(You know what it means by now…)
Disclaimer: I in no way claim ownership to X-Men: Evo, the acolytes, or any Marvel-owned thing.
AN: I know this took way longer than I meant it to. I couldn't find the time to get it typed. Blame school. I'm so sick of it. It's not even because it's hard, it's mindlessly easy, just far too time-consuming... I can't promise for anything toward 14 yet, I've thought of several ways to approach it, but can't decide. Also, I might have some research to do for it, find out how hospitals deal with this kind of thing.
Also, join my Evo RPG! C'mon, you know you want to.
http://pyromane.proboards22.com
Done with that shameless self-advertising, I now direct you, my faithful audience, to the fic…
(Please also note that ff.net is messing with my formatting some too.)
Chapter 13 Blurry(a.k.a. Consumed)
"PIOTR!"
I continue screaming for the Russian every few beats of my run.
Oh god… I don't know what I'm doing… He'll know, he's gotta know. He's the one that deals with these situations, like when I beat the crap out of that bugger…
Now, I'm strongly wishing I hadn't done that. I wish I hadn't acted so immature, like he said. I feel like I drove him out, and then let Mags get so worked up as he was. Admittedly, I'd sat there encouraging it. As much as I hate him for the privacy invasion, I didn't… It isn't worth having him dead over!
"PIOTR!" Another few seconds has passed, so I bark for him again. I'm close now…
Damn, his door is closed!
I start to reach for it, but I'm still a few inches clear when it came full out crashing down. Not just open, but smash-the-hinges, kill the latch… He comes out into the hallway immediately after it, looking almost dazed. He looked at me, confused, for half a second, before suddenly letting out a loud grunt of pain. That trick with the door-- He wasn't metal. The guy really is built like a brick shithouse, I would've smashed my hand doing that(though I think he punched the door then used his shoulder for the smashing), but he's only got bleeding knuckles…
FOCUS!
"What?!" He's back to himself, a concerned, and…angry? look on his face. He's basing it of my white visage.
"Pete, I need your help! Remy's hurt, bleeding… Oh god, there's a fucking streak of it! I dunno what to do, he's…"
I think I've just broken Pietro's record for speed talking. I doubt Piotr understood any of what I just said, but he picked up enough from my expression, tone, and his own fears about what had gone down last night to get the gist of my panicked ramblings.
"Where is he?" He asked, taking a certain charge of the situation. Unlike me, he was keeping a level head, restraining his concern and displeasure about the situation to facial expression.
"By the training room," I say quickly, though I sounded oddly detached. I take back off down the hall in the direction I came. He kept pace with me, but sped up immediately as soon as the Cajun came into view.
He stopped abruptly, kneeling at the unconscious being's side, looking only slightly less nauseous than I had at the sight of blood. His hand immediately went for a pulse. He thinks its that bad too. All my judgments, all my reactions, were based on the thick soaking of blood on everything, through bandage and garment. I'm… I'm afraid to know.
Satisfied with a pulse, Piotr's one hand flashed out, and I just managed to capture the fierce silver projectile that was his cell phone. He didn't wait to see if I'd caught it, even if I registered it coming, for as soon as the phone was gone from his grasp, both arms were scraping the floor. In a flash, he was up again and running, our mortal teammate draped across his arms. He's heading for the garage.
I know as well as him or anyone, we can't call an ambulance here. Gotta keep obscurity, but it means even more risks. For Remy, that is. I don't know, he might not have much time… We have to bring him in ourselves. We're feet from our destination now.
Pushing through the inner door, Piotr nearly tripped over Gambit's motorcycle, it's still parked hurriedly, his helmet on the ground beside it. He'd been rushed coming in yesterday.
The Russian pushed past to the nearest car. I was, for the first time in the run, a step ahead, pulling the door to the back seat open and diving in myself to help get Remy in across it. One door slapped as the driver's opened, then closed just as abruptly as the first. For a moment, I think I should get out of the way, and leaned half forward though the opening over the center console, but decide not to make the jump to front seat. A sudden command from the rational one makes me cringe. I was wasting time.
"Get his leg up…elevated!" I do as told, moving low across the back floor, those whopping inches of legroom now holding all of my being. As I move, I hit in those three crucial digits to the phone to the sound of the engine catching. Now on the driver's side, I shuffle myself and the injured one around as gently as I can. I don't have a coat or anything to add height, like they always seem to in the movies, with the exception of myself. His legs are now across my lap. It's a good thing I'm wearing black pants anyway.
Paranoid, I keep my fingers constantly against his neck, feeling that he's still with us, ignoring the awkward angle of my torso to keep my legs in position. Hah! For once I'm not being paranoid. This is real. I've got a valid reason for my actions. Validity being key, right?
Wow, my attempts at calming myself down are pathetic, aren't they? At least I don't feel so panicked.
"What are you waiting for?!" Piotr's booming voice snapped me out of thoughts. Crap, I haven't been paying attention, we've already cleared the automatic doors, meaning the phone finally has reception. I press 'Send' immediately (already hit the numbers in, remember?) as he pulls off down the main road. It's only just now that I'm thinking,
Does he even know the way?
I look to him in the rearview as I listen to the ringing on the other end. He looks sure enough, determined regardless, so I focus in the phone. One of the operators has picked up.
"911, What's your emergency?" A woman's voice, her tone deep and audibly aged, it sounds so…professional.
"Um, yeah, my friend got hurt really bad. We're, uh, bringing him to the hospital now." I have no clue what to be saying, and to top that off I'm so freaked I can barely breath, so I kept having to stop and swallow air. Forgive all the uhms.
"Sire, you need to calm down a little. It's gonna be all right." Heh, I guess I'm not so…okay…as I thought I was.
"Now, how's your friend injured?"
"His, uh, leg. I haven't seen the actual wound yet, but everything's soaked…" I trailed off, feeling sick to my stomach (again) suddenly.
"Do you know the nature of the injury?"
Ugh.. Ignore the nausea, JohnnyBoy.
I force myself to check. Once again, I have to push his pant leg out of the way, kneeward, revealing his calf. Blood isn't pouring from it or anything, but the only reason is a tight brace of gauze wrapped around it, somewhat hastily by the messy, but functional job. Mags must've decided he didn't feel like losing a crony. It seemed unlikely, though. He had to have been in quite a state of anger to do this in the first place…
"Sir?" I blink again to reality, drawing from my thoughts again to the phone. I want to focus on anything but my hands, unwinding the red covering.
"Sorry, I'm here…"
I continue unwinding the cotton, probably the one thing that had kept him from bleeding to death over night. The more layers I remove, the fresher the blood gets. There's a spot on each side of his leg, parallel, that I can make out as different from the rest. I go no further, instead repressing a gag.
"Sir?"
I've taken too long to respond again.
"I think…" Oh god, it pains me to say it. My stomach's in my throat again, and I almost feel lightheaded. It makes it hard to talk. "Something went through it."
"Okay, I'm on the line with Bayville Medical now. I need to know a name, and is he responsive?"
"John Allerdyce." I'm an idiot. His name not mine. "W-wait! He's Remy LeBeau." I hope to stop her from wasting the type. As for the other question…
"He's breathing, and's got a pulse. Um, I haven't been able to wake him up."
"Okay, John…"
Rather than having continued to expose the wound more, I had begun re-wrapping the wet bandage as I spoke, proving I had some ability to multitask. I make it particularly tight around his above, toward the knee. Vague first aid knowledge came to mind, it was my sad attempts with a tourniquet in mind.
"How long has he been unconscious?"
"I don't know!" I didn't mean to sound temperamental, snap-ping at her like that, but I'm getting really on edge again. It's not a phobia, but I strongly dislike blood, and I've just come to the realization that I'm covered in it. Even my face. I had to reposition the phone from time to time, pinned between my ear and shoulder, to kept it in place. I wasn't thinking about it.
I pause in my handiwork, staring to the car ceiling and taking in deep gulps of air. I gotta heave. Worse even, my skin is crawling. The feeling is unbearable.
Shudder.
"Did you find him like that?"
I nod before registering that gestures didn't help.
"Yeah," I repeat verbally.
Don't think about the blood.
"If it 'elps, I think I might know when it happened."
"What time?"
"Last night. Later, 7ish maybe…" I didn't exactly have a watch on at the time.
She made a 'Hm.' Sound on the other end, and followed it with a flurry or rapid clicks from typing.
"They're ready for you when you get there." A statement.
I mumble a 'thanks' as I prod the Cajun again, still hoping for a reaction. Nothing.
I sigh and moved the phone to my non-compressed left ear, holding it in place with the corresponding hand rather than shoulder.
I wipe my free right hand semi-clean on a dry patch of my pants. Not like it'll show anyway. Reaching again, I feel for his jugular.
Good thing Mags didn't get that…This is a new phase of my shock. A moment of placid acknowledgement, before I go off again into a buzzing numbness to the outside world. My small realization, that he could've already been gone, came and passed, and I felt I began the descent again. He was alive by miracle, but hurt nonetheless. Piotr was hurt too, his hand. I'm the only one that's not, and this is my fault.
I stayed on the line with the woman right until we pulled into the hospital drive. Three medics with a stretched were coming out the doors to meet us before the car was even fully stopped. I had to shift awkwardly and quickly, ducking through the gap and over the center console to the front seat, to get out of the way as they took over.
They pulled him out of the car carefully, again portraying a professionalism that was of some comfort, like the woman.
Piotr had climbed out of the driver's door to help, but even he was far out of his league. He accepted the situation was now out of his hands, into better ones, as he watched from outside what I saw through class: Remy was placed on the stretched, tubes and wires already connecting to him like external veins. He was rolled inside a quick pace, consumed by the automatic doors. Piotr stayed as still as a statue for a long moment, finally getting back into the car beside me. He wears an unreadable expression, and it hurts me to look at it, as it is likely a state akin to mine.
I decide now, I don't want to sit in waiting for him to move the car, I force my way out, wasting not a moment, and tear into the building myself.
To be continued…Special Thanks To:
Personage- The fact that I put 2 and 2 together and realized who you are, it makes sense. A lot of it.
Dragon Master Lytore- He's not so off-on-tangents in this chap, but it still seemed okay. Hm, usually it's her that twitches. ^^Personage^^
Jukebox- It was 4 pages... I have a feeling this made you angry, 'cause it's still untold.
Pyroluver- Thanks. I'm sorry I took so long... And we'll find out over the next couple chapters...
Snitter- Yay! Imagine if I'd tried to make it from Remy's pov anyway. I believe it would go as such: "..."
GELD- Thanks, I swear I still have to bug you about that stuff, but I have to finish this arc and it keeps getting longer...
Alesca Munroe- 1st person is fun. More reason I needed to not give Remy constant accent, because then it would have been in 3rd person anyway. This started out as an experiment, my only real p.o.v piece, and also, it's in present tense. That gets hard some times. Ooh, and I had to work on not all-knowing narrators...
DemonRogue13- Danke.
Cat- I don't mind. My English teacher likes it too.
Dark Angel60- I'm such a sadist when it comes to my characters. Hm, let's see the list of OCs for amusement: MAtt- ran him over with a train. Leo- Burned his arm off with acid. And of course, we can't forget Nigel, I shoved a bottle through his face. Oh, and that mention of Brody and the broken wrist. I even hurt Piotr, but usually I go for the emotional kind for him, which will appear whenever I find the time to get Lament written...
dakr skie- Wow, like me. I neglect those same things to write it! (that, and rpg...)
Dark_English_Rose- Woo, reviewer violence! Fun!
Etwa- I know I still took too long. I sorry, I meant to have this up on Friday the 13th (lucky, huh?), but other events got in the way...
Streetwise Girl- Did, and he laughed. Did we expect anything else from him?
wyndenvir- Thank you very much. Also, your name is neat.