Toria, who had been watching the scene from behind the door and had recognized the boy's voice, rushed out immediately after the chaos subsided. She cast rapid, desperate glances left and right, searching for the boy. He lay on the ground, completely helpless, soaked in a pool of blood that continued to spread from his broken leg.
"My God!"
She was terrified—so much so that she began to hyperventilate, her body shaking from the intense stress. She rushed to his side. Hearing her muffled cries, Victor reacted feebly with short moans, unable to form complex words. "Ugh..."
She tried to lift him by his arms, though she struggled, finding him incredibly heavy. Squatting in front of him, she pushed off with her legs, first grabbing his arms; once his torso was off the ground, causing his blood-drenched shirt to drip onto the already stained floor, she grabbed him under the armpits. She turned toward the room where she had been hiding. Throughout it all, Victor's eyes remained half-closed. His vision was blurred by fading black spots, through which he could catch glimpses of the girl's pitying, almost tender gaze. She was sobbing, her face flushed and soaked with tears, her eyes red from previous crying, clearly terrified for his life.
From Victor's perspective, the girl suddenly seemed to stare fixedly to her right, her expression turning petrified and even more frightened. She was looking at the motionless body of the soldier, lying face-up with limbs splayed outward and head tilted completely to the right. The armor was caked in blood and gore, much like the corridor itself. Blood was everywhere—flesh, bones, entrails, torn organs.
The only thing missing was the corpse of the Ijo.
Toria laid the boy down on the same bed where she had sat to cry earlier. It was a struggle; Victor's inability to move made her actions rigid and limited. Even opening the door was a feat; she missed the handle twice and, when she finally grabbed it on the third try, she couldn't find the leverage to open it because of the viscous blood on her hands. She had to use her shoulder to shove the door open, which caused her to lose her balance for a moment, nearly falling. She instinctively leaned against the doorframe with her left hand, letting the boy slide down on that side.
"Sorry..." she sobbed, taking a sharp breath through her nose, which was stuffed from crying.
Once she had him settled, she ran back out to try and bring the soldier inside as well.
"Wait..." she whispered to the boy, even though she knew he could barely hear her.
Meanwhile, Victor remained as motionless as ever. The only thing keeping him company was a faint ringing in his ears, almost like a sweet, relaxing melody, as he stared at the white ceiling with half-closed eyes. He could feel his breaths and his heartbeat which, strangely, was no longer slowing down. It seemed static—improving, even—as if he were being held onto life.
"What is happening?" he wondered.
Eventually, the deep sound of metal scraping against the floor grew louder, though it felt muffled to him. He could hear the girl's strain as she dragged the armor, pulling it by the arms one step at a time; each step sounded like dragging a massive pile of scrap iron with a simple rope.
The veins in her neck looked ready to burst from the pressure. As soon as she managed to pull the soldier into the room, she let the body drop and let out a stifled groan of pain, massaging her forearms. She could feel her veins throbbing violently and felt the onset of cramps in her reddened, bruised hands, which were soaked in blood and the sickening, intense aroma of metal.
She locked the door again. Torn over which of the two life-threatening injuries to treat first, she grabbed the Rehabilitator mask. She first removed the soldier's helmet—which alone weighed nearly eighty or ninety pounds—dropping it to the floor. It revealed the dazed, pale face of a girl with deep, dark circles under her eyes that contrasted with her tanned skin and bobbed dark hair. Her lips were full but cracked and nearly white, and a streak of dried blood ran from her small, Greek nose, with hardened, semi-shiny red crusts visible under her right nostril.
Toria stood up to grab some wet wipes, swiping them across the dried blood with quick, hurried movements, as if she couldn't afford to care about aesthetics. Her attention was on Victor; she grabbed his wrist to check his pulse and let out a heavy sigh of relief. Finally, she pressed the iron mask firmly onto the young soldier's battered face, adjusting it as best she could, fastening the straps behind the ears and immediately activating the machine.
"Okay, I'm here, Victor!" She stood up, rushing first to wash the blood off her hands and then toward the counter behind her to grab sterile gauze, a metal rod, and clean cloths.
With Victor, she was much more precise. First, she removed his boot, setting it on the floor, and rolled up his pant leg with extreme caution. She began to press gently on the wound with the gauze, letting it soak up as much blood as possible. Then, using water and another cloth, she began to clean it, being incredibly careful not to touch the bone or the dirt inside the wound. Victor reacted slightly, letting out small moans whenever she touched a sensitive spot. Toria remained focused, her eyes still red from tears but fixed on the wound. After a few minutes, she wrapped the leg in a thick layer of soft cloth, placed the metal rod against the outside of the limb to splint it, and began to secure it with bandages.
However, she realized too late that she only had a small strip of bandage left, barely enough for a single wrap.
"No, dammit!"
Toria began to search more frantically, pulling open drawers, flinging cabinets wide, rummaging through everything. In a sudden fit of rage, she slammed one of the drawers shut with such violence that it bounced back open.
"Fuck!"
She stood there dazed for a few moments, leaning back against the counter, wiping her eyes as the tears began to fall again. A deep sense of helplessness and shame washed over her. The worst part was that she felt ashamed for even feeling that way. "I'm a pathetic medic..."
Finally, she broke down. Her crisis culminated in an almost hysterical sob, paralyzed and afraid, feeling as though she didn't know what to do or how to react. She didn't want to lose it like this, but she couldn't stop herself.
Then, a stroke of genius. Looking down at her own waist through tear-filled eyes that were soaking her pale blue shirt, she noticed her belt. Gasping at the sudden thought, she looked back at the boy's cloth-wrapped leg. She rushed toward him, yanking the belt from her pants; it got snagged, forcing her to pull harder, tearing one of the denim belt loops in the process.
Without wasting a second, she wrapped the black belt around his leg, being careful as she slid it underneath. She threaded the tongue into the silver buckle, tightening it with the utmost gentleness.
Finally, the splint was perfectly secure.
Toria collapsed to her knees right next to the boy's face.
She first leaned her cheek against his, then pulled back to look at him directly, gently stroking his hair and messing it up even more than it already was.
A strained smile—a form of self-consolation—appeared on her face, and this time she wept out of relief. Shortly after, that smile turned melancholic, as if a dark thought had crossed her mind.
She kept staring at him, her gaze a mix of hope and despair.
"Don't you dare die..."
***