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TEST DRIVE MEME #1
1. now it's fun to wake up in a strange chateau
[you wake up.
it doesn't matter where you were before. going to bed? dying? opening the door to face a great evil? same result. you wake up in a soft bed with starched sheets in a cool, darkened room, sunlight peeking out from behind thick curtains. maybe you're alone; maybe you aren't. maybe you immediately notice the folded paper on the bedside table near your head. if you don't, you better fix that real quick: you won't be able to even open the door before you read it.
the note itself is written in a neat hand on white card stock; there is a stylized logo of a ship with the words SERENA ETERNA printed underneath. the note reads as follows:
Dear Passenger(s),
As your cruise director, it is my great honor to welcome you aboard the Serena Eterna, your destination for fun and adventure! We know you could have chosen any cruise line for your vacation, and we're very grateful you chose ours! On behalf of the Captain, I would like to assure each and every passenger that will we do whatever it takes to fulfill all your needs and desires during your journey with us.
At your earliest possible convenience, please attend the mandatory lifeboat drill by the end of the day. I'm sure everyone is very eager to get started on all the fun and sun, but safety always comes first! You can find your life jacket in your cabin's closet; carry it to your assigned muster station on deck one, where I will take you through the drill. If you can't find me in the crowd, just look for the gal with the winning smile!
See You Real Soon!
Sincerely,
Gal Friday
you walk to deck one. you have no other choice: every time you try to step in a direction some unseen being considers "not towards deck one," you find your legs no longer move, staying stock still, frozen. whether compelled quickly by curiosity, or delayed by pure stubbornness, the result is the same, and you are left milling around with other similarly curious or stubborn people.
you see someone in uniform near the front of the crowd. she seems to be a gal, but is missing the winning smile, along with most of her other features. she seems to see you, though, rushing to your side and placing a lei around your neck with great formality. a voice, cheery but artificial, sees to come from nowhere and everywhere.]
Welcome aboard! We're so glad to have you!
[you touch the lei. rooster feathers, lotus seeds, and a carved circle of something white and hard, linked onto a silk string.]
2. messing with my mind was fun at the time
[freshly lei'd, your legs are forced to lead out onto the deck and towards your muster station. the same woman is there, carrying a clipboard. this time, she introduces herself as Gal Friday, the cruise director, before immediately going into the muster drill spiel. it is very boring, and you are not allowed to move, except when you are required to show you know how to put your life vest on. you could try to not do this, but Friday will move to stand in front of you very closely and just. look in your direction until such a time that you decide to do it. and I'm sure your fellow passengers want you to just get on with it, too.
but, once it ends? she reiterates her desire to welcome you aboard. and, then, you're free.
well, free to move about the ship at your own leisure, of course. which is a kind of free, and probably the best one you can hope for. you could try to escape, maybe, if you have the means to; Friday certainly won't be one to stop you. that's what the barrier is for, after all.
but, wouldn't you much rather have fun?
the buffet is full. the pool is open. the casino jingles and chimes.
welcome aboard.]
3. lots of mystery in the history of the devils I knew
[you were never alone.
a few days have passed since you first arrived on the Serena Eterna. perhaps you've made yourself a little routine, and settled in a bit. or maybe you haven't done that at all. either way, you're here, and it looks like somebody is pretty pissed off about it.
it starts small. sometimes nearby plates skid off tables, or a pool chair upends while you're walking next to it. and sometimes that chair is aimed right at your head. objects are moving with quickly increasing frequency, and a wide variety of styles: some are dropped, or pushed, and others and others are tossed, but a few of the items are thrown, with great force and odd accuracy. if Friday is around during the lighter moments, she simply titters and cleans up whatever mess is made. if a pot of soup sails off the buffet line and nearly drenches you in boiling minestrone, she simply walks away.
and then there's the voices. hundreds, maybe thousands, calling out. not all are intelligible English, but you seem to understand them anyway. some sound scared, or angry. some are screams, others whispers. some sound entirely strange, while others are achingly familiar. and they're all saying the same exact thing:
Get Out.]
Adrian Chase (Vigilante) | Peacemaker
1. now it's fun to wake up in a strange chateau.
[Adrian wakes up just long enough to lift his head and wonder why the hospital lobby looks way different than it did a minute ago before promptly passing right back out again, because he wasn't kidding earlier when he said he needed a really good nap.]
[He's not sure how long he's asleep for, but when he's finally able to wake up and stay awake, there's a sizable red stain left on the sheets that gives him a ballpark estimate of how long he's been laying here, ruining somebody's mattress.]
[Ironically, knowing he's lost a shitton of blood actually makes processing his surroundings, the note, and the situation as a whole a hell of a lot easier - after all, confusion and hypovolemic Shock go hand in hand. He doesn't have to worry about how none of this makes any sense right now because it will make sense later, once he drinks some orange juice and plugs the hole in his back and maybe takes another nap.]
[Eventually, he meanders out of the cabin and starts drunkenly walking with the vague understanding that he's supposed to go somewhere, for some reason, but he's a bit fuzzy on both those details. Everything's a bit fuzzy, actually; his thoughts, his vision around the corners - even the figure up ahead looks less like a person and more like a gray, fuzzy blob, like they walked out of an impressionist painting or something.]
Hey, Wh...wussup, Van Gogh?
[He says, apropos of nothing, before the world suddenly tilts sideways and sends him stumbling into the nearest wall.]
2. messing with my mind was fun at the time
[Through the miraculous power of simply refusing to accept that he should not be conscious let alone walking, Adrian manages to get through the muster drill and life-jacket demonstration without all the pain and blood loss knocking him flat on his ass for a second time.]
[However, instead of seeking immediate medical attention once he's free to roam the ship, Adrian pursues the single-minded goal he's had since he first woke up: getting some goddamn orange juice.]
[He's not sure where he sits down - at a table at a restaurant, at a bar counter, it doesn't matter. The important thing is, wherever he is, they've got orange juice. He's not really sure how the ratios work, but if they give you a little cup when you donate blood, then he's probably gonna need a whole fucking gallon of orange juice before he's back up to speed.]
[Anyway, that's how Adrian winds up sitting with his mask rolled up to his nose, chugging an entire pitcher of orange juice like he's going to die if he doesn't. Which, y'know, is a distinct possibility.]
3. lots of mystery in the history of the devils I knew
[After a few days of rest and relaxation possibly some forced medical attention, Adrian is feeling fantastic, aside from the mild existential dread of being trapped on a freaky ghost ship with no way out, but that's mostly background noise in the theater of his mind, so its easy to ignore most of the time.]
[Not so much right now, though. Right now freaky ghost shit is happening in the form of random objects being whipped at people's head with alarming speed and accuracy, which is pretty hard to tune out. It's happening in the middle of breakfast too, which is especially rude - it's the most important meal of the day!]
[Thankfully, Adrian is pretty good at dodging. He can duck and weave and deflect most of the things being tossed his way with relative ease without even having to put down his fork - at least until he notices a cup sailing straight for the back of an unsuspecting passenger's head, at which point he rears his arm back and throws the utensil with practiced ease. It hits the cup dead on, knocking it off-course so it flies wide and clatters harmlessly to the ground - not that Adrian bothers to watch, he's already turned his attention back to his food, which he now has to finish sans fork.]
[It's a good thing he got the french toast today.]
2.
[ He frowns heavily because he's pretty sure smells- oh yeah, he's definitely smelling blood. Gross. ]
Um...
[ He glances over at the man and then glances at the obvious red patch. ]
Shouldn't you.. be going to the infirmary or.. something?
cw: blood/injury/complete dumbassery
Nah, I'm good. I just gotta make more blood.
[Because that's how biology works, right? Right.]
[He reaches an arm behind himself to feel for the bullet wound, testing to see if the bleeding has finally stopped. His gloved fingers come away tacky rather than wet, which is a definite improvement.]
...And stop losing what I've got left, I guess.
no subject
Um.. sure. I mean, I guess but don't you think you'd have an easier time keeping what's left in if you uh.. patch up the hole?
[ He feels like he should insist on this but at the same time Peter knows he's just a kid this man so it's unlikely he'll convince him to seek medical attention. But he can at least try? ]
Why do you take the OJ with you to the infirmary and get it checked out at the very least? I'd hate for you to.. you know, pass out.
no subject
Oh, don't worry. [He waves his hand, the gesture slow and a little clumsy.] I already did that.
[Pass out, he means.]
I'm fine now, though. It just took a while for my body to figure out how to work with just the one kidney.
no subject
[ and closes it. ]
[ He opens it again. ]
[ ... ]
[ closes it again ]
Uh.. that doesn't really...
I really think you should get that check out. You could potentially die?
I'll go with you, if you want?
no subject
stupiditystubbornness is a hell of a drug.][He takes another sip from his pitcher, and it honestly does make him feel a little better. Thank God for the placebo effect, and also the curative powers of raising one's blood sugar enough to restore some semblance of coherent thought, because getting some goddamn medical attention is finally starting to sound like it might be a good idea.]
Y'know, if you wanna watch them dig the bullet out of my oblique you can just say so, it's cool.
no subject
I'd rather not but I also don't want you to die especially if it's completely avoidable. Just a quick trip to the infirmary and then you can have all the orange juice you want.
no subject
Honestly I'd rather have a beer, but alcohol and blood loss is like, a really bad combination. Learned that one the hard way.
[Because of course he did.]
[He takes a moment to look around, finally trying to examine his surroundings with something resembling a little depth now that his head's a little less spinny and his eyes aren't quite so unfocused.]
Not that I could get a drink even if I wanted to, it's not like I carry my Id on me when I'm masked-up. That'd be stupid.
[As opposed to everything else he's doing.]
no subject
[ He might be being a little sarcastic. ]
Please just let me help you, I'll feel really guilty if you just die.
no subject
Aw, thanks dude.
[He doesn't really get the whole concern-for-other-human-beings-who-aren't-people-you-actively-care-about thing, but he still appreciates the sentiment.]
That's really nice.
[He pauses to take another drink, and honestly, the more he thinks about it the more he has to admit that, yeah, going to infirmary is maybe not an idea he's entirely opposed to. It would be nice to be able to breathe normally again, and also not have a bullet cutting into his oblique like it's still trying to make it out the other side. It's just his luck it didn't pass through all the way.]
Where even is the infirmary, anyway?
strange chateau
she's been on this boat for about two weeks at this point, but still viscerally remembers what it felt like to first wake up in the depths of a boat when she should be dead. what why how, a mantra on repeat and clarke barely processing her own letter before the unseen pull of the ship dragged her out onto the deck. her own injuries — a series of scabbing, blistering radiation burns on every exposed piece of skin — hadn't excused her from the muster drill, and the way she sees it, his probably wouldn't either.
unless he collapsed and finished bleeding out before getting to the deck. )
Okay. ( she was going to be a doctor once upon a time. the base knowledge is still there, the helpful instinct running bone deep despite whatever desperate muscles have grown over it. his descent towards the wall is not that sudden from an outside perspective, he's been leaning precariously to the right since she saw him. gravity and exhaustion just finally seem to have won out, and her own shock wears off when the strangers knees start to buckle. in a blink, clarke's surging forward, wedging her shoulder up under his armpit and willingly taking on his weight. ) Okay. Deep breaths, we're going to sit down now.
( she doesn't have so much as a band-aid in her pocket, but has made due with less. they're going to slowly slump towards the ground until adrian's seated with his back to the wall and clarke can press two fingers beneath his jaw in an attempt to gauge heartrate. )
Where are you hurt?
( sure, she could follow the brick-red road of blood smear all by herself, but wants to keep him talking. )
no subject
[He realizes, belatedly, that this is because somebody is keeping him propped up, shouldering most of his weight. Normally he'd be grateful for the assistance, but at the moment he's mostly just wondering how long he just took to blink because he doesn't remember seeing anybody running over – either this lady has super speed (which would be dope as hell) or, more likely, he blacked out for a couple seconds there (which is not dope at all.)]
[Compared to the last few times, Adrian's latest journey to the floor is a lot more gentle – he gets lowered instead of dropped, which is way less painful for his dignity and also the rest of him. Someone is telling him to take deep breaths, but he has to blink hard a few times to bring his eyes back into focus enough so he can actually see who it is. Young woman, blonde – he almost thinks she's Harcourt for a second, but then her face swims into focus and the features are all wrong. Distantly, and he's not really sure why, he thinks he feels a little disappointed that it isn't Harcourt, even though she probably wouldn't be this nice about getting bled all over.]
[The thought gets away from him for a moment, and so does everything else until he's dragged back into awareness by the sudden feeling of warm fingers pressing against his cold skin, searching for his pulse. It isn't easy to find. Even though his heart feels like it's pounding hard enough to crack his ribs, his pulse is feather-light and rabbit-quick. He knows that's probably not a good sign, but hey, the fact his heart is beating at all is a win in his book.]
[He takes a deep, shaky breath when instructed, not just because Not-Harcourt tells him to but because breathing quick and shallow hasn't really been working all that great for him. He can't tell if it helps, but the bullet lodged in his abdomen definitely doesn't like him moving like that, so he thinks better of trying to do it again.]
[He moves a hand to his front, hisses through his teeth as he presses down, hoping some pressure might alleviate some of the pain and heat that's radiating from the bullet like a furnace.]
You want a... like an itemized list, or...?
[Because a lot of things hurt right now, quite frankly, but something tells him she really means what's so bad it's actively making his vision go spotty.]
Okay. Okay, so, I got shot a little- [He pauses to catch his breath, winded before the full sentence is even out.]
Went in the back but it didn't- fuck! -it didn't go all the way through. I think my kidney slowed it down on the way out.
no subject
( just. keep. talking.
not that she's really going to listen, instead taking the traditional emergency medical liberties and pushing the man around like a lump of clay. pulling him over by his shoulder so she can fight with whatever he's wearing for a shirt, pulling until she's got a better view of the entry wound in his back. it's just like any other gunshot, but that doesn't make the sight of blood oozing out of a hole in the human body with renewed vigor every few seconds any easier to look at. in this moment, clarke will take him at his word that there's no exit wound, and set about grinding the heel of her palm — hard — into his wound in an effort to staunch the bleeding. )
Well, at least you have two.
( really, as far as internal organs to be punctured, the kidney is relatively survivable. not that they'd know without an exam, or time to tell. either way, it's the blood loss that's the issue here; a pressing issue, still diligently squeezing out under the pressure of her hand. clarke is casting around for solutions here, a real and concrete plan of action to take. the only real solution she can think of is somehow making it to the infirmary on deck zero, but remembers how hard she'd strained to walk anywhere but towards the deck for that mandatory safety meeting on her first day aboard the serena eterna. it'd been like walking through quick drying cement until it had become just literally impossible to move. that isn't a promising option but, as so many other life or death staked decisions in her life have narrowed down to, it really feels like the only choice. )
Okay. Here's what we're going to do. We're going to head for the medbay, I'm going to try to stop the bleeding. You're going to stay awake, and we're both going to hope we don't get stopped along the way. If we do, for whatever reason, I'm going to run to the medbay, get what I need to help you, and come right back, okay?
...But for what it's worth, if you die here, I'm told it's not permanent. ( a... small comfort? maybe? whatever, it's time to move. ) Okay, come on — get up.
( she is not strong enough to pull him back up into a standing position without a little bit of cooperation, but could probably drag him by the ankle if it came to that. so come on, adrian, how much do you want to live? clarke's back with her shoulder wedged in his armpit, still doing her best to keep a hand splayed across his back, and straining with a huff. )
no subject
[He doesn't get to speculate on calibers for long before the dull, throbbing ache in his back suddenly ignites, lighting up with a pain so sharp and hateful that it's a goddamn miracle he doesn't black out again from the sheer force of it. Instead he locks up, his whole body going rigid as his muscles tense, his boot scrabbling against the floor as his leg jerks with an uncontrolled spasm.]
-Jesus Christ!
[He knows applying pressure to stem the bleeding is a Good and Helpful thing, but it's hard to remember to be grateful when his thoughts are scrambled and his internal monologue has dissolved into white noise and violent swearing.]
[The mental fog recedes after a few seconds, but the pain doesn't - it's a constant, burning static under his skin, which normally he would complain about but it's doing a fantastic job of keeping him awake, and right now being conscious is more important than being comfortable.]
Yeah, okay, yeah - got it.
[He's not sure what he's got exactly, but he heard words and they sounded good and they came from someone who hasn't lost upwards of 30% of her total blood volume, so it's probably safe to defer to her authority. He just wishes she wasn't using her authority to make him get back up, because he's made such good friends with the floor and moving really isn't his favorite thing right now.]
[But no, she's already trying to help him up and Adrian is nothing if not a compulsive people-pleaser, so up he goes- or tries to go. It's a bit of a non-starter at first, because his body wants him to move even less than he does, but after a bit of persistent fumbling he's able to get his legs back under him and push himself upright - but not without Clarke keeping him steady and supporting a good portion of his weight.]
Hooookay, there we go, fuck-
[He's a little breathless, his voice tight and reedy.]
Not dying would be cool, but y'know...
[He pauses, needing a moment to gather his thoughts as the rest of the sentence escapes him. Walking has inexplicably become an activity that requires a lot more active deliberation on his part, and it's hard to do that and talk at the same time.]
I might be immortal, for all we know. I've never died before, so -[He pauses, throat bobbing as he swallows against a sudden wave of nausea.] - so there's not really any proof that I can.
[It would probably be easier to breathe (and subsequently easier to move) if he talked a little less, but Adrian has never been good at knowing when to shut the hell up.]
no subject
and then they're up, wobble-limping down the hall as quickly as four feet can take them. it's also a good sign that adrian's talking, even if a portion of it's... complete and utter nonsense. )
I don't think this is how immortality works.
( would immortal beings be subjected to lengthy periods of suffering? lose the ability to balance or even stand unassisted? start taking on the same wet, waxy complexion of a corpse? gag against the bodily urge to vomit in her hair? not that clarke's ever met an actual immortal being, but very little of his current predicament tracks with what she'd imagine a long, healthy, continuous life looked like.
at the elevator, and slamming the down button until the doors give a pleasant ding and slide open. it's a blessedly empty compartment, and clarke's still considering it an absolutely amazing run of luck that her companion hasn't been stopped in his tracks, as if suddenly being stuck in quicksand, and ultimately buffeted back towards the main deck. the pull of gravity against her stomach indicates they're actually moving, plummeting downwards, and that's another notch of relief in the belt. for a moment, she's shoving him against the wall of the elevator and extricating herself from beneath his arm, again pulling at the top of his suit to further assess. apart from the gunshot, there are lesions reminiscent of shrapnel ripping across the skin from a close range explosion. she's absolutely got questions here, but is still firmly rooted in a caretaker role. a physician, like maybe she once would have been. )
Okay. What's your name? What year are you from? Do you remember what you were doing before you got here?
( forget breathing, awake and engaging is more important in this exact moment. don't go silent and tempt firm smacks to the face, man. )
no subject
[When they finally reach the doors after a million billion years, he doesn't walk into the elevator so much as stumble - and honestly, even that's a pretty generous description. At this point he's not really moving under his own power so much as he's doing what little he can to make it easier for Clarke to drag him forward, which is why it's probably a relief for the both of them once Clarke gets him pushed up against the wall. The hand that isn't pressed against his middle reaches blindly for a railing, his fingers leaving ugly rust-colored smears on the wall as he feels around for something to latch onto. The world is tilting at weird angles and if he sways the wrong way he's afraid he's gonna completely unbalance himself - that, and right now he doesn't have a whole lot of confidence in legs' ability to keep him upright even with support of the wall behind him.]
[He gives up on trying to find something to hold onto when not-Harcourt starts messing with his suit again, and instead focuses on trying to help lift up his tattered body armor so she can get a look at how badly he got his shit rocked by his own grenade. Thankfully, he didn't get burned nearly as badly as he probably should have - he's just a little crispy in the places where the shrapnel took chunks out of his armor, and also him.]
[He opens his mouth to say something, probably a comment about how this is really gonna fuck up his skin-care routine, but then Not-Harcourt asks him his name and the words die in his throat. His jaw clicks shut, his eyes going wide with the sudden, awful realization that he took his mask off so he could read that note and he forgot to put it back on afterwards. He's just been walking around with his face on full display this whole time, and -]
[-And that probably won't matter if he dies, which doesn't seem entirely out of the realm of possibility, his hypothetical immortality notwithstanding. He's just gonna put a pin in the compromised-secret-identity problem for now and deal with the fallout later, if he's still around for it to even be an issue.]
This is a really weird time to be playing Twenty Questions, but, uh...
[He squeezes his eyes shut as the elevator and his stomach both drop, forcing him to drag in a deep breath though his nose to fight off the sudden urge to be sick.]
Fuck, okay, um...what did you say your name was again? It's probably cooler than mine, mine's uh...it's super long and hard to say, you don't- you don't really wanna hear it.
[God, he doesn't even need Adebayo to be here to say it, he already knows he's not killing it right now.]
no subject
for whatever comfort it's worth on his maybe-deathbed/death-elevator, the only information she's seeking to gain from looking at his face is to check that his eyes are open; that there's still a little color in his cheeks, that he's not frothing out bloody foam indicative of something wrong with the lungs, or clenching his jaw in warning of an oncoming seizure. committing recognizable features to memory can wait until they're not pushing the limits of the human body and trying to outrun the clock here. )
This is a really weird time to be evasive, too.
( slicked in blood, abject strangers but tied together by this very precarious life or death situation. and stuck in a small enclosed space. that's not far off from how they play 20 questions on the serena eterna, though; gal friday had locked them all in an overlit night club and not let anyone go without answering personal questions about themselves. this is at least preferable in that there's no audience or horribly formal dress-code. )
My name's Clarke Griffin. I don't need to know your full name, just tell me your first. Or what people call you. Anything. Just — if you die here, do you really want me to have to put you in the morgue without anything on your toe tag?
( but uninterrupted, it's really not a long trip to the lowest level of the deck. and as the doors slides open with a pleasant, welcoming ding, conversation is left by the wayside. they're right back to adrian's least favorite task — walking. her morbid lure to learn his name aside, she really hopes he doesn't die on her here, so they're going to have to pick up the pace.
dead weight isn't a just backless, colorful old maritime term. he's getting heavy across her aching shoulders, and clarke's shirt is gradually becoming as drenched in the strangers blood as his own. but barring the otherworldly efforts of the cruise ship stopping them in their tracks, she's got that steeled determination to reach their destination without stopping. deep, forced breaths; one foot in front of the other, eyes on the prize. each step is a promising development, until they're finally at the double swing doors to the infirmary and she can... admittedly, use his body like a bit of a battering ram to shoulder their way into the room.
clarke will be dropping more than guiding him onto a observation table, and busy herself ripping apart the infirmary cupboards in search of clotting agents. it's a weird mix of medical advancements here; a plentiful stock of antibiotics and pain killers, but scalpels that look like they predated the bible. pure white gauze compresses in sterile packaging, but a civil war era bleeder. fluorescent overhead lighting and medical masks, but trepanation still seemed to be the go-to for headaches around here. needle, thread, towels, off brand woundseal, and disinfectant are easy enough to locate, though, and that's the armful of supplies she'll toss onto a sliding surgery caddy before flying back to the side of the observation table. )
I can try to put you under, if you want. But I've never administered general anesthesia by myself.
no subject
[He has no way of knowing this is actually a quirk of the ship and not just a strange biological reaction he's spontaneously developed, but that's probably for the best. It's already so goddamn hard for him to stay focused on contributing what little he can to his own survival, he really can't afford to be distracted by an awareness of fucked up supernatural ship-magic.]
[Thankfully, the mystery of why he can't make his goddamn legs work proves to be of little consequence to Clarke, who - through sheer force of will - somehow manages to manhandle him through the infirmary doors.]
[She drops him down on one of the observation tables like a bad habit, and in his own incredible display of willpower, Adrian gathers up the limbs that will actually listen to him and turns himself onto his front. His burns are deeply unhappy that he's laying on them, and they're not shy about making that known, but Adrian truly cannot bring himself to care. He's so goddamn tired that even though it hurts, lying down is still the best feeling in the world. He gives into the temptation to close his eyes for a moment, his head resting against the crook of his arm as he tries to remember how to breathe without it being a fucking chore.]
...M'Adrian.
[He says it more softly than he probably should, considering Clarke is on the other side of the room scrounging for supplies, but it's fine if she doesn't hear him. If he dies and gets buried as a John Doe, that'll be okay. It's not like he'll care, being dead and all.]
[All too soon, Clarke comes bounding back over with a cart full of all sorts of medical do-dads, and Adrian is forced to open his eyes and listen to words and generally just participate in being conscious, which is such bullshit. If he could just go to sleep and not do anything for like, two weeks, that would be great.]
Mmm, yeah, no. You can just punch me in the head a bunch, if it makes you more comfortable.
[He absolutely should not be compounding his preexisting concussion with even more head trauma, but letting someone who's not a trained anesthesiologist try to guess the right amount of deadly chemicals in his body seems like an even worse idea.]
no subject
but dang, that was a better idea than what he'd just suggested. because. what? )
I'm not going to punch you in the head.
( absolutely disgusted at the very suggestion, not that what follows is much more humane. )
This is just going to hurt, okay? Really, really hurt. So, deep breath, on the count of three. ( she's got the corner of a quick clot agent package between her teeth, is ripping it open, counting: ) One —
( and then immediately dumping the entire contents of bag into the perfectly round, deeply red wound that keeps bubbling over with each throb of his heart. it's going to burn something horrible, but she'd spotted those glossy, barely scabbed over marks on his stomach. clarke would wager he could take it. as soon as the pack is empty, she's dropping it to the floor and absolutely smothering his back with tightly packed gauze; standing up to get better leverage, pressing down on his wound with her full body weight, and just —
hoping.
that the bleeding would stop, or at least let up enough that stitches could be put in. that infection staved off, wounds properly dressed, patient deposited into a proper bed to rest and recover. that this wouldn't have to turn into some unmedicated surgery to open him up and manually clamp arteries, but also that he wouldn't die beneath her. that his kidney would calcify around the bullet and become a problem for another day — another doctor — but he wouldn't go septic. )
You're going to be okay, ( is not a promise she can make, but what slips past her teeth anyway. ) Everything's probably going to be fine, and you can tell me what sort of name Madrian is.
( ...i'm sorry i had to. )
no subject
[-Oh wait shit okay, nevermind, they're doing this.]
[Adrian has just enough time to take a breath as instructed and flash a quick thumbs up to show that he's down with the new plan right before it's thrown straight out the fucking window - "on three" his ass!]
[He'd like to say he handles things in a tough, manly fashion. He'd like to say that getting the everliving shit tortured out of him that one time has given him an enhanced tolerance for pain and the mental fortitude necessary to take it all in stride, without shedding a tear or breaking a sweat.]
[What he does instead is grip the edge of the table so hard his bones creak, his eyes wide and wet as as all the air is knocked out of his lungs in one brutal, silent scream - or at least he thinks it's silent. He can't really tell because what little blood is left in his body is all rushing to his head, roaring in his ears, deafening him with the panicked thrum of his own heartbeat.]
[It occurs to him all at once -not as a conscious thought but rather a certainty of feeling- that he is dying. He has to be. Acid is eating through his skin and muscles and organs and bones and nobody can possibly hurt this much and not die - and yet. The burning lasts. And it lasts. And it lasts, until suddenly his chest is burning nearly as badly as his back, as though the fire traveled up his spine and turned his ribcage into kindling. It's only once he drags in a sharp, involuntary gasp that he realizes the burning in his lungs is his own doing, that in the process of becoming a human Hot Pocket (cold on the outside, molten on the inside) he's forgotten how to fucking breathe.]
[His shoulders hunch as he drags in a sharp, desperate breath, the burning in his lungs replaced with an aching relief. Just as quickly as it comes, his breath is taken right back out of him - not by a sudden spasm or his body finally throwing in the fucking towel, but by Clarke's voice cutting through the haze of blood and pain and hitting him right in his god-awful sense of humor.]
[Madrian. Jesus Christ.]
[His shoulders shake as his breath leaves him in a wet, wheezing laugh that makes his whole body ache in protest, as though offended that he would dare feel anything other than miserable while everything is such a mess. Not that he really wants to be laughing, he just can't help himself - he's pretty sure he's drunk on endorphins right now, and maybe a little delirious.]
[Alright maybe more than a little, if he's being honest.]
...Dude, if you put "Madrian" on my headstone I'm gonna haunt the shit out of you.
[Every other word is said between wet, sniffling breaths, each exhale tumbling out as a weak chuckle.]
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laughter was good. laughter was a god damn great sign, even if it sounded like it was being squeezed out of him like a threadbare washcloth in a vice. it's corny to insist laughter is the best medicine, but entirely reasonable to take a patient's wet, weary giggles as a sign that their airway is clear, their brain processing (terrible) humor, and their spirits relatively intact. wet, broken, and weak — regardless, clarke's taking that response as a good sign, and an opportunity to offer conversational distractions. )
You'd have competition. ( already bringing up that hundreds of deaths hang heavy around her throat like a noose? that do you ever see their faces, what you did will haunt you for the rest of your days, and you've killed more people than you've saved run on repeat over the barrage of bloody, mangled images she sees every time she closes her eyes?
...oh, no, nope. absolutely not doing that, we're talking about the ship. )
There are lots of angry ghosts around here already. They really don't need to add any more to their numbers, so keep breathing and don't give me any reason to get you a headstone in the first place.
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[He's not great at gauging other people's tone either, but as far as he can tell, Clarke doesn't seem too put off by him - well, being him- so he figures he's probably not doing anything too weird right now. Or maybe he is and Clarke is just nice enough to not mention it. Either way, he's gonna take it as a win. Look at him go, fighting for his life on an observation table and being totally normal and cool and not weird about it.]
[He takes another deep breath when Clarke reminds him that that's a thing he needs to do, and he holds it a moment just so his lungs can get used to the feeling of being inflated again, before letting it out in one long huff. It's probably not a good thing, him needing to actively think about breathing properly, but he's not too worried about it. He's not really worried about anything right now, and he's not sure if it's because he's too exhausted to give a shit, or because he's actively dying and his body is flooding itself with chemicals so he doesn't freak out about it. Either way, he's starting to feel pretty okay about his current circumstances, aside from the pain and general malaise.]
[It helps that Clarke is talking, giving him something to focus on outside his body and everything that's currently wrong with it. Ghosts are a cool subject, even if he's pretty sure they're not real, if only because he would be super haunted if they were. Like, if vengeful spirits were actually a thing he definitely would have gotten fucked up by one by now.]
[He turns his head as best he can without actually lifting it off the table, and skews his glasses in the process. He can't really see over his shoulder well enough to get a good look at Clarke, but it's rude to not at least face the general direction of the person you're talking to.]
Man, fuck those guys...if I turn into a ghost I'll just kill them and send 'em all to Super-Hell.
[He goes quiet for a moment, his eyes closing as he tries to wrangle his breathing into some sort of consistent rhythm.]
...And Fuck Jensen Ackles too, for making me watch everything after season five.
[Look, he has a thing for jacked, hyper-masculine dudes with serious daddy/self-esteem issues whose abusive fathers trained them to kill from a young age and completely stunted their emotional development in the process, okay. Don't @ him.]
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...yeah, some ten miles beneath it is the top of her head. not a lot of pop culture made it through 100 years of isolation after the end of the world, but respect for the introspection required to recognize you've got a very specific type and sticking to it. no one tell dean winchester, one of the few people on board the ship that haven't scoffed at the small scale survival hoard she's gathered in her cabin — but clarke is barely containing an eyeroll at the passing mention of his existence. still, adrian could literally talk about weather patterns, conspiracy theories about seedless watermelons, or the distinct personalities of his childhood stuffed animals, and she'd listen. validate whatever she could, offer conversational hooks to the best of her ability — anything to keep him engaged and awake, in case the burn of her ministrations on his back started to loose it's edge and unconsciousness beckoned an invite. )
Good luck with that, I guess? But also please... don't.
( don't get it twisted, clarke would outright pay to watch someone try facing down the ethereal casino dealers and dining hall waiters. it'd either be an incredibly cathartic experience, or an excellent learning opportunity at someone else's expense. but waging new wars can be addressed once skin started to knit over the jagged edges of this current battle wound.
briefly, clarke will relent. the slightest reprieve from how hard she's been pressing against his wound, a little shift of the gauze packing to check how freely blood was still escaping adrian's body. and, ultimately not quite satisfied with pressure and clotting salts progress, clarke's right back to trying her hardest to shove his entire body through the observation table. heavy, unrelenting pressure, even when her arms start to twinge from the strain.
it might be time to get used to the idea of a bullet living in your guts, adrian. it'd be an absolutely amazing stroke of luck if the bleeding stopped and infection didn't do him in; the idea of digging around in his abdominal cavity just to pull out a few metal shrapnel pieces seems like it'd be tempting fate too far for one day. the human body was amazingly resilient, so long as everything that was supposed to be inside it stayed inside it. especially blood. )
Want to tell me how you got shot?
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[It's a good thing Adrian has a diminished capacity for feeling embarrassment because the sound he makes as Clarke tries to grind him into paste is far removed from anything remotely resembling dignified. Rather than let out a cool, manly grunt, Adrian's voice goes tight and he wheezes out a wobbly "Oh you motherfucker--" as he squeezes his eyes shut and drops his forehead against the table with a hard thump.]
[He's not sure why it helps, but white-knuckling the table's edge and pressing his forehead hard into the cheap foam padding makes it a little easier to ride out the angry waves of fuck you rolling through his nervous system. He thinks maybe it's like an acupressure thing, or maybe cats are just on to something. Maybe loafing is secretly an awesome way to lay down but nobody knows because everybody's too dignified to try it.]
An alien wanted to put a bullet in me.
[His expression twists as he shifts slightly, testing his legs, trying to see if they still work. They do, surprisingly - they're just cold and vaguely numb, on account of his body constricting all the blood vessels in his extremities to prioritize blood-flow to his vital organs.]
Motherfucker could've put a baby in me, but no, he had to be a dick!
[If he sounds indignant about that, it's because he is.]
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