Participants:
| Scene Title | M*A*S*H |
|---|---|
| Synopsis | Two old friends and one new one meet in the aftermath of battle. |
| Date | May 23, 2013 |
Middle Of Nowhere
The sky has turned a hazy gradient of deep blues and fiery red-orange as the sun sinks to the west, with the stars obscured by the smoke of cooking fires and gunsmoke floating on the wind. Even this far away from any front lines, the small mobile medical unit of rebels and turned military forces can smell the acrid scents carried from the battlefield. It's peaceful though, up to a point. The newest "shipment" of wounded warriors has just arrived, sending nurses and doctors and med staff scrambling to triage and surgery.
Among the groups of soldiers that are less critical, Luther limps in to the camp with a bloodied hand pinned to his side jacket. It's got a camo print and looks big even for him. Maybe he took it off another guy. The man pauses as he gazes towards the main operating tent, watching the bustling activity, still deciding if he's really in need of a doctor's care or if he can just sit for a minute. Eventually, he decides on the latter, finding a bucket to overturn and squat upon near to, but not impeding the path of, the entrance.
Looking unhappy to be there is a young woman, perhaps 19 years of age, leaning cross-armed against a table a little apart from the rest. Her face is smudged with dirt and blood; her eyebrow cut and in need, probably of stitches. More serious is the blood staining the jeans above her knee, though it's not so bright nor so much that she's likely to bleed out anytime soon.
Her dark eyes slide to Luther when he enters, taking in the damage he's taken. She gives him a little nod.
Among those working triage, Monica goes from body to body, mostly seeming to be in charge of tagging the dead and assessing the less pressing wounds. People with two arms are handling the more serious cases. She doesn't have two. She has one. The sleeve of her jacket is tied off under the stump she has left and the rest cut off to keep it from getting in the way. But one arm is enough to help, so help she does.
And since they're among those still upright and awake, Monica makes her way over to Luther and Chess' area. She sees the man first, the familiar face, and there's a moment where she contemplates turning away. But she doesn't. She comes over to his side. "What trouble did you get yourself into?"
He's surrendered his rifle to whatever group's arms master he's with, likely, because Luther doesn't appear to be armed. Those that know him and his ability know he doesn't necessarily need a firearm to do damage. Catching the small nod from Chess, Luther nods back in acknowledgment of a fellow fighter, a silent greeting and taking in the cut above her eye. There's a pause from him and a longer look when the youthfulness of Chess' features strikes him, and the man's easily-furrowed brow does just that. But still, he says nothing. Maybe saving any energy for something more serious than a scolding of a stranger.
He cranes his head to look back down where his hand is, slowly peeling it away from the bloodied spot to check it, but in the dim, dusk light there's little the eyes can see from his angle. So he misses when Monica comes up beside him, only to twitch at her familiar voice. "Nothing a few stitches won't fix," rumbles the man, "It's not deep enough that some forceps won't t— the hell happened to you?" Oh hi Monica, nice to see you.
Chess is used to that look, and bristles slightly, ready to defend her generation and their right to fight for the future and all that means, but there's no argument to be had, and she's left with those raised hackles, with nothing to target. Her eyes move to Monica when his do, and she glances down; her injuries are minor — she's only here because Miles dropped her off and bailed on her, so she's pretty much stuck. The problem with having your war-buddy-slash-boyfriend-slash-best-friend be a teleporter. When they want to strand a person, they're well and truly stranded.
She stares at the man and his reaction to Monica's obviously recent handicap, and her eyes widen just a little. To Monica, she says, "If you give me a butterfly bandaid and a Z-pack, I can get out of your hair."
"Move your hand and let me look at it," Monica says to him and she crouches down to be able to really look at it. But she looks up at him at his question. She doesn't take offense to it, although she might if it was anyone else, she just grimaces. "Alaska." That was some time ago, Alaska. Her hand reaches into her bag to pull out a plastic package with a pressure bandage inside. That she shoves into Luther's hand before she stands up. The next thing she pulls out is a tag, which she loops around a button on his jacket. A marker is next, so she can write a number on it. He's in the 'can wait' category. Which he knew.
She turns to Chess next, who gets gentler treatment. And handed some first aid of her own. "Don't run off, though. The nurses will be by to clean and assess." When she gets a tag ready for Chess, she writes it up and then hands it to her. She's going to wait, too. "They like to make sure there's nothing extra going on. Crazy, I know."
Luther's wound isn't intensely serious, but the man's luck held and whatever bullet that was meant for him only grazed through. The jacket probably did help a little. And then there's Alaska. The name earns Monica a long look too at her covered stump. The look asks questions, but none of them are followed up vocally. Perhaps he doesn't want to bring up old(er) wounds just now. The pressure bandage is received with a short 'oof' and he turns to look back towards Chess when Monica administers to her. "And they're nicer," he asides to the woman, but in a tone that speaks of jesting with old friends. A second nod follows, this one introductory. "I'm Luther."
The tag is taken with a sigh and a scowl. "All right. Make it a butterfly bandage, a Z-pack and a tetanus shot," she says, as if they're bargaining in a swap meet. Her eyes go to Monica though, curiously — Alaska is a word that makes her interesting, anyway, even if she's not helping Chess avoid the trauma of medical attention.
Her dark eyes return to Luther, looming large beside her, and she raises a brow. "Chess," she says, with a nod to him. "Why'd you let yourself get hit?" It's asked with a tiny bit of a smile.
"Watch yourself, Luther," Monica says with a sidelong look his way, "I can put anything I like down on that tag." That's teasing, too, so at least Chess can rest assured that they really are friends and Luther's not just a big ol' meanie. She sees the questions in his look. All she says back is, "Later." Maybe much later!
"Sorry, I'm Monica," she says, to throw her name into the mix. For Chess' benefit. Her eyebrows lift at the shots fired from her. "I like her."
The bigger man actually laughs, a rough sound but genuine, and starts to lean away from Monica as if to prevent her from snagging and re-tagging him with some more embarrassing treatment. But, he stops as it makes the graze in his side protest. Later is saved for, well, later. It's Chess' jab that brings it back, and the man sends back a wry and morbid, "So that my team could get in and make sure the guys on the other end won't be getting up any time soon." Or ever. And to bring the humor back, he shakes his head at the pair of ladies. "What about you two? Can't say I'm too surprised to see you in the mix," he notes at Monica, but tilts his head at Chess.
Chess smirks a bit when Monica says she likes her, then she glances up at Luther. "Oh, that old chestnut, 'you should see the other guy,'" she quips. She lifts a shoulder. "Our truck got hit. Team's okay. Asshole dropped me off for medical attention but we have a perfectly decent medic Jeremy — okay, he's not terrible, he's a pharmacist, really, but he knows basic first aid. Still. it's not like I was going to die from it."
She sighs, the long, drawn out exhalation puffing up her too-long bangs before they settle back on her face. "I hate to take up unnecessary time," she adds to Monica.
"Alright alright, let's keep the low blows for the battle field," Monica says, but with an indulgent shake of her head. Any humor is welcome in a war. "Your friend did the right thing. We've been seeing a lot of infection lately. It's just as deadly as a bullet, you know. No pharmacist is gonna help with that. So sit down and take advantage of the rest break. There's food and water and a TV in the mess. Some DVDs. We've seen them a thousand times, but might be a change for you guys." Which is to say… Chess can't go anywhere. Sorry, Chess.
Monica looks back to Luther, a frown coming to her face at the question. "I wish I was actually in it," she states. Grimly. "They say I'm not fit for front line duty, can you believe that?" That's probably a joke.
"Yep, that old nut," Luther says with a slight grin back to the younger woman in a way that makes it sound like the wordplay is meant to be self-deprecating. Still, he listens intently to the recounting of Chess' situation and he twitches a brow up where she mentions an anonymous yet seemingly affectionate 'Asshole'. It only brings more curiosity and questions to mind, but Luther stays quiet. As said before, there's later. Or at least, that's the idea.
Instead, he turns to Monica and for a brief moment of seriousness to echo the grimness, he frowns too. "You'd probably take down quite a number before…" He trails, pulling back from the statement. It's something to be said that he's in a way agreeing that Monica should be out there, fighting too. But the man has enough sense in him to pull back on the reins. "They're just saving the best for last," he concludes, adjusting his position on the bucket seat and clearing his throat. "Anyway. You said food?" Looking back to Chess too, he angles his head in the direction of the mess. The man needs no further invitation to a meal.