Stage II
He's gone. Ellen leans back against her pillows and closes her eyes for a long, long breath. Not that she hasn't enjoyed the past few hours. They were hours when she had company- no offense to Dogmeat, but bright as he is, he makes for lousy conversation. It's just that answering question after question from a stranger with no knowledge of her world at all beyond what he could deduce from her is an exhausting experience in itself. She needs a breather, just a short one.
When she opens her eyes there's three new comic books and a folded note, and Dogmeat's leash is hanging on a different wall hook than the last time she saw it.
It takes a while before she musters up the will to read Tyler's note. She puts it back when she's done and stares at the ceiling. Really? She's that badly off, that she falls asleep that easily and stays there for that long? Really? It's not as if she's been doing anything to make her that tired. Dr. McCoy still doesn't have her walking. The exercises she's been able to do in bed've been getting easier, and she hasn't even had the chance to use the stuff Dogmeat brought her yet. How can she be anywhere near that tired? All she's doing is recovering. Is it that hard?
The heck with this. She's going to find out for sure just how badly off she is. Dr. McCoy's not here and none of the other doctors are around. Dogmeat's her only witness as Ellen pushes herself up, swings her legs over the side of the bed, and eases herself down to the floor. John-117 had her demonstrate push-ups for him in an exhaustion test before he officially started her training program, just to see how much she was capable of. She'd been doing more ever since, both in number and in weight- usually in her armor. She can do this now, surely. All right, she spent at least four days unconscious, probably more. She got irradiated to a degree that should've killed her. But she can do this, right?
John had her doing several different kinds of push-ups daily, but that was for training. For the test, he let her do the form she learned back in the Vault: hands just a bit more than shoulder with apart, legs straight behind her, abdomen contracted, back straight. No bending in the middle allowed, and no use of the knees. It's simple enough, she thinks, and as she heaves herself upward from the floor a thrill runs over her: her muscles remember. This is familiar. She still knows how. Down, then, and then up again, and down-
Somewhere around the eighth repetition she realizes her arms are beginning to tremble. That, or they've been doing it all along and this is the first it's gotten bad enough to genuinely notice. The ninth push-up is harder; the backs of her arms aren't just trembling, they're starting to burn. On the tenth, she can feel her back sagging.
No. No. No. This is insane, this isn't right, this is- this can't-
On eleven, the burning in her arms is too much to ignore, and on twelve, she realizes her midsection's just not up to holding itself straight any more. It's not so much a push-up as a raise-the-body-segments-one-at-a-time-up. Little kids in the Vault would be laughing at her if they saw. Old Lady Palmer could do better than this.
On thirteen she clenches her jaw as tightly as she can and concentrates on mentally pushing the floor away. On fourteen, she holds herself dead still, sensing the trembling in arms and legs and belly and back all at once; she's not sure whether she'll be able to get up again once she hits the ground.
"There's nothing to force you to keep going when it gets tough, and I don't leave things unfinished. I can't let you agree to this unless you know that backing down isn't part of the deal."
John, she thinks, would not approve at all. She lowers herself down slowly and concentrates on holding herself absolutely straight, on hearing his voice as she did during their training exercises. It's enough to get her through fifteen and sixteen, and half of seventeen- the upward half. The downward half is an undignified collapse as her muscles inform her that willpower alone isn't enough to overcome radiation and coma, and that she has a long road ahead of her.
It's a perfectly normal physiological response to radiation and injury. It's nothing to be ashamed of.
Her face is still wet when she finally makes it back into the bed, though.
When she opens her eyes there's three new comic books and a folded note, and Dogmeat's leash is hanging on a different wall hook than the last time she saw it.
It takes a while before she musters up the will to read Tyler's note. She puts it back when she's done and stares at the ceiling. Really? She's that badly off, that she falls asleep that easily and stays there for that long? Really? It's not as if she's been doing anything to make her that tired. Dr. McCoy still doesn't have her walking. The exercises she's been able to do in bed've been getting easier, and she hasn't even had the chance to use the stuff Dogmeat brought her yet. How can she be anywhere near that tired? All she's doing is recovering. Is it that hard?
The heck with this. She's going to find out for sure just how badly off she is. Dr. McCoy's not here and none of the other doctors are around. Dogmeat's her only witness as Ellen pushes herself up, swings her legs over the side of the bed, and eases herself down to the floor. John-117 had her demonstrate push-ups for him in an exhaustion test before he officially started her training program, just to see how much she was capable of. She'd been doing more ever since, both in number and in weight- usually in her armor. She can do this now, surely. All right, she spent at least four days unconscious, probably more. She got irradiated to a degree that should've killed her. But she can do this, right?
John had her doing several different kinds of push-ups daily, but that was for training. For the test, he let her do the form she learned back in the Vault: hands just a bit more than shoulder with apart, legs straight behind her, abdomen contracted, back straight. No bending in the middle allowed, and no use of the knees. It's simple enough, she thinks, and as she heaves herself upward from the floor a thrill runs over her: her muscles remember. This is familiar. She still knows how. Down, then, and then up again, and down-
Somewhere around the eighth repetition she realizes her arms are beginning to tremble. That, or they've been doing it all along and this is the first it's gotten bad enough to genuinely notice. The ninth push-up is harder; the backs of her arms aren't just trembling, they're starting to burn. On the tenth, she can feel her back sagging.
No. No. No. This is insane, this isn't right, this is- this can't-
On eleven, the burning in her arms is too much to ignore, and on twelve, she realizes her midsection's just not up to holding itself straight any more. It's not so much a push-up as a raise-the-body-segments-one-at-a-time-up. Little kids in the Vault would be laughing at her if they saw. Old Lady Palmer could do better than this.
On thirteen she clenches her jaw as tightly as she can and concentrates on mentally pushing the floor away. On fourteen, she holds herself dead still, sensing the trembling in arms and legs and belly and back all at once; she's not sure whether she'll be able to get up again once she hits the ground.
"There's nothing to force you to keep going when it gets tough, and I don't leave things unfinished. I can't let you agree to this unless you know that backing down isn't part of the deal."
John, she thinks, would not approve at all. She lowers herself down slowly and concentrates on holding herself absolutely straight, on hearing his voice as she did during their training exercises. It's enough to get her through fifteen and sixteen, and half of seventeen- the upward half. The downward half is an undignified collapse as her muscles inform her that willpower alone isn't enough to overcome radiation and coma, and that she has a long road ahead of her.
It's a perfectly normal physiological response to radiation and injury. It's nothing to be ashamed of.
Her face is still wet when she finally makes it back into the bed, though.