Calling All Lovers Of Darkfic, Grimdarks, Creepypastas, And Scary Stories! I Had Yet To See A Monthly

Whumptober 2023 - No. 8: “I’ve got soul, but I’m not a soldier.” Overcrowded ER | Outnumbered | “It’s all for nothing.”

Milo Ventimiglia as Peter Petrelli in Heroes (S04E08)

Whumpay - Day 2

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Paralytic Drug Mini Challenge 2 - Torture - Whipping Original Work - Doorway in the Sky

“It’s going to hurt.”

“Can’t be that bad, right?”

Ash frowned at Mel and sighed loudly out of his nose. “You ready then?”

Mel nodded.

Ash jumped, slammed his hands down on the table, and swept their food trays off. The hard plastic clattered loudly on the tile and the food painted the jumpsuits of the nearby people.

Mel’s wide eyes goaded Ash on.

“The fuck did you say?” Ash shouted.

Then he threw himself across the table and tackled Mel to the ground. One punch to the nose got Mel’s blood flowing. Several guards jogged over and tried to pull him off her. Soon enough, Ash felt a prick on the back of his neck, and then nothing.

He stopped wrestling Mel and reached back. There was a dart sticking out of his neck. He yanked it out and saw the yellow band about the metal casing. His lips went numb. His fingers tingled. His hands fell to his sides.

And Ash slumped to the tile floor, hitting it cheek first. It hurt like a bitch.

Mel lay beside him and met his eyes. She grinned through blood-stained teeth.

Ash would have smiled if he could. But he could not. He had been hit with the yellow banded dart. The paralytic. Oh good.

Ash’s eyes slipped mostly closed as he was hauled from the floor. He could still hear and feel everything. Plastic restraints were tightened around his wrists and ankles. Which didn’t make much sense since he was paralyzed.

Ash watched the floor flash by beneath him. His head, hanging limp, bobbed with every step the two orderlies holding him up took. Their grip on his arms hurt. But there was nothing he could do.

They were buzzed through several doors. The hallways became quieter. The floors became cleaner. Whispers all around him.

Finally, Ash was brought into an office and propped up in a soft chair. With his chin resting on his chest, all Ash could see was the plush, patterned carpet and a pair of shiny, black shoes.

Drool dripped from the side of his mouth.

“Lift her head.”

A pair of sweaty hands clamped onto Ash’s cheeks and propped his head against the back of the chair. When the orderly stepped away, Ash was looking up into the face of Dr. Palmer.

Dr. Palmer gave Ash a small smile then held up his penlight. “You know what to do, look into the light.”

He shone the light into Ash’s eyes and leaned in close.

Ash could smell coffee and disinfectant on him.

“Mmhmm, pupillary response is good.” Dr. Palmer leaned back. “Good, good. Now I’m going to ask you some yes or no questions, would you please blink once for ‘Yes’ and twice for ‘No’? Demonstrate by blinking once for ‘Yes, I understand the instructions.’”

Ash rolled his eyes towards the ceiling.

“This will go much quicker and easier if you cooperate.”

Ash blinked once.

“Thank you.” Dr. Palmer made a note on his clipboard. “Now, is your name Ashley Durham?”

Ash blinked once.

“Is your birthday the twenty-second of June?”

Ash blinked once.

“Do you know why you’ve been brought to my office today?”

Ash blinked twice.

Dr. Palmer chuckled and set down his clipboard, taking off his glasses to polish them a little with a handkerchief. “Ms. Durham, Ashley, I think you know why you’ve been brought to my office today. You were fighting. Again.”

Ash looked around the office as Dr. Palmer talked. He spotted the curtains on one wall almost immediately.

Dr. Palmer’s eyes flicked up and focused on something behind Ash’s left shoulder. He nodded. The pair of orderlies picked up Ash by the shoulders again, holding him upright in a standing position. Ash’s head fell back and he was able to see Dr. Palmer’s faint smile.

Dr. Palmer turned around, walked away, and took a cane from a stand across the room.

“Ashley, why would you want to hurt your best friend?”

Ash would have shrugged if he could. He just couldn’t move any part of his body right now, other than his eyes. And he could not help but look at the curtains again.

Dr. Palmer returned to Ash and the orderlies, brushing against the curtains as he went.

There was a flash of sunlight as the curtains rippled.

Ash drew in a quick breath and felt tears form in his eyes.

“Seeing you hurt your friend has hurt me.” Dr. Palmer stopped in front of Ash, blocking his view of the curtains.

This was Ash’s first glimpse of sunlight in months.

Months that had stretched on and on, feeling like decades. Or centuries. It has been so long since Ash had felt the warmth of sun on his skin. So long without daylight.

Dr. Palmer had a window. The only window Ash had seen in the Institute.

Ash hungered for sunlight. He felt something feral and innate rise within his belly and chest.

Dr. Palmer was still speaking.

Ash ignored him until Dr. Palmer took Ash’s chin in his hand. Warm, soft fingers stroked Ash’s cheek.

“Ashley, would you please listen to me? I want to help you.”

Dr. Palmer angled Ash’s face away from the window and towards him.

“Blink once for yes, twice for no.” Dr. Palmer’s voice dropped down to a murmur.

Ash could feel his breath on his cheek.

“Are you listening to me, Ashley?”

Ashley blinked twice.

Dr. Palmer sighed and removed his hand from Ash’s chin and wiped the drool off his fingers on the front of Ash’s jumpsuit.

“You’ve let me down. And what’s worse is that you’ve let yourself down.” Dr. Palmer stepped back and nodded at the two orderlies holding Ash.

Their grips tightened.

Dr. Palmer disappeared. Then his voice came from behind.

“This hurts me more than it hurts you.”

Ash focused on the curtain. The tiniest sliver of sunlight was poking, needle-like, through a gap.

The blow came down upon Ash’s shoulders. He heard it before he felt it.

Ash gasped and choked on the drool dribbling from the corner of his mouth.

The cane landed again on his back, a swift stinging blow. Loud as a gunshot in Ash’s ears. Bruising. The cane felt as though it were made of fire.

Another blow.

Ash heard himself groan, low and guttural.

Another blow.

Ash panted. Felt tears rolling down his cheeks.

That little finger of sunlight. Through a window. From the outside.

The last blow.

Dr. Palmer reappeared. He was saying something again to Ash but Ash had long ago tuned him out. Ash was dragged out of the office, back down the clean hallways, out of the quiet, and back into madness.

Hours later, Mel returned to their cell. The door buzzed shut and the lights out warning was given.

“Ash.” Mel whispered close to his ear.

Ash, laying belly-down on his cot, turned his head.

In the harsh fluorescent lights from above, Mel’s nose was purple and gray with bruising. One eye was blackened and swollen.

“Tell me.” Mel murmured.

Ash looked into her eyes. “I saw sunlight.”

Mel’s face crumpled into a watery smile and she kissed Ash’s forehead. “Thank you.”

“When we go,” Ash spoke so quietly he could barely hear himself.

“We go through there.”

“I’ll go with you anywhere.”

Ash turned his head away and faced the wall again. He stared at the hundreds of tally marks he had made. One for every day he had been in the Institute. “One more thing.” He whispered.

Mel’s fingers brushed gently through his hair. “What?”

The lights went out.

“Before we go, I’m killing him.”

MedWhump May - Day 1

@medwhumpmay

Under Anesthesia

Original Work - (No Title Yet)

“It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”

Cyril let out another soft groan from the backseat. Kemp risked a look back and in the shifting shadows cast by the streetlights passing by, he could see the sweat glistening on Cyril’s pale face. Kemp twisted forward again to face the road, swerving back into the correct lane.

“Cyril?” He called.

No answer.

“Cyril! Talk to me.”

“Hurts.”

“I know, I’m sorry.”

“Not-” Cyril let out a whine as Kemp took an exit at the last second. “Not your fault.” Cyril’s words were breathless, and quieter than before.

“It is.” Kemp nodded, though he knew Cyril couldn’t see him. “It is my fault.”

Silence.

“Cyril?”

Cyril moaned.

Kemp dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “Just keep pressure on it, okay?” He read the street names, looking for the right one. In the dark, they were hard to read. So Kemp had to slam on the brakes when he spotted River Street.

Cyril gasped.

Kemp winced. “Sorry.”

Kemp parked the car and hurried around to the backseat. He flung open the door and hit the ceiling of the car to turn on the interior light. Cyril lay across the backseat, his head towards Kemp and his feet braced on the opposite car door. His eyes were closed.

Kemp bent down over Cyril’s upside down face and gently patted his pale cheek. “Hey, Cyril.”

Cyril’s eyes opened. “Hey.”

Kemp could not keep the smile from his lips. “Hey.” He almost got lost in those beautiful eyes. “Hey.” He said again, relaxing a little.

Cyril leaned into Kemp’s hand, his skin cool and clammy.

“Are we there?” Cyril whispered.

“Yeah, yeah. We’re there. I need to get you inside. Is- Is that okay?”

Cyril nodded and closed his eyes. Kemp guessed that he was bracing himself for the pain. As gently as he could, Kemp gathered Cyril into his arms. Cyril managed to stay mostly quiet, but Kemp didn’t miss the soft moan that Cyril tried to hide. And he didn’t miss how Cyril’s head rested on his shoulder. Warm and heavy. It felt right.

Kemp carried Cyril up the garden path and to the front door. “Cyril?”

“Yeah?”

“Can you ring the doorbell? Hands are full.”

“Oh, right, yeah.”

Cyril reached out with a shaking hand and rang the doorbell. He left a bloody fingerprint on the button.

“Jonah.” Kemp sighed in relief when the door finally opened.

An older gentleman stood there with mussed white hair and a flannel robe. He paused for a moment then nodded. “Oh, Mr. Kemp. How can I help you?”

Kemp felt the warm weight of Cyril’s head against his shoulder again. “I need that favor.”

The gentleman stood aside and let Kemp and Cyril inside the house.

Sometime later, Kemp was hunched over the kitchen table, nursing a cup of strong black coffee. Jonah was in the back room, working on Cyril. He would fix Cyril. He would fix Kemp’s mistake. Kemp took another sip of the coffee and winced at the bitterness.

It was Kemp’s fault that Cyril was injured. All his fault.

“Mr. Kemp.”

Kemp started and stood up too fast. He steadied himself by placing a palm on the tabletop. Jonah stood in the doorway, wearing white gloves and a surgical mask pulled down around his neck. “He’s asking for you.”

“What, it’s done?”

Jonah shook his head.

Kemp hesitated a moment. What was going on? What was the problem?

Kemp ducked into the brightly lit back room.

“Cyril?”

Cyril winced and opened his eyes. He was pale and shaking and sweating. He looked terrible. “I’m sorry.”

Kemp stayed in the doorway. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t like hospitals.”

Kemp hesitated a moment, shuffling his feet. He sighed and walked over to Cyril’s side. He looked so… scared. What was wrong with him?

“This isn’t a hospital.” Kemp offered.

Cyril looked around at the equipment that surrounded the bed he lay on. “It kind of is.”

“You have to let him work. You’re hurt.” Kemp gestured to the gunshot wound in Cyril’s thigh.

“Stay with me.”

Kemp met Cyril’s eyes. He was definitely scared.

“Until I’m asleep.”

Kemp pulled up a chair and held out his hand. Cyril’s pain-etched face softened a little. Almost a smile. And he took Kemp’s hand.

Kemp held his hand until Jonah came in. Until Cyril faded out. And all through the surgery.

Russell Crowe in Mystery, Alaska

Ice pack

Merry Whump of May - Day 3

(Mystery Men - 1999)

@themerrywhumpofmay

Roy ducked into the bathroom, flung on the cold tap and splashed water on his face. It stung. Lukewarm and stale. Blood dripped into the grimy porcelain sink. Roy drank from the faucet and spat out pink water. He caught sight of his reflection in the smudged mirror. The lightbulb above flickered and blinked. He touched his cheek and winced. 

That would be a black eye tomorrow. 

The lightbulb flickered out and the bathroom went dark. 

“Ah, man.” Roy sighed, reached up, and unscrewed the dead bulb.

Bulb in hand, he pushed back out into the bar.

“Come on, Roy, chip in.” Eddie said as he counted cash out on the bar. Jeff was adding coins to the mix. The bartender was standing behind the bar, looming over them, arms crossed.

“What’s all this?” Roy slipped the dead bulb in his jacket pocket. He would tell the bartender about it in a minute.

Jeff looked back, nose crusted in blood. “We are paying the gentlemen for the damages done to his establishment in the scuffle.”

They happened to be walking by half an hour ago when they heard screaming coming from the bar. Turned out that five or so guys were robbing the place. Of course they had to step in. And it had gone the way it usually did. Badly.

But that’s what superheroes did. They tried. 

“Damages?” Roy sidled up and stuffed his hands into his jeans pocket for his wallet. “What damages? We got the guys, didn’t we?”

“Well…” Eddie started and trailed off as the bartender strode around the bar.

“Broken window?” The bartender pointed to one of the large front windows, shattered glass lying all around on the floor.

Roy frowned. He was tired, and dizzy, and sat down on a barstool. “When did that even happen?” 

“Two of them threw you through it, Roy.” Eddie supplied.

Roy nodded, then stopped, because his head hurt too much for that much movement. “Right, right.”

“Tables and chairs.” The bartender continued. HIs shouting was painfully loud. 

A table or two leaned on broken legs and a few chairs lay in pieces. 

Roy did remember falling into those. So did his back and ribs.

“And the upholstery!” The bartender pointed at one of the booths, the red leather pierced with several forks.

“That was him.” Roy pointed at Jeff. “He’s the fork guy.” “Thanks, Roy.” Jeff rolled his eyes and shoved his change across the bar. “Pay up already.”

Roy opened his sad, deflated wallet and pulled out his last few ones. “All I got.” And slapped it on the bar. “I’m going.”

And now he had no more money until payday. Great. Just great. He moved towards the door to the outside, limping a little. His knee was swollen and stiff.

The bartender blocked his path. “Uh-uh, oh no, look at this place. That isn’t nearly enough!”

Roy stuffed his hands in his jacket pockets, one hand found the dead lightbulb. His fingers wrapped around it as the bartender continued to shout.

Roy nodded a little. “I understand. I can come back tomorrow and help clean-”

He was cut off. The bartender continued to point out every bit of damage, a finger jabbed into Roy’s sore shoulder.

Roy lowered his eyes. He grit his teeth. Breathe in. His head pounded. Breathe out. His heart raced. Felt the blood leave his face. He balled his hands into fists. Pushed past the guy.

Stumbled into the alleyway. Trying to breathe. Trying to stay standing.

Rouy staggered as far as he could go and leaned against the cool, brick wall.

Finally his ears stopped ringing. Someone was talking to him. 

Roy looked up. 

“Roy, you okay?”

Eddie and Jeff stood there, Eddie’s hand on his shoulder.

“We did break quite a lot of things, but he was quite unpleasant to you, Roy. Don’t let it get to you.” Jeff was trying to scratch away the blood from his nose.

Roy just focused on breathing.

“You’re not looking so hot.” Eddie sighed. “Are you hurt?”

“A bit.” Roy panted. “Maybe. Not really. No. I’m fine. I just- You know. Yelling. I’m fine. I think I’m gonna go-” He took his hands out of his jacket pockets.

“Jesus, Roy!” Eddie exclaimed. “Oh boy, do we need to get something on that. Jeff, you got any gauze left?”

“What’s wrong?” Roy blinked slowly.

Jeff did a double-take. “Oh my lord. I’m going to be-” He retched a little. “How did you do that?”

“What?” Roy was getting annoyed now.

“Your hand.” Eddie gripped his wrist. “Don’t touch anything.”

Roy looked down at his hand.

The lightbulb.

He had gripped it so hard that it burst. Exploding into his palm and fingers. His whole right hand was covered in blood and glass splinters. Funny. He couldn’t even feel it. 

Blood pattered down onto the gravel of the alleyway. “Hospital.” Eddie ordered.

“Hospital.” Jeff gagged. 

“Ah, man.” Roy fainted.

The Greatest Showman (2017)

Whumpay - Day 1

Main Challenge - Mad Science - Strapped To An Operating Table Mini Challenge 1 - Torture - Tortured For Information Fandom - The Man from UNCLE (2015)

When the two telephone calls came, one after another with a twelve second pause in between them, Solo shrugged into his coat. Then sat back down in the armchair and looked up to the clock. Three o’clock. He would have to wait until nightfall, roughly three more hours.

Coat on, knee bouncing, and barely reading his paperback book, Solo waited the three requisite hours.

When the distant cathedral bell began to ring out six o’clock, Solo was out of his chair at the first toll, and out of the front door by the third toll.

When he stepped out into the chilly night air he forced himself to slow down, lit a cigarette, and begin a slow and circuitous route towards the dead drop.

Finally, he wandered into the abandoned brickyard. The city was quiet around him.

Ears pricked, Solo flicked his cigarette away, and crouched by a low, crumbling wall. He pulled out the specific brick. It grated pleasantly against its brothers. Solo retrieved the small package from the hollow and replaced the brick.

It was done. He straightened up.

Then the world exploded.

Bright light.

A blow to his nose. Another to a kidney.

Solo found his face pressed into the gravel of the ground. He could taste the brick dust. And the blood gushing from his nose and down his throat.

“Tie his hands.” Someone hissed.

Solo was grabbed and pulled to his feet.

The searing light was shone into his eyes again and Solo groaned. He panted around a mouthful of blood. His hands were roughly tied. Then, with a firm grip on each arm, he was frog-marched to a nearby car and shoved into the trunk.

The door was slammed shut. Complete darkness.

Moments later, the engine roared to life.

Solo caught his breath. He only had a few minutes to puzzle through this. The first order of business was to untie his hands. This was easy enough. They had made the mistake in tying them in front instead of behind his back.

As soon as his hands were free, he blindly reached out and explored the trunk’s locking mechanism as best as he could. The back of his head throbbed in time with his racing heart. The jolting car ride caused wave after wave of nausea and dizziness.

He vomited. His skull rang out, hot with agony.

Solo spat, groaned, and with shaky hands got back to work on the lock. They must have hit him pretty hard.

After a few minutes, and with the help of a lockpick he had in the lining of his coat, Solo popped open the trunk. He was careful not to open the trunk fully and eyed his surroundings. They were bouncing down an old dirt road with only trees on either side. Lovely. The middle of nowhere.

Well, no time like the present.

Solo thrust the trunk door open fully and jumped.

The guidance of 'tuck and roll' felt more like wishful thinking at that moment.

It was a whirlwind of pain.

Finally he found himself flat on his back, looking at the night sky. So many stars.

Solo rolled over and retched again but nothing came up. His head, obviously, was still very painful. He gasped for air, keening with every inhale.

The sound of screeching brakes and slamming care doors.

Shit.

The sound of boots pounding the dirt road. Towards him.

Solo tried to get his legs under him but fell, pain lancing up his left leg. He hit the ground, hard. As rough hands grabbed him again, he saw that his foot stuck out at an odd angle. Broken.

Time dilated. Solo could only focus on breathing. At one moment, he found himself in the backseat of a car, held upright between two men. The next, he was being pulled from the car, foot dragging on the ground. He screamed. And retched. His skull felt as though it would explode. Solo blacked out.

It was the grating agony of his ankle and foot that woke him. Blackness. Until Solo cracked his eyes. A dim room. He could not move.

A moment later he was a little more awake.

He was bound tightly to a table, the ceiling and it’s lone light-bulb looming over him.

The door at the far end of the room opened and two men stepped through; one was older with gray hair and rolled up shirt sleeves and the other was younger, fair-haired, and tall.

And then the questions began.

The haze of his broken ankle and throbbing skull covered Solo like a pall. He could not keep up. As soon as he understood what they were asking him, they were on to the next question. And when they did not get answers quick enough, they cut off his clothes and resorted to other methods of persuasion.

Why were you at that brickyard after dark?

They pulled a cloth over his head and drowned him in cold water.

Who planted the information you retrieved?

They put out their cigarettes on his bare skin.

Who do you work for?

They pressed hard upon his broken ankle and made him scream. They ground the bones against each other. His left lower leg was swollen and almost black with bruises.

Solo did not talk.

He fell into a stupor and woke only to pain. He wished for death. Anything but this.

Hours passed. Maybe even days. He lost track. He did not care. It was eternity either way.

So when he felt the shackles around his wrists removed and someone beginning to work on the shackles about his ankles, he lay there quietly and let them do as they wished.

He gasped when the band about his broken ankle fell off and the blood began to flow again under the bruised flesh.

A warm hand was pressed to his cheek. Gently. That was odd.

“You are awake?” A soft voice.

Maybe he had gone insane. Or maybe this was a new way to torture him.

Solo opened his eyes and saw the blurry face of Illya hovering there.

He certainly hadn’t expected that.

Solo licked his cracked, dry lips. “It’s difficult to tell.” He rasped. In the harsh light from above, Solo could see the lines about Illya’s mouth tighten.

“Come.” Illya began the process of helping Solo off the operating table. “We must go. Where are your clothes?”

Solo had begun to violently shake, his muscles cramping hard, as he tried to stand. He could not speak through the shivering and only shook his head.

Another frown from Illya.

Solo became afraid. The shivering made him ache. The room spun about him. If he was not helpful, would Illya leave him behind? If he was too slow, would Illya decide he was just too much trouble to rescue?

Solo swallowed hard against a dry throat.

Then he straightened up. He tried to still his shaking. And he only leaned on Illya for a little support. Finally, he was able to speak. “They cut them off me. They’re gone.”

Solo felt rather than saw Illya nod. “I have a blanket in the car.”

“Let’s go.” Solo hissed.

Solo had one arm across Illya’s shoulders, while Illya held Solo close to him with a warm grip on his waist. Illya’s hand on his bare, bruised skin was so warm. And gentle. Together, they limped slowly out.

Solo stared only at the floor was they went, focusing on keeping his balance and moving as fast as he could.

He didn’t want to be left behind.

The cold night air hit him and Solo suppressed another bout of violent shivers, groaning with the effort to stay upright.

“Nearly there.” Illya murmured softy, his voice rumbling against Solo’s bruised chest.

Illya sounded almost like he was trying to comfort him.

Solo heard a car door open and he was lifted inside, laid across the backseat. The door closed. Then the other back door opened, another gust of cold wind, and Illya slipped in beside Solo.

“The blanket.” Illya whispered as he laid something warm over Solo’s bare limbs.

Maybe Illya said something else. Solo wasn’t sure. His ears were ringing. And he was sinking. He was falling. He felt the warm hand on his face again. Then nothing.

Charlie Hunnam and Tom Hiddleston in Crimson Peak

Fringe S03E10 (The Firefly)

MedWhump May - Day 2

Running out of time

Fandom - The Man from UNCLE (2015)

@medwhumpmay

Solo let out a soft: “Oh.”

Illya turned.

For one weightless moment, he saw Solo listing to the side. Head drooping. A flash of eyes, whites, rolled backwards. Illya caught him. He helped lower Solo to the floor while Solo apologized over and over.

He shouldered out of his jacket and folded it. “Here.” He murmured. He reached down and placed his hand under Solo’s head. “For your head.”

Solo lifted his head and let Illya place his jacket under it.

“Thanks.” Solo said. “You don’t have to do that.”

“Yes, I do.” Illya settled beside Solo. He gently pulled back Solo’s shirt. Blood. A lot of blood. He found the wound on Solo’s side.

Solo hissed in pain. “It’s fine. Don’t-” Solo gasped and jumped as Illya pressed his handkerchief to the weeping wound.

“How long have you had this?” Illya looked away from the wound and leaned over Solo, looking into his eyes. Solo was still sweating from running earlier.

Solo averted his gaze, looking up at the ceiling instead. He smiled, but the lines of pain in his face told a different story. “Not sure.”

Keeping one hand on the wound, Illya placed his other hand on Solo’s cheek. “Solo.”

Solo still didn’t meet his eyes.

Illya stroked Solo’s cheek with his thumb. “Solo.” Illya repeated.

Finally, Solo met his gaze.

“This is a bad wound.” Illya stated, his fingers becoming wet as blood seeped through the handkerchief already.

“It’s not.” Solo panted softly. “It’s not.”

“You should not have hidden it. You just had surgery-”

“We were busy!” Solo ground out. He was paler than before.

“You are taking blood thinners!”

“I was covering you!”

Illya sighed. He got up. “I’m going to see if there’s any medical supplies.” He took Solo's hand and placed it over the wound to keep pressure on it.

Illya didn’t find much, a few band-aids, expired aspirin, and an ancient thermometer. He found some old bedsheets however and carried them back to Solo’s side.

When he returned, Solo was a few shades paler, sweat beading on his forehead. Illya held his hand to Solo’s cheek again.

“You’re cold.”

“No, I’m good. I’m good. I just need a minute to rest.” Solo murmured. His hand had fallen away from his side, no longer putting pressure. There was a small pool of blood on the floor beneath him.

Illya began to rip the bedsheets and press them to the wound. Illya piled more makeshift bandages on top. He looked back at Solo's face. His head was sagging to the side. His eyes were half closed.

“You are running out of time. As soon as you’re out, I’m picking you up and we’re going.”

Solo was deathly white. “M’fine.” He sighed.

Illya bandaged the leaking wound as best as he could with the bedsheets. He tied it as tight as he dared around Solo’s ribs.

“We are getting out of here now.”

No answer.

“Solo?” Illya looked up from his work.

Napoleon’s eyes were closed and he lay very still.

“Napoleon?” Illya reached up and pressed two fingers to the pulse point on Solo’s neck. His heart rate was quick. Much too quick.

Illya grabbed Solo and pulled him into his arms. “We’re going.”

Solo said nothing, limp and clammy against Illya’s body.