it back to more solid ground? I’m going to call for an airlift.” You uncurled your knuckles from around the phone to dispatch the antenna and dial the number again. 

Les winced, teeth grit, sweat streaking the mud on his forehead.

You pulled your partner’s gaze. His jaw ticked. He pushed hair from his eyes with the back of his hand. He nodded, threw the man’s arm over broad shoulders. “Alright, count of three?” 

—

The rain came back as the air lift set down. Propellers pummeled large drops at you, sideways rain that stuck your clothes to your skin and cut off your breath.

You squeezed Les’s wrist as they strapped him to the gurney. His teeth chattered, face gray beneath a shiny mylar blanket. The ventilator obscured everything but his eyes, tired, frantic. 

Steve spoke to the team. He was shouting, but you couldn’t hear his voice over the wind and the slap of rain. 

Your hair stuck to the corners of your mouth.

Steve backed up to your front, shielding you behind his slim frame. He lifted a hand to wave as the helicopter ascended, clouds bending and melting beneath it. 

When it was a high enough altitude, Steve linked a large hand around your wrist and tugged you upwards, through wind-whipped grass and mud, toward the lonesome fire tower. 

The stairs were just as slick as the grass, and Steve kept a firm grip at your waist. To hold you upright or himself, you weren’t sure, but you felt anchored nonetheless.

When you finally summited, the world around you coated in a thick, grey cloud, you began to strip the soaked clothes from your body. Steve began to lodge firewood from the corner of the room into the little stove. 

“We have to go back out there,” he grunted, lighting a match to kindling before tossing it in. 

You groaned, unsticking your long-sleeve shirt from your back to wheel it over your head. “After lunch.” You pled.

You tried to stand your ground and not cower as Steve’s gaze swept your frame. He licked at pink lips, hair stuck to his face, his own clothes three shades darker than they were when you’d left the tower that morning. 

“After lunch.” He conceded, unbuttoning his shirt. You watched his back muscles shift beneath the outline of a white tank top, the moles placed hither and thither. 

You slipped a dry t-shirt over your head and began boiling water in a pot.

Steve’s knees were pulled to his chest, toes wiggling in dry socks. 

You finished first, famished from your earlier excursion, and continued your knitting. The rhythmic clack of needles a metronome to the rain against the tin roof and pouring from spouts, the crackle of the fire, the steady in-take-out-take of your breath. 

Steve eyed you warily, cheeks puffed around a meatball. He chewed, swallowed, and gestured with a fork toward the project in your lap. “What’re you making?” 

“A hat,” you pinched your smile.

He reached between you to wrap thick fingers around the ball of yarn like a baseball. He pressed the fiber for a moment before nodding, licking something from between his molars. “I really like that color.” 

You agreed. The burgundy would bring out the warmth of his eyes, the flush of his cheeks when he bickered with you.

“It felt good right? Helping Joplin.” 

His words startled you, stitch slipping off the needle before you could catch it. 

You blinked back at him, watched the worry etched between his brows, wondered what he could possibly be thinking, and you forced a bright smile. “Yeah, Steve, it felt great. That’s what this is all about, right? Saving people.” 

He nodded, shrugged, tongued at his molars. 

You can’t save everyone.

You picked your stitch back up and carried on. A few phrases turned in your mind, questions you’d posed to yourself before you dared ask him. ‘Doesn’t every save feel good?’ ‘Do you think Les’s leg’ll be okay?’ ‘Who couldn’t you save?’

You glanced to the spot on the floor where he had been tossing and turning the night before. ‘Who’s Robin?’ You couldn’t. You knew he’d throw himself into one of those broody nightmares, and you had a job to do. 

“So,” you bundled your knitting and stuffed it back into the bag you brought it in, “what’re we thinking? Demodog? Demogorgon? Grizzly?”

“Yeah, you wish it’s a Grizzly.” Steve snorted, making to wash the dishes. 

You did wish it was a Grizzly. At least you could shoot a Grizzly, watch it fall with a groan and lie peaceful against hard ground. Demodogs meant tunnel dwellers, a pack. Demogorgon meant portals. 

“Hey, before we head out there, can I ask you something?” He stood with his hands full of items to be washed, hair finally drying into wisps of curls near his ears. 

“Shoot,” you pulled yourself to a stand, rolled your stiff shoulders, got a little closer to the stove to warm your hands.

“Do I talk in my sleep?” 

You had half a second to make your decision, and “No” came out faster than that. You weren’t sure why you lied, maybe it was the same reason you hadn’t asked him about the name he’d been crying out for. You had a job to do, and you couldn’t afford a sulking partner ten steps ahead. 

His scowl proved he was weighing you up, trying to call your bluff. Apparently he convinced, he shrugged, and said, “Oh, well, you do.” Then he opened the creaky door and let himself outside to do the washing up.

—

The rain continued as you hunted. You slipped twice, twisting an ankle on a bunch of rocks hidden behind tall grass, but you’d had worse, so you persisted until the internal ache wore off and the external ache from the cold had you gritting your teeth. 

“I fucking hate this place.” Steve dropped another meatball into the grass beside you. “It reminds me of that…” He glanced around, in the air, searching for phantom airborne monsters.

You hadn’t gone into the other dimension, not for long enough to really get a feel for it, not like Steve. You knew it was cold and damp and miserable though, and these mountains were starting to feel just as desolate, just as grey. 

You came to the rot again, stench heavier under the blanket of ozone. 

Steve pressed his lips into a whistle, low and slow, coaxing whatever may be lurking. 

Your finger found the trigger at your hip. Bullets didn’t kill an inter dimensional creature, but it’d sure as Hell slow it down.  

Without a response to his call, you carried on, following him and his endless trail of meatballs past the stump in which you’d found Les Joplin. Steve poked his head inside, but vines had already begun to seam it up, devouring the flesh of the tree that rot there. 

“Do you remember what direction he said he saw it?” You asked, back to Steve as you surveyed the area. It could be anywhere, whatever it is. It was probably watching you now, smelling you, sensing you. 

“Let’s head East,” Steve signaled.

You doubled back and headed toward a particularly treacherous outcropping along the hillside. Boulders carved rivulets in the landscape, water gushing over rock and stone in glorious splendor.

Your big toes were beginning to ache from the cold, and the sound of rain and wind and now waterfalls was hurting your ears. With a huff, you seated yourself on a soaked rock and pulled your pack from your back to salvage a chocolate bar. 

“What’re you doing?” Steve snapped. He’d already trudged a good distance from you, and must have stopped when he didn’t hear the patter of your feet behind him. 

“Maybe it was a deer,” you offered, ripping back the mylar packaging and indulging in one semi-sweet bite. It didn’t melt instantly, your teeth and jaw too cold to warm it.

“It wasn’t a deer.” That permanent crease in Steve’s forehead stuck out under a curl of wet hair. 

“Come have a bite.” Your teeth chattered, hand extended. The chocolate was instantly pelted with rain.

Steve sighed and took a step toward you, and then promptly disappeared.

—

The cavern was deep, about ten feet high and thirty feet wide, a whole expanse of the forest that had just sunk in on itself. It looked like the vines hadn’t quite worked their way here, but the blight and the rain had washed away bits of the mountainside. The outcropping fell into the land and Steve had fallen into the rocks.

“Don’t come any closer!” He shouted, teeth grit in pain. He adjusted his leg, and you saw the blood spill from his knee cap to discolor his pant legs. 

“I’m going to radio for help. How bad is it? Do you need to tourniquet it?”

“No , it’s just a scrape.” He lied through his teeth. “I can’t see how far this goes, so go slow, and be careful.” 

With a nod, you made for your pack, muttering under your breath about your bossy partner, always getting himself into trouble. Then the breath was swept out of you as you free-fell into the cavern, too. 

Your ankles rolled, the one from earlier crying out from added injury, and you jaw slammed closed on a portion of your tongue when you hit the cavern floor. It was softer than you expected, wet mud and dirt breaking most of your fall. 

Your name echoed with the pounding of your heart as you regulated and pull yourself to a stand, brushing mud from your hands to your thighs. Water rushed into the cavern from above. Not enough to cause concern, but you stared up at the hole in the sky with a grimace. 

Steve called your name again, and you turned to face him. 

“Are you alright?” He asked, eyes wide with worry. 

You shrugged, nodded. “My ankle hurts.” 

“Is it broken?” 

You assessed the injury, tried to roll it back into place. A sharp, shooting pain spilled up your spinal column. You nodded. “Probably.” 

“I told you to be careful.” Steve scoffed from his lean against the far wall. He’d made no effort to rescue you.

“Is your leg broken?” You mapped your way to him, a slow and steady course through rocky terrain. Each step limped, you gripped the roots tied into the walls beside you. 

“No,” Steve shook his head. “Just a bad cut.” His large hand shook, pressed to a gash that was dying the rainwater red. 

“Well,” you sighed, “if the meatballs weren’t good enough…”

“Shut up,” he shifted in place, hand outstretched to help you over the last huge boulder. “Careful, sharp bit there.” He nodded to a likely culprit, a jagged bit of rock that stuck up at an odd angle. An odd substance pooled near the bottom, and you tried not to wretch when you realized it was likely the fat from Steve’s thigh. 

“We need to get you off your feet.” You instructed, carrying his weight to help him find a good bit of stone that was flat enough, but not too slippery for him to rest. It proved to be quite the undertaking. 

“It stopped raining,” he mused when he’d settled, the two of you wedged into a pit of mud that looked out of the gaping mouth onto grey skies. 

He was right. You hadn’t noticed it beneath the swell of water surging downhill, and the patter that continued on the other edge of the cave, but the rain had stopped, or at least slowed.

“Did you play baseball in high school?” You asked, picking through the rubble for a hefty enough sized rock. 

“Why?” Steve asked, perturbed by your questioning, but you noticed, for once, he didn’t have the energy to argue. 

You could imagine him playing baseball, chewing sunflower seeds in the dug out, hiking around the bases in those tight little white pants. You smiled and tossed him the rock. 

He caught it one-handed, clearly annoyed you’d thrown it in the first place. 

You pointed to the spot you fell. “Throw it really hard. My pack’s up there. Might knock it into the hole.” 

“Your pack-!?” Steve closed his eyes, took a few calming breaths. Then he shot you a look before hocking the rock as far as he could throw. It was very impressive. 

You both waited with bated breath, but the impact created no further damaged, and you slumped into one another, asses wet and legs throbbing. “I have my flare,” you explained, patting the inside pocket of your jacket. You always kept one, and a lighter, filled, just in case.

Steve sighed. “Me too.” He was just loopy enough to flash you a tired smile. 

“Alright, big boy,” you shook at his bicep to keep him alert and shrugged out of your jacket to remove your sweater. The air was warmer down her, and damp. Your breath fogged. “You’re going to have to stay awake until morning. So it’s time to tell me a story.”

Steve winced with each adjustment as you wrapped your sweater around his leg to aid with pressure. His hands still trembled, flesh of his palms bloodied, and you elevated his leg a little higher, pushing him into the mud at his back. 

“What kind of story?” He asked, teeth chattering. 

You hunched beside him and took both of his bloody hands into your own. The whole place smelled of Earth and iron. “Tell me about Indiana.”

He groaned and rolled his eyes.

“Come on. What position were you on the baseball team?” 

He grit his teeth and shook his head. “I didn’t play baseball. Track and field.”

You smiled and unzipped his coat to let yourself in, arms wrapped around his trembling frame. You pressed your face to his throat, nestled under the crook of his jaw where stubble had begun to poke and scratch. “Alright, tell me about that then. Did your high school sweetheart cheer you on from the stands? Steve, Steve, he’s our man, if he can’t do it, no one can!” You actually managed to rah a chuckle out of him.

He winced again, his chin bouncing into your head. “She wasn’t a cheerleader. She was on the school paper.” 

You changed your tone, put on a Trans-Atlantic accent. “Aaaaand they’re off. Steve Harrington takes the lead. Have you ever seen anything quicker on its feet? A horse, maybe.”

He snorted, swung his arm around you. “Has anyone ever told you how obnoxious you are?”

“You have,” you nodded. “A number of times. Kind of rude, actually. I’m always saving your ass.” 

He chuckled and mumbled an apology into your hair. 

“What else can you tell me about Indiana?” Your own exhaustion had begun to creep around the corners of your mind, hearing the dull thud of Steve’s heartbeat match the ache in your ankle and shin and thigh. 

When he didn’t respond, you prodded at his chest. “Steve.”

He shushed you, gripping your arm a little tighter. 

You were suddenly very alert. You could hear birdsong just over the ripple and rush of water over the rocks. You heard it too, the distinct clicking growl of a flower-faced beast. 

“Can you move?” Steve muttered into your hair, barely a whisper.

You nodded, swallowed, reached for the flare at your side.

“My knife,” he said. “Can you see it?” He nodded to where you’d found him.

You shifted in his arms, hoping the beast couldn’t hear the grunt he emitted between clenched molars. There, where rubble met a river of mud, you saw the glint of his knife. 

With a deep breath and a strain of every muscle in your body, you hoisted yourself onto your good leg and began your precarious hobble to your weapon. The rocks twisted under your feet, and the pain churned your stomach. 

“Easy,” Steve guided, his breath shallow. “You’ve got this.” 

You managed to dip yourself low enough, balanced on one leg, to wrap your fingers around the hilt and lift it from the rubble. You caught yourself on the wall and released a breath you’d been holding. 

The knife was a bit muddy, but mostly fine. It glinted in the diminishing sunlight, flashing the walls a pale pink red before your heard the call again. A rattled click preceded the visage that peered over the cavern mouth. 

The dog’s face opened, all teeth and fleshy flower petals, and before Steve had a chance to instruct you, the thing was on you, and you were elbow-deep in Demodog. It’s teeth scraped and tore at the nylon of your parka and one final dying breath rattled from its small frame before it squelched off of your blade and to the ground.

“It’s not alone.” Steve warned from his spot on the floor.

You nodded, grit your teeth, and readied your stance for another. 

—

Three demodogs died at your hands and burned. The acrid sting of burning flesh kept you awake, your body rejoicing at the warmth.

You managed to keep Steve awake, although his skin had paled and his eyelids drooped. 

The smoke alerted the helicopter before your flare did. 

Oxygen mask over your face, you linked your fingertips into Steve’s and offered him a smile. He was already asleep by the time you rose, higher and higher above cloud coverage and rain. You slipped up and away from the fire tower. Up and away from verdant hills and from rot and decay. 

Steve’s grasp was loose in your hand, and you wondered what he dreamt about now. You hoped it was peaceful. 

You finished his hat beside his hospital bed while you watched the latest game. Someone ran a home run. Steve cheered. You looped the last few stitches together and weaved in your ends. 

“This is for you,” you tossed it onto his lap. The burgundy was stark against white sheets. 

Steve frowned back at you, fingers toying with the fabric. “For me?” 

You nodded. “You needed a wool hat. Just put it on and be grateful.” 

He did as instructed, smile refusing to play on handsome features. He cocked an eyebrow to get your input. It was exactly as you’d hoped, a sweet contrast that a brought out the honeyed brown of his eyes, the flush of his cheeks. 

You bit back a smile, rolled your eyes. “Maybe you’re right. Your ego doesn’t need this boost. Give it back.” 

He smiled at that, a ruefully shy thing that had your heart pitter-pattering like rain on a tin roof. “No. It’s mine.” 

“Steve,” you let your question linger on your tongue for a moment, wondering if you ought to ask it, if you ought to push. 

He hummed, attention drawn back to the television. 

You swallowed, let the question die. Maybe another day, you’d find out who Robin was, what happened to them. 

“Yeah?” He glanced back at you, brown eyes wide with concern. 

You smiled. “What did I say in my sleep?” 

Once again, the corners of pink lips turned up, and he shook his head. “I’ll never tell.” 

---

Moodboard • 00: Prologue • 02: Home [Coming Soon]

[fanfoolishness]

Field Experience

Written for @summer-of-bad-batch 's prompt "You're a bad liar." The Bad Batch is fresh out on one of their first missions when Hunter gets an unexpected injury, as well as a lesson in leadership. ~2000 words, with Hunter whump and some brotherly hurt/comfort. @indigofyrebird I believe you were looking for Hunter hurt/comfort? :-D

---

Things weren’t going well, exactly.

Hunter cursed under his breath as a grenade went off a few dozen meters away.  The energy of the blast made his head pound and his eyes sting; his ears rang.  He shook it off.  His squad needed him, and he needed to get to a better vantage point, figure out where they’d gone wrong.  This was only their third mission.  This had to go right.  He needed it to go right.  He’d stepped up to lead, and he wouldn’t let them down.

He pinged his comms, hoping the thick jungle vegetation wouldn’t interfere.  He’d taken this path for the stealth it afforded, but it was slow going, even with his tracking abilities.  “Havoc Four, I need eyes on the valley.”

“Copy that,” said Crosshair.  “We’ve got eighty clankers bearing down on us in a standard formation, but I can’t get --”  

The comms crackled, spitting out static.  Hunter swore again.  He tried the others, pinging Tech and Wrecker, hoping they’d made it to the positions he’d dictated with Plan Twelve, but the vegetation was so thick he couldn’t pinpoint them.  He needed to get out of this dense tangle of massive ferns and palms and vines and circle back around.  He took a moment, breathing deep and closing his eyes, then dropped to the ground and rested his thinly-gloved hand on the soil.  It hummed with the vibration of the clankers marching half a valley away, helping to readjust his mental positioning system.  If the clankers were here, and Crosshair’s position was there, he needed to --

“Ouch!” he hissed.  He opened his eyes, jerking his hand back, only to see a slender orange-and-black-tailed creature slithering away into the underbrush.  “Karking --”  He’d been so focused on the battleground up ahead he’d ignored the faint shiver in the topsoil that would have warned him of the creature.  He rubbed his hand, trying to ignore the way the bite wound pulsed and throbbed.  He’d deal with it once they cleaned up here.

He broke out of the dense jungle heading north by northwest, where the land opened up into scattered stands of trees and rolling, rocky hills heading down into the valley.  He approached stealthily, keeping cover behind stands of thick green and violet trees and low hillocks roiling with mosses in a dozen different colors.  His hand felt tense and tight in his glove, straining against the fabric, throbbing in time with the beat of his heart.  Not a big deal.  I’ll grab my medikit once I meet up with Tech and Wrecker.

He licked his lips.  He tasted buzzing.

He dropped to a sudden crouch, disquieted.  The buzzing sensation wasn’t external, the way that electricity in the air could make his tongue feel like it sparked.  This was something else.  His stomach clenched with a sinking feeling.

Damn creature must have been venomous.

He pulled his backpack off quickly, intending to go for his medikit, but the sound of blaster fire half a klick away made him sling the backpack back on.  His comm crackled.

“Could really use you right about now, Sarge --” Wrecker’s voice came, tinny and half the pitch it normally was.  Wrecker only called him Sarge when things were looking serious.

“Change of plans, lads.  Plan Eighteen,” Hunter called, hoping the transmission went through.  Faint crackles of assent came from Tech, Wrecker and Crosshair, and Hunter pulled out his blasters, charging through a gap in the hillocks and down the slope into the mouth of the valley.  As he’d guessed, the clankers were now in sight.  He shook off the sensation of his arm falling asleep, and dove into the fray.

---

This was it, the last stand of the clankers, and he knew he and the boys had them.  It might have been dicey for a bit there, but after coordinating with Tech and Wrecker for deployment of some truly spectacular field charges, set off by Crosshair at the rear vanguard, the clankers were on the run.  

There was a rustle behind him.  Before the droids could raise their weapons, Hunter whirled to face them, raising his left pistol and firing off four quick shots.  The two droids collapsed into the loam, still smoking.  Got ‘em -- but it would have been easier if he could have held his right pistol, too.  His head swam, and he kept flexing his hand, trying to move fingers that felt fat and fuzzy.  He took cover behind a large boulder, catching sight of Tech and Wrecker further down the battlefield.  One last sweep and they’d be done; he’d be able to check out his hand, his brothers none the wiser.

Except --

“Havoc One,” Crosshair drawled over his comms.

“Little busy right now.”

“You’re not moving right.  Are you injured?”

He scowled.  Curse Crosshair and his enhanced vision.  His brother was probably two klicks away on the far ridge, but that had never stopped his vision before, especially with the aid of his scope.

“It’s nothing,” he said defensively.  “You’re imagining it.”  He shook out his hand, hissing at the new burning sensation prickling up his arm.  It rolled up his muscles in seething waves, and his gauntlet felt like it was cutting into his arm.  He loosened its attachments, hissing, bracing himself against the boulder.  He shivered with a sudden chill, despite the warm temperature and the sweat slicking his hair down inside his helmet.  Tough it out, you’ll be fine --

“You’re a bad liar.  I’m changing to Plan Fifteen, and then I’m getting down there.”  There was something he didn’t recognize in Crosshair’s voice.  Was it fear?

Hunter shook his head.  Plan Fifteen was a good bet, sure, a great use of Crosshair’s sniping skills, but --  

Black dots showered the edges of his vision, closing in.  He staggered, sliding down against the boulder to crumple on the ground, the black dots swarming.  He was so cold.  

“Sergeant down!” Crosshair shouted over the comms.  It was the last thing Hunter heard before everything went dark.

---

He came back to himself slowly, fighting back a wave of nausea.  Where was he?  He smelled laser burns and ozone, the sharp scent of junked clankers, the heady scents of drowsing blossoms and chlorophyll and rich earth.  And more familiar scents, too, scents he’d grown up with: Tech, Crosshair, Wrecker.

He groaned, trying to reach up to rub his eyes.  But his arm failed to respond; a wave of tingling, burning pain pulsed through his limb, and he bit his lip hard, tasting blood.  Electric sparks flared and vibrated under his skin.  “What the… what happened…”  

He blinked slowly, and the world began to come back into focus.  He gazed up at the sky, a blue-green horizon marred by gray and brown clouds of smoke hanging in the air.  His brothers swam into view, still in their helmets, fresh from the battlefield.

“Something bit you, didn’t it?” Tech asked, peering over him with his visor lifted, the skin around his goggles paler than usual.  “I’m assuming it was some form of crotalid-like creature, given that it appears to have injected you with a neurotoxin.  Surely you must have noticed.  You should have told us!’  His eyes narrowed.

“I knew something was wrong,” Crosshair said sharply.  “What were you thinking?  If you’d gone down where I couldn’t see you --”

“Is it bad?” Hunter said, ignoring them.  

“Oh, yeah.  You should see your hand,” Wrecker said, shaking his head.  “Looks horrible.”

Crosshair nudged Wrecker.  “Quiet.  He’ll figure that out soon enough.”

“But it does look awful --”

“True, but --”

“Arguing about it won’t help,” Tech said sternly.  “We need to evacuate him.  We’ve got to get back to the ship and the rest of our supplies.”  He put a hand on Hunter’s shoulder.  “But yes.  It is fairly bad.”

Hunter groaned.  “Wanted to -- complete the mission.”  He swallowed.  He lifted his head with a great effort, turning to look for signs of continued battle.  “The clankers --”

“Blew ‘em up,” Wrecker said, his voice warm enough that Hunter could hear the grin under his helmet.  “Got the all clear.  Now we just gotta get out of here.”

“Luckily, our kits carry customizable antivenin, effective against most types of toxins.  Which you should have known, and could have given yourself,” said Tech testily.  He sighed.  “I think this last dose is finally taking effect, but now I’ve used up all of our field stocks of antivenin, and you’ll need more before we get back to Kamino.  At least you might be able to walk now.  Your vitals are much better.”

Crosshair knelt down, holding out a hand to Hunter’s good side.  Hunter reached out and took it, holding on tightly as Crosshair hoisted him back to his feet.  He wavered for a moment, the world spinning, but things settled back into a normal view quickly.  His head still felt muzzy and strange, but he was feeling more alert.  He raised his bad hand --

“Oh hell,” he muttered between clenched teeth.  Wrecker hadn’t been kidding.  HIs hand, now missing its glove and gauntlet, was roughly three times its normal size, and his normally brown skin had turned a sick, mottled purplish-reddish color that looked poisonous itself.  The bite wound oozed blood in a slow, nasty trickle.  Pain was replaced intermittently by numbness, prickles, or sharp pulses, all of it unpleasant.  His stomach turned, but he swallowed, managing to avoid vomiting.

“Told you it was horrible,” said Wrecker, putting an arm over his shoulders.  “Here.  Lean on me.  We got your kit, don’t worry about it.”  He tucked Hunter’s helmet under his other arm.

Hunter shuffled along beside Wrecker, leaning heavily on his brother  Crosshair walked behind them holding the line, while Tech scouted ahead, leading them back to the ship.  The sounds of the jungle, birds calling, insects buzzing, leaves rustling, mixed with Hunter’s grunts and puffs of breath, his footsteps scuffing against the loam-covered soil, the footfalls of his brothers.  

“You really shoulda said somethin’,” Wrecker said after a few minutes.  “There was time.  Tech and I coulda gone back for you.  Those clankers wouldn’t’ve got the best of us.”

“I wanted to have things under control,” Hunter muttered.  “A good leader doesn’t get taken out by a little snake.”

“A good leader relies on his team,” Tech said from up ahead.  He paused, turning around to join them.  “If you were attempting to prove your invulnerability, you may have noticed that you have failed.  We trust you, Hunter.  But you must trust us too.”

His ears burned.  Yeah.  He’d screwed up.

“You’re right.  I should’ve said something,” he admitted.  “Crosshair figured it out, and I tried to tell him it was nothing.  I was too focused on getting back to the battle.  But this could have compromised the mission.” 

Wrecker groaned, tossing his head, probably rolling his eyes under his helmet.  “Yeah, yeah, the mission, but you coulda got taken out.  That’s what we’re cross about!”

Hunter chuckled.  “Aw, you big softy.”

“Watch who you��re callin’ soft,” Wrecker warned, squeezing Hunter in a hug that compressed his ribs and made him cough.  Hunter weakly shoved back against his brother, and Wrecker guffawed, releasing the pressure.  “Told ya.”

Crosshair closed the distance between them, stopping beside Hunter.  “So the next time you’re bitten by a deadly jungle viper, you’ll let somebody know?” asked Crosshair, tilting his head and crossing his arms over his chest.

Hunter managed a weak smile.  “Promise.  Should’ve known you’d have my back.”

“Tch.  Of course,” Crosshair said.  He reached out and clasped Hunter’s shoulder briefly.

“We do this together, Hunter,” said Tech, nodding.  “Always.”  He turned back around, continuing onward.

They kept on to the ship, Hunter starting to pick up the pace slightly as the antivenin continued to work.  The swelling was going down in his hand, and his head was feeling clearer than ever.  Their trainers had told him many things about how to lead, but some things he was starting to realize he’d only learn through experience.  Well, he was getting it now.  A good leader communicated.  A good leader kept his squad apprised of changing conditions.  

And a good squad never left a man behind.

He leaned against Wrecker, still a little dizzy, but he was feeling better already.