Dirk Strider (Ultimate) (
uber_marionettist) wrote in
victory_road2021-01-08 02:59 pm
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Callout post for these Snorunts, breaking people's legs!
Who: Dirk Strider, Solus zos Galvus, and... that's it for now
Where: Emet's place; Goldenrod
When: January 5
Summary: The Snorunts must have heard about the stairs....
Rating: PG (-13? Dirk breaks his leg first thing here)
Look, okay. Dirk has gone up and down these stairs hundreds of times. Or if not hundreds of times, at least scores of them. There's no real added risk to doing it with his arms full or his vision partially obscured; sure, there's a small statistical increase based on the rules of basic academic rigour, but what's he going to do--pitch backwards and flip ass over teakettle to land on his face in exactly the right way to drive a bone fragment into his brain, killing him instantly?
Okay, actually, that does sound like it would happen to him, but it's not going to. They're just stairs, man.
What does happen to him is this: he drops a smuppet somewhere around the top step, and it's in front of him, and he steps on it. And it slides a bit. And he has to make a split second decision that takes the form of a cool, super air-catching backflip, performed from that stair all the way back down the bottom, where he lands on his feet like the ever-prepared ninja he is.
And--
You know, it hurts? It does. Obviously. But in the moment, Dirk hears the bone snap and he feels the vertigo--but any pain response is limited to the blanching of his face, and that unreal sensation of proprioceptive inversion, and the part where he smacks himself upside the head on the bottom stair when he tips over sideways in an anticlimactic finish.
The dissociated pain response hyperawareness keeps him surprisingly clear-headed, though. It's not that hard to figure out why. Epinephrine is one hell of a neurochemical. He figures he's got fifteen minutes, minimum, in which to take advantage of it.
Even if he knows not to move his leg, he still tries. The pain is... something else. Not the worst pain he's ever been in, but the Dirk Strider pain scale has been broken for two decades. The break is definitely in his shin, though, so that's his tibia.
Fuck. It's not all askew, so it can't be that bad, but 'not that bad' is still 'bad.' He doesn't really 'want' to drag himself bodily up the stairs or down the hallway, but there's no other way about it.
He starts by gathering up as much of his stuff as he can reach from his position and organising it off to the side of the steps so it's not fucking everywhere. Once that's done, though, there's only so much 'else' he can do, and he's keenly aware there's a timer quickly running down on his ability to 'do' much at all today.
Taking a deep breath, he steels himself for the ordeal he's about to drag himself through. Then he begins the labourious and painful process of hauling himself towards Emet's bedroom.
The pain is starting to come through on him in short waves by the time he's got himself laid out on the floor, his head propped up against the futon. He is sweaty, exhausted, and in an exponentially increasingly bad mood for every inch of floor he had to cover to get here... but it's at least a stable position from which to search out his last message to Emet.
Heads up, I left some shit on the stairs. Nothing that important, just try not to step on it.
Where: Emet's place; Goldenrod
When: January 5
Summary: The Snorunts must have heard about the stairs....
Rating: PG (-13? Dirk breaks his leg first thing here)
Look, okay. Dirk has gone up and down these stairs hundreds of times. Or if not hundreds of times, at least scores of them. There's no real added risk to doing it with his arms full or his vision partially obscured; sure, there's a small statistical increase based on the rules of basic academic rigour, but what's he going to do--pitch backwards and flip ass over teakettle to land on his face in exactly the right way to drive a bone fragment into his brain, killing him instantly?
Okay, actually, that does sound like it would happen to him, but it's not going to. They're just stairs, man.
What does happen to him is this: he drops a smuppet somewhere around the top step, and it's in front of him, and he steps on it. And it slides a bit. And he has to make a split second decision that takes the form of a cool, super air-catching backflip, performed from that stair all the way back down the bottom, where he lands on his feet like the ever-prepared ninja he is.
And--
You know, it hurts? It does. Obviously. But in the moment, Dirk hears the bone snap and he feels the vertigo--but any pain response is limited to the blanching of his face, and that unreal sensation of proprioceptive inversion, and the part where he smacks himself upside the head on the bottom stair when he tips over sideways in an anticlimactic finish.
The dissociated pain response hyperawareness keeps him surprisingly clear-headed, though. It's not that hard to figure out why. Epinephrine is one hell of a neurochemical. He figures he's got fifteen minutes, minimum, in which to take advantage of it.
Even if he knows not to move his leg, he still tries. The pain is... something else. Not the worst pain he's ever been in, but the Dirk Strider pain scale has been broken for two decades. The break is definitely in his shin, though, so that's his tibia.
Fuck. It's not all askew, so it can't be that bad, but 'not that bad' is still 'bad.' He doesn't really 'want' to drag himself bodily up the stairs or down the hallway, but there's no other way about it.
He starts by gathering up as much of his stuff as he can reach from his position and organising it off to the side of the steps so it's not fucking everywhere. Once that's done, though, there's only so much 'else' he can do, and he's keenly aware there's a timer quickly running down on his ability to 'do' much at all today.
Taking a deep breath, he steels himself for the ordeal he's about to drag himself through. Then he begins the labourious and painful process of hauling himself towards Emet's bedroom.
The pain is starting to come through on him in short waves by the time he's got himself laid out on the floor, his head propped up against the futon. He is sweaty, exhausted, and in an exponentially increasingly bad mood for every inch of floor he had to cover to get here... but it's at least a stable position from which to search out his last message to Emet.
Heads up, I left some shit on the stairs. Nothing that important, just try not to step on it.
no subject
What does register is the oddity and accompanying alarm at noticing he has, not only a message on his gear, but one from Dirk. Whom of which he knows is just inside. And would more likely approach him in person, than resort to messaging him like this. Least of all to warn him that he left objects on the stairs.
Dirk does not merely leave objects anywhere in Emet's abode, and even if he did, it would not be somewhere so careless as the stairs. He can feel his heart drop as alarm rises, but he keeps himself calm and orderly as he chooses to reply in Dirk's chosen format. Ignoring his instinct to investigate the matter personally.
After all, Dirk is ever purposeful in how he communicates, in what and how he chooses to do so, and Emet is ever aware of these silent, yet pointed decisions made. And so, he treads lightly to determine the minefield before him.
Your forewarning is dully noted, but I must inquire: is there a specific reason as to why you abandoned "some shit" upon the stairs?
no subject
It's pretty hard to carry two armfuls of stuff when you need both of those arms to make it down the hallway unassisted, though. So minimising the risk of anyone else's tibia biting it the way mine did only seemed appropriately courteous.
no subject
Or something like that.
In other words, Emet does not reply through text, because the moment he puts together the issue (which is well before he actually finishes reading the full text), he hastedly moves inside. He may as well have teleported for how quickly he appears before Dirk after he's sent that message, his expression creased with worry.
Seeing him like this makes his chest squeeze with sympathy, a constrictor mercilessly grappling his heart and lungs, so that he might not think nor breathe in a time he needs it most.
"My dear, what--" he begins, but cuts himself short with a click of his teeth as he shuts his mouth, looking contemplative as be bites back his upset. He reconsiders his words, because he knows scolding Dirk right now would not likely make him agreeable to proper treatment, and he can do so later. Right now isn't the time, and his worry outweighs the frustration with the casual way Dirk chose to inform him.
"How did this occur? Would it be remiss to assume that 'biting it' suggests a break of some sort?" As he asks, his tone is far more subdued, gentle, and worried. He approaches as he speaks, kneeling down besides him to try and examine his leg. His hand hovering for a moment, before he asks, "which is it?"
no subject
Not telling Emet how much it hurts, or whether it hurts at all, is no accident, but neither is it a fully conscious choice; thinking about or even acknowledging actual pain is... well, it's unthinkable, in more ways than one.
"So it's fine. I'll get up and figure myself out in a bit here--I just didn't want you tripping and breaking your neck in the meantime."
no subject
From there he supports Dirk's leg, careful of the swollen area and pointed in ignoring any protests from Dirk. Quickly and efficiently he places the pillows under it, to support and elevate it. Ordinarily, he would be aiming to take Dirk to the Pokémon center first, but he knows that convincing him of that is going to take some time. Might as well do what they can to reduce the swelling in the meantime.
"Nevertheless..." he finally begins, eyeing Dirk sharply, but not without worry, "little can become quite big, if one is far too careless. Not to mention if one forgoes treatment altogether. If we are to see you back in fighting form—without lasting debilitation with our being stifled by mortal flesh—then we must needs approach this with the appropriate level of consideration."
His eyes fall to the afflicted leg, his brow creasing with concern.
"And I would rather you suffer as little pain as possible, regardless of whether or not you share its presence with me."
no subject
He trusts Emet. Obviously. Of course he trusts Emet. So it's not a trust issue. It's more like--
"Let's try cutting it off," he proposes through teeth that are only gritted briefly. "See what happens."
no subject
Once Dirk's leg is settled, and he speaks up, he cannot help but let out an unexpected laugh. His hand curled into a light fist as he brings it up to cover his mouth. As he settles, he shakes his head, less so to admonish Dirk for the comment, and more out of playful exasperation.
"It would be far from the first I've crafted a robotic limb, but I must say, such a course is far from necessary. By my measure of the swelling and your impressively contained reaction to the pain...the break is likely minor as you stated. Hardly worth the fuss of amputation." His tone is far more light than it was previously, but as he stands, his expression shifts to something a bit more serious.
"Nevertheless!" He states with clear conviction, holding up his index finger, the others held into a light curl that emphasizes the more effeminate way he holds himself. "At the very least we should observe the true extent of the damage, and we are in scant supply of the proper equipment to do so."
no subject
Did he not notice it was the same, or did he recognise the threads of continuity and that's where the 'joke' came from? Is the idea itself better for it? Or worse? He isn't ruling it out, unlike Emet--the worst that could happen is death, and death can't come for him here. No matter what he--
Emet's sudden recomposure and take-charge tone snaps him (mostly) out of that train of thought.
"I said I'd handle it. Or are you seriously going to jostle my ass all the way to a Pokemon Centre? Because I am not joking when I say it would be faster and more efficient to just bash me with a brick and get me there that way. Might not even need to look at the leg after." He's not moving, dude.
no subject
"My dear boy," Emet begins, the warmth never leaving his voice, "if I were to put you out of your suffering, it would not be by such barbaric means."
Then, he crosses his arms, hip slightly cocked to one side as he lets out an even, controlled breath. Perhaps it's inapproapriate for him to be feeling so fondly of Dirk in this moment, when he's wounded and suffering, but he cannot help but selfishly delight in the small concession of candidacy Dirk is offering him...in his own way. Whether he realizes it or not.
"Are you trying to tell me you would not find joy being held in my arms? Carried off to mend your wounds—or do you truly prefer death to such a show of intimacy?"
no subject
The mental image springs to life unbidden: him all tucked up in bed like a Victorian wasteling with his leg all cased in plaster while Emet sits nearby, tenderly spoon feeding him... broth, or whatever. Jesus. He can't even stand to picture it. Christ. God.
Dirk presses a hand against his jaw; his brow furrows, the corners of his mouth twisting down against the scraped and weathered leather of his fingerless glove as he grimaces behind its partial shield.
"I know it's finesse over efficiency around here, but embarrassment is both slower and more painful than a brick."
no subject
Letting his arms fall weightedly to his sides, his brow furrows with affectionate concern, before he approaches him once again. But, this time, he chooses to take a seat besides him. A gentle hand nudging Dirk's own, so that he might direct him to look upon Emet by the bidding of his gloved finger tips.
"I see not what there is to be embarrassed about when your partner in war tends to his wounded, as is his duty. 'Tis but a facet of our creed, of our loyalty, our devotion--much has such acts forged bonds far more unyielding and unbreakable than even the most impervious titanium."
As he finishes, he slightly tilts his head to the side, opposite of the tilt that Dirk's own head would naturally be in from being turned.
"Will you allow me this pleasure?" But no sooner do the words leave him, that he deftly leans forward to steal a kiss from him. It lasts only a moment, an affectionate punctuation to his request.
no subject
Which is effective at shocking Dirk into bewildered, flustered silence.
There's a second or two of lag before he recovers enough to turn his head away, which does less for hiding his reaction (it's far too late) than it does for communicating the depth of his unwillingness to concede on this. It does, however, make him look a bit like he's staring at his offending leg with cold disapproval.
"I don't want to hobble around like a fucking cripple for weeks."
no subject
"Then don't. You can rest and allow me to act in your stead." Emet counters, his gaze staying on Dirk's face for it, before looking to his poor leg. Drawing his hand away from Dirk's chin, he lets it settle on the thigh of his uninjured leg. Giving it a light squeeze.
"I know 'tis naught you cannot endure, not to mention..." he trails off as his hand trails forward to rest more on his inner thigh, "you will scant do so without particular comforts, either. There is strength through healing—through rest, my dear, and well do I know yours."
no subject
"It's not... that," he manages, trying to cover breathlessness (pain, frustration.... uh, other) with deliberate emphasis on his words. "Not that I don't appreciate it. I do. Really. But that's just way too much. I've got so much... shit, you already have your shit, it's not that fuckin' simple."
He rests his hand over Emet's, leaves it there for a second before lifting it from his thigh and moving to return it to his... partner's.... own lap.
"This is so fucking solvable." He says it like he's wording a complaint.
no subject
"Do not misunderstand me, I know well the internal conundrum that accompanies the reality, let alone the simple idea, of shirking ones burdens onto others. Even those of which are willing and happy to do so." After all, he's much the same in that regard.
"Nevertheless, we can find a way that you are not entirely without some measure of burden, if that will help ease your conscience. Say—I could bring some manner of equipment here, and temporarily we can work from home. Either way, I am no stranger to shouldering more than my share of work, 'tis no trouble at all."
If he wasn't so keen on emphasizing how little of a problem that is for him, he might sound more tired at the prospect. However, seeing as he is trying to convince Dirk of giving in and giving him some of his work load, he cannot afford handing Dirk any support to his counter arguments.
no subject
Dirk, we cannot simply kill ourselves every time we are faced with an inconvenience.
He huffs the short not-really-a-laugh that usually passes for the rare phenomenon of laughter on his part, but instead of stopping there, he wheezes, hugffs again, and it turns into a kind of growing chuckle. Albeit one that sounds somewhat deranged.
"Hahahaha.... why not, it usually works." Half defeatist complaint, half dark humour, he lets the corner of his mouth twitch upward sharply before the joke stops being funny and his shoulders slump against the futon where he'd propped himself.
"Whatever, man." He can't win this one because he can't even leave it. He has no argument except what should be to both of them the obvious. He viscerally dreads the 'inconvenience' that Emet is asking him to suffer being, knows the prolonged misery of the ordeal will take its toll out on both of them, knows on a gut level that dying would be salvageable in a way convalscence isn't. But Emet is determined, and he has no words to convince him when he's like this, and he's in a lot of pain, and, and, and.
And so he gives up. It's Emet's call. His head drops, his chin mostly touching his chest. He might as well have no bones except the one he broke.
"Whatever it is we're doing, let's just get it over with."
no subject
Before he stands, however, Dirk might begin to feel his afflicted leg growing lighter, as if the very weight of it is being supported by an invisible force—which it is. Invisible to their eyes are Emet's trio of yamask gently supporting his leg with their ghostly mitts. They had been watching the whole thing, lying in wait to act, and finally found their cue.
"Trust me, my dear boy, this is the far better option." As he speaks his voice is low and quiet, reassuring in tone. "Come, rest your head upon my bosom, the trip will not be too horribly long."
no subject
What the hell else, that is, except be caught off guard by how much less pain there is in the act of being liften than he's expecting--not no pain, obviously, not by any measure, but less, which is an absolutely wild moment on par with the shock of the actual break and pain's initial onset.
The only clue to any of that is the white-knuckle, circulation-threatning grip of his hand around Emet's arm.
"I don't get it," he mutters--though for Dirk, a mutter is basically a voiced whisper, and in this case it's somewhat closer to a grumble or even a growl. "I don't break bones. Not like that. I mean, I caught some air but only barely. If I've been losing bone density somehow.... I mean, it's not my fucking diet."