The Aftermath

July 08, 2016:

The Authority gather at a safehouse to get help and deal with the aftermath..

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Characters

NPCs: None.

Mentions:

Plot:

Mood Music: [*\# None.]


Fade In…

"GO GO GO!" Peabody says hurridly as he helps Lunair carry the unconscious form of naked broken and bleeding Slade Wilson across neatly cut lawn of some house in suburban… … …where the fuck are they again? Ottawa, that's right. Bare feet, crusty with old blood and sicky with new, drag through grass trimmings that can't be more then a day old as they've not even managed to stop being bright green yet, collecting on his cimson skin like wee vampiric vegetables.

It's night out and the flight to the helipad and then from there to here and the drive from there to this location has been a longer then pleasent lesson in keeping a heart beating, especially when Slade's has been seemingly set on giving up the ghost. Peabody made a few calls and now here they are as a team, dragging 300+ lbs of solid super dense muscle across a lawn and into some cookie cutter 'just like all the others' house in the middle of suburban hell in the middle of hte night. Maybe because it's dark out, maybe it's the convienent lack of a street light here near the front of the house, or maybe it's just because this is Canada and people mind their own damned business, no one sticks a head out of a door to check on the odd sounds, no lights come on in the neighborhood.

The door is open and as soon as they're through the door they spot the nurse, she's a breath shy of six feet tall and she's built like a pornstar had sex with a wet dream, all long legs and straining blouse buttons. She's wearing a nurses outfit, but almost as if it were a parody because it's clearly a size to small, as the top is straining to contain her endowment while the skirt is one slight bend away from everyone in the room being able to spot her prefered style/brand of panty. "Over there." she says, her voice cold and stern and lacking even the smallest hint of empathy or bedside manner, she's pointing at a very large heavy wooden dining room table.

"I count at least eleven broken bones, both legs, both arms, multiple ribs, fingers, and his clavicle," Peabody is saying as they approach, "Deep lacerations across his back and thighs, and there's some sort of internal bleeding I couldn't spot. Someone opened up the back of his head too, looks like they used a prybar or something, forgien material in the wound." the woman takes this all in in a very professional manner, her light already shining into the downed man's eye as his body hits the table with a series of noises that do not speak well of said body's condition, "Drugs, toxings, poisons, anything?" "Unknown." Peabody answers honestly and the woman works quietly but quickly for a pair of heartbeats before he speaks again, "Hemmingway, can yo-" "Shut up and let me work Alex. And get my damned monitors set up. I didn't have time to prep this location properly because, yet again, you fail to make an appointment."

It was all a whirlwind. Seeing Hobgoblin again, meeting Lynch, the way he held control of whatever she had control of and simply made them null. What was he waiting for? What was he stalling for? And if anyone could beat Deathstroke to a pulp like that?

Holy shit. Just holy shit.

She was spaced to the point that she doesn't even remember running across the lawn, she doesn't remember following them into the home and doesn't remember slamming the door shut and locking it behind them. She doesn't even remember how in the hell she pulled her gun and leaned against the door to lay in wait just in case they were followed, nor the fact that her head lowered as both hands reach upright to sink into her hair. It was madness. The sheer complexity of it all. And it was horrific..

She couldn't even offer up help for his treatment. She didn't know what her nanites would do to the man. She just.. stood there. Watchful, guarded.. and fucking terrified. They were dead men/women walking. This was the end. GO GO INTERNAL FREAK OUT.

Lunair was hurrying as best as she can. She's bruised like a grape that fought the wine press and barely came out of it. She's bruised up, and soon, infections are going to set in. She looks worried beneath her power armor. "We're sorry, ma'am," Lunair offers to the sexy nurse lady. She's a bit surprised by the uniform. "I'm probably going to be sick soon." And probably in both the ralph and general infection sense. Uh oh.

"Thank you." She's unhappy, listening to it all. She looks to poor Rant. At least Lunair had the element of surprise, and her usual froot loopiness going for her.

Peabody moves, pulling large plastic boxes out of a stack to the side and beginning to throw them open and pull out the equipment inside, "Armory help me out here, Rant, eyes up, covering them with your hands doesn't help anyone. Head in the game woman!" He doesn't sound like Slade, he lacks that certain something that gives Deathstroke's voice the Command power up, but he does a good drill sargent and his orders are clear and precise. Which also helps.

"We need to keep him conscious." Hemmingway says reaching into a little bag at her side and pulling out old school smelling salts, "If he passes out and dies on us we're all fucked like Hulk's porm date." she smacks Slade's cheek none to gently and shoves the salts under his nose.

"My eyes are up.." Rant nearly snaps out, her body tense which soon relaxes. She straightens herself up against the door, attempting to find her happy space well.. sane place by moving away from the door after it's secured with another lock to see if there's -any- way she could help. Lunair was already being put to work, but a bucket was soon grabbed from the corner and carefully slid into the womans direction. IF she was going to ralph? Please let her have some good aim..

"Here.. let me help.." Rant mutters to Hemmingway, kneeling down by the table to take another bit of smelling salts to wave it in front of his face. What would wake Deathstroke up? Some good ol' fashioned ribbing.

"Wake up jackass.." Rant snaps again, though there was a slight quiver in her voice. "I survived getting shot in the gut and there was this one time where I nearly had my head cut off and I still got up and you heal faster than I do. Stop bei.. being a litt.." She sniffs hard. ".. stop being a little dick you bitch! Open your ugly eye!" She flicks his nose too. Man, she's going to pay for this. "I'll hug you, I swear to fucking god I'll fucking hug the shit out of you if you don't wake up. I'll be totally fucking gross with it too and like.. call you my daddy and be -really- overbearing if you don't get your ass up!"

Lunair can hold off the bruising and illness long enough to help Peabody. "His favorite cake or chai - I can make some, if that'd help him." She offers. For now, Lunair moves to help set things up with Peabody. She's aching all over. She accepts the bucket. "Thanks," She offers. "I'll also hug you," Poor Deathstroke. SO many hugs.

Peabody pauses to the the girls, then glance over at Hemmingway who appears to be equally skeeved out by the idea of hugging people. Then Slade's eye snaps open and he lashes out in a flurry at Rant, but misses because he has that second elbow in the middle of his arm. It makes a noise like gravel grinding under a wet blanket and he stops moving real fast, his arm just … dangling off the edgs of the table as his eye rolls in it's socket. Hemmingway blinks, "Unorthodox, but effective." she says, running the back of her hand across his cheek again with a thundercrack of noise. His head snaps to the side and the eye focuses once more, "Stay with me you geriatric cockthistle, if you die on my I'm not sticking around to deal with the aftermath, not again."

Slade responds only in the form of a groan. "Where…" he manages through his teeth in a word that's more hiss then intelligable sound.

Hey! It worked! The sudden lash out has her crashing back onto her ass, scooting away with the quickness until she hits a sidetable and a vase falls.. which was caught by her leg and rolled onto the floor, quickly snatched up and put back into place. She breathes a collective side of relief, her hand reaching up to wipe away at her eyes, no..

No one saw her cry. Not even a little bit.

Where? He asks.. and Rant calls out quietly. "The boonies. I think we're in the booonies…" Cake sounds great, right about now..

Lunair nods, "In the boonies. We got you off and out okay." Beat. "I mean, in the moving sense." She did NOT do anything naughty with Deathstroke. He's her boss! And like the team's angry dad. She winces at the noises Deathstroke makes. And she will stay to help Peabody set up.

Thankfully, infections and fever haven't set in *just* yet or Lunair'd be living in a Pink Floyd video.

Deathstroke rolls his eye to look at Hemmingway, who in responce answers with a single word, "Ottowa." and he closes the eye and lets out a slow breath, "Followed?" Peabody shakes his head, "No way, I dropped so many false signals into radar traffic they'll be chasing ghosts for three weeks while we stealthed in silent." another eye close nod and breath combo, "How bad?" there's a beat of silence then the nurse nods once, "Bad. Top five, I'd say right around number four." Slade blinks. "That's… impressive." she nods, "Tell me about it. And bite down on this, the next part is going to hurt." having spent the conversation hooking in IV's with three or four bags and various monitors, she hands Peabody a roll of leather, which goes between Slade's teeth, and she's motioning Rant over, "Alcohol." she says, thrusting a half gallon container into Rant's hands, "Wash him down and try not to get soggy, remember he's old and likely suffers from ED." Slade glares at the woman as his teeth sink into the bit in his mouth, "I said likely." she offers by way of avoiding the glare. Soon as there's a clear spot on his black and purple side, she begins to insert a needle that could double as a bat in the major leagues. Slade moans and his jaw flexes.

Was the mission to still keep Deathstroke awake? Because she was starting to push it. As Hemmingway gives her the alcohol, she takes it, and a very sterilized cloth, dabbing it onto it with a wrinkle of her nose, then begins to work him over with a good wash down like a happy old man should get.

"Old man baths. You're going to smell like mothballs." She's keeping him awake! "I mean even though you're muscles upon muscles upon oh my god muscles.." Totally keeping him awake. "They probably -would- get soggy.. are we going to take his pants off?" Cause why not! We gotta keep him awake, right? "Cause I hear the older you get, no amount of Swartzeneggering it is going to stop the balls from dropping lower." TOTALLY KEEPING HIM AWAKE. "And.. um.. shouldn't we see to Lunair too? I think she's going to keel over once we take his pants off." Keeping him awake, woo! "I mean, we -do- have to check for damage.." She's so dead.

Poor Lunair. She doesn't get any sort of response, so she says nothing more to Deathstroke for now. "Poor Deathstroke." She frowns. Lunair is sympathetic, at least. At least no one noticed her embarrassing mix up with grammar.

"I also sort of dropped Lynch into a portal, so he was busy flailing when we left anyway." Lunair admits. "Wait, what? My boss is good looking and all, but I respect him. And I'm not going to keel o—" Hrk. "Uh oh." Immune system failure imminent. And there's Lunair barfing into her bucket at mention of Deathstroke sans pants. Terrible timing. She's got good aim at least. "Sorry…"

Hemmingway keeps her eyes on what she's doing, "If she gets puke on my patient I'm going to tan her skin and sew it into a new sexy outfit to wear to these little get togethers as a warning to others." she keeps his voice as level and emotionless as it's been during this whole affair. The needle on the other hand fills up with blood just this side of being black in color and while the moan stops and sweat beads on his skin, Slade does seem to breath easier all the sudden, which allows him to turn and spit the bit out onto the table, "Get her a chair." he wheezes to Rant, "And get her out of that power armor, she's gonna stew in whatever's been trapped in there. She needs fresh clothes, disinfecting, immune boosters, and fluids." this is all said in a sort of breath grunt between his own pained noises. Hemmingway is stabbing him with a second needle large enough to make Seattle suffer compensation envy.

Melody shakes her head in a slight grin as she continues to clean Deathstroke, but that duty is immediately tossed aside as orders begin to fly. No clue how Rant was going to get Lunair out of that power armor, but she does rush her way into the kitchen, just to drag out a chair and nothing else. It was set behind where Lunair stood, Rant grabbing her arm to help her down into the chair, her hand reaching up to scratch at her head rather quickly as she tries to figure out just.. where..

"Uh.." Shit. Shit shit shit.

"T.. take those off Lunair, I think I'll run you a bath." And off Rant goes, to do just that. She has -no- clue how that armor is going to get off. Was there like some button to push? In the nearby bathroom, water is heard, even the droopy droop of a bath bomb was dropped in. Who knew houses came equipped with bath bombs? Certainly not her!

"Is okay, I have good aim. I wouldn't puke on anyone," Lunair is a bit startled. "Don't worry about me," She waves a hand. "You're super hurt. I'll change soon," She promises. Sitting might be nice. "We'll just - wash my hands, and set the stuff up." If it isn't already done. "I'll be okay, I can get those things later. I really am the least injured out of the group." Then a pause. "Thanks. "And um, is it okay in this lady's house? I don't know what to call her… I should leave payment or at least help cook or something." Lunair dislikes keeping debts. "And relax, I thought I'd be safer in the armor if I riled up our hostess." She's a smart ass. She giggles, then wobbles. The armor disappears. "It is just my price to pay."

Deathstroke eyes Luni as Hemingway works, "I keep her on retainer and this is an empty show house for a real estate company someone we know owns." he says flatly. There are systems in place for this sort of thing, "Let Rant do her job." he then spins an eye to stare at the nurse who's now poking and proding various wounds on his torso, "The bones will set themselves because you have super genes like an asshole, so no need to toy with those. These," she says, rolling him up on a shoulder lightly to look at his back, "Will require stitches, and I can see your skull is cracked." she pokes at the back of his head, "Yup. Can actually see it. Must have been hit with a tectonic plate to do that." she drops him back on the table, soaked now with blood and alcohol, with a wet splat and pulls out a new kit. Need. Thread. She hands it to Peabody, "Here you go Florence, get to stitching an old man quilt. I'm going to play tug of war with his arms and legs." and then she grips his broken fingers and begins mangling them back into place. The noises are… unpleasent. And frequent. And Slade soon passes out again, though Hemingway doesn't seem worried this time as she's apparently maked him as mostly out of the woods, though she keeps a wary eye on her monitors.

The bath was set and steaming. Cool goodness that'll knock off any night chill. Clothes? Well.. she'll have to look for that in a little bit. There was a robe available, and towels, all laid out into the bathroom as Rant comes out. There was that little thought at least, to give Lunair a heaping help of nanites into the bloodstream but.. not just yet. Maybe when Lunair is sleeping it off, she could stab her right in the butt and run away.

As she exits the bathroom, she motions Lunair over. "Come on.. get undressed and get in the bath. I'll uh.. find some clothes or whatever. Try not to puke in the water? And take your time." At least helping out was easing her mind. Everything was on the up and up, save for the musical bone snapping chorus that hung in the background.

"Oh. Sorry, I didn't want to assume." One might notice Lunair is very, very cautious about accepting favors. For it's often the first taste that hooks you in, the first favor that breeds debt. But she relaxes. "Okay. You're not needing a bath too?" Peer at Rant. She winces at the nurse's descriptions. "BATHTIME." Definitely not sticking around to listen to Snap-Into-A-SladeJim. DEFINITELY NOT.

"Thanks." She'll get into the bathroom, and undress. "I - can probably make them if I really need to," She smiles weakly. "Or offend our foes with indecency." DEATH BY TITTIES. Ahem. Also, Lunair prefers to use lube and have dinner together before any butt stabs, thank you.

And so it goes.

An hour later Lunair is sparkly clean, hooked up to a trio of her own IV's, and enjoying the luxurious folds of a terrycloth robe that feels a great deal like being hugged gently to death by the child of a cloud and a polarbear all at once. Slade on the other hand is a patch work of swollen limbs, fast splint casts, and stitches, not to mention wires and tubs and beepy machines. But at least he's wearing pants again, and a sort of tight white undershirt that buldges in odd places because of all the bandages beneath it. Rant had to make a Canadian Wal-Mart run to get the extras. Hemingway left only minutes ago, leaving a few terse instructions and a break down of follow up care and a choice suggestion of where all of them could shove unlubricated weapons of mass destruction into their various inappropriately sized bodily orifaces.

Peabody looks exhausted, and he's currently sipping a cup of steaming coffee from a mug and laying melty-human style in an over stuffed recliner chair that's across from the couch where Slade was moved. "So." he says conversationally, "My day /sucked/. How was yours?"

Yup, a Walmart run that included buying food since her own nanites needed fuel. While everyone was getting trussed up, Rant herself was in the kitchen. She couldn't cook like most, but she sure knew how to crack open a can and heat the contents up. -And-, she could make a good salad.

Each of them were served with their own bowl of chicken noodle soup garnished with cilantro and a small bowl of a side salad. Dressing included. It was the fancy type. Some raspberry type infusion that she only got because it looked pretty. And cold bottles of water. Ala Rant. Or whatever.

But once food was dished out, taken or not, she'd finally sit in the chair left by Lunair, which was scooted towards the door to lean against it.

Lunair relents, and is sparkly clean and slowly letting herself sink into a warm, quiet fevery peace. Sure, she was totally glad she did all she did. But the piper comes calling. And she's snuggled into her robe. "Thank you, ma'am," She waves to Hemmingway cautiously with her fingers. "Um. Well, okay." She's not sure what to make of the orifices suggestion. "Thanks," She smiles at Rant. It's the thought that counts.

Even if Luna's not good at expressing emotinos, she tries. And soup is nice. "Was rough. Glad to drop jerk in portal. I am glad to see you all," Probably, thankfully, not in a fever dream to boot!

Deathstroke is awake now and staring at nothing, his eye scanning over the room once, twice, then back again. "My day?" he responds to Peabody, his voice scratchy and deeper then normal, almost as if he'd just woken up but somehow it sounds… weird. Slowly his split and lips twist apart into a grin, something self satisfied and smug. Ah. his voice is happy. That's what's weird about it. He settles back into his chair and then slowly reaches up with one of his broken arms and carefully uses a fingertip to flip up his eye patch before letting the arm slink back down to the chair rest, "My day went exactly according to plan." he says in the same self satisfied manner, something about it is content. Nestled there behind the patch inside the empty gaping eye socket is a roll of paper and something oddly cylindrical and plastic. He tilts his head to the side and out of it drops a very short syringe, about the size of a small calibre round, empty of it's contents. He catches it in his palm and holds it up for Peabody to see, who for his part is just staring at Slade with an expression equal parts awe and rage. Awe wins out, "Is that… fuckmecrippled." he mutters before his gaze refocuses on Slade, "So all this was for that? Just /that/?" Slade nods slowly and settles in again, "Of course it was. We needed an inside man in the Spartan Organization and now? Now we got one." the grin widens further, "He just doesn't know it." he lets his one eye close, the other, the hole, is left there gaping into the room creepily, paper and all still inside.

Peabody leans back in his seat and sips his coffee again, a thoughtful expression on his face, "Jesus." he glances at Lunair and Rant in turn, "We got him." he says simply. "We have what we need to find the Spartan." and he grins impishly, "You know, once we can all walk again." Slade just grunts and flicks a dismissive gesture with his chin, as if that wasn't a big concern. He's just going to take this moment and bask in it. Because it's the moment he out smarted Lynch, that traitorous fucker, and something about that feels /sooooo/ good.

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