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The first thing Aiden registers is that he could really use a drink of water. He coughs, throat like sandpaper and he swallows dryly, tasting the dust that had settled on his tongue.
Dust?
The second thing Aiden registers as he reaches out is that he was not, in fact, at his room in the Fish Eye, despite his first thought being so. He had reached out to feel if he'd left a glass on the nightstand to soothe his desert of a mouth before realizing that, wait, there wasn't a glass, and more so, there wasn't a nightstand for it to be on in the first place. But the nightstand is always there, since before he'd moved into the place. Where the fuck is he?
Aiden's eyes snap open the second he realizes that he had not, in fact, fallen asleep in his room and therefore had no idea where the hell he was and how he got there.
The third thing Aiden recognizes in his frantic scan of his surroundings is that he is utterly, completely, fucked.
As soon as he tries to push himself up from where he was lying, all of his other senses kick into high gear and he realizes in excruciating detail that his hip has been crushed into the floor by the biggest piece of loose concrete he'd seen since the damn windmill blew up and collapsed in on itself. His legs below the knee are that special kind of numb that comes from the self-preservation of the brain cutting off all senses, but oh god, his hip, fuck, how did he not feel that first?! Though he may not be able to raise his head enough to assess the damage, it's clear to him that everything had gone wrong and he had nowhere to go.
Aiden drops his head back onto the floor beneath him, choking on a breath as he catches on the pieces of dust and rubble in the air. Oh, how he wished he hadn't the luck of a pilgrim.
—
It's well known to everyone that the buildings of Villedor are all as unstable as popsicle stick crafts and are ready to fail at any moment. After a decade and a half of rot and decay clinging to the supports, the foundations are eventually going to give. Many of them have already started the process, leaving gaping maws between floors that expose the crumbling framework of the building, both a concern but a convenient handheld for all those brave enough to venture near them. The settling of the buildings is just another part of the song Villedor plays through calm days and dreary nights.
So, of course, the most cunning of the few who scavenge buildings have learned in the years since the Fall which structures actually stand the test of time and which ones fell victim to the allure of a quick buck, being made from poor materials and even poorer workmanship.
Aiden, though, hasn't been around Villedor long enough to recognize the differences between solid and degrading foundations and has been in the central loop for an even shorter amount of time. And, of course, Aiden had to take on the task of finding this kid's missing toy because he has a soft spot for kids. Aiden lept through the PK zone on his way to retrieve the poor stuffy, soaring over the rooftops with a grace seen nowhere but the legends of the nightrunners.
But, as Newton's 3rd law dictates, what goes up must always come down. And as Aiden's law dictates, he will always have the shittiest luck no matter what he does.
A soaring leap, a hard landing, a large groan, and suddenly Aiden found that the rooftop that was underneath his feet was no more supportive than the oatmeal-ish slop he'd eaten that morning before he left for the day. The roof caved into the building with Aiden on it in a deafening roar, swallowing the pilgrim as more and more of the floors beneath gave way to the falling rubble from above.
—
Clenching his hands, Aiden let his head click onto the floor beneath it as he thought through what he should do next. He remembers seeing a poster for an earthquake drill in one of the many dilapidated schools he scavenged through- “drop, cover, and hold on, kids!” with a bright image of a smiling rabbit- but nowhere had he seen what to do after that. He coughs again and shifts the hem of his jacket to cover his mouth from the foul-tasting debris.
He reaches out with his other hand to grab the radio that's always at his waist, but he comes back empty. It must have detached at some point during his fall, probably crushed under several tons of rubble just as he found himself. Damn, there goes his main means of communication. Fuck, what now? He could call out, but he remembers being near the edge of the territory, so renegade could hear him just as easily as someone friendly, and fuck if he’d want one of those assholes poking around while he was stuck.
Feeling around in the darkness again, he feels something cylindrical. The green stick! He saw them everywhere in Villedor, both old and in the central loop. They usually marked the poor soul of someone in need of a hand who didn’t make it, but the signals were given out to anyone who regularly made night rounds no matter their alignment. Affiliations never matter in the thrum of the night, living to see another day was.
The sticks signified a call for help. Their neon green glow helped them stand out in the darkness against the yellow glow of the Genmod mutations and the purple of UV zones, but don’t attract a crowd like a signal flare would. They were scavenged from traffic control offices throughout the city in the fall, and their low battery usage lets them stay on for hours at a time, making them the perfect candidate.
He clicks the button on the side, light flickering on and bathing the pocket of rubble he was in with a fluorescent green reminiscent of a stop light. Aiden can see the concrete slabs, now, but that’s it. No hint of a way out, no tunnel to signal the outdoors, nothing. The hope that had filled his chest dimmed. There goes his only plan. He’s screwed. Truly, utterly, screwed. Fuck.
He was getting twitchy under the weight pinning him down. If the pilgrim was known for anything, it certainly wasn’t staying still. He was practically always moving, whether that meant leaping over rooftops or bouncing his leg during the boring PK strategy meetings as they droned on without action. They always wanted Aiden to attend those things to give input on their ideas since he had a better lay of the land from above, but half the time they just had him leave halfway through so they could get done with the meeting. He really wasn’t a sit-down-and-think guy, more of an act-and-repent personality that probably got him into this situation in the first place. At least he’s so pumped full of inhibitors he doesn’t have to worry about turning anytime soon.
Wait-
The inhibitors!
Those nasty cocktails of Antizin and Genmod increased their user’s speed and strength. The nightrunners were practically the kings of the city on them, and they only took a handful. Aiden had been actively seeking them out and taking any he could get his hands on since he entered the city. Painful as hell, sure, but he would take any advantage he could get to help him find his sister, especially after seeing the kind of damage Waltz could do at the car factory. His blood was practically made of the stuff by now, he’d lost count of how many he’d found in all of the quarantine zones and anomalies throughout his stay in the city.
That’s exactly what he needed, though. The inhibitors had made him stronger than he ever imagined. Not quite the otherworldly strength seen in the comic book pages he’s found scattered in apartments across the city, but enough for him to notice. Enough to save his ass a few times, that's for sure.
Maybe enough to save his ass this time, too.
Aiden braced his arms against the concrete below him, spreading his hands out against the slab of rubble pinning his hips. If he could just shift it off of him, free his flesh from the pressure, and allow him movement, he could assess the damage to his lower half and maybe even find a way out of the collapse. He bit down on the hem of his jacket to keep it covering his mouth steeled himself for the arduous labor, and in one moment pushed with everything he could muster up in his arms. Dust and pebbles fell into his eyes from above as the piece shifted.
“C’mon, don’t fail me now!” He grits out, sweat beading at his brow. He could feel the pressure lifting. He was so close.
Then there was a loud groaning of metal, the telltale sound of support giving away just like when he had landed on the roof what seemed like hours ago, and Aiden’s vision burst into the stars of the damned.
—
Despite their relative fame among the rest of the Peacekeepers, unit 4-04 still had to pull their weight in the common rounds of duties. They were one of 6 units in the current rotation between PK structures in the Central Loop, being in the 4th set of units that take turns patrolling their territories. Every month, a different set would be put into the rotation and the current ones would be pulled back to the Missy to complete missions for the Commander and the other parts of their duties.
Unfortunately, Lieutenant Rowe and his unit were currently stationed in the Muddy Grounds. God, this had to be his least favorite place to patrol. The perpetual dampness of the area seemed to permeate through whatever he was wearing and make a verifiable sauna out of his armor. It was miserable for him and his crew, and when his unit was miserable, they were mouthy.
Rowe rubbed his temples, trying to calm his raging headache as they trudged through the zone. Berislav and Brooks had been at each others necks for practically the entire time they were at this particular outpost. To top it all off, Wierzbowski wasn’t helping, taking bets from the privates and egging the two of them on at every chance. There weren’t even any renegade motherfuckers to vent his frustration out on by beating the wrath of the law into them. They were smarter than the PK, choosing to take shelter from the beating sun rather than travel through it. Those bastards. Could at least have the decency to show up to the ass-kicking party his unit was forced to attend.
“-And when you’re drunk, you act like the queen of fuckin’ England! Are you a pussy or did your balls just never drop?” Berislav gain, nitpicking at Brooks to have anything to do than march in silence. Just how long until one of those idiots trips a nerve and we have to pull the two off of each other?
“Ohoho , you’re one to talk! One sip of the Fish Eye’s finest gets you falling over the railing like you’re a ship in a hurricane!” Brooks, knocking into Berislav’s side to emphasize his point. Said main sputters, trying to deny anything and everything.
Letting out a long, grating sigh, Rowe spins around to face the rest of his unit from where he was leading with a sharp glare that was only learned through years of training unruly recruits. “Girls, girls, you’re both pretty, now shut up so we can get this swamp of a route done, sit our asses down, and have a real fuckin’ meal.”
Wierzbowski barks out a laugh from the two bickering babies, clapping them on their shoulders with strong hands. “C’mon, ladies, you heard the man!” He’s grinning ear-to-ear, way too pleased with them getting in trouble.
“You too, Wierzbowski! You better stop encouraging them or else there’s suddenly gonna be a reason to do recon in the river!” orders Rowe, turning back around to lead before he can see the private’s reaction. Honestly, the lot of them. It’s incredible that Jack Matt didn’t have them hanged for insubordination already. Its probably only the squad’s renown that’s saved them from their end at the rough end of a rope.
Speaking of Major Matt, why the fuck was he patroling way the hell towards the boundary of the Muddy Grounds? They’d lost St. Paul Island the second those orders to retreat were delivered by Aiden, and-
CRASH-SLAM-BOOM
Rowe’s train of thought was very suddenly interrupted by the unmistakable sound of a building collapsing just a block or two away. The impact of the concrete as it fell inwards thundered through the ground beneath them, shaking them enough that it caused Leon to stumble and grab Chris, almost taking them both down in an unfortunate tumble before they managed to keep themselves upright. All of his men ready themselves, drawing weapons in case the noise attracted virals to their location.
When silence followed the main booming of the structure instead of the dreaded screams of the dead, all of the men let out a sigh of relief, glad they wouldn’t have to face the echoes of humanity the virals possessed. Rowe replaced the modified machete onto his hip and turned around to face his band of merry men.
“Wierzbowski, scout ahead and check which building collapsed. Chris, Leon, Hudson, set up a safe zone nearby and radio in about the collapse, tell the Major we’ve got it handled for now but keep a standby. Brooks, Berislav, with me.”
“Yes, sir!”
—
‘God dammit ,’ Aiden thinks, head and muscles aching as if he’d just woken up in the tunnel after losing the GRE key again. A fog had covered his mind, making it difficult for him to have any intelligent thoughts other than swearing out the gods above, but years of Spike’s incessant training prevailed and informed him oh-so-helpfully that he probably had a concussion. Just great.
He licks his lips, reminiscing over the fact that the unpleasant taste of dust has been replaced by the remnants of bile across his tongue. A cooling wetness has made its way across his forehead and down onto the floor beneath him, pulsing from a nasty gash in his hairline that reveals itself as he reaches up and smears his own coagulated blood between rough fingertips. He can feel a broken rib or ten digging into his lung as he inhales, causing a sputtering cough a little too wet for comfort when he breathes a bit too deep in a check of his chest. A weight presses down on his abdomen, mostly focused on his left side, where the unfortunate ribs and a now-pinned arm are. He tries to wiggle his toes, but the lack of… any sensory input regarding his lower half means he has no idea of the results of that check.
He held his free hand up for a second, pausing as if time itself had stopped, and then relaxed again at the realization that anything he could try would likely end up with him in worse condition than before. Aiden had never felt so helpless. Sure, there were many times he had felt completely unmatched and out of his league, like seeing Waltz metamorphize in front of his eyes at the car factory, but at least then he had the ability to act, to do, to decide. Here, under god knows how much rubble with god knows how many injuries, Aiden couldn’t act, couldn’t choose, he could just… wait. Think. Hope.
Any possible escape was either shattered the moment he fell through without a chance to react or when he acted without considering the chain of effects that would follow. He had dug his grave, and now was his time to lie in it.
—
“23rd and Station, 4-story apartment collapsed in. Concrete and structural steel construction. No virals in sight.”
“Understood. Good work, Wierzbowski.” Lieutenant Rowe grabs the radio at his right hip, relaying the information to the squad he sent to set up a safe zone nearby, telling them to meet the rest there when they had completed it.
Taking the lead, he and the other Peacekeepers in his unit make their way to the building in question, picking their way through the abandoned streets to avoid unnecessary attention from the biters inhabiting the ground. There are few of them on this side of the territory, the open edges of streets allowing the mindless beasts to fall into the raging waters of the river. Even for the area, though, there are surprisingly few moping about with their permanently slack-jawed expressions. He thought such an uncommon sound would cause at least a handful more to wander in their direction, whether through the last slivers of intelligent curiosity or the purely animal instinct that drives them towards the loud sounds of human intervention. The seeming ease of access runs its way down Rowe’s spine and settles like a stone in his abdomen.
As the building comes into view of the unit, the rock grows heavier. A few biters have shambled over to the source of the noise, either looking down blankly at the pile of rubble or climbing over a barrier to get to it, but the area is still relatively clear of disturbances. The four of them dispatch the few zombies with relative ease and quickly set up a few x barriers out of some of the steel dislodged in the collapse.
“Alright, you know the drill. Start taking off the smaller chunks of concrete so we can take them to an outpost and they can be recycled. Make sure they’re good quality, don’t make the building collapse more, yada yada. You guys have done this before, get to it. I believe in you.” sighs Rowe, rubbing his temples again. At least finding new materials should get Matt off their backs for a while, maybe even keep them out of rotation for a little longer than rotation for missions. A man could dream, he supposed.
Rolling up his sleeves in preparation, he approaches the edge of the massive pile that was once a whole building and starts checking the pieces for concrete rot. The rock in his stomach seems to turn into a coil, winding tighter and tighter. How much it can distort until it eventually explodes, Rowe doesn’t know. He just hopes it's unfounded anxiety more than anything.
—
Aiden opens his eyes again for what could be the millionth time that day to the rustling of… something nearby. The fog in his head made it difficult for him to distinguish between sounds, but there was certainly the noise of activity nearby, to his left side. He lulls his head in said direction, squinting through his blurry vision in an attempt to see anything new, but the pocket he’s in stays the same.
He lets out a sigh, falling grime making its way into his lungs at the chance and causing another rattling cough to follow. He can barely breathe in anymore, wheezing inhales being the only thing fluttering in his chest. The lack of oxygen makes him lightheaded, further adding to the disarray in his mind caused by the earlier head trauma. Fuck. Moving a free hand to his abdomen, Aiden feels the loose ribs in his chest press against his diaphragm with every pant.
He’s smart enough to know what happens next. At least he could go out like this instead of walking around as a husk, doomed to the same fate many had succumbed to during the Fall. Like this, he could pretend he was going out as a revered hero. At least like this, he knew he made at least a little bit of a positive impact on the world. The survivors at the Bazaar were living proof he had improved something. Maybe they would even put up posters for him if he didn’t return after long enough.
Ah, who was he kidding. They wouldn’t see anything wrong if he disappeared. They all knew he was looking for his sister in the Central Loop, so if he didn’t show face they would probably assume he had actually succeeded. He had already done what they wanted, anyway. They have no more use for his services, they’ll be more focused on rebuilding than the passer through.
… Maybe Hakon Lawan? They were pretty good friends. She would definitely ask around the Fish Eye for him. She had her own shit going on, though. Everyone in the city seemed to rely on her to keep their operations running, even the PKs. Probably wouldn’t notice him missing for a week or two. At least he wasn’t getting buried with the key. He’s sure Lawan could get the thing back from Waltz and use it better. It was meant for her, after all.
…
Fuck.
Aiden apologizes to Mia, first of all. He had sworn to stay by her side, but he broke that promise all those years ago and was doing it again right now. Aiden apologizes to the girl whom he’d promised he would get her toy for, caving at her big eyes and sniffling tears because she was just painfully similar to his sister when they were at the lab. Aiden apologizes to Aitor, whom he’d betrayed in the last second for what he hopes was the greater good. For leaving not saving him from Waltz in that dreaded tunnel. For not pulling the Peacekeeper out when he’d awoken and left him to rot, still alive. Aiden apologizes to Lawan, for not helping her more, and Spike, and Rowe, and Hakon, and Matt, and Frank, and…
Tears leak out of the corners of Aiden’s eyes, gluing the dirt and grime to his face with a salty finish. There was so much more he’d wanted to do. He’d spent his whole life wandering, looking for one thing, indebted to one man he’d call a friend and another his enemy, and he felt like he’d finally found a place he could stay in. A place he could eventually find home in. He felt like he had fit into the culture like a puzzle piece. Even through so many hardships, he felt more like himself in Villedor than he ever had in the years of trekking between the other distant settlements as a pilgrim. Yet here he was, trapped like the rat he was.
Maybe it's for the best.
—
A lot of the rubble so far had been complete rubbish. With the additional help of the three who’d set up their temporary quarters once they’d returned progress was quicker, but Rowe and most of his unit found themselves discarding the vast majority of the material. Improperly mixed and cured for most of it, the cause of the collapse in the first place, but when it was improperly made the stuff disintegrated in your hands like rotten bread and was impossible to reclaim for their projects.
As boring as their sorting was, at least the rubble provided some good valuables that were once settled in the apartments within. Medical supplies, scrap metal, and wiring were all set aside for collection with the good concrete, and Wierzbowski had nearly screamed like a schoolgirl when he unearthed a broken bookshelf with some in-tact comics underneath. Rowe rolled his eyes fondly when the others in the unit all shared his excitement, but still kept an eye on where they were put in case one just happened to be liberated from the pile. Nobody paid attention, or at least acknowledged it, when a certain lieutenant stuffed a red-and-gold comic into the paneling of his chest plate for “safekeeping.”
As the sun dropped closer to the horizon, so too did more and more of unit 4-04. Between the weight of the wreckage and the muggy atmosphere, most of the privates removed pieces of their armor and added them to a growing pile on the floor, keeping only their uniform and weapon on them in case a biter suddenly decided to make itself known. The men themselves eventually followed suit, sitting in cycles of rest to keep from straining themselves (and for a god-damn break, honestly, can’t believe Matt makes the patrollers sort resources while he sits in his blue steel ivory tower.)
Rowe himself had just sat down and started taking off some of the shoulder plates when Brooks made a startled grunt and called for his attention on something. Groaning, the man in question got up, dusted himself off, and made his way over.
“What’ve you got, Brooks?” He asks, cracking his spine and shaking his joints loose.
“There’s some light coming from this section of the rubble. I thought all of the power to the bulbs would’ve gotten disconnected in the collapse. Is there an electrocution danger?”
Tilting his head, the lieutenant leans closer to where the man is pointing. A faint green light is emanating from between the sheets of concrete, constant and unwavering.
“It should have, none of the apartment’s lights worked. The breaker flipped in the fall.” He mumbles, stepping closer to examine it.
The second the power line running through the walls ripped in half, whatever remained of the building’s breaker would have flipped. It could’ve malfunctioned, but that's specifically why he sent Wierzbowski to check a sturdy apartment for power and gas leaks, to protect his men from an accident- it was surely and clearly off. So why was there still light? It could’ve been a stand-alone lamp of some sort, but no way the thing would’ve kept good batteries in the decade since it’d been abandoned, and any lightbulb would’ve shattered in the collapse.
Rowe’s eyebrows knit together. Unless…
“Chris, Leon, put your shoes back on and get your asses over here.” The lieutenant starts clearing the chunks of debris off of the biggest weight-bearing slabs holding together the pocket the green light comes from, instructing Brooks and the two he called over to do the same. Once the area on top of the light has been relatively cleared, Rowe calls over the three and has them each take a side of the chunk of debris covering the pocket.
The feeling of dread rears its head again, making his heart feel like a beating ice cube. His shoulders square themselves and tense. “On Three!”
“One, two, three!” He calls, bracing himself and lifting the slab. Together, they carefully slide the wreckage away and onto a sturdy part of the ruins next to them, placing it with a collective sigh of relief from setting down the weight.
Rowe straightens, cautiously stepping back over to the light while the rest of his moving crew take a second longer to catch their breath. As he leans over to peer into the now-cleared area, the first thing he registers is that there is still a lot of rubble inside of the pocket itself, looking like it had collapsed in on itself at some point.
The second thing Lieutenant Rowe registers is that the green light is emanating from a fluorescent light stick. The ones specifically used to signal for urgent help.
The fearless lieutenant’s heart stuttered.
—
He groans turning his head away from the sudden bright light engulfing his vision. It made his head swim. Aiden’s breath pants out of his lungs, shallow and fast. His entire chest screams at him to do something, anything, something’s wrong, fix this!
He can’t do anything. His energy has been drained from him, weeping into his hair and onto the ground below like a wilting rose losing its petals. Even twitching his hand proves too much. As his eyes flutter and close like weighted blankets, Aiden almost thinks he hears a familiar voice over the sound of blood rushing through his veins.
Huh. How comforting it would be if he was here.
—
Rowe’s blood runs cold. Thats… that's a signal flare. The signal flare. That means… Fuck. No way.
“Fuck! Get the hell over here, I need some help. Everyone on your asses, get the fucking med gear ready!”
Rowe drops himself into the pocket carefully, using some steel rods from the collapse to support the outermost “walls” of the area to keep them from suddenly failing at his intrusion. As he carefully creeps closer to the light, he hears the telltale crunch of PK boots over concrete over the frantic scurrying and murmuring from those who were taking a break.
“What’d you find, sir?” Chris, from above the opening, shadowing it.
“Fuck- give me a second.” Rowe reaches his hand up “Signal flare. Hand me your flashlight, left my one with the rest of my shit.”
He hears a sharp intake of air from above as the weight of one of their militant flashlights finds its way into his hand. All of the survivors, PK or otherwise, know what a signal flare means. Someone’s in big danger. Considering it’s all the way in the rubble, they can connect the dots on what happened, and guess at what kind of condition the person lighting it is in.
As of late, that condition is almost always KIA. When the nightrunners were still together, lighting the green flare almost guaranteed help as long as you were in a spot easily seen from the rooftops. Nowadays, though? No one was out to help at night. The fluorescent green turned from a hope for life to a marking for the dead.
Dread curled its way through his stomach as Rowe crept closer to the light. It spiked when a hand came into view, confirming that it was purposefully there and not accidentally left behind. He assessed the rubble covering the body, trying to find the quickest and fastest way to get them out of there.
“Hand me more rebar and something to leverage it against.”
He braces most of the steel rods he ordered against the wall closest to the figure, using some of his strength to even lift it up slightly before securing it as well as he could. Moving smaller pieces away from the form by hand, he then leverages the last few pieces of steel against the main piece of rubble covering them.
In one smooth movement, Rowe uses his foot to apply force to the leverage arm and lift the rock just enough, using his upper body to move the figure out of the way and into the open space before the slab fell again.
The color drains from his face.
Below Rowe, the man he has saved from the wreckage is… horrible. Rough is an understatement. He clearly picked a fight with several tonnes of rock and lost. The man’s left arm is bent in the wrong direction, bending like the bone is made of craft wire. His hip has been decimated, broken with a massive, nasty abrasion tearing cloth and skin. He is barely breathing, indicative of abdomen trauma, and there are two massive gashes on his left shoulder and on his head leaking blood like a floodgate.
His face, though, is the worst.
It's the worst because he recognizes it.
From below him, Aiden’s face stares back. Aiden, who he’d heard all about from Aitor’s reports to Matt. Aiden, who became quicker friends with Lawan than anyone ever before. Aiden, whom he had met through the man delivering Jack Matt’s horrible orders to him after he worked so hard and lost so many men to secure the area and he’d yelled at him for it. Aiden, whom Rowe actually got to meet at Danior’s birthday party. Aiden, who’d good-naturedly played the game they’d egged him into playing and who listened to Rowe’s singing and seemed to actually enjoy it. Aiden, who by now had saved him and Unit 4-04 from virals and worse over a dozen times by now just because he cared. Aiden, who he’d come to trust and follow more than the commander himself.
Aiden, who was dying in front of him.
Rowe’s blood turned to ice.
“Put the stretcher together, NOW!”
He kneels next to Aiden, hands desperately searching for a pulse. Come on, c’mon, don’t fucking- THERE. A pulse, there and real, though weak and fluttering as a butterfly. It was there, though. Rowe wasn’t too late. Not this time.
“Don’t you fucking die on me, Aiden. Not here. Not now.” he mutters, peeling open one of the man’s eyes and using the flashlight to check for dilation of the pupil. It shrinks at the intense light and his other eye opens.
“R- Rowe?” a cough, wet and spasming. Bad sign.
“Yes, Aiden,” Rowe places his hand on Aiden’s chest, feeling for traumas as he breathes. “I’ve got you, you’re okay, don’t worry.” There- three ribs moving opposite of the rest. Broken off. Feels like damage to the clavicle as well.
“Wh-” a stuttering wheeze. “You- you’re- fuck. Thank you.”
“Just repaying the favor, guy,” Says the lieutenant, gently wrapping a bandage around the younger’s skull. “All know you’ve saved our asses enough times by now.”
A wet laugh comes from the pilgrim, quickly turning into a coughing fit.
“Fuck, where’s the goddamn stretcher?!”
“Here, sir!”
A stretcher is dropped into the pocket, and Rowe cautiously transfers the pilgrim onto it, careful to avoid irritating any of the extensive injuries. Together with the help of Brooks- who he’d barked at him for assistance- they transfer Aiden to Chris and Leon above. The two take his stretcher with a worried gaze, transporting him to the medical supplies. Brooks and Lieutenant Rowe follow after, the latter taking the signal flare, turning it off, and hooking it to his belt.
With the amount of extra medical supplies lying around, Hudson -their resident field medic- is able to stabilize the man for transport. Unit 4-04 lets out a collective sigh of relief. The man who had saved them so is going to be okay.
Rowe made it this time.
—
The first thing Aiden registers is that he could really use a drink of water. He swallows dryly, groans at his aching bones (he truly is built like an old man, damn), and opens his eyes to the harsh lighting of… well, wherever he is.
The second thing Aiden registers is that he is in the infirmary of the Missy and that every part of his body is wrapped up in bandages, but he lived. He lived.
Looking to his right, he finds a cup of water there and quickly downs it, soothing coolness running down his throat. He can see from his spot on the bed that he’s been splinted from the waist down, and lifting his left arm reveals a cast made of paper mache, signed by everyone in Unit 4-04. The thought puts a soft smile on his face, each signature reflecting the person who left it well (including the “I'm with stupid” underneath Berislav’s name with an arrow pointing at Brooks’. He audibly snorts at that one, the dorks.)
On the side table also sits a brand new radio with two notes attached to it. Stuck to the radio itself is a note from Lawan -” Happy not Birthday, dumbass. Come see me when you’re healed so you don’t do this again.” How sweet.
The second is a note from Rowe consisting of what could only be his radio frequency and a quickly scribbled “Call me when you’re up.” Aiden grabs the radio and pulls off the notes, taking a second to turn it on and tune it to the right frequency.
“Rowe? It’s Aiden, I’m awake”
A moment of static passes.
“Be right there, guy, don’t move a muscle”
Only a few minutes of twiddling his thumbs later, Rowe keeps his word- The infirmary door opens and there stands the imposing figure of the lieutenant.
“Thanks for pulling me out of there, Lieutenant. I owe you one.” Aiden says after nodding his head in recognition at the man who approaches him.
“Owe me one? Guy- Aiden, you’ve saved everyone in my Unit’s ass more times than Weirzbowski can count. We’re the ones that owe you” The large man stands over his bed for a moment, seemingly looking over his injuries, before falling down into the guest chair next to it. Aiden looks away sheepishly.
“Yeah, but, I took your whole unit’s time to save me, Lieutenant. I used your guys’ time.” A scoff, and then piercing green eyes catching his own.
“That doesn’t matter. We all owe you our lives, Aiden. All of us were worried out of our minds when we found you under all of that rubble. You’re basically part of the 4-04 at this point, guy. And please, just Rowe. Friends don't need to call me by my rank.”
Aiden smiles softly, head falling back onto his pillow.
“Well, thanks anyways, Rowe. You and the guys saved me.”
A smile in return. “Any time. Just please, don’t keep collapsing buildings just to see me.”
Aiden snorts out a laugh. “God, are you going to hold that over my head forever?”
“You’re never getting out of that one, Pilgrim,” Rowe smirks back.
Aiden lets out a long, dramatic sigh. Rowe just laughs at him.
—
(Aiden and Rowe find themselves in each other’s company more often after that incident. Whether it’s calling the other up for a drink at the Fish Eye, or Aiden finding 4-04 and joining them on the occasional patrol, or even hanging out sharing stories and laughs at each other’s private rooms, it starts to become more uncommon to see one without the other. They have both found someone they can trust with their life.)
(They have both found a place to be vulnerable.)
(They are never letting each other go)