Chapter Text
The world is dark.
Pitch-black-in-the-middle-of-the-night dark.
These kind of new moon nights had never been your favorite - when the darkness is thick enough to cut with a knife, when the order comes to extinguish all lights in case the Nips and their wretched Kamikaze pilots are here and it’s just you and your naked fear rubbing shivering shoulders against each other in your cot.
Your cot. Which is moving.
Not in the way it's supposed to move, not at all like it usually does. You'll need to have a word with little Richardson again for steering the ship all wrong.
(God, you hate rookies.
And nights like these.
Especially nights like these.)
You swear you can taste blood in your mouth. It wouldn’t be the first time you've bit your tongue too hard in the tight embrace of your fear.
God damn, it's cold.
Brutally so.
You're used to freezing temperatures, you’ve grown up with New York winters during the Great Depression for fuck’s sake, but this cold is -
Unfamiliar.
Odd.
It comes from… from inside of you. Chilly fingers creeping through your veins and up your spine - no, down from your neck, along your arms - wave after wave of spiky goosebumps trailing in its wake...
Your muscles are shivering and shaking, fervently trying to keep you warm, but this cold is too intense, too wet, too … deep inside your bone marrow to care about the feeble power of your muscles.
You hate what new moon nights do to your body, to the part of your brain that still cowers before fear and refuses to be beaten into submission. The part of your brain possessed by the ghosts of Iwojima, the part of your brain -
(You will not think about Iwojima.
You never do.)
The odd quality of the cold nudges at the fringes of your consciousness, playing hide and seek with your brain, whispering words you can’t make out. It makes your brain itch to pick this damn situation apart, to dig through this sensation and put that sense of uneasiness at the back of your mind at rest because what if -
What if something is wrong?
Even more wrong than being one of those godforsaken Sardines wedged into this metal can you call a ship, being steered by that idiot Richardson.
You need to move and check, take a look where all of this cold is coming from, just to be sure. Iwojima taught you that the hard way.
(But that is another thing you will never think about again.)
You reach out with your right arm to -
You reach - you try to reach and move and -
And you can't.
None of your muscles, which normally so reliably ensure that your body opens its eyes and moves like a body should, seem to respond to your command.
Not a single one.
Huh.
You try again, harder this time; squeezing your eyes shut even more as you shout at your body to fucking move already.
Nothing.
Except…
There is something inside your chest, something heavy and hot that clamps around your ribcage in a tight grip.
You take a closer look -
- and almost get burned by an angry thing inside your chest.
It sits there, hissing and spitting and -
You.
Can't.
Move.
The strangeness of it all flies above your head once more, just out of reach, making a tinny hissing noise as it passes you.
A sliver of panic follows in its wake, bouncing off your temples before jolting through your bones, tissues and organs, electrifying your insides for just a second only to leave you again in the icy darkness, with your body tingling numbly, pulsing erratically in the red light of that angry thing in your ribcage...
Something is not right.
You’ve already observed enough reasons to warrant a good panic and the tingling numbness in your limbs intensifies sharply as you realize that you… you should probably be more worried about all of this.
(There shouldn't be something white-hot and angry forced into your rib cage.
Your chest is only big enough to contain your organs - you’ve seen enough rib cages split open to know that there is no space for your organs and the anger and all this cold. If your ribcage had indeed been split open, if there was truly an angry thing scrabbling for purchase on your bones, surely you would then be considered the next mercy killing?)
The strangeness of it all nudges against your skin yet again, dancing a little jig on your nose, jumping out of reach before you can grab and shake it to finally make sense of this experience.
You force your eyes open to improve your aim, but the strangeness is …
...not there.
Goosebumps scurry over your skin like lice.
You squint, focussing with all your might on the blurry picture in front of you.
The strangeness is not there, but you are.
Laying on your cot.
You can see yourself clearly, laying stock still, white as a sheet - you almost resemble a corpse.
But that's impossible, and you know because you are obviously still here and not dead like little Johnny or old Albert or even that idiot Henry. None of them are here anymore - the Nips in Iwojima saw to that.
The cold crescendos to a sharp sting behind your sternum.
Right, no thinking about little Johnny and old Albert then.
(The smell of sulfur and burning flesh erupts in your nasal passages anyway.)
You give focusing on your eyesight another try because at least your body is responding to some of your commands now. Everything is still a bit hazy, but you could swear that there are people moving about at the periphery of your vision.
Their movement starkly contrasts with your stock-still, colorless corpse.
Something cold crawls uneasily through your pelvis as the words materialize again in your head.
(Colorless…
Corpse…)
Shouldn't you be moving too? Shouldn't your body be out there, moving and acting and shouting bullshit orders like you always do? New moon nights so close to the Nips usually require that. Shouting is always better than shitting yourself.
(And you would give a limb to erase those particular memories once and for all.)
At least the angry thing inside your chest is moving judging by the up and down of your chest.
You are inexplicably relieved by this piece of information.
A moving ribcage is a living ribcage, you tell yourself.
You try to open your eyes again, just to be sure, a triumphant grin flickering at the back of your mind as your body appears below you again like it did before.
Your eyes are still obeying you - good.
But it's hard to see properly; black spots materializing randomly, restlessly in your field of vision.
And then there is that red spot on your chest, right where the angry thing has made itself at home.
The color jostles something inside you, igniting another sliver of panic at the base of your spine. It flashes through your shivering muscles, sinking its teeth into your collarbone, making the goosebumps on your skin itch.
What is that red stain doing on your chest?
The coloring of the stain looks all too familiar, almost like…
It looks almost like old Albert right when he got shot.
Fuck.
(And there goes your second limb to the Gods of amnesia.
But they say that you never forget the first death you witness in combat, so maybe you will keep this limb.
And maybe you should focus on something else.)
You need to distract yourself.
Looking back down, a new thought arises.
This is not your cot.
In fact, it does not even look like a cot.
Sure, it has your pale, corpse-like immobile body on top of it.
But you are abruptly hit with the absolute certainty that this is definitely not your cot.
In fact, it might not even be your ship?
The strangeness is back: cackling madly in your ears, ramming your heart into your ribcage, hard.
You could have sworn it yelled something, but it is unintelligible and you can’t focus now, because you’ve just realized: shouldn’t you be suffocating if something angry is crouching on your lungs?
And if you are not on your ship... whose ship are you on?
If this is a nightmare, it’s not one to end well.
(Or maybe…
Maybe it doesn't end at all.)
The uneasiness that had been crawling beneath your skin explodes into fiery ants scattering everywhere, biting into your skin, transforming uneasiness into blank panic.
(The image of old Albert reappears in front of your inner eye - no, no, NO!)
Jesus, you wish you could focus for a moment, just one moment! But the cold and the ants and the angry thing and old Albert -
OW!
For fuck's sake!
The angry thing has brought a friend: something - or someone - continuously pounding a baseball bat into your sternum, pain now cascading through your body in jittery, jagged waves.
Your vision flickers even more than before; the image of old Albert and his pale corpse is pushed to the periphery of your memory as your body’s being set on fire.
(You don't even notice the smell of burning flesh anymore.)
Through your haze of pain, an echo of the past rises at the back of your mind - you know this move. It's not the best to do with fists 'cause it makes your knuckles hurt something awful. With a baseball bat on the other hand… There is only so much brutal force a sternum can take and you ready yourself for the sounds of splintering bones, for cries of pain.
Your pain.
But your opponent’s even more of a rookie than little Richardson ‘cause they’re butchering this whole thing up. Maybe you’ve already been caught by the Nips? Okinawa hasn’t been won yet - maybe one of those half-starved youths got a hold of you?
Nothing splinters, and you don’t cry out in pain. But the repetitive, brutish pounding on your sternum continues, beating a hole into your lungs.
Something is wrong - horribly, terribly wrong! The sweat on your clammy skin starts to burn, the ants under your skin multiply again by thousands - a network of moving, acid spitting panic encasing your body -
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
What are you going to do, what are you going to do?!
Mother Mary, maybe looking down was better than closing your eyes again after all - but the angry thing is making it so damn difficult to focus and God help Johnson and the rest of the crew for shouting all the time, waving about with their flashlights, their bright white strips of light punching your retinas even through your eyelids. They should know better than giving your position away so easily, Kamikaze fighters are no jokes, and these stupid lights are giving you a migraine.
Maybe you’re in an interrogation room after all; you've heard of torture with drugs and light and even with insects. And you have seen -
(- no, you are not going there. You are never going there!)
As if cued by the monsters in your memory, the ants under your skin scatter into all directions again, your skin tightening sharply around your body and -
- you can’t breathe.
If only the angry thing went away, if only this incompetent Nip and his baseball bat could stop hitting you for just a moment so that you can -
Huh.
Baseball.
You used to play that game.
With little Charlie and Bobby and - and James down at the block, next to -
A scream rises and gets stuck in your throat; a gurgling, wet, desperate sound; the angry thing inside your chest has grown a knife, an awful, searing hot knife, stabbing it mercilessly into your flesh again and again - you want to claw at your chest and make it stop, make it stop - but the baseball bat must have broken all your bones because you can't move, your body’s caked in lead and rock and ants and you can't even feel where your hands should be, it's too cold, fuck, fuck, fuck!
This is wrong, all of this fucking wrong! You need to talk to Thomas and smack him over the head for tampering with your drink again. You've told him about a million times already that you don't want to take this weird shit the Nips take before their Kamikaze flights or this savage Seppuku ritual - one trip to hell while being fully conscious was enough. This is so much worse than the first time, so so much worse - Christ, can't Richardson learn how to steer a ship properly?
Your oath of revenge to that cowardly Thomas is the last thing you cling onto before something heavy falls onto your eyelids, finally shoving you roughly into the open arms of unconsciousness…
Until someone rips your eyes wide open - the knife’s back! - its grown siblings, and they’re throwing around hot, burning pieces of charcoal like little James once did by accident - he’d nearly burned Aunty Mary's favorite carpet into a heap of ash - but you don't understand, why hadJames spilled the charcoal? why is Aunty Mary beating you for this? None of this is making sense! And where are your comrades, why are you so alone in the cold?
Panic is shooting up your spine in waves, a grey, ugly flower of it blooming in your chest next to the angry thing with the knife, dodging burning pieces of charcoal, sprouting thick, ashen vines, winding tightly around your ribs, your lungs, your heart, jabbing a thorny finger through your stomach up into your throat - you gag and cough, waves of icy hot shivers making your bones dance - you can’t open your eyes anymore! - the angry thing has taken away all the air, black spots dancing on the edge of your vision, you need to open your eyes, you need to see Aunty Mary and Gam Gam, why are they doing this? Who is interrogating you? You try to open your mouth wide and gulp in some precious air but the angry thing, the knife, no space, no air, too cold, too - what is happening?
“We’re losing him!”
A blinding flash of light, something pressing down onto your rib cage again and again - no, no, no, it hurts, it's fucking tearing you apart right where the knives are still stabbing. Aunty Mary, please, I promise to be good, I promise!
WHAM!
You fall.
WHAM!
You give up.
A tsunami of unconsciousness towers over you, swallowing your pain, your panic, the angry thing and its baseball friend.
You’ve always known your ship was in danger of being sunk by that damn Japanese force of nature. You only wished Thomas hadn't tampered with your drink. You’ve never been one for drowning and maybe you could've saved yourself if he hadn't been such a backstabbing coward.
But you'll save that rage for another day. Water is all around you and maybe drowning isn't too bad, your body finally mercifully quiet, your comrades still shouting incoherent bullshit…
… you'll help them later.
"I promise, Gam Gam.”
~~~
Silence trickles into your consciousness.
It drip-drip-drips into your ears - not too loudly, more like a continuous stream of transparent goo collecting somewhere between your ears and your brain.
It’s odd.
The more you become aware of it, the odder you feel. Your head must be full of the stuff by now, no wonder it's so heavy.
Something warm is touching your hand. And your forehead.
It’s nice.
Nice enough to forget about the goo.
Maybe it will go away if you sleep a bit more.
~~~
You would’ve liked to say that you woke up refreshed and ready to face the day, but Gam Gam didn't raise no liar, so you turn to reality and the fact that your stomach is trying to pour out as much acidic emptiness up your throat as possible. But its path is blocked by your tongue, a tongue that's at least thrice its normal size, a dried up slug glued to the roof of your mouth, your eyes bulging even through your closed eyelids because it's too much, too big, too dry, you’re going to suffocate.
“Hrrgh! Hrrgh!”
It's just too big, why isn't it moving? Fuck, somebody help, help! But no words are forming on your raw and cracked tongue, only miserable hisses escaping your throat -
“HRRGHH!”
A hand takes hold of the back of your neck and supports your head, something small and hard pushes into your mouth and you almost suffocate again as water fills your mouth, your sluggish tongue bucking like a rodeo bull for a long, horrifying second before your brain finds the right gear and you manage to swallow.
You drink and drink, swallowing greedily, the hot claws of panic and confusion soothed by the relief the water brings, enough for you to lay back down and breathe.
Breathe.
The air has never tasted so sweet.
There isn't as much breath as there should be and it hurts - fucking hell, it hurts - but your tongue isn’t killing you anymore and everything else will have to wait because sleep is back again and her embrace is just too tempting.
You lean into it, the last thing you notice is the warm, comforting hand leaving your neck.
It confuses you, why is it leaving, why can't it stay?
Your own hand twitches in a feeble attempt to reach out, but you're not even sure it is moving because you can't see it and maybe you don't even have a hand anymore.
Sleep starts to sing softly to you, a warm baritone forming words, and you let go.
Maybe the hand will come back next time you're there.
~~~
“You’ve got to go, Daniel, please. You haven't slept in three days, I’m begging you to -”
“And how about you? Have you slept? Can you look me in the eye and tell me, Scout’s honor, that you’ve slept even a single night since all this has happened?”
“I wasn’t ever a scout.”
“Not the goddamned point, Peggy.”
Peggy…
And Daniel…
The conversation goes on, something about an assassin and files and mistrust and fear -
Peggy!
Daniel!
Carter and Sousa!
Opening your eyes is an act of Herculean proportions. The room is too white and the light is making you regret ever having been born, and you doubt that you have much time before you have to close your eyes again.
Blinking against the tears forming in the corners of your eyes, you scan the room with as little muscle movement as possible.
“Hrrgh!”
“He's awake! Quick, where’s the water?”
The warm hand is back on the back of your neck and your heart does a confused somersault as you realize that the hand is attached to Daniel Sousa of all people.
You drink the water.
You stare.
You drink some more.
Time to test your too big tongue.
“wwh - wwhh?”
“Shh, it's alright. Drink some more water, here.”
Fuck that, you don't want more water, you want -
“Whattiss - what’s going'n?”