Guardian
a Worm/Destiny Crossover
Chapter 20: Setting Sail
Taylor would have loved nothing more than to say the work in Prestonville was done. Not in the cards. There was a gruesome task ahead, and she was one of the few still capable of doing it. Lisa couldn't help – the reason she had sounded hoarse and breathy was that, during the battle, flying debris had broken nine of her ribs. She was lucky. Had she not stumbled and taken the hit on her ribcage, it would have taken her head off. No, her task was less gruesome but equally unpleasant; to stay with the wounded. The task of collecting the fallen and putting them in body bags fell to Taylor, the commander, and the two soldiers whose injuries weren't so ruinous as to immobilize them.
It took hours. Hunting for bodies, or pieces of them, in the mud. Digging out an arm here, a leg there, and having them match them to the bodies they came from...there did not exist words as she knew them to describe the smells of blood and shit mixing together. Or how the mud would squelch and drag at the bodies as she worked to pull them free, as if even in death Swamp Thing was still fighting them. The empty eyes and vacant faces of men who had died too fast. The pained, contorted expression of those drowned by mud forced into their lungs.
There was a distant thunder of rotors chopping the air. A trio of helicopters came, discharging PRT agents, medics, and picking up the wounded to take to be treated. Taylor made certain Lisa was one of them, more or less carrying her to the waiting chopper. As gently as she could, she helped her partner into one of the seats, sitting on the floor at Lisa's feet and letting her own dangle out the open door. The commander limped over, one hand shielding his face from the rotor wash. He didn't say anything, perhaps because he would have had to shout over the wind's roar, or he had shouted himself hoarse in the fight. Or maybe there was nothing left to say, so he just offered her his hand; splattered with mud and wine-dark bloodstains. It matched her own hand, which she slapped into his a moment later. A single shake, and silence stretched out between them, then he let their joined hands drop and headed back into the mud.
As the helicopter lifted into the air, shrinking Prestonville beneath it as it gained altitude, little black figures moving around like ants, Taylor realized she'd never learned his name. After a minute or two a man in a helmet thumped her on the shoulder and motioned her inside. Once she did, he swung the helicopter's door shut. She looked around at the wounded men belted into the seats, either unconscious or wishing they were, and at Lisa. Her eyes were closed and her head tilted back. Her lips were pressed into a thin line and her face was pale. Taylor reached up and touched Lisa's knee, briefly, hesitantly, before dropping her hand back into her lap. The corner of Lisa's mouth ticked up, just a little.
Taylor snugged her scarf up under her nose so she could take her hood off. Her hair was tangled and matted to her scalp, speckled with dried dirt and clumped in sticky clusters. She scratched her scalp, soothing the itch before scooting so she could lean against the bare wall next to Lisa's chair. She closed her eyes, leaned back and, a moment later, a warm weight settled on the crown of her head. The corner of her mouth ticked up. Just a little.
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She hadn't meant to fall asleep. Hadn't really wanted to, either. She was afraid of what her dreams would be and was in no hurry to find out. Yet, for the twenty minute duration of the ride back to the PRT headquarters and, more importantly, their in-house hospital, she was completely, entirely asleep. If she dreamed, she did not remember what they were, or if they had been full of torment. The impact of the helicopter's skids touching asphalt as they landed – slight as it was, the pilot was very good – was enough to jar her back to wakefulness. The high whine of a powering down engine came next, and she could see out the window paramedics with many stretchers and one wheelchair waiting to collect their patients.
The helmeted man from before reached over them and slid the door open. As if they were actors and that their cue, the paramedics hustled over and began extracting the wounded from the helicopter. The wheelchair, it turned out, was for Lisa, who didn't want it, and said as much, "I'm not crippled." Her protests would have carried more weight if they didn't come breathy and gray-faced with obvious pain.
While the paramedics did their level best to not jostle her during the transition from aircraft seat to wheeled one, Taylor felt the need to point something out. "Pretty sure nine broken ribs is crippling. In pain if nothing else." Across from her, one of the paramedics nodded their agreement. Lisa's shoulder twitched, a fresh grimace crossing her face, as if she'd contemplated waving her hand dismissively and been reminded of a few things.
"You may have a point." It was a grudging concession. Good enough for Taylor. "I'll find you after getting them wrapped up, okay?"
"Sounds good." It didn't, but she wasn't going to say so. The paramedics wheeled her partner to the cool, clean indoors. She, lacking any better ideas on what to do, followed. At least as far as the doors, where she was met by someone unexpected. Yesterday, when she'd met him, Director Alfred Jones hadn't looked his age – some 57 years, if Lisa was to be believed. He did now. His posture was still excellent, but someone with supernaturally keen eyes would be able to pick out the droop in his shoulders. On the other hand, anyone would be able to see it in his face. Dark bags hung under reddened eyes, and the wrinkles in his tanned face stood out in stark relief.
"Guardian." His voice was as clean and clear as ever. "Glad to see you succeeded."
There...something shifted in Taylor's gut. It didn't feel that way, and she said as much.
"No, I don't imagine it does." Director Jones dipped his head in concession. "Still, you did good today. Mr. Gordon reported that you were in the thick of the fighting from the beginning, and that, if not for you, the mission would have been a failure."
If not for me, the mission would never have been. The statement bubbled up from that unknown something in her gut, she barely caught it behind her teeth. Instead, "Mr. Gordon?"
Director Jones hummed. "Officer In Charge James Gordon. He sends his regards, and a reminder that everyone there volunteered. That aside, we have rooms for visiting capes to stay in during training exercises. I offer a pair of them for you and your partner until you're ready to leave."
Oh. A bed. That sounded heavenly.
Wait.
A shower. That sounded even better. "I think I'll take you up on your offer, Director Jones."
He smiled. It was a nice one. Warm, a little understanding. "Anyone who takes an A-Class threat out of my backyard gets to call me Alfred. I'll lead you to those rooms, now. The official business can wait until you're both rested."
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Taylor showered – it was exactly as good as she'd thought – changed into some street clothes and a domino mask, and went to find Lisa. Rest was all well and good, and she would be indulging in some heavy sleeping soon, her bone-deep fatigue all but demanded it, but there was an...an anxiety, or perhaps worry, that impelled her through the halls of the PRT, following the wall placards towards the hospital. She passed agents, men and women in suits with file folders or clipboards in hand, who didn't stop her or ask what she was doing there. So either Director Jones – she really couldn't think of him as Alfred, regardless of permission given – had briefed them on her presence or the coming and going of random capes was business as usual around here. Probably the former.
She smelled the hospital first; cleaning alcohols, soaps, plastics, elastics, and the faintest scent of blood. Then she heard it – an orchestra of murmured conversations, pained grunts and moans, the scratch of pen on paper, and the multitudinous squeaking of comfortable shoes on clean tile floors. Squeaky clean, it seemed, was more than just a saying. Finally, she found the double doors, each one bearing a caduceus in red above a cross in the same. Pushing through, she found an arrangement that wouldn't have been out of place in the country's finest hospitals. The Protectorate spared no expense when it came to the health of their people, it looked like. The wounded were in good hands.
She passed two beds, occupied by soldiers with muddy skin and in clean gowns, before a nurse stopped her. He, which struck her ass odd for some reason, was a tall, reedy blonde with a beach made tan and a wispy goatee that suited him neither well nor poorly. His scrubs were clean and crisp and his face fresh, so he probably hadn't been on shift for very long. The ID tag hanging 'round his neck introduced him as Everett Blair. With a polite smile, he asked, "Can I help you?"
"Um. Yes." Taylor tried not to sound as tired or anxious as she felt, the former more than the latter, and was largely unsuccessful. "I'm looking for Tattletale? She was brought in with –"
"Yes, the Prestonville mission." His polite, professional smile flickered on the verge of changing into something else, but was stopped. "She's with the least injured. Head on back, and when you reach the dead end, take a left. You'll hear her before you see her."
She thanked him and went on her way, briefly puzzling over the almost-change in attitude Nurse Blair had displayed. She passed a few more beds, each occupied one tugging on her heart, and she found herself wishing for an empty one. One where a person, whose injuries were on her behalf, wasn't looking at her with glassy, tired eyes. Then she found one. It felt like a punch to the stomach. She almost wasn't aware of turning left at the junction, and didn't really come back to herself until she heard Lisa's voice.
"Five. Five again. Five again. Jesus, man, pick a different number! Si – oh, very funny. Five for the fourth time. You know that's cheating. If my teammate were here, she'd beat you up for doing that. You know what? I don't want to play anymore. Yeah, that's right. I'm going to pout." A pause. "Aaannnd you've passed out. Now I'm sitting here tal – " Lisa's voice cracked, just a little bit. She cleared her throat. "– talking to myself. So...yeah."
Taylor rounded the corner then, impelled by the knot in her throat that resulted from the tone of Lisa's voice. It was a very familiar tone, one that she had bitter, personal experience with. It was the tone of someone trying to hide the fact that they wanted nothing more to do than cry. There was something fundamentally wrong with Lisa sounding like that. There was also something else. Something a little easier to see.
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Lisa looked worse in the hospital bed than she had in the helicopter. The bed made her look small and frail, and that was wrong. The sheets made her look pale and drawn, and that was wrong. The redness of her eyes and the barely contained tears, they too were wrong. Lisa should be whole and warm and healthy. Her eyes should be dancing with humor or the glimmer of I-know-something-you-don't. Her lips should be full and pink, or impishly smiling, not pale and flat in a grimace of pain. She should be teasing and laughing and giving Taylor shit for being so skinny. It was all wrong. All of it.
Tears pricked at Taylor's eyes, stinging and burning and threatening to spill. Lisa gave her the sternest look she could muster. "Don't you start. If you start I'm going to start and we'll both be a mess. And that – that's not allowed."
With an effort of will, Taylor willed her tears away and went to perch delicately on the side of Lisa's bed. She mustered a smile. It wasn't a very good one. "Is that so?"
Lisa nodded. "It's in the rules. Only –" A thick swallow. A fist wrapped itself around Taylor's heart. "Only one team member can fall apart at a time. And..." Another swallow, and tears spilled out, trailing down Lisa's cheeks. "It's my turn."
Oh, Lisa. Taylor's hands clenched in an aborted motion to hug her friend. She had to settle for taking one of Lisa's hands in both of hers and hiding how much she wanted to cry. This was not about her. Later, maybe, but now it fell to Taylor to offer comfort. Though she did not know how. She squeezed their joined hands and felt Lisa's thumb run over a knuckle. Eventually she offered, "I'm sorry you got hurt."
This was the wrong thing to say.
Lisa burst into tears, lifting her hands to press against her forehead, accidentally bringing Taylor further up the bed. Her chest heaved, shoulders bucking and shuddering as sobs tumbled out of her. "Oh, fuck, I almost died! Fuck, fuck fuck! What the fuck was I thinking?! What the hell am I doing?!" A stuttered breath washed warm over Taylor's wrists. She stayed still and silent, wracked with guilt for having made this happen. "Oh, God. People died. People died and its my fault. You almost died and it's my fault. Fuck ."
Say something, Taylor. Say you're sorry.
Okay. Maybe not that, but say something.
Her mouth opened, and what came out was, "Officer Gordon says we did a good thing today."
Lisa snorted, a wet sound that bubbled out through her nose, dropping their joined hands to give over a red-eyed glare. "And you believe him?"
Taylor nodded, wishing she didn't sound as hesitant. "Yeah. Think I do."
"Do you think we did the right thing?"
This time there was no hesitation. "You'd never have gotten me here if I didn't."
Lisa noticed that she was still holding Taylor's hands and started to toy with one of her fingers. "I...I guess that's something. Yeah. Okay." A deep, shaky breath in. She let it out and laughed wetly. "See? Told you it was my turn."
"I'm sorry I upset you. I didn't...that wasn't..."
"I know."
Silence fell. Sort of. Lisa's sniffles and the appearance of snoring from across the room broke it, and the tension-heavy air, rather nicely. After casting around for something to change the subject with, Taylor came up with, "So...what are you going to do with your share of the bounty?"
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Lisa cleared her throat and snorted, but still sounded like she had a cold. "10 million dollars?" she shrugged while managing to wince only slightly. She talked, but Taylor didn't hear anything. Her ears were still ringing from the thunder of 10 million dollars. That was an unbelievable amount of money, an insane amount of money, and it was only half. She came back to Lisa giving her a somewhat knowing look. "You only got the first part of that, didn't you?"
"No, I – !" Taylor sighed. "Yes. Sorry. Is the bounty really 20 million?"
"Yeah." Lisa's lips twisted in what was supposed to be a smile, but was too bitter to be anything but a smirk. "Totally worth it, right?"
"Um." There was a part of her that made her want to say yes. The part that told her that nine casualties for taking out an A-Class threat was fucking unbelievable, that they should be proud of how easy Swamp Thing went down. She told that part to shut its mouth. It had served its purpose today in getting her out of Prestonville alive.
"Your silence is kind of damning, Ta – Guardian."
"I wasn't – I said 'um'!"
Lisa managed a watery chuckle of a laugh, but it was such a welcome sound that it all but erased the embarrassment burning Taylor's cheeks. "You're right, I stand wildly corrected." A large, breathy sigh was heaved and she finally let go of Taylor's hands to swipe under her eyes. Taylor returned her hands to curl in her lap, still holding the phantom of warmth and skin between them. "Oh, hell. I am so ready for this day to be over."
It was right then that Taylor had an idea. A perfect, utterly perfect idea. "Um. Tattletale."
"Again with the 'um'."
"You want to hear my great idea or not?"
There. Finally. It was like a weight being lifted from Taylor's chest. The light was back in Lisa's eyes. Dimmer, but there. "I'm so sorry, fearless leader. Your captive audience awaits."
Taylor paused to make sure she wouldn't be interrupted again, then spilled the beans. "I'm giving my half of the bounty back. So Director Jones can give it to the families of the people who died."
A smile returned the fullness and life to Lisa's lips. "You were right. That is a pretty great idea."
"Told you so."
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