A Guide To Medicine and War

Two

They were standing outside by the time the old troops came. With nothing to do, for once, they had been chatting with one another, the occasional wheezing laugh from Dream or Tommy causing the others to glare. Neither of them particularly cared though, because they were happy.

And then they saw them.

Twenty some soldiers stumbling in screwed up formation, weapons scuffed and faces black. Not all of them had helmets, and most were bloodied in some form. The commander looked to be a man with green hair, holding a trident tiredly.

Dream stops mid wheeze while making kissy faces at George, and jogs over.

"Sir," the commander acknowledges, his troop moving into a slightly better form behind him.

"Commander," Dream replies, sharp in the way that begs of information. The commander simply nods and releases his soldiers, who immediately stumble towards them.

They try to listen to the conversation, but they don't get much except a warning.

"Hey! Where's your medic?" One of the battered soldiers yells, her uniform unbuttoned and bloody. Tommy jogs over under Purpled's watchful eye.

"I am, ma'am," he says, moving his arm under the woman's arm and helping her sit against one of the barracks. Purpled trails after, leaning against a beam. The woman pats the space next to him, her hair black and dusty. She looks older, kind but with harsh eyes, ready to fight at any second.

"What's your name?" She asks, giving him a weak smile.

"Tommy Innit, and yours?"

"Puffy."

"Pog."

"What?"

"Ignore him, ma'am, he was dropped a few times as a child. I'm Purpled," Purpled chimes, smirking when Tommy growls.

"I was no—actually that's probably true, Purps, good call."

Puffy looks bewildered by the two of them, but has an amused look in her eyes. "Tommy, you're going to need to lose the insignia. And the mask."

"What?" Tommy asks, quick to his anger. Another person who believes he can't be a medic, can't save lives.

"It's not you, Tommy. Our troop had five medics, and I'm the only one who remains. The Syndicate targets the medics,"

"Why would they target the medics?"

"Even with everyone's three lives, losing one is traumatic. The less medics on the field, the less help and the less likely for more soldiers to sign up, or even to stay on the field. That cross on your helmet and your arm are targets, as is the mask."

"Imagine targeting medics," Tommy snarks, grinning slightly.

"Tommy, just do it," Purpled says, taking a knife out and flipping it in what looks intimidating but is actually a result of nerves.

"Fine, bitch. Not you, Cap, I mean Grape boy over there."

"Cap?"

"Am I at least a good grape?"

"Only the best, Purps, only the best," Tommy responds, struggling slightly with his mask, as it's caught behind his ears. Purpled and Puffy share an amused look as Tommy shoves his head between his knees and claws at the mask.

Eventually, Tommy stands with the mask pushed over his eyes like a bandanna, a giant grin on his face. "Voila, bitches!" He shouts, eyes darting around, as if scared of the reaction. Being scared is perfectly fair, considering his nose just under where the mask had covered has a massive, twisting scar, as well as a second scar gouged in his cheek.