In the heart of the desolate wilderness, where bitter winds howled their lonely lament, one could only rely on pure chance to rescue their weary soul. Chance chose to kiss Ghost that time in the form of a forgotten cabin, stooped and weathered under the weight of neglect and passage.

Vivid ruby thickly coated his gloves and dribbled down his vest and sleeves, and he could practically taste the copper in his teeth from behind the balaclava. He wondered how the pilot, barely conscious in his arms, withstood it. Their collarbone sat broken, the bones grinding against each other with each step; their femur looked shattered, burns on their back made it impossible to be comfortable, and there was an endless array of blood marring their frame.

The floorboards creaked under their combined weight, and Ghost tentatively and unsurely laid them down next to the unlit fireplace that stood sentinel. He could hardly hear the soldier’s difficult and crackly breathing, prompting him to use the medical knowledge he had — and the limited resources he possessed — to begin shutting open wounds, warming them, straightening their bones — anything to stabilize them.

When he spotted their eyes fluttering open after he scrounged up enough dry wood in the dark space to cast a flame alight in the fireplace, the overwhelming strain on his body ceased into the air. Ghost sank to a knee beside their body, placing a hand on their shoulder to ensure they wouldn’t stand.

“Welcome back to the land of the living,” he huffed, using dry humor to escape the stress that crawled up his chest cavity again. “Thought we lost you there.”