exsilium | [001

[Well he's not ruling it out. Not with her looking like that and-- he scowls, a muscle in his jaw working. The pain radiating up from his leg is giving him a tension headache, but sure. Maybe he hit his head on the way down too. With his luck the way it's been, a concussion sounds just about right.]

It's broken, all right? I think-- [No, he knows.] I took a bad fall.

[That explains the pissy attitude. Or part of it, anyway.]

Where are you, then? I'll send some help your way-- [Which, of course, is what she'd do if not for unfamiliar territory and...] what's the emergency code around here? 999? 995? 102, 140...?

[Emergency code? Bollocks, he can't-- Charlie pinches the bridge of his nose. There's blood on his pant leg and he doesn't want to know what that means. If the bone is--]

If there was an emergency code, do you think I'd be on the network asking for help? I'm not quite so daft as all that, darling.

[It's more exasperation than real irritation, pain grinding up to the back of his eyes and pressing. And who knows how stable these catacombs are after the bombings and the age and-- no, he's not thinking about that.]

Dunno. You've hit your head and snapped your leg in what looks like a sewer, of all places. Seems like the potential for daftness is remarkably high.

[Just saying.]

So where's the rescue squad?

[Wow, thanks so much. She's just so goddamn helpful it hurts.

Or maybe that's the snapped matchstick of a leg. It's anyone's guess.]

I'm sure someone'll be round any second now so long as the creepy crawlies don't get me first.

Is that the "oh I'm sure they'll come for me but I'm really just saying it to be polite" kind of sure, or the "no, really, I do actually have friends and they're on their way" sort?

[Wait, creepy crawlies...] --you're not afraid of a few spiders, are you?

The latter. [Oh and there's some steel in that.]

And no, you know I find I'm not too fond of them when they're bigger than my head.

What, seriously? Down there? No way.

[The more stern his expression, the more amused hers gets. You know, irritated as he might be, it's still a distraction. Which is kind of along the lines of punching someone to help them forget a severe injury.]

[It's the universe playing a joke on him. Some kind of karmic justice, he guesses. The moment he tries to do something productive with his time - take a job, go poking about less than personally comfortable places for the sake of it? -, he's rewarded with a broken leg and all her wit and sarcasm back in spades. Only now it's directed right at him in the sharpest way and he finds he's not really accustomed to it anymore. Not like this.

Or hell, maybe the leg's just making his short temper even shorter.]

Maybe it's just the concussion talking.

[Looks like he's worn thin as hell, and yeah, okay, she hasn't helped much with that, but certainly not to this extent-- not unless he has the thinnest skin in the world. But he hasn't outright bitten at her, either, so maybe he's not all that bad. Maybe. Not even close to making a judgment call yet. ]

Well, staying awake is one of those things I hear tends to help. Want some company?

[The scowl working its way deeper into the corners of his face shifts slightly. He's clearly -- surprised isn't really the right word. More he just doesn't really know what to do with the offer for a second. He fumbles with the tablet for a moment, the light from the camera swaying across his features.

It's selfish and he knows it, but:] Sure, fine. Company would be fine.

[Whatever surprise Charlie lacks, Chloe makes up for. It's not that she expected him to say 'piss off' or anything, but that the offer was just meant to be over the net; a more pleasant tablet-carried conversation than the one they'd been having to keep him busy till whoever is on the way turns up.

But the way he thinks it over, the heavy shadows under his eyes that aren't cast from the light-- well, she's not really that heartless.

...Plus, if he's a dick, she'll just scam him and be done with it.]

Coordinates.

I'll attach them. The easiest route is through a run off canal north of the-- [Does she even know what the Hold is? If she's asking after emergency codes... Fuck it.] --the Hold. It looks like a sewage system, but there's a walkway down that leads nearly straight to the catacombs. Should be cake from there.

Got it. [And that's all he gets in the way of a goodbye, because shit, she doesn't owe him jack when they just met two seconds ago-- which is also why she keeps her .45 out and tight in the palm of her hand while she navigates through the mostly intact system of tunnels. She turns up a good twenty minutes later, pistol still in hand and tablet in the other, checking twice around the corner to be sure he's not some creeper faking it for the sake of an easy target. The fact that he's really down doesn't really change her wariness, either, but it means she does show herself-- her slightly smaller, long winter coat bundled self-- without aiming the muzzle of her gun at his face.]

Bored yet?

[No, he's definitely not lurking around the corner. In fact Charlie's pretty sure that he's sitting in a puddle, but the ache in his leg and the numbness creeping up his side is exactly the sort of combination that makes it difficult to know for sure. When he tried to shift out of the damp spot earlier, there was a stab of agony that made him decide that moving wasn't exactly preferable. That he'd rather live and die in the puddle than drag himself out of it.

Between that and the leg stretched in front of him, looking unnaturally buckled in a place it really shouldn't be, and with all the color drained from his face-- well, he'd be less threatening if he didn't have a gun in the hand not wrapped around a flashlight. The tablet rests in his lap. Charlie sways the beam of the flashlight to her, blinking slowly.]

Someone took their sweet time. Those boots filled with lead?

I'm here, aren't I? More than I can say for your friends.

[She blinks against the light, puts a hand over her face till she can get in close and get a better glance at his grizzly state of existence. He looks like a regular bruiser, some old pubcrawler that said one too many stupid things for his own good and wound up paying for if with the usual scars and scuffs-- he's worn right down to the fraying edges of his clothes and...Christ, she might actually feel a bit sad for the poor bastard.]

--the hell, mate. How did you manage that down here?

[He makes a low tangled sound like a laugh and shifts the light off her, pointing the beam away to the far wall where it isn't quite so blinding. Christ, that's one way of putting it. In the twenty minutes or so it took her to get to him, he put some thought to the possibility that this is a... spare. Because if the Initiative pulled one version of them, there's no saying they couldn't pull two, right? Could be there's two of them running about now.

But then his leg is broken, so something fucked is going on with the the whole time travel thing. Something's glitching out. So more than likely, no. No, he's pretty sure it's just her.

He debates between two options and goes with both because he doesn't know which is easier to explain:] I fell. It's an old injury. Which is just some kind of bad luck, eh?

Seen a lot of that, have you?

[Which is the mildest way of saying he looks like crap in the most general sense without being directly insulting. And she moves in to squat beside him, but there's a pool of water that looks filthy enough to kill soaking him through to the wound, which is concerning to even the most careless of creatures. Her gun shifts to her left hand, she loops her right around his chest beneath his left arm.]

C'mon, lend me a hand here. And your good leg.

--you do have one of those, yeah?

Edited 2013-01-22 13:11 (UTC)

How kind of you to notice.

[It's just trading one cheap shot for another really, but he makes it anyway because at this point he doesn't exactly have much to lose. Particularly when a moment later she's moving in to help him to his feet.

For a second or two he braces against the contact, a surge of hesitation over the idea of moving; of jostling his leg at all; of-- but sitting in a muddy corridor probably isn't actually an option, as much as he'd like it to be.]

Surprisingly enough I think I can manage that much, love.

[He sets the tablet aside, the flashlight and the gun as well. Don't make a noise, don't make a noise, he thinks and fails miserably at it as he gets to his-- foot? -- despite the help of her arm around him. Just the hanging weight of his bum leg hurts something awful and he sways from the pain of it, panting hard.]

[She nearly buckles under his weight twice in the process; he's huge, and leverage just isn't on their side in trying to pull him upright with one leg, plus however the hell much soaked jeans actually weigh. (Chloe's current guess is about eighty million tons) There's a dryer section of crumbled wall not far off, though the ten or so feet are brutal to cover for the both of them. Doesn't help that he's heaving like a beaten horse against her right from the get go; she shoulders as much of him as she can manage-- and then some-- out of fear he'll give out and collapse before they're even halfway there. Makes her wonder if he really was lying about having someone on the way, if it was all just stubborn pride, and possibly the same sort that led to him laying bloody and alone in the middle of the catacombs.

It's unpleasant-- no, it just plain sucks, but she's shaking with effort by the time she's close enough to just half shove, half drop his bulk down to the flattened rubble, and the distinctly sharp, persistent pinch winding its way through her upper back tells her she's probably just pulled more muscle than she can remember having. She's sure she's climbed cliff sides that were easier than that.]

All right....[She hunches over to drop her hands to her knees and catch her breath.] now you owe me....

[He keeps a hand on the wall in some attempt to help support himself, though he's not sure if it helps or not as he swears and hisses through the process. The drop back down to the ground is more abrupt than his leg is really pleased with, but his good leg buckles the second she does and he sits down hard on the rubble and dirt, earning himself and his wet jeans a thorough topcoat of dust.

Charlie lifts his bad leg by the thigh, trying to work it into something resembling a straight line -- 'Ah ha, shit.' -- and shoots her a weary sidelong glance.] All right, s'fair. I'll buy you a pint later. You're old enough to drink, yeah?

[Obviously. Doesn't stop it from being funny (and fucking ridiculous Jesus Christ).]

Edited 2013-01-22 22:28 (UTC)

Aha, cute. [There's a winded chuckle as she sits down beside him, tucking her .45 away.]

What were you doing down here, anyway? Not exactly the safest place to be...doesn't look like the most rewarding either.

Phf, working a job for some idiot. Should've been easy money.

[Which isn't usually what he'd tell someone he just met, but it comes out of his mouth automatically before he really thinks about it. Not that 'working a job' can't mean any number of things, but-- well, they're in some dank horrible catacombs and Chloe Frazer, even one a good ten years younger than he knows her, isn't stupid.

He clears his throat, breathing catching in his chest as the flare of pain in his leg from moving subsides back to the low horrible ache. Anyway.] Y'know you don't really strike me as the type to make a habit of running off to help strangers.

I don't. [Her shoulders lift and fall in a shrug. She's digging around in her pockets for something, so one side of it is lower than the other.

And no, no, 'job' means ones very universal thing in Chloe's book-- one thing she's more than willing to attach to even the most friendly looking of strangers.]

What'd they send you in for? [ in other words: is it close, can she get it?]

[He opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again and starts to make some vague hand motion to accompany whatever's going to come out of his mouth and-- no, there's no salvaging it. Any way he puts it, it sounds absolutely mental.]

Hypothetically speaking if I said the words 'cassette player,' how batty does that make me seem?

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