THE SQUAD GETS BUFFED: POST-PLOT HEALING LOG

[wildermods]

THE SQUAD GETS BUFFED: POST-PLOT HEALING LOG
OOC POST
Refuge can be found in the forest beyond Weathertop. No matter what path they all take, everyone somehow finds their way to the ruins of the long-lost mystical city of...

Philadelphia?

Wait, what?

The forest gives way to ruins that are clearly a chunk of Center City from the US city of Philadelphia. The ruins are very strange due to their placement: the trees of the forest are large and ancient but not large enough to hide the chunk of city, yet here it is, cradled in a secret place in the forest's center even though it wasn't visible from a distance.

Many of the buildings are overgrown with massive vines that have threaded in and around their structures. Most of the streets are broken up, with plants growing between cracks of asphalt. A long stretch of Market Street is now one long grass-filled path.

The sky seems caught in a strange eternal twilight, forever early evening, as if the city has decided it will be rush hour until the end of time. There's always enough light to move around in but the sun never sets or rises or any higher. The crescent moon is always just slightly visible in the sky above, never shifting its place. An effect that looks like a green aurora can always be seen in the sky ahead. This is the only part of the sky that moves, shifting like a normal aurora. Sometimes it crackles slightly and briefly changes blue or red.

Something calls out to them, urging them to the Parkway Central Branch of the Philly Free Library. Stragglers may find the quest magic teleporting them here after the majority arrives. Here, they'll be able to help each other out, heal each other and offer first aid or any food/water that was salvaged, and comfort each other after what happened.

---

NOTES
✦ Setup: Please only do top-levels either with characters that require some kind of care, first aid/conventional medical treatment, healing, food/water, psychological comfort OR with characters that are capable of offering it. All other characters can tag around and meet/visit people.

✦ General open logs: For general open logs, do not use this log, instead do your own open posts set in the area. This log is purely to provide a centralized place for healing since so many characters were injured or made ill.

✦ Background Info: Please see the related camp OOC post for any background info about the library and area.

Comments

Trance - offering healing

[easy_as_cake]

[In the confusion of arriving... here... wherever here is, she's gotten separated from Harper for the time being. But that's okay, because there's plenty to keep her busy. As Andromeda's chief (and only) medical officer, she can't just stand by and let people who are injured suffer. Something in her is saying she can do more, even without Rommie's usual assistance.

To everyone else, there's a strange, purple girl that hasn't been with their group before wandering around, looking for anyone who appears upset or hurt. A prehensile, pointed tail curls behind her, and between the multicolored hair ornaments and the comfortable-but-very-impractical jumpsuit she's wearing, she's obviously Not From Around Here.

As soon as she sees someone looking less than okay, she's quick to hurry up to them.]

Are you okay? Let me help.

[awfulcer]

[Dixon is just about the very definition of looking less than okay. In his bedraggled state, for once the nasty burn scars on his face aren't the first thing one would notice about him; that would be the spills of blood down the back of his once-white t-shirt and the attendant smears all over the rest of him. He's got specklings of blisters and burns all over his hands and arms, and overdoing the magic has left him with the vacant, bleary, and highly-recognizable stare of the extremely hungover.

In spite of all this, he has somehow managed to get to the Wawa, ransack behind the counter, and come up with one (1) pack of cigarettes, and as far as he's concerned that's peace on Earth, good will toward men, praise Jesus it's even menthols. He's sprawled on the steps to the library, watching the orange tip of his cigarette in the dusk, one earbud of his faithful ipod in playing Verdi.

Purposefully not thinking. If he thinks - if he even skims the surface of thinking - all he can think about is the rest of the group, the kids especially, bloodied and catatonic and hexed, and him unable to do anything about it. Bart tortured and Shuichi and Sothe rendered despairing to the point of unconsciousness, and him unable to do anything about it. Them suffering now, being tended to be the people who can do something about it, and maybe dying, and him unable to do anything about it. And when he starts thinking about that he starts crying, so he's just going to not.

He considers that he might be dying, that that's a lot of blood and he doesn't know what kind of vital organs or nerves or arteries could get hit by a knife to the mid-back, but that it hurts like all hell and cold seems to radiate from it. But if he's going to die, fuck it, he's going to do it with a smoke and an evening sky and La Triviata, and not a damn thing on his mind.]

Huh?

[His reaction to her is sluggish, disengaged - the reaction of someone in some kind of shock. He doesn't know her. That doesn't surprise him; people have been popping up a lot lately, more slowly than before but still a lot.

She looks like the skyline, all twilight-toned. Pretty, but not in a way that he'd be attracted to her, just visually very pretty with that lovely color. He raises his eyebrows at the tail but doesn't say anything about it.]

Y'all done helping the kids?

[easy_as_cake]

[She hesitates just the tiniest moment, because that is a lot of blood, like Dylan on the bridge a lot of blood, but she fixed him, and something in her says she can help here, too. She hopes.

But hope is what they have, right? It's all anybody ever has, really: hope and maybe determination if they're lucky. So she crouches down in front of him, balancing on her toes, arms crossed on top of her knees. The look she recognizes from Harper lately. Her Harper, anyway, if not the one here. She doesn't know enough about the one here yet for there to be a lately. The burns are obvious, too. The blood... she'll figure out.

The cigarette gets a small, unhappy grimace, just a flash of an expression and gone. One thing at a time. For now, she meets his eyes, as well as she can considering, and smiles.]

I haven't seen the kids yet, but that doesn't mean I can't help you, too.

[Her expression is soft and careful, not as sure of itself as her words.]

I'm Trance.

[awfulcer]

You should start with them.

[It's not that he wants to just be left to die, but he's apathetic. The encounter with the Dementors and the dread powers of the Nazgul carved out his survival instinct and any joie de vivre that he managed to hold onto before the last six weeks crashed down on top of him. It's carved out just about everything except for detachment.

He actually wants her to stay, if only for the company. Talking to someone keeps him from thinking too much, and that's a good place to be, too tired and distracted to think, and she seems nice. Nice and optimistic.

Dixon's so desperate for kindness, and raw, and the gentleness in her voice makes his eyes well up.

He tries to sit up straight a bit, but then feels woozy and sick and slumps back down. He takes a drag of his cigarette; it quells the nausea some. He's shivering and his face is pale; the agonizing cold seems to radiate across his spine and up his shoulderblade, aggravating where he dislocated it a few years back and then again a week ago.]

Dixon. Hi. [He holds out the earbud he's not using to her. Some tinny opera drifts out of the speaker.] You can listen too if you want.

[easy_as_cake]

[Once upon a time, she'd have thought saving someone against their will was a terrible idea. Take away a person's choices and what do you have but the iron control of the Abyss? It was the opposite of everything she'd ever wanted or been made to be.

But she's come a long way from being that entity. Choice is good, and necessary, and important, but she is not losing anyone to their bad choices ever again, not if she can help it. Not even a strange human she's only just met. A strange human she's only just met who looks quite a bit like he's never had someone care about him before, and she won't have that, either.

She doesn't know what he's offering her, except that she can hear the music coming from it. Spend long enough with Beka Valentine and anyone would learn to appreciate the togetherness music can bring. Her smile grows as she reaches to take it from him.]

Hi, Dixon. I'd like that. Thank you. And sorry.

[Except instead of taking the tiny bit of plastic, she takes his hand. At first, nothing happens. She's not used to this power yet, but she knows how to reach for something incorporeal, to change reality for no reason except that she likes it better the new way, and it only takes a few moments where her smile falls into a frown of concentration before a soft light begins to flicker around her fingertips.

Slowly it grows to cover their hands before almost sinking into Dixon's skin. It's warm and comforting, like sitting in a sunbeam on a lazy afternoon. It moves through him, urging new skin to grow where he's been burned, the wounds aging to shiny, day-old scars. It clears his mind, chasing away any lingering hangover effects.

And then it curls through his shoulders and down his back and touches the wound there.

Trance drops his hand with a gasp.]

[awfulcer]

[He's so dazed that when she surprises him by taking his hands instead of the earbud, he doesn't pull back. He just watches her, too dim and tired to anticipate or even spend time wondering about what she's going to do as she focuses. He doesn't really mind, or rather, doesn't really care. And the more the knifewound throbs the less and less he cares about what's happening to him or what she's doing to him.

The healing spell falls over him and he closes his eyes, relaxes into it without even thinking, almost thinks he could fall asleep. There's a strange sensation - healing doesn't hurt, but it feels like something as the blisters fill with plasma and scabs and then with fresh skin, healing in quick motion. His head goes clear, that queasy, vertiginous malaise and sensitivity parting to just lightheadedness and fatigue.

Then there's a pang that feels like getting stabbed all over again when the spell reaches the injury. It's as if his body fights the healing, like a rattlesnake striking back at the sweet feel. A pained cry stifles itself against the roof of his mouth and he grits his teeth.

As soon as she drops his hand it's back to the throbbing pain it was a moment before.]

What was that? [He looks vaguely alarmed, almost guilty to have hurt her, confused, grateful, shivering still.]

[easy_as_cake]

That was... Well, I was trying to help. [She sounds just as confused as he is, although with an extra large helping of guilt. She's not hurt, just startled, but she's pretty sure she did hurt him.] It was supposed to be, you know, healing? Like magic? It didn't do that before.

[She bites down on her lip, trying to think of a reason the power would react like that. Admittedly, she's not exactly an expert in it yet, but it really hadn't done anything like that the first time. And he does look better! So it has to have worked at least a little bit. So then what...

Could it be something beyond what she can heal? But why would that hurt him? Why wouldn't it just pretend whatever it was wasn't there, like with Harper's... right. Like that.]

Can I maybe take a look at your back? I won't try the spell again. Promise.

[awfulcer]

Yeah, I know. You helped. [He tries to sound comforting. He doesn't know if it worked.

He doesn't particularly want to take his shirt off in front of her - he never felt particularly self-conscious before, but the combination of his extreme inability to keep up with the others and the fact that almost everyone else here in on a spectrum between lithe and ripped has inculcated a certain uneasiness - but he expects that no healing's about to get done until they see how bad the damage is.

He pulls off his shirt, wincing as the fabric pulls away from the sticky parts of the injury, and leans forward. The wound is ugly, not particularly deep but several inches long. More alarmingly, it seems to already be somewhat putrefied. It's an assortment of colors, all of them nauseating: grey and blue bruising, deep red drainage, brown and yellow-green pus, swollen pink skin drawn taut around the edges.

He rests his head in his hands, letting her take a good look. La Triviata switches over to Arlo Guthrie, and a thin "riding on the City of New Orleans..." whispers out of the earbud.]

How's it look? Because it hurts like a bitch.

[easy_as_cake]

[It does help, and her smile reflects it.

That he's still willing to trust her after the mistake she made helps, too. It reminds her of other people in other places who trusted her to do her best even when her best wasn't enough. She waits for him to take his shirt off, not reacting to anything except checking for any more wounds she might have missed. One of her best friends is a large, furry death machine. She doesn't really bother judging on appearances.

She touches his arm again before moving- no magic, this time, just an attempt at comfort. The least she can do is offer that.]

Oh.

[One look at his back, and she can tell her newfound magic wouldn't have made even a dent in it. It looks like it felt, rotten and evil. She's no match for something like that, not here. Not yet.]

Um. It... it looks like... It's bad. [Her hand reaches out, only to hover uncertainly without touching.] Did something up on the hill do this?

[awfulcer]

[It's not that he's never had comfort before - his momma loves him, after all - but since his life started spiraling downwards he's developed a deep and vital need for kindness. He's a naturally affectionate person, that affection boxed away from others by his volatile personality and being a guy in the tough love law enforcement field. So when she touches her arm, he changes the position and tentatively holds her hand, gives it a weak squeeze. He looks at her as if she's an angel sent down to make everything okay.]

Got it from one of those wraiths up the hill, taking a hit for that Ronan jackass. [There's something still of the police mentality, the "blue shield", left in Dixon, even if all his work friends treated him as if he were radioactive the second he got fired. You don't mess with a unit. Teammates will fight, lie and die for each other, no matter their personal problems.

Not that that makes him like Ronan any more.]

Great. I probably had it coming. Actually. [He sighs, but the truth is he doesn't actually care that much. To an extent, he welcomes the pain. It gives him a chance to beat himself up with something besides straight-up guilt.]

Do we need to do it old-fashioned, with just stitches and rubbing alcohol? [The thread can probably be teased out of their ragged clothing; they might have to used boiled water and prayer for disinfectant, if that can even touch an infection by evil.]

[easy_as_cake]

[She's definitely no angel, but he's not the first one to get that wrong, and she doesn't really mind the mix-up. She squeezes his hand back without hesitation, taking comfort in return. Everyone needs to feel like they matter to someone, right? Especially in situations like this.]

Don't say things like that.

[It comes out with a harsher edge than anything she's said to him otherwise. She'll tease Harper about deserving what he gets because they both know she doesn't mean it. She doesn't know who Ronan is, and she's not sure which of the awful things on the hill he's calling wraiths, but it's enough to clear up that the wound is most definitely, 100% evil, and no one deserves that. Probably not even evil things, and Dixon isn't evil.

She can't cheat on that sort of knowledge anymore, but she's still sure of it. Evil people don't let you listen to their music, for one.]

You definitely didn't have this coming. I've never seen anything like this, and I've seen a lot of people that are sick or hurt really bad. It's like whatever stabbed you infected you with something. I'm not sure cleaning it would even help, but... I guess it wouldn't hurt, either. Except I don't have anything with me. [Her shoulders slump a little as she realizes exactly how unprepared for anything she is. She's just so used to asking Andromeda for whatever she needs that even recognizing she's been cut off wasn't really enough to make her know it until it mattered.] I just kind of got dropped in here a couple hours ago.

[awfulcer]

I’ll say what I want, [he says, but it’s just childish contrarianism. He sounds like he won’t say it again, at least not in front of her.]

That ain’t really your fault, is it? Some of the people here didn’t even come with shoes, I wouldn’t expect you to show up here with an ambulance and a four-course dinner. [He shivers; the wound itself is cold, as if it belonged to an ice statue instead of a human being that’s otherwise breathing and sweating and living. He crumples up his t-shirt and holds it to his chest, folding at the waist slightly, unconsciously similar to the way a child might clutch a toy.]

So, Trance. I’m gonna guess you’re not a human, that maybe you’re one of these space aliens or elves or whatever. Maybe a robot in disguise. [Dixon looks almost excited by that idea; out of all the bonkers stuff they’ve encountered here, he hasn’t run into his favorite, which is robots, clearly an entire genre. He takes another long drag on his cigarette, holds it, then puffs it out his nose.] Have you met humans before?

[easy_as_cake]

[The petulant reply gets a laugh even if she knows it shouldn't. You're not supposed to encourage rebellions like that. Trance knows because Rommie got her a book on parenting once as a joke when Harper was being especially Harper.

She gives up trying to learn anything more from staring at the wound, resolving to figure something out sooner or later... but probably later. It always seems to be later, or even too late.

Right. Not thinking about that.

Instead, she turns to sit next to him, leaving her hand where it is until he feels like giving it back. She's hardly shy.]

If we could find something mostly clean, I could at least wrap it up. I don't think it's going to bleed anymore unless you do something to it, so I don't think stitching it up with whatever might be in there is a good idea. Sorry. I still wish I could help more.

[The tail and the general purpleness is kind of a giveaway, isn't it. And when she idly pushes her hair behind one ear, it comes to a delicate, equally inhuman point. She doesn't seem especially confused by his question, either. After a while, you get used to questions when you look like Trance.]

Oh, of course. Not that I'm a robot, I mean, but I've met lots of humans. My best friend is one, even. From Earth and everything. He's here somewhere, too, but we kind of got lost getting away from the whole hill thing.

[She doesn't seem to realize she never clarified on the whole 'space aliens or elves or whatever' part.]

[awfulcer]

[He finally lets her hand go. He doesn’t have many hopes of finding something clean to bandage things up with; there’s a reason all of them have been wearing their clothing into shreds. He’s pretty sure that there isn’t a piece of fabric on him that isn’t blood and grass-stained, covered in dirt, torn or otherwise tortured beyond repair. Which is a shame, because he did really love his jacket, which was turned into a ratty blanket for an injured kid back on the hilltop.

You’d think at least the clothing store would have had something, but it’s all just rotted scraps. Rotted scraps and stupid-looking handbags.]

Good you got friends. Which one is he? [Dixon thinks he’s met at least most people (punched or gotten punched by about half), but there are always new folks showing up just when he thinks he’s gotten a bead on everyone. And folks disappearing into the mirror, which is creepy as hell.

If he sounds a bit sad, it’s because he is. It’s been a hard six weeks, between losing his Chief and getting set on fire and losing the lead on a case and losing his job, and all that before getting sucked into some fantasy quest to save the Green. The fact that all of his friends just stopped talking to him - they were all friends from work, but he thought they had his back - ranked relatively low on the list of shitty, demoralizing things he’s been smacked with since Easter.

Funny, he didn’t realize until right now that in the Green, holidays don’t matter. He knew days of the week didn’t, but holidays somehow makes it feel like their days are floating in space, unanchored.]

So what are you?

[easy_as_cake]

[Then she hooks her fingers together, arms around her legs, watching for anyone else she can help. Not many of them seem to have made it here, yet, but the pull that drew her up the hill is quiet, so she assumes they will eventually.]

Harper. [The name is full of fond exasperation. She wasn't joking about him being her best friend.] Kinda short. Blond. Really annoying, but he usually doesn't mean it. It's just kinda how he makes friends.

[Or something like that. There'ss no easy way to explain Harper. He's more of an experience.

She turns her head to face Dixon long enough to give him a bright smile when he asks that.] I'm Trance. I told you.

[awfulcer]

Think I tackled that guy on the hill. Does he shriek a lot? [Dixon doesn’t remember a ton of what happened, on account of the magic. There are big holes in his memory of what went on there, and the patching between them is nothing good. He remembers a lot of running around, alternately in pain and not; a lot of running towards teenagers to try and stop them getting hurt and not quite getting there in time.

He holds out his cigarette for her in case she wants a drag, oblivious to her evident distaste for it.]

Yeah, I know you already told me that. [He looks vaguely confused, more than anything.] It don't answer my question.

[easy_as_cake]

Sometimes. He was yelling a lot when I found him, too. [She almost says more, but Harper's nightmares aren't really hers to share with just anyone. Instead she shrugs.] Harper's just loud all the time.

[She shrinks back from the cigarette just a bit. Not quite enough to be terribly rude about it, but more than enough to make her feelings on the subject known. It's only the fact that Dixon's obviously having an even worse day than she is that stops her from opening up with a lecture on the evils of poisoning your own body when the world around it does more than enough.

Someday, though. Someday.]

Which question? You asked what I am, and I'm me. I'm Trance. What else am I supposed to be?

[awfulcer]

[Wow, rude. Teach him to try and be generous, especially when his precious smokes are pretty rare around here. He gives her a sulky look as he takes another drag, then starts to uncrumple his T-shirt to put it back on. He does so gingerly, having a bit of trouble with it, wondering if the knife tore up some muscle in his back or if it's his stupid shoulder acting up again.]

I don't know, whatever species you are. I've never met nobody in your particular color. If you're not human, what are you?

[easy_as_cake]

[Yes, well, Trance appreciates the generosity, just not so much the poisoning. She doesn't offer to help with the shirt, although she does keep watch on his efforts out of the corner of her eye; she may know a thing or two about men needing to do things on their own to feel accomplished but that doesn't mean she won't offer if he seems to struggle too much with it.]

Oh. That. Most people haven't met anyone like me, even where I'm from. There's not very many of us, so there's not really a word for my people that humans can actually pronounce. We keep to ourselves a lot. [She's rambling a little but doesn't seem self-conscious about it.] Except me, I guess.

[awfulcer]

Can you pronounce it? [She's not the first person to have something about her that Dixon's not even going to try to pronounce right. That doesn't mean that he doesn't want to hear it. Sometimes it's nice to just hear someone talk about themselves.

He doesn't mind that she's self-conscious; he is too. He doesn't tend to ramble but he does tend to talk himself into corners.

He finally gets the shirt on and takes a deep breath of smoke, lets in linger in his mouth on the exhale, closes his eyes as it finally escapes.]

Is where you're from like Earth, but purple?

[easy_as_cake]

I'd rather not, if it's okay. It brings up some... kind of bad memories. [It's not even strictly a lie, even if it's also not exactly the truth. It's probably not even anything that matters here anymore, but she's just gotten so used to hiding that it's second nature at this point. The thought of telling him doesn't even cross her mind.

His second question makes her laugh, though, any impending gloom chased away. She'll have to tell that Purple Earth idea to Harper.]

Not quite. I'm kind of from all over, not just one planet. I've lived most of my life in space, on space ships and drift colonies and things like that. Some of them are kind of purple, and some of the planets I've been on are kind of like what I think Earth is like, but none of them have ever been both.

[awfulcer]

Alright, that's alright. [He won't push her on it. He lays back on his side; there's only so comfortable you can get on stairs but he can't seem to sit up longer, even with her having siphoned out most of the aches and pains. There's only so much healing magic can touch bone-tired.]

Huh. Like an army brat but for space. [She must be from the future, Dixon thinks. A future well beyond what he's ever seen or likely to see on anything but a television. Even if other species progressed more quickly, Dixon thinks of humanity like a flashlight in the dark, and other things don't really exist until they're in the glow of human knowledge.

So if she's interacted with humans, which she has, that makes her real.

(The music changes over, Arlo Guthrie to Madonna singing "Borderline".)]

I've only ever been on the one. It's not so bad, honestly. I like where I'm from.

[easy_as_cake]

What's an army brat? [The army part she knows, of course. People still have armies, lots of them. And she's pretty sure brats are kids, at least according to Beka. But she thinks most people would be more upset talking about child soldiers, so that's as far as she can decipher.

Part of her thinks she should probably leave Dixon to get some rest, but a tiny, different part of her doesn't really want to give up being a little bit needed. It's selfish, but if she's cut off from the future, doesn't she get to be a little selfish?]

Harper makes it sound like it was really nice a long time ago. Ever since the Fall, Earth hasn't been so great, but before that, it sounds like it was really pretty. Amber waves of grain and purple mountains and everything.

[She hears a bit of the music change and leans a little closer to listen. Her face lights up.] Oh! I know this one!

[awfulcer]

Someone whose parents are military, so they move around a lot growing up. [A bit of the opposite of Dixon, who has only infrequently even visited outside the two mile radius of his hometown.

His face lights up too when she recognizes Madonna, and he offers her the earbud again. He doesn't mind the company - is grateful for it, actually. With the way his back's hurting, he probably wouldn't be able to get any restorative rest right now. He'd probably just sit here burning his cigarette down, wishing he were dead and feeling sorry for himself. He doesn't want to be alone and left with all that in his head.]

I don't now about amber waves, but my home is real pretty. We're in a valley, and there's a lot of flowers and meadows everywhere. It's not so bad driving around. [He takes another smoke.] Didn't know they had Madonna out in space. This is my favorite song.

[easy_as_cake]

[This time, she takes the earpiece, figuring out how to fit it in her ear with only a little fumbling. She has to lean over a little bit to not tug the wire too taught, and ends up adjusting to sit cross-legged facing him instead. It reminds her of lazy evenings with Beka, listening to music from a world long lost, Beka waxing poetic on her favorite artists. Quiet times that she's not sure she'll ever get again even if she does get home.]

Kind of like that, then, yeah. Not the military part, but the moving around a lot. There's just so many places to see, though, how can you stay in one place?

[She makes a tiny face at the smoke but doesn't pull away this time.] I wish I could see it. Flowers are my favorite. There aren't very many of them in space, usually, but the ship I live on now has a whole hydroponics bay filled with them. It's my favorite place on the whole ship.

[She sounds understandably fond, tracing little patterns on the ground in front of her. A few look vaguely like flowers, if drawn by someone with little artistic talent.]

Most people wouldn't know Madonna anymore, I don't think, but Beka really likes Old Earth music. She collects these things. DCs? I think? They're really rare since they're so old, but she's been finding them for years and years.