maskormenacelogs | I can't find enough pots and pans

Entry tags:

I can't find enough pots and pans

WHO: Simon Illyan, Frederick Chilton, Jorah Mormont
WHERE: Chilton's office
WHEN: idk we'll figure it out.
WHAT: the second installment of Simon Illyan, maker of good choices and superspy extraordinaire. Feeling around Baelish's power base, Simon decides to hypnotize Chilton, a decision which could never go badly.
WARNINGS: hypnosis, probably violence

[So far, Simon had not had much luck on turning up anything on Baelish besides Rincewind's vague but ominous pronouncement that he was dangerous. Having found almost no dirt on him at all, Simon was beginning to agree. No-one in politics kept that clean without some fairly high-level maintenance; Simon was that maintenance, back on Barrayar, even if he couldn't quite disappear problem people the way he could back in Emperor Ezar's heyday.

But the connection between Chilton and Baelish had been fairly easy to turn up and fairly conspicuous, all the more so because Baelish was funneling money to him indirectly. Sound strategy dictated that since the head-on approach hadn't worked, it was time to come at Baelish from the side, through his allies. Jorah still proved elusive. Chilton was the next best candidate.

Simon could have simply broken into the office and taken Chilton unawares, but if he had any kind of immunity to his hypnosis, things would have gotten irrecoverably awkward, and Simon had been taught better than that. Instead, he goes at it above-board: Catches Chilton outside of his office, begs to be seen immediately, citing a respectful number of psychiatric red flags. He looks like a man who hasn't slept in three months because of nightmares. Possibly because it would not have been far off the truth a month ago, when he'd still been in the thick of the Komarr rebellion, though far more dramatic than Simon had ever been in his life.]

Tha—... Thank you again, Doctor. [He murmurs as they head back to Chilton's office. Simon's stiff bearing is 100% repressed traumatized war vet whose only notion of psychiatric care is a swift boot to the head. Another easy sell. It was a very common sight on Barrayar.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[ Jorah rocks back into the door frame with force enough to crack it, breath forced out at a guttural grunt. He keeps his feet long enough to see Chilton slump, shoulders braced and eyes scorching, fighting to grit through it. Then he falls through backwards.

His next stop is the floor. Belly up.

Boiled leather and steel soak the worst of the impact -- his healing ability does the rest. If Simon opts for the door, Jorah’s sensate enough to load back and aim a mule of a kick at the younger man’s knee before he can break through. ]

[Simon goes for the door. The window was discarded as an option almost immediately. He doesn't pause to see what the stunner's down to Chilton, he just flat runs.

And Jorah's kick drops him with a restrained yelp of pain. He's twisting to fire wildly again before he can even hit the floor.]

Edited 2016-09-17 03:45 (UTC)

[It was a lot to digest -- Jorah's rampant appearance, this other man injecting himself into Chilton's life, the violence, the dull ache he was beginning to feel as he slowly regained self-control.

If the shot he suffered had even a second more to strike something vital, he doubted he would be conscious enough to witness this much.

Nevertheless, as Chilton's slumped form struggled to crawl from chair to desk, for the sake of leaning upright on something, he kept clean away from the commotion mere feet in his vicinity.

From now on, he thought, no more walk-in appointments.]

[ There’s a leaden ring to the clatter Jorah’s dagger makes when he drops it, caught at the raise of his wrist by the stray shot as he rolls up to one knee. The blade is too heavy to bounce. ]

Nnghff, [ sounds a lot like stop it under the circumstances; he lunges to lock the paw of his left hand hard around the grip Simon has on his stunner instead, twisting and crunching, tendon to knuckle. He muscles to keep the business end pointed away from himself (and unwittingly, towards Chilton), all angry sweat and bristle at close range, with strength enough to stifle even the biolectric buzz of the chip in the spy’s brain.

This is exactly what he’d been concerned about when Baelish had taken him on. Man vs gun.

He touches upon the cover of one of his books with numb fingertips in place of his dagger and tries to spike that down into Simon’s face instead. KNOWLEDGE. ]

[Good news is Simon drops the stunner and does not shoot Chilton again. Mostly in hopes Jorah will risk letting that hand go to get a better grip on him. He gasps in pain, very quietly, letting that arm go slack.

And then his chip stops working.

It is like reaching out with a limb and finding its been blown off. He had hypothesized that Jorah had some sort of power nullifying ability like the Lord Regent but had never, not in any scenario, thought that such an ability might effect his chip.

For a vital moment he's wide-eyed, stunned. Another gasp, of pure startlement. All the background calculations--Chilton's location, the charge on his stunner, the mental map from the office to his nearest bolt whole. All gone.

But even three decades from now when he's old and grey and half-mad, Simon's known for fighting like a damn wild cat. He had never let the chip replace his hard-won instinct and the chip not functioning does not change his priorities: fight like hell and then run. He rears his free hand back and goes for a direct, solid strike that will definitely break Jorah's nose if it hits.

This is just sligjtly before Jorah whacks him in the face with a boom which is plenty disorienting on top of everything else. ]

Edited 2016-09-18 00:09 (UTC)

Who the hell are you?

[A question that could be directed at either Jorah or Simon; the moment his tongue was functional again, Chilton wanted to verbally address how "Arthur" surely had to be a pseudonym. But then there was the matter of this rather burly man bursting in to rescue him, this literal knight in shining armor. Well -- almost shining, if Chilton were wont to indulge in critique.

But not was not really the time. There were two strange men fighting in his office, one of them had lured him and assaulted him, and surely it was only a matter of time before security responded to someone hearing the commotion. When Simon dropped the stunner, Chilton made it his business to hobble over and kick it away -- towards the door, but further away. When Simon froze, Chilton did too; the psychiatrist did not want to entice an impulsive reaction towards him.

But luckily Jorah was a man who knew how to use a broom.]

This is goddamn ridiculous.

[Muttered Chilton, keeping pressed against the wall and out of the way of a broomed Simon.]

[ It’s like breaking a branch over a bear’s head.

Jorah’s chin snaps down from the blow, breath forced out in a blood-clogged splatter that unlocks his grip and rocks him back without laying him out. Rather than risk a second shot to the face, he heaves unsteadily to his feet in the break afforded him by the book, sword ripped free of its scabbard in a room-clearing arc.

It’s probably for the best that Chilton’s getting friendly with the walls. ]

Lock the door,

[ he commands by way of an answer, blood rough in his throat. ]

[Simon does not answer Chilton's obviously rhetorical question.

He's still on the floor, slightly stunned by the blow but mostly by the gaping hole in his thought process. Everything he does feels incredibly slow and awkward as he trudges along on one stream of thought only.

Jorah's between Simon and the door and Chilton, still standing despite Simon's best efforts. Leaving two dead bodies is the absolute last course of action, less for ethical reasons and more because it would be incredibly messy and troublesome. If he knew what sort of interrogation he could suspect from Jorah and Chilton, he might've just let himself get caught as the lesser of two evils.

But he still has one last option. When he pulls his needler out he aims, as best he can, for Jorah's leg. That probably won't kill him, but it might take the leg mostly off. Once Jorah's down he's fairly sure getting past Chilton won't be an issue.]

[Chilton hesitated at Jorah's command -- there was some inherent indignation to being ordered in his own office, his own throne room. But violence scratched out new perspective, and Chilton wasn't going to rub raw tensions when the "Arthurian" assailant was downed in this room.

He tiptoed around the wreckage of flesh, still keeping as close to the wall as possible, his fingers outstretched and reaching for the door lock. With a sharp click, he turned back to Jorah, and nodded.]

What now?

[Well, he would have to get a cleaner in here, that's for sure. Chilton wasn't looking forward to the sheer paperwork he'd have to file for an incident report.]

And what about him?

[The question was barely past his lips when his eyes darted back to Simon -- a needle-armed, aiming Simon.]

[ Ser Jorah doesn’t have the luxury of a steadying breath before Simon reaches for a second gun.

The old knight surges forward only to crash headlong into Chilton’s desk when his right leg buckles, the boiled leather of his skirt stripped through to meat, and meat stripped through to bone. Heavy wood slams back down beneath him, papers sent up in a flurry, expensive pens jarred off the edge.

It sounds like someone’s ripped his gut out through his throat before he can stifle pain down to a growl through his teeth.

Mormont holds himself half upright over the corner of the desk, a pot of gold at the end of a rainbow of gore. He’s still dripping from the nose, all anguish and impotent fury, with his sword anchored into the floor like a third leg. Unfortunately laser vision is not on his list of abilities.

What about him?

Jorah waits to see if he’s going to be shot dead in this idiot’s office.

A piece of his thigh drops loose off the tail of his skirt, chased by a burble of arterial spurt. ]

[Simon mentally flinches, staring for a moment at the meat and the blood: no matter how many times he'd seen needler wounds, had them fixed forever in his memory, they never got any easier to look at.

Then he remembers, with a hysterical jolt, that he didn't have to worry about it this time. The chip wasn't working. Every time he reaches for it and it isn't there, he could feel a pulsing little ache. A building migraine. He hadn't had one in years but remembering how bad they had been in the first few months after the chip, he was already gritting his teeth.

He manages to roll to his feet, gun trained on Chilton. Jorah's not coming after him any time soon, so Chilton's the last problem to deal with. He'd prefer not to shoot Chilton and risk a corpse but moving him himself is out of the question when Simon's focus feels like it's slowly cracking in half.]'

Move.[Simon's not melodramatic enough to add "Or I will shoot you." It seems fairly implied. And just that one word seems to drive another spike into his head.]

Edited (NOW WITH ACTUAL DIALOG.) 2016-09-18 22:01 (UTC)

[Chilton put his hands in the air, eying the assaulter. He considered disobeying, considered lunging to grab onto "Arthur's" face, his arm -- any uncovered skin would do. He calculated quickly and accurately: it would take three seconds to move from his back against the wall to knees bent and thrust forward, hands grappling for skin. A half second to determine what dosage of sedative from his fingertips, another half second to have it swirling through the man's circulatory system.

A second more until it affects the brain.

But that was assuming there was no healing factor at play, and in this equation, that assumption was monumentally dangerous. The variables did not add up into his favor.

Chilton had a gun trained on him. It wasn't difficult math.]

Just stay calm.

[He moved, slowly and deliberately, to unlock the door. Chilton did not look at where his cameras had been hidden in his office, he did not want to give this man any reason for additional suspicion. It was better for both him and man bleeding on his floor, he rationalized, if "Arthur" just left.]

There. You can run. I am going over to that man you left for dead, is that all right? I am going to call for medical help. I am calling only for medical help, do not shoot me.

[ Any threat Jorah could put out there to back Chilton’s request would feel comical under the circumstances. He keeps his jaw ground shut, and his sword staked into the floor.

He doesn’t move much at all, save to breathe, strength holding in his arms to keep him upright over the desk at least until Simon is gone.

The truer tell is in the ebb of his negation, especially once Simon has moved for the door. ]

[Simon listens to Chilton with a dry look of impatience, brow cocked. He's perfectly calm; the situation is back under control. Jorah is neutralized and if Chilton had a power that could take him out, he would have used it by now.

The situation was salvageable. He just had to think.

But thinking hurt, a vibrantly painful stab at every step as he tried to strong together a coherent chain of events. The chip was coming back alive but imperfectly, randomly. He stares down the length of his arm, at the gun pointing at Chilton's head. He closes his eyes briefly. The chip plays out a disorienting scene from an almost-but-not-quite identical perspective: Standing at the shoulder of the Lord Regent as Aral aims a nerve disrupter at the head of a fellow, green-uniformed officer. The Commander of the POW camp. Vorkosigon's voice is rough, iron. I need you to witness this, Simon. Then he pulls the trigger.

Simon opens his eyes again, focusing on Chilton as best he can while the chip tries and fails to retrieve some other relevant stream of data, driving another sharp spike of pain through Simon's head. If Chilton's looking for signs that Simon might flip out and shoot him he should be pretty alarmed by now: Simon's gone several shades paler, broken out into a cold sweat, starting breathing in shallow, labored pants. At least his aim doesn't waver, though his hand's started trembling.

It was just a damn headache. He could work through it. He wasn't even hurt that badly, otherwise. He had a vial of fasta penta in his jacket. He could hynoptize Chilton, fast penta Jorah, find the camera footage, be out in ten minutes and still be able to come back later for another round. If he ran now, he'd have to go to ground, hide, who knows for how long. If he left the stunner it could be traced back to the other Barrayarans, but it was all the way over by Jorah. No, he couldn't run, he had to fix this—

Simon makes himself focus on Chilton, meeting his gaze, trying to summon that sense of power that was his hypnosis skill. He can feel it coming to bear but when he opens his mouth to issue the order—

It feels like a thousand shards are driven into his brain at once. He blacks out, sways, hits the ground hard.]

Edited 2016-09-19 02:57 (UTC)

Did you see that? He was looking at me like he had before --

[Hypnosis was a funny thing. Chilton had no natural persuasion against its effects, but he was a trained and capable psychiatrist; he knew the blanked outcome, the short term the memory loss that skipped time indicates. The strength and the true influence of Simon's power was still up for discussion, and hopefully those tapes would enlighten that treacle of an issue. The fact that Simon couldn't do it again, when he clearly had every intent, was cause for concern -- the pallor, the tormented expression, the hesitation.

Something was wrong. Something wrong among many, many brutally incorrect things that have happened this afternoon.

But as priorities were left standing in a crucial order: the wounded man, then "Arthur". Chilton didn't finish his halfway verbalized thought for Jorah's benefit, instead he removed his business jacket (and hung it) before stepping over Simon and gave Jorah a better look over.]

Oh, god.

[That gun had done a nasty job on Jorah's leg, Chilton could determine that from even feet away. The sheer amount of blood... Fortunate that Chilton was very used to gore at this point in his life, and what remained of his stomach could handle the horrifying imagery. Quickly, he turned back to Simon, his long fingers gently feeling around the man's waist. Once the belt was evident, Chilton unbuckled and stripped it away, and he turned his unblemished focus back to Jorah, the wounded fellow still gripping onto that tormented desk.]

Look -- I can make you a tourniquet, but you've already bled so much. Just, slide down, won't you? Better if you're fully on the floor, I don't want gravity working in favor of your massive blood loss.

[Amazing that the man was even conscious, really. Chilton glanced over, keeping clear of the fallen sword.]

Your trousers probably... Ought to go. This is... Already going to be difficult.

[A wince, a little shrug. At least it appeared to be isolated in the thigh. Chilton didn't ask for permission when he moved to partially strip down his patient, but he would have been easily stopped if Jorah took offense. Either way, the belt would be wrapped around the leg above the wound, and pulled tight to a buckled state.]

Guessing from your attire that you're one of Petyr's?

[Chilton hoped the assumption was right, because that was who he was calling this moment -- a brief conversation, a "I need your help, I was attacked in my office, I need you here now. Bring aid." Chilton was a woeful surgeon in his youth, a fact that hadn't changed with age. He wouldn't attempt any stitching right now -- but he had something else.]

I can give you something. [He said, his fingertips brushing Jorah's forehead.] A sedative. It will help with the pain.

[Or it would have, if not for Jorah's power negation.]

What should we do with him?

[ Once Simon has wilted, it doesn’t take much encouragement to see Jorah sliding down off the side of the desk. He sinks into a clammy heap, still more upright than he should be if he’s counting on physics to be of any help to him. Blood drawn in away from the surface spurts out cheerfully through the ragged gap in his thigh at a regular pulse.

He probably shouldn’t be alive, nevermind awake to mount a defense against whatever effort Chilton makes to do away with his pants. The tourniquet will have to go on over them, thank you. No answer, as to whether or not he belongs to Petyr. Nor to anything else.

Maybe he feels his “attire” speaks for itself.

Maybe he’s slipping in and out of consciousness on his own.

Delicate fingertips over the ridge of his brow rouse him back into an unpleasant reality. His eyes cross into fuzzy focus, heavy-lidded, and he twists his hand into Chilton’s collar to lever him back towards Simon with force enough to put him on his seat. If he didn’t have blood on his shirt before, he does now. ]

Take the gun.

[ He’s helping, voice thick with gravel. ]

And the rest of his clothes.

[ Gods only know where he might have more of them hidden. He’s already produced two more than he was expecting. ]

Edited (my turn for edits) 2016-09-19 04:29 (UTC)

And -- wait, what?

[Chilton shot a doubled look back at Jorah, incredulity lining his brow. The gun made sense -- Chilton had tried to kick a gun out of reach once already. But the man's clothing? Just, all his clothing, a strip search rather than a pat-down? The raised eyebrow Chilton wore said it all; perhaps Jorah thought one humiliation demanded another in return.]

Oh, yes, you are one of Petyr's.

[Nevertheless, Chilton gingerly walked over to Simon's unconscious body without further complaint -- a nasty glare at Jorah perhaps once or twice, but no audible complaining. The doctor was already bemoaning his soiled shirt, his own slacks now bloodied by proximity; his mood wasn't fantastic.

The boots came off first. A long knife clattered to the floor. Then, with great chagrin, did Chilton relieve Simon of his trousers, and then his jacket -- a capped syringe was found in one of the pockets. Chilton thought it suitable to leave on Simon's shirt, but he switched the jacket backwards and forced Simon's limp arms through the sleeves. He pulled hard, wrapping the sleeves around and tying them together.

A makeshift straitjacket.]

You really should get something for the pain. My concern is your heart rate, honestly, a little sedative would help.

[Chilton tilted his head, still looking down at his handiwork done on Simon, but clearly addressing Jorah.

I am Doctor Frederick Chilton, which I hope you knew already. [A beat. Baelish had mentioned two from his world, but Chilton wasn't about to act with presumption. This was likely not the woman, but in case Baelish had other familiars up his sleeves...] And you are?

Edited 2016-09-19 04:51 (UTC)

[ If looks could kill.

Hard to say if Jorah’s silence has more to do with high bred manners or massive blood loss, but he’s downright baleful in the face of Chilton’s assessment. He takes up an interest in Simon’s bare ass just long enough to convince himself there’s nothing worth worrying about rammed up in there before he zeroes blearily back in after the good doctor. ]

Mormont, [ he says, finally, and nods. Late. Distracted. He knows who Chilton is.

That’s a neat trick, with the tied sleeves. With luck, he’ll remember enough of this to make use of it later.

In the meanwhile, he’s doing a fine impression of a wight, lips tinged blue, older blood cooling black in his clothes and against his skin. ]

What happens when we die here?

[ Just curious, no reason. ]

Edited (rogue html) 2016-09-19 05:22 (UTC)

You will not die here, not on my office floor. Not while he is unconscious and tied up, not while I'm the last man standing.

[Because Chilton already knew how that scenario tended to turn out. He staggered over, checking the tightness of the tourniquet once more. The bleed out had slowed to a minimum, but Jorah had already spilled so much -- and clearly he wasn't regenerating at a superhuman speed. He might be too far gone, if his drained face and lips were stalwart indicators.]

But. In that unlikely event, well -- usually we come back.

[Usually. Chilton knew of three exceptions: Abel Gideon, Walter White, and Freddie Lounds. All people with close ties (for better or worse) to him.]

Resurrected. We come through the Porter again, sometimes we've spent time back home. We never remember this place, however. I've called Petyr, you know, Mr. Mormont. I -- I hope he brings an imPort with abilities.

[The implication being that Chilton thought Jorah was too far gone for mundane medical blood infusions. Too much had already been lost.]

I appreciate you coming in here, to be sure. Saving me in such a way.

[Even if it was entirely messy.]

[ Oh, there’s new flesh in there alright, muscle fiber thickening in over exposed bone, but it’s occurring at a steady crawl, buried in coagulation -- everything slippery in shades of viscera. There’s a lot to regenerate. It’s all gone numb between spikes of pain -- his face greys out all the further when Chilton gropes over the tourniquet, a grunt underscored by a rusty whistle from the butt of his lungs. The hand he’d clawed up to wring at Chilton’s throat slips off to pat (rough) over his face instead, like that’s where his intent was all along. More bloody fingerprints. He’s disoriented. Thank you doctor.

Chilton’s answer on the subject of death falls into line with his basic understanding of what was in the brochure. He doesn’t do much to acknowledge reassurance past a hazy nod. He doens't bridle under the title of “Mister Mormont” either.

Given the state of things, he might’ve earned the downgrade. ]

He was doing something to you.

[ Simon, he means, changing the subject in the face of Chilton’s graciousness. Baelish is coming. ]

Don’t let him wake up.

[When his throat was no longer in immediate (if circumstantial) danger, when that iron-taut hand clawing towards his neck instead relaxed into a comradely patting against his face, only then did Chilton take a shuddering breath. It was easier to keep cool under dire circumstances until after the potential peril had passed -- Chilton knew the value of temporary repression. Just as he knew the value of his own tongue, and what the speed of speech could afford him.]

So you think I should sedate him?

[It was a point of pressure he wasn't yet easing up on, the needling of his own Porter power, a demonstration that he wasn't useless. With bloodied streaks against his cheek, Chilton rose to his full height; no more awkwardly clamoring over Jorah's fallen form.]

I do not want this garnering any attention. [Which is the final reason as to why he called for Baelish, subtle and effective Petyr Baelish. The man had a knack for assessing bad situations efficiently.] It would be a rabid scandal. So I suppose that... Consent isn't really viable in this situation.

[Said Chilton, as he took a few steps towards Simon, his fingers bare and outstretched. A cautionary pose, ready and rearing to strike in case the subject woke up most inconveniently.]

[ Just as Littlefinger had told Haen, when he arrived at the hospital -- his pace was brisk with the urgency of business but his demeanor calm so as to not alert anyone in the building that something was amiss. He reached Chilton's office with his young companion and knocked once to announce himself. ]

Doctor Chilton?

[ Petyr found the door unlocked and opened it, entering the scene with a look of surprise. There was Jorah, bleeding out on the floor. And there was another man, bound in a jacket. And above it all stood Frederick Chilton -- completely unscathed. If the situation wasn't so dire, he may have smirked at the psychiatrist. They were more alike than either of them had realized. But top priority was healing Jorah, which meant Haen was the best choice for the job. ]

This is Haen Hithiel. She can manipulate the DNA of an individual to some very incredible results. In this case, she will be able to accelerate the healing process. [ Petyr headed over to Jorah to get a better look at the injury, furrowing his brow. ]

What happened here? And is that man dead? [ Did he have to call March to dispose of a body? ]

[ Haen slipped to Jorah's other side with an expression equal parts worried and disapproving. ]

Well someone's been a little liberal with spreading their platelets everywhere, good guanines dear, there are better ways to accent in red. Let's take a look, shall we?

[ On her right hand, a flexible metal glove with faintly glowing, opalescent filaments, and she lays it against his thigh. The light brightens, and Haen's lips move as if she's reading something they can't see before she speaks again. ]

Look at that, you've got a clever little backup already coded in! Just needs a bit of a boost, that's all, your healing is being a bit slow on the uptake, don't worry, I don't assume the rest of you's like that, Jorah.

Did you know that there are about 180 base pairs in your homeobox DNA sequence? It partly controls regeneration, in both animals and in plants. And wouldn't you know it, in people too! Let me just put a few more of those in you for the moment.

[ From an outside observation, it really doesn't look like Haen does much of anything, but the slowly healing tissue jumpstarts at a hyperactive rate, Jorah's ability abruptly supercharged on a cellular level. ]

[ Having withdrawn into sullen silence, Jorah makes a cursory effort to shed some of the slouch from his shoulders upon Baelish’s entry. He’s propped back against Chilton’s desk, faring better already than he was a few minutes ago. Still pale. Still missing plenty of muscle mass, for all that the wreckage of his leg has begun to fill back in with gristle.

He knows who Haen is.

He’s less certain about base pairs and DNA, but she has her metal glove on his thigh before he’s mustered the strength to do much more than stiffen away from her touch, suspicion flinty grey in his eyes. The breath he has clamped behind his teeth lets off in a rush at the sensation of tissue knitting itself back together at speed, and he cuts an extension of that same look to Baelish, worry compounded by distrust. What?

Even with superpowers of his own, this feels like sorcery. Also she went right in there for the thigh, is this normal? This doesn’t seem like it should be normal.

He has a lot of questions.

Chilton is probably in a better position to answer Baelish’s at the moment. ]

Edited (how do i htmld) 2016-09-21 01:34 (UTC)

[And so Chilton does. He hesitated, hovering over Simon's body, his attention rapt with Baelish's entrance. The doctor had yet to formally meet Haen, but he managed a hapless little wave upon her introduction. The way that Baelish smoothed out her remarkable power set caused him to blink; the Lord Ambassador had succeeded with this modern immersion program, it seemed.]

This man attacked me -- well, he ventured into my office under the pretense of requiring severe help, I obliged, and then he did something to me. I don't... Quite recall exactly, but I know he did something to me.

[He needed that footage.]

I know I lost time. And Mr. Mormont, he interrupted this man. They fought -- and weirdly so -- and, well. That fellow passed out, and Mr. Mormont has lost so much blood that I couldn't take him down the hall.

[Chilton knelt beside Simon, his fingers cupping the man's left cheek. Shallow breath, no immediate consciousness rising. Not yet. Vital signs still evident.]

Not dead, no. But I ought to sedate him.

[An anxiolytic and a tranquilizer. Both set only in the milligrams, with the tranquilizer half the dosage as the anti-anxiety sedative. The effect would be a deeply calming, even surreal, feeling.]

Edited 2016-09-21 03:30 (UTC)

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject