Camp of Obscurity (Semper/Charity)

(Ran is in solitary so she wouldn't be in the room with you Jack/Dev)

My head is aching when I my eyes flash open sometime later. The small concrete cell I'm in is cold and smells like old human waste. Its enough to gag me as I scoot towards the sliver of light shining through the opening in the door. At least a breeze of fresh warm air blows through. Using the little bit of light I try to take inventory of wounds I have.

A huge knot has formed on the back of my head, my cheek has a slice across it, and my leg is covered in dried blood. Stripping out of my soaked pants I see that the stitches have come loose so gritting my teeth I start pulling them back together tighter. My dog sh-t lunch comes back up once I finish and I scream out though no one can hear me.

Why was it us, why am I in this place for doing what I was told to do. Defend our district from wanderers and filth. All I want is to go home. Away from that cowboy jerk and his stupid friend. Tears start to well up in my eyes as I pull my pants back on and huddle against the wall. I'm not a cryer, ever, so this fear that started to wash over me was alarming.

"I won't hurt him, I promise! Just let me out!" I start screaming at the door. I don't know what to do, I just want out I want to try to find a way home. I just want to be free.

[/size]

Patiently I wait my turn until all the recruits that need urgent treatment are taken care off.
To Devroux next to me I whisper. “Why do they beat us up and then patch us back together? Just to beat us up all over again?” This place is worse than the detention center. It grinds on my nerves more because I have no idea what’s happening. “At least in the dc I knew who the enemy was.”

A man with a stethoscope around his neck walks up to Devroux, who’s visibly in bad shape and just hanging on by a thread. “You’re next. What can I do for you?”
While he feels my friends pulse I answer him. “He can’t speak. His leg hurts.” From a previous conversation I remember Devroux telling me about breaking his femur a couple of years ago. “My friend has broken that leg before.”
The look the man gives me is hard to interpret. Is it a glare or maybe even compassion.
I search his face for an answer and take my chances to get one. “Why are you beating us up and then patching us back together?”
While he pulls down Devroux’s pants to examine his leg he sighs. “That’s just today. They want to find out who will be able to hold his own in a fight. They’ll find other things for the weaker ones to do. Maybe tell em what you’re good at…like I’m good at ‘patching up people’. He gives me a brief smile- the first one I’ve seen around her and then takes my one and only friend with him for treatment.

Puzzled I sit there and wait. Did I just make myself a ‘fighter’? Was it a stupid move to show them what I learned from my uncle and brothers?

Finally it’s my turn and a woman, who is visibly exhausted, removes my hand from the gash on my brow and takes a quick look at it.
She comes back a moment later and tells me to sit down on the floor and lean against the wall, which I do although I wonder why. The kitt that she flips open contains all sorts of medical supplies for emergencies including shots, small bottles of something and gauze.
“We’re out of anaesthetics so you’ll have to suck it up.” The quick warning doesn’t give me enough time to object or reconsider before she cleans the small wound with disinfectant, that burns like the fires of hell. I flinch but understand why I’m supposed to lean against the wall. It disables me from pulling my head away.
“Hold up your hair.” She tells me and next thing I know she’s holding a curved needle and a thread. ‘Holy shit’ shoots through my head. Trying hard to focus on the wrinkles on her forehead that are right in front of my face I hold my breath while she sticks the needle into the skin on either side of the gash and pulls on the thread. I grimace since I figure crying will make me look like a ‘weakling’. Again she sticks the needle in my brow and makes me flinch because the stinging seems to bore right into my brain. By now I’m biting down hard on my lower lip, so hard I almost draw blood. After 5 stitches and what seems like 15 minutes she’s finally done and I can breath normally again. The grey haired lady hands me a wet cloth to clean off the crusted blood around my eye and on the left side of my face, then gives me a slap on the shoulder. “Well done, I’ll report that, 6.”
So this was a test as well?

[/size][/color][/blockquote]