Chapter Text
My eyes squinted open to harsh lighting and the clammer of people whirring past me at what seemed to be lightspeed. Memories trickle back to me the harder I stamp my consciousness into the present—I was returned to the Death Star, in the medical wing to be exact. Upon realization of my whereabouts, I balled my fists in anger and slammed them down onto the gurney I was being transported on. "IF SOMEONE DOESN'T GET ME ON THE NEXT RIDE BACK TO—"
"What you need to do is stop thrashing. You canno—'' I took a fist full of this poor boy's collar, clenching it tightly and reeling him in closer to me, our noses nearly touching. " You need to reevaluate who I am, and give it another go." I passed through my teeth. This kid was shaking like a leaf; from around us I could see that the med center was over it's capacity with resistance fighters who were flown in, wounded from battle. I sat up a bit, noticing my left leg was messily covered in scarlet soaked bandages, blood seeping through the cracks.
As I craned my neck to sit up, a sharp pain spread across my rib cage the longer I stayed in the position. I wheezed, slamming back down onto the bed and groaning. I assumed it was broken. I fell further into my pool of frustration the further we made our way into the sea of people, putting distance between myself and where I needed to be.
"I'm s-so sorry Major... Major, uh-" the boy stammered, unable to recall my name, maybe not the brightest star in the sky. No older than 17 I assumed; A kid, a kid bandaging up the wounded in the med center. I could not ascertain if he always had a stutter, or if I was just making him nervous.
Stepping back into my senses, a smidge, I waved my hand dismissively and motioned to my leg. I understood I was wounded, from my right knee down had steadily grown numb, and I genuinely couldn't remember the sequence of everything that had gone down on Exodeen. All I did know was that I felt weak, and I loathed the feeling. I grit my teeth as we came to an abrupt stop in a small, but private room. My head lolled around on my shoulders, feeling much heavier than it usually did.
"Why hasn't this major received blood yet?" A short, tanned nurse yelled out. Med staff in a team of three stormed out of the room and I stifled a laugh at their eagerness. Quick sets of hands went to work on the underside of my leg where it had been slashed by the electric current of an electro staff, the incident slowly coming back to me the more I felt the palpitations from the wound.
I winced and turned my head the opposite way, desperately focusing on the details of the ceiling, keeping away the thought of hot sticky blood seeping into the bed sheets below.
I started to feel a bit woozy as Chief of staff, presumably, walked through the door with a worried expression staining his face, not the kind of look I had anticipated. My blood rolls to a simmer, but I focused on my breathing and awaited any form of good news that could possibly come my way.
Two women helped shift me to lay onto my stomach on the bed so they could get to work on the back of my leg. I writhed with pain as my ribcage rested on the cushioned bed, my body weight pressing directly onto it. I curled my toes with anticipation, waiting for the ache to be numbed by whatever they'd give me.
"Major Arkin, your wound seems to be pretty deep. But , nothing we haven't seen." Like clockwork, a frazzled nurse came in with an IV, running alongside of me to hook it into my wrist. She stands beside my shoulder, her fingers kept busy as she flicks the bag full of fluids, adjusting the tube so the drug would be administered seamlessly. Her eyes do not find my own, it seems as if she's looking everywhere else but at me. "My main cause of concern is the area in which you were slashed. The weapon has sliced through some major ligaments and nerves." This was lost on me, as much as I knew I wouldn't be sent back on the next fighter to Exodeen, I didn't want to hear it—that's what would make it real, something I couldn't ignore. Once I accepted it, there was nothing to be done to change it.
"When can I leave?" I asked flatly, fixing my eyes on the wall before me, wishing to view beyond it, in a different star system, peeking into a room that wasn't this one. Maybe one where I wasn't down for the count. I earned a sigh from this man; probably mid forties, maybe older. The somber look on his face made it difficult to discern an accurate age.
"Not any time soon, Major. There is no kind of fight that would be feasible on that leg, in your condition."
A steady warmth grew in the pit of my stomach, stretching up my torso and pooling into my chest, clouding my senses as well as all willingness to respond in an aptly manner. The wheels on the hospital-grade bed I was laying in started to squeak against the tiled floor below, as my arms tremble at my sides. "You patch me up like your life depends on it—lest I make it your reality.” I gasped, the words spilling from my lips, when they should have been left to die on my tongue.
The doctor shook his head at me, almost like a disapproving father when they have heard their insolent child utter something disrespectful. He did not seem intimidated by me for even the shortest second, my stomach dipping down and sinking to new depths at my own actions.
"That temper serves you no good here, Margot . You are lucky, compared to your fallen students, to walk away from this with your life." He directed toward me, sternly. He takes a good moment to hold my gaze before turning on his heel to pass through the doors. My mouth grows dry as I sit in the aftermath of my attitude, unable to leave as I would have in any other situation. The walls around me almost felt like they were closing in—I suppose this was my own form of atonement, having nothing else to do but sit and stew, lamenting over my poor choice in wording, cursing my temper.
I was certain I could feel my blood go cold in embarrassment. Letting my shoulders slump, I relaxed my jaw for good once recognizing the taste of blood mixing with the saliva in my mouth. It was all too quiet in the small room that myself, and five other medical staff were occupying. It felt too surreal, being in my condition in this room while chaos ensued outside, as well as on the battlefield of Exodeen a handful of parsecs away.
I wanted to know the face of whoever had struck me down so carelessly, instead of doing the job right and killing me when they had the chance. Whoever wounded me did not want me dead, they wanted me to hurt . I wanted so badly to know what kind of sounds they would make if I clamped down on their neck, squeezing the life out of them. Most trader's faces could fall flush with color in under a minute and a half, give or take. I wanted, needed to see how quickly my enemy's face could turn a deep blue, deeper than the depths of any sea.
For a moment I thought about some of my students that trained under me. Even though I had made it a personal goal not to become too close to them, I did . During our time on Exodeen I had seen many fall wounded, or slain by the hands of those who refuse to accept the First Order; It was lofty not to become choked up when musing toward how many more have fallen in my absence. Was there anyone looking for me? Were the ones that carried me to the ship still alive? Why am I still alive, while so many have died for me?
Amidst a few tears that welled onto my waterline, I placed a hand on the shoulder of the boy from earlier, who I had scared half to death. He was wrapping up my abdomen and rib cage with a thick Bacta-material. I lean to my opposite side, giving him more space to work with. Timidly, his hand forms flatter against my skin, in a way, less afraid than before to lend me a helping hand. "Thank you." I mentioned lightly, earning a nod from him. I had no strife with the boy, no true reason to have treated him so poorly as soon as I had awoken. There was no use for anger, not when I had just been supplied with an ample amount of down time, more than I would ever be comfortable with.
As badly as I wished to the maker that some kind of divine power could overcome me, healing me of my injuries to grant me permission to fight on, it wasn't achievable. I would have to wait this out, as many before me have. Getting better meant that I needed to keep focus, and stick to a routine, to ensure there would be no possible chance of being perceived as weak, debilitated or nonessential. To avoid circling the drain, the best course of action would be to put my best efforts to use, spending my time wisely as I healed.
This was all completely achievable—nothing could stand in my way.