[Video/Action]

[chartom]

[If he were thinking clearly, Talbot would be approaching his first network transmission with a bit more finesse, restricting the communication to a voice or text message. But not only is he in a fix, he's fixated: if Drake or Sullivan were dragged down into this godawful place with him, he wants them to see his face; he wants them to experience the itching of a gaze on their backs every time they step outside.]

I need a surgeon. [The video feed is unreliable, but the splash of aged blood around the entry wound in his shoulder is hard to miss on the backdrop of his white shirt when it momentarily sputters into clarity. He tilts the screen up, putting his tired face into view.

There's a hiss of static, then:] --and I need information.

((OOC: If you're a castmate, your thread's probably going to get encrypted to prevent eavesdroppers!))

Comments

[inwhichwar]

On my good days, yes. And it would do you good to apply some pressure to that wound, if a doctor may say so.

[Damn these network problems, anyway, as if the gizmo didn't give her enough headaches.]

From the look of things in the background there, and from you not being a dead man, I take it you are down here in the catacombs somewhere?

[chartom]

I am. But... [For the moment, the network seems to be cooperating. More or less.] I doubt you'll get far down here on a description of landmarks. I'll attach my approximate location, the connection willing.

[He shifts to lean forward over the keyboard, the motion stiff and unnatural.]

I'm not about to bleed to death. Wound's a few days old. It's the infection that worries me.

[inwhichwar]

Ach, well, better and better.

[The video feed on her end skips a few frames, then freezes completely as the audio shorts out, coming back to show her armed with a forearm crutch and a satchel of supplies.]

- biotic, at the least. Be so good as to try sending where it is you are and I shall come see to you.

[chartom]

[He does so. Whether the geocode is entirely reliable is another matter.]

See if that doesn't help. [He considers the crutch, and for a moment, Talbot entertains the idea of going to her instead. But if his enemies are here, he won't risk exposing himself further.]

You have my thanks.

[video to action]

[inwhichwar]

[Maria waves a hand airily.]

Pfeh, when I've done something besides talk we can see about thank-yous. For now -- I shall see you shortly.

[Or not so shortly; the coordinates do at least upload, but they lead her to the meeting of several corridors and it takes her a bit more wandering before she finally tracks him down. When she does show up, she does so grumbling under her breath in a hodge-podge mix of Russian, English, and very poor Spanish.]

[chartom]

[His manners get the better of him when the poor woman limps into view, and he stands quickly, setting his rifle aside and stepping forward to offer her his good arm.]

Let me help you with that. [He nods at the satchel.]

[inwhichwar]

Ah, well, a gentleman, then. Thank you very much, I'm sure, but it's not so very heavy.

[She will, however, take the offered arm, because it pays to be polite in turn to those who are polite to you.]

What I suggest is we both of us find a place to sit with some decent light, and I'll give you a looking-over. You have a name, something I can call you? Mine is Maria Gordon.

[chartom]

[He helps her over to the alcove, where he's cleared a clean space to sit against the wall. Lighting will be a bit more tricky. They may have to rely upon a strategically angled netbook.]

It's my pleasure to meet you, Ms. Gordon. You can call me Talbot.

[inwhichwar]

Maria does just fine for me, Talbot. And the pleasure is mine, I'm sure.

[She shrugs the satchel off her shoulder and takes a seat -- it takes some awkward maneuvering, given that her left leg quite clearly doesn't bend to the full range of normal motion, but she doesn't seem terribly bothered by it. She's used to it by now.]

Now then. Let's see what the damages are, hm?

[chartom]

[Once he's finished fretting over the poor woman, Talbot sets to opening his shirt and working his shoulder free of it. The dressing's already been removed, leaving the angry red entry mark at the crown of his deltoid exposed.]

It's three, four days old.

[inwhichwar]

[Maria makes a disapproving tch noise and delves into the satchel for hand sanitizer and gloves, which she applies. "Sterile" is a joke given their current conditions, but one does what one can.

That done, she leans forward and peers at the wound, pressing a thumb experimentally to the nearby flesh.]

You have had any signs of fever or weakness, any feeling of heat or burning in the arm or the wound itself?

[chartom]

[Talbot winces at the prodding, though he does try to keep obvious signs of physical discomfort to a minimum.]

Yes, the fever started in today. [If not for that, he might not have asked for help at all.]

[inwhichwar]

Ahuh.

[She doesn't sound surprised because she isn't. She sits back a bit and frowns.]

You have allergies I should know about, Talbot -- sulfa, penicillin, anything of that sort?

[chartom]

[The woman's thoroughness is comforting. In putting out the call, he hadn't dared hope he'd nab anything resembling a professional in this wretched hole in the ground.]

No. You're all clear.

[inwhichwar]

Very good. I don't have so much of a selection down here with me, so fewer complications is best.

[Out of the satchel comes a wrapped syringe and a small bottle of fluid. She goes through the motions of drawing a dose as she speaks.]

So. We do nothing fancy, no surgery or any of that which could introduce more contaminations. But antibiotic and some cleaning up, that we can accomplish down here and not cause more than we solve. Sehr gut?