Reluctant Bed Rest
The Soldier sits silently on his gurney, unflinching as the nurse finishes stitching him up.
The Handler had been pleased with how he performed. A soft hand in his hair, a bottle of water, then he was sent to medical. They even used anesthetic when they removed the shrapnel. The Handler must be in a really good mood.
But the Soldier is tired. This last mission was longer and somehow harder than any of the others he’s done recently.
The mission report had been given, and now he sits, waiting for orders. He’s exhausted, and hopes he’s done enough to rest. At least for a night. It’s a luxury that he doesn’t often experience, he thinks. But a night to sleep, then a new mission the next day. That would be nice.
When the Handler comes into the room, he sits as straight as he can. The handler looks him up and down, and the Soldier rounds his shoulders, just a little bit.
“You did well on your mission, Soldier. We’re one step closer to peace. You’ve been an asset to our cause.”
The Soldier preens. Perhaps he'll get something more after all. “You’ve earned your rest, Soldier. The techs will get you ready.”
Any hope of a cot in a small room vanishes at the words. He had hoped that he wouldn’t be put under again so soon. That he would be allowed to sleep, like he’s seen the Strike members do, and be sent out again. He had been brought out specifically for this mission. The Soldier isn’t ready to be put back.
He shifts, uncertain.
“Sir..” He says hesitantly.
The Handler shoots him a dark look, and he sits very still, skin buzzing.
“Are you going to argue with me, Soldier?” He says very quietly. Voice laced with threat.
The Soldier ducks his head.
“No, Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
The Handler nods. He stands and pats the Soldier on the head, and leaves the room.
Techs stream in a moment later. They begin to poke at the screens, add something to his IV line that gets him ready. It makes his blood tingle as it enters his system.
It’s not long before they deem him ready, whatever they are monitoring reaching the correct levels.
They remove the wires and lines attached to him. He sways a little as he stands, light headed from blood loss, from the adrenaline crash. The Soldier slowly follows the tech down the hall to his room. A guard follows. They step inside and the tech begins to program the cryo chamber.
He shivers, anticipating the cold. He doesn’t want to. Cryo will help him heal, he knows. But he hates it. He doesn’t want to.
When the Tech finishes, they turn and order him to step inside. Slowly, the Soldier shakes his head, taking a step back. The guard presses his rifle into his back.
Shaking, the Soldier takes the few steps into the chamber, submitting to the techs demands. Moving as they tell him to, and not fighting as they attach things to his skin.
“Please,” he whispers. The tech startles. “Please, I’ll be good. Tell him, I don’t need this. I’m functional. Please.”
The tech hurries and closes the door on him.
He shakes as the temperature drops. Grits his teeth against a scream as the burning cold envelops him.
Then there is nothing.