[DVFP] Another Try (C 1.3, T 1.3, N 1.4)

edited January 2014 in In-Game
Triss,

It's late afternoon now. Temperature's over a hundred and ten, everyone is finding places to wait it out, just like every day. You're in your little infirmary, Rane has cleared out some space for Deuce and moved out the couple patients who are here. As a reminder, this is what
As for healing Deuce...
Since you've got an infirmary, your cursory observation of Deuce is that it's going to take weeks of work to heal him. First, you'll need some Prussian blue dye to help him excrete the radiation from his internal organs, and he appears to have some bone marrow damage, so he'll need a transfuson of healthy red blood cells and platelets.

Also, it's going to mean exposing yourself and your colleagues to possible radiation from the kid himself for the first week or so.
What do you do?

Chalk,

It's late afternoon now. Temperature's over a hundred and ten, everyone is finding places to wait it out, just like every day. Of course, there are some places more suited for waiting than others. Where do you hole up normally, Chalk?

Navarre,

It's late afternoon now. Temperature's over a hundred and ten, everyone is finding places to wait it out, just like every day. DAP and Fence gave you some loose directions on where Bunkie and his assholes are. It isn't too far from here, really. And who in the hell would expect an attack in broad daylight, am I right? You could get there on foot in an hour, or maybe get some help if you want. Where are they hiding, and what was the last thing you saw go down there?

What do you do?

Comments

  • I fan myself as the temperature starts to rise. I hate living in the fucking desert sometimes, but it is what it is. Deuce is squared away in a corner of the infirmary, as isolated as I can make him. I've stuck a geiger counter nearby, with the sound off. The lights flash, so we can see how many rads we're exposed to, but no one really needs to hear it. I don't need questions from the rabble I treat every day. Their exposure will be minimal anyway.

    I pull aside Rane. "You ok with this?" I ask him, my hand on his arm.

    "Yeah. You know I'm with you, no matter what." He reaches out and lays a hand on my arm, a crooked smile on his face. "You're the best. If I want to have my own place some day, I need to learn everything I can from you. Besides, I owe you."

    I give him a weary smile in return. "Saga still sleeping?" I ask.

    "Yep. She'll be ok with it too."

    "I need to hear that from her though," I add. I point to a few patients. "Help them out, would you? I need to check some supplies."
  • I like tires. Like fucking half my armor is made out of them, they're so versatile. A little work and you get steel cables out of 'em, a little more work and you can have footgear or whatever the fuck you want. This one tire pile, I spent a fuckin' week filling tires up with gritty alkaline dirt and stacking them, to make this little house. Yeah, I have a house, so what? It's like the size of a large-ish bathroom, I guess, long enough for me to rack out in. The walls aren't too high, but since I dug this big fucking pit to put dirt in the tires it's still almost high enough inside to stand up. Roof is a couple of car hoods. There's no door, no water, no shitter, no nothing. There's a mirror and a place for me to lay down. Under a filthy blanket there's a little hole where I put things that I find. A couple times people came in and took stuff. Once I caught the dude red fucking handed, he popped out of my house and he was just fucking lucky I was feeling charitable. I only broke a couple ribs.

    That's where I hole up. It's a patch of shade, and the breeze such as it is comes in through the door place and whispers out through the gaps in the walls. Sometimes I look in the mirror at my face and we have little talks.

    Hey! We're having a talk now. "What was all that shit about her and saving lives and stuff? What the fuck is up with Deuce, is Triss gonna get hurt by him or what? Why are we laying around here?" I feel like I gotta do something. Restless, edgy, a little jumpy. The kind of feeling I get when I'm about to get shot at, or when a boy or girl I like looks past my face at my eyes.
  • Norman!

    #DiceRoller( 2d6 )
  • Triss,

    You've spent the last half hour checking and re-checking your ever-dwindling inventory of stock. No Prussian Blue. Nowhere. Must have used it up the last time you had to work on a Raven, her name was Peelers, right? She was shot, if I recall. Somebody drug her in here, in the heat kinda like this. Any reason why somebody gave enough of a shit to give her a chance to live?

    "What's with the geiger counter, Triss?" Saga says from behind you. She stinks of sweat and booze. Is that normal? "Another Raven get shot at our front door? I tell you, put up a sign."

    What do you do?
  • Chalk,

    The lips of the mask move as you watch it in the mirror. Which is real odd, since you have the mask on and don't feel it move, right?
    "Oh for fuck's sake, stop being such a nancy! Deuce is gonna die, don't nothing stop that. Trissy might slow it. And yeah, she'll get hurt, dumbass. Everyone hurts everyone else. Such a nancy! Wah, you wanna talk about yer fucken feelings! Get yerself a FRIEND and pay THEM to listen! Fucking fukkity whinyass nancy!" The mask snarls and spits at you in the mirror, frustrated by your pitiful questions.

    "Saga's yer girl. She's wastin away, but you can save her, if ya wanna. Too bad you took off so soon. Told ya to stick around. She's up now. Tell ya what, nancy. If ya can make it to Triss's spot right fucking now, right in the heat and don't shit yerself, then I'll let you talk to her. Just you, nancy. You wanna talk, doncha?"

    OOC: Did you take the +1 XP for doing what the mask told you back in the first scene? If not, please do mark that.
  • If I was ever thin-skinned, my fuckin' face cured me of that. I make like I'm mad, but really - I'm not even fooling myself. "Well fuck you too," I advise the reflection, but without heat. I know I never say that shit to me and mean it. The warply metal of the mirror makes mask's lips seem to move, but it's qualitatively different than what I just saw a second ago.

    I roll to my feet, glad to have a compass bearing even if my own shit-talking ungrateful face is the one that gave it to me. Grab the axe, go. I traded DAP's machete to a guy for a threadbare tote full of food cans with no labels. This morning I ate brown stew, I guess it was. Tasted like brown, anyway.

    The sun's hot, bright, all the shit you expect. Glares off the pallid dirt so you can't escape it, pitiless light above, relentless light below. Fukkit, I trot on over to Triss' place, sweating within ten steps. No, I don't trot - I run. There's a bark of laughter follows me as I race through the shitty plastic sheet-and-pallet shacks, but I don't stop to close mouths.

    I run.
  • Chalk,

    You won't die from this excursion, but I'm curious how you make it.

    Give me an Act Under Fire.
  • I sigh. Another bender for Saga. They've been coming more frequently as of late, and I worry about her. I'd be tempted to kick her, if it weren't for Rane. They're a bit of a package deal. Not lovers, at least, I don't think so, but there's something tying them together. Something I haven't had time to wrap my brain around.

    "Something like that," I answer Saga. "Only this kid is special, got it?" I rummage through the cabinet one last time. "Goddammit it!" I curse, throwing a broken syringe across the room to smash against the concrete floor. I hunch over the table, breathing hard. If I don't have any more Prussian Blue, I'm going to have to go see The Fat Man. I hate that fucker. He always looks at me like I"m a piece of meat he's willing to trade.

    "This like Peelers?" Saga asks, cleaning up the broken glass without so much as a peep or a WTF.

    I sigh. "Not exactly. I know this kid. Or, well, I know his father. He'll owe me, and that's enough for me." I hope nothing of emotion shows through in my voice. Peelers had been well liked in the Raven clan, and everyone knew about her generosity in the wastes. When she'd come in, shot in the leg, bleeding from her artery, I didn't think I could save her. But I had. It had been a miracle she'd survived.

    "I'm not sure I'm going to be as lucky this time around," I add, glancing over at Saga, feeling older than dirt, older than the stars. Older even than the stuff the stars were made of.
  • Chalk, acting under fire.

    #DiceRoller( 2d6+1 )
  • Triss,

    Saga doesn't comment further on the likelihood of the kid's survival. The smell of the grain alcohol from her pores alone is almost enough for a contact high. She drops the shards of glass into a spittoon that functions as a small trash can in this supply room. "T," she asks finally, "You got an exit strategy? Is this... all there is? Why don't we go to Free City? Or Oasis? The Fat Man and Traders' Fort don't love us, T. Not at all."

    Chalk

    You trot and sweat, and burn in some places. The sweat stops just as you reach the infirmary. It stops because you've run out of any liquid. Like a sponge that somebody squeezed. And squeezed. Until there's nothing left. Take 1-Harm AP from that experience.

    But here, you're here.

    You make it to the supply room and barge in on Triss. And Saga. Saga is sort of wavering as she stands, she smells like the bottom of a bottle.

    Triss,

    Chalk comes in, looking completely dehydrated.

    What do you do?
  • I throw an exasperated look at Saga. We've had this discussion, many, many times. As much as I might love to move; might love the challenge of someplace new where I'd have to redefine myself, I can't go. She knows this. Maybe it's one of the reasons she drinks. Hell if I know. I don't examine our relationship that closely, most days. Shit, most days I'm too busy to think about anything but healing. And that's how I like it. Less time for thinking the better, in my book.

    Chalk stumbles in, and I rush over to him with a bottle of water. It's not the freshest, but it's wet. "Drink," I urge, holding out the bottle. "Before I have to stick you with a needle for some intravenous fluids." I point to a chair where he can sit - even put his feet up if he likes. It's hotter than focused sun through a magnifying lens outside, and from the dirt caked on him it looks like he's walked a ways.
  • How is she always like this? What kind of reservoir of empathy does she have? I feel mean, like in the diminished sense, as I guzzle the water. I've gotten pretty good about slurping it through my face, though some still leaks past my lips and runs down my neck. I sit, but it's the restless sitting of an antsy dog, I want to get up and do something. I have to do something. I get up and stride over to Saga, boot cleats leaving tiny waffle-printed dust dunes in my wake. I reach up and take her face in my gauntleted hands, hold it still so I can peer into her eyes. I don't take no for an answer, neither. "What's wrong with her?" I might even be asking Triss that.
  • Saga flinches away from you, Chalk. You take hold of her chin, she doesn't stop that. But when you ask what's wrong, she tries to pull away, forcing your to squeeze. Her lips purse up as you hold her there, and she looks angry in a flash. "What's your problem, Chalk? Let go o' me, please." She's not hitting you. She's not happy about this, it might even hurt, do you care?
  • I sorta care, but I sorta don't. "What's your problem, Saga? Why'd you drag me here? What are you about to get into?" That's my quiet voice, low and intense. For once the mask keeps its fucking yap shut, I must be doing something right, according to its wobbly definition of "right."
  • I'm sitting next to the boy, checking his vitals, making sure everything is going as smoothly as I possibly can, when I hear Chalk and Saga chatting it up. I don't listen. I don't know what is going on between those two, and at this point, I'm a bit too tired to care. It's as if seeing Grim has sapped my strength. I'm still trying to pretend everything is fine, but inside, I can't stop thinking about him. I crush my palm into my forehead, rubbing it back and forth in a pointless effort to exorcise the demons of my past. Some things are better forgotten and left untended - unvisited. Karma had a way of evening everything out in the end, and seeing Grim was reminding me of things I couldn't really afford to wallow in at this point in time.

    Restless energy takes me, lifting me out of the chair and skittering me about the clinic, checking on patients, topping off IV bags, re-bandageing those who needed it. Best to keep busy.
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