enginesock (
enginesock) wrote in
bakerstreet2020-04-13 03:08 pm
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i'm in a world of shit, yes. but i'm alive. and i am not afraid.

WARNING: Meme will contain TRIGGERS, including war, violence, capture, and general uncomfortable content. Please do not click if you don't want to see, and please respect your fellow role-players.
◊ Post with your character with name and canon.
◊ List any preferences(roles, scenarios, time periods, etc.) you have
1) The General/Admiral: You're the head honcho, the guy in charge. You have hundreds, maybe thousands of lives resting on you. What decision will you make?
2) The Officer: Not the leader, but you've got responsibility for your crew. What's your specialty -- independent initiative? Insubordination? Or do you let the noncoms walk all over you?
3) The Soldier: Just an ordinary soldier with your pike, or rifle, or energy gun. Your job is to follow orders. But when it comes down to it, when you look the enemy in the eye -- what will you do?
4) Spy: Dressed in civilian clothes, disguised as an enemy officer. Your job is to get as much information as you can, and then get out. Or are you going to sow a little chaos and destruction along the way?
5) Civilian: This is your land that's being fought over. Do you support a side? Do you hide, or do you hold steady in the face of such violence?
6) Other.
1) Battle: In the middle of the fighting.
2) Downtime/R&R: A few peaceful moments, to spend as you will.
3) Sabotage: Something's gone terribly wrong. A factory blown up, a bridge destroyed, an assassination. What do you do about it?
4) Planning: How do you go about storming that beach?
5) Capture/Rescue: The enemy soldiers have you surrounded. Or maybe you're on a daring mission to break your buddies out of jail.
6) Other.
1) Ancient times: Grab that centurion's helmet, form up into a phalanx, and let's go crush those Gauls and/or Persians!
2) Medieval times: Suit up in your armor, grab a lance and make sure to bring along your squire.
3) Revolutionary times: Basic guns and muskets, very little medical care, and very little tactics. Give the other army a few days to dig in, and they'll hold you off forever.
4) World War I/II: Technology is advancing, and warfare is more sophisticated than ever. Remember the trenches, the skirmishes in cities, the spies and the drama.
5) Modern times: Guerilla warfare, modern tactics, modern technology.
6) The future: Ray guns? Space battles? Let your imagination go wild.
7) Other.
3+4, starting with 2, and 4
But he did get himself shot last mission with the Howlies, great job Sarge, stuck on supply duty until he's healed enough to get back to the real work. So here he is, shirt off and bandages pulled aside, showing the nurse the long gouge the bullet scored in his side. And how it's really further along than it should be, which he hopes to hell she doesn't notice.
While at the same time hoping she fucking clears him. He's going crazy, here at camp, not knowing what stupid shit Steve is getting into.
b l e s s e d
She means it, though at a certain point it becomes hard for anyone to discern the sincerity of medical staff from carefully honed habit. Some soothing becomes part of the work, whether it was earned or utilized only to soften some horrific blow about to be dealt. Lucky him, he's already taken his beating. Were she judging solely on the wound, she'd think it happened closer to a month than a week ago.
Which absolutely isn't correct, not that so much as a twitch on her face might betray that. Part of another job, and, thankfully, nobody discerns it.
A pat to his arm, five gentle, gloved digits making contact only the twice. She really doesn't bite. Merely watches, listens, and more carefully speaks.
"How has it felt? A sting, an itch, warmth...?" Necessary things to know, and also an excuse to get him talking while she pours over the wound again. She has to be certain. "And be honest. Infections will send you home in a box too."
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At least he's pretty sure a nurse would notice if his skin was going to start peeling off, like that creepy Schmidt fucker in the factory.
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Sad, she thinks. It would be good to fast track something - so many people could benefit from it. Will, yet.
"And the rest of you? Appetite normal, feverish spells you're too stoic to mention in passing?"
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Regardless: "Feeling about the same as before I was shot." Which is true! His appetite and temperature have not been "normal" in weeks. Months, even. He's absolutely warmer than usual on the rare occasions he actually gets enough to eat, and he's always fucking starving. That's not the fault of the wound.
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Straightening up, she moves for a thermometer. "You're allowed to rest."
icon refers to Steve not Misty
Maybe he never wanted to be here, but now that he is, and now that Steve's here, he's not going anywhere until he's seen it through.
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Also dry, a sad sentiment that forms a much thicker hide given the current global climate. Anyone could go at any time. Terrible, but if nothing else she gets some perspective out of it. "Stress and hazards age you, you know. There's no staving that off forever. The ones that outlast it are the ones smart enough to swallow their pride and pick their battles."
Not the best phrase to spit, but, eh. Applicable.
"The turnaround on this one's been very impressive, but you won't get that lucky again." In some way this is needling. Prompting. Pointing the oddity of it out only in periphery, a gauge of defensiveness. Awareness, period. Her eyes are then trained on his face.
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As if he could sweet-talk anyone into anything, as tense as he's been.
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A pause, as there's a temperature to take and she's nicer than to set him up for replies when there's something in his mouth. Quick work. Then right back to it:
"You're warm." Not quite feverish, but. "No discomfort moving around? Fatigue?"
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"Not any more than a GSW ought to give me," he says, twisting a little to look at the unbandaged wound, only wincing a little at the way it tugs the scab. It doesn't look remotely infected. Whatever's causing the rise in temperature ("whatever"; Christ, he just wishes he knew what that fucking scientist did to him), it's proooobably not the wound.
He gave his debrief after Steve led them all back from the factory. The brass got a lot of "I don't remember much" and "I didn't see what exactly it was" and shit, most of which was even true. But they don't know he got injected with something that felt like burning, they don't know about his senses or this. He doesn't know what they'd do if they did, and he doesn't want to find out.
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The tone is light, bordering on joking. Like this is part of a regimented, playful routine they share. Again, softness developed for the same ends as a callous.
"Because I want to trust you, but I don't think I'm quite sold. How's your head? Mood changes? Irritability?"
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After a beat he tries again, much more serious. "I'll swear on... Captain Rogers' life. Since I doubt you'd trust me swearing on my own if you think I wanna throw it away. I'm not lying." Everybody knows he's pretty attached to the punk, that might make a good enough thing to swear by.
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Mostly. It's a helpful extra set of eyes, at least. Less likely he'll let himself drop of some new metabolic shift.
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So he sighs, holds out his hand. "Deal, Nurse Day. You'll see me so much you'll be sick of me."
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He does still have some sociable spark about him, however rare it is these days; she can't help a minute little grin as she shakes his hand.
"No dancing around it, no funny business, no pleadin'. Once a day, no fuss, and we're golden."
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The week of rest they'd forced on him after the factory had been one thing, he'd had Steve to get caught up with (and bawl out for the whole science experiment thing), and the first of the changes to get used to, and a whole new division to help set up. Now, he's got nothing.
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He's bandaged up in short order, and she can discard her gloves and divert some focus to hand-washing. "Don't let me catch you sulking too much. Not good for you."
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Walking he can do. Prowling around the base camp is probably all he's got. That, and poring over maps for Steve and Carter.
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He can still do a pretty fine set of puppy eyes.
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"I would be, long as you understand that if anything happens to them you'll have more to worry about than just that one scratch." Hands dried, she motions to follow her as she goes to retrieve them. He needs no entrance to her tent, but it hardly seems worth making him meet her somewhere later for a drop-off. "Limited selection, warning you now. Hard to narrow it down."
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He's kidding. Mostly. The tone is kidding, anyway.
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Which turned out to be a good call, even if she's well funded. Boredom's a universal ill.
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"Sounds right up my alley, ma'am. There something you need in trade for using you as a library, or is this just a bribe to keep me from being obnoxious while I'm stuck in your med tent?" There we go, that's a better version of his usual smile for her.
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we've hit a point where typing his name ic makes me tense up, oh my god
it weirds me out to do it, too, lordy XD call him Sergeant Barnes maybe??
we're in DEEP
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