#dopamineeymineymoo

[dopamineeymineymoo]

suspension bridges || ghost x f!medic!reader

synopsis: you are an army doctor, callsign salvi, who had been on the field for even before you'd gotten that title. you'd been reassigned into task force 1-4-1 after your own taskforce had dissolved when it'd fulfilled its duty. you're a familiar face to multiple operators within the taskforce. one of them knows you for far longer than the rest.

warnings: medical inaccuracies, army inaccuracies, some medical jargon, some gore, implied medical procedures, inexperienced writer, more tags to be added as we go

author's note before we begin: I’m writing this to destress from the gruelling pressure of academics– i'm not a professional, but i do study some of the stuff i mention, specifically on the health-allied colleges; there is also the fact that I’m not from the west side of the world so I know jack shit on the actual mode of operations (except in theory, because that’s what I’m learning ATM). This isn’t meant to be accurate, these are just dumbed-down versions of stuff I already know– i might learn more stuff later on so I might add it onto the thing later on]

[this is part 1], [part 2], [part 3 to be posted]

2022

When your Task Force dissolved, with multiple members having dispersed to different tasks and duties, the different offices within the old base had been dispersed into various different locations. You had been given privilege. It wasn’t really within the higher-up’s control to assign you to a different base.

Overall, it had been awfully easy to convince you. Price knew his cards, knew the people he was pulling. It made sense that the task force he’d organized would have good chemistry.

It was amusing. Familiar faces are always a fun thing.

There's no rest for the wicked, is what you often hear. It always applies to people in your line of work, being both a savior of lives and its taker.

Of course, there's no better ice-breaker or introduction into the field than an emergency evac. The first time you'd been called into your new base had been when duty calls. There were some familiar faces on the team of medics you'd been assigned with, brief introductions and ranks were exchanged, and it's off to work.

Squeaks is one. A familiar face, one you'd worked with before albeit very briefly.

"Give 'em hell, doc." she'd said when you'd stepped into the ramp of the aircraft.

And hell you did give. It wasn’t an infrequent occurrence with your line of work where you had to be pulled out of your station to hop onto an aircraft to retrieve injured soldiers. 

It’s been less than a week, about three days since you’d been reunited with some of your old patients, until your new patients ended up becoming recent.

“Reports as of ten minutes ago state that seven alert out of twelve, four obtunded, one is stuporous.” You take note, knowing that the rest of your team are listening in. Transcriptions of comms had been sent to you with data having already been filtered out appropriately. Need-to-know, is what it meant. 

You eye two people, and in order call them out by their surnames. “Squeaks and Trinity, you’re on triage.”

“Yes Captain.”

“Reyes, Smith, Aisling, you deal with the seven. Make sure they don’t bleed out and add to the less pleasant numbers.” You move past them as they move to their station on the aircraft. “Body transfers to the cots are on Jones and Brown. Take them off the soldiers’ hands– keep them off too if there are any with cold feet.” 

“The rest of us– two people require immediate intervention. One of them is in shock.” She hums, looking down at transcripts. “There were originally sixteen soldiers.” They knew what that meant. Two were KIA.

When the aircraft arrives in the landing zone, you and your team get into motion immediately. You help Jones and Brown in transferring the soldiers who can’t walk. Two soldiers that you don’t know personally help with setting the rest of the ones who need help walking inside the cot. 

The one who was stuporous had fallen into a coma, but with a working pulse, and the four had varying levels of prognosis at the current assessment. 

You’re used to this. The speed, the quickness in thinking and the steadiness while you work under these less-than-favorable circumstances. You’ve worked through worse, but that’s not a mindset you should get used to. Makes you complacent. There’s no room for complacency in this place. 

“Captain Salvi!” Squeaks calls, “Five out of sixteen aren’t on the vehicle.” You hear. 

You curse under your breath, “Squeaks, take over.” You wait for them to shuffle over and take over with keeping the soldier alive, before pulling back to walk towards the seven who were sat at the sides. From Squeaks, you take the tablet and swipe through the updated charts.

They’d reported the four missing names, reported well but unable to make it to exfil for whatever reason. 

They all stand in attention– all who can, that is. “At ease.” You tell them. “Where are your superiors.” 

One steps forward, “Ma’am, they’ve told us to head to exfil ahead of them.” He tells you. “They’re moving to another base, picked up by allies in Mexico.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Mexico?”

“That’s all we’re aware of as of now, ma’am.”

You breathe. Something's up, then. Your attention is called by the pilot in front. "Laswell's on comms." He'd said.

"Patch me in?"

“Watcher 1 to Echo 1-6, do you copy?”

“Solid copy, Watcher-1.” You retort, and look back at the soldiers before you. “Heal well, boys.” You say before backing off and walking back to the front of the plane. 

There’s a crackle on Laswell’s end, before she proceeds. “Price needs you ASAP, but there’s no time for RTB. You clear for an impromptu mission?”

You curse under your breath. Not so much as an introduction. Is this how it's going to be? “Always.” You tell her. You're no stranger to these emergencies. “Not as much as a debrief, huh?”

“I’d say sorry, but you know how it is.”

“No rest for the wicked.” You say. “Think I can join them before they get picked up by Mexican Special Forces?”

“I’ll tell the pilot in advance to drop you off for RV.” Laswell tells you. “Watcher-1 out.”

You walk over to the cockpit, placing a hand on the seat. The other hand reaches for your ear piece to switch channels so you can speak with the pilot. “You got the coordinates?” You ask, and with the confirmation, you continue. “Don’t land. I’ll prep for HALO.” You tell him. “Three of them need immediate attention. I don’t want them dead on arrival.”

“Copy.” The pilot replies. You back away, and head towards the hamper where you check your kit twice for anything you’d need. While you were in charge of MedEvac, you knew the risks. As long as you were beyond the line of fire, there’s still always that chance of attack.

In this case, you were the attacker.

“Approaching RV point.” You hear in your ear. “Prepare for HALO.” High Altitude, Low Opening. You’re hoping that it’s dark enough that no one will notice the parachute– then again, this isn’t the first time you’ve done this.

Trinity walks over to you. “Captain–”

“Report to Brown. I’m headed off.” You shrug on the pack, and head towards the ramp. Before that, though, you turn to your team. Most of which are paying attention to you as you walk. 

“Scott, Hudson, support with transfers.” You call, and the two of them nod. Their physique will help Brown and Jones with transferring the patients into gurneys with both haste and cautiousness. 

Squeaks and Trinity approach you as you all move out of the aircraft, handing you their digitally inputted evaluations. You read through them as you move, swiping through the tablet as you read through the list. “That’s about it. Are we clear?” They all affirm. 

You get a signal from the pilots. That’s all you need before you approach the ramp and drop in.

***

2001

It was a Saturday when Sergeant Simon Riley had first been forced on Medical Leave of Absence. This was on the insistence of the base’s, refusing to give him clearance until he’s deemed better, where he’d been assigned to a rehabilitation clinic not too far from his current place of stay– fortunately not too far from base.

The previous mission was bad– certainly not the worst that has happened, especially not the worst to come, but it was bad. 

When the paperwork for the leave was undergoing process and Simon had been forced to confine himself to med within base, the perpetrator as to why he’d gotten hurt had been very accommodating to his whims– not that Simon had many of them, but the one who was supposed to receive the bullets (plural) that took Simon down. Doesn’t matter anymore– no man left behind, and all that.

You know what they say about people torn into bad situations– you should have seen the other guy is what he would have said if he had been in a lighter mood. 

Except he’d damaged his peroneal nerve in the process. 

Fortunately it’s something easy to get back from, but that’s with rehabilitation. Hence, where he’d first met you. 

“Hello, Sergeant Riley.” You say, eyes twinkling with mirth and without that jaded look that he’d grown so used to witnessing in people within this line of work. You introduce yourself, first with your name. “I’m the one assigned to looking after your progression with your injuries– ultimately, medical clearance isn’t up to me, but anything I report goes into consideration. Anything you want to ask?”

“How long ‘til I’d get this off?”

“According to your chart–” you look through his charts. “Some weeks.” You hum, impressed at the prognosis. “Medical will clear you then– higher ups seem insistent in getting you back, huh?”

“I’m a good shot.” He tells you. “Some weeks, then– you any good in cuttin’ it down, Lieutenant?”

You laugh, waving in front of him. “Well, if you don’t fuck up your own injuries. Sure. Got a good prognosis anyway, considering the shit you’ve been through.” Then you remind him again to call you by your name. “And fortunately for you, your ass landed in my expert care.” There was a grin on your face as you told him that. 

Overwhelming confidence in this. Infallible. 

He’d been told that his injury hadn’t been so severe that it’d take him out of commission any time soon, but he’d been uncertain about that. It had been near damned frustrating to be so vulnerable. The injury is no scratch–that’s a huge chunk of his lateral knee fractured by the bullet, taking the nerve with it. While the medics had said otherwise, he just didn’t think someone could just regain proper function out of it again. 

So when that stubborn pessimism is met with that near-blinding optimism–

It was hard not to believe in your confidence, and that was considering that Simon knew not to believe in good things.

The first day was for initial evaluation. You’d told him that you wouldn’t begin with all the exercises and stretching just yet. He’d been compliant.

For the first day, that is. 

***

2022

Upon landing, you waste no time in moving towards RV. You made sure that there’d be no one following you, putting on the nightvision equipment you’d taken from the team that was pulled out for medevac. With a rifle in your hand, you traverse to the agreed upon location.

Only, you don’t exactly find them there. 

“Bravo 0-6, this is Salvi, how copy?” You say into your comm, listening for the radio for any response. “Echo 1-6 to Bravo Team, how copy?” You wait about two seconds before your mouth opens to ask again, once more before you radio Laswell.

“Bravo-06 to Salvi, solid copy.” Price’s voice cracks on the radio, and you breathe out a sigh of relief. “Just got… held back a bit.”

“Give me a sitrep, Price.” You question, continuing to move around so that you aren’t a sitting duck at the RV point. “There’s no one in RV.”

There’s a chuckle on the other line. “We’re on the way, got held back for first aid. Someone decided to be stubborn and skip on the medevac.”

“Damn.” You hiss under your breath, word caught by the comm. “Based on the data I’ve got, there’s only the four of you– Captain Price, Lieutenant Riley, Sergeant Mactavish and Sergeant Garrick. Is that correct?”

“Affirmative.”

“Price, you aren’t injured are you?”

“Nope.”

“Good. I have a lot of choice words, then.” You say into the comms, knowing that the rest of them are listening. You were of a higher rank than the rest of them, which means that you can easily berate whoever got himself hurt and didn’t jump on medevac.

“Hell Runneth Loose.” Gaz utters under his breath, joining on the comms. 

“That’s what I’m here for, Garrick.” You say. “Give me a location, set the RV at a midpoint so I can get a look at it.”

“Exfil would be further out.” Price points out.

“I have two working legs, Captain. I can use them.” You retort. “Details.” It was less of a request and more of a demand.

He tells you, and you move quick and silently towards the agreed upon location. It’s an abandoned building with a lot of debris, but standing strong enough for it to serve as a good and safe temporary camp. 

You arrive first, so you scout the area for any hostiles that might be at site. There are none, fortunately, so it seems that whatever they had to deal with further West of the area hasn’t reached this place. Has to be one hell of a trip, if that’s the case. 

“Echo 1-6 to Bravo Team, no sign of hostiles in the area.” You say with finality into the comm. “We’re clear.”

“Copy that Echo 1-6.”

You keep watch, keeping an eye on the perimeter in case the situation changes. Fortunately, it doesn’t, and it remains to be clear. “Approaching RV.” You hear a familiar voice on the comms. 

But there’s the distinct sound of something that whizzes fast, piercing through air. You immediately duck, lowering yourself so that the wall could hide you from wherever the attack comes from. “Bravo Team coming in hot!”

“Couldn’t fucking warn me you’d had tangos comin’ over?” You hiss, raising your gun towards the perimeter, at the general direction from where you know they’d be coming from. 

“A very recent development, in my defense.” Price hisses. “There’s not many, it’s manageable. You in a position to snipe, lass?”

“Affirm.” You tell him. “Get in the building, Cap, I’ve got overwatch.” You set up quick, shooting from the top of the building. You pray to whatever’s still left up there that they’ve got no RPGs– this building is doomed to fall in on itself and that’s just with the bullets encasing on already fragile wall. 

And it wasn't likely, anyway. On foot, having gear like that is unlikely.

You take down as many assailants as you can, registering in your head who are friendlies by attire alone. Not usual protocol, given that you can’t be certain how positive your i.d. is of the people trailing so close to one group, but you can be certain at least that the one with the bucket hat is price and the rest that he’s allowing within his proximity are friendlies.

They come up the building, taking position and securing the area.

A hulking figure is placed beside you, heavy with a thump against the wall. You look up, seeing that it was Sergeant Mactavish who’d placed the patient on your side.

You turn your head towards Sergeant Mactavish, whose eyes shift between yourself, Ghost, and the battlefield. “Sergeant Mactavish-- pleasure to meet ya." You smile. "Hell of a first meeting, huh?"

"I'd say." Soap grins. "Need any help?"

"You take overwatch while I patch him up.”

Soap nods, shifting to take your position. “Roger that, Doc Sal.” 

You didn’t need to look twice to be certain who it was that he’d dropped into your hands.

“I’d say it’s a pleasure seeing you again, Ghost,” You start with a smile. “But I believe that these are less than pleasant circumstances.”

The man leaned against the wall, debris falling between you both. He eyes you for a moment, before looking away and back to the battlefield. He huffs, not that you can hear it, and tilts his head forward in a nod. “Gotta stop meetin’ like this, y’reckon?”

You nod, “Line of fire seems to love you out there.” There’s a joke in there, a reference to a mission together once before. “Where are you hit, Lieutenant?”

“Left lumbar– just a graze.”

“Nice of you to be specific this time.” You quip, opening your pack to get the materials you need.

“Learned my lesson.”

“Whoever taught you must have ripped you a new one, huh?” There's amusement in your voice. "Hold still."

"I'd say." Soap grins. "Need any help?"

"You take overwatch while I patch him up.”

Soap nods, shifting to take your position. “Roger that, Doc Sal.” 

[dopamineeymineymoo]

suspension bridges || ghost x f!medic!reader pt. 2

synopsis: you are an army doctor, callsign salvi, who had been on the field for even before you'd gotten that title. you'd been reassigned into task force 1-4-1 after your own taskforce had dissolved when it'd fulfilled its duty. you're a familiar face to multiple operators within the taskforce. one of them knows you for far longer than the rest.

warnings: medical inaccuracies, army inaccuracies, some medical jargon, some gore, implied medical procedures, inexperienced writer, physical rehab

author's note before we begin: I hope you enjoy this chapter, imagine if this turns out to be a slow burn lol-- nah don't worry, it likely won't end like this. slight rivals-to-lovers, i've got an image of their dynamic at least.

[pt 1], [this is pt. 2], [part 3 to be posted]

2022, early into the year

Information on you has been placed into an envelope on the request of one Captain. 

Commissioned Officer (O-3). Callsign Salvi. Along that, your full name and picture is paper-clipped into the envelope. Within it are your records– not pristine, not in the slightest, but valuable. 

Laswell eyes it, recognizing the name. “Seems ambitious to request to have her on, Price.” She says, “This one’s been newly put back into Reserves since the previous Task Force had dissolved.”

“A task force?” Price questions. “Hadn’t she been in the reserves since she’d taken up Residency?”

She shakes her head. “Took to the field quite quickly, agreed to help handle a dispute off-the-books in the Philippines.” Laswell intertwines her fingers in front of her, looking up at Price. “Went on for three years before it dissolved. Mission accomplished.”

Price hums, crossing his arms. He’d placed your file next to the rest of the team. “This team requires someone they can trust to take that role– this is the best case scenario.” He looks down on the paper, frowning in confusion at the new addition on the details.

“Salvi?” He chuckles, tilting his head. “Didn’t know that she’d finally gotten a callsign. This late into the game, too.”

“You’ve worked with her?”

“She was a Lieutenant at the time– was on my Alpha Team for three years until she had to leave to pursue medicine.” Price grins. “Didn’t have a callsign back then.”

Laswell eyes the name, “It was the previous task force that dubbed her this.” She told him. 

“What for?”

“Salvation, for one.” Laswell hums, “Renowned to keep anyone salvageable alive, less soldiers discharged. It’s what got her promoted in the first place.”

“For another?”

“The task force was assigned to aid the Filipino Special Forces.” The woman opens the envelope herself, and takes out a set of papers– some blacked out information, some aren’t. She hands it to Price to look at. “Took out the leader of a Syndicate based in Visayan islands– they were harboring a renown Ultranationalist.” Further information was blacked out.

Price stared at the blacked out paper, all-too familiar with the sight of information being classified. Still, he’s rather surprised that you’d have been involved with something so deep into the books that it’d be this blanked out. “Why Salvi, then, other than ‘Salvation’?”

“Salbahe. Savage.” Laswell told him. “Compliments by the local army, insults by the enemy. She was… brutal.”

“Bloody on the field?”

She shakes her head. “Sure. But mostly because of interrogation. The Army had the all-clear to do it– surprisingly easy to cut red-tape. She took the role.” Laswell says. She places the papers back inside the envelope. “There’s a reason why most of this information is classified, Price.”

Price shakes his head, looking down at her picture with a mix of pity and pride. Interrogation– he can’t imagine that you’d stomached it well when you started. You didn’t look the part. 

***

2001 

It was Monday when you next met Simon Riley. While seemingly a neutral force to be reckoned with in the beginning, he’s now showing his true colors when it comes to rehabilitation. It’s nothing malicious. Not at all. It was more concerning, if anything.

You could tell that he’s insistent on getting better. 

He’s pushing himself. And it’s doing more harm than good when it comes to your plan of care. 

Day two was uneventful, but somehow you knew where to look– how to look at this. You’re given a set amount of time in watching over your patient, and he isn’t the only patient that day that you’d come to see. However, you knew what made him special. 

He’d been stubborn to call you by your rank instead. 

“Of course, Lieutenant.”, “Yes Ma’am.”, “Yes Lieutenant.”

Not that it matters. Many of those who had been under your care were stubborn to a fault. Loyal to the rank. It’s certainly better than the alternative where they’d look down at you for being a lot less inexperienced in their field.

You’d humbly and gently reminded them that you fought your battles in a much different field. One that they’d be all the more stranger too than you’d be in theirs. The clinic is a battle in its own, where your own soldiers were who you’d be fighting.

This is where he met you– a commissioned officer, Second Lieutenant. You hadn’t gotten your callsign yet, so it had always just been ‘Lieutenant’ for him. You were the Physical Therapist who specialized in his rehabilitation. You were young, not too far from his own age, but young for the army. 

With barely any field experience.

You’d been on the field, yes, but you hadn’t had as much of a chance to really do anything worth a single chest candy yet. You hadn’t had men die on the field, but you’ve heard horror stories among your peers.

So you couldn’t possibly understand the frustration or his restlessness, but you could imagine. Simon Riley is the type of man who preferred to be useful, but with having to recover from peroneal nerve damage and that annoying slap of his foot every time he had to take a step with his right leg.

It wasn’t tactical. It was distracting. It felt like deadweight, to be like this.

One day turned into two– you saw him next, on the Monday following that first week. He'd already sat on one of the chairs at the front desk of the clinic, waiting for you to clock in.

You’d been embarrassed at having your patient come up before you did to the clinic, but he didn’t seem to mind. He only seemed determined to get through it. 

The second day comes to an end with you having to physically restrain him from doing too much. You could see from the clench of his teeth that he’s pushing himself– he needs a lighter exercise and stretch intensity.

You modify it, revising it and writing it onto the SOAP documents. 

The third day, and he isn’t happy with the new changes but he obliges anyway.

Fourth, and he’s insisting that he’s doing better and trying to get you to increase the intensity. You don’t budge.

It was the first week into it when you noticed how it’s still swelling. It’s worse, even. Chronic swelling of an injury is indicative of a few things, but you had a hunch. 

“Riley.” You’d called out when you’d assessed his knee. You’d noticed it from the way he’d walked in. The struggle. The attempt at infallibility, to get that foot away from the ground before it’d make a sound. He’d overly compensate for the clumsiness of his right lower extremity by exerting much more force, height, and momentum from his left. Overcompensation from the orthotic device. You could get someone to fix that, but that’s not the main issue here.

You notice the pain, the frustration. It’d only strain him in the long run. 

You don’t tell him that. Instead, you tell him to rest while you work on his charts. 

He’s surprisingly obedient, despite being stubborn at any other given occasion. 

You’re new, sure, but this isn’t your first rodeo with patients like this. Who think that they could get better though determination alone– while it is an admirable feat, it isn’t everything. None of patience.

Upon finishing your charts, you walk forwards, shoulders placed back. With him sat, you’re able to look down at him, and this is when you’d feel truly superior. Rank or not. “Report to me what you know about the injuries you sustained during your last mission.”

He answers without pause. “I got shot in the right leg on the way to RV with the rest of the team. Medical had reported that I’d injured my peroneal nerve.” He states, looking straight ahead of him while he sits attentively. 

You hum. That’s not really complete. “What of your sciatic nerve?”

“Due to physical combat and a fall where I’d landed on my kit wrong, I’d acquired trauma to the sciatic nerve.” Simon tells you. 

“What were the interventions they’d done for this?”

“Surgery.”

“On what, Sergeant?”

“On the sciatic nerve, then when things weren’t getting any better they worked on my knee.”

“Why are you here?”

“Was advised for Physical Rehab, ma’am.”

You nod. “Exactly.” You go on your knee, doffing the orthotic device.  “I know you’re frustrated over wearing this thing, but do try to take care of it.”

His case was a mix of trauma and overuse. It was alright, initially. Nothing that a few stitches, pain medicine, and bedrest couldn’t fix– but after a period of time his right leg started to experience sharp-shooting pain, nearly electric, and whether or not his knee had gone weak because of it wasn’t to his knowledge. 

Now he’s stuck with wearing a damned orthotic device– something called a dial-locked hip orthosis, circumferential around his waist, and with a metal bar or two attached to a more distal circumferential brace around his thigh. It was used to deal with the trauma against his sciatic nerve until he could be better.

And yet another for his knee, and his ankle because it keeps slapping down the ground when he’d step. It was getting damned hard to move around in this thing– while it was lightweight, material made out of thermoplastic and velcro, it made it hard to do his job.

“Your frustration won’t make it better.” You tell him. “I’m not telling you what you feel about it– hell, I’d be pissed too. But if you keep this up then your prognosis likely isn’t gonna look good.” Upon removing the orthotic device, you set it aside and guide him to raise his foot on an elevated surface. You assess it, seeing it swollen and much worse than you’d last seen it.

There’s no response despite the long bout of silence you’d given to him. “Am I understood, Sergeant?” 

“Yes ma’am.” Riley responds.

And that was it. He hadn’t pushed, and he’d improved.

For a first meeting, it didn’t seem much. It’s not like you’d expect to find him again. The world is a big place after all. You hadn’t been able to see the end of his recovery months later. 

It’d be the end of the next year when you’d meet him again.

***

2022, current

You watch out for any stray enemies as the rest of the team enter the truck. There is a certain degree of certainty that they’d either ran off or been finished off. Still, you don’t let your guard down. 

When everyone had entered, you’d slid up the truck and taken your seat.

You sit at the back of the truck, keeping an eye outside despite having been surrounded by the rest of the special ops team. You’d cleared the area for the arrival of the Mexican Special Forces you’d been told about. 

Something about Las Almas, you remember. You’d read what you could about the achievements of the team, and seeing your rank as Captain gave you enough clearance about these missions, you’d read enough to know what they’re likely going to be dealing with. Still, it confuses you what the plan of action is.

With things finally calmed down, you look up at the new company. You recognize him. “Colonel Alejandro.” You greet with a nod.

You hear your name and rank as he acknowledges your greeting. “You can call me Salvi.” You say. “A lot shorter.”

“Salvi?”

“Enemies dubbed her Salvaje.” Price says, knowing that you don’t mind that information getting spread. It’s not like anything could keep that under wraps, nor did it really matter to you. Your own team had been loud on that in the first place– your old team, that is. This is your team now, no matter how short it’s been. 

Alejandro’s eyebrows raise. “And you’re alright with being called that?”

“I don’t mind.”

“”Sides, allies refer to her as Salvation– bit of a mouthful, so Salvi works just as well.” Gaz says. 

“Salvaje, Salvacion.” Alejandro nods appreciatively. “Fitting for an esteemed Army Doctor.”

“Flattered, Colonel.” You hum, looking at the rest of the boys. “Appreciate you guys introducing me for my sake, boys, but that’s not getting you guys out of the heat. I don’t like it when you don’t report injuries correctly.” You snort, eyeing Ghost who only sends you a side-eye.

“You said yourself that it’s nothin’ serious.” he retorts.

“It’s not like you knew that, did you?” You snark back, before turning to Alejandro to answer. “But yes, feel free to call me Salvi. The medic of the team.”

“The best field medic there is.” Price adds.

“Seems like a low bar when ‘the best’ is subjected to entering a warzone blind.” You retort. “Not even a debrief. Shame, Price. shame.”

“Desperate times, lass.” He chuckles. “I didn’t expect to have to need you on the field so soon either. Thought you’d have more time being acquainted with the clinic before the next assignment.”

“Well I’m here now.” You tell him. “I’d like to be a little bit more informed on what we’re doing out here, Cap.” 

Price looks at Alejandro, as if asking silently if the driver has enough clearance to overhear the topic of conversation. Upon getting his approval, you can trust him, Price tells you what exactly you’re doing here.

Ghost is silent at the backseat, sat a good distance away from you as you get briefed on your goal. He’d always been the silent type, but you’d known him to have a snark to him on his good days, rare as it may be.

***

2002

The next time you meet Sergeant Simon Riley, it’s during a briefing. You’ve been assigned to a different team who’d be needing a medic of your level for how important this is going to be and for how difficult and time-consuming it’d take for exfil to arrive according to schedule.

Seeing familiar faces in the army was nothing special for someone who’d been stationed in the ‘saving soldiers’ department. He wasn’t significant at the time.

Maybe it was the heat of the field.

Gunshots echo in your eyes as you cling your back to the wall for cover. You gasp, finding breathing hard for just a moment. “Ah,” you groan, trying not to be too loud in case you interrupt the important exchange over comms– one that you’d disturbed the moment you even let out a sound at the same time a gun is shot. “Fuck.” You hiss, patting yourself, assessing the damage. You realize that you’re not bleeding— good, but it still hurts like a bitch.

“You solid, Lt.?” You hear the concerned voice of your captain ring from the adjacent wall. 

“Solid, cap.” You groan. “Hit the plate– I’ll live.” 

“Good, none of us can help you as well as you can help us kid.” Your Captain chuckles, but there’s that concern evident in his voice. “How’s overwatch doing out there!”

Sergeant Riley responds over comms. “Bravo 1-5; Don’t have good sight from here. Can’t land a clean hit.”

“Bravo 1-4, one tango down, over.” 

“Great job, boys.” You hear your captain’s grin over the voice. “Anyone in need of medic support?”

“Negative, appreciate the company though.” One of your teammates quip. “Feel a bit more confident in our odds of keeping a leg this mission.”

“Don’t test that luck of yours, Vermin.” You chuckle over comms. “I’m a good shot in two ways but if you lose a leg it ain’t coming off of my paycheck.” You tell them, and you hear a series of chuckles.

“Maybe your callsign should be Stingy.”

“Get your head back in the game Robin, I need you sharp out there.” You hear someone quip over comms. “And don’t be so boring Robin, Stingy? Really? Corny.”

You chuckle, the pain of the impact on your chest fading in the face of the interaction. 

“You good, newbie?” You’ve been in the army for three years now, newbie is a bit of an insult— not that you mind. The amount of times you’ve really been on the field really does warrant that name. 

“As good as I can be, Cap.” You smile, before returning to your post.

You’re new, yes, and you can feel the coldness of fear at the tips of your digits, but you know what to do. You’ve trained, despite not being on the field often. There’s not much you can do with your lack of experience but what you do know is the routine that your training had instilled onto you.

The vigilance stays. Fear is nothing in the face of duty, after all.

So you move according to your captain’s orders, take down enemy after enemy before–

You hear a frustrated groan over comms, and you still. Taking cover immediately before you turn on your comm to get details on what had happened. “What’s your status Sergeant Riley?” You demand over comms. 

“Solid, moving posts to get a clearer shot.”

That isn’t a good idea. His position right now is heated, and any indication of his position would lead to more eyes on him. You don’t like his odds.

“Copy, stay safe up there Riley.” The Captain says, and your eyes are wide. 

“Captain–”

“He’ll be okay, we’ll cover him.” He reassures. You nod, and you do your job– not as a medic, but as a soldier.

One down, then two. Five. Six–

There’s a guttural yell over comms, “Bravo 1-5, I’ve been hit.” Sergeant Riley yells.

You duck immediately for cover, and switch on your comms. “Permission to move up to Sergeant Riley’s post.”

“A bit risky, Lieutenant.” 

“Gotta let me do my job, cap.”

You can see him think, weighing his options. Even you don’t know what the things he’s weighing over in his head– your life or Riley’s? The reputation? The strategy? The mission?

Whatever it is, it was in her and Riley’s favor. 

“Boys I’m sending the doc up to get Riley on his feet.” Your captain announces over comms. “Take the heat off of them, you hear me?”

There’s a chorus of affirms, and you feel your nerves tingling with cold. You realize what this could mean. If you aren’t vigilant, this could very well be your last mission.

Then you realize– you’ve had this same epiphany every mission where you needed to save your teammates’ lives.

“I’ll tell you when it’s clear to move up,” You hear.

One moment, two, and you get the signal to move. You don’t get complacent just because you’ve got your team covering your ass. On your way up, you switch on your comm. “Sergeant Riley, what’s your status?” You call, 

“Hit.” He grunts.

“Anything more helpful than that, Sergeant?”

“I’m still alive, likely will stay alive.” He snarks. “You can stay down there, Lieutenant. I’ll be fine here.”

“No need to tell me how to do my job, Sergeant Riley.” You spit, irritated. Between focusing on getting there quickly and staying alive, you’d really hate having to handle a martyr who’d rely on fucking stims to stay alive for a few minutes more before you’re handed a worse problem.

There’s a chuckle over comms, and you recognize your captain speaking. “Sergeant Riley, be more compliant? Our doc is doin’ you a favor here.”

“Yes, sir.” You hear. 

You exhale.

It isn’t the first time you’ve had to deal with someone like Sergeant Riley. There are plenty soldiers like him in the military, plenty of horror stories with the same type of character but with different names. It isn’t unusual to be faced with issues like these.

Sergeant Riley was supposed to be one of those many names.

Still, despite the frequency of it, it doesn’t make it any less frustrating.

By the end of the mission, you save his ass as well as two others who were fortunately a lot more compliant.

This is one of numerable missions you’ve had with this team.