If this is what my muse wants...
Tendons, ligaments, muscles, everything. The male medic screwed up his face - thankful that the mask covered his expression - and stretched out his shaking fingers. Two full shifts and then this. He grimaced and sent out a wave of examination chakra to really truly prove to himself just how much damage had been done. Worse than he had thought; they were definitely all completely shredded, pulverised.
There was no way in hell they could put this back together; not with the flesh just clinging to the bone and every nerve utterly crushed to the point that this kid probably couldn't even feel his right leg anymore. The left arm too was in a similar state. Only then did he realise that he was standing, static, with blood soaking into the rubber gloves. Chakra wouldn't fix these wounds.
He moved anyway and began to knit what he could back together. Nothing would respond unless considerable amounts of chakra were pumped into it. Even then almost nothing happened and by all accounts he should be screaming, writhing, just moving. The various drugs that were now swarming his system would block out the worse but, hell, he should still be responding in some way.
There was no one else here other than a few haggard medics swarming around, inserting IV's that would push more blood into his body. He needed it. The bloody mush that had once been a set of fully functioning limbs simply seeped more blood onto the metal operation table with every beat of his heart. Just keeping him alive was difficult at the moment. Then, the damage just got worse as several others began to scan the rest of his body.
Charred chakra veins, areas close to several of the chakra gates were scorched and his skin overall showed signs of major burning.
And it was self inflicted.
The ancient medic nin told him that as they began to rapidly supply him with fluids to cool the skin and take the heat from the burns. Too much to do, he slid his fingers against the slightly more repaired limb - though he still felt warm, uncovered flesh beneath his fingertips - and began to drain away the lactic acid that had formed due to extreme use of the muscles.
Lactic acid was perfectly normal when exercising, but this amount was hindering the healing process. An hour passed and they were sure he was going to live. His heartbeat had stabalised, the blood flowing from the wounds had ebbed to a none threatening flow and his right lung, the only one next to a chakra gate had been suitably repaired. He remembered the exact moment when the patient finally moved and began to hack up bloody froth.
The delicate procedure of repairing every one of the tiny damaged aveoli, checking the bronchi and the trachea had been given to him. His hands shook with exertion as he carried out the task achingly slowly. At least the pulmonary artery was left untouched, that much he was thankful for. The head medic looked up and fixed her dark, unnerving, gaze on him for the first time since this operation began.
He saw the slight tightness in her expression; or what little of it was showing. That could only mean -
"Inform his sensei."
This was too much. He snapped off the blood covered gloves and walked out past the double doors. He hated this part of the job and knew that the ill fated sensei would be none to pleased to hear about just how bad his student had been wounded. Swallowing the lump in his throat he looked down at the clipboard. Maybe he wouldn't care. It was wrong to say that he hoped for an apathetic reaction; the fact that it was true didn't make it any less wrong.
Lee was the kid's name. It would have been better if his opponent had just outright killed him.
What use did a crippled shinobi have?
Okay, this is just a small thing about Lee when he's on the operating table after Gaara's mauled him and all that. It'll prolly be in the next chapter of BM, and someone will probably point out some mistake I've made in the medical references. I kinda like it.