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singillppl2023-12-06 12:21 am
singmod) wrote in singillppl2023-12-06 12:21 am
Entry tags:
December 2023 Test Drive Meme
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
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.
1. Tools found would be basic survival/camping tools one might expect: knives, hand axes, rope, handsaws, torches, batteries, etc.
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.
no subject
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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
...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.
no subject
[ 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.
no subject
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. ]
no subject
[ Vasiliy gingerly rests a hand on his upper arm: to stabilize him? To comfort him? Both? Regardless, it's not enough. Not nearly enough.
The cosmonaut's showing every sign of severe abdominal pain: the attempts to vomit, doubling over, tensing, holding his belly, closing his eyes, tightening his jaw. Could it be his appendix? Poisoning? What would even cause this? He can't shake the gunshot wound from his mind, but what if that's incidental, a red herring? He's showing signs of an obstruction, but Vasiliy didn't feel anything when he palpated, and his guts sounded normal.
He waits for the man to recover, or at least for the gagging to stop and his eyes to open, before he resumes guiding him toward the bed, a precarious task. A fall would be bad—Vasiliy doesn't doubt that he could brunt some of the impact if he were to lose consciousness, but the man's decidedly taller than him, broader, heavier. Now that he's standing, mechanics aren't to his advantage.
He waits until they've finally reached the bed—a mercy, a tremendous relief—before he excuses himself to collect the extra blankets from the couch and retrieve a prepackaged mylar one from his kit bag. 'Space blankets', the Americans call them, ironically. He sets the real blankets at the foot of the bed for the moment and shakes the reflective emergency blanket out to its full size, then drapes it over him, followed by three more: a quilt and two made of some kind of wool.
He slips his jacket off of his shoulders, then his long-sleeved shirt, leaving only the white short-sleeved undershirt beneath—it's going to be warm, lying under three regular blankets, mylar foil reflecting his and another's body heat back at him. Uncomfortable for him, no doubt, but potentially life-preserving for his hypovolemic cosmonaut friend. ]
I'm going to lie down with you. We need to stay under the mylar. It traps heat.
[ Said foil blanket crinkles as he climbs into bed and lifts the heavy strata of bedding, coming to lie beside him, the dark hairs on his arms barely brushing the sleeves of his woefully inadequate track jacket. The emergency blanket isn't even made to be used on a bed by one person, to say nothing of two, but they share some of the coverage.
It would be better if there was direct contact, warmer for him. But he won't die if he doesn't bridge the invisible barrier between them, and regardless of how much power he holds in this situation, in the grander scheme of things, it would be out of line for him to initiate, at least for the time being.
It's the first time he's slept in the same bed as anyone other than a hookup since he was shot. He tries not to think about it. ]
no subject
Once there, Konstantin is climbing slowly onto the other man's bed, going completely limp almost immediately once upon it. (How long has it been since he was in a bed, a proper one? Not the thin sterile white thing in the observation room, and not the one in the "living" quarters, which was more a simulation of life than anything else. A real bed, warm and comfortable.)
He's still shuddering as Vasiliy returns, starts draping blankets over him, and he's letting them cover him with a soft hiss of breath; the shudders don't stop, not just yet, but his body is already beginning to warm, it's just a slow process. Dark eyes look up as Vasiliy says he's going to lie down with him, trapping heat that way; somewhere in the dim fog of Konstantin's mind, he's able to realise that the other man is doing this for his benefit, to make him warmer. If there were ordinarily any hint of awkwardness to be felt in response, the cosmonaut feels none of it now. He only feels grateful, desperate, a blended mixture of the two. He wants warmth, needs it, needs what feels so wrong to stop. His body welcomes the warmth of another, the closeness of even just this much, someone lying under the same blankets. ]
Thank you. [ He says again, but his mouth still trembles around the words. He's warming up, but along with it, the fever-state of his mind warms, too. Burns hot, a strange contradiction to how cold and chilled he feels. He's aware of a need to shed one of his own layers, only because the athletic jacket he's still wearing is slightly damp from the snow, and so there's a moment where he's struggling under the layers of bedding to remove it, letting it drop off his side of the bed, and then he's rolling onto his side to face Vasiliy, legs curling, body quaking.
He isn't aware of how much time really passes. It could be minutes, or longer — it probably isn't very long, only feels that way because of his state, reality warped by his own illness. But he's finding himself nudging closer to the other body that's close but still away: the other warm, human body. Soft and welcoming to him. He isn't thinking altogether clearly, driven by instinct and need (but also want tangled up in there, too. Isn't it?) A want to be held, to be secure, in ways he hasn't been in so long? His eyelashes feel wet, either from sweat or from tears, he doesn't know, only knows that he feels so alone, so sick and alone.
It's childlike, the way he curls up against the other man's side. The way he makes himself smaller so as to fit into him, tucked down more into the blankets than Vasiliy is, so that he can find the warmest spots of him. His head tips forwards, face pressing to the crook of the other man's neck, burying itself in there. Like a child, an animal, nothing like a man — but in this moment, he's only this. Desperate and shaking, and then less so as he latches onto that warm body, pushes himself against it. His stomach hurts, aches, and he presses it to Vasiliy's side; immediately there's relief there, too. Like a heating pad to his abdomen, soothing.
Konstantin breathes against his neck, murmurs something hushed and fever-warm, eyelids fluttering closed. For the first time in— a very, very long time, he feels safe. ]
cw light provider/patient
What he doesn't anticipate is the cosmonaut's decision to bury his face in the sensitive skin of his bare neck, like—like a lover. Like they've known each other for a long time. He doesn't remember the last time he felt another's breath warm and damp against the corner of his jaw like this, or the tip of someone's nose pressing into his skin—cold, very cold. It feels surreal, someone this attractive and this acccomplished lying beside him, clinging to him. He shouldn't feel as flustered as he does. His heart shouldn't beat so much faster.
It's work. It's work.
Despite his own feelings, Vasiliy wraps an arm over the cosmonaut's shoulders, pulling him closer—he's clearly seeking out a sense of security, wants to be held. He's had a rough time, a frightening time. He's in pain Vasiliy can do nothing about, and in an unfamiliar place, and very, very cold. His heart aches with sympathy for the man.
He feels the cosmonaut's eyes shut, long dark lashes brushing the side of his neck, and stay shut. Konstantin half-consciously mumbles something Vasiliy can barely make out, and that's a problem. ]
Konstantin, I need you to stay awake a little longer. You can't sleep yet. Your temperature will drop if you go to sleep.
cw: mention of parasitic alien & head gore, it's fine
And the exhaustion is there, yawning open wide like a mouth; he wants to fall into it. To become nothing, fade away into it. But there are words, he hears Vasiliy speaking to him, giving a soft grunt in response, a puff of air against the other man's neck.
'you can't sleep yet'
'stay awake'
'I need you to'
Some part of his mind registers it, the importance of those words. Fights through the thick, glossy haze of his exhausted illness. If he sleeps, it could invite the creature to take over things. To knock him out fully, leave him unconscious. Drag itself up from the depths of him. Vasiliy won't know what's coming. It'll kill him in an instant, tear through his skull, worm its way into the soft bleeding tissue of his brain to eat what it needs to eat. This man will die, horribly, for helping him.
....The cosmonaut stirs a little, eyes fluttering back opened, gives a ragged exhale. ]
....Trying. Trying to. So tired. [ The mumbled words come out hoarse. Abruptly, he coughs, tensing up into Vasiliy as he does so, dipping his head for a moment, pressing it against his shoulder and then leaving it down like that, almost as though hiding his face from him now. ]
I'm sorry.... I'm sorry. I don't feel good.
[ There's a catch at the back of his throat with that childlike statement, almost a whine. ]
you know how it is!!
[ I don't feel good, he says so pitifully, his words almost a whine. It goes without saying, certainly, so for a cosmonaut to so openly admit such a thing... he can't imagine. He wishes he could take some of the burden of the man's suffering onto his own shoulders. ]
Do you need to vomit again?
[ Asked gently, without a trace of judgment. In addition to the lingering pain of being shot, Vasiliy imagines his digestive tract is probably quite upset with all of the blood—if nothing else, even without lasting internal damage, ingesting so much blood is bound to cause an uneasy stomach. ]
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No— I don't think so. [ He hopes it won't happen, and finally, finally, some modicum of shame slips back in at the very thought. Becoming sick in this man's bed, it would be humiliating. Konstantin's eyes squeeze shut as he tries to will his body to behave for him.
But now that he's lying down, and his body's pressed against something soft and warm, things within himself are calming. Perhaps stabilising, a little. The tension in his muscles begins to ebb away again, body relaxing so much that it goes limp against Vasiliy, the coughing dying down until there's silence. With his eyes closed, it would be too hard to fall into it; he's still trying to keep himself awake. And so, despite every piece of him wanting to succumb to his exhaustion, Konstantin opens his eyes again, though they're half-lidded, blurry. Maybe if he keeps talking... he can stay awake... ]
Tell me something about yourself, Vasiliy Yegorovich... How old are you?
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[ Even an hour ago he never would have imagined he'd be inviting someone of such status to address him so personally—because even excluding his patronymic feels almost diminutive-personal given the individual in question—but in this moment he's decidedly not a commander, or a Hero of the Soviet Union, or a cosmonaut. He's just scared and seeking out closeness. He's a patient.
And besides—he wants to be addressed as just Konstantin. ]
34. How about you?
[ Anything to keep him talking. ]
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39. Old, I know. Greying in places. [ The man breathes another puff of soft laughter inbetween the slow mumble of his exhausted words, managing to actually sound amused; he very much knows he's not "old", or at least doesn't associate the age with the term itself. Doesn't think of himself as old, is the way to put it. Konstantin enjoys his age, enjoys where he's at. (The grey is charming. He looks mature, seasoned, handsome in a different way than that of a "young" man. People trust him.)
....He was enjoying it. Things have changed. Can't think about that now. Instead, he puts focus into complimenting someone else — a tendency he falls into completely naturally by now, and spurned on ever that much more by his current state, dripping with sickness, mind spinning loose and strange and sloppy. The way he murmurs it sounds like he's impressed, warm, clearly meant complimentary, and he's even smiling against Vasiliy's shoulder as his head tilts towards it again— ]
You have such a youthful face, Comrade. I would have thought early 20's.
konstantin!!!!!! ohhhh my god
He tries to remind himself of that, to stay grounded in reality, but it's hard with the warm weight of the other's body resting against his side, with his head on his shoulder. He really, really hopes he isn't blushing. He's never been one to blush, but his face certainly feels warm.
This is incredibly unbecoming. He just hopes the cosmonaut named Konstantin doesn't remember it in the morning. Assuming he pulls through. ]
I—thank you. I've been told I look young for my age.
[ And he does, maybe mid-to-late twenties—but early twenties is undeniably a purposeful exaggeration. ]
39 isn't old.
[ And the greys intermingling with much darker hair at his temples are incredibly handsome, though he keeps that part to himself. ]
just a mildly inappropriately-affectionate brotherly comradely compliment to this man he just met!!!
(Konstantin has never been particularly shameful about things like this. Granted, he wouldn't normally be quite this.... extreme about it. There is a filter, a social awareness of what's appropriate (especially towards men; oh, he can toe the line into being flirtatious with them too, it's just that there are certain norms even a charming flirty Hero of the Soviet Union doesn't upset too much). ....Perhaps it's just that in this moment, no such filter exists. Not while he's so sick and strange, head spinning, body aching, shivering. He's spilling compliments to a man too easily; it feels safe, comfortable, good.)
He's silly, sick, stupid, it doesn't mean anything.
(But it does, of course. This man just saved his life. Brought a bleeding stranger into his home, into his own bed, gave him blankets and warmth and a body to move closer to. Konstantin wants him to know his gratitude. Maybe in this state, it manifests as loving on his neck and complimenting his face a little too heavily!) ]
You'll age so well. Everyone will be jealous of that eternally handsome face.
[ Another soft, breathy laugh, mixed with a slice of pain when the muscles of his diaphragm tighten even just so subtly enough to allow the sound to happen. He winces in the next moment, closes his eyes. Still, he continues to be a bit playful— ]
If I make it through the night, I'll never complain about my age again. Or the grey.
oh you know how it is... guys being comrades..
He averts eye contact, smiles a little. How can he not, in a situation so unreal it feels like it has to be a dream? Quite possibly the most attractive man he's ever seen, even with blood staining his chin and his face pale with how much he's lost, leaning against him, nuzzling his neck, telling him how eternally handsome he is—a cosmonaut, someone who went to space and was awarded Hero of the Soviet Union, saying this to him, a 5'7 EMT-Basic. It just doesn't feel real. ]
You don't have to say that. I'll still help you. And you're going to make it through the night. I'm not going to let anything happen to you. [ Lightly, with the faintest trace of levity in a voice that remains hushed and (hopefully) soothing—disguising, at least superficially, a very serious reassurance—: ] I know what I'm doing. I've stabilized people who have lost a lot more blood than you.
comrade-in-arms.... (Kostya, literally squirming into this man's arms,)
And he would be content to let that playfulness remain, to say a few silly things, to slip further into the murky lull of his ill state. But then Vasiliy Yegorovich says that — and it's a reminder of the severity of everything. Konstantin pauses, smile held in place and then slowly fading away.
'I'm not going to let anything happen to you.'
'I know what I'm doing.'
Reassurances. To a stranger that is in such a horrific state, one who might seem like he could die from it. Once again, Konstantin thinks how this man is doing so much for him. More than most anyone would. He doesn't know him. He could be dangerous, yet he lets him into his home, his bed. He vows to get him through the night.
(He is dangerous. He's a monster, home to a monstrous thing.) Konstantin's mouth tightens, lips forming a soft frown. He's so tired. His eyes are so heavy, and he feels warmer now, and his breathing is no longer rushed and shallow; he wants to sleep, more than anything. But if he falls asleep, what will happen to Vasiliy? ]
....I'm sorry for all of this, Comrade. [ In a beat, Konstantin goes from dazed and playful to serious, though his voice still drags with exhaustion, slurred at the edges. He's fighting to stay awake with everything he has. ] You don't have to stay... here, tonight. With me.
[ In this room, this bed. (He shouldn't, he should stay away from him. How does he explain it without exposing it? The danger of this?) ]
It's all right.... I'm warmer now. You don't have to.
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It's been so long since he's been touched. Since he's been called Comrade. He needs this man to make it through the night. ]
Don't apologize. I want to. You need to be monitored.
[ He pauses, lightly resting the backs of his fingers on Konstantin's forehead to test his temperature. His skin has lost most of its chill, although he's still a little cool, enough so that the mylar blanket should stay. ]
You're warm enough to sleep. How does your stomach feel?
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His rational mind fights while the rest of him wants nothing more than to succumb. Once again, he tries, feebly, to reach out for the creature, to make some sort of contact. Towards the end, he was able to... guide it, control it, for a brief moment. They were able to function as one entity.
But the thought of doing that again couldn't feel further away. Doing that had taken up some last remaining strength; it was difficult, a particular strain that he was never meant to experience. And now.... he can't feel it at all, this thing within him, at least not on any level other than physically. He might almost assume it were dead, if not for the movements he'd felt earlier, its soft squirm.
....Maybe it's so injured it can barely do anything. Surely it won't emerge from him any time soon. (As if he could ever predict what it might do. Everything is different now.)
His dark eyes look back up as the other man gently touches his fingers to the skin of his forehead. Even that much physical contact is welcomed; Konstantin's eyelids lull in response, body going limp again, tension easing out of it. He wants to sleep. Maybe just for an hour or two. Just for a little. He can force himself awake again (or so he thinks.) ]
A little sore, but it's all right for now. I don't think I'll be sick again. [ Throwing up blood, he means, at least for the moment. Things are settling, the warmth that surrounds him like a balm to the aches of his body. His eyes are fluttering, so heavy, so weak. He feels himself exhaling, slowly. ]
Thank you, Comrade.... Maybe just for a moment, I'll sleep....
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Another Russian. Another Soviet, someone from his own country, a cosmonaut, someone who knows what it means to serve—a communist— the prospect is overwhelming, and something he'll face tomorrow. Right now he's tired, too, and he spends maybe another half-hour awake before he succumbs to it, too warm and too disbelieving to really get comfortable any sooner than that.
But the fatigue does win out eventually, and he apparently does fall asleep, because he finds himself waking up in the next moment, very warm and very, very comfortable, almost enough to tempt him to just... not open his eyes, and stay in bed, a very alien thought for him.
The previous night comes back to him by the time he registers the warmth against the side of his neck, the weight across his chest: the cosmonaut with internal bleeding. He opens his eyes and finds he isn't able to fully turn his head in his patient's direction; Konstantin's own head would get in the way, being that he's asleep with his face pressed into Vasiliy's neck, a well-muscled arm slung over his chest, more-or-less adhered to his side. Like they're lovers.
Immediately, he feels sick with... dread, or embarrassment, or dread at impending embarrassment. Maybe all three, because eventually Konstantin the cosmonaut will need to wake up, and they'll have to acknowledge this. The fact that his own face is now burning doesn't help.
It feels indecent, utterly indecent, moreso considering that the man probably doesn't realize how attractive Vasiliy finds him. He wouldn't be comfortable lying like this if he did. Is he going to assume he's... predatory, if he comes to that realization, for not breaking this up? Is the best course of action to move him now? He really needs all of the sleep he can get, and moving him will undoubtedly wake him up. Shit.
Shit.
Vasiliy decides on the coward's path and closes his eyes again, lying still, trying to breathe evenly against the firm weight on his chest. It feels a bit like a glimpse into a reality he should never, ever have been allowed to look at, but he doesn't get any further with the thought, because Konstantin's (beautifully) long eyelashes are fluttering against his skin a moment later and he's lifting his face with a quiet groan.
Vasiliy opens his eyes again, looks over at him with evident concern, trying to convince himself that if he just... acts as though there's nothing unusual about this, nothing uncomfortable about this, there won't be. ]
Good morning. How do you feel?
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That bliss lasts for as long as it can. Time passes, he can't know how much; is it morning? His eyes flutter open; he's pressed against warm skin, and for a lingering, dreamlike moment, he stays like that. Konstantin's nose nudges into the scent of a person; he isn't alone. He's holding onto someone, feels the solid security of a body, smaller-framed than his own.
Slowly, he lifts his head a little, allowing a quiet groan as morning brings a certain reality, a certain clarity. He's no longer trembling uncontrollably, but as he blinks through his own haze, his heart skips an odd beat.
....A man. Memory creeps in strangely, like pieces of someone else's dream. Konstantin slowly slides his arm off of Vasiliy's body, freeing the other of his hold, and moves to sit up, giving another groan as his head spins, a little. He's a bit alarmed, though not for the reason he should be, yet. In just a few seconds, he'll realise he tastes the residue deep in the back of his throat of that slimy, slithering thing. ]
I— [ He pauses again, eyes widening as he realises... he was draped across the other man, holding onto him. He can still smell him in his head, still recall the sensation of his lips pressed to warm skin. Discomfort and some embarrassment comes in, slow and strange, but Konstantin manages to speak calmly. ]
You were here? All night?
[ Oh, the answer's too obvious. ]
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[ Where else would he be? Where else could he ever dream of being?
The man sits up, withdrawing from him, and Vasiliy's chest feels light, the side of his neck cold and empty. Even despite the embarrassment (and dread), it had been quite comfortable and pleasant, physically speaking, and he feels the absence like a sudden void. It's been a very, very long time since another man rested against him like that or slung an arm over his chest—even if this is just a strange pantomime of what those things usually mean, what he's used to them meaning, it was... nice, being touched like that. Being held. Even in his guilt he can acknowledge that it's a human need, to just be touched.
He should probably say some word of explanation. It seems like it's maybe expected, or necessary in this particular social situation. ]
You were really cold last night. You lost a lot of blood. And you had to be monitored.
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This was its own tenderness. Slow and lulled, heart not pounding with upset but soothed into slow, heavy beats. It's more difficult for him to associate it with lover, only because he isn't so experienced with that. But of course he knows what it seems like, to be this close to another person (and there's another layer of strangeness to that concept — another man.)
He isn't flinching away from Vasiliy, but just sits there like that, upright in the EMT's bed, gently coaxing the assortment of blankets down from his torso, to rest at his lap. ]
Forgive me.
[ He says, the only thing he knows to say. This was... his fault, his weakness; he'd clung to him, forced himself onto this person in the throes of his own strangeness. (He remembers, hazily, smiling at Vasiliy, head against his shoulder and then turning to look up at him, tickled by the flush at his cheeks.) Konstantin feels another sweep of embarrassment (and through it all, the peculiar awareness of his own feeling of loss and coldness; his body much prefers being tucked in close under the covers to a fellow human being.)
His hands move to his own body, rest awkwardly in his lap, shoulders tensing, but not out of any ill feeling towards the man beside him, no, there's that sense of... quiet awe that he'd felt before, when Vasiliy had crouched down to lift him up from the snow. He stayed with him. Monitoring him for the entire night, allowing himself to be....held onto. It must have been a nightmare for him.
He'd done that, for him?
He needs to say more, knows he does, but it's hard to find the right words. Konstantin's dark eyes drop for a moment, looking away, down to his hands, and it's then that he.... feels it, tastes it, something he can never quite grow accustomed to. A slickness in the back of his throat. Konstantin's eyes slowly widen as his throat ripples with a sudden involuntary convulsion, and a hand flies up to it, fingers pressing there. At once, his heart is quaking with anxiety. The— the creature.... came out.....? Did it? His eyes are saucer-wide; he's sitting there staring straight ahead for a long, surreal moment, looking completely stricken. ]
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Easy, easy. Are you going to be sick?
[ He quickly scans the room—there's the basin of water he keeps on the bedside table in a pantomime of what he remembers from a similar plumbing situation in childhood, but nothing empty. He'll just need to bend over the edge of the bed, but Vasiliy isn't terribly concerned with that right now. ]
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Ordinarily, that would be a mercy. He never wanted to remember the things it'd done, the screams, the terror, the sensation of an alien mouth ripping through human meat. (But he'd deserved to remember, of course; it was part of it. Of his punishment.)
Now, the inability to recall anything is a horror of its own. Maybe he's wrong, maybe it... hadn't come out. If it had, then Vasiliy would be.....
....but the EMT said he stayed here all night. He hadn't left. There was no time in which he would be safe from it.
His eyes eyes snap over to Vasiliy as the other man leans in to him again, places a hand against his shoulder. And despite the lingering awkwardness, the gesture is a comfort. ]
I—
[ This is going to sound bizarre, he knows it is, but his head turns towards the younger, eyes searching the soft brown pair with a desperation. ]
Did anything happen to me last night? Was I.... did I get sick? Did you feel me getting sick?
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cw: some.... alien slime. goo
a sludge if you will
cw: bad worm reactions and some more blood,
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cw: suicide
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cw: for my own broken heart......
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cw: dramatically passing out
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cw: X-Ray of parasitic wormlike creature inside stomach (in linked image)
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Konstantin: Don't worry, I'll leave in a few days | 5 months later:
PICKING UP ON HIS COP VIBES LMAOOO
surely he's not sus!! not Vasiliy!!!
look at him! he looks so trustworthy (:
cw: mention of animal death
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