Ricki Tarr (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
rickitikitarr) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
reverienet2018-07-05 11:27 am
rickitikitarr) wrote in reverienet2018-07-05 11:27 am
voice: un: thomas
[[Forward dated to one good nights' sleep after the music ends.]]
Well.
[Says Ricki's voice, with that very distinct perfectly calm tone that manages to convey that something is probably actively on fire.]
Is there a doctor on board?
[The feed disconnects rather abruptly. What's happening in Ricki's room isn't pretty. Brightly, he adds;]
And if so is he free right fucking now?
[[Content warning for blood and injuries.]]
[It starts with a scratch on the back of his hand. It's just a little thing, he probably gave it to himself while he was helping Bodhi with the clean up. That he can't remember, after the week it's been, isn't surprising. When he goes to check on it that night, just to be sure it isn't infected, it's already gone... except now there's blood on his arm? How did he get cut there?
When he wakes up from the next sleep he's bled right through his undershirt, and all over his sheets, and it's hard to breathe. That's when he gives in and gets on the network and posts his message, staunching the wound with the clothes he has, trying to lie mostly still and not panic about the fact that his body is apparently tearing itself open from the inside out. It's like being a piece of cloth snagged on a rusty nail, and he doesn't know if he wants to laugh or faint.]
Video, much later.
[He pans the camera around his room, after it's older. It's the Reverie station standard, except now it looks like a fucking crime scene. Cloth and tissue and torn off sheets are wadded on the floor.
He's not up for making the full report. In fact, his hands are shaking badly enough that he lowers the camera, sets it down, putting himself in frame. He takes out, and lights a cigarette, lifting it to his mouth and taking a long drag off it, with fingers that are both shaking badly and bloodstained.
Ricki takes a long drag, breathes the smoke out through his nose.]
Fun for the whole family, right?
Well.
[Says Ricki's voice, with that very distinct perfectly calm tone that manages to convey that something is probably actively on fire.]
Is there a doctor on board?
[The feed disconnects rather abruptly. What's happening in Ricki's room isn't pretty. Brightly, he adds;]
And if so is he free right fucking now?
[[Content warning for blood and injuries.]]
[It starts with a scratch on the back of his hand. It's just a little thing, he probably gave it to himself while he was helping Bodhi with the clean up. That he can't remember, after the week it's been, isn't surprising. When he goes to check on it that night, just to be sure it isn't infected, it's already gone... except now there's blood on his arm? How did he get cut there?
When he wakes up from the next sleep he's bled right through his undershirt, and all over his sheets, and it's hard to breathe. That's when he gives in and gets on the network and posts his message, staunching the wound with the clothes he has, trying to lie mostly still and not panic about the fact that his body is apparently tearing itself open from the inside out. It's like being a piece of cloth snagged on a rusty nail, and he doesn't know if he wants to laugh or faint.]
Video, much later.
[He pans the camera around his room, after it's older. It's the Reverie station standard, except now it looks like a fucking crime scene. Cloth and tissue and torn off sheets are wadded on the floor.
He's not up for making the full report. In fact, his hands are shaking badly enough that he lowers the camera, sets it down, putting himself in frame. He takes out, and lights a cigarette, lifting it to his mouth and taking a long drag off it, with fingers that are both shaking badly and bloodstained.
Ricki takes a long drag, breathes the smoke out through his nose.]
Fun for the whole family, right?
voice | apollo2
Ricki? What's wrong?
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[He promises, audibly coming down now from the panic.]
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[ He's already punching the keypad to his own cabin door and heading down the corridor. ]
That didn't really sound like a false alarm to me. I'm coming over...
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[Says Ricki, who is pretty unilaterally done with people announcing they're invading his place. He's moving, after this.]
action
Ricki? Open up...
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Where's the mop?
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You think mops exist in this place?
[ Because Apollo doesn't. All jokes aside, his gaze drops to where Ricki holds his stomach. ]
What the hell happened to you?
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[He is not calm, not really, for all that there's a deadly stillness to him.]
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...Okay.
[ 'Okay'. Okay, like that was a totally reasonable thing to happen (it isn't) and Apollo is fine with it (he isn't). He takes a breathe. ]
Is it - is it still doing it to you? Or has it stopped?
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Direct pressure works best, but it still only slows it down.
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[ Apollo hadn't quite grasped that this was a thing that was still happening, right now. The sight of fresh red blood isn't exactly new (not by any stretch) but he starts forward, one hand reaching out to push Ricki's hand back where it was, holding it and the bandage back in place. Because that isn't good. ]
Okay. Awful and unpredictable, you weren't lying. We probably need to try and keep some of this blood on your insides...
[ He glances over Ricki's shoulder, jerking his chin towards the cabin at Ricki's back. Time to go inside, Ricki. ]
Did you manage to find a doctor, yet? Alucard, maybe?
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[Snaps Ricki, and then realizes he is being insane. He draws in a breath, lets it out, and tries again.]
I do not get along with Alucard. And I am getting very snappish, but aside from that, I have this under control. What I would like most in the world right now is for you to please listen to me and go help me by finding clean dressings, and something to clean up the place with. I am absolutely fine in the meantime, I'm not bleeding out at a dangerous rate. I just need to keep calm, and probably still, and keep pressure on.
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But, at the end of the day, Apollo gave up on being a leader a long time ago. He follows orders surprisingly well for a man who can't really be made to do anything he doesn't want to do. So he nods thoughtfully. ]
...Okay.
[ And he turns briskly to disappear down the corridor in to an unoccupied cabin. ]
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He presses the pillowcase back into the cut, and breathes in, deep and slow.]
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If Apollo balked at the sight and smell of blood then he'd have been out of a job years ago. Instead he sets to shredding a sheet, easily rending the fabric between his hands as if it was nothing more than paper. ]
Still alive over there? [ He eyes Ricki on the bed as he noisily shreds the sheets, but doesn't get too close. The other man's set his boundaries and very clearly too. Apollo respects that. ]
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[He says, and struggles up to sit, leaning into the wall, and telling him, quietly;]
Thanks. Sorry for being so shirty. I'm not at my best.
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No need. If I was in your position I'd have said a hell of a lot worse.
[ Because mystery vivisection isn't exactly anyone's idea of fun. Apollo offers Ricki a handful of fresh sheets, torn in to long bandage-like strips, and watches Ricki critically. ]
How long has this been happening?
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[But he's beginning to get tired. His eyes shut.]
If you watch it closely, you can see it move.
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[ Gross. Interesting, but gross. Apollo peers curiously as he slowly rips up another sheet... And now Ricki's eyes are closed and that's not really a good thing. ]
Keep talking to me, won't you? You don't want me doing CPR any time soon.
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In West Africa there's a lake. It's one of those export towns, where the big fish are sent by basket and truckloads out to be sold in the cities, and the people eat sundried minnows, or rather, little-fish in Twi, which sorts by size and not by age where creatures are concerned. A great king came there, and ate a dish of the local fare- choked on the bones and died. Locals renamed the lake 'Lake We-hate-little-fishes.' Took the British years to catch on.
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You're a regular David Attenborough, aren't you? [ It's a gentle tease; he'd asked for Ricki to keep talking, and he certainly did. ] We should probably change that mess you're holding against your stomach now...
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[He asks, opening his eyes back up and lifting the wad of cloth aside. The cut is about half an inch shorter now, and has at long last stopped spreading, and lowering. It might even be sealing up.]
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[ That was Jenny Sparks's doing. All the fun parties usually were. But Apollo isn't letting himself think about that too much right now; he curses under his breath at the sight of the cut. He's seen a hell of a lot worse but it's still very, very weird.
He switches out the bloodied compress for new ripped sheets, still smelling slightly of whatever mystery detergent they use in space. Apollo has no idea. The stained bandage is thrown unceremoniously on to the floor with the rest of it, to be incinerated later. Nobody's going to be using those again any time soon. ]
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[He admits, catching his breath, looking up at Apollo and admitting;]
I'm a bit at risk of going into shock at this point.
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[ Apollo isn't a first aider. He takes people apart, he doesn't put them back together again. But there's a matter of fact little voice in his head that reminds him about shock (hadn't he seen something about it in a film once?) and he reaches out to gently lay the back of his hand on Ricki's forehead, measuring how how clammy he might feel. ]
If you could try not to, that would be wonderful. Because you don't exactly look great. The cut isn't so bad anymore but... Do you feel sick?
[ A beat, then: ]
Shall I get someone who actually has a clue what they're doing?
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