Flying to the Rescue
Percy squinted at the formula, his hands trembling as he tipped in the dose. Of all the days for his contact lenses to fall out, it had to be today. Luckily, he had a pair of glasses in his bag as a backup, but they kept sliding off his nose.
"Here goes nothing," he said aloud, as he squeezed the last drop out of the pipette. The blue liquid fell into the beaker below, staining the clear liquid darker like ink on a page.
The resulting explosion shook the foundations of the building. Percy flew back three feet into the wall behind, but all he could think as he slipped into unconsciousness was that it should have been four drops of nitrogen, not five.
When Oliver got the call, he quickly realised that the building in question was much closer than the fire station. So close, in fact, that as he looked up, he could see the plume of smoke rising into the sky.
That's the last time the lads make fun of me for wearing the gear out to lunch, he thought, sending his sandwich flying straight into the bin and breaking into a run.
As he drew closer, his stomach dropped. The skyscraper was one that he intimately recognised—it was Percy's. Percy, the boy who he had gone to boarding school with, shared a room with for seven years, had a crush on since he awkwardly threw a Frisbee into Mr Burbury's face and promptly offered to mark all his papers for.
The man who needed his help right now. Oliver's run turned into a sprint.
The man groaned, blinking sweat and dust from his eyes. He was flat on his back in some kind of laboratory, the plastic lights overhead flickering. A wailing alarm sounded, much more menacing than a normal house fire alarm. His ribs felt compressed, as if he couldn't breathe in enough air. Stress, or another wound? He sucked in a deep breath and immediately began coughing, groaning as he turned on his side.
Where was he?
More importantly… who was he? What was he doing here? He touched a hand to his temple, intent on massaging his newly forming headache, but his fingers came away slick with blood. That couldn't be good.
His hands trembled as he considered them and he forced himself to remain calm. He considered what he knew. He'd been in an explosion, in a lab. He had amnesia, a concussion, possible damage from smoke inhalation, possible fractured ribs. More specifically, he had psychogenic amnesia with dissociative fugue. He was a scientist, he could tell that much, but knowledge came to him in random bursts, nothing concrete. None of it helped.
He pushed himself to his feet, only to stagger as he tried to step forward. His ankle was sprained, or maybe even broken. He looked around—the room was devastated. The furniture was blackened with soot and part of the ceiling was missing, debris crumbled on the floor. Whatever delicate instruments had been on the workspaces had been sent flying, now lying shattered on the floor and in the room beyond. The door and windows were non-existent. Fire licked at a wooden chair and although he didn't know anything about himself, he knew that there were several highly dangerous chemical reactions that might occur in this room if the fire reached them. He needed to get out.
"Help!" he called, only for his voice to croak. His next words died into a hacking cough.
In the distance, there was a loud crash. The man flinched and shuffled towards the wall, leaning on it for support. The acrid smell of smoke wafted towards him, and he realised that if he didn't get moving soon, he would have more to deal with than a headache and a sore ankle.
He stopped himself from taking a deep breath, and tried to look at his situation logically. The room seemed blurry, even when he'd blinked the tears from his eyes. He guessed that he'd been hit on the head quite hard, or that he possibly needed glasses. Maybe both. Either way, he had no chance of reading the information on what to do in the case of a fire even if by some miracle he found an information panel on it.
Bracing himself, he started down a corridor, looking for the stairs, pulling the remains of his shirt up over his mouth and nose. Tears streamed down his face as his ankle knocked against the debris scattered on the floor, but he eventually made it to the end of the hallway.
He let out a small scream, sinking to the floor in dismay. He'd found the stairs, but they were caved in, beams collapsed, definitely not safe enough to traverse. He backed out of the corridor and turned into the nearest room, hoping to find a window. Perhaps he'd be able to jump; he hardly knew where they were in the building.
He looked and bit back the urge to sob. He would not be able to jump. He were seven or eight stories up. He stared down at the ground, at the mass of people gathered, and at the fire engines that were only just pulling up.
"Help," he called again, waving frantically. "Help!"
But it didn't seem to be of any use. The fire engines only reached the third floor, and none of the firemen seemed to be attempting to get the ladders higher than the fifth. He wished that he could remember something, anything, to help him in his situation. But his mind was a blank.
Oliver raced across the street, flying over a bench so as to not break momentum. He greeted his team with barely a cursory nod before assessing the situation. They had been smart to go for the fifth floor first, where most of the personnel seemed to be based, and where they seemed most at risk. He could see the collapsing struts even from below. The higher floors were for meetings and experimentations. Perhaps everyone might have already escaped to a lower floor.
As he scanned the windows, he realised that they were not so lucky. A man was standing, waving madly.
"There!" he cried. "Someone's trapped. Get ladder three onto the seventh. I'm going up."
"Yes boss," Sanders said.
Oliver strapped himself into the rest of his equipment, securing his helmet and mask. The ladder was up and the man at the window seemed to be trying to open it. If he could, great, but if not, Oliver had the gear.
"Keep up the good work, lads," he said, and began to climb.
He was breathing heavily as he neared the top of the ladder, but felt more confident than he had down below. When he climbed, he felt as if he could fly, almost as if he were superman. This, he could do. This was what he was good at. He paused at the top and his jaw dropped when he saw that it was Percy inside.
It only steeled his resolve.
"Stand back!" Oliver hefted his axe and positioned himself downwind. Taking glass was dangerous if he got a spray of glass and heat and smoke to the face. He smashed the window, shards falling below.
"Percy, can you walk? Are you okay?"
He cleared the window, shattering any dangerously sharp edges that had been left.
"Percy!" he called again, when the other man failed to reply.
Percy blinked, frowning. It was then that Oliver realised he didn't have his glasses, and that a nasty lump had formed on his head. Combined with the glassy look in his eyes and the way that he was leaning heavily on one leg, Oliver realised he'd have to carry him down.
"Come closer, that's the ticket. I'm going to carry you. No sudden movements, okay?"
Oliver braced himself against the building and hefted Percy over one shoulder. He seemed to be in shock.
"Come on, come," Oliver muttered to himself, easing himself back down the ladder. It was slow going, but eventually they made it back to solid ground.
"Everyone's out, boss," Sander said, running toward him, wiping sweat from her brow.
"Get a medic," Oliver replied, and nodded his approval. "That's great."
He propped Percy up against a wall.
"Percy?" Percy said. "That's my name?"
"Damn," Oliver muttered, taking in the head wound. "Yeah, that's your name. We'll figure the rest out, too."
Percy smiled, even as his eyes drooped closed.
"My name's Percy," he murmured. "Thanks for flying to my rescue."
Something was beeping, an annoying buzz that didn't seem to stop.
Percy groaned and tried to roll away from it.
"Easy, now," someone said, gently pressing on his shoulder. "Stay on your back, it'll hurt less."
Percy forced open his eyes. A face swam into view above him.
"Hi," the face said. "How're you feeling, Perce?"
"Who are you?" Percy said. He glanced around; he was in a hospital room and the beeping had been from his heart monitor. He touched his fingers to his head and winced at the pain.
"I'm Oliver. Oliver Wood. I was the firefighter that brought you down."
Oliver was tall and burly, but his eyes were the kindest Percy had ever seen.
"The docs have got you all fixed up," Oliver said. "I thought I'd stick around, help you out. We're old friends, I suppose. What do you remember?"
"Oliver," Percy repeated. He was still an amnesiac, then. Of course he was. "I remember very little."
Oliver patted Percy's hand and smiled.
"Don't worry, Percy. I'm here for you, if you want me to be."
Percy looked at those kind brown eyes, and for the first time since he'd woken without a memory, thought that he might just be okay.
"I'd like that, Oliver." The name felt familiar on his tongue, though he'd barely used it. It felt like hope and youth and innocence and home all wrapped into one. "I'd like that a lot."
Word Count: 1668
QLFC Beater Two Prompt: (scenario) Character A wakes up with no memory of who they are or where they are. It's up to Character B to help them.
Optional Prompts: (action) flying, (AU) scientist