December 2023 Test Drive Meme

[singmod]

DECEMBER 2023 TDM

PROMPT ONE — ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST: A new group of arrivals find themselves lost in the frozen wilds and vulnerable to the dangers of nature. With luck, they make it to the town of Milton, and to a friendly face offering food, warmth and shelter — not to mention the fact they are not the first to come here.

PROMPT TWO — MISTY FALLS CAVE: The Interlopers go out in search of a hidden cave in the mountains found by Methuselah, which may still contain the hidden stash of a doomsday prepper. However, they get a little more than they bargained for when they venture inside.

PROMPT THREE — SERPENT'S BREATH: Interlopers investigate the mysterious cause of whatever is killing and poisoning the wildlife and vegetation of the area — and discover a supernatural creature is behind it.

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

WHEN: Mid-Decmber.
WHERE: Milton, Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: potential animal attacks, potential injuries, potential cold injuries/hyperthermia risk.

'You are the Interloper. You are not part of nature’s design.'

It’s the last thing you hear. A dark, deep voice. Impossibly ancient. You feel afraid. Maybe you’re dreaming, maybe you’re wide awake. You saw the lights, and then your world went dark. But you hear it in the blackness, you won’t forget those words.

You awaken. You are not where you were before. It’s different for everyone, there doesn’t seem to be much of a pattern in where you find yourself. You may open your eyes to find yourself in a cold, dim and dank cabin. The air is stale, dust hangs in the rays of weak sunlight that shine through the tiny windows. Someone lived here once, but they aren’t to be found. You look around, it seems like no one has been here in a long time. The fire is cold, the dishes in the sink are pretty mouldy. It is quiet. The wood creaks around you. Or perhaps you may awaken to find yourself shivering in the yawning maw of a cave, the freezing stone below you. Or maybe you’re unfortunate enough to sit up to find yourself lying in the snow, in the middle of the wilderness. Snow lies thick around you. It’s freezing out. You haven’t felt a cold like this before in your entire life. Cruel and biting. You have no idea where you are, and what’s worse — you are completely alone.

You may feel different, too. Any powers or magics you may have feel... absent. Disconnected. Things that may not have affected you previously now do. Something in you has changed.

You know you can’t stay where you are. You’ll need to move, try to work out where you are and how you came to be here. So you walk, head out into the unknown, in hope of finding a trail or a road. You’ll find one soon enough. It’s here you may find someone else in the same boat as yourself, equally freezing and confused. You’ll both need to keep going. It won’t be easy. You hear howls of wolves around you, and the terrain is difficult: slips and falls are likely. You’re completely vulnerable out here in the open.

It’s possible you may come across someone here. Another fellow Interloper, out hunting or gathering. They’ll likely offer help and get you into town. However, for the unlucky ones who don’t come across anyone, you’ll carry on until you see it: the lazy trail of smoke rising in the air. Fire. Not just one, but several. Civilisation…?

Follow it, and soon enough the way you’ve taken will certainly become a path or road. Unfolding before you in the mountainous forests, you’ll see the most welcome of sights: a small mining town tucked up in the valley. Battered, rusted road signs will direct to “MILTON, POP. 947”. You’re almost there, you keep going, and it looks like other people have had the same idea as you. In fact, you’ll hear the muffled sounds of life. People. In The town!

As you head into the outskirts and further into town, you’ll find it’s a little easier to walk but the cold has gripped you hard. You’ll find the buildings, both shops and homes, some are dark and lifeless, some of them are boarded up, some of them are occupied. People are going about their business, or stood watching from their tiny porches of their small, timber homes. For a town this big, there doesn’t seem to be many people.

Towards the center of town, you’ll find the building from which the biggest of the smoke trail rises: a school-house of sorts, or some kind of community hall. Perhaps both. You’ll find more and more people all drawn to this place, each and every one of them in the same position as yourself (and your companion, if you’ve found one). Some are in worse states than others: some are bloodied, nursing bite wounds or cuts; others might have some other kind of injury sustained in the journey here from falls. Others may look as if they could faint from the cold at any second.

The door opens, and you’re greeted by the gnarled, wizened face of an elderly man, dressed in thick furs. He has a kind face. He smiles warmly, and with pity, ushering you in with haste.

“Ah, even more, still. Just as I thought.” he muses. “I wonder if this is perhaps the new status quo. I am Methuselah. I welcome you Newcomer, although I’m sorry for how you’ve come to find yourself here. You are not the only one, the lights are changing things. They bring more of you every so often. Come. Mother Nature has not been kind to you, but there are plenty here to help.”

The room is dim, lit only by natural daylight through the windows. A roaring fire sits at one end of the huge hall. It crackles, bright and cheerful…. and warm. Even as big as this place is, the room is pleasantly warm. You’ll also find basic cots set up down one side of the hall, places to rest for a moment and get your bearings, or just trying to recover from the cold. Down the other side are tables and chairs, and long tables with food, drinks and bottled water similar to one might find at a soup kitchen. Once again, Methuselah offers a feast, aided by some of the other Interlopers.

There are canisters with hot herbal teas and coffee, along with soup and stew and trays of charred deer and rabbit meats, plus grilled fish. There's also things like instant mashed potatoes, and tinned vegetables. It’s very basic, but it’s hot and filling. A feast, although newcomers will note from others who have been here some time that this particular feast is less bountiful this time.

Methuselah will continue to busy himself, still; there is plenty to do. He will fetch blankets, tend to wounds, serve food and drinks. He does not have much time to talk. More and more people seem to be coming in from the cold. He will not stop to sit and rest until everyone is seen to, taking up a place by the fire to gaze silently into its flames. He is troubled, thoughtful.

He will encourage newcomers to get warm and eat, and when they are ready to — they can explore the time and find one of the many empty homes to call their own. He will not speak much, but perhaps you might be able to get some answers from those fellow arrivals who’ve been in this place for some time now.

However, he will speak of something important, and will gladly share with others: “I have been looking for something for you all. There was once a townsfolk I knew of: Matthew. A suspicious, paranoid old miner who was interested in Prepping. He often spoke of the world coming to an end and strived to survive it. He often spoke of a cache hidden in the mountains, where he collected things of value. I have found the place, a hidden cave, but I am unable to get through, myself.”

… Well, he is an old man, after all.

“There are signs outside, so it is promising it is still intact. Perhaps the cache is still there. It might provide something useful for your growing numbers.”

MISTY FALLS CAVE

WHEN: Mid-month, onwards.
WHERE: Milton Outskirts.
CONTENT WARNINGS: booby traps; claustrophobic situations; potential injury/maiming; potential hyperthermic situations; exploration horror;


Methuselah gives directions to those willing to check out the lead for the old prepper cache. Following the river up from Milton Basin will lead to rugged, difficult pathways up towards Misty Falls — a waterfall, the river source itself. Most of the river is completely frozen with the freezing temperatures, but it is not completely so the closer to the source you go. Misty Falls is certainly idyllic, or it would be perhaps on a fine summer’s day — good for a nice hike. But the place looks desolate in the eternal winter cursing the Northern Territories.

The half-frozen waterfall is a din of sound, but the water itself is incredibly fresh and cooling for those hot and tired from the hike up. Those paying attention might notice a small space between the water and rock, big enough to squeeze through to get behind the waterfall itself. In the small space, the entrance to a small cave can be found. There are faded handmade signs, all in the same hand, reading ‘DANGER KEEP OUT’ and it isn’t too far of a stretch to wonder if perhaps this might be the secret stash of the old miner that Methuselah spoke of.

Venturing into the cave will not be an easy task. It seems the old miner was keen to keep any trespassers out, and most of this comes down to the cave itself. The walls of the cave quickly narrow, with only enough space to walk in single file. Jutting stone will easily make those stumble and trip. Occasionally the cave’s passage becomes narrower, meaning one might have to stoop or even crawl to carry on through. Here and there, the uneven floor dips, and your feet will find themselves in shin-deep frigid water. It’s slow-going, even if the actual passage itself isn’t incredibly long.

But perhaps the worst of all is the pressing darkness. A darkness so black even with lanterns switched off, one’s eyes cannot adjust to it. It is smothering, pressing. The air is stale and damp, you feel small — and the cave itself still presses in on you. The miner also kept a few tricks up his sleeve in order to keep out intruders. There are dead-ends, making it easy to get lost. Trip wires are hidden in the darkness, causing small man-made cave-ins to fall upon unsuspecting heads.

It might be safer, saner to give up and turn back. But persevering will see the cave opening up once more, this time widening into a room. The place is fashioned into some crude shelter. There is furniture, lanterns to be lit.

With more light, the miner’s stash is revealed: the painstaking, time-costing work of a paranoid old recluse. Crates of non-perishable foods, MREs, and bottled water. Medicines and basic medical supplies, flares and tools.

A perfect supply of survival goods, ripe for the taking.

SERPENT'S BREATH

WHEN: Throughout the month.
WHERE: The entirety of the Milton area.
CONTENT WARNINGS: mentions of dead animals; malevolent creature; snakes/serpents; poison/airborne toxins; potential poisonings; potential burn injuries; potential (temporary) blinding.


It’s noticed in different ways: perhaps a trail of dead animals stands before you, each one with no particular injury other than what appears to be burned hides and flesh — it is as if the wildlife simply dropped dead, for the most part. Perhaps you notice huge, tunnel-like grooves in the deepest parts of the snow, a few feet in width — as if something long and thick had made its way through to clear a path. More worryingly for some, they might notice trails of rot: destroyed trees, decaying plant life, as if the very earth itself has been scorched in the wake of something passing through, leaving nothing but destruction and devastation.

Something is destroying the flora and fauna of the world. There seems to be no pattern, simply the random trails all over the place. There appears to be no other tracks, other than the long, smooth tunnel-like pathways. Whatever it is, it must be stopped. Resources are so precious in this world, if the beast is allowed to continue then all who live here will soon starve due to lack of animals to hunt and plants to gather.

Following the tunnels is a sure-way to hunt the beast down, although these paths will lead far from town. It is best to go prepared. But soon enough, you may come across the slumbering beast, curled up on the snow or coiled underneath some jutting space of stone along the mountains. You’ll hear and smell it before you see it: the long grumbling snores as it sleeps, and the putrid stench of rot. Everything in you tells you to flee, much like when an animal senses something toxic, or poisoning.

You press on, finally stumbling across the beast: a long, serpent-like dragon, with tremendous horns and fangs, coloured with muted grey scales and huge, glowing, flamed eyes.

The element of surprise will work in your favour to try and kill the beast, but it will give up a good fight. It will take several rounds of fights with it before it will finally be taken down permanently. It moves quickly, with scales like steel. Its eyes and mouth are its weakest spots, as is the soft underbelly of its body — fire will work well on harming this beast, especially with a well aimed shot into its mouth.

Its open mouth is where it holds its most powerful weapon. Not the fangs, no. The very reason why the air smells of rot, why the wildlife lay dead, why the earth decays at your feet: its breath. The beast’s breath is highly toxic, it will burn the skin of those it comes into contact with. Breathing in the fumes will poison those who breathe it in, and will cause a weakening, sickly illness. The breath may even temporarily blind.

These injuries are not fatal, and will heal with time and the basic medical attention available in the world. Victims will require rest for at least a week, depending on how severe the blast of the serpent’s breath. But killing the best will ensure its havoc is brought to an end.

FAQs

ARRIVAL: METHUSELAH'S FEAST

1. Arrival threads can be treated as game canon.

2. Items characters have brought from home can be found either strewn around them when they awaken, or in the community hall — as if someone left them out for them to collect. Methuselah will not know how they got there, and will be quite bemused by the happenings.

3. Reminder that all characters are now depowered upon arrival. They can choose not to notice it at first, or can immediately sense something is different about them.

4. If asked any personal questions, Methuselah will smile and say "Oh, you don't want to know about an old man like me. But I have lived all over in these parts for all my life." He will be more concerned with trying to help Newcomers, and is genuinely concerned for them and their well-being. Other Interlopers will say much of the same — there's little to know about him.

5. More information about Milton can be found here.

MISTY FALLS CAVE

1. Tools found would be basic survival/camping tools one might expect: knives, hand axes, rope, handsaws, torches, batteries, etc.

SERPENT'S BREATH

1. The Stoor Worm, or Mester Stoor Worm, was a gigantic evil sea serpent of Orcadian folklore, capable of contaminating plants and destroying animals and humans with its putrid breath. Assipattle, the youngest son of a local farmer, defeated the creature by flinging still-burning peat into its mouth. As it died its teeth fell out to become the islands of Orkney, Shetland and the Faroes, and its body became Iceland.

2. It is possible the harvest the beast once it is killed, particularly for its fangs and skin. The skin/scales will provide ample protection to try to use it for armouring themselves. The fangs would provide useful for crafting knives or weapons.

3. It is... technically possible to eat the meat of the beast. Care should be taken in butchering, however. And it is not advised to eat the head.

TALES FROM THE NORTHERN TERRITORIES NEWSLETTER

Comments

Let's GO!!!! while bleeding in the snow

[sputnik]

[ There's a lingering tension on the thin item in his hand, fingers twitching against the photograph for a moment, but otherwise offering no true resistance to it being taken from him. He can't, can't do anything in the throes of his sickness, giving a hoarse rattling breath inbetween the convulsive movements of his throat.

Something catches hold of him in that moment, though, something both familiar and odd, a strange paradoxical mixture. The other man's voice — layered in an accent that Konstantin is immediately able to pinpoint, and yet something to it is distinctly strange. He wonders if he's dreaming him, this stranger who's crouching at his side, telling him that he's okay.

'I'm going to help you.'

I want to die, he thinks in his mind, but doesn't voice — and yet his body and its instincts want the opposite, want to live, keep trying to fight to. Something in him clings to what this stranger is offering, desperate for it, for help. For the pain and ache to stop — Konstantin tilts over again as he retches more blood, dark and thick, and then gasps for breath, spasming shudders racking through his frame.

....The man is speaking in Russian now. Not accented English, but his own tongue. Immediately it's a relief, and Konstantin's managing to look up at him, eyelashes fluttering, eyes half-lidded, wet at the corners. Is he one of the military's men? He said he was an EMT, but Konstantin can trust nothing. No matter what he is, though, he's the only hope the cosmonaut has, and he's giving a soft grunt of pain before responding in Russian as well, voice deep and quiet and strained with pain. ]

I was shot. [ Not a lie, even if framed differently from the truth. What he doesn't yet know is that there is no bullet hole to be found in him, only a scar, as though he's been healed.... impossibly quickly; the creature isn't capable of that speed. None of it makes sense, and he's reaching weakly for the other man's arm, grasping hold of it, fingers barely able to curve into the material of his sleeve. Maybe he needs to make sure Vasiliy the EMT is real, to feel something that's real. ] Please, tell me — is this Kazakhstan?

LET'S GOOOOO CCCP MEETCUTE

[m1895]

[ Gunshot wound. He shouldn't still be bleeding if that's the case. Maybe he bled into his stomach or lungs in the real world and the punctures have closed and left behind residual blood he still needs to vomit up (because it is proper vomiting, not just coughing, which implies to Vasiliy that he's bleeding from the GI tract or swallowing blood coming up from the lungs). Or maybe he's the first one who hasn't healed upon arrival here, a thought that floods his system with cold dread even though they've just met—he can't let this man die. He shouldn't even be the one responsible for his life. A man like this should be seeing a real doctor, whoever the best doctor the military can offer is; he should be in Russia in an intensive care unit, not in the middle of the wilderness with an EMT-Basic. He served his country. He should be rewarded for it.

There's a very real possibility that he's dying, and Vasiliy has neither the tools nor the skills nor the expertise to do anything about it—all he can do is remain confident, without giving even the slightest impression that that could be the case.

The cosmonaut grasps the sleeve of his jacket, or tries to, at least. Vasiliy brings his arm closer with the intent of allowing him that small comfort—patients revert to a childlike state, sometimes, when they're in severe enough pain—even grown men. Having something to hold is soothing for a lot of them, and at this moment, he's ready to walk to the ends of the earth to at least make his fellow countryman more comfortable. ]

No, Comrade. Canada. Northern Obl-... Territory. Where were you hit?

2 guys who just couldn't stay dead!!

[sputnik]

[ The arm he grasps onto is solid, tangible, real — and Konstantin's fingers find tighter purchase, though his grasp remains weak; at least he's able to latch on like this, keep hold of something.

'No, Comrade. Canada.'

How... is it possible? He must have been unconscious for a very long time, flown here... but where are the people now? If the military got ahold of him again, had him taken somewhere, why is he out in the snow all alone? His eyes roll back a little, lids fluttering again, giving soft gasps as he tries to keep himself conscious and focused on the question; it helps, having something direct to respond to. ]

Here— [ The hand that isn't grasping onto Vasiliy's arm goes to lay across his abdomen, in the space between chest and stomach, palm flat against the pool of blood at his shirt. He winces deeply, brow knit — in upset more than fear. His hoarse voice splits at the seams as his fingers curl into the material of his own shirt, restless, fretful. ]

I should be dead.

GODDDD that line killed me byee

[m1895]

[ The words hit him like a shot to the chest: he knows that feeling, that thought. The sky had looked like it does right now. It's like watching himself in the third person. ]

This place is different. I'll explain it later but you have to stay conscious, alright? You're going to live. Just stay with me, Comrade, okay? Stay with me.

[ It's the same mantra he uses on every half-conscious patient, and the encouragement to focus often does work. If nothing else, most of them find it comforting. Vasiliy gently wraps his hand over the bloodstained digits sinking into the fabric he needs to move to get a better look, coaxing his grasp open so he can push the bloodstained tee shirt up to the level of the man's diaphragm.

Initially there's too much blood to see what's going on. He wipes it away several times with the edge of his flat hand, though, and it doesn't return: the skin stays hot and sticky, stained red, but there's no new stream of blood coming in to immediately undo his work. There's just a scar. His shoulders relax ever-so-slightly—the cosmonaut still may be bleeding internally, but the most immediately life-threatening of his potential injuries isn't and it's a relief. ]

It's healed. No gunshot wound. Where do you hurt?

[ Because he's still in obvious pain; even before his medical training, he'd be able to identify that much. His breathing is ragged, shallow, the little gasps people take when they're so frantic that they can't slow down to breathe normally. ]

[sputnik]

[ It's not that he'd wanted to die. Dying meant... that he would never be able to save Aleksei. But in that moment, he knew he had no other option; the military were coming for him. They would take him back, and this time they'd keep him caged like a true animal. A second attempt at escape would be impossible; they'd do anything to keep their science experiment there. To make a weapon out of him, and the creature.

Death was the only option, the only way to save humankind from the thing festering inside of him. It was never meant to be here, on this planet — and perhaps he was never meant to be in its environment, either.

To know that he has not died is.... a horror, and an impossible ache. 'You're going to live' feels like a hand reaching through his chest, spreading his ribs, clawing into his heart; it hurts.

(And yet, again, his body holds onto that concept, desperate for it. To live. Konstantin gives a shuddery, wet sound, tearful — a mixture of upset and relieved.)

'Stay with me.'

He does, lets the EMT move his hand, not thinking in the moment of a particular horror associated with the idea of being looked at and touched there — to begin with, all he can do is let himself fall to being guided, helped by someone else.

Healed.... the creature must have done it, is his initial thought. It must truly still be with him. And it's with that thought that he belatedly realises a wave of the horror, flinches back from the other man's touch as much as he's able, slides his hand down to place it protectively against his abdomen.

If the creature is healing him, then it will continue doing so (he thinks, not knowing that the entity is incapable of it in this place). It may take a day or so, but eventually he'll be fine. ...And so will it. He can't be around people when that happens, when it's healed and hungry. ]

Inside, I think. In my stomach, chest. [ It must have healed the surface wounds first, kept him from bleeding to death. It won't let him die. He'll never be able to escape it. ]

....I need to reach a phone, Comrade. Do you— do you know where one is? Please.

[m1895]

[ He certainly understands the request; how many times had he offered his cell phone to patients at scenes? It's a human, understandable response to finding oneself badly injured in an unfamiliar place. But unfortunately: ]

There are no telephones or telegrams here. No electricity at all.

[ He didn't miss the way the man shied away from his touch as he wiped away the hot blood, or the way he's now guarding his abdomen with the flimsy barrier of a hand separating Vasiliy and the location of the pain, but Vasiliy thinks nothing of it—it's very normal behavior to see in people when they're in intense pain, and even if this place has healed the initial gunshot wound, he's probably still hurting quite a bit. He's probably afraid he'll apply pressure or palpate something without asking first; he has the right to be wary, given that he has little agency in this situation. ]

There's no contact with the outside world.

[ Vasiliy rests his free hand on the flimsy track jacket covering the man's shoulder and squeezes in a way he hopes is reassuring, his bare fingers flushed from the cold and sticky with drying blood, every short-trimmed nail decorated with a dark crescent of the stuff and stained cuticles. It's dangerous, being exposed to the fresh blood of someone with a completely unknown medical history, but there's no other option.

Speaking of situations lacking options. Vasiliy presses his lips together, unhappy about the situation but a realist: ]

We need to bring you indoors. You're not dressed for the cold and you've lost blood. That means I'm going to have to move you.

[ He knows the words will be distressing to hear—he's in pain, and being draped over someone's back or disturbed in any way, really, will only exacerbate it—but the alternative is hypothermia, and he doesn't have long. Already he's pale, struggling to maintain consciousness, seemingly on the verge of hypovolemic shock as it is. Already he's taking off his own jacket. ]

[sputnik]

[ No telephones.... no electricity. The news is a fresh icy wave that travels unpleasantly down his spine, filling him with a deep and quiet dread. So wherever he's found himself is even more isolated and remote than the cold place he'd come from.

Vasiliy's next words are therefore unsurprising — 'There's no contact with the outside world' — but Konstantin has to take a moment to process them nonetheless. He has little energy to fight for anything at all, but the spark of his spirit still tries, to fight against the feeling of hopelessness. Of giving in, somehow. To lay his head back down in the snow, close his eyes. There is no access to a phone. And he'll undoubtedly be found by the military again anyway, taken back to that place. This time they'll make sure he can't escape. Even with Semiradov dead, another will simply be brought in his place.

Upset swells in him, and Konstantin closes his eyes for a long moment. The squeeze to his shoulder is something, some human contact, and he's giving a soft sound in response. He can't speak again, not immediately, can only swallow deeply against the lump in his throat, before his eyelashes are fluttering back open.

The words are distressing to hear, and part of him can't imagine how this man could possibly move him; he's sure to be practically dead weight. But the other part latches onto the idea, of being moved indoors... getting out of sight. Could it really be possible? Could he hide somewhere inside before they find him again?

He has no choice either way, he knows. And so, although it's not happily, it's willingly that he nods his head, a slow gesture, mostly limp from exhaustion, only strained with the slightest tension as Konstantin struggles desperately to keep himself conscious. ]

All right. I'll try to help you. I'll try to move. [ And he's already trying — to get up, to pull himself up, but almost immediately his legs falter and he's crumbling back with a sharp hiss, dizzy, ill. ]

[m1895]

[ He makes a quiet sound in response to the touch, almost a whimper, and Vasiliy's chest aches. Please live. He tries not to get his hopes up. He's usually better at doing that than he is right now, with this particular patient.

It's not remotely surprising when he tries to raise himself up and collapses back into the snow like a new foal a moment later; the man's lost a lot of blood, and even lifting his head will make it harder for his heart to keep what's left running to his brain. It speaks to his character that he immediately tries anyway; he would expect nothing less from a Hero of the Soviet Union. Keeping him in a fireman's carry until they get back to his cabin will at least keep his head below heart level, and it'll get him out of the snow, both of which will help in the immediate. ]

Hey—don't. It's okay, I've got you. I'm going to count to three.

[ He gets both arms under his countryman's much bulkier ones, though he doesn't raise him yet. Not until— ]

One, two, three.

[ And now he's hoisting the man onto his unsteady feet and leaning forward, letting his shoulders take the weight of his broad upper body as the taller man drapes over his back. He secures one hand in the crook of his knee and the other wraps around his patient's upper arm, then he finally straightens up, hoisting him into a more stable position. He stands there for a moment to let his patient acclimate, aware of the engagement of most of the muscles in his body without necessarily exerting himself too much, at least not yet. But he's heavy, most of his bulk muscle, and unfavorably tall; this in combination with walking through shin-deep snow will make it a harder slog than most. ]

What's your name, Comrade? I'm Vasiliy Yegorovich.

[ Keep him talking, keep him thinking. It'll give him something to focus on other than the pain, and it'll increase his chances of remaining conscious. ]

[sputnik]

[ There's a fresh horror to his own helplessness, a fact Konstantin's aware of even in the middle of everything else. He can hardly move on his own. He isn't even sure he could crawl, by this point. It's a weakness he's not used to in any form or fashion; even the wreck to Earth that should have killed him left him able to stand on his own two feet quickly enough, thanks to the creature's ability to begin healing its host body. It was shakily, painfully, but he could stand again.

He can't stand now. He can barely stay awake, eyes fluttering between open and closed, rolling back a bit. He feels pressure at his arms, movement, offers no resistance at all as he's urged up and then up again, giving a soft gasp of breath as he realises his position. He's practically draped over the other man's body, his shoulders — dimly, he recognises a certain flicker of awe, capable of feeling respect even here in this situation — but his head is quickly lolling downwards, following the tug of gravity as he faces the ground, arms hanging.

Once again, the question helps in a particular way. It's a thing he can answer, even now, though he catches himself for a moment, decides how he should answer. This man doesn't seem to know about any rogue spacemen on the run from the military (and this is apparently, impossibly, an entirely different country), but he should be careful not to reveal the details of who he is just yet, he thinks. The picture will have revealed what he is, but as to who.... He leaves off both the patronym and surname, gives only his first. ]

I'm Konstantin. My name is— Konstantin.

[ It's breathed out, weak and aching, but it's there underneath everything else about him. That fact. Blood seeps from his mouth with the words, creating an unpleasant thick mixture with spittle that trails the white snow in spots here and there as Vasiliy slowly moves. Still fighting against the exhaustion of himself, more concerns leak through; he doesn't yet know the man means to take him to his personal home. He'll ask outright, and if Vasiliy affirms it then he'll have to go from there, find some way to get out of that. ]

Are we going to a hospital?

[ With no electricity, it would be rudimentary at best, but he can't risk being examined by any doctors. ]

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy swallows. He'd been hoping the man wouldn't think of that, or ask that. The answer isn't the right answer, and it's bound to set off another cascade of fear that will only further strain a body hanging in the balance. But he can't bring himself to lie, only to tell the truth and offer reassurance immediately on the heels of it, speaking around breaths of cold air as his body begins to work harder with the laborious slog through wet heavy snow. ]

No. It's not operational. But I'm going to take care of you. You're going to be alright.

[ And he probably will be—as long as he survives the night. That's the real uncertainty in this situation.

Vasiliy's heart beats faster not with excitement but with exertion as his own cabin comes into view, one deliberately chosen for its humbleness. One bedroom, one bathroom, a combined kitchen and sitting room—he's single and childless. Anything else would be pointless excess. ]

Almost there. That's my house. Just hold on a little longer, alright, Konstantin?

[ It feels wrong to address a cosmonaut by his first name, but he wasn't given a patronymic, and names have a way of anchoring drifting patients in reality. The task at hand takes up most of his focus, at least, Soviet social mores dimly occupying the background.

Opening the door with a grown man resting over his shoulders is an acquired skill, as is maneuvering Konstantin through the door without hitting his head, but he's done it before on calls. He doesn't close the door behind him yet, just makes his way straight to the couch. ]

I'm going to set you down.

[sputnik]

[ No one could expect that the other man's response would in fact have the opposite effect on the cosmonaut — not fear and horror, but an immense sweep of relief. No hospital.... and perhaps no other sort of institution at all....? 'I'm going to take care you', the EMT says. A fact that's further affirmed when he mentions his house — and Konstantin's unable to lift his head much, only tilting it slightly to see the small wooden cabin coming into view.

Small, modest, unobtrusive... An ideal shelter for a cosmonaut on the run. The man must live alone, he thinks. Even better. The less people asking questions, the better.

As he's worked through the door, his eyes are rolling back again with a fresh wave of nausea, and his body shudders almost convulsively for a brief moment. He's alarmed, but too weak to do anything about it, can only silently hope to himself that he stays conscious and does not wake up to find this man on the floor, torn to pieces. ]

All right, [ he manages to say, though the words come out wet against the slick blood coating his mouth and throat, making them sound slurred. But he's trying to stay with him, with this Vasiliy Yegorovich. Some part of him later may look back on this — being carried by another man like a sack of potatoes — with some embarrassment mingled through the sense of awe, but for the moment, he can only be grateful. This man may have just saved his life. Konstantin's eyes squeeze shut for a brief moment, readying himself. He thinks it will hurt, to be set down, and though he has developed a high threshold for pain, that concept has been tested lately. Things hurt in new ways, strange ways. ]

Thank you, Comrade.

[m1895]

[ Thank you, Comrade, he says—and clearly means it. A Hero of the Soviet Union, thanking him. It doesn't feel quite real—and yet there are other ways in which this all feels very ordinary, the very same things that would make this a shocking encounter for most civilians. ]

You don't need to thank me. It is what I do.

[ He sets the man down as carefully as he can, but there's no real way to make it graceful. Once he's been deposited on the couch Vasiliy briskly props up his ankles atop a couch pillow to keep what blood he has left running to his brain, then hurries to the bedroom, grabbing several blankets which he proceeds to spread out over his shivering patient.

From there he's grabbing his kit bag off the dining table and dragging a chair over to the side of the couch; once he's sitting beside him he pulls on a pair of nitrile gloves and fishes out a stethoscope and blood pressure cuff, takes the heavy weight of his arm, measures his BP—low. Shines a flashlight in his eyes, checks pupillary response. Asks to see his tongue and gums: they're paler than they should be, a little colorless; it corroborates the idea that most of his symptoms are coming from blood loss.

Then it's time to get a proper look at what's going on, now that he's inside and has a chance of stabilizing. He didn't see much other than what looked like a scar when he checked the man's abdomen for the gunshot wound Konstantin expected to have, but he hasn't listened, or palpated. There could be more at play here.

Normally this part, the investigative angle, would happen at the hospital, once he'd already gone back to the ambulance—but his role in this place isn't so clearly delineated, and gets murkier and further encompassing with every passing day. He just hopes his limited diagnostic knowledge is enough, that this man won't die because there wasn't a real, modern doctor here to treat him. He doesn't think he could bear it if someone who had performed feats valuable enough to earn the honors this man did were to die because of his own limited abilities. ]

Okay, Comrade. I need to look at where you got shot so I can see what's going on. I'm not going to hurt you. No pressure unless I tell you first. But I have to look.

[sputnik]

[ Konstantin stifles a cry of pain as he's placed back, the sound becoming a muted groan instead. But there's relief to be found in the position, once he's there — lying back, out of the direct cold. Still, he continues to shudder even once the blankets are draped over him, though it's less uncontrollably as the moments tick by, little spasms here and there instead of a constant thing.

His relief wavers once the other man begins his examination, though Konstantin allows each little process, a willing patient through the check-ups even if he's tense, anxious. He swallows it back well enough, lying there like that, vision hazy but carefully watching every action with an attentiveness that counters his glossy-eyed daze; Konstantin's hanging on, stubbornly, fiercely, not wanting to lose himself, to lose consciousness. He fights, even now, when he's reduced to this.

But then the EMT says he needs to look at the site of injury, and perhaps Konstantin should have seen that coming, but to hear it voiced aloud elicits a reaction in him that he attempts to hide a few moments too late. A flare of nostrils, a hitch of breath, a tightening of jaw. Beneath the blankets, his fingers curl into his palms, nails biting his own skin. ]

You said it had healed. [ Something the other man voiced without the kind of shock that ordinarily would accompany such a revelation. Konstantin, of course, assumes the alien is to 'thank' for a seemingly miraculous recovery. He has no idea why this man would meet the news so well, doesn't know what this place is capable of. All he knows is—... a poorly-concealed horror to the thought of being examined there. He doesn't know what could happen, doesn't understand any of this. Why can't he... sense the creature, read it? Is it because it's been wounded so severely? If it's healing itself from the damages done by the military, and from being shot by him.....

....What if it becomes angry at him, for that action? Retaliates? It could tear through his body any moment. Or attack this man. And if not those things, then the EMT could simply learn about something very wrong going on with him; what if he feels it? What if it moves? ]

....I'm good enough knowing that. It's all right, you don't have to worry about this. You've done enough to help me.

[ It sounds pathetic even to his own ears. He doesn't know what else to say, doesn't know what the fuck to do. His breathing quickens again in his anxiety, muscles taut, tense. Will the EMT agree to it? If not, Konstantin knows he can't keep refusing, can't let himself grow more visibly alarmed by the thought, or he'll surely seem suspicious... ]

[m1895]

[ He’s fighting to remain conscious; Vasiliy can tell, sees the sharpness to his eyes struggling against the haze that threatens to envelop his stare. Of course someone like him wouldn’t give up so easily. He was awarded that medal for a good reason.

He says he needs to take a look at the actual site of the injury and Konstantin reacts as he more or less expected, with anxiety and defensiveness. His chest aches, feels hollow. I know it hurts. I know. Vasiliy would do anything in his power to make it stop hurting—but he can’t. It’s upsetting, beyond his general disconnected sympathy for patients. This is close, his own emotions bleeding through the cracks in a way that they shouldn’t be.

He tries to brush it off, which is downright jarring in the attempt’s juxtaposition with his physical state. The lips the words come from are paler than he gets the sense they should be. Full, probably attractive when they’re not glistening with blood. ]

Comrade. [ He keeps his voice gentle but insistent. ] I was only able to check to see if the wound was still there. I think you have internal bleeding. You may not be safe yet. I have to examine you. It's my duty—do you understand?

[ He'd do it even if it wasn't. ]

[sputnik]

[ Desperately, his mind grapples with whatever choices he has, here — and knows, almost immediately, that he has very little. He can refuse, but it will only read as belligerent and suspicious.

The best option for him right now is to do what it takes to stay in this small house, tucked away until he can figure out what to do from here. That means being compliant, giving the EMT no reason to be wary of him.

So he pretends that he wasn't thinking about it like that and that's the reason he initially refused, giving a gesture with his mouth like an "Ah", as though of understanding. That makes sense, of course it does. He sees now. ]

I understand. [ A wince, a soft pant of breath. He won't resist, although his anxiety spikes, pupils swelling. ]

Although I don't know understand how a wound like that could heal so quickly. All of this feels like a dream.

[ Not a dream, but a nightmare. He's been living in one for weeks now. In any case, he figures he should voice that confusion, make it seem that he doesn't understand how he could possibly be healed. ]

[m1895]

[ To his relief, the man relents without nearly as much difficulty as he'd been anticipating, seemingly accepting his helplessness in this situation, or the idea that Vasiliy really does have his best interests at heart.

(An uncomfortable weight deep in his chest at that, a faint sickness. He tries to ground himself in the realness of it, in the scene in front of him. This is different. It's different. He's not lying.

—was he lying before? The end result was always the same.)

There is something about this place. When people come here, they are cured, but... I don't know if it is internal too.

[ It's eerily similar to his own experience returning after a gunshot wound that should have—and very much did—kill him, the way in which people are pulled into this place. He wonders, sometimes, if the same phenomenon was responsible for his second life. If there's a way to convince the old man, to make him understand how badly he needs to know this. ]

Alright. I'm just going to look. Nothing else.

[ He carefully pushes the multiple blankets down, starts to reach for the bottom hem of his shirt, hesitates. His patient's still conscious, and not in critical condition, and he feels odd about such a perfunctory thing in a way he shouldn't, maybe because of the difference in rank between them. Any modicum of control he can give this man over his own situation will probably help, too. ]

Your shirt.

[sputnik]

[ Through the dizzy fog of himself, and the sharp, unwelcomed coils of ache and nausea, Konstantin listens to the other man's words. 'There is something about this place.' People.. cured...? How? How can it be possible? The kneejerk should be doubt, and somewhere in his logical mind there is a flicker of that, but....

His own logic has been so questioned, so challenged as of late, his thoughts and reality forced into a new shape, broken down and re-formed, and he hasn't remotely had time to truly process that. Everything has only been tunnel-vision, the concept of escape; he hasn't had a chance to slow down and really feel any of it.

Perhaps there are more "impossible" things that can exist. Perhaps he's lost his mind (but he knows he hasn't; that's one horror of it, maybe. He knows he hasn't.)

Perhaps all of that, paired with the stability this other man is so quickly providing him with, causes Konstantin to be unable to question that claim of Vasiliy's as much as someone else might. He only stares, watching him, mind processing his situation through that particular lens now.

....It would make more sense, in some way, than the alien being responsible for healing him. It's never been able to work quite so fast before — and especially not against such a severe wound. No, he... killed them both. Surely it can't resurrect from the dead. So this place could truly be the cause of him still living....? (Did this place heal the creature, too? Is it still there? The question keeps tumbling around and around in his mind; it's difficult to tell. His stomach hurts, but right now, everything hurts.)

He blinks out of his thoughts for a moment, finding himself surprised when the other man hesitates. 'your shirt' — he's waiting for Konstantin to lift it himself, he realises. It's so unexpected, even just that little dose of autonomy, perhaps borne out of respect, or kindness, or modesty, and no matter which it is, it's appreciated. Even just that much. It's the first he's truly had in.... almost a month. The cosmonaut gives a short movement of his head, almost a nod, and carefully his fingers curl against the sides of his tee-shirt, rolling it upwards. The fabric is tight as it is, but with the stickiness of blood, it's a slow process. And his body reacts poorly to the exposure to the air, cold, shuddering. He takes his time, but also because he's looking down at himself, eyes wide.

There's blood staining his abdomen in a circular shape, evidence that he'd been bleeding from the inside out. But it's not fresh blood, and most of it is dried or dying now. No open wound the size of a bullet glistens from his flesh; instead, he can see the scar even from here. Small and round. Konstantin gives a ragged breath, surprised, and lays his head back again, eyes moving up the ceiling for a moment, fighting against something that feels overwhelmed. ]

How long have you been in this strange place, Vasiliy Yegorovich? [ He needs to talk, or perhaps to be talked to, swallowing again. ] This place.... It's like Alice in Wonderland.

[m1895]

A few months. It's... strange here. It reminds me of what people said Siberia was like.

[ He wouldn't know firsthand, of course—the entirety of his life, until his death, was lived in two cities.

Vasiliy grabs his pen light from the coffee table again and turns it on, holding the source of the beam back a foot or so to give him a better look than the overcast skies outdoors had allowed. There's a scar, undeniably from a gunshot wound, but no open lacerations. None of the blood looks fresh, or even wet, for that matter. Good.

His hands move to the ear tubes of the stethoscope around his neck, but he doesn't put the buds in yet. ]

I need to listen. I'm not going to push down.

[sputnik]

[ Siberia... Konstantin, who was born right in the midst of the second World War's end, has a very different concept of places in time — looking back — though he's well-familiar with the history of their Motherland and connected events, as is normal, expected. Hearing the other man mention that brings up images in his mind from books and things his mother lived through, and— it's some quiet little relief, even if there's something a bit odd to all of this, too. Pieces he's yet to fit into place, about this man and the particular way he'd spoken in English before. At the moment, he can't spare any energy to dive in deeper, only grateful that in the country of Canada where he apparently has ended up somehow, he's managed to be rescued by a fellow Russian.

But those words stick with him. 'It's... strange here.' He wonders how else it may be strange, but there's little capability in him to question that too much further now, either. Especially not when Vasiliy starts examining the wound (or where it had been before), and Konstantin falls silent again, muscles tensing, trying to stay very still as the other's eyes roam his torso.

Despite his state, Konstantin's still attempting to form plans, potential routes he might need to take. If the EMT discovers anything.... peculiar to him, what will he do? What if he asks questions? Demands answers? Tells someone about him? (There's a thought like the sudden pinprick of a needle against his skin, sharp and unpleasant against his nerve endings, unwanted — he could overpower him if he has to — no.... no, he wouldn't, couldn't do that. He's never hurt anyone himself, like that. ....Though he was the one to direct the creature to kill Semiradov, but that was different, he didn't put his hands on the colonel.....)

....He's too weak to overpower anyone right now, regardless. That's right. The thought fizzles away, rots and dissolves, leaving a sick taste against Konstantin's tongue. Vasiliy is saying that he needs to listen, and the cosmonaut's eyes jerk to the stethoscope, staring there. It takes him a few long seconds to respond, and his heart is in his throat. ]

All right.

[ This may be what decides everything. If he.... hears something, Konstantin thinks he will know from his face. The young man seems calm, but surely he would betray signs of surprise or horror to hear evidence of something alive in the warmth of a human's body. Konstantin's eyes stay right on the other's face, watching, trying to force himself to stay calm. Nevertheless, his pulse is quicker and his breathing is tight; he's nervous, and he can't hide it.

Fortunately, something else is nervous too. The alien being, whose only experience with humankind has been unpleasant and who is no stranger to being subjected to a variety of tests given by these strange creatures, won't move, coiled and afraid, completely still. ]

cw xenophobia + emotional manipulation mention

[m1895]

[ He feels the other's deep brown eyes on him, watching. His respirations are stiff and shallow, pushing against a chest that almost doesn't want to expand—he's afraid. Maybe he has a history with medical personnel, some kind of trauma. Maybe he's just overwhelmed and a little afraid of everything right now. Either is understandable.

Vasiliy exhales on the frigid diaphragm of the stethoscope a few times in an effort to warm it at least slightly, then puts in the earbuds and gently places it to the lower right quadrant of the man's blood-smeared abdomen, listening. It's so quiet here, compared to everywhere he's ever used a stethoscope: it's just the two of them in the cold silent air of the cabin, surrounded by undisturbed snow endlessly stretching in every direction, muting even the footsteps of animals. It's easy to focus: soft, normal bowel sounds, the dull thump of a rapid heartbeat, no bruit. He tries not to get his hopes up; the blood had to come from somewhere, and what he was initially vomiting was bright red.

Right upper quadrant, same thing. Left upper. Left lower. Vasiliy exhales silently as he spreads the ear tubes and removes the buds from his ears. Shoulders relaxing slightly in their tension. It's still unwise to allow himself to feel any kind of hope; it's elementary to not invest that kind of emotion—but for the time being, the man might be safe. ]

It doesn't sound like you have any internal bleeding. That's good.

[ Beyond good. It would be a death sentence here, with no way to give a blood transfusion and no hospital to operate in.

Stressed as he was by the thought of contact with the stethoscope, Vasiliy has no doubt that percussion and palpation, his gloved hands on the most vulnerable place on his body—where he is currently hurting very much—will only make it worse. But he has to be thorough. It must be done, even if it's painful to know that in the short-term it will be stressful and at least uncomfortable for the man. ]

I need to feel now. I'm going to start very gently. Tell me when it hurts. [ Beat. In an effort to soothe some of the anxiety and tension pouring off of the man: ] Tell me to stop and I'll stop.

[ Knowing what to say, maybe it's... always come naturally to him, looking at the unfinished puzzle of another's mind and shaping the correct piece. He can remember a certain degree of unconscious mental calculation predating the NKVD; his induction into the secret police was when it had become conscious. His life, in some ways, had hinged on his ability to accurately read people, their wants, their insecurities. And he was good enough at it to hurt people. Hundreds of people.

Now it just makes him good at his job, or he's told. It helps with calming down hysterical American "boomers" (an uneasy feeling, that word, people who should be younger than himself) who aren't particularly thrilled about "illegals" transferring them onto gurneys after falls (he hadn't realized they'd use that word on Russians, but apparently he fell, to his shock, into the same category of not European enough as the Honduran coworker who had mentioned similar encounters). If he's lucky, it makes patients stop crying with fear.

It's genuine, in its own sort of way, or at least the desire to help is. But this, right now—this is different, in a way he'd struggle to articulate if he were asked. He would say it anyway. Even if he weren't an EMT. He says it not because it's the correct answer but because this man clearly needs to know that. ]

[sputnik]

[ Konstantin is absolutely not a praying man. The concept isn't something he'd even consider. (If he's being punished, it's cosmic, not divine, the universe correcting itself. He doesn't believe in God, or a god, or any god. There's no appeal, no evidence, no logic to the reasoning. He has been closer to the mysteries of the universe than most men will ever get, and it has only made him believe in God less. This is not a loss to him, but a comfort; he is very much at ease with his beliefs, or lack of.)

Not even in his most desperate moments would he turn to prayer. Not even now, no; he directs any thoughts inwards, not to himself but to the thing curled up within him. He doesn't know if it can feel or sense his thoughts anymore; something between them has been severed. But he tries now, in the hope that it might. His skin gives the slightest involuntary flinch at the initial touch, but it's only the reaction of his own body, no alien fluttering from within. 'Be still, be quiet. Please. Please.'

His eyes don't leave the EMT's face, locked on as he moves the bud of the instrument around his abdomen, listens. As he watches, he takes in each little part of Vasiliy Yegorovich's features: eyes soft, brown, and wide, lips shapely. He's handsome, youthful; it's difficult to place his age. He carries himself so calmly. He has been remarkably calm and assuring this entire time.

He doesn't seem to hear anything strange, and it's likewise a relief to hear that there's no internal bleeding. Konstantin exhales quietly, though his fingers are still curled into his own palms at his sides, and tighten when the other man voices that he now needs to touch him. He's squirming, just a little, body moving against the couch, uncomfortably. But he hesitates—

'Tell me to stop and I'll stop'

—blinks, again, finding himself taken aback. It's a gentleness and care that hasn't been given to him, these days. The facility's scientists were not rough with him, they were respectful and careful (and afraid, he knows), but there was never any doubt that he had no freedom. That he couldn't stop a test if he needed to stop it. He endured, and could do nothing but endure. He is good at enduring.

He is tired.

If he needs this to stop, Vasiliy will stop it. It means everything; he almost could claim it brings a fresh lump to his throat, one which he swallows against. He nods, carefully. This could cause the creature to stir, but maybe if he feels it give a shift, he can stop Vasiliy quickly enough.... ]

Thank you. [ His eyes stay on the other's, and the gratitude is genuine. He lets that show, doesn't conceal it, his own eyes softening. ] You are very kind.

[m1895]

[ Vasiliy swallows as the cosmonaut holds his gaze and says that, eyes warm. It's so intimate, so personal, in a way that makes him feel like he's the only person in the entire town in that moment. His heart flutters in his chest, to his chagrin—this man's a patient, and there should be a measure of distance between them, but it feels impossible to sort out his own feelings from his professional duties, to keep everything from blending together. He's a cosmonaut, and a Hero of the Soviet Union, and the first Russian let alone Soviet he's seen here, and even with blood drying on his chin and pale with blood loss he's handsome. Hypovolemia can't change his eyes, the long dark lashes that frame them, his facial structure, the indescribable warmth and charisma he exudes in this moment.

He has to pull himself out of the few seconds of held eye contact. They feel much longer. ]

—...of course. Of course.

[ Medical trauma, it would seem like, judging by the faint look of surprise when he'd given him some modicum of control over the situation. He wonders what he went through, even though it's none of his business. Regarding the immediate, and the kindness the man really doesn't need to thank him for: ]

You've been though a lot.

[ He turns his eyes back towards the red-stained surface of his patient's abdomen, gently spreads a gloved hand over his skin, stays there for a moment before giving his middle finger a good two taps with the other hand. He repeats the same a few inches higher, and a few inches higher, covering all nine regions like this: no dullness, no fluid buildup. It corroborates the idea that arriving in this place took care of most of the internal bleeding in addition to the wound itself.

Gently, very gently, he begins to palpate, first only the light pressure of his fingertips. ]

Tell me if it hurts.

[ He gradually applies more pressure, fingers together, one hand over the other; he presses into the lower right first with the intent to repeat in the same clockwise order as he'd listened in, carefully watching for a reaction as he works. ]

[sputnik]

[ There's a tendency in him to be that way — intimate is a good word for it, something warm and affectionate and open, something that can tip so easily into a variety of things: familiarity, friendliness, flirtation. It's easy to feel welcomed by Konstantin, seen by him, indulged by him. It's never quite forced, but it's more that it's a role he's very comfortable falling into or amping up (and as he's learned very recently, when he needs to, utilising.)

...But here and now, there's no second or third layer to it. No goal on the other end of anything. It's genuine, something at his core; he is grateful (and very raw, and so very alone), and despite all of his nerves and fears to be touched and seen by the EMT, Konstantin is glad that he's here. Glad for a human touch, something he'd been reminded of by Tatiana.

Tatiana. Is she in danger, because of him? What happened to her....? But he can't focus on that now. He has to make it through this, first. Only when Vasiliy's gloved hand moves to his abdomen does he take his own eyes from the other man's face. This time he'll watch his hand instead, putting his concentration into awaiting any internal response from the stowaway inside of him. The scientists had never pushed their hands against him like this (of course, because they'd taken X-rays, seen what was inside of him), so this will be a new experience for them both.

Those fingertips move across him, pressing inwards, trying different areas, and to begin with, Konstantin only lies there, trying to keep his breathing as even as possible despite his anxiety. There's no pain at first, but when the EMT finds his stomach, there's an immediate reaction, eyes widening, lips parting with a sharp gasp of pain. The creature's body is soft and wet and can compress itself, but it still occupies space within him, too much space to ever be comfortable. And it hurts, almost in fresh new ways (he isn't thinking about this now, but he's been without any medication to aide his situation). There's the fact that both of them have been so freshly wounded; things are raw inside. And the thing is pushed deeper into him with that pressure, even if so gently. ]

It— it hurts. [ He almost whimpers the response, finding himself shocked by how much so it does. Instinctively, the muscles of his abdomen flinch back, stomach hollowing inwards a little, a movement that only further aggravates his pain. Sweat beads at his brow, pulse quickening again. ] It hurts there.

[m1895]

Okay. It's okay.

[ It's a very dramatic, immediate response; he's certain he feels his own heart break as he quickly withdraws his hands. For a man like this to gasp and cry out—he can't imagine how much pain he must be in, what sort of internal damage would bring a decorated cosmonaut to that point. His patient flinches and tries to get away instead of guarding: even tensing his abdominal muscles would exacerbate the pain. He wishes so desperately that he were a doctor, that he could make sense of this, that there was something he could do.

But there's not. There's nothing he can do. That level of acute pain says that something's still seriously wrong and there's nothing he can do about it. There is no modern doctor here. No surgeons who can open him up for exploratory surgery or repair guts torn apart by lead. Maybe he's the first instance of someone who wasn't completely healed upon arrival—but even so, the pain doesn't entirely line up with the site of the gunshot wound. Maybe there's an underlying issue. Vasiliy doesn't know. He's not trained for this, and he just doesn't know.

He could be dying. It occurs to him that were he to take the opiate of the masses he'd beg their God not to take this from him. Someone from his own country, someone who understands the urge to serve and contribute even if Vasiliy knows he can never disclose his own record in return. A friend. It's delusional to think that he and a commander in the Cosmonaut Corps could be friends, but—comrades. Someone who shares in the same fraternal order.

If Konstantin lives, if he just pulls through, he might not have to be alone. After all these years, the isolation, the feeling of being the last of his kind— it might end.

He can't do anything else about the abdominal injuries, but he can stabilize him in response to the secondary concerns, the blood loss. He's shivering, and he was before Vasiliy rolled up his shirt, lying on the couch beneath two blankets. He can't stay like this. It's not enough, and there's no heater. The best he can do is to add a mylar blanket to trap some of his body heat, or—theirs.

It's an emergency situation. He knows what he needs to do, and he doubts a man feeling as cold as he undoubtedly does will object. ]

We need to get you warm. Do you think you can stand up if I help you? I'm going to move you to the bedroom.

[sputnik]

[ He knows all of this is alarming, must leave the EMT startled and confused as to how to help him. He can't tell him that he knows some of why there's such pain. Maybe later he can tell him... something, weave together some kind of story, but for now, all he can concentrate on is fighting the urge to vomit again. And when Vasiliy removes his touch, he feels it move, fretful and agitated, readjusting itself inside of him. Worming itself as much as it can into a 'corner' of his stomach, pressing itself into the slope of a wall, curling itself in tighter. It shudders as though disturbed, and Konstantin's fingers tug his shirt back down, gingerly, jaw tightening as the fabric makes contact. ]

Yes— Yes, I think I can stand.

[ He finds that he wants to, as much as he dreads it; at least it's movement, some action forwards. His body is so restless, so uncomfortable, ill. He's reminded of being young and having a fever, caught in the throes of ache and burn. (Again, he thinks, he should be dead.)

The cosmonaut wills his body up to sit, slowly turns it so that his feet plant against the floor. One hand moves to Vasiliy's forearm, holds on there, and he'll try to get to his feet, allowing himself to pull on the other man, but not with his full strength (or as much of it as he has left, anyway.) But the change in posture, the movement of his torso and the subsequent pressure to his organs — too full, unnaturally full — has his throat suddenly convulsing again. He gags loudly and tips forwards suddenly; nothing comes up, but his body fights against its unwanted visitor, stomach heaving. Konstantin presses one palm to it even though this pressure hurts too, breathing heavily. ]

It's all right. It's all right.

[ Is he telling himself? Vasiliy? The creature? All of them, maybe, eyes squinted shut, so hard that he sees stars bursting behind his eyelids. He just has to make it to the bedroom. Then he can lie down — he just wants to lie down. ]