Hanging by a Thread

Posted on Thu May 5th, 2011 @ 1:29pm by Captain Nathan Cowell MD & Lieutenant JG Paul Akron

Mission: Renegades
Location: Various
Timeline: Following 'Breaking Bad'

Colors... Shapes... Tones... Pitch... None of it was making sense. The world had blurred and coalesced into a mass of chaos the likes of which could not be readily made sense of. Flashes of light, sounds indistinguishable from one another, indecipherable from the cacophony raging inside his head... Ensign Paul Akron wasn't entirely sure that he was really even still alive. The last really solid images that he still clung to were scenes of horror. The Major... the Major stood before him, her head split nearly in two, her eye... gone! Why was it gone?! What had happened?! Paul couldn't even remember what had happened anymore!

Reality was slipping away from the young Ensign as he lay in a pile of rubble, his life's blood slowly draining from his body. Was he doomed? Was he going to die in this place? Had he already passed on? Was this the 'Hell' that he had often heard his grandparents ranting about? He could hardly call it paradise...

And then he heard it... a voice... It wasn't like the other sounds that had been assaulting his weary mind. It had form, it had purpose, and it had... authority... Despite himself, Paul grew more hopeful at the sound of it. He knew that voice! He knew the sound of it, the feelings it conjured up inside of him when it permeated his mind. He felt the unorthodox mixture of elation and fear that the tone and pitch of it inspired in him. If only he could remember who...

"Over hear, dammit! We have a live one!" were the first distinguishable words that Paul heard. Then the sounds, clear sounds, of debris being pulled to the side, tossed away to make room for someone's approach.

"Ensign!"

More words... a name... no... a title... his title! The voice was calling for him! But Paul couldn't move... his limbs would not answer him, his own voice would not come. It was immediately frustrating that he could not answer that voice, couldn't respond to his savior.

"He's lost a lot of blood..." the voice informed someone... was it him? No... why would that voice be telling him that? Paul already knew that he'd lost a lot of blood; it seemed almost obvious now as he started to feel the chill running through what parts of his body that would still respond to his will. There must have been others...

"Get that stretcher over here; get him to Sickbay as fast as you can. I'll be right behind you," the voice said. Paul was suddenly afraid. He didn't want that voice to go. He wanted that voice to stay with him, comfort him, and keep him away from that disheartening chaos he had been suffering in before that voice arrived. Had he the strength, he would have said so, but nothing came forth, only silence. And then there was a hiss... and darkness...

=Sickbay, Deck 7, USS Arizona=

The darkness relented, freeing Paul from the depths of limbo, only to return to a different sort of chaos. The sounds were much sharper, the voices coherent and driven by purpose. Paul attempted to open his eyes, and found that they were once against willing to respond to his will. At first everything blurred together, the light assaulting his sensitive orbs as he struggled to blink back the pain. It took a few minutes for Paul to focus on the world around him. Once he could see, he suddenly wished he'd never bothered.

Dozens of bodies, some barely clinging to life, others long gone, lay about the room. Those that could be saved had been stabilized; those that couldn't have been left were they had been brought in in favor of helping another. Paul took note that it wasn't just nurses and doctors who were running about aiding the wounded... engineers, pilots... anyone with any skill at healing whatsoever was milling about, dressing wounds and administering medicines. His eyes refused to focus on any one person for too long, as if they were nothing more than spirits flittering about in his vision. It wasn't until he heard that voice again, the one that had first pulled him free of the grips of despair that his eyes wanted to focus on anything. They searched for the source, frantic in their need to see the one that was responsible for issuing forth that particular tone, that pitch that pierced through the deathly void.

The image of Commodore Cowell, his uniform caked with blood that was obviously not his own, stood in the center of Paul's vision, commanding the room not only by virtue of his position, but by virtue of his expertise, his knowledge, his ability to heal the wounded... to save lives just like his own. Paul struggled to hear what was being said, yearned to be a part of what was happening around him...

"...We've got seven more coming in from the damaged section of the ship. I've got four teams from the Casey already sweeping behind the team I just brought back to make sure we didn't miss anyone. The Battle Bridge on Deck 10 has already been cleared out... Speaking of which, where is Ensign Akron?"

The Commodore knew his name! Paul had never once heard the man speak his name properly. Indeed, since Paul had known the man, he'd always referred to him in the most unfamiliar manner possible, as if he weren't important... Now, suddenly, he was asking for him... The elation welled up in his chest, a sensation he wasn't even sure he should be experiencing given the circumstances. Paul watched as the Commodore waded through the chaos around him, his movements bringing him closer and closer.

Paul panicked for a second. He hadn't even attempted to speak, didn't even know if he could. What if the Commodore asked him a question? Could he respond? Would he be able to do more than just look up at him mutely, wishing but never able to give him whatever answers the Commodore wished of him? The panic gave way to determination... he would find his voice... he would find his voice, even if it killed him!

A strong, steady hand cupped Paul's shoulder, and his resolve, his entire psyche seemed to collapse at the compassion that was suddenly being shown toward him. Tears threatened to assail his eyes as the Commodore gave his good shoulder a squeeze.

"Paul," the man said in a tone that was almost alien to Ens. Akron's ears, "How are you holding up, son?"

A question! Dear god... he'd asked him a question! Paul sucked in a breath, readied himself to speak...

"I'm here, sir..." the words came forth, and Paul started to breathe much easier knowing he could do it.

"That you are," Nathan smiled down at him, "Do you remember what happened?"

Another question... this time Paul was more confident in his ability to respond... but he wasn't so confident in his memories. They were just blurs, images, feelings... Nothing solid was coming to mind...

"The Major!" he screamed suddenly, trying to sit up. The hand that had at first been so gentle and compassionate was now suddenly firm, restraining... Paul found himself being eased back down by a strength he couldn't compete with. Looking up, the face of the Commodore hadn't changed at all. He still looked calm, caring...

"She's alive," Doc Cowell informed him. It was obvious that the news was a great relief to Paul as the muscles in his body relaxed under his touch.

"How bad is it?" Paul dared to ask.

"Bad," Nathan didn't see the need to lie to the boy. He'd endured more than most men could have survived, he deserved it straight, "It took me almost three hours to patch her head up... but her eye is a lost cause. Thankfully the Casey had some implants in their stores, so she'll be able to see again when she finally wakes up. I think you were the lucky one in all this. I only had to replace your shoulder blade and half your right arm. Be a few months before the muscles get back right, but you'll be the first to come back to one hundred percent."

Paul glanced over at the shoulder his Commander had mentioned and saw for himself that it was bandaged up, small stains of blood still visible from what he could only guess was residual bleeding after the surgery. He returned his gaze to the Commodore, his memory starting to return bit by shattered bit.

"We... we rammed them... Everything had gone down... shields, weapons... Commander Roberts... he ordered us to ram them..." Paul stammered between fragments of memories.

"I know, son... You did fine..." Nathan said softly.

That was all he needed to hear. Paul's eyes fluttered closed and the sweet escape of sleep, true, honest sleep, took him.

Nathan watched the man slip into slumber with a small sense of satisfaction. He'd saved at least one... more than he really had expected to rob death of. He spent another precious minute by the sleeping form of Ensign Paul Akron before the Doctor returned to the chaos that was the medical ward...