Much to Tord's dismay, Patryck had insisted he start exercising. At first, Tord didn't quite understand. He was already a well built man, what would exercising do for him? Patryck had needed to dumb it down, explaining that physical work would help him regain his strength and heal his wounds faster.

"Well, why wasn't I doing so before?" Tord had said, fuming at the thought that he could have actually been active and productive, instead of laying in bed for a goddamned month and a half!

"Because," Patryck began to explain. "You had to rest. Too much movement right after the amount of trauma you went through would only damage you even more." He had kept his tone soft, treating Tord as he would a child.

And, he wasn't far off. Tord whined and protested as he was dragged out into the hall, attempting to pry Patryck's hand from his wrist. He was acting like a resistant, overgrown toddler. That was, until they entered the main complex. Immediately, as if on some subconscious command,  Tord regained his composure. He stood as straight as he could, limping beside his promoted soldier. He kept his eyes ahead of him, any of the the past whining forgotten.

Soldiers along the halls gave him curt, respectful nods and salutes. As well as the occasional verbal greeting from the daring soldiers, one of the most common things being said are "you're very lucky to be alive," and "bless you,". Tord didn't mind them, more focussed on ignoring his pain. That only caused it to pull at his attention even more than he was already unintentionally urging it to. Tempted to head towards the medical center, he turned the corridor that could take him there. Patryck seemed to notice this, and piped up. "Hurting?"

"No shit, Sherlock." Tord rolled his one eye, not looking at the Polish man, even as he spoke to him. After being cooped up for so long, he finally took note of how incredibly large the base really was. How the twisting hallways seemed to never end, how every corner turned led to a dead end, and how many soldiers he had. It was a maze of never ending anxiety.

Without much thought, he pushed open the door to the Medical Center and stepped inside. "Ross." He greeted the first medic he saw by name, something normal for him but always a way to refresh his memory. Ross looked up from his work of rearranging medicines and vaccines.

"Ah, Red Leader." A small smile flashed on the blonde's lips. "You're up and about, I see." He walked closer, seeming to be taking in his Leader's appearance. His scared and torn face, his missing arm, and the awkward way he shifted his weight to the right. "Doing any better?"

"Mentally or physically?" Tord asked, exhaustion in his deep tone.

"I'm no psychologist, sir." Ross shook his head, bemused.

Tord cocked his head in consideration, his silver eye searching the room for nothing in particular. "I feel like shit, honestly. Everything still hurts." He felt Patryck stiffen beside him.

Ross nodded, grabbing a pen and notepad from his coat pockets. He scribbled what was said to him. "That's expected, sir. You survived an explosion. You're very lucky."

"So I've been told." Tord grunted, shifting to gaze to Ross. "I don't feel lucky. I need some painkillers."

"Trust me, Red Leader. You are." Ross told him, certainty in his hard voice. As Tord stiffened, he felt Patryck relax. Ross turned and rummaged through the cabinets and cupboards, the sound of plastic bottles and their contents could be heard. He took a moment to sit down and rest his head in his hands. His head was spinning, the odors of a hospital. Medicine and disinfectant stung his nostrils, causing him to cup a hand over his nose in an attempt to block out the smell.

He looked up when Ross handed him a small pill bottle. "Here!" The medic said cheerfully. "I hope you get well, Red Leader." His kind words received merely a nod from the ill man, who popped open the bottle and took the recommended amount. Without another words, he slowly stood up and stumbled towards the door. He wanted to go back to sleep, back to himself and his own thoughts.

Patryck calmly rested a hand on Tord's shoulder, and Tord shrugged him off. He didn't want to be touched or even spoken to, but he knew he must deal for a little while longer.

He inhaled through his nose, only to cut his breath short when the sharp smell of disinfectant burned his nose like fire. He brought his hand up and covered his nose, preferring his own scent to the infirmary.  He glanced up when Ross made a "ah-ha!" sound, holding another bottle. Ross always was so energetic about his job in the army, and Tord couldn't help but respect his attitude.

Tord pushed open the door and stepped outside, turning quickly and racing down the hallway in a fast paced walk. He used the wall to keep him from falling, and he ignored Patryck's concerned calls from behind him. He just needed to lay down and sleep- or throw up.

"So you're finally showing your weak side, aren't you?"

An oddly familiar voice said to him. At first, Tord thought it was calling from behind him- and he was ready to pop someone upside the head with the butt of his pistol. But no one was there, no one was standing with a smug smirk and eyes black as night. He wasn't quite shire why that was the image that settled in his mind, yet he shrugged it off. And still one question remained: Who's voice was that, and why did it sound so clearly vague in his head?

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