#'will i pick here - no wait that's near an artery/vein/nerve'

[catkin-morgs-kookaburralover]

the internet: yeah to practise harm reduction you go for areas that have more flesh to avoid going too deep and needing medical attention

me, an idiot: let's pick this spot anyway, how bad can it be. ...how did i get that deep that quickly

[merge-conflict]

marked for death

(written for a weekly song prompt, just cleaned up today for shippy saturday. non-binary V/Goro)

--

Ten years ago an Arasaka bodyguard had died protecting the emperor of Japan. Beset by the slowly creeping threat of retirement, Goro had always hoped he would end his career the same way– but now his troubles are much bigger than young soldiers with fresh implants and endless ambition. Now he has lost everything and his only hope of redemption relies on the ebbing life of the thief he’s managed to drag into an AI-operated cab.

“Please keep all limbs inside the vehicle during operation,” the AI chirps brightly, and Goro clumsily leans across V to pull her right foot inside. In the enclosed space of the cab her height makes it difficult to maneuver her upright, and he ends up wedging one of her knees into the back of the seat in front of her before leaning back in his own side, keeping one hand clamped on his seeping wound.

“Thank you for your cooperation,” the AI says, and the doors on either side shut securely, with a faint whir. Goro exhales, allowing himself a moment of relief. “Please insert a personal jack to confirm all passengers.”

Ejecting the jack from V’s wrist takes Goro longer than it should, with hands are slippery with blood, shaking from the fading stim and physical shock. His implants are dulling the pain in his side, rerouting connections, reducing blood flow away from sliced veins– but the damage is extensive. Without medical attention he will eventually slip into unconsciousness and die. After much fumbling he finally coaxes her personal jack free, and inserts it into the waiting port, before doing the same for his own.

“Guest passenger confirmed,” the AI reports, the screen in front of Goro briefly pulsing green. “Primary passenger unconfirmed. Please try re-inserting the link.”

Goro does, a few times, without success. The longer they sit here the more danger they are in. “The personal link is damaged,” he says, with effort. He cannot take in a full breath– a blinking warning at the edge of his vision warns him of lung damage. “The bullet…damaged her implants.”

“All passengers must be confirmed before service,” the AI replies, and then pauses. “If you are unable to authenticate with the wrist jack, you may instead connect the diagnostic link directly to the port located near the right mastoid.” With a slight click, a cable springs free of the screen, and Goro picks it up, examining the sharp tip with a sinking feeling. “I’m afraid you will have to insert the link underneath the skin.”

“If I am not careful…she will die.”

“I suggest you proceed with caution.”

Goro lowers the cable to pull V closer and for the second time is astonished by her intense gray eyes, lit by some internal spark that is burning long after it should have been extinguished. She can’t pull herself upright, but she wraps her fingers around his wrist, where he has a firm hold on her collar. The expression on her face is serene, but it sends a burst of adrenaline through his system, and in response his implants steady his nerves in a cool rush of calm.

“Do not move,” he tells her, adjusting his vision so he can see the pulse of blood through the arteries in her throat, tipping her head back for a safer angle. Her fingers tighten on his wrist in alarm, but she does not struggle.

“Do it,” she hisses, when he hesitates.

Panic sets her heart beating frantically, the pulse in her throat jumping in time. Goro picks his angle, lines up the link and pushes it through the skin and tendon until it is nestled into the subdermal connector of her implanted interface. V’s back arches, her breathing panicked, forcing him to hold her still so she does not rip out the link or cause herself further damage. Blood spills down his fingers and over the back of his hand, soaking into the cuff of his shirt.

“Primary passenger confirmed,” the AI announces, before Goro can think of the right words to calm her. She tenses at the announcement but stops moving, except for the frantic pace of her breathing. “I advise you not to remove the link until we have reached our destination–“

A loud ringing in Goro’s ears prevents him from hearing the rest of the sentence. It’s all he can do to hold things steady as the car finally accelerates into motion, taking them further into the heart of a rotten city. V holds his gaze– both accusatory and forgiving with her blood oozing hot down the inside of his sleeve. Then between one street and the next, her eyes slide shut, and she slumps into his side.

The streets of Night City are as endless as they are ugly, and he cannot be certain if he orders the AI to drive faster or if he only dreams it. He grows weaker and weaker, with nothing but determination to keep him alive, to keep V alive– so long as she lives, there is hope of exposing Yorinobu. So long as she lives there is reason for him to live as well.

No sooner as he steels himself to stay awake then he finds himself jerked from unconsciousness as the cab comes to a rolling stop. Panic gives him the strength to open the door and crawl free from under V, limp but alive. A stranger is waiting– a man he can barely see in the end of his rapidly tunneling vision. On instinct he picks up V’s legs to help carry her, but after a moment he finds himself on the ground facing her body in careless repose. Death awaits them both in this filthy alley, within the shadow of Konpeki.

Before his eyes slip closed he is certain he sees a sliver of gray watching his weakness. Witnessing it.

When he finally wakes in the back room of the ripperdoc clinic, he can no longer escape the keen edge of despair– Arasaka-sama’s murder and the loss of everything, down to the cyberware implanted inside him. The emotion consumes him like the rising tide, inexorable and inescapable. He drowns in private grief, consumed with the contemplation of the bleak options before him, until he hears a low groan.

He’s not alone. On the other side of a narrow gap V lies on a makeshift cot the same as his own, connected to a portable set of monitors which display the vitals he can no longer see in the corner of his eye. She shifts in her sleep, making a strangled noise deep in her throat that mirrors the rage and agony in his own chest. Curiosity, or perhaps duty drives him to maneuver himself painfully out of bed.

The loss of stabilizing cyberware and too much blood make him clumsy, and he stumbles through his first step, crashing into her cot before he can grab the edge for balance. Her eyes snap open– desperate gunmetal gray once more arresting his attention.

She has ample reason to hate him– to resent and fear him for tracking her down and returning her to Arasaka for interrogation and execution. But when recognition flickers in her eyes, her bruised and battered face breaks into a soft smile that grabs him unexpectedly by the throat.

He is not alone.

Unsure of what to say he merely clasps her shoulder in acknowledgement, and sees relief flit over her face. She speaks, but her words are garbled and soft, and he’s lost his translation soft. He squeezes her shoulder in response, and with great effort she lifts her arm to rest her hand on his wrist. Her expression grows serene and remote, until her eyes close. He is not alone.

[blackasteriia]

'Taker

|| @deadmenanddemons ||

It had been a long time since the home was quiet. He’s not really sure how or when it happened, and utterly baffled as to why. All he knows is that it’s more full of life than it has been since it lay in ashes. People coming and going. Some for business, most for visits. Some for a place to stay.

A family. That’s what it was. It had taken him a while to realize that. It was far from traditional, but everything about them was. And he had to admit, it was nice. Nice, but draining. Sometimes, he just needs some time to himself.

So he goes for walks. Not in the yard (not always). It’s not bad there, but it’s busy in its own way. Buzzing with energy. He doesn’t need that, right now. Just needs some quiet. So he finds himself in the forest to the south of town. Rustling trees overhead, the soft crunch of leaves underfoot. Distant birdsong in one direction. The distant rumbles of engines in the other. Oh, right, it was Wednesday. The deliveries from the cities must be coming in. Every third Wednesday of the month. Weird scheduling, sure, but it suited the town just fine. He breathed deep, in and out. The air here was clean. Crisp. It was refreshing after cities he’d been to. It was good to be home. He was glad to be back.

He kept walking. He didn’t really have a destination in mind. Just wanted to walk. Get out of his head. It was already helping.

But it was getting silent, fast. That’s something a lot of people don’t seem to realize. There’s a different between quiet and silent. Always has been. Nowhere is that difference more noteworthy than the wilderness. Life doesn’t stop making noise, not without reason. (The void is the providence of the damned.) Life only goes silent when death is near. (And there is a difference between death and Death.) The birdsong fades and the buzz of insects melts into a tense silence. His brow furrows and his jaw sets and he looks around.

Doesn’t feel any different. Nobody’s died yet. He takes a step further and– An invisible flash. Similar to lightning, to a camera flash, from inside his head. His brow furrowed. Not a definite death. Not one that had happened. But the flicker of a soul slowly untethering. The first signs of danger. The first toll of a bell.

A warning light, flashing over a door yet unlocked. A get over here now.

He obeyed.

He didn’t like to think of himself who followed orders anymore. Not ever again. But some things are not meant to be ignored and he is glad he listened. He bites back a curse when he sees her there, slumped by a tree and bloodied almost beyond recognition. He did not run to her. He was not stupid. He had time. Check the surroundings first. He didn’t see anything dangerous. Didn’t hear anything. Still, fingers flexed and the scent of ozone rose as he moved to the battered girl’s side.

“Hey-!” He kept his voice low. She didn’t respond. Her eyes were closed. But she’s still breathing, at least - not steadily, but she’s breathing. He could pick her up easily, but he knows enough that moving her without knowing exactly what injuries she has would be potentially catastrophic.

Another flicker.

Still not death. But still a chance.

He really didn’t feel like digging another grave. A muffled curse passed his lips as he fished his phone out of his pocket. The reception out here was shit, but it’d be the best chance of getting a hold of Aeleus. As for his brother, well, they knew each other well enough, and it was close enough to Samhain that it only took a faint twinge on the edge of perception for him to know what was going on.

“I need you to find Dr. Hollace and bring him to the woods.” He doesn’t wait for a greeting; not enough time. “Kane’s on his way. He’ll meet you there and show you where to go.” He hung up and set down to look her over best he could. His expertise was dealing with corpses and whatever came out of them, but he knew a decent amount of first aid from his time in the ring.

Step one was to make sure she was okay.

Step two was to find out who or what did this to her, and rip it apart at leisure.

And then step three was to ensure that she actually let herself heal. Fitting, then, that that one would be a devil of a task.

The dark corridor spat her out like a broken chew-toy. Her heel struck solid ground and her knees buckled, like a marionette on a cut string, Xion collapsed. Her cheek collided with a tree root and the impact jarred her bruised body. Breath thrust from her lungs. She groaned low and pitiful. She gasped, rough and quick. From her broken ribs and wounded abdomen, pain fell in crashing waves, drowning all thought. She clutched her midriff and rolled onto her back. One foot braced and she dug her heel into the peat. A herculean effort shoved her up against the tree trunk. Cicadas cried and the wind howled, a rolling thunder storm for the burnt desert with no respite of cooling rain. Lightning crack, brief illumination and then oppressive dark.

Xion clawed consciousness from the tangled briars of pain and exhaustion. Her body fought her. Will was no longer a tangible force in the equation. Where once she was numb, now she feels it all, each nerve ending alight. Replete, she scraped the bottom of her reserves and came-up empty handed. Blood seeped from the open wounds of her abdomen, chest, and arms. Hot against her cold skin. Her left arm laid limp across her stomach. If she had the strength left she’d puke. Xion had a running list of her injuries: left arm dislocated, break somewhere in her right thigh, her ribs, and all the cuts. A list of priorities and ideas, and they were all gone. Blasted away by the fuzz of her groggy and slipping mind. Xion was not in surplus of time, but waiting was all she had left to do. 

For hours she drifted in-and-out. In snippets of awareness the thunderstorm passed, the birds arose, and the sun followed. The forest and tree boughs provided respite from the heat of the day. Sequestered away in the shade,  Xion gathered her strength. Her magic replenished at a snail’s pace and she hoarded the scraps. She did not numb her pain so she might save the power, even when it knocked her out. She could feel the blood seeping from her numerous wounds, death of a thousand cuts. The heartless were numerous and brutal, her only satisfaction was that she won. 

Footsteps. The crush of leaves and twigs beneath a heavy tread. Xion blinked, her attention dipped, her chin fallen against her chest in boneless slump. Snaking cold coiled in her gut. A voice, familiar. She stirred and lifted her head. The Undertaker, green eyes caught with concern, knelt at her side. Emotion uncharacteristic of the man. Her attention shifted, sharp and sudden to not him, but beyond him, into him. Magic. His magic. Intrusive, grating against her; A big red flag, demanding she pay attention. A clear thought flitted past and she seized it with zealous fervor. With each drop of blood her life drained, time was of the essence. She wasn’t going to wait for ‘Taker’s plan, she couldn’t afford to when she already had as much blood out of her as in. 

Her right hand lifted from her lap. Violent tremor shook-up her arm, slow and sluggish, moving through water. She reached over herself, twisting onto her hip to seize his hand. She slumped, left arm incapable of supporting her weight. She gripped ‘Taker’s hand like a lifeline, all the strength she had left to cling to him. Physical connection to aid what was usually a trivial mental trick. Even at death’s door, her body remembered what it was made to do. Copy, borrow, and take. She didn’t know what she needed, just magic, just power, and so that’s what she scratched at, an indiscriminate amount, just enough. Once she had it, Xion weaved her spell.

Fire burned and destroyed, consumed, it had one place in healing magic. Cauterization, inferno concentrated to wild fire in her veins. Brief, red flash ran the lines of her arteries and capillaries. The blood congealed, stopped seeping away in black droplets; Pooled and hardened. Xion keened and yelped, a pitiful whimper, clutching ‘Taker’s hand as agony followed the fire spell. It was like a tsunami in force, so fierce her vision blackened. Then it dissipated in seconds and left her raw in discomfort. She bent double, hair fallen in her eyes, and a tremble wracked her entire body. Tears streaked through the dust dried to her cheeks. Despite, how stripped she was left, she breathed a sign of relief.

Her grip slacked on ‘Taker’s hand and she fell limp. 

[barb-aricyawp]

It's my favourite day of the week!!! Torture Tuesday ;) can I request uhh Steve with a razor?? It was either that or a needle and thread, so pick whatever you prefer :) -S

Of course, babe. Let’s give Steve all three: razor, needle, and thread.

(for torture tuesday)

trigger warnings: blood, cutting, hand torture, needles, mutilation, self harm (sort of)…this is gruesome. Really gruesome.

“I think today is the day we make Cap flinch,” Rumlow announces to the spectators. 

He has laid five razor blades onto the table before Steve. Small razors blades. The kind that come in your average shaving razor. No longer than two inches each.

“So,” Steve says. “I take it you’re not a fan of the beard.”

Rumlow laughs and pinches one of the razors between his fingers. He’s wearing latex gloves. Bright blue. Like a surgeon.

Steve makes note of this oddity just before Rumlow drives the razor blade into the meat of his left shoulder. He must hit Steve’s cephalic vein because blood gushes from the wound in spurts, soaking Steve’s white t-shirt.

Rumlow leaves the razor in place.

And, sure, it hurts like hell. But, no, Steve doesn’t flinch. With near apathetic curiosity, he looks down at the wound and rocks his head from side to side. When he moves his neck, he can feel the razor shifting inside him. Cool metal lodged into the dense clutch of his muscle. Might as well get used to that.

“Looks like you got a few more of those,” Steve says. “At this rate, we’ll be here all day.”

“Good things come to those who wait,” Rumlow says. But he’s quick to pluck up the next razor blade and sink it into Steve’s abdomen, just between his bottom two ribs. 

Steve’s lungs are under there and he sits up straighter, taking great pains not to breathe too deeply.

He still refuses to flinch. Making dead eye contact with Rumlow, Steve turns his palm over and curls his fingers in twice. Come and get it.

This ticks Rumlow off. He drives two razor blades into Steve’s palm. One just below his fingers, the other dead center. The complex cradle of nerves there lights agony up Steve’s arm.

“I know counting is tough for you,” Steve rasps. “But that was four. One more.”

Rumlow grasps Steve by the hair, yanking his head back. The long stretch of Steve’s throat is exposed now. He’s already got the next blade gripped between his fingers. 

“Oh,” he says. “I know.”

Slowly, he scraps the blade against the inseam of Steve’s pants, along his thigh. Then, he sinks the blade into the soft tissue of his thigh. But he doesn’t stop, he presses his thumb against the edge to drive it deeper, deeper.

Steve’s eyes widen when he hits the femoral artery.

Blood gushes all at once from the wound, pooling between his thighs. Dripping onto the seat of his chair, down to the floor.

The bleeding is further exacerbated when Rumlow digs the razor back out.

Steve’s wrists are released from their bounds. He clutches at his gaping thigh, trying to stem the bleeding.

Rumlow drops something on his lap. A needle and thread. “Sew it up, Cap.”

Steve’s fingers are slick with blood, but he doesn’t have time to waste. He squeezes the wound shut and prays that this will be enough. 

Steve doesn’t have any surgical training. He doesn’t know how to suture a wound, but he knows how to stitch up his socks. He’ll have to improvise.

Finger slipping, heart pounding, Steve uses the same clumsy baste stitch now. Each time the needle sinks into his skin, he has to force himself to drive it deeper into the flesh so that the wound will close.

By the end of it, the wound is closed with a messy tangle of thread that gnarls the skin like a snarling mouth. 

“Looks pretty good, Cap. But I’m not letting you stitch me up any time soon.” Rumlow taps the wound twice.

With a thump of his heart, Steve realizes that he’s sewn his pants to his skin.

[blackrose-ffxiv]

The Pincushion and the Porcupine 03/21

As Lebeaux Desrosiers drew the toxin out on the gentle drizzle of fresh blood the medic paused in his efforts long enough to roll her over, off of the porcupined corpse below so Rathien Tia could observe for himself. As soon as she was laid on her back he returned his attention to the hand, bleeding and purging the wound until some of the discoloration faded. “She’s breathing, albeit shallowly. Pulse is slowing. There seems to have been a paralytic in this wound, I’ve stopped the blood before it can reach her heart but there may be other factors at play. I’ll leave that to you while I tend to this.” He offered, not wishing to leave the tourniquet on longer than was necessary.

Tubisa Kikai Rolled onto her back; it seems breath came easier, though unconsciously so, of course. The twinging and tensing of her hand diminishes, if slightly, from the bloodletting. The paralytic inflicted upon her hand and forearm had been dealt with, by that treatment.

Rathien looked her over. "I can use aether to keep her organs functioning and accelerate her self regenerating process, but isolating the chemical compound might take some time." He looked her over. "I can at least for now deal with stabilizing her." He said, as aether began to collect in his fingers, glowing blue in the dim lights.

With breathing more stable from the posture on her back, Kikai sounded better, certainly. But from anyplace the medicinal practicioners touched, her pulse continued to slow. Gradually, slowly, but steadily. The probing aether would certainly aid in isolating the compound which affected her heart.

Lebeaux lowered the hand once the petrification-like tensing eased and fingers uncurled from their clawlike position. Satisfied that the gash was no longer a priority he lowered her hand down to the ground and loosened the fabric, gloved fingers staining crimson along the crisp white cravat. “That will do.” He agreed with Rathien’s suggestion to stabilize her. He removed his hat, lifting the girl’s head and tucking the stiff felt under the back her neck to tilt her head back and try to open her airways further. In case he was correct in his assumption of a garrote, it would hopefully ease the passage of air. He then grabbed the torn fabric of her shirt, cutting it further with one of his sharp blades to give them a better view of the cut. “The only visible marks are here and her leg. This is the likelier culprit.” He explained as he checked for discoloration in the veins or other markers of toxin.

Rathien placed a gentle hand on her shoulder as a means to transfer energy; taking the liberty to cradle her heart and lungs with it so that her vital functions were stabilized. "Whatever it was it looks to be attacking her cardiovascular system directly," He breathed in slow, a trance-like expression on his face as he accessed the data he found from the tether of aether. "It's plausible it was created to go straight into her blood stream, and destroy her red blood cells."

As Rathien's energy joined Kikai’s own; he would sense that most of her internals were fairly safe. However, near the impact of the cut, and carried by blood so close to her heart; that secondary toxin affected her pulse. Whatever the toxin touched, it numbed. A nerve agent, indeed. And so close to the heart, as well.

Lebeaux blinked somewhat blankly as he adjusted the lay of his gloves, shifting the rings that lay beneath before he set his fingertips on either side of the cut. Right. Cardiovascular. Blood cells. He had forgotten briefly that Rathien was Sharyalan-trained. “Take care to stabilize her just enough to keep her breathing, but not conscious as of yet. I’d rather not waste the time nor aether on pain management. Particularly while purging the ill humours attempting to seize her heart.” He explained as his saintly smile returned. Applying his own aether into the wound through the focus of his rings and down through his fingers. Seeping it into her blood stream as he pressed down against the wound. The cleansing aether slowly making its way through her veins in search of the toxins.

With aether guided by his Sharlayan-trained assistant's observations; Lebeaux's aether would locate the numbing toxin seeping, slowly, near Kikai's heart. Cleansing would not be too terribly difficult; as it hadn't travelled far. It seems the toxin had been meant to immobilize. That she was cut so close to her heart was an unfortunate happenstance.

Rathien could only nod, all of his senses working on keeping her stable while they did what they could to manage the rest. "I believe its situated itself up here," he said, using aether to guide Lebeaux as he assisted at the job of pumping her lungs and heart. "I've managed to keep it from seeping further into her arteries, but it is doing a magnificent job of destroying her pulse." 

Lebeaux furrowed dark brows as the slow process of purging the toxin went out. Teeth grit behind his saintly smile and he took his hands away from their work at the wound. It wasn’t efficient enough, considering how much progress the poisons had already made. He reached for his kit, removing a syringe with a generously gaged needle. “Freezing her pulse, spreading miasma and attack her positive humours.” He selected one of the tonics Rathien had brought with him, filling the syringe and imbuing a considerable amount of his own aether into the formula until it practically glowed. “Here, yes?” He asked as he placed two fingers on either side of the point, using the back of his gloved finger to guide the thick needle under her skin to pierce the point Rathien had demonstrated. Applying the solution directly to the problem.

The prod-- And, as flesh gave way, a groan. Kikai seemed conscious--If only slipping in and out of it. She'd likely be fully awake, had she not been stabilized by Rathien. Her breathing temporarily quickened--Before it evened out. Knives slipped from her loosened grip, clattering on the floor. The solution would mingle with the creeping toxin, and work to nullify it.

Lebeaux kept the syringe under her skin until every last drop of the antivenom/esuna solution had entered her bloodstream. He waited a few moments longer, then pulled back on the syringe’s plunger. Taking a small sampling of Kikai’s blood into chamber for further investigation at a later time. He set the syringe back into his kit and wiped his hands off on his already ruined cravat wrapped loosely around the girl’s arm. “Will she be able to maintain her pulse and breathing on her own?” He looked to Rathien, then down to the girl who seemed to be slowly coming around.

Rathien began to withdraw his aether slowly, forcing her body to act on its own. "She'll probably have some irritation left over, tightness in her chest, shortness of breath, but her body seems to be functioning by itself without any need of a handicap."

Kikai’s breath was far more stable than it had been prior. Time for her throat to adjust. With stabilizing aether through her body, she had been kept stable as they'd searched for--And applied antivenom to--The numbing-agent. As that aether was gradually withdrawn, she would drift toward consciousness, indicated by a quickening of breath, before it slowed out of necessity.* "Whe-Howwe're gotten--.." Senseless babble. Disoriented. She is, otherwise, stable; and goes silent as she grit her teeth, quietly enduring the pain consciousness brings. To her credit, she takes it fairly well.

“She’ll manage.” Lebeaux sifted through the supplies Rathien had brought along, selecting an antiseptic and handing it over to the miqo’te. “Tend to the rest.” He ordered, pointing at the smaller cuts and injuries that came from what appeared to be a throwing knife fight, if the blades she had been clutching and the state of the corpse near by were any indicators. He smirked slightly as the patient came around, mumbling hoarsely as she tried to communicate. He had expected screaming, impressive. “I wouldn’t suggest talking. It will only make your throat more painful.” He explained calmly. 

Rathien looked over at the elezen with a wary glance as he was handed the antiseptic. "Thanks..." he said flatly, ears lowering. It was quite evident he hadn't forgiven Lebeaux yet ,but this was work so...had to be nice. He smiled at the woman. "Don't try to move, Miss." He told her reassuringly. "You were injured and it will take some time to recover."

Kikai recognized the voice of one, but not the other. She lifted her head, and dipped back down immediately with a groan. She did not immediately heed given advice. "Check he's..Dead. Check.." She murmured feverishly, before the gravity of the pain hit her fully. She bit her lip hard. Crying out would make it hurt all the more. Only then did she heed the advice of the doctor and the stranger.

Lebeaux smiled sweetly at Rathien as the miqo’te begrudgingly took the antiseptic and set to work cleaning and mending some of the smaller injuries. He saw the wary expression the other wore, but said nothing of it. It was to be expected. The chirurgeon rose to his feet and looked around for something to use to cover the corpse. With a shrug he picked up a nearby scroll and laid it over the dead man’s face. Well, sort of. The knife made it tent awkwardly but still you got the idea. “In my professional opinion, this man is very very dead.” He assured Kikai. “I’ll inform Ryoko.” He turned on his heel to go find the au ra, leaving Rathien to tend to the menial wounds.

@eorzeansky @safestsephiroth