Post by burr on Jul 10, 2015 7:25:51 GMT
((Originally a closed thread idea with Cutter giving Clutch advice on his new amputee status in the Citadel, but if they are not opposed to other war boys poppin' in a bit later then I'm not either! ))
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Clutch disliked the infirmary.
The hallway was well-lit in the day, probably one of the best lit
places in the Citadel beyond the topside greenery, but everything moved at a glacial pace. Even the reflected shards of light bouncing from the bloodbag cages inched across the wall at an infuriating slowness. There was nothing fast-paced about it, nothing loud. War boys here spoke in hushed tones, if they bothered to speak at all. This hallway was supposedly the road to recovery, but it was silent as a morgue.
Early pre-dawn would come and cleaners would shuffle through the ward as quiet as they could, past the shrine of steering wheels and into the Organic's surgery ward proper. Clutch had not remained conscious through most of his time in there, but vivid fever hot memories of bodies being carried off peaked in his mind when the breeze blew right. Sweeping up and past the shrine, miasma would seep in, viscous and low when things went still in the middle of the night. The driver did not know where the cleaners carried the bodies off too, but he knew the air was moist with decay and rot past that point. With the smell on the air and the grim expressions of those tasked with the job as they made their return trip through the infirmary made him unwilling to question.
Clutch had lost track of the days he had remained in the infirmary, hooked up to a bloodbag and waiting. Sleep was a comfort he could no longer find, anxious and eager to find his way out of the ward. He slept lightly, awakened by any cough or sneeze or even the own rattling of his blood bag chain. Each time, his head would lift and he would scan down his legs to where his feet were supposed to be. They were never there. Eventually he would come around to the fact, but it would take time. Time that Clutch did not want to spend.
It was agony waiting, watching the Organic and his quiet, staring assistant walk to each patient in turn. The Organic would grin and quip some joke that only he chuckled at, and his assistant would dutifully unwind the dressings with nimble brown fingers. The Organic would poke and prod the itching stumps, admire his handiwork of stitches and mutter some self-praise and quiz his assistant on the state of the driver's health. The boy would quietly respond after long pauses-- infuriatingly long and quiet pauses that made the older war boy glare daggers at him. Not soon enough the Organic would leave the assistant to re-dress the wounds and check his blood bag and the chain between them. Afterwards, the assistant would double-check his work, and before Clutch could even form a proper snarl or curse, he would look proud of his work and scamper back to the Organic's side.
And so, the broad-shouldered driver would be left to sit. And wait. And stare at the shrine at the far end of the ward-- not even allowed a small portable project to repair and occupy his mind, lest he choose to dismantle some sharp shard and bleed himself out along with the bloodbag.
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Clutch disliked the infirmary.
The hallway was well-lit in the day, probably one of the best lit
places in the Citadel beyond the topside greenery, but everything moved at a glacial pace. Even the reflected shards of light bouncing from the bloodbag cages inched across the wall at an infuriating slowness. There was nothing fast-paced about it, nothing loud. War boys here spoke in hushed tones, if they bothered to speak at all. This hallway was supposedly the road to recovery, but it was silent as a morgue.
Early pre-dawn would come and cleaners would shuffle through the ward as quiet as they could, past the shrine of steering wheels and into the Organic's surgery ward proper. Clutch had not remained conscious through most of his time in there, but vivid fever hot memories of bodies being carried off peaked in his mind when the breeze blew right. Sweeping up and past the shrine, miasma would seep in, viscous and low when things went still in the middle of the night. The driver did not know where the cleaners carried the bodies off too, but he knew the air was moist with decay and rot past that point. With the smell on the air and the grim expressions of those tasked with the job as they made their return trip through the infirmary made him unwilling to question.
Clutch had lost track of the days he had remained in the infirmary, hooked up to a bloodbag and waiting. Sleep was a comfort he could no longer find, anxious and eager to find his way out of the ward. He slept lightly, awakened by any cough or sneeze or even the own rattling of his blood bag chain. Each time, his head would lift and he would scan down his legs to where his feet were supposed to be. They were never there. Eventually he would come around to the fact, but it would take time. Time that Clutch did not want to spend.
It was agony waiting, watching the Organic and his quiet, staring assistant walk to each patient in turn. The Organic would grin and quip some joke that only he chuckled at, and his assistant would dutifully unwind the dressings with nimble brown fingers. The Organic would poke and prod the itching stumps, admire his handiwork of stitches and mutter some self-praise and quiz his assistant on the state of the driver's health. The boy would quietly respond after long pauses-- infuriatingly long and quiet pauses that made the older war boy glare daggers at him. Not soon enough the Organic would leave the assistant to re-dress the wounds and check his blood bag and the chain between them. Afterwards, the assistant would double-check his work, and before Clutch could even form a proper snarl or curse, he would look proud of his work and scamper back to the Organic's side.
And so, the broad-shouldered driver would be left to sit. And wait. And stare at the shrine at the far end of the ward-- not even allowed a small portable project to repair and occupy his mind, lest he choose to dismantle some sharp shard and bleed himself out along with the bloodbag.