goneawayworld | I've got your name written here

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dan sagittarius

I've got your name written here

Who: Data and Saturday, Robbie and Rogue, assorted rescuers, and a really scary lady
What: Several New Hires get attacked by the murderer and gets some clues
Where: All over the rig.
When: After Catra and Wash are attacked and all the chitchat about what to do.
Warnings/Notes: Lots of injuries! Some pretty brutal beat downs.

The halls of the rig are deceptively empty lately. The lower level executives that sometimes used the same hallways to go to the Cafeteria and a few other places have been very careful about where they go lately, with only some of them daring to. Lower level workers like the janitorial staff do their work together in little groups, and nurses going to work in the infirmary travel in packs.

Gossip travels far and even if the ongoing attacks of rig executives have been downplayed, it's now widely known that several New Hires are recovering from injuries in the Infirmary, some of them serious.

The hallways are dangerous to travel alone. The New Hires know they should, at minimum, go in pairs, or larger groups if possible. But Jorgmund gets suspicious if groups of them walk around towards the evening, closer to lights out.

So it's pairs tonight, after a four person guard shift at the Infirmary, taking separate hallways to meander back to avoid Jorgmund cracking down on them. With others not far off from their routes back to their Quarters, just in case.

But not close enough to come right away.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

She grins a wicked grin.

With the absolute certainty of someone that can see his blood lust laid out before her like an open picture book, and a voice that's half razor wire to the throat and half chiding singsong, she says, "Takes one to know one."

But then he throws the glass. It doesn't hit her throat because she slashes with the knife. There's a clink and a shattering noise, but it's still the half second of distraction he needs.

There it is. In the moment she takes to deflect the glass, he’s dashed towards the bodies in a blink. He could only get so far without a weapon.

Guts grips the handle of the sword sticking out of the wall, and briefly spots the round thing Saturday is still (barely) holding in her hands. An explosive?

And that's the moment when eight feet of fur and fury bursts in on the scene.

Stacia can't see much of what's going on with Guts and Saturday and Data (Guts is in the way), but the smell of blood had reached her nose from down the corridor and she can see an unfamiliar redhead with what appears to be a ritual knife, which means that their "La Belle sans Pitie" is here. She roars, full-throated and full of rage so deep it may as well have been pulled up from the Earth itself, and lunges into the fray -- but rather than directly at her friends' would-be murderer, she angles to cut off her line of attack to them. If she runs, she runs, but what's important is that she not hurt the others anymore.

La Belle sans Pitie jerks her head and steps back, almost involuntarily, at the new arrival's dramatic entrance. There's a moment of confusion, and then her lips curl back into that cruel little smile. She doesn't speak, but her lips move.

Loup garou.

She slips the knife into her ridiculous outfit, then slips her hand behind her back. One comes out holding a pistol. The other, a golden bullet marked with a symbol, likely more familiar to Stacia than Guts. Then again, it's not every day you see a bullet with a radioactive symbol on the shell casing.

She snaps the pistol up, slides the bullet in to the cylinder, cocks the hammer, and steps back, edging towards the door. She could take care of all of them, easily. But, with these numbers, and them able to grab that grenade, it's very conceivable that she could lose here.

Still, as she tries to make her escape, she doesn't hurry, or even lose the smile.

Guts winces as something roars behind him. It's like a cannon had gone off right next to his ear. Before he has a chance to see what entered the room, there's a huge mass of fur between him and the woman.

"Stacia..." he never thought he'd be so relieved to get a surprise visit from a werewolf.

No time for greetings, though. He takes the grenade out of Saturday and Data's hands and releases the sword, feeling a pang of guilt as he glances upon her face. He can't worry about them now. They're not out of danger, yet.

He's back on his feet in time to see the pistol, and tenses up. Arrows were not much to worry about, but bullets are far faster than that. He can't keep his eye off her gun hand for even a moment.

Edited 2020-11-11 19:46 (UTC)

It's not the worst carnage he's seen. More sadistic than most of the disasters he's run into, but there are plenty of monsters and spirits in the world that like to toy with their prey. But it's still enough to make Dan pause for a second when he gets there, absorbing the cruelty of it. And then he chips in.

Dan knows what his skillset is, and he sees absolutely no good way to join the fray and give chase without making it potentially worse for Guts and Stacia. He's unarmed, and even good hand-to-hand against this woman is a quick recipe for death, so getting involved as a combatant would just mean one more person to keep an eye on and defend when there are already dying people pinned to a wall. But he does have other expertise.

"I've got them." He slides up next to Guts, already with his overshirt in hand to help staunch the bleeding, and assesses the situation. Saturday's got a pulse, and Data looks awake, but the issue is that there's no safe way to get the sword out without an actual medical team - which means that the most important thing is to keep Saturday breathing.

"Your name is Data, right? Help me hold her neck straight. More help's coming."

The arrival of a proverbial cavalry, expected or otherwise, never hurts to witness. And any others, anything they can provide that might bring Saturday's odds of survival up by any percentage, could only be called such.

Data's response time is slightly delayed. While his own damage isn't inherently fatal, it's significant, and his neural net devotes more and more to reorganizing priorities, compensating, redirecting functions, the longer it persists-- a processing pitfall. But respond he does.

With no pressing matter for his remaining hand to attend to any longer, he follows Dan's instruction to the best of his ability.

"That is preferable. More help will be required." A conversational cavalry doesn't hurt, either. "Please be advised: I am somewhat able to brace Saturday, but I will be unable to shield her if she is within range of the grenade's detonation."

So that addresses his top billing where priorities stand, at least.

"Guts has the grenade." Dan doesn't know what Guts did or is going to do with it, but he trusts that Guts has it under control. He helps Data position his remaining arm to keep Saturday's neck at the right angle. There's damage there, Dan can tell, but he's not a specialist and she's breathing. In a sick way, it's better than she's pinned upright right now, so that there's less chance of that compromised airway collapsing. "Thanks. It's easier with two people."

Even if one of them is currently one-armed and pinned to the wall. Dan bites the hem of his overshirt and rips off a strip going all the way around the waist. He binds it over Saturday's flesh arm, between her elbow and the rebar injury, because if they can't do anything about the impalement yet at least he can try and stop the bleeding from other sources.

"What about you, are you stable?" Dan doesn't know what sort of being Data is, but by the bloodless missing arm and the fact that Data's so alarmingly conscious for someone who's been shish-kebobbed, if somewhat laggy, Dan figures it's anatomy he's completely unfamiliar with. If Data's in trouble, his ability to help is going to be pretty limited.

He pats at the side of Saturday's face, gently so as not to put any shock on her neck. "Hey. Hey, Saturday, are you with us?"

Saturday had, at some point, drifted off into a warm sea of pain; it was everywhere, so she gave up fighting and let the agony carry her wherever it was going. It takes her a moment to hear Dan and start moving against the current, away from the deep dark unconscious pit it was all pouring into.

Her eyes do flicker open, and focus on him. What comes out of her mouth is a scratchy sort of ah-uh - accompanied by a little bubble of red spit, and the taste of coppery hot blood slipping down her throat.

She starts to nod instead, then thinks better of it.

After a brief pause for processing, eyes flicking back and forth as he absorbs his own diagnostics, Data offers:

"My condition is... sub-optimal, but stable. I will take the appropriate measures to preserve necessary functionality until I can be repaired. My composite materials should not be damaging to Saturday's condition in the meantime."

He looks faintly relieved by the fact that Saturday is responsive at all, still. Observing faint signs of life is less substantial than witnessing an active attempt to communicate.

"We are awaiting medical assistance," he helpfully informs her. "Your chances of survival have increased significantly."

That might be considered encouraging knowledge. If not encouraging knowledge she's able to retain, then for their rescuers, perhaps.

Sub-optimal but stable is the best Dan was hoping for, realistically, and so he breathes a sigh of relief. "Good. You're doing great. Both of you."

He hopes that blood from Saturday's mouth is from her tongue or the inside of her lip or a missing tooth, because if she's regurgitating blood there's a much higher chance of her choking on it. The katana seems to be too low down to be puncturing her lung, at least. With a hand guiding Data's, he tilts Saturday's head forward just a little, preserving the safety of her windpipe but directing the blood and saliva to drip down her chin instead of back down her throat.

"Can you tell me if her breath goes wrong? I'm going to try and stop as much of the bleeding as I can." Taking out the sword will absolutely make it worse, and there's only so much he can apply pressure to her stomach, but at the very least he can try and staunch the area around the sword, where gravity and Saturday's body weight are gently, slowly slicing the sword up through her.

Where the hell is medical? Where the hell is anyone with materials and more emergency care knowledge than Daddy taught us how to patch each other up if we got ambushed by the feds and/or a wild animal?

Saturday can hear them talking as if they're on the other end of a long, long tunnel. She catches awaiting assistance and if her breath goes wrong and, painfully, begins to focus on her breathing. In, out. Deep, even. She stops trying to control her head, lets whoever is taking care of it do... whatever they're doing. Trying to help was just making it hurt more, anyway.

One thumb slowly extends upward, its fist clenching in a way that Saturday immediately regrets. It's a fairly pathetic thumbs-up, but the motion is deliberate.

Honestly, she could laugh if she wasn't in so much goddamned pain. What an absolutely fuck-ridiculous way to go. Trapped in some kinda late night adult trid horror show... tacky redheaded bitch...

Her eyes close as she starts to wander again.

"Yes, sir."

Surely it's better to contribute even observation than nothing at all, given the situation. Case in point, Saturday's slow and deliberate gesture.

Thumbs up(error)-- thumbs up-- commonly a signal of approval or success.

He fails to see the correlation, but perhaps she simply doesn't have another viable way of signaling her awareness.

"I would be pleased to reciprocate your gesture at a more appropriate time. At the moment, we are all..." Data hesitates, looking down at the bloody mess of a situation currently afoot. Glances towards the floor where his other arm fell.

"Shorthanded."

"Don't need to call me sir, just Dan."

He's busy applying compression to some of the most heavily-bleeding portions of Saturday's guts when she raises the thumbs up, and as such, he can't see it. He just hears Data's response. And he can't help it, but Data's observation about being shorthanded makes him not only snort, but snort into a straight-up guffaw. Something about the contrast of the absolutely grim situation they're in and the plainspoken factual nature of Data's statements just withers Dan's professional attitude, just for a second.

Dismally satisfied that he's done the best he can with Saturday's sliced guts, he picks up Data's missing arm.

"Is this something I, or you, can reattach without a medical team?"

Saturday snorts at Data's line, too, or tries to. It ends up more of a gasp and a gut-heave, because everything fucking hurts. At least if she dies here, it's as she lived - with stupid puns about ill advised stunts.

Humor.

He only ever seems to succeed when it isn't his goal. Maybe one day he'll finally get a full grasp on it.

Today, he'll just partake in the satisfaction of bringing levity to a harsh situation. Which, when he reflects on it, seems a poor fit.

"I cannot be certain until I am able to examine it in a more appropriate setting. My limbs can be safely removed and reattached, but the use of those mechanisms differs greatly from this context." AKA a sword chop. "Someone with engineering or cybernetics experience would likely be more suited to it than a traditional medical staff."

Dan gently sets the arm back down, aware that he's not even traditional medical staff, just a hire who knows field medicine because he was raised by paranoid survivalists. "Alright. The only mechanical things I ever fix are cars, so I don't want to risk fucking you up."

He grabs the nearest box he can find, sliding it under Saturday's feet. Being pinned to the wall, gravity pressing down on the edge of the sword, is going to slowly make the wound wider, draw the edge of the blade through more of Saturday's organs. He hates that he didn't realize that until he was actually working on Saturday's guts.

"Alexa, ask medical where the hell they are," Dan says into his communicator, then, keeping Saturday's head in position, he moves Data's one arm to help support Saturday's body. "Saturday? Saturday, if you can hear me, put as much weight as you can into your feet. The more you stay standing the less the sword's going to keep cutting you up."

If only there were some way to get the sword out, but there isn't. There's no safe way here.

"Thank you, Data," he says, because he doesn't know what else to do except to appreciate Data honestly and help him hold Saturday's weight off the blade. "Guess we're just waiting right now."

Saturday can hear Dan, as it happens, it's just that her legs seem to be moving a good half a minute behind the rest of her. She tries her best, locking her knees, weight heavy on her toes and the balls of her feet. Pitching forward a little helps. Not like she can fall down with all those katanas keeping her up.

Dan is ticking the most important boxes of all: relatively competent, calm under pressure, and polite. In Data's informed opinion, there are likely many worse candidates for handling this situation on the Rig.

"Given the circumstances, I believe it is more appropriate for me to thank you. You have provided assistance which will prove vital to Saturday's survival. Assistance that I am not in a position to provide. I am grateful."

"Reckon this'd be a lot uglier without either of us. When this is done, we should introduce ourselves proper." He gives Data a smiles as he supports Saturday as best he can, keeping a finger to her pulse.

Dan's Alexa, thankfully, gives them a relieving answer in her detached, vaguely British-sounding voice. "Medical's estimated time of arrival is less than sixty seconds."

"You're almost there, Saturday. You're almost there."

Saturday hears him, dimly. She'll have to remember to tell him that, later. It's important to thank people who take time from their busy day to stop your kidney becoming sashimi. And Data, too.

In the meantime, she's just gonna keep breathing.

Gold is an interesting choice of metal for the bullet, but the radioactivity will do plenty of damage and Stacia can't recover from that without the assistance of at least two more Garou that she doesn't have on hand. She growls deep in her chest, baring dagger-like fangs and prowling closer to further separate Sans Pitie from the others.

They've said she's fast. Stacia wonders if she's faster than a Garou burning her Rage for speed. Guns are a ranged weapon and this fight is still melee, it's possible she could knock the gun aside if she lunged--

But a wild shot could still hit someone here, someone who can't walk off a bullet even when it isn't radioactive. Perhaps if she hadn't roared, if she'd attacked Sans Pitie from ambush instead of giving her a chance to adapt, she could have done something more than chase her off.

One ear flicks backward when Data says "grenade". That's also a bad word. They need to get the wounded out of the blast range, and that means chasing Sans Pitie off instead of seeing how easily a Garou can rend her limb from limb. Stacia snarls and flexes her claws, advancing another step forward.

Gold is almost as good as lead when it comes to containing radiation. And much more attention getting. Calls the eye, both to the color and to the symbol.

Stacia takes a step forward, snarling and flexing? The Belle stops, and smiles, eyes lighting up in delight. The grin looks like someone's carved it into her face with a knife, showing off each pearly white tooth.

She smells like death.

The redhead takes a step forward, closing the gap a little more, and tucks her revolver's barrel into the belt of her costume. She squares off against the werewolf, like an old timey Western gunfighter ready for a fast draw, hand hovering near the weapon. Her tongue slips out, tracing her crimson lips.

She was willing to walk away this time. But she's not about to refuse a challenge.

Some of that rage cools once he hears Dan begin to work on Saturday. Maybe he hadn't been too late after all, but that still leaves the problem of needing the stranger in the room dead to avoid a repeat performance. The more pieces she was left in, the better.

Guts keeps the grenade tucked away in his right hand, distrustful of his left after some of the damage it took initially. The pin was gone, which means a too-rough jostle of the handle could get it to detonate. Probably three seconds for the fuse - more or less - just like his other explosives. This one just had a bigger, smokier boom.

He steps to Stacia's left - alert, but awfully calm for holding a live bomb in his hand.

"Ready when you are."

She draws and shoots like an old-timey gunslinger. The radioactive bullet zings towards Stacia. If it hits, it'll cause a minor explosion and a small burst of radiation that will only affect her. But it'll be within the range a Garou can heal.

Then she tries to be at the ready for whatever Guts flings her way.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

I've got your name written here

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/wrap?

wrap!

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