Ominae: If I had the time to make longer chapters, I couldn't update as often, and I really think that it's a bit more interesting this way. Remember, these aren't "chapters", per se. Those are highlighted by the little drop window – although I suppose it'd look a lot better if I bothered to put them in the actual text as well. Oh well.
Cloner4000: Get wha? In other news, Celes has been through the meat grinder. In reality, I probably should have made his condition a lot worse than I have been, resulting in the events of this chapter looking a bit stupid. Oh well.
I just realized I probably should have had Celes introduced as Celestyn, to be more formal, making the contraction to Celes a plot device. Oh well.
I've been saying oh well too much. Oh well. *slap*
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Sprawled onto the folding chair, Celes blearily took in his surroundings.
Her hand twitched uncontrollably. A vein bulged in her eyelid – something he'd never seen before. Her blue-black locks fell lanky to frame a face pinched with stress, accentuated with a pair of dark eyes gleaming with fury. With his forged Gallian jacket dangling an empty sleeve, baring a smooth shoulder to the air, she gave an impression of being both helpless and dangerous at the same time. An artist might have found the tinge of red seeping through the bandage a contrasting effect, but he found it worrisome – that would have to wait, though.
Overall, it was a stunning sight. Unfortunately, it was also the last thing he had wanted to see.
The moment he'd been captured, he knew he was a write-off. An Imperial in the army's custody never came back alive, although they did make a point to send back bloody helmets.
He didn't have a helmet, but whatever got the blood on them was sure enough to happen to him.
There was nothing to do but sell his life as dearly as possible. But in the end, he was a coward – the thought of going down in a hail of gunfire wasn't appealing to him, but disgusting. Besides, with freshly broken - albeit hastily treated - bones in his chest and arm, he could hardly put up a satisfactory fight.
So he had done his best to ensure that his only companion was free of any blame. After all, she had been found with him.
Of course, Isara being Isara, she'd gotten herself dragged into this mess anyways. It was enough to make him grind his forehead in his palm.
It was too bad that bending even that small distance would ignite fires up his spine. Something had definitely broken in the blast.
Mind not entirely present, he pursued the questioning further. "No really, Isara. You could have made this easy, called me an Imp, let these clowns shoot me," and he pointed towards the two officers who looked quite offended at that comment, "and be off back to merry Gallia a day later."
A whistling noise later, he felt his head snap back. In a detached manner, he realized that Isara had snapped – although she had been kind enough to slap the other cheek.
"Who do you think I am?" she shrieked at him. It was almost like a wife scolding a cheating husband – although he wondered just what made him come to that conclusion. "The infamous Darcsen or something?"
He blinked twice before realizing she wasn't talking about Darcsens as a whole, but was instead referring to the original Darcsen of yore – an amazing feat, given his current mental state.
"Well, excuse me, Isara," he drawled. "You were supposed to go, live your life, and forget about me."
"And you were supposed to be caring about your own life, you masochist, you, you…!" She broke off with a barely-suppressed snarl, and raised a hand again; Celes watched it curiously, uncomprehending of its motive.
Before he could find out, though, the Gallian corporal who had picked him up earlier snapped out a hand and caught Isara's arm by the wrist. Even as he let out a quick, "Easy, girl!", she struggled against his grip, which suddenly caught his interest –
Instantly, his mind refocused, and he launched himself out of the chair upright, snapping an arm to her unwounded shoulder and squeezing firmly – hopefully not painfully. "Stop forcing that arm, Isara," he barked at her. "Do you want to bust your stitches and bleed to death?"
He watched the two Gallian officers exchange a meaningful glance before the dark-haired sergeant nodded with finality. Apparently, he'd met some sort of expectation.
Whether it was a good one or a bad one was beyond him.
The Darcsen girl stopped fighting him, and both he and the corporal let go of her limb – she stepped back, sitting onto the cot, still firing a death-gaze at him. He met it calmly, using the moment to swing his bag onto his lap. "Alright," he growled. "Let's get this over with. Go home, Isara. I won't have your death on my conscience."
"Like hell I'll let you get yourself killed," she snarled back.
In other circumstances, the conversation might have been funny, even touchingly sweet. Right now, though, all he could feel was sadness for her. If she clung to him as he went down, she might just get herself killed as well.
He wondered just how the world would remember him. It was a sobering thought.
The blonde couldn't seem to decide who was more suspicious as Celes wormed his hands into his bag, pulling out the case of tools he'd need for the examination.
Wordlessly, Isara swallowed her last complaints and laid herself on the cot. He opened a ragnaid capsule, activated it – creating a local sterile field, eliminating the need for gloves for such a simple examination – unwound the bandaging around her shoulder, and began to look…
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"You're good," he finally let out. She had nothing more than a grunt of discomfort as he threaded the sutures of the incision back together. "You popped a few sutures, bled an insignificant amount, but none of the muscles were damaged, and as far as I can tell without going… invasive," he lamely explained, waving the pick he had been using in lieu of an actual knife, "your heart is just fine."
A last pass of a second ragnaid capsule later, he sterilized the closed incision, dabbed away a small amount of blood, and wrapped a fresh cloth around the wound. She only offered a second wordless grunt, and worked her arm back into its sleeve, arranging herself back into a more dignified sitting position on the edge of the cot.
Whatever doubts the Gallians had to his profession were gone now. Doing their best to make small talk during the procedure – hitting subjects as interesting as the weather and the local geography, which was to say not very – he'd picked up their names and ranks, along with some of their personality.
He wondered just how incompetent the Gallian brass were. Certainly, they were nothing like Jaeger, and not even close to Selvaria, holy Valkyria that she was.
Halsey let out a low whistle. "I'll say this now, Celes, you are most certainly a doctor," he admitted.
Worrick only grunted. "Makes me wonder what a non-combatant is doing so close to combat."
Celes jumped on that fact, eager to correct this particular misunderstanding. "I got drafted –"
Halsey blinked. "You're actually a solider?"
"… yeah, a trooper. I don't have a certification yet –"
"Really?" The sergeant tilted his head curiously. "Surely they'd find an education such as yours more important than war. You look like you'd have gotten it a while ago."
"I'm only seventeen, but thanks for the compliment." He had the satisfaction of watching their expressions shatter with disbelief. "Yes, the white hair's natural, and yes, we Imperials have mentally handicapped superiors as well," he answered preemptively.
Looking as though they were going to crack up any moment, the two officers turned as one to eye Isara, seeking confirmation. She nodded, before offering, "Hey, I'm only sixteen myself."
Well, that was a nice addition to an already awkward situation.
They only gaped at her as well, before Worrick awkwardly shifted back. "They take them too young these days," he complained. Celes saw the loaded glance towards his covered eye, saw that Halsey picked up on it and blinked twice, a sort of subtle talk only done by close friends, although he wasn't sure whether that was a good thing or a bad thing for him.
"You just turned twenty-five a week ago, you know," Halsey jibed shakily.
"Quiet, you old geezer," Worrick snarked back in response. I'm counting every single one of your own seventy s-"
Halsey swung a hand at Worrick, who handily dodged the clumsy move. It was all a show in the end, though, as they shuffled back towards their technical prisoners, attempting to assert some sort of authority.
Somehow, Celes felt that they'd won a kind of victory against them. What it was, though, was beyond him… like pretty much everything else in his situation.
The officers glanced at each other significantly – Worrick nodded, taking the lead. "Celes, you'll be returning to your cell now. We'll discuss your situation tomorrow. If you're lucky," he added dramatically, "we might let you live."
Perhaps they were serious, then. "Maybe," he said tentatively, packing away the last of his tools. "I suppose you don't get many of us –"
He cut off as he tried to stand, every one of his injured muscles suddenly twisting itself into knots, his recent fractures stealing all clarity of thought from him. Letting out a strangled groan that was simultaneously a cry of agony, he watched the wooden floor come closer and closer…
His last thought was that the floor was considerably softer than he had expected wood to be.
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A bit of Celes, just for a change of pace. Next up: some drastic events that rapidly change Celes's outlook on life… although in what way is yet to be revealed. :3
