Note: Hey, peeps! Turtle! Wassap, girl? How 'ya been? Busy, I expect. Hi, Ala! Thanks for stopping by. Lookin' sharp, Kat. SilverKnight, your stuff is awesome. Hope you enjoy this. On with the story :-D
2. Out of the Frying Pan
"Hey, Azro! Over here!" a bundled-up soldier shouted. He was kneeling next to the wooden barricade, digging in the snow.
His friend, a burly warrior in cast-iron armor, stopped muttering about patrolling the perimeter in a blizzard. He came over with a torch and shone it on what his friend was unearthing – an unconscious, limp soldier who'd collapsed just shy of the fortress gate.
"By the Hand of Aku!" Azro exclaimed as the uniform emerged. "He's from Troop 49! Last we heard they'd been attacked in the mountains! Quick Fwee, get him inside!"
Fwee picked the body up. Azro shone the torch closer, illuminating the straight planes of Jack's helmet. The soldiers hurried through the snow and the wind, Azro with the torch and Fwee with the burden. Their cold legs cracked as they ran through the large gate. They skidded to a halt in the entryway of the lodge. Heat from a roaring fire hit their faces and they were bathed in light.
"Raise the alarm!" Azro hollered, puffing his way inside. "Call a healer! Call a nurse! We have wounded! HURRY!"
Everyone in front of the fire scattered. Fwee set Jack down on a furry rug, then left with Azro as two figures appeared. One was a haggard-looking cat woman, with great green eyes and fur as violently purple as her clothes were drab. The nurse. The other was a gray cloak that seemed to glide along. The healer.
They both went over to Jack, the cat woman leading the cloak by the arm, and knelt by him on the rug. The cat woman began to strip him. As she unclasped the torn armor on the sides of the torso and lifted it off, she gasped. His chest was a bloody, scratched mess. By the time she'd gotten him down to his rather curious underwear, his wounds were spilling over onto the rug.
"Crap," she said, seeing all the blood. "He's beyond feeling, Seven. Go."
The gray cloak snapped into action. A hand, surrounded by a powerful blue aura, bloomed from the cloak, and pressed down on Jack's chest. The cat woman alternately held down his legs and arms, depending on which was flopping at the time. A cloth was thrown over the patient's face, and a good thing, too. Although he was supposedly beyond feeling, his silence was only throat constriction. His face curled into a silent scream as he arched his back in pain.
The wounds were very serious. There was no time for anesthetic – or mercy.
Finally after what seemed like hours the light went away. The skin on his chest was an angry red, but it was whole again. The cloak began to shift in different directions as Seven scanned Jack's body, searching for other injuries. The cat woman braved a look under the cloth. The man's face had relaxed somewhat, but his breathing was shallow and sweat was popping out in beads on his forehead.
Seven stopped at Jack's left hip, feeling an unnatural bump there.
"Found something?" the cat woman asked.
"He dislocated his hip. Popped his leg clear out of the joint," Seven growled, in a voice that was gruff and vaguely female, and stood up. "Help me, Ari. Lay a hand across his belly and hold him still."
Ari did as she was asked. "Ready," she said.
Seven responded by picking up Jack's leg. Jack gasped. The agony jerked him to consciousness for a few seconds. He stared at Seven, and then at Ari.
"He's awake," the nurse said.
"Not for long!" was the reply. The healer yanked Jack's leg straight up into the air. There was a loud crack and an explosion of pain.
He passed out.
Chirping. There were birds chirping outside the window. He opened his dark eyes and blinked in the weak light of just-past-dawn. He blinked again. As his vision slipped into focus, so did his situation.
In the first place he was perfectly comfortable. He lay on his back on a soft, heated mattress, propped up slightly by pillows, with warm blankets coming up under his arms. A large pillow had been stuffed under his knees. He fingered his clothes (loose, soft pajamas), wiggled his toes in his socks, and lifted the top covers to discover that he'd been wrapped quite snugly in blankets from chest to foot. His hair even felt light; someone had washed it. Nestling himself a little, he realized that he was warm, clean, dry, and (he assumed) safe. Since arriving in this miserable world, he could count the times he'd been four for four on one hand.
But he wasn't in any pain, which confused him. He distinctly recalled collapsing by the wall. The snow. Death's fingers around his throat. Blood. So much blood. The fire. That horrible crack. He felt under the covers and touched his hip. It was a little sore. But … the cat woman. The cloak. If they were real and not some fever dream, then they had helped him. He would have to thank both of them promptly. Maybe they were still around.
"Hello?" he called out. "Hello!"
He heard footsteps and Ari appeared in the doorway. The cat woman was indeed real. Jack couldn't help but stare.
She snapped a salute with a furry, purple paw. "Ari of unit 3 at your service, sir."
Jack corralled enough brain cells to salute back, albeit with the wrong hand. Ari came and sat down at his side with a friendly smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"So soldier, how are you feeling?"
"Uh, much … better, thank you," he said. It was the truth, although why she called him 'soldier,' he had no idea.
"Excellent," she said, her tone bright and false. "I'm glad I didn't have to wake you. I actually have to ask you some questions. It's a memory test."
"Very well. Proceed."
"Okay. Name?"
He looked away, unsure. Only the first question and he was already at a loss. Something in his gut told him that 'Jack' was the last thing this creature wanted to hear. He shook his head and muttered, "I don't know."
Most of the other questions got the same response. Beyond "What day is it?" and "Where are you?" (to which he replied, "I think it is Wednesday, January 8th," and "In bed") he was apparently without a clue.
He flunked the test. Spectacularly.
"Perhaps you could refresh my memory," he suggested. "Will you tell me what you know of me?"
"Of course. Temporary amnesia after prolonged exposure and injury is quite common, sir. Don't feel bad. Your name is Kit Renakalli. You're a foot soldier, an Ipshen, in her majesty's army. You belong to Troop 49."
Jack blinked at her in disbelief, but she was looking at her smooth claws. By the time she looked up again he'd softened his glance. She went on.
"We got your name off your uniform. Anyway, your troop set out from the main camp, near her majesty's palace at Gunzai. They had a mission to cross the White Mountains and conquer those lands beyond them. But the last transmission we received was that your troop was caught in a blizzard not far from here and that they were under attack."
"I remember the attack," he said quietly.
"I'm sure you do, sweetheart. Anyway, you're in the infirmary of the Tarrenko military base. And at this point, Kit…" Ari mechanically took his smooth hand in one of her furry paws. "It looks like you are the sole survivor of this tragedy. I'm so sorry."
With her 'weary yet sympathetic' face firmly on, she thought that she'd performed her bit rather well. She was waiting for a reaction of some kind: a memory jolt, or even shock or tears. But her patient just looked utterly blank.
"How long was I asleep?" he asked.
"J-Just one night," she said, surprised by his abrupt subject change.
"And who tended to me?"
"Well, Number Seven healed you, and I cleaned you up and put you to bed."
"Domo arigato. I am grateful for your care," he said with a smile.
There was something different about this soldier. She returned his smile with one of her own. A gentle smile. Genuine.
"And I am sorry your troops were lost," he said.
Her smile faded immediately. "My troops?"
Ari's heart sank. It was all clear, now. The man before her was handsome, polite, articulate and grateful. Forget Troop 49 – he didn't belong to any troop in this accursed empire.
This man was a stranger. And if he turned out to be an enemy, she'd be blamed for helping him. She'd go to The Wall. She'd be damned before she went to The Wall.
"Sorry, sir…"
The slim knife was out of her blouse pocket, in her paw, and at his throat before he could react. She laid her other paw on his chest to keep him still and glared at him.
"… But you just blew your cover. Now explain yourself. Who are you, and how in the hell did you end up in Kit Renakalli's battle armor?"
Jack gulped.
TBC
Translation:
Domo arigato – Thank you very much