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Post by ABYSSINIAN on Jun 15, 2016 4:16:57 GMT
 K'shiel could generously be described as the worst nurse in the history of ever. He healed by reverting into an incorporeal state and soaking up energy. He's aware that human beings don't heal this way. He's also pretty certain they don't heal by eating, per se, but he knows that food is important. Also, he likes food.
Thus, we have Aegis is some state of awful, hidden away in an abandoned warehouse, and surrounded by food.
There were donuts, two dozen. There were various pastries: chocolate croissants, cheese danishes, apple turnovers, and more. There were a dozen pieces of fried chicken, still hot and fresh. There were salads, chef's and caesar. There was plates of steak, provided in rare, medium rare, medium, and well done. There was chicken soup and beet soup and lentil soup.
There was coffee, because he'd heard coffee solves all problems. There were bottles of bourbon, whiskey, wine, and beer, because he'd heard the same about alcohol.
K'shiel had also stolen bandages, a bottle of advil, and metal cleaner, but he didn't know what to do with any of them.
aegis
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Post by aegis on Jun 15, 2016 5:05:39 GMT
 Aegis opens his eyes. It feels like someone stuck a thin knife into each one and twisted, so he closes them again to avoid further damage and begins mentally cataloging his injuries.
(1) arrow still in his left knee.
(2) arrows still embedded into his back.
Residual trauma from running and fighting with all of the aforementioned wounds, as well as having a fire escape dropped on him.
He opens his eyes again, ignoring the bright, stabbing pain, and levers himself up enough so that he's leaning on his good metal elbow and surveying the scene.
This is not a Spectre base. This is a warehouse with a lot of stolen food. If this were a just world he would be allowed a moment of despair, but instead he just recalculates how to repair himself without his handlers.
"Where's the girl?" he rasps, trying not to cough. He accomplished his primary mission, but if she's not disposed of she still represents a threat to asset protection.
ABYSSINIAN
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Post by ABYSSINIAN on Jun 15, 2016 6:37:24 GMT
Unfortunately, K'shiel doesn't actually know where Spectre keeps its bases. He'd always just teleported back to the same one, and that's decidedly not an option when he has company.
"What girl?" K'shiel asks. He doesn't bother with good morning or how are you. He figures it's not a very good morning, and even if he knew how Aegis was doing (probably not great), there isn't anything he could do about it. "Oh. Arrow girl. I got her in the leg, and then she flew away."
K'shiel offers Aegis a cup of coffee and advil.
"Can you drive? I can get you a car." It'd be a small car, unless Aegis had a strong preference for some reason. K'shiel doesn't want to try to teleport over a hummer unless he has to. "I can't drive. The internet says I need a license. But if you can, you can go somewhere. Anywhere. Wherever you want."
You know, provided he didn't die first.
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Post by aegis on Jun 15, 2016 6:54:28 GMT
His knee throbs. Aegis reaches forward with his bad arm to twirl the arrow shaft. It doesn't move. He frowns. Bone is complicated. Bone is beyond the limits of how he can treat himself in the field.
He looks at the coffee, frowns, and shakes his head at the advil. Nothing outside of a few rounds of horse tranquilizer or Spectre's special medical cocktail is going to take the edge off his pain. The joys of an enhanced physiology are surprisingly few.
"I can drive," he says. It isn't as if he has another choice, or any choice. He needs to report back to his handlers. The clock is ticking. They dislike it when he's out on long missions; they dislike it even more when he's out of contact. The thought of how displeased they will be at both makes him wish Abyssinian had killed the girl.
ABYSSINIAN
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Post by ABYSSINIAN on Jun 18, 2016 5:41:08 GMT
If K'shiel knew more about the world, such as exactly what a license is, he'd question how Aegis could possibly have a valid license as a man that doesn't officially exist. Then again, if he knew what a license was, he'd drive himself, because who needs a license anyway?
K'shiel leaves without a word. He's searching through the city for a suitable vehicle.
He returns with a halal cart, placed square in center of the warehouse. It smells delicious.
K'shiel doesn't know anything about roads either, though he does notice that the halal cart is in fact too wide to fit through the door. His claws go snikt, and he cuts a suitably large opening into the wall.
"Where are you going to go?" K'shiel asks. He grabs one of the pastries, takes a bite, savors the sweet jelly and the buttery pastry, and throws the rest away. He tastes another type of pastry, enjoys it, and he tosses the remains of that one aside too. "I hear Paris is nice. It's somewhere you're supposed to go before you die. Aren't you dying? Have you gone to Paris before?"
I don't think you should go back to Spectre, he doesn't say.
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Post by aegis on Jun 19, 2016 1:10:11 GMT
Aegis has been to Paris more than once, both as Ezra Mazur and later, under very different circumstances, as himself. He has no memory of either trip. Ezra thought Paris was overrated, but he was there with Anna and there wasn't much he would complain about if he was doing it with Anna.
Aegis hadn't really had an opinion on the city, but the kill had been simple.
"Don't know," he says. Don't care, is just as unstated as K'shiel's own comment.
Somehow the key is not in the ignition. Neither is a driver. Aegis wastes precious moments hot-wiring the truck and bleeding over the seat.
He checks his internal clock.
"I am three hours and thirty-six minutes late for debriefing," he informs K'shiel, because he is boring and thoroughly brainwashed.
ABYSSINIAN
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Jun 22, 2016 19:23:31 GMT
Post by ABYSSINIAN on Jun 22, 2016 19:23:31 GMT
He teleports to Aegis' side just to apply stacks of cheap brown napkins to his wounds. K'shiel is not a nurse.
There isn't a shotgun seat in the truck, so he sits in the back, on top of a refrigerator unit. He has the common sense to turn off the stovetop, and he scoops meal upon it into one of the paper boxes. Judging from the pictures, there's supposed to be some sauces involved, but he doesn't know one sauce bottle from the other.
K'shiel stops and thinks. He's never properly been taught math, but at least can count the days. "I'm two weeks late for mine. Never been late before. Is late bad?" He smells the blood and asks the more pressing question: "What if you die before you get there?"
He adds, "If you die, I can teleport you there. You'll be less late if you're dead."
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Post by aegis on Jun 23, 2016 7:21:17 GMT
He drives silently for a long moment after K'shiel speaks. Two weeks late. He can barely wrap what's left of his mind around it. He has crawled through sewers with a broken leg, made his way to rendezvous points with a torso more bullet than flesh, has completed the mission more dead than alive, and reported in on time.
They've left him enough imagination to imagine pain, to live in awareness and fear of punishment. He thinks of the re-conditioning being two weeks late would involve.
"Late is bad," he agrees curtly, although his voice is fading. The street blurs in front of him, but he drives on doggedly. They're two minutes away in his estimation, maybe five if traffic is bad. He refuses to fail this close to (relative) success.
"I'm not going to die," he adds. "That's against mission parameters."
ABYSSINIAN
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Post by ABYSSINIAN on Aug 2, 2016 0:32:45 GMT
K'shiel frowns, not understanding. He saw Aegis complete his mission, and completing a mission ought to count as a success right? Spectre rarely had missions lined up back-to-back, so there was no real reason to go back exactly on time.
Yet as K'shiel thought on it, he knew he usually returned whenever he was expected to too. It was, to be fair, easier for him to pull that off, what with the teleporting and all.
"No dying then," he agrees. He still thinks the dead Aegis plan would be fastest.
A silence drags on, and K'shiel interrupts it only to hiss at a happy dog as it passed them by in another car. Half an hour later, he announces, "I'm going to kill that dog."
He's gone. He's back again. Cats lick their claws clean; K'shiel's done that in the past, but this time he grabs a napkin for the task. The napkin's streaked in blood, but not that much of it.
"Are we there yet?" he asks.
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