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20 Oct 2015

matt_murdock: (076)
Foggy had begged him not to enlist.

Actually, begged really isn't a strong enough word, not by a long shot. He'd pleaded, he'd threatened, he'd cajoled. 'The city will need you more than ever when all the fellas are gone' had been one of his stronger arguments. 'There's no way you can fake your way through the exam' had not.

As Matt lies shivering and beat to shit on a cot in a field hospital in Fuck Knows Where, France, he has a moment where he wonders if Foggy wasn't right. A moment where he concedes that he's still just a man, and over here men are just meat.

It's just a moment, though, and then it's gone. When people are dying all around you by the dozens, it makes feeling sorry for yourself a difficult mood to keep a hold of.

Over the last year he's taught himself how to physically look where he's watching, although it didn't come easy. In his company, he's been the guy with the killer peripheral vision since day one. It gets him by because he's also the guy with the killer aim, but here, he just can't muster the energy to care.

Aching, knowing he's low priority and relief probably isn't coming anytime soon, he tugs up on his thin blanket and stares blankly at the canvas ceiling while he watches the doctors and nurses hurry from bunk to bunk.