[log] A couple small problems [closed/open-ish]

[dr_unconscious]

Characters: Clayton Epps, Enoch, possibly others?
Location E9, building 40
Date: Day 23 (night), maybe day 24!
Summary: Clayton has gone for almost three weeks without proper footwear and is now in a position where he can properly deal with the consequences. Unfortunately it isn't gonna be pleasant (night 23, closed to Enoch, main prompt). On day 24, he's stuck in the moldy living room by himself while he recovers (day 24, open to anyone passing through the area, just reply with a starter!).
Warnings: Frostbite and amputations, in that order.

[Clayton is trying to remain optimistic about the whole thing. As unpleasant as it was being in that school and all the horrible things that happened around their visit, he and Enoch came out like kings--the both of them with a week's worth of rations, a new carrying case for his medical supplies, first aid kits, new alliances--shoes. Goddamn, these shoes. They're not quite the right size and Clayton couldn't care less. Padded out with washcloths and covered in torn plastic smock strips, they are infinitely better than anything else he's had on his feet since he arrived here.]

[Unfortunately it's not quite enough to reverse the damages. That's what he keeps coming back to, and that's what has him so nervous, in spite of the fire Enoch is coaxing and the entertainment he's trying to distract himself with on the network. He's pale and anxious, flitting between this post and that and making casual conversation, when finally he hears the door to the isolated living room lock with a subtle click of the deadbolt.]

Ah...that's good. No monsters t'night.

[Said mostly to himself than to Enoch; Clayton didn't want to bring up anything until he knew for certain that they wouldn't be interrupted by the big nasties outside, if they followed from the sports shed. Or at least, that's what he keeps telling himself. Totally not delaying the inevitable. Nope.]

[There's another long, pensive pause, while Clayton continues to definitely not buy time. Then he suddenly shuts off his tablet and twists on the couch to face Enoch.]

--Can I ask you a favor?

Comments

Day 24 | Action

[lancingintherain]

[after her and her teammates' narrow escape from that monster in the kitchen a couple days ago, Freya's been far more cautious about exploring new buildings. Having split from the group to cover more ground alone, she's being especially careful—being with five people for the past week meant she could depend on more eyes and ears than just her own, but her old instincts from years of solo travel are still alive and well.]

[the house she's just explored had turned out monster-free, but when the broken silhouette of what's left of building 40 emerges out of the storm, she approaches it carefully and quietly, making almost no sound as she steps through the snow. She doesn't go for the door yet—she'll make a circle around the ruined house to check the outside, first.]

[she shifts bits of rubble aside here and there as she circles back around, looking for anything useful. She does it quietly, but if Clayton's listening hard, he might hear some suspicious sounds from outside.]

[dr_unconscious]

[Clayton might have missed her if he was actually sleeping. Fortunately he isn't--he hasn't been able to since the previous night, as much as he's desperately needed it, and instead lies in a half-doze on the couch, sifting around in discomfort, frustration, and boredom. He doesn't have the energy to occupy himself, but little distractions keep him from properly resting, resulting in an ultimately increasingly exasperating time alone.]

[At some point one of the little distractions becomes regular enough that it actually captures his attention. That noise from outside...at first he placed it as the wind blowing things around outside, but now he's starting to think it's more purposeful. Is Enoch back already? Maybe, but they usually don't spend time rifling through rubble, especially when the firewood inside appears to replenish itself overnight. A monster? Also possible, though it must be an exceptionally clumsy one. That leaves the option of it being a passing stranger, which means they'll most likely come inside soon anyways. He can wait.]

[Clayton's judgement is a little shoddy right now. The thought crosses his mind and then suddenly he's shifted to sitting on the edge of the couch. Oh, well. Guess he's going outside then. Clayton gingerly hobbles his way to the door and cracks it open, just enough to where he can poke his head out and scan the front of the building.]

[lancingintherain]

[she hears something moving inside the house just as she rounds the corner to the front, and quickly darts back behind the edge out of sight. Holding her improvised spiky bludgeon (made from a wood plank with shards of scrap metal pounded in one end) close, she freezes in place, only her ears moving under her hat as she tracks the sounds to the door and hears it open.]

[the footsteps don't sound like a monster—those things are impossible to hurt, as far as she knows, and they move fast. They don't shamble or hobble.]

[she lifts her face and scents the air, but the cold is brutal on her sense of smell, and the wind's moving wrong to catch more than a hint of anything. She waits another tense moment or two, debating whether to stay hidden or not, but finally clears her throat to give herself away. She keeps her voice easy, despite how tense she is.]

Still snowing, if you're coming out to check the weather.

[dr_unconscious]

[Silence prevails for a while between the both of them. Clayton is content to stay in one place and listen--partially because he's resting his foot and doesn't want to brave the trip back to the couch so soon, partially because he's waiting to see if he hears that noise again. A minute passes and he hears nothing. It's just long enough for Clayton to wonder if he was actually just hallucinating, and consider that maybe he should close the door before he gets frostbite bad enough again to cut off something else, when he hears someone clear their throat from around the side of the building.]

[Clayton takes a sharp breath and snaps his head around to the offending corner. That was deliberate. Someone trying to get his attention. Feminine-sounding...she talks, and yes, that's definitely a female voice. Not one he immediately recognizes, but she sounds friendly enough--except that she doesn't seem to want to show herself. That's odd.]

[Well, Clayton certainly isn't going to try and corner her (mainly because he physically can't). He, too, works to keep his voice light and calm.]

Don't hurt t' make sure. [...or tries to. What ends up coming out is hoarse and cracked, noticeably worn. Clayton pauses briefly to try and clear his throat and fix this. He is marginally successful.] Who do I have t' thank fer the update?

[lancingintherain]

[she breathes deeply as he talks, picking up more from the cold air: the woodsmoke and human smells, she'd been expecting—every building she's been in so far has smelled like that—but the hint of blood is an unpleasant surprise. She puts those thoughts on hold, though, when she realizes she recognizes that voice.]

Clayton? Is that you?

[man, he sounds like he's in rough shape. She relaxes a little bit, but still doesn't move to step around the corner.]

It's... I'm Freya. We haven't met before, but I'm a friend of Alphonse's—we're traveling in a group together.

...Are you hurt?

[dr_unconscious]

[In retrospect, it's an obvious leap to make to associate Clayton's heavy southeastern drawl with him when he's the only one (left--still holding out hope for George, bless his heart) who has it. It's even more obvious if she's been traveling with Al. Naturally she would have heard of him through Al, if through no other means on the network. It all works out fine and well and really isn't all that important in the grand scheme of things, at least not in Clayton's opinion, as he's mostly just relieved that she recognizes him and has taken to being friendly.]

[...How she knows he's hurt, though, is a little troubling. Does he really sound that bad? Goodness. Clayton tries again to clear his throat, more subtly this time.]

Freya. Well, I'm pleased as peach t' meet ya, Freya. [He laughs, weakly, in some vain attempt to try and assuage her anxiety, although he's well aware that she's going to see him when she comes inside and there's no hiding it at that point. Oh well, it's the thought that counts.] I'm, ah...well I can't come out t' greet ya proper, I'm afraid. We can talk inside. Come on, door's open and I ain't a biter.

[lancingintherain]

[he certainly sounds as friendly in person as he does on the network—and anyway, so many people trusting him was already a good sign. She even finds herself smiling faintly as she returns his joke:]

That's a relief; neither am I. All right—I'd be pleased to come inside.

[she sighs and straightens her coat, pats Al's snowshoes to make sure they're tied securely to her pack, and then tucks her scary-looking hobo weapon under one arm to make herself look less threatening. There's nothing she can do about the rest of her natural appearance, but even as she braces for whatever his reaction will be, she holds out hope that he's from a world like hers, where humans don't think snouts and tails on strangers are that big of a deal.]

Thank you. I—

[she steps out from around the corner with more friendly words planned out, but they die immediately when, in looking over Clayton from head to toes, she reaches his toes. Or what's left of them. Her eyes go wide.]

Gods, what's happened to you?

[dr_unconscious]

[Very good! Clayton is pleased--so much so that he almost forgets about how this person he's been talking to has been very wary of showing her face so far and that there's probably a reason for that. He does not forget about this for long.]

[That. Sure is a six-foot-tall rat talking to him.]

[Well.]

[He must've fallen asleep. Maybe one of the stumps got infected and he passed out from the pain, and now he's having a very convincing fever dream. It would be easier to tell if he had the same mental awareness that his abilities granted him; even so, Clayton has some basic tactics to fall back on. His first reaction isn't to balk or to start, but to look down at the free hand that isn't supporting him against the door frame and mentally count his fingers. Yup, still five there, four and a thumb. Probably not dreaming then.]

[With that out of the way, now he balks. It could maybe be passed off as a standard look for him, given the circumstances; he's pale and clammy, greasy hair matted to his forehead with cold sweat, and the good leg that's supporting him noticeably trembles from stress and exhaustion. Clearly Clayton isn't in a very personable state right now. It's as good of an excuse for staring as any.]

[Thankfully, Freya's outburst distracts Clayton from all of these things.]

Don't worry, it was on purpose. [He chuckles weakly at his own joke and. Stares a bit more. Man, he just can't get over this whole talking rat thing. She's got the backpack, she's gotta be one of the group, just...wow. You don't see that every day.]

[Oh, wait, he's blocking the door. Clayton blinks to attention and straightens his posture, as much as he can.]

--Ah, sorry. Awful rude a me. [And now he's lifting off the side of the frame and trying to step out of the way and hold open the door for her. As it turns out, the trip there was a lot easier when he'd been resting before then, as now neither leg seems willing to support his weight and he looks dangerously close to toppling over with each halting step.] Come on, come on, where it's warm...

[lancingintherain]

[the way he stares at her is disappointing, and makes her feel frustratingly self-conscious, but she brushes it off as the least disturbing thing about this whole situation. Poor Clayton looks every bit as unwell as he sounds, and the smell of blood is undeniable as she moves towards the doorway. Despite her unease, though, she keeps up her outward friendliness, grateful that her hat hides the way her ears briefly flatten against her head.]

On purpose? Wait—

[when he tries to hold the door open all wobbly like that, she quickly steps closer and holds out her hand. How reassuring he'll actually find her gesture is debatable, though, considering that she's got four fingers to his five, and that all of them are tipped with sharp claws.]

Here; take my arm. You can barely stand.

[dr_unconscious]

[Man, Freya, he'll take whatever the hell he can get right now. Clayton reaches out for her hand partially on instinct and the need for stability, partially to see if she's solid and, in fact, not some elaborate pain-and-fever-induced hallucination. As she isn't, his curiosity is quickly sated and all thoughts go to keeping his balance--consequently, most of his weight goes to Freya's arm.]

Sorry--thank you. I appreciate it. [Hope you're willing to back up that offer, friend, because Clayton's going to need a lot of help here. He chuckles nervously through a wince.] Jus' some little toes, y'know--how can a couple a toes hurt so much? It jus' don't make any sense...

[lancingintherain]

[she looks down at his bandaged foot again.]

Well, you've cut them off. That's not a very little thing.

[she scoops an arm around his back, ready to take most of his weight should he lean into her, and starts to walk with him towards the couch. She's anxious to get him there and sitting down, but she also doesn't want to push him, so she relies on him to set the pace.]

Hold onto me, that's it. How did you lose them? [wait, woops, he's trying to walk] —Damn; wait. Don't speak yet.

[dr_unconscious]

[Clayton obliges--insomuch as he's perfectly happy to sling his arm and Freya's shoulders and use her as a crutch. She's tall, but not very sturdy-looking, and he lacks the energy to hop, so his pace is a slow, hesitating and deliberate limp.]

[Resting on his good leg, Clayton reaches out behind him and pushes the door closed. He manages one step, which makes him feel nauseous enough with pain to deeply consider taking a second. They hold there for some moments.]

Don't you worry, I can talk 'n chew bubble gum at the same time, ain't-- [He cuts off abruptly at the second step, immediately contradicting everything he's just said] --ain't a problem.

[There's a nervous chuckle, a couple quick breaths, and a third step. Thank god this living room isn't too big, because otherwise this would take forever.]

...Don't ya know? [Clayton flashes a weak, strained smile.] They ain't attached no more, then I must've misplaced 'em. It happens.

[lancingintherain]

[she mirrors his smile, then focuses on being his support. His pace is so slow and obviously painful that part of her wonders if she shouldn't volunteer to pick him up and carry him to the sofa herself.]

Lean into me all you need to. Gods, how did you make it to the door by yourself, in this condition?

[she catches the subtle, but unmistakable smell of infected flesh in the smoky air of the room, but manages to only make a little bit of a face. Something he might mistake for her just reacting to everything in general.]

No—I've got a better question. After you'd made it to the door, what were you planing to do if there had been something dangerous poking around this shelter, instead of me?

[warriorscribe]

[Enoch had seen Clayton's toes, when he swapped out foot coverings. He'd tried offering his rainboots, but was turned down every time.

Not, of course, that it mattered much at this point, to the two afflicted toes. The desert could get dangerously cold at night, even more dangerous with high winds. He's seen it a few times, not often enough it was at the front of his mind, but he knew it could happen. It's why his first priority was to find clothing or ways to make them.

Clearly, his companion hadn't been so lucky.

He manages to get the fire somewhere self-sustaining, and looks over his shoulder at Clayton. He's been on edge, he's noticed, and that can't mean anything good.]

Yes? [There's a note of apprehension to his voice - he may not exactly know what's coming up, but something has made Clayton uneasy, clearly, and that makes him nervous all the same.] What is it?

[dr_unconscious]

[When two highly empathetic people are both getting nervous at one another being nervous, the result is almost comically compounded. Clayton looks away from Enoch almost as soon as he answers, too anxious and guilty to hold his gaze, and focuses instead on the side wall while he threads his fingers in his lap. There is a significantly long pause before he gathers his thoughts enough to respond.]

...You ain't squeamish, are ya?

[This is important.]

[warriorscribe]

On the contrary, I have a very strong stomach.

[As he speaks, the nervous tension only becomes stronger. It's starting to dawn on him, and Clayton clearly, understandably, dreads it.

Amputation has been used for a long, long time, long enough for Enoch to know about it. The amputation he is familiar with, though, is confined to already-dead tissue, and is much riskier. Inherently, this is a bigger concern for him than it really is, given Clayton's knowledge.

But, about that first point - it's not like he hasn't recognized it. It means he does know there's a need for it. So he takes a deep breath, trying to quell his nervousness. He'll need someone to be strong. His next words are quiet, resolute.]

...Tell me what you need.

[He reaches into his backpack - he always removes it inside, for easy access without having to remove his cloak every time - and starts taking things out, one by one. He's accumulated a lot by this day.]

[dr_unconscious]

[Clayton isn't entirely sure how much Enoch knows about what he's agreeing to, which is what he's feeling guiltiest about, but he at least seems to realize that it isn't going to be pleasant. This is an understatement--it'd be one thing if he just needed help stitching up a bad wound or setting a broken bone, but those are at least in his department. Clayton stays well away from surgery. The stress combined with the time crunch and required blistering efficiency is entirely too much for him to handle. A couple live viewings and a single in-room overseeing was all he needed to know that this environment was not for him. And now here he is, getting ready to do it on himself, and with someone else relying on his guidance to get it done correctly. At least it's only his toes and not something more critical, but still, the pressure is real and unsettling.]

[Small mercies, that Enoch is doing his best to sound calm. Clayton takes a deep breath, swallows hard, and nods, bending forward to take off his new shoes. He starts listing things off as Enoch empties his backpack.]

Let's see...bandages, first off, though I got some a those from them med kits Zelda got us. Got the fire goin' t' heat up whatever tools we got--need somethin' sharp...them scissors 'll do, 'less we got somethin' sharper. Some kinda sewin' kit would be nice, but it ain't necessary. Got some water t' rinse, some-- [He looks up in the middle of peeling off the sock on his good foot to actually see what Enoch's produced from his backpack and is pleasantly surprised.] --You got soap? Well that'll do nice. Use it t' wash off some a these towels fer bindin'...

[And Clayton just...automatically assumes that Enoch knows what soap is for, so he leaves his own backpack and assorted supplies out for him to sort through while he takes off the other sock and rolls up the leg of his pants. The two littlest toes on his left foot are the obvious culprits; the smallest is turning suspiciously black, and the one next to it is red, swollen, cracked and oozing and just plain unpleasant to look at. That's the dangerous one. If anything's going to go wrong here, it'll be with the toe that's already infected. But better to try and get rid of it than wait for it to take over his whole foot instead, right? Maybe?]

[warriorscribe]

I do?

[He asks immediately after Clayton points it out, looking curiously at the little pile. The little heart-shaped bar of soap (though he assumed the shape was some sort of flower petal) didn't look, smell, or feel quite like any of the soap made in his time. He'd thought it was a candle, actually. He'd kept it because in the state of mind he'd been in when he found it, its assumed resemblance to a living thing and its smell had been comforting to him. He'd taken it with him on a whim.

It's also better to focus on that than to try to focus on what they're about to do - they do not really have the right tools for this job by any standards and he's afraid of making things worse for his new friend.]

[dr_unconscious]

[Clayton does a quick double-take, but is quick to discover what Enoch is talking about. He huffs a laugh. Enoch doesn't recognize soap? Well, he supposes that isn't too outlandish, but it's something little for him to be amused about in an otherwise very serious situation, so hey, he'll take it.]

Yeah--the slippery heart-shaped stuff, o'er yonder. [He gestures again, although it appears that Enoch's already trained his attention on it.] Wet it a little, get some suds on these towels here-- [And here are the towels, two of them, previously stuffed inside his shoes.] --wash 'em down good. Infection's what we gotta worry 'bout most; this'll help prevent it.

[Help prevent it. Not a guarantee by any stretch, especially when one toe is already severely infected. Man, what he would do for some actual antibiotics right now...]

Same fer them scissors. Wipe 'em off, wash 'em down, heat 'em up in the fire, there. Can't be too careful, yeah?

[warriorscribe]

Heart-shaped?

[He sees nothing shaped like a heart. But when Clayton gestures to it, he reaches for it, picking it up and squinting at it as if that could make it look any more heart-like]

This is meant to be a heart? It looks like a flower petal.

[He gets to testing it out, though, scrubbing the towels with the help of a bit of water from one of his water bottles.]

It's...not quite like the soap I know. Close, but the feel and smell of it...I thought it was a candle of some sort.

[He glances at the scissors nervously as he cleans off the towels. Will they really do? Are they really sharp enough? Sure, anything sufficiently pointed could work with enough time and effort, but he has no desire to torture the poor man...or to watch him torture himself, as the case may be.]

[dr_unconscious]

[Clayton pauses, stares Enoch down for a few moments. Then he laughs again, a hearty, affectionate laugh, because dammit, he needs something to laugh about right now, even if it's just the odd cultural disconnect of not recognizing a simple heart. He calms down in stages.]

Whoo, lord... [He drags a hand down his face to regain his composure, still shuddering from repressed giggles.] ...Naw, don't...don't worry 'bout it. We'll call it a flower petal. Y'know, that makes more sense 'n a heart, don't it? Hearts ain't look nothin' like that.

[In the midst of their casual smalltalk, Clayton has waited for Enoch to finish scrubbing a towel and now holds his hand out for it.]

[warriorscribe]

[Enoch can't help but smile along. He knows he's a fish out of water here, and he needs the excuse to smile after where his mind's just been.]

It's all right, [he insists, handing over the cleaned towel and starting on the other,] if it's meant to be a heart, I'll call it a heart. I wonder how this shape came to be called a heart, though.

[Of course, he can't leave it at that, and as he hands over the second completed towel, he looks down at the soap in his other hand and adds,] ...Actually, it looks a bit like a fig leaf, too.

[dr_unconscious]

Strange when you give it some thought, ain't it? [Clayton takes the first towel and promptly gets to work cleaning himself--first his hands with one side of the soapy towel, then his foot with the other, delicately navigating the tender toe that's causing him the most difficulty. Unlike the mostly dead digit nearby, this one is half-thawed and already irritatingly painful. Yet another reason why this isn't going to be very fun.] There's gotta be some middle stage we're missin' here--maybe we'll find somebody who's 150 years old that can fill it in, y'think?

[He looks up with a joking grin to see Enoch's reaction, only to be met with the second towel. Clayton stares at it a moment, then shakes his head and waves it away.]

Ah--nah, that's fer you. Wipe off yer hands, then the scissors 'fore you heat 'em up.

[warriorscribe]

...Oh. Sorry, I wasn't paying attention.

[Smiling sheepishly, he takes the towel back to clean his hands and the scissors, as instructed. He can't help but worry again, though, as he's actually preparing the instrument itself...]

Clayton...do we really have everything we need?

[There is a limit to the ability to say everything's fine. For Enoch, it falters when it comes to inflicting harm on others. Even if it's deliberate.]

[dr_unconscious]

[Clayton murmurs a vague apology, but otherwise falls silent, staring blankly at the far wall. He doesn't really want to answer that question--neither of the answers that come to mind are good ones, at least not in the long run. He could lie and say that this is all fine, for example, but Enoch isn't an idiot. This isn't fine. It will become very obvious once they get started with the more in-depth part of the procedure how absolutely not fine this is. So this only leaves one viable response available.]

Nah. [He looks back with a weak, pained smile.] We're missin' antibiotics, scalpels, a bone saw, needle 'n stitches, we ain't got enough gauze--an' while we're at it, might as well look 'round fer the clean room, eh?

[It's presented like a joke, but the latent frustration is clear in the strain of Clayton's voice--at the situation in general, not Enoch. He wasn't trained to work in this kind of environment with so few resources available. Proper resources, mind. A sterile operating room a moldy ruined house does not make. Cutting corners at a time like this not only feels fundamentally wrong to him, it's just plain dangerous.]

[And yet...Clayton breathes a deep sigh and purses his lips.]

...'Fraid there ain't no gettin' around it. This ain't gonna heal, an' the longer we wait, the more a me I'm puttin' at risk. 'Least now I got some shoes t' keep it from happenin' again, yeah?