Page 47 of Unhinged
"Now," Ike mutters under his breath, "let’s keep her from going into shock. We dig that bullet out after we get some fluids in her. We’re not risking any more damage."
I watch Ike’s every movement, knowing that time is against us. He grabs alcohol, swabbing the area around the bullet wound as the IV begins to drip. "Stay with me, kid," Ike mutters as he works, his hands steady as he preps for the incision.
I glance over at him, curiosity and worry flooding my words. "How do you have blood on hand that matches her type?"
Ike looks up at me, eyebrows raised, a mix of frustration and disbelief in his expression. "It's her fucking blood," he says, his tone hard as stone. "I thought you three knew she was the Alpha Slayer? Don’t you think a woman in her field might run into trouble here and there? I have her blood stored if needed.It’s called autologous blood donation. She donates every few months. Blood doesn’t last forever, so we rotate it out. I keep it in the medical-grade refrigerator down here—properly stored, properly labeled. In her line of work, it’s just common sense. Something every goddamn professional should know about."
The words hit me like a splash of ice water. It makes sense, but I hadn’t even considered it. The woman we’re fighting beside? She’s prepared for this kind of thing. The way Ike talks, it sounds like she’s been through hell and back and knows exactly how to handle herself in situations like this.
"Alright, let’s get this bullet out of you," he says coldly, focusing on the task at hand.
Ike grabs a set of surgical tools, his movements quick and deliberate. "Arrow, get me that morphine.”
Arrow rushes to the cabinet and grabs the morphine, his hands shaking as he hands it over to Ike.
"We’re digging that bullet out, and if any of you fuckers can’t handle it, I’ll throw you out."
Ike works quickly, moving like he’s done this a thousand times. He cuts through the fabric of her shirt with surgical precision, the sound of the scissors snipping echoing through the room. He’s already got the tools laid out, and his eyes flick between them and Brydgett as he prepares.
“Alright, you idiots, focus,” Ike barks again. “The quicker we do this, the better. Acid, go grab me that alcohol. And someone get me fresh gauze.”
I’m shaking as I move to get the supplies, but I don’t argue. I grab the alcohol with the gauze and hand it over, swallowing down the bile in my throat.
"What's her deal, Ike?" Gears asks, confusion and concern tightening his features as he watches Ike work.
Ike doesn't look up, his hands moving with practiced ease as he secures the sterile supplies, his focus on the task at hand. Thealcohol’s already been applied, and the IV is flowing steady, so now it’s all about the incision.
"Not my story," Ike replies flatly, his eyes narrowing as he focuses on the wound. "It's hers. If she thinks you’re worthy of knowing it, she’ll tell you.”
There’s a brief silence, then the sharp sound of Ike's scalpel as it cuts a small, precise incision around the bullet wound. I flinch, but don’t look away. The tension in the room is palpable, every one of us holding our breath as Ike begins to dig in.
“Jesus Christ,” Gears mutters. “I’ve seen bullets get removed hundreds of times. Seen torture that would make anyone else pass out. But this… knowing this is our Kismet… this is brutal.”
“Quit fucking whining,” Ike snaps. “She’s the one who’s got the bullet in her. Focus.”
The wound is deep with the bullet lodged under her skin, and Ike works methodically, using the forceps to search for the bullet. His hands are steady despite the blood pooling beneath her, his focus absolute.
With practiced hands, he digs carefully, his brow furrowed as he works the forceps around the bullet where it's lodged. Finally, after what feels like an eternity, Ike pulls the bullet free, the metal slick with blood.
“Got it,” Ike mutters, tossing the bullet aside, as he reaches for a needle and thread.
He wipes the area clean and then starts stitching the wound closed with quick, practiced movements. His hands move seamlessly, pulling her skin back together with precision. Once the stitches are in place, he wraps the wound with sterile gauze, securing it firmly.
“Alright, you three,” Ike says, looking over at us. “Help me lift her. We’re getting her upstairs.”
As we move to lift her, Acid, clearly concerned, glances at Ike. "Ike, do you need a catheter for all the fluids she’s getting with the IV?"
Ike slaps a hand to his forehead, exasperated. "Are you three stupid or just ignorant? Do you know anything about omegas except how to fuck ‘em?"
Arrow’s eyes flash with defensiveness. "We've never fucked an omega. We were waiting for her. Our Kismet."
Ike shoots a sharp look at him, then shakes his head. "Well, either way. An omega's body just knows what it needs in times like this. You don’t see an omega taking a piss all those days in heat, do ya? No. Same here. Brydgett's body will just store or absorb the liquid. I don't really know the science behind it, since I’m with a beta, but she won’t need a catheter. In fact, her body would reject it, and I’m sure as hell not going near her lady bits to put one in, and neither the fuck are you."
"Yes, sir," Acid nods, the tension easing from his posture.
We move solemnly, lifting Brydgett with careful hands. She’s limp in our arms, her body pale and still, but there’s something about her—the way she’s holding on to life—that makes my chest tighten.
We carry her up the stairs, the house eerily quiet except for our footsteps. Once we’re inside her room, Ike directs us to place her gently on the bed. He hooks her up to another IV, the drip steady and slow, before stepping back to assess her.
