#Emergency Blanket

[lurkinglurkerwholurks]

Inspired by this art by @terracyte

The footage was no less brutal on replay. The man beside him shifted his weight, coiled as a spring twisted to breaking.

“Play it again.”

The technician looked from Nightwing to his boss. Jim cleared his throat but gave the nod. The small huddle watched again together, a bubble of eerie silence in the center of the chaos.

The tape rolled. The glittering crowd spread across the room, drinks in hand, or hors d'oeuvres lifted to lips, or skirts spinning in dance. Jim could spot laughter, real and fake, as well as boredom, interest, and a few curled lips. But no one seemed uneasy. No one seemed tensed in preparation for what was about to happen.

It was the standard opener, shouts and gunshots into the ceiling. Black ski masks—not clown masks or card masks or anything with a theme, thank God. No gas masks either. In a situation like this, Jim would take the lucky breaks. There wasn’t much else lucky about this.

The feed they’d hooked into didn’t have a good angle, and the sound was crappy. Jim could still hear the screams, high and startled but the short blast of a knee-jerk reaction, nothing more. Fancy gatherings like this in Gotham were always a risk. This crowd knew what they were doing. For some of the out-of-towners, Jim suspected it was part of the allure. Despite the ripple of surprise and unease at the sight of the gunmen, the crowd all obediently lifted their hands, likely expecting to be out their second-best jewels, their insured wristwatches, their backed-up phones.

Then one of the gunmen stepped forward, the ringleader as best Jim could tell, and grabbed a girl from the crowd. He couldn’t tell how old she was—they were all just kids to him now—but even with the crappy angle, she was clearly terrified. The gunman had an elbow hooked around her neck, his gun pressed to her side, and Jim would bet dollars to donuts she was on the edge of passing out, either from fright or lack of air. Not good when you had a gun pressed to your gut and a trigger-happy gunman pulling you backward.

The hostage-taker’s mouth wasn’t clear, his head turned away from the camera, and the audio crackled and popped, so they didn’t know for sure what he was saying. Had he picked the girl at random or on purpose? Was she a hostage or something worse? Was he shouting orders at the crowd, at her, at his men? It was all speculation right now, and speculation gave Jim ulcers.

Not as much as what came next, though.

As the gunman and girl backed away to the left, the crowd rippled to the right, then parted to spit out a familiar face. Bruce Wayne, drink in hand, tie casually pulled loose, Gotham Gazette’s Most Eligible Bachelor smile plastered on his face, took a step forward.

This part Jim didn’t need to hear to know. Take a hostage anywhere in Gotham and nine times out of ten, somehow a Wayne would get himself (or, on the very rare occasion, herself) swapped in exchange. Not that he didn’t get it, but with them all being so smart, Jim thought they’d find a better way. Jim could rely on all the times before to know exactly what charming palaver was coming out of Bruce Wayne’s mouth. It was like a script at this point, the charm, the ease, the little jokes.

Bruce had made it that one step when the ringleader lifted the gun from the girl’s side and shot the billionaire in the stomach.

Jim didn’t jump, mostly because he’d seen it on repeat four times now, but the sudden violence was still a shock, even to him. Gotham gala shoot-ups went a specific way, with the well-worn path of tradition. There were variables, of course, largely hinging on what masks the intruders wore or what players were making moves in the more organized underworld, but nothing like this.

You didn’t haul off and shoot a high-roller in the stomach for no reason, but especially not Gotham’s most harmless son.

Next to him, Nightwing was stiff as iron. Jim wasn’t even sure he was breathing, and he didn’t dare peek to check. There were things a person needed to know to navigate Gotham, and then there were things a person couldn’t afford to know. As police commissioner, Jim’s box of the former tended to be deeper than the Average Joe’s, by necessity. But the things he kept hidden in the latter, few though they were, meant he had to tread very, very carefully.

The footage only went on for a few seconds more. The wise guys finally remembered to check for surveillance and turned their guns on the security cameras. The last frame Jim had was of a ballroom full of frantic high society folks, a group of gunmen with all the hostages they could want, and Bruce Wayne crumpled on the ground, blood seeping from beneath him onto the marble tile.

Well. They weren’t helping anyone staring at a black screen like this.

Jim cleared his throat again. “SWAT’s moving into position,” he said. Nightwing didn’t move. “We’ve got exits staked out, windows, any vantage point we can get. We’re trying to set up communication, see what they want, so we can get folks out of there as quickly as possible.”

That was straight from the handbook, right alongside trading favors for the wounded first.

“We’re working on getting eyes inside.”

Nightwing’s gaze did swing around to him then. Jim found himself looking at the bridge of the man’s nose, rather than dead in his eyes.

Jim knew the list of attendees, had had it appear as if by magic on his car’s dash computer before he’d even arrived on scene. He assumed Nightwing had seen it, too.

“Some of the civilians made it out,” he continued, careful of where he looked, aware of the ears of his staff. “Catering, mostly, waitstaff from the kitchens that heard the commotion and bolted.”

Jim shifted his gaze just slightly, to watch Nightwing’s eyes before gesturing over his shoulder at the ambulance idling with its doors open, silhouettes perched on its end as EMTs circled. “Some kids, too.”

Nightwing’s attention jerked to the ambulance.

“Guess they’d slipped into the back halls to give themselves a breather. Can’t say I blame them. They heard the gunshots and slipped out with the staff.”

Four kids, all middle school or high schooled aged, Jim thought. Again, they all seemed like little tykes to him at this point. Three of them sat on the bumper of the ambulance, shock blankets wrapped around their shoulders. One of them had black streaks of mascara running down her face, her friend’s head buried in her lap, and another wore dress pants with the knees ripped to shreds, probably from a hard fall. The fourth wasn’t sitting but pacing, blanket draped around his shoulder less like a comfort than a king’s cloak. Or a cape. One of Jim’s officers stood nearby, an icepack from the EMT pressed to his broken nose, a precaution in case that last one tried again to run back inside.

“We haven’t had time to question them on what they saw,” Jim added carefully, “if you want to take a crack at it.”

Nightwing’s gaze swung back around, an eerily heavy impression of his usual partner, before a small nod softened the lower half of his face. “I’ll do that. Let me know if you get anything new.”

Jim returned the nod and watched only until Nightwing reached the ambulance before turning his—and with it, his team’s—attention back to the situation at hand.

The issue was they were blind out here. With the cameras out of commission and the gunmen not answering the damn phone, Jim and his team were stuck sitting on their thumbs while the comms crew set up surveillance.

Nightwing was back a few minutes later, lips set in a thin line.

“Anything?” Jim asked.

The vigilante shook his head. “Nothing we can use. Gunshots and shouting. They did the smart thing and got themselves to safety.”

There were holes in that story for sure, considering Perkins’ bloody nose and the scowl on the fourth kid, but Jim had to trust that whatever he wasn’t being told wasn’t relevant.

Nightwing glanced over his shoulder at the ambulance, where all four kids now sat and sipped on their juice boxes, before lowering his voice and adding, “I didn’t tell them anyone was shot. I think it’s best to keep it that way.”

Yeah. Yeah, Jim could see that.

“Quite the party we’ve got going on.” The mechanized voice was the only warning they had before Red Hood jumped literally into their midst. He’d always been one for an entrance. “Gotham sure knows how to throw a blowout.”

The officers nearby rippled with alarm and unease, looking from Hood to their commissioner and back again. Though no longer on the department’s Most Wanted list, GCPD’s relationship with the former crime lord hadn’t come to the same understanding as his with the bats. Hood might wear the symbol on his chest, but no one had forgotten the duffel bag or the drugs or anything else he’d done since his arrival in Gotham.

Hood, for his part, looked completely at ease even as hands drifted to holsters. “What’s the word, bird?” he asked Nightwing. “Commish,” he added, a nod to Jim. The box in the back of Jim’s brain rattled.

Jim gave the officers a small shake of his head, urging patience and hands far away from guns in the presence of a man who could outshoot them all. Nightwing carried none of his ally’s civil spirits.

“Six gunmen,” he said, tone tight, gesturing for the technician to pull up the footage again. “Came in through the west entrance. Ski masks, AK47s. Went straight for the ballroom. Seemed like the usual, but they tried to take a hostage and one of the guests got shot.”

Hood had leaned in to peer at the screen, but he cocked his chin to give partial attention back to Nightwing. “Oh?”

“Bruce Wayne.” Nightwing’s voice was steady, smooth. Jim tried hard not to think about it. “Gut shot. They shot the cameras right after, so we don’t know how bad or what else happened.”

Hood had turned back to the screen, leaning in so close that his head hovered over the tech’s shoulder, his hand gripping the back of the chair. He didn’t flinch at the shot, but he also didn’t move until the tape had reached its end again. When he straightened, Jim did his best not to picture his expression under the helmet.

“What’s the play?” Hood wanted to know. “We got eyes?”

“Working on it. Oracle’s trying to get an in. Have you heard—?”

Hood was already shaking his head. “Nothing. O sent me. Didn’t say, just said to get here.”

As he spoke, Hood looked around, using his height to scan over the crowd of milling police officers, firefighters, and EMTs. His gaze paused for a breath on the ambulance, but kept moving. Jim could guess what he was looking for. He wished he had the answers for both of them.

“Sir?” a sergeant asked. All three men swung her way, but she was looking at Nightwing. “Is Batman on his way?”

Nightwing’s smile was flat, a glimmer short of real, but no one could blame him, given the circumstances. “‘Fraid not. The big guy’s tied up.”

He gestured upward. “Business out of town.”

The other officers looked up to the night sky, where they all knew the Watchtower orbited. Jim and Hood didn’t.

“Just us, kiddies,” Hood said, any change to his tone disguised by the helmet.

Jim cleared his throat again. “So what are we thinking here? No demands so far, but they could be trying to make us sweat.”

“They shot their biggest meal ticket,” one of the officers pointed out. Jim hid a grimace. “If it were about the money, that’s a dumb move.”

“What was the thing with the girl about?” Another asked. “Crowd control? Maybe she was the target the whole time.”

“What? Yeah. Yeah, O, throw it up,” Nightwing interrupted, one hand to his ear. “Footage from inside,” he explained, as the command center screens flickered, then changed on their own.

Bodies contracted, clustering together again. Jim found himself shoulder to shoulder with Red Hood. The kid—and he was a kid, not even the helmet could fully disguise that—was built like an ox. Funny how life worked. He was also about to snap the back of the chair in two if he held on any tighter. That wasn’t Jim’s problem to solve, so he turned his full attention back to the screen.

It was a new view alright. Jim squinted, trying to orient himself.

“Is that a tablecloth?” the sergeant asked.

That was it. A tablecloth. The footage was coming from under a table, slanted-like. A white tablecloth hem framed the top edge, but they still had a partial view into the ballroom beyond.

“This is from a civilian?” one of the uniforms asked, voicing what Jim didn’t dare.

Neither vigilante answered. Onscreen, there was shouting. It sounded like the gunmen, but Jim couldn’t be sure. They could see the guests crouched or lying on the ground, hands folded over their heads, bank robbery style. Not good. It was harder to pass over goods that way, which meant either wearable items weren’t the focus, or the crooks planned to pluck them off of corpses instead of living people.

As if to emphasize the point, a dark streak of blood cut across the floor within view, its trail smeared as if from a dragged body—Wayne’s or someone else’s, Jim wasn’t sure. There were too many things he couldn’t think about right now, so he tried to focus on what he could.

Something was strange about the new footage, but he couldn’t pinpoint what.

Every uniform in earshot flinched at the sound of a gun cocking. All eyes swung to Red Hood, who had straightened and was readying his weapons.

“What are you doing?” Nightwing demanded.

“Going in there,” Hood said in the flattest well duh Jim had heard from anyone on the far side of puberty. “What’re you doing.”

“Hood—”

“No, dickhead, don’t start.”

Around them, emergency responders shifted, still wary of Hood’s guns, but mostly uncomfortable at getting caught up in a family quarrel. Jim wished he hadn’t quit smoking in public.

Nightwing was pressing his point. “—want to go in there as much as you but we can’t—”

“Yeah? Where’s the baby?” Hood interrupted.

Nightwing and Jim both whipped around to look for Robin, both with differing degrees of success at pushing their gaze past the ambulance without stopping.

Shit. There were only three kids silhouetted in the doorway. An empty shock blanket lay crumpled next to them.

Ulcers. This family was gonna give him ulcers with ulcers of their own.

“Like I said,” Hood finished, voice grim instead of triumphant, “I’m going in.”

Nightwing was no longer arguing, instead pushing past the people gathered around to beat Hood inside.

“Sir, should we…?” the sergeant began, then faltered, neither of them knowing how she would finish. Stop them? Go in with them?

Jim didn’t know either. There was no time to answer, though, because movement on the screens caught his attention like a fish hook through the lip.

“Boys!” he snapped, and both Nightwing and Hood jerked to a halt to look over their shoulders. “Something’s happening.”

They didn’t get back in time to see what Jim saw—slender fingers raised in front of the lens, counting down silently, a thin silver bracelet winking with the movement.

Five.

Four.

Three.

On two, the fingers disappeared, and Jim realized that the stillness was what had been bothering him. There were no jitters to the view, not the shaking of adrenaline or adjusting to hide more fully under the table. It was like the phone—because that’s what it had to be, a camera phone—was propped against one of the table legs.

On one, the view went black.

Those watching cried out in surprise or frustration, even as echoing cries rose from the larger crowd.

“Sir!” SWAT called over the radio. “Power just cut out.”

Nightwing and Hood, both of whom had sprinted back to arrive at three, exchanged glances.

“Hold your positions,” Jim barked back, then reluctantly asked, “What’s your eye in the sky telling you?”

Nightwing already had a hand to his ear, listening to his coordinator, the mysterious Oracle. Jim waited, hand on his hips, wishing more than ever for a cigarette in the corner of his mouth.

“Commissioner?” SWAT tried again.

“I said hold,” Jim snarled.

There was more gunfire, echoing from the screen and from the building itself. Jim could feel his own adrenaline about to crest and counted down in his head to when he could wait no longer.

Before he could give SWAT the go ahead, though, Nightwing and Hood both took off like runners off the block, sprinting full tilt toward a building that lit back up all at once.

“MOVE!” Jim bellowed into the radio even as he and the command team took off after the vigilantes. “Bats on the move, do not get in their way, but get your asses in there.”

There was no keeping up with the young bucks, especially not the two with a head start. Jim gave it his best, though. No one knew what was in that room, but whatever they found, Commissioner Gordon would be there to see everyone through.

Getting in turned out to be harder than anticipated. Before anyone outside reached the marble steps, the two wrought-iron front doors up top swung open and spat out a flood of panicked partygoers, pushing back masks, officers, and EMTs alike.

“Let ‘em out, let ‘em out,” Jim directed, trusting the team behind him to net everyone and triage them, be they victim or invader.

It was absolute chaos and Jim paused to catch his breath and keep his footing in the flow. As he did, he listened to the backdoor breach by SWAT, their path clearer and much more straightforward. He was sure Nightwing and Hood were being fed the same feed, though they hadn’t stopped trying to push their way in.

“Nightwing!” Jim called, then tried again, putting the force of twenty years of Little League coaching into it. That caught the shorter man’s attention, yanking his head around on a swivel.

Jim lifted his hands above his head, gesturing as he called, “EMTs! Clear a path!”

Nightwing turned back and called for Hood. The two of them, supported by GCPD, formed a kind of human sluice, shunting people to either side down the front steps so EMTs could charge straight up the middle. Jim followed in their wake, like riding in the traffic void left by an ambulance, and in so doing hit the ballroom ahead of both the bats and his own officers.

Good. Let him see it first.

The smell of blood was unmistakable, mixed with the acrid tang of gunpowder. It was on the floor, in streaks and splatters, trailed by the shoes of the people who continued to stream past and mixed with spilled punch and trailing tablecloths from overturned tables.

Six bodies lay on the ground, not moving, though some groaned weakly, as SWAT swarmed over them.

“Sir? Sir!”

Jim’s attention whipped toward the strident tones of the EMTs, but they weren’t talking to him. Three EMTs surrounded a pale and trembling but upright Bruce Wayne, one hand pressed to a wadded cloth held over a blood-soaked stomach.

“Sir, let us treat you. You’re in shock and we need—”

“My—My children.” Jim couldn’t hear him over the crowd, his voice too quiet, but he could see Bruce’s lips move, could guess what he was saying. “Please, are my kids okay? Have you seen my kids?”

Jim opened his mouth to call out, but was beat to it.

“Bruce!” a thin boy, collar undone to unveil a throat full of Adam’s apple, shirt untucked and flecked with blood at the hem, pushed his way from the other side of the crowd. “Bruce!”

Bruce Wayne whirled, only just managing to keep his feet, and called back, “TIM!”

He caught the boy with his free arm, both of them steadied by increasingly agitated EMTs.

From the other direction, a dark-haired girl sprinted in bare feet across the slick floor to appear by their side, only to be engulfed in a hug as well.

“Father!” Damian Wayne, the boy from the ambulance, appeared as if by magic, ignoring everyone in his way.

Jim could feel two bodies come up behind him, staring, as he did, at the little family tableau. Bruce Wayne stood surrounded by three of his four living children, pressing kisses into each of their scalps as he leaned for support on the elder of the two boys. Someone let out a quiet sigh of relief. Jim wasn’t sure who, and he pretended not to have heard anyways.

Thank God, he thought again, for the second time that night, and meant it. He would still be popping antacids for days after this.

Without looking back, Jim gestured forward at the gurney that the EMTs were trying and currently failing to load their patient onto. “Make sure they’ve got a clear path out of here. I’ve got a mess to tend to.”

“Sir,” Nightwing responded for the both of them.

Jim had enough to keep him occupied that it wasn’t hard to keep his eyes off Bruce Wayne. There were perps to secure and wheel out, all unconscious or sporting multiple broken bones from attackers they couldn’t name. Triage was still in effect, sorting through panic attacks, concussions, and a sprained ankle or two, though Bruce Wayne took the gold with his through-and-through bullet wound, and the girl he had saved, a foreign diplomat’s daughter, took silver with her bruised throat. Taking statements would take all night, and Jim was already craving a cup of coffee.

Bruce Wayne finally consented to being wheeled out, bloodstained shirt covered by a blanket thrown around his shoulders, his children trailing along behind him like so many half-grown ducklings. Jim was glad he didn’t have any young shoulders to wrap his jacket around tonight.

There were things a person needed to know to navigate Gotham, and then there were things a person couldn’t afford to know. As police commissioner, Jim’s box of the former tended to be deeper than the Average Joe’s, by necessity, and the latter he kept under padlock. They stayed with him, sometimes an easy burden, but more often a weight he bore because someone had to, because the city needed someone to.

A flicker of movement caught the corner of his eye, and Jim half-turned before he could catch himself, watching as the Wayne girl, Cassandra, doubled back and paused at a table to pluck her shoes from beneath the tablecloth. His attention caught her own, and she met his gaze with an unflinching solemnity too heavy for one so young. Jim lifted a hand, as if to wave her off, but tapped the inside of his own wrist quickly as he did so. The little Wayne girl stared for only a heartbeat longer, then unclasped the identifiable silver bracelet from her arm and tucked it into her skirt, along with her phone.

She smirked, winked, and hurried after the rest of her family.

Jim sighed.

Ulcers.

#whumptober2022 #altno.14 #emergency blanket #batfam #batfic #fanfic #my fic #jim gordon #bruce wayne #Jason Todd #dick grayson #Tim Drake #Damian Wayne #cassandra cain #gunshot wounds #hostage situation #whump

[aceofwhump]

No. 15 Alternate: Emergency Blanket

9-1-1 Lone Star 2x12 | Jericho 1x14 | Station 19 1x03 | Sherlock BBC 1x01 | The Blacklist 2x06 | Forever 1x11 | The Mentalist 6x11 | Farscape 2x10 | Prodigal Son 2x03 | Castle 3x17 | The Day After Tomorrow | Hawaii Five-0 10x07

@whumptober @whumptober-archive

#whumptober2022 #no.15 #alternate #emergency blanket #whumptober 2022 gifs #whumpedit #mods whumptober posts #my gifs #911 lone star #jericho #station 19 #sherlock #the blacklist #forever #the mentalist #farscape #prodigal son #the day after tomorrow #hawaii five 0 #castle #gifs #mod post #blankets #whump compilation

[disastertrash]

"Can I use an emergency blanket in place of a sleeping bag?"

This question comes up from time to time in the Ultralight backpacking community. So, I did a not smart thing and gave it a go. (I used an SOL XL emergency blanket for the experiment.)

My first test was in Oregon, 3 nights with a low of 45-50F temperature. Then in Washington, two nights with a low of 35-40F-ish.

My takeaway? Don't replace a sleeping bag with an emergency blanket. Even with safeguards in place, this can be dangerous.

The details below.

For my Oregon trip, I didn't bring a tent. (I generally don't unless Im expecting rain. And chances were at 5% this trip. My friend brought one though, should I need it.)

The first night, my bedding was a 1/8" EVA foam pad folded in half, over an inch of pine needles and other forest debris.

Wearing every piece of clothing with me, I was too cold to sleep. The emergency blanket was slippery. Every small shift, some part of my body came uncovered.

To increase the insulation, and hopefully hold the bag better in place around me, I put my feet in my clothing stuff sack, and cinched it closed. Then I crawled as deep as I could into my pack liner (a plastic garbage bag). And finally, I stuffed my swadled feet and legs into my backpack. It helped. But, it still wasn't a pleasant evening.

The air was saturated. I didnt sleep well. Two minutes of rain reached me through the dense tree cover. The warmth ebbed with the hours. Condensation was gathering in both the trashbag and the emergency blanket, slowly soaking into my clothing. It was leaching my heat even under the emergency blanket.

Sorry folks, I don't remember the details of second night.

The third evening was less bad. The pine needles were at least 4 inches deep. I left more of the miniature pine cones in place under my foam pad to add airpockets to trap more heat. The temperature was up, and the air was not so saturated.

For my Washington trip earlier this year, It was supposed to be 10 degrees F warmer than my last trip. And with innovations to improve the experience: a velcro taped footbox for the emergency blanket, a tent, and a Sea to Summit Max Reactor sleeping bag liner. With google at the helm and us unaware that more than one campground shared the same name, we arrived to the wrong place, hours off course. It was late, we decided to stay.

The weather here was colder and wetter than planned. The first night, I was miserably, but still tolerably, cold.

The day next day was pleasantly warm. I even gained a slight sunburn. But by the second evening, the temperatures had dropped. It was even colder than the night before. I employed all of the insulation strategies from my Oregon trip. Ideas even brought my sit pad into the liner with me. The condensation gathered, it soaked into my clothing.

By 3am, I was shivering violently. I was well-hydrated, I'd eaten through my high calorie snacks, I'd done crunches to generate extra body heat. Signs pointed towards a growing risk of hypothermia. It was time to implement the next safety guard: my friend's extra sleeping bag liner. It was silk, but it was something. If that was insufficient, the plan was to get into my friend's tent with them and their dog, and share my friend's sleeping bag.

The extra sleeping bag liner tipped the scale. But only just. I layered the emergency blanket between the two liners, and fell into a fitful sleep. (Important to point out, by this point there were no weight savings over my sleeping bag.)

Waking before the sun was fully up, I left a note and walked along the lake to warm up.

#emergency blanket #sleeping bag #backpacking #ultralight #disaster preparedness #disaster preparation

[lgbtqlegends]

hey y'all!! i'm back with day 18 of whumptober!! (day 16 + 17 were written for NCIS: LA). I know it's been a while since I've written/posted any fics (a long few months), but hopefully I'll be back to writing and posting more regularly now! oh how I've missed it. anyways, I hope y'all enjoy!!

Summary:

No. 18: Let's Break The Ice

Prompts: Treading Water / "Take my coat" / Emergency Blanket (alt prompt)

In which Sara is thrown into freezing, icy cold waters in the dead of winter. Ava jumps in after her to pull her out and keep her warm at all costs.

#whumptober2022 #no.18 #treading water #'take my coat' #emergency blanket #dc's legends of tomorrow #legends of tomorrow #fic #avalance #sara lance #ava sharpe #mod alien's fic

[professor-rye]

Day 9: Dazed and Confused

Title: A Very Silent Night Characters: Caleb Widogast, Essek Thelyss Rating: Mature Set: Modern AU Tags: Dazed and Confused, Emergency Blanket, Car Crash, Broken Bones, Head Trauma, First Aid, Hurt/Comfort Word Count: 7,324

Now, Caleb was being lulled to sleep, between the gentle hum of the vehicle and the warmth of the cab. He leaned his head against the window, feeling the cool glass against his skin as the podcast droned on. His eyes grew heavier, and eventually, he decided not to fight it any longer. Honestly, he could use the rest before seeing their friends again. Just a short little nap. He wasn’t sure how long he had been sleeping when suddenly, he was jolted awake as their tires squealed and he was thrown forward against the dash. He barely recognized the impact before he was unconscious once more.

Check out more of our Whumptober Collaboration here!

#whumptober2022 #no.9 #dazed and confused #emergency blanket #critical role #fan fic #car crash #broken bones #head trauma #shadowgast #first aid #hurt/comfort

[beardedbastardoutdoors]

Top 10 Types of Survival Shelters to Consider When Building in the Wilderness

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#bivy shelter #camping stove #cave shelter #debris shelter #emergency blanket #emergency shelter #fire starting #first aid kit #hammock shelter #igloo #improvised shelter #knife #lean-to shelter #natural shelter #navigation #paracord #snow cave #survival #survival shelter #survival tools #tarp shelter #tent shelter #tree shelter #types of shelters #water purification #Wilderness survival #wilderness survival gear #wilderness survival skills #wilderness survival techniques

[set-phasers-to-whump]

emergency blanket

prompt: emergency blanket (alt no.14)

whumpee: sakari nurmi

fandom: karppi/deadwind

hi this fic is a little different from other stuff in an undefined kinda way...it's set pre-series by a few years at a time in which i imagine sakari has recently moved to helsinki and doesn't work with the police. i enjoyed messing around with this but it is a bit different to my usual stuff idk. hope you like it anyway!

He’s ripped violently out of a deep sleep by the sound of an explosion. The building shakes. Things rattle. Plaster is falling from the ceiling. He knows this because it’s falling on him. 

He leaps out of bed, heart pounding. He knows perfectly well what to do in the event of an explosion, but he’s never actually had to act before - it was always just drills and being ready, but he’d escaped any actual explosions. 

Until now. Plaster is still raining down from the ceiling, which means he should get under a table, but he lives on the third floor. If the floor collapses, the table isn’t going to do him much good. 

He needs to get out. 

He slowly walks across the room and to the door. The floor creaks underneath him but holds steady. The fire alarms - those that work, anyway - are ringing. People are screaming. He feels the door, which isn’t hot, then opens it. 

He’s met with chaos. People are pushing down the hallway towards the stairs and only one of the lightbulbs in the ceiling is working so it’s sort of dark but the fire alarm is flashing and there’s debris scattered over the floor and at the other end of the hall there’s just a hole where there should be a floor. 

He joins his neighbors in the journey to the stairwell and has the brief thought that he should have put on shoes, or a jacket. Once he gets outside, he’s going to be freezing. 

At least you’ll be alive, he reminds himself. This thought is punctuated by a loud crashing noise behind him. Everyone collectively turns around. Something unidentifiable but very much on fire has fallen through the ceiling. People start screaming again, assuming they ever stopped. He nearly gets knocked to the ground as everyone suddenly starts shoving wildly in a now truly desperate attempt to get to the stairs. 

The heat of the fire is steadily growing, though it’s still a good distance away down the hall. Eventually, Sakari makes it into the stairwell. It’s crowded with people coming down from higher floors, but someone grabs his arm and pulls him into the throng and then he’s moving down, down, down, surrounded by people in various states of undress. Some of them are bleeding, burned. He guesses the explosion happened on an upper floor. 

The procession downwards is slow-going, but it is going. He makes it to the second floor, where a few more people push into the group. He supposes most of the people from this floor have already made it down. 

Finally, the exit is in sight. It’s a door marked ‘fire exit, use only in case of emergency.’ It’s been propped open and there’s a blinking light above it. Outside he can hear sirens mixing with the echo of the fire alarm. 

He steps outside. The sidewalk is cold beneath his bare feet, but at least it isn’t snowing. He moves along with a crowd of people. He has no idea where they’re going besides away, which is more than good enough for him. 

He turns back briefly and looks at the building. Part of it, starting on the fifth floor and extending down through the third, is simply gone. Flames lick out of the gaping hole where this part of the building used to be. Here and there he can see fires behind windows, smoke rising into the dark sky. As he looks, part of the fourth floor breaks free from the building and crashes to the ground. People scream. Someone runs into him from behind and he nearly loses his balance. 

“Hey, keep moving!”

He turns away from the horrible scene and keeps walking. At last he figures out what everyone has been walking towards: there’s a barrier being set up by police, who are shouting for people to get behind it. He passes the barrier, at which point the people around him begin to disperse. Some of those who are bleeding are being treated by paramedics. Groups of people huddle together, calling out for people they’ve gotten separated from. He doesn’t know what to do. He doesn’t have anyone here to join, doesn’t really know his neighbors. He’s not hurt, either, so he can’t go to the medics. Can he just leave? He feels like he can’t. And anyway, where would he go? His car’s broken. He doesn’t have shoes on. He’s kind of trapped. 

He briefly wonders whether any of his things will be salvageable. Whether the firefighters will extinguish the flames before they reach his apartment. He hopes so. He doesn’t have a lot of stuff, and what little he does have is all in there. 

But there’s nothing he can do about that. He forces his thoughts away from his apartment and decides to just walk around. After a few minutes of this aimless walking, he comes to the conclusion that the best thing to do is to simply sit down. 

He finds an empty section of the curb that has a view of the activity and sinks down. On his right is a mailbox, and on his left is a family with two small children. Neither one of them is crying, but their mother is. Something twists inside him. He stands back up, not willing to intrude. 

He walks around a bit more. Tents are being set up next to ambulances, and people are gathering under them, he supposes for medical treatment. There is one tent that has sides as well as a roof. He stares at it and wonders how many people have died. Wonders what exactly had happened. 

He finds himself walking over towards the tents without really thinking about it. He looks in on the scenes beneath them, half imagining that he’ll see someone he knows, but everyone is a stranger. 

“Hey!” someone shouts. He’s been hearing people shout “hey!” for however long it’s been (and really, he realizes, he has absolutely no idea whether it’s been seconds or hours), and only one of those shouts had been directed at him. He isn’t doing anything wrong, to his knowledge, so he figures whoever’s shouting isn’t shouting at him. 

“Hey, come here!” the person shouts again. He looks around, curious to see what’s happening, and makes eye contact with a paramedic. He figures she’ll just wave him along, but instead she nods and calls, “come here!”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

He looks down at himself, suddenly wondering whether he’s somehow been bleeding this whole time and had failed to notice. But he’s fine, he thinks. 

“What’s the matter?” he asks, approaching the paramedic. 

“You’re shaking.”

He is? He hadn’t noticed. Now, though, he does. He’s cold. Really cold. And afraid, he realizes, even though the most imminent danger has already passed. 

He exhales sharply. His chest feels tight. He wraps his arms around himself as this whole barrage of previously-unrecognized sensations suddenly hits him all at once. 

Something touches him. He jolts in surprise, and the paramedic gently puts a hand on his shoulder. “It’s okay,” she says. “It’s only a blanket.”

It is a blanket. One of those silvery, reflective ones. He’s seen them a few times before, though he’s never actually had one to himself. He had always assumed that people had been stretching the truth, calling the things thermal blankets when to him they had resembled nothing so much as sheets of tinfoil. 

To his surprise, however, the blanket really is quite warm. He pulls it tightly around himself, tucking his arms in underneath it and holding onto it as though it might be taken away from him at any second. 

And then the paramedic gives him another blanket. This one is more normal. It’s thick and not terribly soft but it’s warm, too, and actually feels like a blanket. He draws this one tightly around his body as well, burrowing into the warmth of the layered blankets as much as possible.

“Please come find me or someone else if you don’t stop shivering soon,” the paramedic tells him, and he nods and watches her hurry off to help another paramedic with a man whose whole torso is covered in blood. 

Still shivering and overwhelmed, Sakari again finds himself a place to sit, this time beneath the tent, near the back of an open ambulance. 

The ground is frigid beneath him, and even when he adjusts the blankets so he can sit on them, he can still feel it. He tucks himself into as tight a ball as he can manage and wraps the blankets around himself again, trying especially hard to cover both his feet and his arms. Again he wishes that he had brought his shoes, or that at least he had gone to bed wearing socks. 

But he hadn’t, and now he’s here, sitting on the freezing, hard ground and shaking so hard he almost feels sick. He tries to focus on getting warm, tries not to think about the explosion. Tries not to imagine getting caught in the flames, trapped by the rubble. He’s lucky, he supposes. Bad things always seem to happen to the people around him, and not to him. 

It doesn’t feel like luck. It feels like a horrible mixture of fear and guilt squeezing him from the inside out. He pulls the blankets still tighter around his body and wonders if the shaking will ever stop.

thanks for reading! i hope you enjoyed this even though it was a bit weird. i just love exploring his backstory and making shit up :) see you tomorrow!!

#whumptober2022 #altno.14 #emergency blanket #karppi #deadwind #fic #sakari nurmi #caught in an explosion #shaking #comfort #i say things #my writing #turned in one paper today. just have to write another one tomorrow. and then i am free. it's so close now #just have to yknow. analyze and write and edit. we got this. probably.

[faofinn]

No. 23 EMERGENCY BLANKET (Alt. 14)

@whumptober

@whumptober-archive

As uni became more and more stressful and full on, Fao relished his time on the rugby pitch. He could forget about the stresses for a while, and focus on his team and the game. It stopped him getting too into his head, which helped. They were prepping once more for the Challenge Cup, and things were heating up. Fao’s penultimate year, it was really starting to mean stuff. He was the new captain, too, and that meant he was really staking his reputation. 

They had a friendly game that week, and Fao was looking forwards to it. Sheila had said she was coming down to watch, and he always enjoyed playing when she was watching. It always made him push to play his best, too. Not that he didn’t try anyway, but having someone in the crowds rooting for him? It was still a bit of a weird feeling, despite it being more than four years since they’d adopted him. 

The team had played really well in the first half, and after an all to brief half time chat, they were back on the pitch. It had started to rain, of course, so they were quickly soaked to the skin as well as covered in mud, but it was good fun all the same. Fao loved it, thrived on it, shouting to his team and trying to score again. 

Things were getting a little snippy, some of his team’s tempers frayed with a couple of fouls from the other team that had gone unpenalised. A year ago, that would’ve been Fao, swearing and threatening to do worse, but now he knew better. They’d just scored again, Fao throwing himself over the line. Still high on the adrenaline from that try, and the subsequent conversion, he was playing arrogantly. He knew it, but he didn’t care enough to stop it. 

Until he got possession again, and one of the other team came at him with an illegal high tackle. His arms around Fao’s shoulders and neck, Fao’s head collided with his shoulder and he was out cold before he hit the floor. 

Play was stopped immediately, the player who’d tackled Fao given an immediate red card and told under no uncertain terms to go back to the changing rooms. A couple of Fao’s teammates crowded around him, immediately worried and calling for a medic. They were all healthcare students, of course, but there wasn’t much they could do without kit. It didn’t look good, though, Fao having taken a significant impact. He was still breathing, thankfully, though it looked like he’d busted his collarbone yet again. That was the least of their worries, though, as he was still completely out. 

They were looking around for Sheila worriedly, knowing full well she was there. She was always there, of course she’d be there. Fao would need her, that was sure. 

“Someone find Sheila, let her come down.” One of the boys said. She’d be on her way, surely. She would’ve seen him go down, she’d be fighting through people to get to them. It would be much easier to let her down, so she could be with him. 

The medics fussed, quickly taking obs and trying to get the situation under control. It didn’t exactly look good; high tackles were dangerous. 

They were only halfway through their assessments when Sheila pushed through, having fought off security and the other team. A well practiced glare had had them scarpering, and she'd had to hold her tongue as she caught sight of the idiot that had caused it all. 

There was a flare of panic, flashbacks she'd rather not have. "He's breathing, right? "

Matt looked over at Sheila, his attention pulled from where he’d been listening to the medics. “Sheila. Yeah, he’s breathing.”

"Still not come round?"

“Not yet, but he took a significant hit.”

"I saw." She swallowed thickly, moving closer to Fao, gently taking his hand. "You're alright, you're gonna be okay."

It wasn’t too much longer before Fao started to come round, groaning and struggling against the hands all over him. 

"Fao, sweetheart, just relax. You're okay. I'm here, just relax." She murmured, softly stroking his cheek. "You're okay."

He frowned, struggling to get his eyes to focus. He could hear Sheila, he thought, but everyone was still touching him, and he hated it. He tried batting uncoordinatedly at them, but pain lanced across his shoulder as he moved it, and he cried out. 

"Scíth a ligean, tá tú ceart go leor, ach breathe." She stumbled over the gaelic, trying to calm him before he hurt himself further. 

He settled a little, realising it was Sheila. Everything hurt, and he was cold. Really cold. It was still raining, and he was soaked to the skin. He realised then he was shivering, and he couldn’t stop it. His eyes finally focused on Sheila and he whined, disoriented and in pain. 

"Hey. It's okay." She forced a smile. "Can we get him some more blankets? He's frozen and he's only going to get cooler. I've got spare coats in the car, can someone go and get them?"

"Fao? Can you talk to us?"

The second voice confused Fao - he could only see Sheila. His eyes flicked around, looking for who had spoken, but he couldn’t see them properly. “Help?” 

The medic leaned over him slightly. "We're trying to help you, we're just waiting for the ambulance, they won't be long. I need you to stay nice and still for me, okay? Can you tell me where hurts?"

He thought about it for a minute. “Everywhere?”

"Okay. Do you feel sick? Dizzy?"

He certainly didn’t feel right. He wasn’t sure if the nausea was from the shivering or not, and it was definitely difficult to stay focused. Everything was… hazy. “Yeah.” He said finally. 

Matt had disappeared off to Sheila’s car to grab the coats, and had managed to find another blanket, too, which he handed to the other medic. 

"Here, we'll get you a bit warmer. Probably better than our space blankets."

“Mm. Hurts.” Fao whined. 

"Paramedics will be here soon."

He was still shivering despite the extra blankets, unable to get warm. It was still a struggle to focus, everything hazy, and he squeezed his eyes shut in an attempt to help.

"Fao?" Sheila murmured. "Stay awake for us."

“Am awake. But dizzy.”

"It's hard, I know." The medic soothed. "But your mum's right. We need you to stay awake."

“The dizzy is better if I close my eyes.”

"Okay, can you talk to us then?"

“What about?” Fao grumbled.

"Anything you want."

“M cold.”

"We've given you all the blankets."

Fao could feel the cold mud soaking into the back of his shirt. “Mum?”

"I'm right here."

“Are you mad at me?”

"Of course not." She murmured. "Of course not."

“‘M sorry.”

"Don't be sorry. I could kill him for you, there was no need for that."

Fao frowned. “I don’t remember.”

"That's okay. You hit your head pretty hard." She soothed.

“What happened?”

"Bad tackle."

“Oh.” He struggled to take a deep breath. “Can I go home now?”

"Think we're gonna have to go to hospital, sweetheart.'

“No, jus’ help me up and I’ll go home.”

"Your mum's right, Fao. We're just waiting for the ambulance."

“Jus’ need a lift home.”

"The ambulance can give us a lift." Sheila said. 

Fao narrowed his eyes. “No ambulance.”

Fao didn’t have much of a say in the matter, though, as the Ambulance arrived soon after. He was cold and in pain, and it was really hard to stay awake. They kept telling him to talk to them, but it was hard. Didn’t they know it was hard?

Sheila was beside herself with worry, gripping Fao's hand tight. It stirred up more emotions and memories she didn't want to deal with, but she had to be there for Fao.

Fao had been okay until the paramedic crew started their assessment, their hands all over him, pressing uncomfortably and causing more pain. 

“Fuck off, get off!” He protested, getting agitated and frustrated. “Get off! Get off!”

"Fao, Fao, please." She tried, her heart breaking. "Just relax, they're just helping, just breathe."

“It hurts, fuck off!”

"Faolan, stop. Relax." She said firmly. 

"We're nearly done, pal. We'll be on our way soon."

“Please.” He whined, his voice cracking as he struggled to breathe. 

"You're okay. We're not doing it to hurt you, we just need to get you nice and safe so we can move."

Fao’s pleading turned into sobbing, heedless of the other people around him. “P-please.”

"Fao, sweetheart, it's alright." 

“Hurts.” Fao said, panic rising. He was getting more dizzy now, felt more and more out of control. He was scared he was going to pass out, trembling. 

"I know it hurts, darling. I know, I'm sorry. Just hold on, we'll be okay."

The nausea was rising, alongside the pain, and Fao realised quite abruptly that he was going to be sick. “Gonna be sick.” He said quickly, panic in his voice. 

They moved quickly, rolling him onto his side. The antiemetics obviously hadn't worked, and vomiting after his head injury wasn't a good sign. Sheila was all too aware of it, turning away for a moment and trying to catch her breath through the rising panic.

He groaned as he was sick, the roll onto his side just making the dizziness that much worse. He tried to catch his breath, whimpering. 

They did their best to keep him comfortable as they rolled him onto their board and loaded him onto the ambulance, still shivering under the endless blankets they’d given him. There was foil blankets layered under the thick ones from Sheila’s car, and yet it still wasn’t enough. 

Fao’s head spun as they settled him inside. At least it was warmer, though he was still cold. He gripped Sheila’s hand tightly as they fussed, though he could feel himself slipping. He didn’t want to pass out, but it was beginning to feel inevitable, his vision blurring into black.

#whumptober 2022 #no. 23 #alt prompt 14 #emergency blanket #fic #oc #rugby injury #spinal injury #illegal tackle #faolan blackwood #sheila daniels #rugby player fao #rugby #university rugby #whump writing #whump prompt #brothers in more than arms #unconscious #spinal board #spinal precautions #head injury #agitated head injury #vomiting #passing out #worried parent #whump #ambulance #panic #dizziness

[musewrangler]

Their campaign here had been largely successful. Piett had come planetside with his detail to view the area, when a last ditch attack had occurred. Their forces had easily overcome it, but not before a blaster shot had struck General Veers in the head as he was directing his people.

Piett had been mere feet away and promptly swung his own rifle to take out the shooter before he sprinted for the spot where his friend had disappeared—

—in time to see Max topple into the water where the furious river carried him away.

#whumptober 2022 #no. 8 #no. 14 #back from the dead #emergency blanket #Star Wars #fanfic #star wars original trilogy #star wars au #firmus piett #admiral piett #leia organa #general veers #maximilian veers #commander fox #commander wolffe #clone commander cody #cc1010 #cc 2224 #cc 3636 #friends and brothers #kaysh the Loth wolf

[sinvulkt]

The Beast Under The Basement

There is a beast under the basement. It howls and cries, its agonised sounds as familiar to Luke as the Desert winds. At first, he is afraid. But then Luke grows up, and he decide to do something about it.

His uncles and aunt should have known better than to refuse to explain anything. Finished, 3k words.

@angstober

*** ** * ** ***

There was a beast living in the basement.

You could hear it rage at dawn. You could hear it cry at sunset. It never tired, never stopped. Its howls were as much a part of Luke’s life as Tatooine's winds.

If there had been any travelers nearby, they would have sworn it was in agony.

✯✯✯ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ✯✯✯

Luke had once asked uncle Ben why they kept it. He was still small, scared of the monster hiding under his bed, and the idea of one so near disturbed him.

Ben’s face had done the weird crying-but-not thing, and he had answered the beast was too dangerous to let it roam free. Luke understood this. Uncle Owen and Aunt Beru had ensured that he knew no exploration near the basement was allowed if he didn’t want to get devoured.

“Why don’t you kill it, then?” he had asked. Uncle Owen had killed the cave sketto that had tried to eat uncle Ben’s banthas. Plus… the beast seemed in a lot of pain. Wouldn’t it be a mercy?

Ben’s expression turned raw as he said, “I can’t.”

And so, the beast remained.

✯✯✯ ⚔ ⚔ ⚔ ✯✯✯

Read the rest here on Ao3~

#angstober2022 #day 8 #haunted pet #angstober 2022 #but also #whumptober2022 #no.8 #altprompt #emergency blanket #although it's just one scene #blink and you'll miss it xd #i went full out on haunted pet though #sinvulkt fics #fragments of imagination #ao3 #fic rec #fanfic snippet #even stars burn out #anakin skywalker #darth vader #vaderkin #sw #incorrect star wars quotes #all of this is from child luke pov #young luke skywalker #child luke skywalker #luke skywalker #obi wan kenobi #star wars #prisoner Vaderkin

[random-nerd-posts]

Emergency Blanket

He was just working on his bike. Then the metal of his wrench scraped the wall of the bike, Jason froze.

He found himself in the warehouse located in the Republic of Bosnia. He could hear the clown's laughter, see the green hair, stupid purple suit. He could feel the cold cement, the crowbar as it slapped against his body.

Jason wanted to escape. His breathing picked up, making it harder for him to breathe. He jerked through the shivers that controlled his body as the crowbar slammed against his head.

This isn't real, Jason thought. I'm alive. This is over. I'm alive. I'm alive.

He remembered a trick that helped his mind get back to where he was as he gripped his shirt, tight like it was a lifeline. Ever since that night, Jason couldn't wear any fabric that reminded himself of the Robin costume, so he wore leather with soft cottony fabrics underneath.

It felt like hours, but he found himself releasing the tension in his muscles, the shivers didn't stop, but the visions, the fears crept away, lurking in the shadows for another attack.

Pushing himself into a sitting position, he looked around to find himself back in his garage, his bike in progress and his phone. Grabbing it, Jason dialed his security blanket.

"Bruce Wayne," the voice on the other end spoke. Jason's breath hitched as he let the tears fall. "Jason, are you okay?"

"Bruce," Jason cried. "It happened again. I was working on my bike and my tools scraped on something and I spiraled. I think I'm okay now, but can you come get me?"

"I'm on my way," Bruce answered immediately. "Keep on the line while I get there, okay?"

"Okay," Jason wiped his eyes.

[Day 3] [Day 5]

#whumptober 2022 #no.4 #alt.14 #Emergency Blanket #DC #medium: fic #Panic Attack #Jason Todd #he's back from the dead #his emergency blanket differs from Dick and Bruce

[lizzyverydizzyyo]

D.E.A.N | Chapter 21 - Race

Masterlist and overall summary of the whole novel is here. | Prompt on trope-appreciation-tuesdays that inspired this is here. | @whumptober-archive

Fandom : Original Work

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)

AO3

A/N 16/11/23: Anyway, out of concern for people who can't stomach medical procedures, especially ones that are so gory and bloody, you can skip the rest of the chapter to the bottom notes, like the previous chapter.

Wordcount: ± 4665

TW: Graphic Depiction of Medical Procedure, Blood and Gore, Graphic Depiction of Suicide Attempt Aftermath, Weapon, Knife, Fire, Cauterization

There is a very small window of time before their charge’s injury is going to kill him, and Mark and the others have to move fast before it’s too late.

Whumptober 2022 Tropes:

Day 5 — Every Whumpee’s Needs | Blood Loss

Day 7 — The Way You Shake and Shiver | Shaking Hands + Silent Panic Attack

Day 7 Alt. — Tears

Day 8 — Everything Hurts and I’m Dying | Stomach Pain

Day 8 Alt. — Whimpering

Day 11— “911, What’s Your Emergency?” | Sloppy Bandages

Day 12 Alt. — Adrenaline Crash

Day 14 — Die A Hero or Live Long Enough to Become a Villain | Desperate Measures

Day 19 — Enough Is Enough | Knees Buckling

Day 24 — Fight, Flight or Freeze | Blood Covered Hands

Day 26 Alt. — Ringing Ears

Day 27 — Pushed to the Limit | Muffled Screams

Day 29 Alt. — Emergency Blanket

-----

Marcus bodily slams into the med bay door with his back, thundering heartbeat and sense of urgency giving him unprecedented strength. The sound is loud, but he supposes with everything happening, no one really cares enough to be irritated or inclined to scold him.

Angie is walking behind him, and as he turns slightly to the left, she immediately swoops in with body slightly turned to the side so she can enter the doorway alongside Mark. She immediately goes to the corner of the room where a cart full of their medical supplies is located.

Her steps and gait are sure without being forceful, unlike Mark who, besides carrying Nick, is blundering through everything loudly and forcefully. If he isn’t so focused on carrying Nick and looking at his face, he would probably ponder the fact that Angie used to be EMS before going to police academy, which is why her moves and footing are firm and measured without sacrificing speed.

She opens the drawer quickly, throwing over her shoulder, "Lay him down on the bed," then she quickly turns to Mark, "don't put his legs higher than his body."

Mark dutifully follows her instruction and walks to the bed quickly, depositing Nikolai carefully then holds the back of black-haired head to let it down gently.

Nick blinks up groggily and squeezes his eyes towards the neon light. On the other side, the other agents file in gravely and quickly. Their eyes are wide and scared, almost. Mark only throws a millisecond look at them before looking down at Nick again.

His hands go towards Nick's wound with knife still protruding from it, fingers going to the part where the fabric is torn, gingerly putting his two index fingers on both sides of the opening.

"Don't touch the wound!"

Mark whips his head towards Angie who is still quickly rummaging through the cart.

"Come here," she then calls to him, hand holding a bottle of disinfectant liquid.

Marcus walks to her quickly, giving out his hands as Angie presses the pump of the bottle and it squirts the transparent liquid onto his palms. He immediately rubs it all over his palms just as Angie squirts some onto her own hands and rubbing it in.

He walks back to Nick, still with others just standing around, not knowing what to do.

He supposes, just like Anderson who is still miles more skilled than any of them with his expertise in cybersecurity and system penetration, Angie is more skilled than any of them in emergency first aid despite their standard intermediate first aid training. It's no wonder she moves quickly and fluidly when it comes to what to do now.

"Did any of you call Doctor Lowe?" she asks with irritated voice when she sees them all crowding the room while looking like deer in headlight.

Luke, who is unknowingly outside all this time, immediately steps in while jogging, saying, "Yes, yes, I did. I don't know how long he will arrive. He just said to us to make sure he breathes normally and put pressure on the wound."

"No shit," she mumbles to no one in particular, hands full with gauze and bottles and—

He doesn't know. He can't think. He is just going to trust her to direct him.

"Rip his clothes," she firmly tells him as she approaches the bed.

He hooks his now disinfected index fingers again to the ripped part of Nick's shirt and puts all of his strength to rip it even more, the sound loud and grounding to his scrambling mind. Unfortunately, the sleeves of the shirt prevent the clothes from being ripped completely from Nick's body, but at least they have enough area to work with the wound.

Nick's hand shakily rises up to touch his forearm, pushing gently.

"Just.... just—" he whispers, eyes squeezed again with tears falling to his temples, "...let me go."

He then stares at Mark with a surprisingly firm and steady gaze, even if the eyes look pleading and devastated.

"No," Mark quickly says, "I'm not fucking doing that."

Nick chokes out a sob then turns back to look at the light above him. His face is paler now.

Angie plops the stuff she is carrying to the small space next to Nick's arm on the bed. "We're gonna help you, okay, honey?" she says to Nick with an uncharacteristically motherly and personal voice.

"No," Nick whispers again, "no, please."

Angie looks at Nick's face with her own sad eyes, saying, "We're really sorry we didn't do our job well. But give us a chance to do better. Don't give up yet."

She then pulls the gauze from the pile she just took, not caring about how much she grabs, then puts it around the knife to push still at Nick's thin abdomen.

Nick whimpers and squeezes his eyes again.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," she says again to Nick as he looks visibly more in pain at the pressure.

"What... what do we do?" Mark hears Don's shaky voice.

Mark is about to scream at him to get out, but Angie beats him to it.

"Get the fuck out of here," she hisses without looking up, " you too, Anna. He definitely doesn't want you both here."

Angry looks pass through their faces momentarily, before changing back into regretful faces. They probably realize they don't deserve to be personally offended as they're being singled out. Eventually, they walk backwards towards the door then turn around to walk out as they throw another pained look at Nick.

"All of you, stop blocking the door! Stand somewhere else!"

The remaining agents then hurriedly walk to the walls and the corners of the room at Angie's command where they're not crowding Mark and Angie.

"What do I do?" Mark now asks urgently at her.

Angie lets go of her hold against the gauze to grab the bottle of disinfectant she grabbed, tilting her chin towards the area. Mark just takes it to mean that he should replace her hands for putting pressure on the wound while Angie is busy with the bottle.

She presses the disinfectant pump, smearing blood onto it, to squirt quite a lot of the liquid into a new layer of gauze. She then pulls Mark's hands away slightly so that the gauze already there spread out from the protruding knife. She puts the new disinfected gauze closer to the wound opening inside the circle of gauze she placed previously.

"Help me hold the gauze around it," she points around the disinfected gauze she is currently pushing.

Nick whimpers again, louder this time with gritted teeth.

"Get a fabric, give him something to bite."

Mark just whips his head around, panic filling his mind when he can't find anything to use.

"Just get more gauze," she hisses irritably at him.

He pulls up his arm, which is then immediately replaced by Angie's so that she fully pushes the gauzes by herself. Mark then walks to the cart, opening the drawers urgently while trying to ignore the blood on his fingers. He finds more gauze and grabs only the corner so that there is non-bloody part Nick can bite.

"Here," he says to Nick. Nick responds by opening his eyes and turning his head slightly to face him, parting his lips only very slightly.

That's good. That's really good. He seems like he is starting to let them help him.

Mark puts the fabric between Nick's teeth, then he bites down, his lips slightly trembling.

Angie's left fingers are still in the form of circle around the knife while pushing down on the first layer of crumpled gauze to put pressure. As Mark watches on, Angie starts to pull away her right hand while still gripping the second layer of gauze with disinfectant in it.

When Angie starts to rub the wound opening quite close to the knife with the soaked gauze, Nick immediately squeezes his eyes again with a surprisingly loud scream and back arching from the bed.

Angie automatically flings one forearm towards Nick's chest to push him down, while Mark instinctively grabs his knees and pushes down at them too.

"No, no, don't move, the knife is still there," she tells him with steady voice and gaze.

She tsks worriedly then looks up at the other agents around the room. Her gaze immediately falls on Lena.

"Lena!"

The aforementioned agent looks up to Angie's face.

"Come here, calm him down," Angie says to them, "he's most comfortable with you." She then throws a look to her left where Mark is standing while she's still holding down the gauze around the knife. "Aside, from you, I guess."

Lena walks unsurely, probably not confident that they're not going to make things worse.

"Come here!" Angie calls out more, and Lena immediately strides towards the bed to the top of Nick's head.

Lena puts their arms gently to the bed with palms touching and slightly squeezing Nick's shoulders. They murmur things softly to Nick, something along the lines of, it's okay, everything's gonna be okay, yeah? Just hold on. They then reach an arm towards Nick's on the bed, but jerkily stops to look at Angie.

"Can I hold his hand?"

Angie throws a slight look at Lena then nods. "Probably a good idea to make sure his hands don't touch the knife."

Lena quickly reaches out to Nick's arms and holds the palms, pulling them up so that they bend at the elbows, while Lena's own elbows are pressed on the side of the pillow to support their leaning body. They continue murmuring soothingly to Nick.

"Mark, get more gauze," Angie commands curtly again.

Mark stares at the wound with gauze getting more and more swallowed by red. There is plenty already there around the knife.

"Quickly!"

Mark jolts and immediately strides towards the cart again, grabbing more gauze as much as he can from the open drawer haphazardly. He brings it to Angie who receives it with one hand without looking. She quickly but gently stuffs it again around the knife, almost making a mount around the weapon.

"I need to stabilize the knife so that it doesn't move around," she explains at Mark's questioning look.

A few minutes later after that, the red still spreads out quickly, soaking the gauze, even as Nick doesn't move around anymore at the pressure put on his abdomen.

"Fuck," Angie hisses, "it's not slowing down."

Mark can also notice that as he stares at the wound. When he looks at Nick's face, his eyes are half-lidded, and his consciousness seems to be dwindling fast.

Angie looks at Nick with face betraying her fear. Even she is starting to panic.

She squeezes her eyes, gears visibly turning in her head as she is thinking of something. At one point, she opens her eyes wide then looks at Luke, who is standing in her direct line of vision next to the doorway.

"Get me our blowtorch. And two small steel bars—or any metal that's sturdy and long but thin. We have some, right? For building rack or awning and stuff?" she says quickly and almost frantically.

Luke furrows his eyebrows, visibly confused by her barrage of requests.

"I don't—we don't have—I mean do we have some—"

"Just find some!" she yells again.

Luke immediately moves his legs to run out.

"At least 2 and a half feet long and 2 inches wide at most!" she yells out as Luke is just out of the doorway.

He pauses a little and yells back, "Okay!" before running again.

Angie looks towards Anderson this time, who for once is looking like he is panicking and heavily affected, unlike his usual breezy attitude.

"Get me duct tape and as many towels as you can find, or any fabric thick and big."

Anderson reacts faster than Luke before, immediately running out without questioning her.

"Oh fuck," she exclaims now, closing her eyes in frustration.

Mark looks worriedly at her, as Lena does.

At everyone's seemingly panicked looks at her exclamation, Angie schools her expression and says with steady voice, "I just forgot to ask for cutter."

"We have scissors here," Mark tells her, furrowing his eyebrows.

Angie widens her eyes almost excitedly.

"Yeah, shit, I'm so dumb. Of course, we have scissors here," she quickly responds.

"I'll get it."

Mark walks back to the cart, absently thinking about how many times he went back and forth between the cart and the bed. He rummages through the contents of the drawer again and finds stainless steel medical grade scissors then brings them back to Angie.

When she receives it, she just puts it on the bed. Mark looks questioningly at her again.

"For the duct tape later. I can't rip it. It's gonna disturb the knife."

Another few minutes pass, and they all hear running steps closing in on the med bay. Then Luke and Anderson poke into the room. Luke is holding the long steel bars on one hand and blowtorch on the other hand that he hangs down. Anderson is carrying mounds of blankets and towels on his forearm with duct tape on top. They approach the bed across Mark and Angie while holding on to the stuff they grabbed.

"Two small steel bars, thin and only 2 inches wide. They're 3 feet long," Luke says, adding unsurely, "I think."

Angie throws a look at the stuff Luke is bringing.

"Good enough. The blowtorch?"

Luke raises his other hand, presenting the item.

"Blankets, fabric, whatever, and duct tape." Anderson informs this time.

"Thanks," Angie throws in absently.

She takes a deep breath then lets it out, looking at the things they both brought, seemingly arranging her mind on how to execute her plan, whatever it is.

Nick looks down on her weakly, still with the gauze in his mouth but not bitten. It looks wet with his saliva that the blood on the corner of the gauze is spreading into faded red close to his lips.

"Okay," she eventually says, holding out her hands as Mark immediately replaces them again with his own to keep putting pressure on the still bleeding wound. Luke slowly turns his palm to make the metals horizontal, giving it to her.

Angie holds both of them tight, hands slowly sliding towards the two ends.

"Anderson, put down your stuff and walk here."

He complies quickly, bending down to put his items on the floor next to him then straightening up in quick succession. He walks around the bed to Nick's right where Mark and Angie are standing.

"You too, Luke. Walk here behind me."

Luke then jogs to stand behind three of them.

"Hold them down on this end," she says, pointing to the metals’ end closest to Anderson. He complies quickly again.

Angie slides her hands again carefully to the other end, separating the two metals slightly then pushing them down slowly. Anderson simply follows her movement while holding his steel end together, leaving some space to slide the blade of the dagger in-between.

Angie holds the ends of the two metal bars, putting the dagger's blade gently in the middle, leaving only a few inches beside the sharp side where Anderson is still holding them together. She leaves the other end that she is holding at over two feet in length.

"What are you doing?" Mark asks suspiciously, worried that whatever Angie is doing is going to injure Nick more.

She doesn't heed him, focusing on placing the steel carefully.

The ends of the steels she is holding are still separated, as opposed to Anderson's. He doesn't dare to change his hold without command from Angie.

"Okay, I'm gonna pull these up so it's pointing up. Hold your end steady," she says to Anderson. He nods, and Mark is still clueless.

Angie pulls the other ends of the metal with everyone in the room watching raptly, making sure to do it carefully so that it doesn't actually touch or move the knife on Nikolai's torso.

Once the steel bars are roughly at 45 degree above Nick, she holds both steels’ ends together again really tight, making sure the knife is stuck between them.

"Mark, get the duct tape."

He doesn't waste time following her command, glad to have something to do.

"Okay, where do I stick it?"

Angie points to the end that Anderson is still holding, then she points at the end she is holding as she says, "And this.”

Mark pulls out the end of the duct tape to cut half a foot piece, and then cuts another with the same length.

Anderson moves his hands one by one to change his hold to beside the dull side of the knife so that Mark can duct tape the spot he held before. After that, Anderson goes back to holding the end that's now securely stuck together.

Mark does the same thing with Angie's end.

"Okay, now the blanket."

Mark goes around the bed again to where Anderson put the fabrics before since the other man is occupied.

"Wrap one around your end," pointing at Anderson's hold, "then hold the bottom of it so the weight isn't on his stomach."

Even compliant, Anderson and the others all still look confused at Angie's commands.

Angie seems to not care, reaching out one hand to Mark to ask for another fabric without looking. Mark just gives one to her, quiet despite his continual puzzlement. She now wraps the towel around her end then steps to the side a little bit so that there is a space for Mark to stand.

"Luke," she calls out to behind her, "give the blowtorch to Mark and prepare to hold Nick's leg."

Mark receives it with his right hand, palm instinctively wrapping around the hold with index finger at the trigger.

"Keep away from Nick's left side, all right?"

Everyone nods at her loud warning.

She inhales deeply again, looking like even she is unsure about this.

"I'm going to cauterize his wound with the knife, and I can't do it directly because it's too close to his body. So I'm heating it up through these two metals."

There is understanding in everyone's face now that she explains why she is telling everyone to do what she asked before.

She then turns towards Nick's face with an apologetic expression.

"I'm really sorry, bud."

Nick just blinks blearily. Mark doesn't think he is even cognizant enough to know what she is saying.

"Don't touch the knife or the metal," she warns Anderson then nods at Mark.

With some remaining doubt in his mind, Mark eventually presses the blowtorch trigger and everyone near the bed leans away to the side. Mark steps back slightly so that only his right hand holding the blowtorch is close. He fires the twin steels in the middle, away from Anderson's and Angie's holds.

The fire burning is loud, even though it still doesn't rival his thundering heartbeats in his eardrums, and the four people around him are visibly trying hard to hold their position steady.

The rest of them just watch carefully.

After a few minutes, he can tell that the air is hot with the dancing transparent heat around the blowtorch, yet neither metal bar hasn't changed color to tell them that it's heating up enough, let alone for the knife. Five of them look at the gauze on the wound, and the red is still spreading and darkening.

"Fuck, it doesn't heat up fast enough," Angie hisses again as she is firmly holding her hands' position.

"You think it's safe if I get another one?" their commanding officer asks this time.

"Okay, just get another."

Horace then steps out of the room at Angie's response.

There is a distant clanking sound before Horace shows up again with another blowtorch. He walks around the bed with a wide berth and gives it to Mark. He takes it then fires it to the steels alongside the first one promptly.

After a while, they finally see a change of color on the part that Mark is heating up. Another minute goes on, and Nick starts to turn his head again with eyes gaining back some of their clarity.

Lena and Luke brace to hold him down.

Few seconds later, Nick starts whimpering again, teeth biting the gauze in his mouth, and Lena is tightening their hold on Nick's hands and chest. On the other side, Luke is pushing his palms down Nick's thighs.

After a few moments, they start hearing slight sizzling coming from the wound, and now Nick's whimpering gets louder and louder until he screams and trashes around.

"I'm sorry, fuck, I'm really sorry," he hears Lena says softly this time, gasping tightly in time with their hold as they try to keep Nick steady against his wrangling.

He screams so loudly now and chokes out sobs, turning his head side to side as he tries to fight the hold on his body.

"Stoooop! Please, please stop!" he begs now as he wails, letting go of the gauze in his mouth. He is still trying to escape the tight grips on his body.

"Okay, Mark, you can stop now, it’s heated enough," Angie says shakily as she stares at Nick's extremely pale and agonized face with tears splotchy all over it. Mark immediately stops firing both blowtorches.

Nikolai sobs again, squeezing his eyes in pain, and Mark doesn't have the heart to keep seeing him like that, knowing that he is part of Nick's misery even if it's needed to save him.

"We gotta take away the metal, otherwise it's gonna keep heating up the knife," she says shakily.

They all keep whipping their heads around, panicked and confused about how to do it with Nick's wailing and sobs accompanying them.

Eventually Horace initiates it by going around the bed to get another thick fabric, another blanket this time, and wraps it around the middle part of the metal thickly.

Angie and Anderson use the opportunity to let go of their own hold with Anderson reaching for the scissors to cut the duct tape on his end.

"Quickly!" they all yell at him.

"Yeah, I'm trying," he yells back as he shakily cuts the duct tape, eventually cutting it loose after few seconds of struggling.

He hands it to Angie this time, who is quicker and steadier in her cutting.

Horace quickly pulls apart the two metals and walks back away from Nick.

"Okay, we need to cool down the knife now," Horace says this time after throwing the metals to the floor away from them with loud clanking.

Mark just quickly grabs the blanket that Anderson held before and runs to the corner of the room where a stainless-steel sink is located. He runs the blanket under the cold water on the sink, then immediately runs back to the bed.

"Okay, okay, it's okay, it's over now," he says hurriedly but gently to Nick as he carefully wraps the wet blanket around the knife, holding it there. He tries to hold his gaze, hoping that it looks comforting to the heterochromatic-eyed boy.

Slowly, Nick's pinched face goes slack, his breathing labored with inhales and exhales more and more apart. The clarity and desperate look before start to fade again from the swirly blue-brown eyes.

Mark doesn't know whether the cauterization works, or there are just too many layers of fabric around Nick's stab wound that he can't see the still spreading blood. He braves himself to pull away the wet blanket, now uncomfortably warm in his hand, and looks at the gauzes below.

"I think... I think it slows down… a bit," Lena breaks the silence quietly.

Eventually, as they keep holding their position and staring at Nick—even Don and Anna from the doorway—they start to notice Nick's eyes getting less and less alert until they roll back into the skull.

"Fuck."

Mark starts to panic again at Angie's cry.

But before they have too much time pondering and letting their minds wander morbidly, they hear loud banging from the outside. Anna turns away to presumably check who is at their front door.

Familiar yelling voice is heard with Anna's nervous and hurried voice responding, interrupted repeatedly by the masculine yelling voice. They both get closer and closer, followed by clanking of what sounds like a toolbox and hard, angry stomping.

Eventually, they see Doctor Lowe on the doorway with three nurses holding tubes, medical pouches, medical toolbox, IV poles, and whatever else is brought with them. The surgeon's face is slightly red with enraged expression, while the two male and one female nurses look disappointed at them. Anna is peeking around behind them, with a slightly scared face after what Mark assumes was angry scolding.

Doctor Lowe bares his teeth before tightly spitting, "You idiot fucks can't be trusted to keep that poor kid alive even for a second, huh?"

They all look down, reminding him of children being scolded by their disappointed parents, which the surgeon might as well be in this situation.

"OUT!" he bellows, some of Mark's teammates jumping in fright.

Still, they dutifully walk away from the bed, filing out of the door one by one with hunched shoulders as Doctor Lowe's angry eyes stare them down one by one.

Mark still stares at Nick's unconscious face, prompting Lena to pull his hand and whispers, "Marcus, come on."

He eventually steps aside shakily, almost stumbling as he walks away while still looking at Nikolai. The further he walks, the less alive the younger man looks.

Once he is outside after getting similar treatment from their surgeon, he finally feels a wave of shakiness, hot and cold all over his body. He slides down, all energy depleted from his body that he can't keep himself up.

He doesn't quite hear what their senior surgeon says before the door is slammed closed. He can't—he doesn't understand. His mind is too loud.

There is ringing in his ears, uncomfortably loud and dominating his heartbeat now. He supposes after all the frantic and chaotic moments before when they were all trying to stop Nick's bleeding, he finally runs out of adrenaline and is now experiencing the crash, making him weak and lightheaded.

The others turn to him, slightly worried expression as they look at his face. He feels cold there too, blood drained from his face. He probably looks really pale.

Now that the chaos is over, he looks around at the other agents. Several of them have blotchy spots of deep red all over them. He then looks down as he pulls up his trembling hands with the palms up.

So much blood. So much fucking blood.

His hands are bathed in it, up to his wrists.

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

He starts to shake, then chokes out sobs while looking at the blood that still feels wet and sticky all over his fingers. He feels faint. He feels overcharged. He feels numb. He feels agitated. He feels warm. He feels freezing.

He feels—he doesn't—

Oh, god. Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

"Hey," he hears Lena's voice penetrating the loud ringing in his ears.

When he turns to them, they appear to have been calling to him for a while and only just now manage to catch his attention. Lena’s face looks worried and sympathetic, while others look at him with expressions ranging from sad, pitying, regretful, and afraid.

Lena wraps their arms around Mark's much wider shoulder, his hands now squeezed between both of their bodies. He can still feel the trembles in his fingers, crimson wetness all over them even if he can’t see it. He even feels some dripping down his pants.

"He's gonna be okay," he hears Lena say, "he's gonna be okay."

Somewhere distant in his mind he realizes that they're saying it more for themself than for Mark.

***

To staunch Nick's bleeding before Doctor Lowe comes to properly operate on Nick, Angie tells several agents to bring stuff for impromptu cauterization by heating up the dagger through other metal bars put around the blade. Luke and Lena hold Nick down so that he doesn't wriggle around. Mark heats up the metal bars with blowtorch. Angie and Anderson hold the metal bars steady. Anna and Don are told to get out, then Doctor Lowe arrives while angry at the team for getting Nick injured again.

***

(I) (II) (III) (IV) (V) (VI) (VII) (VIII) (IX) (X) (XI) (XII) (XIII) (XIV) (XV) (XVI) (XVII) (XVIII) (XIX) (XX) (XXI) (XXII) (XXIII) (XXIV) (XXV) (XXVI) (XXVII) (XXVIII) (XXIX) (XXX) (XXXI - END)

#whump #whumptober2022 #whump community #no.29 #no.27 #no.26 #no.24 #muffled screams #blood covered hands #emergency blanket #ringing ears #OC #writing #weapon #knife #cauterization #forced cauterization #suicide attempt #suicide ideation #english #original work #me #me write #D.E.A.N

[makeshift-moth-writes]

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: 僕のヒーローアカデミア | Boku no Hero Academia | My Hero Academia Rating: Not Rated Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead & Eri, Eri & Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic, Eri & Shinsou Hitoshi Characters: Eri (My Hero Academia), Shinsou Hitoshi, Aizawa Shouta | Eraserhead, Yamada Hizashi | Present Mic Additional Tags: Whumptober 2022, Sickfic, Vomiting, Fever, Flashbacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Overhaul Arc (My Hero Academia) Series: Part 6 of Makeshift_Moth Whumptober 2022 Summary:

Overhaul caused unimaginable damage to Eri, but at least she never got sick... until now

#whumptober2022 #no.6 #emergency blanket #altprompt #mha #fic #sickfic

[safecastle-sale]

SAFECASTLE Fire Blanket Emergency Survival Kit is perfect for protecting yourself and your loved ones from the dangers of fire and heat.

#Fire-resistant blanket #united states #prepardness #Emergency blanket #Waterproof blanket #Survival blanket #Shelter blanket #Fire safety #Emergency preparedness

[canisalbus]

Their linen closet must be 3/4 of the way full of random blankets people keep gifting Machete (he doesn't understand that he just looks like he's always cold and just wants to know why almost every gift he gets is a blanket)

#man of many blankets #own art #own characters #CanisAlbus #Machete #modern au #he's hibernating #perhaps cocooning up to emerge as a beautiful butterfly

[processandenquirylowthmatthew]

For this task I was given an emergency blanket and unravelling it I was immediately stunned and know I wanted to get really interesting shots I was folding and scrunching and that is when I put my camera up close and surrounded by the emergency blanket and got shots that remind me of crystals in a cave and has made so many different levels of depth

#artists on tumblr #emergency blanket #photogram #photography #art #crystals