ᴘᴀɴᴅʟᴇ & ᴋɪᴊᴀɴɪ ᴡᴡɪɪ

[Pandle]

Yᴏᴜ ʜᴀᴠᴇ ᴇɴᴇᴍɪᴇs? Gᴏᴏᴅ. Tʜᴀᴛ ᴍᴇᴀɴs ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ sᴛᴏᴏᴅ ᴜᴘ ғᴏʀ sᴏᴍᴇᴛʜɪɴɢ, sᴏᴍᴇᴛɪᴍᴇ ɪɴ ʏᴏᴜʀ ʟɪғᴇ.

"We shall defend our island, whatever the cost may be, we shall fight on the beaches, we shall fight on the landing grounds, we shall fight in the fields and in the streets, we shall fight in the hills; we shall never surrender." -Winston Churchill

Germany is led by Hitler, ruthless the troops advance through France in an attempt to dominate Europe, there is fighting in Africa and Asia, even America is affected. The time has come to rally together, this is 1941, the war is in its third year, there are no signs of it halting in the trenches or at home.

This is our world. This is our war.

[Pandle]

"My name is Janet Ruby Wilson, I have most people call me Ruby but i'm just as fond of Janet -i've just never met anyone capable of holding interest to it. And besides, Ruby sounds so much more precious, men like to think me as valuable."

"A little rude to ask a lady her age -the army asked the same question and i'll tell you what I jolly well told them. Twenty four

"Oh now there is no doubting my gender you fool!"

"I'm a widow, as it happens. And our prime minister declared all the widowed women able to work in the war effort when it began in 1939, i've spent the last three years in training, soon I will go to Germany to infiltrate and report. It's dangerous but there's no one here for me anymore, no one for me to come back to.
Previous to my training in spying I was a nurse, a midwife to be exact, i've done my part in assisting the wounded troops brought back from the main land, no doubt i'll see more bloodshed in Germany."

x x x

[Airmid]

X X X

Name: "My Christian name is Haines, Haines Harley...one can't derive any particularly interesting pet names from that really"

Gender: "I do hope it is obvious that I am male"

Age: "I'm aged twenty-five as of last month"

Nationality: "Born and bred is good 'ol Blighty, I fight for Queen and Country and I'll jolly well die for Queen and Country"

Rank: "Through pain and suffering, and a little of fathers' money, I have managed to climb the ranks to Lieutenant, I'm waiting for my promotion to Captain any day now, gosh the boys will be jealous. I was originally stationed in the air force and so am able to fly those beasts when needed, unfortunately during a little confrontation some shrapnel blinded me in my left eye, leaving me useless in the RAF... No matter-! The lads down the trenches are good enough folk"

((This is so tiny omg...I promise you, I can write so much more xD))

[Airmid]

Haines

The loud and obnoxious sound of gunfire ripping through the tranquil air seemed to electrocute the twenty-five-year-old lieutenant from his previously peaceful slumber. Cracking open his brown eyes, the man blinked a few times in order to adjust his eyes to the dim light surrounding him. Slowly, Haines brought a hand up to rub his blinded left eye excessively in order to relieve the permanent itch that had made itself at home in his head since the accident. Like usual it didn't work. With the same hand, the man ran his fingers through his hair, dirty and slick form days without washing. Please don't let him run in...please the lieutenant thought internally, however was sorely let down. "Lieutenant Harley, Lieutenant Harley-!" Came the high pitched and un-broken voice of Timothy, the private come servant, wailed through the low door to Haines right. Said lieutenant sat up before waiting expectantly for the sixteen-year-old to dash in. Of course the boy did. "They're shooting at us again, Sir!" He cried, sweat pouring down his face, spreading the mud further down his jaw in crusty lines.

Internally, Haines rolled his eye. Are they really... he questioned dryly in his head, before plastering a supportive smile over his face. "Well-" He began, his strong southern accent, sounding as if he had said 'Wull' rather than well; "Go show those ruffians how us limey's perform!" He grinned, jerking his head in the direction of the fire. "Sir!" Timothy squeaked before exiting, not without tripping over his un-done laces. Haines' smile immediately dropped off his face, before he forced himself to stand, stretching and clicking his back in the process. It was already fairly humid and stuffy in the cramped sleeping quarters for the lieutenants, so the man didn't bother putting a shirt on, instead pushing his sweaty arms through his long coat. It itched in places, but Haines loved it almost as much as his mother and father. Scratching his ribs, Haines looked around at the other sleeping bodies curled up in their respective beds. Haines raised an eye and snorted.

Ducking down, the lieutenant left the cramped room into the refreshing outdoors and breathing in deeply. Marvellous, the smell of gun powder and faeces was so refreshing for one to wake up to. Tilting his head to the side, the man listened to the gun-fire. 1, 2, 3... 4, 5, 6, 7, 8...9. And silence. The entire trench seemed to pause in order to listen for anymore gunfire, but there was none. Everything was silent once more. That is until "TIMOTHY-!" Haines called obnoxiously, to which the young boy cam running. "Sir?" He questioned, ready for anything. Haines looked the boy in the eye seriously "Go get me some tea..." He ordered, waving his hand dismissively in the boys direction. Timothy, used to that kind of treatment, nodded sharply before scrambling away to complete Haines order.

[Pandle]

ᴊᴀɴᴇᴛ ʀᴜʙʏ ᴡɪʟsᴏɴ

A haze of Turkish smoke curled in the confines of the government office. It climbed, as if hopeful of an escape, before realising the futility of its venture and sprawling outward, cloaking its smoker is a smear of ash pearl. Piercing through the screen came two dull brown buttons, blinking lazily as if it were a chore, the elongated muscle tapping the cigar to plop a bundle of burnt debris in the awaiting ash tray. A gramophone record spun sadly on the desk between them, the golden horn unpolished and unloved. Janet was bluntly aware of the effort her host had gone to for a last attempt of entertaining.
"We'll meet again," says he who can hardly see Janet through the smoke of his richly imported cigar, he who cannot see the woman before him now let alone later. "Oh Ruby won't you change your mind? It is not a place for women to go, if it's money you want i've told you before-"
"No, thank you Sir, I will not accept your proposal nor change my mind." The coolness of her reply stunned him and he rose slowly to his feet, shakily rose his whiskey glass to take a deep swig, replacing it equally as shakily, turned coldly away from Janet.
"I love you Ruby, do you know what this is like? I love you? Do you love me? Do you?" Curving the lip of the mahogany desk that has been past on so many generations it had lost its value and elegance and was hardly strong enough now to hold the brass music player let alone a troubled man's workload.
"I understand,"
"But you don't love me. Ruby. What did I do wrong?"
"You gave your heart to the wrong woman Matthew. Please, excuse me, I will be late. Goodbye Matthew." The muffled strangle of her red heels on his carpet punched into the forefront of Matthew's mind as he collapsed into his chair, his face crumbling at the retreating back of Janet Ruby Wilson.

A lover? No, she didn't have one. Carefully masking her face to a pleasant smile Janet inclined thus to the questioning man and held his hand in her lap. The air was heavy with the colon of gunpowder, upturned soil and decaying corpses but most prominent was the weeping infection on the soldier's neck. The exposed white of bone was slick with glossy scarlet blood, crusts forming at the edges where mounds had dried beneath layers of still flowing blood. He struggled, his lips quivering with the anticipation of words, his jaw clenching in agony and desperation, his eyed pleading for release. Janet swept a soft finger over the bridge of his nose.
"I did once, he would take me to dances in London, I would dance all night in his arms," she clenched his hand tightly as it slipped in her grasp, the life ebbing from his limbs, his body stilling as the fight began the flee.
There was hardly a point in telling him. It would only make Janet cry, she could feel the pinpricks of sorrow building in her eyes already, the moisture collecting like an eager child at the faint notion of freedom. The thought of children inspired more tears and the first brave bead trundled down her face.
On the hospital bed private Ryan managed a ghost of a smile. Her tear was the first human emotion he has seen since his deployment, the last. As the tear rambled over the honey skin and leapt boldly off her chin onto the soldier's filthy uniform his body stilled completely and his face turned away.
No point in telling him at all.
"We would dance until sunrise then he would carry me home in his arms," Janet pressed the dead man's eyelids shut and rose from the chair beside his bedside. She had been too absorbed in the dying man to notice the shellfire and scream of guns, the continual distortion of silence and sound was something Janet hardly noticed anymore, just the shadows of people left by the war.
The underground shelter was dim and long, the bed posts packed so tightly that climbing out of one landed you in another. An endless stream of women in nurse uniforms came and went from the entrance, rarely did a man leave on his own legs. Another body was being carried out as Janet watched. She would carry the corpse of private Ryan, she would abandon him in the open grave and hope to God that none would arrive on deaths door while she was occupied for an hour.
This was the last aspect of her training. Nursing on the front line.

[Airmid]

Haines

The lieutenant placed a hand on his waist, massaging his lower ribs a few times, before bringing his other hand up to his mouth, before drinking deeply from the mud and blood-stained cup that he was holding. Not a second after the lukewarm tea touched his dried lips, did his face scrunch up in disgust. He had unfortunately automatically swallowed the drink, but managed to throw the cup at the trench wall out of instinct. The lieutenant doubled over and spat as much of his saliva onto the squelching floor. Damn, sour milk. Had Timothy not bothered to check weather the milk was in date before he made that tea. Before the man had any time to yell at the young boy, the contents of his stomach came flowing from his mouth, happily enough, the rest of the tea was within that mess. Haines rested his forehead against the trench as he retched a few times in order to make sure everything was out of his system. For a moment, he closed his eyes and just hated life. Throwing up would do that to a man. Especially one in the 'dreaded' trenches. They really were not all that bad, if one opened his eyes enough. There was a strong sense of community within the men, something which one did not really feel back at the Air Force base. Back then it had been; every man for himself. But everyone looked out for each other here and any loss was always mourned in some way or another. However lately, the losses were becoming greater and Haines was having to mourn the loss of more and more of his friends. Not that he really took the time to dwell on these things. Life in the field moved too fast to stop and mourn too much. However the lieutenants roster was beginning to thin, and fast.

The sensation of a rough smack of a hand on his shoulder jolted the lieutenant out of his temporary daze, however the young man didn't bother to turn around. "Charles..." Haines greeted presently enough, to which he received the sound of booming laughter. Charles was a huge bloke standing at six ft five. Unfortunately, he had an ego to match and a personality that even The Buddha would lose patience with. The two had been friends for a while, both in the same rugby team during their schooling years, however had been separated when they both joined different sections of the army. Although, the two had been reunited when Haines had been forced to switch 'factions' as it were. "What happened to you, chum?" Charles questioned in amusement, his sapphire eyes sliding from Haines doubled over body to the shattered tea mug on the floor. "Bad milk in my tea..." Haines grunted, before standing up straight and turning to face the much larger man in the eye. "It's not something a little fresh air can't fix" Haines finished dismissively, before turning to walk away, not without giving the mandatory salute to which Charles did not mirror, instead choosing to follow the slow and sluggish form of his colleague and continue their conversation. "You know Harley-" He began, using Haines last name, something which irritated the lieutenant greatly. "You have been down the trenches a while, I think general Taylor is thinking of giving you some holiday time" The large man grinned. Haines stopped for a moment. Holiday time sounded nice, perhaps he would find a woman and have 'something to fight for' as the married or engaged men around him would say.

Haines opened his mouth in order to reply, however was cut short when Timothy appeared, the portable telephone come walkie talkie strapped to his back. "It's general Taylor, sir" The young man informed, before turning round and presenting to gargantuan device to Haines. For a second, the lieutenant wanted to strangle and scream at the boy for feeding him, sour milk, however decided to punish the fool later. For now, he needed to have a chat. Gingerly, picking up the receiver, Haines placed the device to his ear;

"Yes, hello sir!... No I can hear you fine, how about on your end? Ah, Good. No, everything is fine here! We had a few Germans firing at us this morning, however we showed them who's boss....Yes. Right. Oh, really? How about Daniel and Darcy? Won't be long and they shall be smarter than the teachers sir! Yes sir. Bits and pieces sir, bits and pieces...Okay, sir....Really? Are you sure it was him? But any man could have stolen his- Sir, I- But I... Of course sir, It would be nice to see him a last time...Okay General, have a good day.."

Haines placed the receiver back down, his eyes staring into the distance blankly. Why had he thought he was going to get some holiday time? Instead he had to make his way back to the front line medi-centre. Ryan. His good friend Ryan was, was dead. Those words did not seem like they belonged together. The man had always been so full of life, and to think of him now...a shell of the man he once knew. As if his body could not support his weight any longer, Haines reached out with one arm to support himself on the muddy wall. Charles was the only one left from his rugby team now... Why was everyone dying?

[Pandle]

ᴊᴀɴᴇᴛ ʀᴜʙʏ ᴡɪʟsᴏɴ

He could have had any number of lives, he could have been a father, a brother, a lover, he could have been a friend or an enemy or a nobody, but he was dead now and his corpse would have to be washed and buried without service, without an audience to remember. This was a war. Time didn't stop, it waited for no man and death was not discriminate, not like the Nazi's.
"Tilly," Janet found herself calling for the younger nurse, the grim faced woman who was hardly eighteen years of age and had already been the hands of farewell, the face of doom, the last human touch. She had the face of a sour cow and a personality to match, she was poorly trained in medical care and as enthusiastic as a Jew. "I'd like you to prepare the private for washing,"
"I don't want to wash them anymore, they're filthy and stinky and covered in fleas,"
"Tilly!" Tossing her aghast face from side to side Janet brought a stern hand against the younger girl's cheek. "Never speak of these men in that way! They give their lives for you! And you'll do as I say, I'll be washing him."

...

With ginger hands Janet fished the old sponge from the bucket, ignorant of the icy cuticles of water that splashed at her fingers. Ryan's body lay in rigor mortis on an upturned bed, the bare metal poles tattooing his naked flesh. With an air of experience and remorse she brought the cloth to his flesh and worked the grime from between his fibres. He had a birthmark on his inner right thigh and a wedding ring. Janet noticed both with air of indifference.
She'd seen it before. The dark triangle of hair, the matted wound still weeping blood and pus, the rotting flesh, the flea bites, the red scratch marks. Janet had seen it all before. She looked without seeing as she moved her hands rhythmically over the body, cleaning with a firm but gentle hand, circular movements to work lose the mud and filth whilst never damaging the body itself. It was a useless act, rats would gnaw through his exposed flesh the moment she took him outside, the hollow mud grave would burrow into his newly washed body.
"Dance. We would dance all night private as if our very lives depended on it." The gunfire was on pause and a lost bird sung boldly over the silence, its wavering song christening the bruised air. The chill of the countryside in war was always throbbing, Janet knew she could never grow accustomed it. She would be relieved when Christmas came and her post here was over, thankful to sneak over the border into the hands of the German's where she could play them as she had been taught.
This, this body scrubbing was her past. She had spent thirteen years bringing life into the world, sometimes she would bring death in, sometimes the life would be too short. Janet knew her way around a woman's body and how to give life. How to deal death. She had known before. Known as it happened. Felt the shallow emptiness of the aftermath.

Always knowing. Her heart twisted and mid-air her hand froze, pained in remembrance.

[Airmid]

Haines

The twenty-five-year-old man managed to find one clean shirt, in the tangled mess of all his other clothing. Even after a few minutes of scrubbing, the blood and mud stains refused to come out of the shirt, causing Haines to curse multiple times in annoyance. He at least wanted to be presentable when he saw Ryan. The man had always scolded Haines when he was not dressed correctly. Pulling the slightly tight shirt over his arms and body, followed by his coat, Haines rooted through his possessions to find the essentials needed for the small-ish journey. It would take about an hour by foot in order to get to the particular medical centre. Haines had not been to that particular one before. Infact, he had only ever needed to go to a medi-centre for himself once, and that was after he had been blinded. The lieutenant had hated the heady stink of cleaning product, the sense of death and the over worked women living there. It had...stressed him out. Stressed being a pansy word for completely and utterly panicked him. It was almost ironic that; the only time Haines had genuinely feared for his life had been in a place where lives are saved. Ironic in a twisted masochistic type of way.

Finally, after rummaging through piles of nonsense, Haines found the relevant papers that would let the man out of his particular line and into the centre. Haines eyed his jab certificates with a raised eyebrow. He was due for a Typhoid booster shot. Perhaps the girls there would quickly give him one before he left. How convenient. Haines managed to turn up the corners of his lips in a slight smile before beginning to stuff the papers in his pockets. Everything was going better than expected. Of course that was not about to last long... The walls surrounding the lieutenant shook violently, pieces of stone being dislodged from their spots, along with the lantern providing the dim light source being shaken from the rickety table. Haines froze, eyes staring straight ahead as his breathing began to speed up. Seconds that dragged on for hours seemed to pass before they were interrupted by the loudest noise Haines has ever heard. The boom from the German bomb exploded through his head, causing the man to drop to his knees in order to protect his ears.

Shakily, he scrambled to his feet, reaching out and grabbing the MK2 from under his bed, already fully loaded and cleaned, before readying it for firing. With difficulty, Haines was able to leave the confines of his barracks, before being thrust into the fast-moving traffic of soldiers running from or towards whatever was attacking the group. "Charles!" Screamed Haines, as he spotted the large man, curled up in a corner and holding his face, whilst writhing in agony. Haines rushed over to the man, shaking his shoulders, before backing away in terror. "Mustard gas..." He whispered, eyes wide as his friends skin was peeling from his bones. He was about to lose the last member of the '33 rugby county champions and there was nothing he could do about it. Gripping his gun, Haines' eyes narrowed, however had to look up in fear when the sound of gun-fire began to draw closer and closer from the other side. The lieutenant knew his duty. Without hesitation, the young man found the nearest rope ladder and climbed up halfway, enough to see over. There weren't too many Germans actually attacking, and the lieutenant knew that Blighty would be likely to win this little scuffle, however that would only happen if back-up arrived.

Resting the gun on his shoulder, Haines took aim and just fired. Only a few of the bullets managed to hit their mark, downing soldiers and in some cases killing them. The lieutenant was in such a state by now that he was unable to think straight and aim as he had been taught in the academy. More and more soldiers were mimicking the lieutenant and began to find their own ladders and begin shooting, and soon enough the gun fire from the opposite side began to die down. Haines was running out of bullets quickly and needed to be sparing with them, he needed a clear head. Stopping for a moment in order to take a breath, the soldier couldn't help but turn to his left and look at his friend. Charles was still writhing on the floor in agony, clutching his face as the gas did it's work. Haines could not help but watch his last remaining true friend in such torture for a moment. This was a mistake. The sudden and desperate last gun-fire from the Germans was unfortunately aimed in his direction, one lucky bullet in particular finding it's mark. Right on his collar bone.

The impact sent him flying backwards into the opposite wall, and Haines' first instinct was to cry out in pain before putting as much pressure on the wound as possible. However, he was losing an awful lot of blood in a small amount of time. Meaning in a matter of seconds, the lieutenant blacked out from pain and blood-loss. The last thing he would remember form that moment, was rough hands dragging his limp body away, before being lifted onto a stretcher and away from his barracks...

((DAYMN IT'S LONG))

[Pandle]

ᴊᴀɴᴇᴛ ʀᴜʙʏ ᴡɪʟsᴏɴ

The sound of thirty six pines, side by side, surrounding the garden and swaying all night like individual hymns is the sound of water, which is the oldest sound, the one we first forgot.

Private Ryan is turned first onto his face exposing the soft flesh of his back and buttocks, mottled purple and green as if with bruises where blood has pooled in the hours after death. In places where the skin has begun to spoil blisters form as pale pouches of fluid, some break making the skin moist with with liquid that weeps like sweat. Taking rags and sponges, water and vinegar hands move mindlessly over the flesh, the stink of vinegar mingling with the darker scents that cover him.The movement of hands is economical but not without tenderness as they wipe and wring.
Once the back and legs are done the private is turned over and worked from feet to groin, groin to chest, arms and hands coming lastly to the face where a new sponge is taken to clean. Janet, with hands knowing of the bones and ridges, the hollow pits of the eyes caught open in their stillness

The washing done fresh water is drawn from the pump, soap fetched, a razor too. New work begins. Cold water still, cold for the cold, the skin is pulled taught and the razor taken to erase wet clumps of hair, exposing the knobbled dome of the skull; then the chest and armpits, then finally the cold instruments of his sex, the blade of the razor rasping across his skin.
A nick made but no blood comes, the wound is cold and empty.
It is the work of silence.
Numbed hands, chilled by the tight grip of death on the body, Janet beckons in the stillness of the makeshift morgue for assistance and delicately they move the cleansed corpse from bed to bed, intentions to hold him for a week, permit visitors who are unlikely ever to know of their comrades demise, to visit before he is buried beneath litres of earth that will never be marked, never be known.

The sound of rain outlives us.

He is laid to rest on a bed, the last bed, the next will not be so lucky; it'll fester on the dampness of the stone slabs in the underground bunker morgue. He will lie unattended for a week then be tossed and forgotten as time declares mourning a period left for later.
"The sun is pleasant in the summer here," comes a voice to Janet who stands caught between the world of the dead and the world of the living, her duty to the struggling, her mind caught with the losers. "The winter is dreadfully cold."
"I suspect it is," agrees the woman who is a widow and a lady, a secret keeper, a secret herself.
"Are you alright Ruby? You look dreadful,"
"The German planes are coming."

They are still to observe the thunderous rattle of the monsters fly above them toward England, toward Queen and country. There is the whistle cracker of bombs far away, the sound of giants shaking out a wet sheet, the burst of fire in the cloudless sky. The returning hum of the planes not headed to Blighty, just to wound the supporting troops.
"Prepare dressings, men will be wounded, I want the beds ready and water fetched at once, make sure the dead are in the morgue, we can deal with them after the wounded are tended, have the candles ready and blades heated for amputees." Janet hands orders as if they are complements.

...

In their sacks they ride as if in their mother's womb; knee to chest, head pressed down, as if to die is merely to return to the flesh from which we were born, and this is the second conception. A rope behind the knee to hold them thus, another to bind their arms, then the mouth of the sac closed about and bound again, compact, easily disguised. A knife then to the cut the rope which binds the sac, and, one lifting another pulling, they deliver the content, slipping them forth onto the table's surface, naked and cold, as a calf or child stillborn slides from its mother. The knife again to cut the rope that binds the body to itself, the sack and rope retained for use again, for use with the scraps and shreds.
The together they take hold and pull, forcing the bodies straight once more. Although their limbs do not loll neither are they stiff, their rigor already broken by the graveside as they were bent and bound for sacking. Instead they shift beneath Janet's grasp, moving with the peculiar malleability of a corpse caught midway between death and putrefaction. It is an ugly task, yet what ugliness it has lies not in the proximity of death but the intimacy it demands, the closeness with the flesh and substance of their bodies.

The sound of washing is the sound of sighing.

[Airmid]

Haines

He was...He was flying again. Strands of wispy clouds like stings of pure beauty passed him by, as he unconsciously smiled. Adrenaline pumped through his veins, as a long drawn out laugh exited his lungs. He felt a presence behind him, which leaned forwards to pat his shoulder as the muffled laughter seemed to become louder and louder. Haines rested a hand on his friends, grabbing it roughly and lifting it in victory. Almost in slow-motion, the man turned to his side, his face still split into a wide and comfortable smile. Another five spitfires were to his left, each with their own duo of men, all laughing and raising their fists in victory. To his right another five planes with pilots were doing the same. The term 'Paradise' could not seem more appropriate to the lieutenant. From the corner of his eye, a brilliant but warm glow of orange caught his attention, causing Haines to turn to observe the beauty of the setting sun. The man mouthed the word 'wow' as the words did not seem able to form in his mouth and spill from his lips. Haines could stay in the sky for an eternity, lost with his companions in this land of superbea, finding this sunset. Still grinning widely, Haines blinked. The blink lasted for hours, days maybe, as time slowed down to an agonisingly slow pace. The moment his eyes shut, time sped back up again and Haines was not met with his Heaven, but met with his Hell.

The 'warm glow' of the setting sun, was now infact hundreds of planes on fire, falling from the sky with their respective pilots trapped inside doomed to an eternity of burning and falling. Haines' eyes widened as he turned his head to the side to scream at the rest of his fleet to fall back, however all the planes surrounding him were on fire too. He could see the faces of his friends, as they burned and choked within the claustrophobic confines of their planes. The pilot was suddenly met with a liquid sensation running down his hand, each new wave becoming more gloopy and sticky than the rest. To his horror, Haines realised that this was blood, blood from his co-pilot who was now screaming in agony and clutching Haines' shoulder painfully. Said man turned in his seat, only to be met with the immense blood-stained face of Dan, his old co-pilot, now clutching the back of his head that was spurting blood in random directions. This time Haines was able to make a noise. All he could do was scream. Scream as he watched his friends burn. Scream as he was becoming more and more soaked in blood, and scream as his plane was shot out of the sky.

Haines eyes shot open with a start, adrenaline rushing through his body and causing the man to sharply sit up in his bed. However, before he had time to say anything, about three pairs of strong and rough hands forced him back into place. The lieutenants first reaction was to struggle against the much more powerful grips, however was soon able to think enough in order to see. Panting heavily, Haines looked up into the stressed and dark-circled eyes of a nurse, who was wrapping something around his neck. Haines lifted a hand to feel what she was doing, however was immediately slapped away, by a younger woman to the side. The lieutenant did however manage to touch the wound, before looking at his blood covered hand. The sight of his own blood, caused his heart rate to increase rapidly as fear coursed through his veins. "M- M..." He tried, his voice croaky with phlegm and saliva, before stopping to cough up a few spots of blood. The younger nurse wiped his mouth, before pressing a cold flannel to his hot and sweaty forehead. "M'I going to die...?" Haines finally managed to groan out, turning his head to the younger nurse for an answer. Said nurse looked at her older counterpart for reassurance, before shaking her head, a small smile playing on her lips.

"Wh- Charles" Haines coughed, before accepting the fact that he needed rest and letting his head fall back against the pillow, staining the white sheets with dirt and blood. Numbly, the lieutenant could feel the younger nurse manipulating his left arm, before inserting a needle, which connected to a bag filled with a strange orange-brown liquid. Haines' brain registered that it was not water, and he could only watch as the brown liquid shot through the clear tube, through the needle and into his arm. Almost immediately, his entire left side was numb, followed by his right, leaving only the feeling of heady euphoria. Both nurses were gone now, off to treat more urgent patients, leaving the dazed lieutenant to lean back in his pillow and grin. This liquid was doing something strange to him. It took away all the pain, leaving nothing but emotion. Just raw emotion. In Haines case, that was positive emotion. Nothing more, nothing less. His broken smile was the only thing the outside world would be able to use in order to tell what he was thinking. Eventually, Haines closed his eyes and just listened. Listened to the bustling sounds of nurses shouting orders at eachother, the groans of pain from other cases, and the general chaos around him. This morphine seemed to have cloaked the dazed man in a strange veil of, frankly disturbing calm.