Phil had always had the unfortunate habit of getting himself into difficult situations. Sometimes they were small ones, easily enough laughed off, like the time when he had somehow woken up in a tree, stranded where the branches were thinnest and he was helpless, and had had the wise idea to jump to the ground, an act which had earned him a broken arm and two months without his phone. Others, others were trickier, less inescapable. These were usually caused by things out of his control, like when he had been the only one without a father at career day, because he didn't have a father, and hadn't had one for many, many years.
Or, like how he had been born exactly eighteen years before the world was torn into chunks and pieces.
He had only been drafted into the army a month after it had all started. The "Big War", they called it. Not the war to end all wars, because that hadn't turned out too well the last time—just the big one. The biggest, with armies equipped with more ammo than morals and nukes the size of clouds. And every man, woman, and/or being with opposable thumbs was going to fight, willingly or not.
It was obvious, from the moment that he started training, Phil was about as good with a gun as his officer's cat would be, but his skill as a nurse was undeniable. In under a year, he had surpassed all other "medies".
It was a twisted accomplishment, essentially earned by saving one person so another could die, but Phil took it in stride. After all, if it meant he ended up in a future history book (if any were to be made), it would well be worth it.
And besides, nursing was about as ideal a position as one would ever get. Protected status had been all but eradicated by the side Phil fought for (i.e., "The Enemy"; "Those goddamn bastards"; "Ee's, as in, "possessors of literally fucking everything", and "Hey, is that—"), but the Central's honored it pretty well. Their own medstaff sucked, and they knew showing Phil even the smallest hint of mercy meant at least a bandage, so it wasn't as though they were about to screw that up. This was probably why Phil had kept the same staff of rookies for almost six months, with only one or two stab wounds at worst.
Still, this was war. Cruel and heated and bloody war, and no amount of protection could ever let Phil forget that. Only an idiot would be able to.
He watched as the junior medies carried his latest patient away, without even a stretcher to lay him on. The man was unconscious, but alive.
No one, ever, who was left in Phil's care died. Not unless they were supposed to.
As more shots rang out to his left, Phil's attention snapped back to the work at hand. There wasn't enough time to ponder; people were dying, and it was up to him to save them.
He dodged past soldiers, waving his medic flag (really a small piece of stained white cloth with a red cross). There were too many wounded to help them all, so, as he always did, Phil fixed his attention to one target.
As Phil ran over, he tripped over a person he hadn't seen laying in his path.
It was a small (though not young) boy in the Central uniform. He had dark hair, nearly the same color Phil had dyed his hair to, that was in need of a trim. On his skin was a slight bit of stubble, the kind someone grows more on accident, when they've been away from a razor for too long. (Phil was lucky enough to have been allowed one.) The boy's eyes were closed, but Phil could find a pulse.
The boy's skin was unnaturally pale, and Phil had only just processed the fact when he saw the blood.
Blood was part of Phil's job. His uniform was stained a morbid pink by the stuff. Yet, seeing it on this innocent looking boy, enemy though he was, soldier though he was, startled him. Shocked and disturbed him. Saddened him.
The boy opened his eyes, which were a soft shade of brown. Familiar and warm, they reminded Phil of his mother and the eyes he had always wished he had inherited instead of his cold blue ones. They seemed to be seeing something other than Phil as he murmured unintelligibly.
"What?" Phil knelt next to the boy, leaning closer so as to hear him properly. "I can't hear you. Speak louder."
"Jack," he said. "Have you seen Jack?"
Phil's blood chilled. He had heard stories of dying soldiers, asking for friends, family, or lovers that they'd never see again. Pining for ones they'd lost, or who were about to lose them. And yet, through all his time in combat, he had never...the thought of this boy's family getting a flag back instead of a son paine him.
Clumsily, he started to pull out supplies from his backpack. He was not about to watch him die.
As Phil applied the cloth to the wound, where he had taken a bullet straight to the stomach, the boy screamed. Phil winced, but continued to work, dabbing on the antibacterial cream and stringing a needle. There wasn't enough time to give the boy a block to chew; it was buried somewhere deep in Phil's bag, and would take too long to find.
Another Central fighter heard the scream and started to run toward them, dropping his gun carelessly on the way. He threw himself next to the boy. "Dean?" He asked, watching the color drain from his comrade's face with ever-growing horror. "Dean!"
"Don't worry," Phil promised, using his teeth to tear some gauze. "I'm going to fix him right up. He'll be fine, I—"
"Don't bother." The other's voice cracked. He pushed a stray hair from Dean's face, seemingly unable to look away from his friend. "It's too late—he's gone."
Phil's hands jumped to Dean's wrist. Feeling nothing, he shook his head. "No. No, that's not right. He can't be—"
"Go." The other's face was cold. "I don't give a damn about status; if you say another word, I will kill you."
"But—"
"I said go!"
Phil stood clumsily, backing away from him.
The other didn't seem to notice his sputtering movements. He kissed Dean's forehead, shaking visibly with rage and grief, grabbing his fallen gun before charging into the battle. He quickly disappeared in the chaos.
Dean's body, abandoned in the trampled grass, was the final push. The last piece of motivation Phil needed.
He grabbed his bag, supplies still wet with Dean's blood and covered in dirt, and ran away from the battle.
He had to get away from here.