A/N: That fic I mentioned in my author notes in Die Spitze, that was giving me so much grief? Well, I finally managed to (mostly) beat it into submission, so here's the most recent entry to the SSVA 'verse. It's comprised of three chapters, which will be posted daily (i.e. last one'll be up this Sunday).
Warnings: Gore and such pleasantries. Exactly how gory depends entirely on your level of sensitivity, but I'm putting it out there. There's an act of war. There are casualties. Aramis is working clean-up. Needless to say, it's ain't pretty.
Disclaimer: Don't own a damn thing, sadly. Except my warped mind that came up with this. Not sure whether that's something to be happy about tho.
Proceed with caution. This is not a happy fic.
~Dying on the Street~
The newscaster has hardly reached the end of the announcement when Mathieu pops his head inside their tent and informs them that the Captain has called to an emergency meeting.
They make their way with haste, fellow musketeers flanking them – all of them guided by some intuitive sense of foreboding.
It doesn't take long before the entire tent is filled with operatives and Treville, voice grave and expression unnaturally hard, even by his standards, begins.
He keeps it concise and to the point, as is his signum, but still, the picture he paints is one of horror and destruction. When he draws a parallel to the mission in Hungary last year,they know it's going to be bad.
They set to work immediately, organizing work stations, assembling supplies. Still, by the time the humming of motors can be heard, they are not even close to ready.
Silent whimpers and beseeching moans accompany the first Litter that draws up outside their camp, a second one just about visible in the horizon.
It won't stop, Aramis knows. Again, it's with a certainty born out of nothing but a soldier's instinct.
And he's right, it doesn't stop.
For days, it doesn't stop.
[...]
From the moment the first FLA arrives, it's chaos. Organized chaos, yes, but chaos nonetheless. Aramis doesn't see much of the others, doesn't have much time to think about them at all among the flurry of victims that arrive.
The first one is a man with his head covered in bloody bindings, sobbing uncontrollably and calling out for someone named Hannah. When Aramis removes the bandages, a mushy white goo greets him where the man's left eye should be, the edges of the hole already red with infection.
A young woman, presumably Hannah, accompanies him on another stretcher, her body so severely burned that, in some parts, they catch glimpses of bone. The odor of singed flesh etches itself into the tent fabrics and Aramis tries to sooth her when she cries out in pain, her voice paper thin and raspy from smoke inhalation, but it's like she doesn't even hear him.
[...]
Lemay gets called away to the actual site already after a few hours, and Aramis is left in charge of their tent. He stops in his ministrations long enough to start to protest – he isn't particularly accustomed to this field of medicine, and he definitely doesn't have clearance to deal with something of this proportion – but then another stretcher comes through the drapes and whatever he'd been about to say dies in his throat at the sight of a young boy with third degree burns covering his face and hands.
He doesn't even notice when Lemay disappears and, after that, there isn't much he can do other than continue working.
[...]
An old man comes in with his chest shredded by shrapnel; the flesh hangs in torn pieces and there's so much damage that, for a brief moment, Aramis doesn't know where to start, and even less how he can still be alive.
He screams when Aramis sets to work, obscenities switching to pleading switching back to obscenities, a harsh, garbled cry that joins the wet sound of metal being dragged from flesh in a sickening kind of music. His entire front is slick with blood and sweat, and Aramis repeatedly wipes his hands on his scrubs to keep from dropping the utensils, shouts for more cloths. Even so, he performs most of his work blind, unable to see past the sea of red.
[...]
He saws a woman's leg off, because it's in such a state of decompose that it's beyond saving. Although they give her anesthetics, she fights them, and her screams keep ringing in Aramis' head for hours after she finally loses the fight against consciousness.
[...]
He knows how this works.
Sees it for the cold and cruel and heartless reality that it is. Is not a stranger to the world of politics.
These people were never expected to survive. But it was impossible – inhumane, political suicide – to leave them in the ruins. So they are sent here, where both personnel and supplies are lacking, the medics on sight signing their death warrant long before they even arrive at camp.
It would take a miracle to save them. He knows this.
Still, every loss of life, every final breath, widens the hole in Aramis' heart.
[...]
He's vaguely aware that day turns to night and then to day again. D'Artagnan arrives more than a few times, brown eyes that are usually alight with laughter now haunted, bearing supplies as well as word. Although they talk, the only thing that sticks to Aramis' mind is that there are still many more transports to come.
[...]
A young girl is wheeled in – she can't be more than ten – with an oozing hole where her left arm should be. Aramis is about to ask the woman who carries the front part of the stretcher about it, when another EMT rushes in with the extremity wrapped in cloths so bloody they've turned a nauseating brown, already in the early stages of decay.
He stands over her small body, acutely aware of each laborious breath. The bone in her shoulder is glinting naked and hard, and there's nothing he can do other than clean it, remove the pieces of debris stuck inside, and bandage it to the best of his abilities, all the while knowing that it won't be enough.
It seems like forever and only minutes when her body finally gives in to her injuries and Aramis adds her, chest aching, to the pile of people he hasn't been able to save.
[...]
At some time during the day – or maybe it is night – Constance appears in his tent, drags him aside and presses a water bottle and a banana into his hands. He dutifully consumes them under her watchful gaze, tastes nothing but smoke and rotten flesh, his own eyes never leaving his patients.
[...]
There is no time to fully reflect on the horrors he witnesses.
As soon as he finishes one surgery, another body is laid before him. He loses track of time in the chaos of broken and severed limbs, agonized cries, and bodies weeping blood. Dark eyes damp with tears implore him to sooth, to relieve their pain, to please, just save them.
Most of the times, he finds that he cannot.
He wades in their pain, breathes their despair, tastes their blood on his tongue. Their lamentation is the only existing sound, a continuously swelling crescendo so intense it vibrates through every nerve, synaps, and axon.
A pandemonium of soundless voices.
A choir of the dying.
[...]
Porthos comes, carrying a young man who sports more holes than a Swiss cheese, and one glance is enough to tell Aramis that his fate is in God's hands. Still, he works on him for an hour before the man ultimately gives in to his injuries.
Porthos lingers, eyes anywhere except on the surgical table that Aramis absently thinks was white, at some point.
Aramis forces himself to straighten – it's an herculean effort, if ever there was one – and raises a questioning eyebrow.
For some reason, that only makes Porthos grimace.
"Aramis…" he starts, but then someone calls from the outside and Aramis gives him a small smile.
Porthos doesn't look pleased, but Aramis doesn't have time to contemplate it for long before another stretcher comes through the drapes.
They still got work to do.
[...]
At one point, he belatedly wonders about the son of the woman whose leg he had to cut off.
She's still clinging on to life, with a desperation born out of the primal instinct to protect one's child, but Aramis isn't holding out much hope; she's lost too much blood, infection has set in, and they don't have enough medicine or the proper equipment to keep it in check. The only thing that she holds onto is the hope of seeing her son again, but no one matching his description – scrawny, she'd whispered, eyes fixating on Aramis with eerie intensity out of a face as white as the sheets she lay on, dark hair, cobalt blue eyes. His name's Roman. Please… – had arrived at the camp; Aramis sent someone to the other tents every time he heard another Litter draw up but they always came back emptyhanded, a terse headshake in the negative.
He honestly doesn't know whether to be relieved or not.
[...]
Athos makes an appearance, asking him if he needs anything, and Aramis finds he has the inappropriate urge to laugh. He needs more of everything: medical personnel, supplies, equipment, and room for more sick beds. He only voices the last one, because he knows that Athos can't help him with the rest; even if they sent for more medication and staff, most of the patients will be dead before it arrived.
Most of them don't last longer than half a day, anyway.
[...]
He gradually shuts himself down, can't allow himself to focus on anything other than the job at hand.
His feelings of injustice won't help them, nor will his words of comfort.
He works and he prays, and that's all he can do.
He's been a soldier for a long time.
God knows he's seen worse.
[...]
By the time d'Artagnan comes with an order from their First Lieutenant that he needs to see him, Aramis hardly remembers which country they're in anymore.
Some deep-rooted instinct has him opening his mouth to protest, but then Constance nudges him forward, ill-concealed worry on her face and he frowns, because why would Constance be worried?
He finds himself outside of the tent without really knowing how, and he follows their newest team member on autopilot. The sky is marine colored velvet, the lingering smell of Serge's beef stew in the air. It's preferable to the odor of the tent, but still it makes Aramis' stomach roll.
When they enter their de facto leader's tent, Aramis isn't exactly surprised to see Porthos there, too.
Still, he somehow finds the energy to raise an eyebrow.
"Are we having an intervention?" he asks. His voice is hoarse, and he clears it.
Athos is watching him with critical eyes, sitting on a foldable chair by his table.
"Of sorts," he replies, eventually. "We thought you could benefit from a break."
"The walk to your tent has been most refreshing," Aramis says, not really bothering to infuse his words with humor. He is too weary for it. "However, if there was nothing else, I should get back…"
Porthos snorts from where he stands, leaning against Athos' desk.
"You remember last time you ate?"
Aramis opens his mouth to answer – because what kind of ridiculous question is that, of course he does – and closes it with a frown when he realizes that he has no idea.
Porthos gives him a look that clearly communicates his displeasure and, taking him by the elbow, the big man leads him to the table Athos's sitting at and pushes him down, gentle but firm. Next thing Aramis knows, a cup of water appears in his hands.
Athos takes a sip of his own drink and leans back, the picture of calm.
"That's settled, then. You will eat and then get at least five consecutive hours of sleep before returning to your duties."
Aramis almost chokes on his water.
"What?" he splutters. "Athos, I'm the most qualified in my tent and there are still FLAs rolling in, I can't just leave–"
"I'm sure they can manage without you for a few hours," Athos interrupts, voice droll but with the unmistakable edge of command to it. "I have already spoken to the head nurse and, incidentally, she agrees."
Aramis' eyes narrow.
"I don't suppose I have a say in this?"
Athos gives a minute shrug, his eyes speaking volumes even though no words are forthcoming.
Aramis knows that his friends are doing this out of some misplaced concern for him, but still he can't help but bristle.
"I'm not a child, Athos," he grumbles – decidedly not sounding petulant.
"Of course not," Athos agrees, completely unfazed. "Now eat, or I'll have Porthos force-feed you."
D'Artagnan snickers from where he's taken up residence on the bed, and Porthos gives a challenging grin, encouraging him to try his luck; however, Aramis' pride still hasn't recovered from last time: with both of his arms in slings – a combination of a bust gone wrong and his own stupid luck – he'd had no other option than to let the others help him with every mundane thing, including taking care of his basic needs. It's not something he cares to repeat ever again, so he just glares at them, gives in, and sullenly takes the spoon. All feelings of annoyance, however, disappear when he takes the first bite and suddenly realizes just how hungry he is.
He eats in silence, the easy conversation of his friends a soothing background blur. None of them ask any questions, about his well-being, about the people he has treated – probably because they already know the answer to both: are well aware of how many lives have perished and how he is dealing – that is, not at all. Either way, he is grateful for the reprieve.
By the time he's finished with his plate, the only thing that prevents him from falling forward is his pride and sheer stubbornness.
He isn't sure he actually doesn't fall forward, because suddenly he's hauled to his feet by familiar hands, and then Porthos is steering him towards Athos', suspiciously d'Artagnan-empty bed.
Somehow, there's enough energy left in him to jerk to a halt.
"I will make it an order if I have to," Athos says from behind him, before he can even think to make his mouth work properly. "Just lie down, Aramis."
He wants to protest – really, this isn't necessary at all, he doesn't need to be coddled, and he definitely doesn't have time for this; he can already hear the next Litter pulling up and he knows what it will contain and he can't be here – but his head is a thick and heavy thing on his shoulders, and his eyes throb and itch and feel like they've been scrubbed raw with sandpaper.
Porthos silently eases him down on the cool sheets and Aramis, because he is weak and selfish and so very heavy, lets him. When his head connects with the softness of the pillow, he can't help the small sigh that escapes him. If he had the energy, he would sob in relief, because this must be what heaven feels like.
He narrows his eyes at the bleary images of his friends, and mumbles, "Wake me in five hours."
He's asleep before he can hear the answer.
To be continued...