Lost Count

Realization

Heavy breaths, harsh wheezing from below him. Pavel's left arm ached with the weight it was carrying. The dim lights of the station barely made things visible, so he tripped often over discarded things on the floor as he ran. The other three men with him stared straight ahead, in that characteristic fierce determination of the Spartan Rangers.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Not like this, not now. Artyom was immutable, strong and invincible. He couldn't be hurt by those who dwelled on the surface; he was too smart for that! I should have gone with him... The hand that held the pole of the stretcher shook.

Artyom looked so small now, trapped in the confines of the protective suit used by Stalkers. Curled in on himself in pain, getting jostled every so often by a sharp turn.

The crowds of people at VDNKh moved aside for the procession of soldiers as they ran through the station, stretcher cradled in the center. They whispered among themselves when the men barreled through. Mostly talk of Artyom and his condition. Mostly talk of his trips to the surface.

"It was only a matter of time..."

"Not surprising at all..."

"There's the hero now..."

Pavel's throat closed up and he gritted his teeth at their words. He resisted the urge to drop the stretcher and punch the nearest person who dared to disrespect the injured man being ferried through their station. But that wasn't what Artyom needed. What Artyom needed now was to get to the doctors, not more violence. Pavel was one of four men, at the back right corner and supporting some of Artyom's weight.

His chest was twisted in panic at the sight of Artyom's wounds. There was a lot of blood. Artyom had protectively shielded them from the station's eyes, holding at his stomach and side with hands covered in blood. The four men carrying him also created a barrier that made him unable to been seen very well. But it was clear that he was injured very gravely. Pavel couldn't look at him for long before focusing back on the road in front of him. I can't see him like this...

"I can't believe this, Damir! Artyom can usually handle himself up there," A man holding the front of the stretcher said to the other beside him, talking amongst themselves as they made their way to the hospital. 'Damir' shrugged his shoulders as well as he could and responded:

"Artyom isn't immortal, man."

Pavel had the feeling that was something he needed to learn as well.

~*~

Artyom was almost as pale as the bandages around his midsection. He looked incredibly fragile, lying there with his eyes shut and lips parted around uneven breaths. Pavel sat next to his bedside on a small stool, keeping watch on his friend's condition. He bounced his leg and linked his hands together to prevent them from shaking. Still weak from the transfusion.

The small bandage around his arm itched uncomfortably.

Artyom had a blanket covering his lower half for decency, but his torso was left uncovered for easy access to the bandages around his middle. He hadn't bled through them yet, and his bare chest rose and fell shakily. Pavel's eyes were drawn to his left shoulder, where a scar rested from an old wound. From his bullet at the Red Square. His stomach roiled and churned with regret; he had marked Artyom.

Pavel deserved every scar he got from the Ranger.

"How is he?" A man poked his head through the sheeting that separated Artyom from the other patients. Pavel recognized him as Duke, one of the Rangers who helped carry Artyom to the hospital of VDNKh. He walked over and stood over Artyom, looking down at him with barely-concealed worry.