Dirk Strider (Ultimate) (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
uber_marionettist) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
victory_road2021-01-08 02:59 pm
uber_marionettist) wrote in victory_road2021-01-08 02:59 pm
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
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."