Visiting Hours
Characters: RED Sniper (hasstandards), BLU Sniper (bye_to_yer_head), RED Pyro (notintehkitchen), Chibiterasu (chibibrushheir), and you!*
When: Mid-December
Where: Hospital
Rating: PGish
Summary: RED Sniper awakens in the hospital, having been dragged there after his rescue. His injuries are severe, but he's about to get some visitors.
* Feasibly, he could have several visitors with the span of time he'll there, so if you can think of a good reason your character would stop in to see him, feel free to start a new thread! He may be a jerk, but it's not as though he can leave.
For the second time in the span of a month, Sniper awakened to the hum of the fluorescent lights and the strong smell of disinfectant, pain riding through every muscle. The burning was gone, his death having not been from flame this time, but from injury. He kept his eyes closed a minute, waiting out the queasiness that accompanied every respawn and the lingering torment to his body. It was after another minute he realized it was different, somehow- though seconds were passing, the pain was still there. His death hadn't fixed things at all.
He opened his eyes, the view of the light above him partially obscured by a bandage on his nose. He hadn't died at all. Against the odds, he'd survived.
Not without help- his drug-addled mind recalled that much as he struggled to push himself into a sitting position on the hospital bed, the mountain of pillows behind him supporting his back. He couldn't recall how he got to the hospital, or much of the night past getting out of the alley, to be honest; however, it was apparent from the casts and bandages he'd been there longer than he would have liked already. Worst was that he owed his life to his rival. That was a blow that burned worse than any fire.
He raised his hand to touch his nose first- on his right hand, all but his ring and pinkie fingers were in splints. His left had fared no better, the majority of his arm in a cast and therefore nigh unusable. He recalled the sound of bone breaking, snapping under the impact of the masked man's palm; after that was agony, pure, unbridled. He brought his working fingers to his nose with a delicate touch, hissing as they grazed the bandage. That was broken, too.
Next in his sight was his right leg, his knee in a prop, a large bandage obscuring the wound he knew was there, one having been exacerbated by his trek while it still had a clay shingle embedded in it. A groan nearly escaped him as he tried moving; he stifled it down by hold his breath. Though dulled- he reasoned he was loaded with medication, giving how sluggish every bit of him felt- the pain was still incredible.
A look around the room came next. His weapons were nowhere in sight- as expected. He could barely make out a couch on the other side of the room, the view blocked by the end of the bed and his propped leg. The window was thankfully closed- he was willing to bet the chill would have made things worse. On the bedside table sat his aviators, his watch, his communicator, and a mirror. Acting mostly out of routine, he went for the glasses first, then the watch; he couldn't put on the latter, but with some effort, he managed to wind it with his two working fingers.
He pulled the mirror to him next, awkwardly holding it with the two fingers he had as he maneuvered it onto the bed. Leaning it against his thigh, he was able to get a look at his face. He looked as awful as he felt: though the inevitable swelling of his nose had gone down, a purple bruise still crept from under the bandage, discoloring his face around his eyes. The punch to his jaw had left a mark as well, not nearly as noticeable amongst the other scars of battle; he knew he ought to have a bruise from that. Just how long had he been there?
His head sported its own bandage, probably for a concussion. The pavement hadn't been kind to his skull. More pressing was something else that caught his eye: the hood set atop his head, connected to what he was wearing. Stitched into the cloth were pointed dog ears, standing atop his head as if they were his own. He looked downward to the rest of his torso, recognizing the hoodie from the store. A snort of disgust pushed out of him- Pyro had been there at some point and dressed him. Fantastic. With his luck, he was in for another lecture on what he'd done wrong and how he ought not to do it.
And after a few minutes of struggling, he realized that his casts and lack of workable digits prevented him from pulling the garment off. A sigh left him as his expression soured. He was trapped in the hospital, injured to the point of incapacity, hadn't a single weapon to his name, and was wearing something he'd explicitly said he didn't want to wear because the words "cute" and "adorable" could be applied to it. The worst news was the revelation he was going to be in that condition for quite a while.
When: Mid-December
Where: Hospital
Rating: PGish
Summary: RED Sniper awakens in the hospital, having been dragged there after his rescue. His injuries are severe, but he's about to get some visitors.
* Feasibly, he could have several visitors with the span of time he'll there, so if you can think of a good reason your character would stop in to see him, feel free to start a new thread! He may be a jerk, but it's not as though he can leave.
For the second time in the span of a month, Sniper awakened to the hum of the fluorescent lights and the strong smell of disinfectant, pain riding through every muscle. The burning was gone, his death having not been from flame this time, but from injury. He kept his eyes closed a minute, waiting out the queasiness that accompanied every respawn and the lingering torment to his body. It was after another minute he realized it was different, somehow- though seconds were passing, the pain was still there. His death hadn't fixed things at all.
He opened his eyes, the view of the light above him partially obscured by a bandage on his nose. He hadn't died at all. Against the odds, he'd survived.
Not without help- his drug-addled mind recalled that much as he struggled to push himself into a sitting position on the hospital bed, the mountain of pillows behind him supporting his back. He couldn't recall how he got to the hospital, or much of the night past getting out of the alley, to be honest; however, it was apparent from the casts and bandages he'd been there longer than he would have liked already. Worst was that he owed his life to his rival. That was a blow that burned worse than any fire.
He raised his hand to touch his nose first- on his right hand, all but his ring and pinkie fingers were in splints. His left had fared no better, the majority of his arm in a cast and therefore nigh unusable. He recalled the sound of bone breaking, snapping under the impact of the masked man's palm; after that was agony, pure, unbridled. He brought his working fingers to his nose with a delicate touch, hissing as they grazed the bandage. That was broken, too.
Next in his sight was his right leg, his knee in a prop, a large bandage obscuring the wound he knew was there, one having been exacerbated by his trek while it still had a clay shingle embedded in it. A groan nearly escaped him as he tried moving; he stifled it down by hold his breath. Though dulled- he reasoned he was loaded with medication, giving how sluggish every bit of him felt- the pain was still incredible.
A look around the room came next. His weapons were nowhere in sight- as expected. He could barely make out a couch on the other side of the room, the view blocked by the end of the bed and his propped leg. The window was thankfully closed- he was willing to bet the chill would have made things worse. On the bedside table sat his aviators, his watch, his communicator, and a mirror. Acting mostly out of routine, he went for the glasses first, then the watch; he couldn't put on the latter, but with some effort, he managed to wind it with his two working fingers.
He pulled the mirror to him next, awkwardly holding it with the two fingers he had as he maneuvered it onto the bed. Leaning it against his thigh, he was able to get a look at his face. He looked as awful as he felt: though the inevitable swelling of his nose had gone down, a purple bruise still crept from under the bandage, discoloring his face around his eyes. The punch to his jaw had left a mark as well, not nearly as noticeable amongst the other scars of battle; he knew he ought to have a bruise from that. Just how long had he been there?
His head sported its own bandage, probably for a concussion. The pavement hadn't been kind to his skull. More pressing was something else that caught his eye: the hood set atop his head, connected to what he was wearing. Stitched into the cloth were pointed dog ears, standing atop his head as if they were his own. He looked downward to the rest of his torso, recognizing the hoodie from the store. A snort of disgust pushed out of him- Pyro had been there at some point and dressed him. Fantastic. With his luck, he was in for another lecture on what he'd done wrong and how he ought not to do it.
And after a few minutes of struggling, he realized that his casts and lack of workable digits prevented him from pulling the garment off. A sigh left him as his expression soured. He was trapped in the hospital, injured to the point of incapacity, hadn't a single weapon to his name, and was wearing something he'd explicitly said he didn't want to wear because the words "cute" and "adorable" could be applied to it. The worst news was the revelation he was going to be in that condition for quite a while.