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ways_infirmary2005-12-27 03:11 am
trustntheharper.livejournal.com) wrote in ways_infirmary2005-12-27 03:11 am
Measles Suck (Placeholder)
The group half-dragged, half-carried Harper into the infirmary from the bar. The right side of his face'd had some flesh torn away. It was raw and infected and covered in blood--both dried and fresh--and pus.
His right eye was completely gone.
Whipweals, bloody welts like lines of fire, ran up and down his back and arm, bleeding right through his shirt and jacket.
Though his clothes were relatively clean, he reeked of human waste and sweat, and was completely filthy.
If that were all that were wrong with him, however, he'd have been fine. The wounds could have been patched up, he'd have gotten a good shower, he'd have gotten drunk and had a good laugh about how he and the other Earthers had outwitted and beat the crap outta the Ubers, and he'd have been fine. He'd lived through far worse beatings after all. Moreover, he'd found out two very important things: One) that his cousin was alive, and two) that the Human race was rebuilding, colonizing, starting over, finally free at last.
Unfortunately, his wounds weren't all that was wrong.
A few weeks before, when he'd gone on his trip to New York with Ray, he'd run into a very annoying child at the museum. The very annoying child'd had the measles, which Harper'd had no immunity to, as it no longer existed in his time. He'd gotten the rash, the sniffles and sore throat, the sensitive eyes.
...Thanks to his underdeveloped immune system he'd also gotten fullblown pneumonia.
"Ooo, shiny," he said, at the sight of the rather shiny equipment in the infirmary.
The fever was near 105 degrees and he was completely delirious. His body was completely soaked in sweat, and shaking with chills, and his teeth were chattering, clickclickclick, like he had falling dominoes in his mouth. Ragged, breathless gasps passed his lips, which were tinged with blue, just like his nails, as he wheezed, trying to draw in enough air, but never quite managing to. Worst of all, and grossest, he kept coughing up sputum on his shirt, a greenish yellow, with a rust-colored tinge.
"It's okay, guys," he muttered at them, in between gasps. "I'll tweak the life support controls and have the temp down in no time. No more humans platters at Sizzler."
His right eye was completely gone.
Whipweals, bloody welts like lines of fire, ran up and down his back and arm, bleeding right through his shirt and jacket.
Though his clothes were relatively clean, he reeked of human waste and sweat, and was completely filthy.
If that were all that were wrong with him, however, he'd have been fine. The wounds could have been patched up, he'd have gotten a good shower, he'd have gotten drunk and had a good laugh about how he and the other Earthers had outwitted and beat the crap outta the Ubers, and he'd have been fine. He'd lived through far worse beatings after all. Moreover, he'd found out two very important things: One) that his cousin was alive, and two) that the Human race was rebuilding, colonizing, starting over, finally free at last.
Unfortunately, his wounds weren't all that was wrong.
A few weeks before, when he'd gone on his trip to New York with Ray, he'd run into a very annoying child at the museum. The very annoying child'd had the measles, which Harper'd had no immunity to, as it no longer existed in his time. He'd gotten the rash, the sniffles and sore throat, the sensitive eyes.
...Thanks to his underdeveloped immune system he'd also gotten fullblown pneumonia.
"Ooo, shiny," he said, at the sight of the rather shiny equipment in the infirmary.
The fever was near 105 degrees and he was completely delirious. His body was completely soaked in sweat, and shaking with chills, and his teeth were chattering, clickclickclick, like he had falling dominoes in his mouth. Ragged, breathless gasps passed his lips, which were tinged with blue, just like his nails, as he wheezed, trying to draw in enough air, but never quite managing to. Worst of all, and grossest, he kept coughing up sputum on his shirt, a greenish yellow, with a rust-colored tinge.
"It's okay, guys," he muttered at them, in between gasps. "I'll tweak the life support controls and have the temp down in no time. No more humans platters at Sizzler."
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And then the fixing.
But what she can do? The kitsune can deal with one of the problems, quickly and easily. Laini cracks her knuckles, then holds her hands together, such as when she fried the magog in this same room a couple months ago. This time, however? The foxfire that flickers from her hands glows and spreads over Harper, from head to toe, flickering gold and green. She narrows her eyes, concentrating to keep control over the fickle, shifting power-
Beneath the cold flames, dirt, grime, old blood and filth dissolve and burn away. Laini holds it carefully until there is nothing but Harper and the tattered (though now sanitized) remains of his clothes on the table- and then lets the fox fire flicker out.
"There. Um... now with the fixing and getting better, alright?"
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"Turn him on his side, so he can breathe more easily," she told the others.
It was nice to be clean, but there was still pain. Harper didn't like that.
As Beka turned him, he tried to keep his eyes open, tried to breathe. She took off his jacket, carefully, gently, and then his shirt, which was more painful, because scabs were forming and the tshirt was sticking to the lines on his back. There were ragged, bloody tatters of another t-shirt underneath that that had to be cut off--he hadn't bothered taking that off, had just pulled other clothes on top, there hadn't been time.
His tin whistle clanged to the floor as Beka dropped his jacket off to the side, carelessly, and all his worldly goods spilled out with it from the pockets.
Two medals, one was the Commonwealth equivalent of a purple heart--that was for the World ship--the other for the science conference that he'd singlehandedly saved from the Abyss. His rabbit's foot, on its chain. His nano-welder. Dogtags, on a chain that none of them had probably ever seen before, he kept them so secret. The name Arca Shel Roya, were on them with the number 744568. After that were the letters "Z + A" scorched onto it with a plasma torch, followed by somewhat more jagged letters, as if the person doing the welding hadn't been able to see all that clearly when they did it, through the tears, "R.I.P."
Only Beka and Trance knew who they'd belonged to, though they'd never seen them before themselves.
Anyone else would have thought that the little cache of knicknacks that had fallen out of those pockets was junk, but to Harper, they were the whole world.
Something was squeezing at Harper's chest and it wasn't just the pneumonia.
"I found Brendan," he whispered deliriously, in between gasps and coughs, to Duo or Beka or Laini, or maybe just to himself. "I found Brendan." He paused, feeling sweat dripping down his nose. "I met the Sun--she was beautiful."
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"He must be pretty cool if you thought I was him," he says with a weak grin, helping Harper over on his side.
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"Same old crazy bastard," he wheezed out, before going into another coughing fit. "A regular hero. He's helping what's left of humanity rebuild, start over. They're free, now. We're free."
He reached for his things. He wanted to hold them, for comfort. The whistle, his dad had given him--made for him with a bit of pipe and some shoddy welding tools, the dogtags, the rabbit's foot--it'd been Siobhan's. Snagging the dogtags, he wrapped them around his hand like a rosary.
Seamus Harper was not the sort of person ever to look content. He looked worried, he looked thoughtful, he had exressions ranging from amused, to "Ew, I'm gonna barf" to "WTF?" Hardly ever did he look content, he hardly ever smiled, but at that moment, running his fingers over each letter on the dogtags, he looked peaceful, for once in his life.
He reached his hand out again, making a grabbing motion of "gimme gimme" because he couldn't reach the others. Beka handed him the whistle, which he held to his chest like a dying warrior would clutch their sword, and fiddled absentmindedly with bunny fur.
"I heard these kids singing," he said serenely, and he rasped quietly, his eyes half-closed, through chapped blue lips, "Cockles and Mussels alive, alive O! Alive, alive O! Alive, alive O! Her ghost wheels her barrow, Thro' streets broad and narrow. Poor Molly Malone could never go home."
He closed his eyes, his body starting to still.
The beeping noise from the sensorprobs started to speed up, and his breathing started becoming more labored.
Even though it cost him precious breath, he started to cry, big tears rolling and plopping down his face from his left eye.
"It's not fair," he gasped out breathlessly, shaking harder than he'd been before, clutching the dogtags even more tightly, still reaching for the whistle. "It's never been fair."
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"Don't you start going defeatist on me, Harper," Beka said to him, petting his head. "There won't be enough of us cynics left."
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So many horrible things had happened--they couldn't have been accidental. Someone was out to get him, his fever-ridden mind decided. Someone out there wanted him to suffer, because no person could have had as horrible a life as he'd had and lived through it unless some bastard thought it was funny.
"They took everything away, they took everyone away...I'm being punished," he sobbed, his eyes rolling wildly in his head. "I'm being punished 'cause I'm...I'm a horrible person...I'm..."
Whatever he was, he didn't get to say as his breathing became more labored. The beeping indicated that his blood pressure was dropping and his pulse was going erraticly fast.
"He's going into respiratory failure," squeaked Trance, working frantically, inserting chest tubes to try to unclog his lungs.
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"Not punished either- you're here, and if you die you're going to miss out on the Christmas gifts waiting for you, silly." Her ears flatten, glancing worriedly to Trance, then back to Harper.
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'What can I do?' Duo mouths to Trance.