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Fic: kàn wŏmen zĕnme sĭ ba
Title: kàn wŏmen zĕnme sĭ ba
Fandom: Firefly/M*A*S*H AU
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Hawkeye Pierce + two cameos!
Summary: This isn't a pristine operating room in Capital City General Hospital. It's a cave in a valley on a mid-Core agricultural world with 372 injured, dying people shoved together; no food and no medical supplies.
Count: 809 words
Notes: Written for![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
genarti (from the fic request post), who requested Hawkeye in the Firefly universe and probably had something more cheerful in mind (SORRY). Title means "let's see how we die." All Mandarin from here.
The boy who is curled into the cocoon of blankets on the floor -- and, rebel soldier or not, he is unmistakably a boy -- visibly tenses as the floor rumbles under the roar of a set of engines overhead. Hawkeye eyes him over the cracked, failing datapad screen that he's studying, and then he hands the 'pad to Jianguo with an instruction to keep an eye on the makeshift tracheal tube in #106's throat.
"Wŏ dŏng," says Jianguo, who has been assisting as well as he can with a clear head and a broken arm splinted and tucked against his body, but he fixed engines and tractors, not human beings, before the war. "I'll yell if I need you."
A distant explosion reverberates through the cavern, sending small rocks clattering and a new wave of low groans through the patients. Hawkeye's eyeballs feel as though they've been repeatedly sandpapered; the 'verse is muffled and watery, like somebody made the genius decision to wrap his head up in cotton wool, but no one is screaming in agony (hunger has quieted even the worst) or dragging dozens of new patients in. He staggers against the nearest cave wall and lets himself lean there for several seconds, despite the fact that he should be using this calm to keep trying to wave more medics for help or supplies. It's quiet; too quiet. The quietest it's been in days.
Another engine buzzes overhead. The shot that he can hear somebody take at it is uncomfortably close. The youngest patient cringes again, curling down deeper into filthy blankets, and Hawkeye pushes himself off of the rock wall.
"They fly any lower and they'll give you a haircut," Hawkeye quips conversationally, pulling a maglite out of his ragged coat pocket and crouching down beside the boy-soldier. "Pardon me; just taking a look under the hood," he says, mock-formal, and -- quick and businesslike -- he reaches out and grasps the boy's chin, tugging the skin under his eye down with his thumb. He switches on the maglite just a few centimeters from his face. "Look at the birdie."
"Mei, tāmāde húndàn!" the boy hisses, trying to squirm away, but Hawkeye has a solid grip on his face and isn't letting him go anywhere or throw an arm up to shield his eyes.
"Yī dìng. The same to you," Hawkeye answers lightly, flashing the light in his right eye, then his left. After the failure of his initial weak resistance, patient #217 lies back and lets him do it, blinking owlishly in the light. "Good news," Hawkeye tells him. "No more circling canaries in your eyes, I see."
The boy stares at him, eyes all too wide and young, and Hawkeye gently peels the bandage up off his forehead. The boy hisses but otherwise doesn't make a sound.
"And you'll be happy to hear that your head is improving by leaps and bounds," Hawkeye says. (That's a lie. It's festering. All of these open wounds are festering. This isn't a pristine operating room in Capital City General Hospital. It's a cave in a valley on a mid-Core agricultural world with 372 injured, dying people crammed together; no food and no medical supplies. It's hot and humid and stinks of rot and piss and death, and Hawkeye is covered in stiff dried blood. Patients #76 and #77 have started wheezing wet, hacking coughs.) "If a head could leap and/or bound. You'll be whistling Dixie in no time."
"That's Billy. He don't talk much," says the statuesque woman coming down through the tunnel, carrying a body over her shoulder. Her movements are quick and strong and assured, unlike the shuffling, crawling misery that Hawkeye has grown accustomed to. She's vaguely familiar, which means that she has probably brought a wave of injured here at some point in the last week; probably Billy. She still carries a gun at her hip. "Where're you puttin' new customers?"
"In the very finest empty blanket pile that you can find," Hawkeye calls, stepping over to the sergeant who has come along behind her, helping a hulking, hopping woman whose nose is twisted at the wrong angle and is missing her left leg from the calf down, the stump tied off with a tourniquet made of someone's gun-belt. Hawkeye slips his arm under the injured soldier's shoulders.
"Wŏ de tiān, a," says the sergeant, passing the bleeding rebel to Hawkeye as the female corporal and Jianguo help the other wounded Browncoat to the floor. The sergeant's face is set as he glances over row after row after row of people curled up in rags. "Got a whole lot more patients than the last time we were here. Less docs, too."
"The spoils of war," Hawkeye says, blithe and bitter at once, and he raises his hand and re-sets the patient's nose with a crunch of bone.
Fandom: Firefly/M*A*S*H AU
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Hawkeye Pierce + two cameos!
Summary: This isn't a pristine operating room in Capital City General Hospital. It's a cave in a valley on a mid-Core agricultural world with 372 injured, dying people shoved together; no food and no medical supplies.
Count: 809 words
Notes: Written for
genarti (from the fic request post), who requested Hawkeye in the Firefly universe and probably had something more cheerful in mind (SORRY). Title means "let's see how we die." All Mandarin from here.The boy who is curled into the cocoon of blankets on the floor -- and, rebel soldier or not, he is unmistakably a boy -- visibly tenses as the floor rumbles under the roar of a set of engines overhead. Hawkeye eyes him over the cracked, failing datapad screen that he's studying, and then he hands the 'pad to Jianguo with an instruction to keep an eye on the makeshift tracheal tube in #106's throat.
"Wŏ dŏng," says Jianguo, who has been assisting as well as he can with a clear head and a broken arm splinted and tucked against his body, but he fixed engines and tractors, not human beings, before the war. "I'll yell if I need you."
A distant explosion reverberates through the cavern, sending small rocks clattering and a new wave of low groans through the patients. Hawkeye's eyeballs feel as though they've been repeatedly sandpapered; the 'verse is muffled and watery, like somebody made the genius decision to wrap his head up in cotton wool, but no one is screaming in agony (hunger has quieted even the worst) or dragging dozens of new patients in. He staggers against the nearest cave wall and lets himself lean there for several seconds, despite the fact that he should be using this calm to keep trying to wave more medics for help or supplies. It's quiet; too quiet. The quietest it's been in days.
Another engine buzzes overhead. The shot that he can hear somebody take at it is uncomfortably close. The youngest patient cringes again, curling down deeper into filthy blankets, and Hawkeye pushes himself off of the rock wall.
"They fly any lower and they'll give you a haircut," Hawkeye quips conversationally, pulling a maglite out of his ragged coat pocket and crouching down beside the boy-soldier. "Pardon me; just taking a look under the hood," he says, mock-formal, and -- quick and businesslike -- he reaches out and grasps the boy's chin, tugging the skin under his eye down with his thumb. He switches on the maglite just a few centimeters from his face. "Look at the birdie."
"Mei, tāmāde húndàn!" the boy hisses, trying to squirm away, but Hawkeye has a solid grip on his face and isn't letting him go anywhere or throw an arm up to shield his eyes.
"Yī dìng. The same to you," Hawkeye answers lightly, flashing the light in his right eye, then his left. After the failure of his initial weak resistance, patient #217 lies back and lets him do it, blinking owlishly in the light. "Good news," Hawkeye tells him. "No more circling canaries in your eyes, I see."
The boy stares at him, eyes all too wide and young, and Hawkeye gently peels the bandage up off his forehead. The boy hisses but otherwise doesn't make a sound.
"And you'll be happy to hear that your head is improving by leaps and bounds," Hawkeye says. (That's a lie. It's festering. All of these open wounds are festering. This isn't a pristine operating room in Capital City General Hospital. It's a cave in a valley on a mid-Core agricultural world with 372 injured, dying people crammed together; no food and no medical supplies. It's hot and humid and stinks of rot and piss and death, and Hawkeye is covered in stiff dried blood. Patients #76 and #77 have started wheezing wet, hacking coughs.) "If a head could leap and/or bound. You'll be whistling Dixie in no time."
"That's Billy. He don't talk much," says the statuesque woman coming down through the tunnel, carrying a body over her shoulder. Her movements are quick and strong and assured, unlike the shuffling, crawling misery that Hawkeye has grown accustomed to. She's vaguely familiar, which means that she has probably brought a wave of injured here at some point in the last week; probably Billy. She still carries a gun at her hip. "Where're you puttin' new customers?"
"In the very finest empty blanket pile that you can find," Hawkeye calls, stepping over to the sergeant who has come along behind her, helping a hulking, hopping woman whose nose is twisted at the wrong angle and is missing her left leg from the calf down, the stump tied off with a tourniquet made of someone's gun-belt. Hawkeye slips his arm under the injured soldier's shoulders.
"Wŏ de tiān, a," says the sergeant, passing the bleeding rebel to Hawkeye as the female corporal and Jianguo help the other wounded Browncoat to the floor. The sergeant's face is set as he glances over row after row after row of people curled up in rags. "Got a whole lot more patients than the last time we were here. Less docs, too."
"The spoils of war," Hawkeye says, blithe and bitter at once, and he raises his hand and re-sets the patient's nose with a crunch of bone.
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Sharp and hurty in the best ways, bebe -- that last line gets me right there.
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*wibbling* Ow, ow, ow.
<3
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<3
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It's a fantastic idea and the details are outstanding. And you always make me glee with your Hawkeye voice, it's so spot on and perfect!
And just the situation! AUGH! I love how everyone is a number, because they have to be in when so many are in one stage of dead or another. It's chilling, and horrible, and gaaaah, I love it!
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And so: ow ow ow ow oh Hawkeye, and I love you, Lexieface. This is painful and laden with bitter gallows-humor in all the right ways.
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♥
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Also, ow.