here it is, the major character injury fic i wish to see in the world. warnings for the blood and injury involved with a character getting shot, and almost absolutely inaccurate injury and medical depictions.

gets into some of the feelings i have about observations i made during the movie re: deepening relationships, especially the dynamic with merritt and jack, and the fact that jack seemed to spend a pretty blatant amount of time looking for approval from the others. more on that in the second chapter though.

second half coming very soon. lemme know what you think!

Adrenaline is a powerful thing. The sounds of motorcycle engines screaming to life, the roar of approaching SUV engines, and, after a few seconds, the explosive bangs of firing guns all blend into a perfect storm of chaos and an overwhelming wall of noise. In the assault of sounds and sudden barrage of sensory input involved in falling off a moving motorcycle, combined with the adrenaline, Jack doesn't even feel it happen, chalking the pain up to his impact with the pavement. It doesn't register until he's sitting in a van glaring at Chase McKinney, when he figures out exactly what's happened. The mounting pain in Jack's side and the dampness spreading under his jacket is enough to figure it out.

As Chase gloats, Jack tries to figure out away to, without throwing a wrench in the whole plan, let the others know 'hey by the way, one of them shot me'.

"Fear," Chase says, pointing at Jack with a smarmy grin. Jack glares in response, half wanting to get out of his seat and - handcuffs and all - take a swing at Chase, but the other half of him, the rational half, knows that, given the searing pain in his side, is a very bad idea indeed. So instead, Jack sits there and takes stock of the situation and his options.

So, he asks himself. What are the facts?

1. He's been shot. Unsure how bad it is, but he's still conscious and coherent, which is as good a sign as can be currently asked for.

2. If Walter Mabry and Chase McKinney find out, they will probably finish the job right here and now, before the plan can get him out of there. It's cold math, and he can't be certain, of course, what they'll do, but it's easy enough to guess. An injured hostage who needs immediate medical attention is more trouble than he's worth, especially given Jack can guess their endgame already involves killing all of them. Not a chance he wants to take.

3. If he reveals now that he's been hurt, this badly? The whole thing will fall apart. There's no way they can pull this off if the other Horsemen know he was shot.

Besides, how bad can it be? It was probably just a graze, probably barely scratched him. With that, Jack has made a decision. The trick comes first. The team comes first. He can get his little scratch taken care of after they expose Mabry and Tressler.

Right as Jack thinks the words 'little scratch', one of the goons grabs him and shoves him down out of the van, nearly causing him to fall as his line of vision whites out from the agony that suddenly surges throughout his entire body. He masks the falter as a stumble and bites the inside of his cheek as every step up towards the plane jolts a brand new wave of pain through him.

The comment about not getting blood on the seats almost makes Jack choke out a laugh. After the verification of the chip, Chase does exactly what he's supposed to do, a fact which Jack would be more gratified by if he'd not neglected to factor in the possibility of his body bearing a gunshot wound when Walter's goons yank him up out of the seat. That seat now shows a dark stain of blood, a fact which goes ignored and unnoticed in the commotion of the door being opened.

It's a thing Jack is grateful for, the fact that his screaming is missed for what it is, in light of the roar of the engines and the panicked voices of his fellow Horsemen. He doesn't particularly want them to know he was screaming in pain, being thrown around jolting his injured side to the point that he couldn't keep from crying out. He's not so caught up in the fire ripping at him from somewhere above his right hip that he doesn't hear what Merritt says while being literally kicked out of the plane though. Pondering that, however, is left for a later time, as Jack himself is thrown from the plane.

A fall from an airplane to a mat a dozen feet below is less fatal than a fall from an airplane to cement a thousand plus feet below, but it doesn't feel like it when Jack lands. It's enough to cause him to black out completely for a moment. He comes to fast enough to roll to the side, making room for the next person, and avoiding those already down noticing he was unconscious, even just for that long.

Get up, he orders himself, curled on the mat watching Merritt pull Lula up off the ground. Get up, get up, get up.

It feels impossible, like Jack Wilder is gonna bleed to death right here on this mat, and there isn't anything he can do about it. It feels impossible, but he does it anyway. He gets up, slowly, and shrugs on the heavier coat he's handed, breathing through the pain and zipping the coat over the ever-growing patch of blood on his shirt.

All that gets him through the next ten minutes is a repeating loop, ten more minutes and it's over, ten minutes and it's over, ten minutes and you can tell them, ten minutes and they've got it from here, ten minutes and just hope you don't bleed to death before that.

The clock strikes midnight, there are arms around him, and ten minutes are all he has in him. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, overtaking the noise and commotion of celebration around him. The group hug dissolves, he stumbles back, and he knows he's going to fall before it happens.

"Guys," Jack chokes out, swaying on his feet. It's too quiet to hear, the others flushed with victory and not really paying attention. "Dylan," he says, looking to their leader for help. "Dylan, I'm gonna-" His words cut off, and Jack sees sky.

It takes everyone a few moments to realize he's no longer standing, enough time for the people with cameras to notice Jack is now crumpled on the ground, broadcasting the image of the youngest Horseman staring at the fireworks going off above him, face pale from blood loss, eyes half closed and glassy, a dark stain spreading from under him. The cameras catch it as the others notice, as Lula exclaims loudly, the smiles vanish from Merritt and Dylan's faces, and Daniel drops to one knee.

Dylan doesn't see what happens next. It's his job to keep his former employers busy while the other four beat a hasty retreat off the barge, and he can't afford to waste precious minutes figuring out what happened to Jack.

His foot skids sideways a couple inches as he takes off running and it takes all the resolve in him to lock up the fact that he just slipped in Jack's blood in that little part of his mind for things he can't deal with right now, and make sure Natalie catches a glimpse of where he's going.

Natalie catches up to him. He knew she would. He can see the war playing out on her face when he holds up the flash drive and tells her what's on it, and Dylan can't help but add a plea onto his bargain, one he knows Cowan would scoff off in a second, but will hopefully appeal to the moral compass that he knows Natalie has, that he knows points true North.

"We both saw Jack Wilder go down," he says, holding onto her gaze. It'll be harder to ignore what he's saying while looking him in the eye. "I have no idea what happened to him, Natalie, but that was a lot of blood. A kid I'm responsible for could be dying right now. Please let me go to him. Please let me help Jack."

She takes the flash drive and Dylan can't help but feel, as he tells her 'welcome to the long game', that this is only the start of events yet to come.

When Dylan gets into the small, low set boat, the first thing he does as it motors away is look for Jack. He's on his back with his coat open, head propped on Merritt's thigh, and Lula pressing an already sodden wad of fabric to his side. His eyes are fluttering, and he doesn't appear to be aware of his surroundings. For his part, Daniel is just staring at Jack, eyes wide and fingers tapping frantic patterns against his pant legs.

"What the hell happened?" Dylan demands to no one in particular.

"He's shot, that's what! He's been shot, Dylan, they shot him. Jack got shot. With a gun ," says Daniel with what could be perceived as disoriented anger but Dylan knows to be fear.

"When? How? When?"

"Guys he needs a doctor," Lula interrupts before Daniel or anyone else can attempt to answer. "He's lost a lot of blood, he needs a hospital."

"No!" The interjection is surprisingly forceful, given the man responsible for it can't sit up on his own and looks so out of it Dylan had thought he had no idea where he was. "No hospital."

"Jack," Merritt starts with a warning in his voice, before Jack cuts him off, looking up to meet his eyes.

"I didn't die on a bridge," he misses the winces from Daniel and Dylan at that, "and then go on the run for a year and then get shot, just so we could get arrested at a hospital," Jack says with as much strength as he can manage in his current state.

"No. It's too risky." This time it's Daniel, whose voice has lost the high pitched tone and jittery quality. His arms are now folded across his chest and his face is serious.

Serious and a little guilty, Dylan notes. They'll have to have a conversation about that, when the dust settles. Right now, though, they have more pressing things to deal with. Atlas has carried the world on his shoulders for a long time, he can live with the weight for a few more hours. Daniel will live but Jack may not, which makes this easily one of the hardest calls Dylan has ever made.

Everyone is looking at Dylan like he has the answers, like no matter what any of them think, the final say is going to come from him. Merritt, Daniel, and Lula are all staring at him expectantly, like the answer is obvious. Jack's face is a plea, knowing what he's asking makes no logical sense but asking it anyway. In the split second that is all the time he - and Jack - has left, Dylan makes a decision.

He pulls out a cellphone and dials a number from memory, not even waiting for the person on the other end to acknowledge him before jumping right into it.

"This is Dylan Rhodes," he says, looking away from the others and out across the Thames, at the flashes of color and light reflected in the glittering water. "I'm calling in for Albatross, and I need Cariss at the dock. Jack Wilder's been shot." He ends the call and looks back to them. "We have a safe house not far from here, a doctor is gonna meet us at the shore. If it even looks like you might need surgery," Dylan says, directly to Jack, "we are going immediately to the nearest hospital."

"Dylan." Daniel's voice is tight, a precursor to a fight Dylan doesn't want to have.

"Dr. Cariss is a trauma surgeon, she's worked with the Eye for ten years, she knows what she's doing and she's good at it." Dylan holds eye contact with Daniel strongly, not wavering from the doubt and fear he sees there. "Danny I swear to you, I wouldn't put Jack's life in this woman's hands if she wasn't the best. The safe house is equipped, this is what it's for."

A few seconds pass, then Daniel nods. "Okay."

A quick glance around to see if he's about to get any pushback from the others shows Dylan Lula steadfastly focused on holding what appears to be a t-shirt to Jack's side, Merritt having put a hand on the young man's forehead. Neither of them seem to be in an arguing frame of mind, and Dylan nods. Jack himself seems to still be conscious, by some miracle of stamina and luck, though every couple of seconds his eyes flutter alarmingly.

The boat ride continues in a tense, stiff silence broken only by the crashing of water against the hull and the dull roar of the boat's motor. The chaos is long left behind them, and Dylan is unnerved by how empty the space around them seems. Most of the New Year's Eve revelry is elsewhere, and the mood on the boat is not one of any kind of celebration, despite their fresh victory. Dylan closes his eyes and hopes to anyone that might be listening that Dr. Cariss will be there when the boat makes landing.

"Albatross?"

Dylan's eyes fly open upon hearing the one word question, looking down to see Lula, one of her eyebrows raised. It's a welcome excuse to think for a minute about something that isn't just how disturbingly red her hands have gotten.

"The safe house's code word. They've all got one, and they're all birds, I guess. So." Dylan shrugs, realizing now that she's pointed it out that it really does sound ridiculous. "This one's Albatross."

"And it's set up to deal with gunshot victims?" she presses, and out of the corner of his eye, Dylan sees Daniel flinch slightly.

"They're all prepared to deal with emergencies." Before continuing to speak, Dylan looks back out across the water to the approaching dock. "What we do, it's dangerous. Jack isn't the first Eye magician to be shot during a show, believe it or not."

"Any of them die?" Lula regrets asking the question as soon as it slips out of her mouth. The way Dylan stares down at his hands is all the answer she needs.

Dr. Milena Cariss is indeed by the side of the river when they dock, a young woman beside her. Her assistant, Dylan assumes. She wastes no time at all jumping down into the boat, Lula stepping back to give her space and access to Jack.

"How long ago did this happen?" Dr. Cariss asks, not looking up from what she's doing. Daniel answers the question, and it's obvious from the doctor's face that she doesn't like what she hears.

"Okay," she says quickly, standing up straight. "He's lost a lot of blood, and I won't know exactly what we're dealing with until I get a clear field. We need to move out now."

Jack is shifted quickly to the backboard lowered into the boat by Dr. Cariss's assistant, and Daniel and Dylan carefully work together to lift the backboard and its cargo up to the dock, and across the twenty feet to the illegally parked van waiting for them. Dr. Cariss and her assistant jump in after, the door sliding closed and the van screeching off, leaving the remaining four on the pavement, watching the headlights disappear into the night.

A second car arrives moments later to ferry Dylan, Daniel, Merritt, and Lula to the safe house. It's nearby to where the boat made land, but to Daniel, the drive feels like it drags on and on. Fingers once again tapping rapidly against his thighs, Daniel glances next to him and freezes at what he sees.

Lula's hands, sitting in her lap, are covered in drying, flaky redness. Blood. Her hands, held open, palms up and trembling, are coated in Jack's blood. Daniel looks sharply away, throat suddenly tight. He's abruptly reminded of standing in a room in New York, watching a car explode on the news and being struck by the nagging doubt - had there been a mistake? Was Jack on that bridge still, in that car? Had something gone horribly, fatally wrong?

Except this is worse somehow, because this time he knows for certain. Something has gone horribly wrong. Fatally, now that is a possibility all too present in the minds of all four of them.

Once in the safe house living room, it's a long, stressful wait before a door opens and Dr. Cariss walks out. She looks tired, but meets Dylan's eyes easily, and he can see the relief in hers before she opens her mouth.

"That," she says, looking them over with an indecipherable expression, "was a very close call. He's out of the woods, for now."

The release of tension in the room at the doctor's words is palpable.

"Thank you so much, doctor," Dylan says, wiping a hand down his face like he can erase the anxiety and fear of the wait with a pass of his palm.

"Don't thank me yet," Dr. Cariss cautions, folding her arms. "I said he's stable for now. If he gets an infection, or I somehow missed something, things could go downhill very quickly. Now I don't anticipate that happening, but Mr. Wilder was very seriously injured, and all possibilities have to be taken seriously. I have to head back into the A&E now, but I want you to call me if he spikes a fever or if the bleeding gets serious again."

"When will he wake up?" Daniel asks, arms folded tight across his chest.

"Could be minutes, could be hours," Cariss says, shrugging. "Everyone reacts differently. Don't be alarmed if he's out of it when he wakes up, if he's confused or disoriented. The pain meds he's on are pretty heavy duty and they can knock you off kilter."

Hearing that makes Daniel nervous, but he nods, thanking her.

As she's about to leave, Dr. Cariss stops, looking over her shoulder to where they all stand staring apprehensively at the closed door.

"You can go in, you know," she says with the faintest hint of humor, then exits with her assistant in tow.

Just as Daniel's hand is hovering over the doorknob, his phone rings, causing him to jump and jerk away his hand like he'd been burnt. He pulls the phone out and, seeing the caller ID, frowns in confusion, answering it immediately.

"Henley?" Daniel says, and instantly, Dylan, Merritt, and Lula's faces are as bewildered as Daniel feels.

"Is he dead?" Henley wastes no time, cutting right to the point. Her voice across the phone is equal parts sharp and shaky.

It takes a moment for Daniel to be certain his voice won't break when he answers her.

"He's alive," he says, and his voice breaks anyway.

"Oh thank god." Her breathing is audible through the speaker, trembling whooshes of air. Daniel can hear Henley's fear in the way she breathes, and he speaks again on compulsion.

"He got shot." Despite the number of times he's said it, Daniel still can't believe it actually happened. "He's out right now. The doctor says he'll be okay, though." Daniel leaves out what Dr. Cariss had said about uncertainty, her cautioning about infection and bleeding.

"I saw him fall," Henley says in hardly more than a whisper. "I watched it happen, he was standing and then on the ground, and the cameras showed the pool left when you got him up, the blood, and I-"

There isn't a position in the world Daniel thinks he would want to be in less right now than Henley's. The only thing he can think of that could have made recent events worse is if he'd witnessed them from far away on a reporter's camera image, having no answers about what happened, or if Jack was even alive.

"He's alive and he's going to be fine," Daniel says with all the certainty and conviction he can muster up. It's more than he feels, but Henley doesn't have to know that.

Henley seems reluctant to hang up the phone, lingering on the other end while saying nothing more until the request, hesitant like she isn't sure if he'll agree.

"Will you call me? When he wakes up?"

No matter what has happened in the past, her reasons for leaving, how he feels about it, he knows it must be hell for her to not be with them right now, to be so far away while someone still very dear to her is so badly hurt.

"Of course I will," he says, not willing to make it even harder on her. It's too easy to imagine himself in her shoes for that, aside from simply still caring too much to do that to her. "I promise."

The hesitation lingers still, Henley and Daniel on either side of a phone call neither wants to end but can't figure out how to continue.

"Okay," she says after a while, taking an audible breath to steel herself. "Okay. Bye, Danny."

The other seem to have been waiting for Daniel to be done on the phone before going in. Safety in numbers, even from a threat as intangible as not wanting to go into that room and confront the reality of what's happened.

"Was Henley," Daniel mutters unnecessarily, twiddling his phone in the air before dropping it into his pocket.

The door seems to have grown ominous, larger than life in front of them, almost threatening. In a fit of sudden annoyance that a slab of what looks like cheaply crafted wood has managed to intimidate four capable grown adults, Daniel walks over and opens it, stepping into the room and feeling all the breath leave his lungs in a whoosh of air.

Jack looks awful. His face is pale, the only patch of color a reddening bruise on his cheek from one of the times his head hit something hard in the last couple hours, and his eyes are closed. It's hard to immediately see what's wrong with him, as a fresh t-shirt covers the bandaging over his side, but the bag of blood replenishing his veins of what he'd lost is something of a hint. He's breathing on his own, chest visibly rising and falling, which is a small comfort to Daniel, who most of all wasn't expecting Jack to look so small. Jack is lively and energetic, seeming to be moving constantly, and seeing him so quiet and eerily still is scary beyond what Daniel will admit.

There's a pair of armchairs at the end of the room, several feet from the baseboard of the bed Jack is laying on. Daniel claims one of them, sitting down and running his palms over his jacket and pant legs, smoothing out creases, even after any wrinkle that may have been there is gone. Lula drops into the chair next to his, then almost immediately stands back up, having noticed the state of her hands.

She leaves abruptly and walks back in with a washcloth, sitting back down and swinging her legs to drape over the arm of the chair. She works at all the blood on her hands with focused intent, scrubbing at the creases in her palms.

Merritt, out of some combination of a lack of other chairs and an irritating urge to hover, has gingerly sat down on the bed itself, next to Jack's left shoulder. One hand sits unobtrusively in his lap, the other braced on the mattress on the right side of Jack's head, giving the impression of trying to shield his younger friend from something. What is anyone's guess, and the look on his face dares anyone to comment on it.

Seeing Chase again, it's shaken Merritt in ways he hadn't expected, leaving every part of his life feeling vulnerable and exposed. For a long time, Merritt had tried very hard not to get too attached to anyone, never sticking around in anyone's life long enough for them to get too irreplaceable, and mostly he had succeeded. Until he got an anonymous tarot card with an address on the back, and things weren't quite so simple anymore. People, attachments, they have their perks.

But, Merritt thinks, looking down and beside him, at the bruise on Jack's face, they have their price too.

For his part, Dylan stands back. He leans against the doorframe and looks at Jack with a dull expression and heaviness in his chest. This is on him, what's happened here. He should've been on top of things, none of this should have happened at all.

Dylan's morose thought process is interrupted by Lula, who squeezes past him back out of the room with a muttered, "'Scuse me." When she returns not even a minute later, she's dragging a chair behind her. Dropping the chair back onto all four legs, Lula waves a hand at Dylan, then at it.

"Watching you stand there like some kinda broody door guard was making my head hurt," she explains, flopping back into her own chair.

"Hey," Daniel murmurs to Lula, getting her attention. When she looks at him, Daniel holds out his jacket.

While cleaning Jack's blood from her hands, Lula had taken off her jacket and over shirt, both with stained sleeves, leaving her in a t-shirt. She stares at the offered piece of clothing, looking from it to Daniel himself with an evaluating gaze. Having made some internal judgement or decision, Lula takes the jacket and shrugs it on. It's too big for her, clearly, but she flips up the collar and pulls the lapels tight around her like it's the most comfortable thing she's ever worn.

As the silence in the room mounts to an oppressive weight on his shoulders, Dylan looks down at his watch.

One. Two. Three. Four.