Titans

[10] Merc

The Genesis [04:12]
Location: Unknown

"She's not dead, is she?"

I look up from Atara, where my hand is pressed onto her shoulder. Even with the pressure, blood still seeps through her clothes, running over my fingers. My hands are shaking.

"Not dead," I tell the boy through gritted teeth. The torch light makes his face look hollowed-out and ghostly. "Dying. She's unconscious."

The second figure approaches, her hair flashing like a dark star as it glances off the light. My eyes burn with anger as she comes to stand beside the boy. Her face is infuriatingly blank with unseeing eyes that stare at Atara, lying just a metre from her feet. Were it not for the steady flow of blood pulsing beneath my fingers, I'd already have launched myself at her.

"I–" she starts, "I'm sorry." Her voice is devoid of emotion.

I blow up at her. "You're sorry? You're sorry?! She was unarmed and moving towards you because she thought you could help us and you just shot her! She might die because of you, and all you have to say is I'm sorry? What–"

"Hey, hey," the boy says reasonably, stepping between us as my words die in my throat, "we need to fix up your friend. She's already lost too much blood."

I scowl. "You think I don't know that?" I look back down at Atara, at the blood seeping through her clothes. At her face, which I'm finally seeing for the first time –

Pale skin smudged with dirt and glinting with sweat. A small nose ending in a blunted tip. Almond shaped eyes enclosed by fluttering lids and long pale brown lashes. Her hair is long and dirty blonde, strands of it sticking to her face, and her pink lips are slightly parted as she sucks in shallow, rattling breaths.

I know I haven't met her before – or at least, I don't remember having met her before – but her appearance is instantly familiar. Unplaceable, but still familiar.

I hold my free hand against her cheek and rub away a line of dirt under her eye. "I will fix you," I whisper, before raising my head to look at the two before me.

"I need bandages," I say, my voice thick with emotion. When neither movies, I draw on my strength and command, "Now."

"We don't have any bandages," the boy says.

"Then find some fabric. Anything. Rip it off your shirt if you must, just get something to tie up this wound with."

There's muffled speaking and the sound of something being torn behind me. Beneath my hand, I can feel Atara's pulse growing weaker and weaker and something inside me panics. "Hurry!" I urge, and then a wide strip of khaki cloth is being shoved into my hands. Without thinking, I start to wrap it around the shoulder wound, looping it down under her arm and pulling it tight. I tie the ends together, my breath leaving my mouth in short pants.

Straight away, the blood starts to seep through the fabric and I curse. "This isn't going to hold for long. We need something thicker."

"A jacket?"

"No, that won't do anything. We need proper medical equipment, dammit!" I slam a fist down onto the dusty ground.

The two teens around me are silent. I pull myself together, focusing on steadying my racing heart. Unsaid words hang in the air, but no one dares speak them. It doesn't matter anyway. We all know: unless the universe hands down a miracle, Atara won't live out the hour.