SOJOURNER (III): tmr gally

We didn't though, and that's on us

Leo Short

"You got lucky," the doctor shines the light away from my eye, stepping back. I blink rapidly as I try to adjust to the lighting in this small room. I lean forward, trying to make out the rough metal flooring beneath me.

My hands crinkle the rough white paper which covers the seat beneath me. Even though I know it is there to prevent the patient after me from contracting any diseases which I carry, I can't help but feel like the doctor is trying to sterilize the room from me specifically.

I still feel nauseous, so I try not to think about this doctor's roll in WICKED. How long has he been with the organization? Is he a general practitioner, or primarily a researcher? Perhaps, maybe, he is a mortician. They've got to have at least one of those employed here, given the survival rate.

I try not to calculate it. If I wanted to spend some time thinking about the dead, I'd rather it be at a funeral than in such a clinical way.

Is this doctor responsible for all the deaths? Even though he had no weapon, is his compliance enough? I certainly feel responsible. Does he?

"No concussion," he notes, observing my head, "which is better than anyone else I've seen. I didn't think you'd be able to take a beating, Miss Da Vinci."

So, he has at least some background information on me. Perhaps I once studied underneath this stranger. It would explain why my medical knowledge is better than nothing.

I want to ask him how long he has been watching me, but I don't think I want to know the answer. Instead of letting any question of mine into the sterile air, I slide my dirty clothes off the paper. The doctor doesn't stop me from pulling back the curtains and walking out.

Newt sits on one of the only chairs in the wing. Dawn is gone, even though she was here just a minute ago. I take a step closer to Newt, my feet moving delicately across the ground. He doesn't look up from his hands. They wring tighter and tighter around each other.

I reach next to him, kneeling down. He snaps his head back, staring at me. It takes a second for him to soften.

"You startled me," he offers, his voice low.

I take a hand, placing it on his. In turn, he leans his head against mine, still sitting in my chair. My legs strain to hold myself up, but it doesn't bother me too much. In fact, it's more than worth it.

"Will he be alright?" I ask, even though I know I don't want to know the answer. Because, he probably will be. I mean, he might have such bad damage that his hand is inoperable, but I doubt he'll have a disease, and if he was going to bleed out we would know by now.

"He's resting," Newt offers. "Dawn is in with him."

I teeter against him. He squeezes my hand tighter, holding me to him. I can feel drops of water in my hair. Newt sniffs. I move, looking up to him. With my other hand, I wipe a falling tear off his cheek.

"What are we going to do when we land, Lee?" He asks, his face breaking. "What are we going to bloody do?"

I grab his back, pulling him in closer to me. His body shakes, tears rolling down on my shoulder.

He can't just expect me to lead him through this. I have only known how to follow, and I don't know where I am going without him.

Dawn Short

The blankets, only spotted with blood, cling on to Minho as he sweats. The white bandages, a deep red soaked through, cover the stiches the doctors gave him. All that matters to me is that he is alive. I run my fingers through his air. His eyes flutter open. Klunk, I didn't want to wake him. I just wanted to watch his chest rise and fall. I wanted proof he lived.