trauma.
Who: payingthepiper and the thecorpsedaddy.
When: Backdated to Friday evening.
Where: Skye Medical Hospital.
Summary: There's a catcher in the sneaky morgue area situation happening, right here.
Warnings: Undertaker. :T
If Allen was going to be truthful with himself, he honestly wasn't sure what he was doing.
He was dodging by carts, that was what he was doing; keeping a worried eye (single eye, still - the other lacked bandages, finally, but he still had to keep it shut, otherwise it burned and itched and scrapped even more than usual, which was a roiling pain that was gaining momentum the longer he dodged around, but speaking of dodging--) behind him, back mostly bent and strides long. Timcanpy was clinging to his shoulder, about the size of his fist: an odd size only because Allen could've sworn he'd been growing, but Siren's Port seemed to be shrinking him down again.
In any case, he was dodging. Dodging his way past nurses and security, social workers and concerned doctors, the smell of bleach and sense of being useless following him around as he darted through a few accidental rooms and barren hallways. He wasn't up to his usual: complications, they'd said, something about infection, an agitated fracture and a weakened immune system, whatever that was. But the looks they kept giving his arm - the paperwork they kept trying to shove on him, the agreements and contracts - he had to leave. All of his (darkdarkdark) skin felt itchy, like something was crawling around under it-- something was crawling around under it, probably, but he didn't want to think about that in the least. Attributed the itchiness to the fact that he was being coped up like this, the restlessness that had risen to a peak and never receded after the entire incident, the --
What was with the cabinets in this room?
Allen shut the door behind him just as a troop of nurses passed by, stood frozen in the doorway of the blue, sterile place with wide eyes roving around. There were a few carts, some sheets, some unidentifiable (to him) bottles in cabinets... But there were file drawers, too, giant ones. Maybe they just had more medication? He wouldn't know; he didn't like hospitals enough to snoop around for information on them, and he'd never been in a modern one before, regardless. And they definitely had changed since the 19th century...
... -- Footsteps from down the hall sent him practically diving behind one of the better-draped carts, forcing his erratic breathing (leftover from those 'complications') into relative stillness, good arm wrapped ineffectually around his stomach, as if that'd hold off the dull throb in his ribs. From here, he'd have to go... Well... Somewhere. If only they had maps of the place - it was really like a maze!
When: Backdated to Friday evening.
Where: Skye Medical Hospital.
Summary: There's a catcher in the sneaky morgue area situation happening, right here.
Warnings: Undertaker. :T
If Allen was going to be truthful with himself, he honestly wasn't sure what he was doing.
He was dodging by carts, that was what he was doing; keeping a worried eye (single eye, still - the other lacked bandages, finally, but he still had to keep it shut, otherwise it burned and itched and scrapped even more than usual, which was a roiling pain that was gaining momentum the longer he dodged around, but speaking of dodging--) behind him, back mostly bent and strides long. Timcanpy was clinging to his shoulder, about the size of his fist: an odd size only because Allen could've sworn he'd been growing, but Siren's Port seemed to be shrinking him down again.
In any case, he was dodging. Dodging his way past nurses and security, social workers and concerned doctors, the smell of bleach and sense of being useless following him around as he darted through a few accidental rooms and barren hallways. He wasn't up to his usual: complications, they'd said, something about infection, an agitated fracture and a weakened immune system, whatever that was. But the looks they kept giving his arm - the paperwork they kept trying to shove on him, the agreements and contracts - he had to leave. All of his (darkdarkdark) skin felt itchy, like something was crawling around under it-- something was crawling around under it, probably, but he didn't want to think about that in the least. Attributed the itchiness to the fact that he was being coped up like this, the restlessness that had risen to a peak and never receded after the entire incident, the --
What was with the cabinets in this room?
Allen shut the door behind him just as a troop of nurses passed by, stood frozen in the doorway of the blue, sterile place with wide eyes roving around. There were a few carts, some sheets, some unidentifiable (to him) bottles in cabinets... But there were file drawers, too, giant ones. Maybe they just had more medication? He wouldn't know; he didn't like hospitals enough to snoop around for information on them, and he'd never been in a modern one before, regardless. And they definitely had changed since the 19th century...
... -- Footsteps from down the hall sent him practically diving behind one of the better-draped carts, forcing his erratic breathing (leftover from those 'complications') into relative stillness, good arm wrapped ineffectually around his stomach, as if that'd hold off the dull throb in his ribs. From here, he'd have to go... Well... Somewhere. If only they had maps of the place - it was really like a maze!