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?
no subject
[He answers, eyes still lightly shut.]
I really don't like this station, honestly. For all the obvious reasons, but mostly because we're crammed in here like sardines in a can.
no subject
Nobody's exactly a fan of this place. And it doesn't exactly bring out the best in any of us...
[ He settles on the edge of Ricki's bed, one hand returning to the fresh bandages to keep applying pressure over the mysterious travelling wound. ]
Water's here. Think you can take the glass or do you want help?
no subject
[And, reaching out, he tests his grip on it, lifts it to his mouth and manages a sip.]
I think I'll be fine. I might try to rest, if you don't mind?
no subject
Sure, as long as you promise to wake up again...
[ It's morbid but at least he delivers it with a smile. Black humour is the only kind of humour when you're sitting in a room that looks like a murder scene. Apollo stands, sweeping up the bloodied sheets that are still soaked through with Ricki's blood in to his arms. ]
Let me get rid of these for you. I'm professionally experienced in setting fire to blood-stained fabric.
[ It's not as weird as it sounds, promise. ]
Maybe I'll see if I can find you that mop as well...
no subject
[He says, breathing out, finally closing his eyes.]
No please excuse me for being a terrible host-
[But he's slipping.]
no subject
It's fine. Buy me a drink to make up for it.
[ But at the door he hesitates, glancing back towards Ricki and the hideous blood bath of a room. Hopefully this really is sleep, and not just the poor guy finally passing out. ]
...I'll check back later, okay?
[ And then he's gone. ]