Sep. 14th, 2010 07:04 pm
hallelujahpilot: (where the birds sleep)
[personal profile] hallelujahpilot
part i

“Take them straight to the morgue,” Trudy says to the Marines unloading her Samson's cargo-hold, filling out the form on an e-pad and doing her best to ignore the smell. The smell of blood, at least – for once, she's concentrating on the smell of fuel and hot metal and rubber that permeates the hangar. She's also paying far more attention to filling out the form than she normally would.

There are a few too many bodybags for this to really work as a distraction, but dammit, she tries.

“This all of them?” Chief Warrant Officer Kapanadze – normally something of Trudy's ach-nemesis – is just looking queasy.


“There, uh. Aren't enough bags. For everyone.”

With a studied blankness to her voice, she just says, “I know.” Then she says, “Oi, Garcia! Remember to tell 'em that they got to sort who's who. We had to jumble them up.” In a lot of cases, just because there wasn't enough to justify an entire bag. In a lot of other cases, because they had no idea which part belonged to which other part.
'Hey, I found the Major!'

'Yeah, I think I found him, too.'

She passes the e-pad over to Kapanadze, and tries not to notice how the blood makes her fingers sticky. “Hey, Kap? Could ya do me a favour?”

He just looks at her.

“Clean all the blood off my girl?”

“Sure,” he says, and walks off without cracking any jokes. She would have felt better if he'd bitched at her. And come to think of it, she doesn't remember hearing Garcia acknowledge her order, either. Which means that she should go down to the morgue and tell the med-techs herself.

For a moment, Trudy just stands next to her Samson, clenching her fist and watching the blood on her skin.

She really doesn't want to go down to the morgue.

I will never leave a man behind.

“Fuck,” she says, softly, and then squares her shoulders to go down and do what is left of her duty to the fallen Marines.
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Trudy Chacon

November 2011

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