chess_icon.gif luther_icon.gif

Scene Title Operation
Synopsis Chess patches up Luther in a strange reunion after an altercation on Staten Island.
Date March 10, 2018

Staten Island

"In here," Chess says breathlessly, pulling Luther into an abandoned shop of some sort — whatever signage was once up has long since been stolen or fallen off the ramshackle building; whatever merchandise was once sold has long since been looted. There's not much in the shop but dust, cobwebs, grime, and rubble, but it has a roof — for the most part, minus a couple of holes in the ceiling, leading to large puddles here and there. In addition, the building smells of urine and mold, but beggars can't be choosers.

She leads him over to a dry-ish corner to sit down, kneeling beside him as she rummages through her ever-present courier bag, pulling out a flashlight which she turns on and sets upright to cast a beam up to the ceiling. Next comes out a bottle of whiskey — a much better brand than whatever they were drinking inside. A small first-aid kit, the kind found in glove boxes or office drawers, comes out next.

"You really need to stop getting shot," she says wryly, as she reaches to help get him out of the jacket he wears so she can see his wound.

He's never been a runner. Luther sucks in and huffs out in heavy, labored breaths as they break into the abandoned building. The visible glowing has stopped, but the man still feels hot. A grunt issues out as he bends over to catch his breath, grimacing with injuries old and new. Eventually, he manages to sit and nods gratefully to the younger woman as he's helped out of the bloodied jacket. "I really haven't had the urge to do that in a long time, promise," he rumbles, settling down once he's out of the heavy jacket. His dark-colored shirt is wet, but it's not from the rain. Looking over all that she's got with her, he looks impressed at her preparedness.

"So how're you?" He stays still, waiting, watching her reaction to the bullet wound that he can't see.

Chess pulls a knife out of her boot, using it to rip the fabric of his shirt away from the wound, before reaching for the flashlight to study the wound there. To her credit, she doesn't seem to be fazed by the blood or gore of the wound — but then he knows she's seen worse. She doesn't react physically, but glances at him at the question of how she is.

"Better'n you at the moment," she says dryly, before setting the flashlight back down to send its halo of light above them.

She picks up the whiskey bottle and uncaps it, taking a swig and then holding it out for him to take as well. "It's pretty shallow, mostly a graze. I can take care of it but it won't be pretty, or you can take your chance and wait for a real doctor tomorrow. The fuck you doing out here on Staten?" Pot, kettle, black.

A brief chuckle follows with a soft cough more out of embarrassment than pain. Luther studies her face, taking in the sight of her and comparing to how he remembers her. He reaches for the whiskey with his other hand, takes a quick drink of it and sets it down between them. "Only if you can spare the bandage and the whiskey," he replies after a pause for thought. "Otherwise, I'll get it taken care of proper at the hospital." Her latter question causes the man to glance away into the deeper warehouse, eyeing the shadows before turning back to the woman. "Sightseeing. But I certainly wasn't expecting to dredge up a friend in these parts." A dry laugh chases the answer.

"I can spare it, just don't want to do more damage than good. I'm not a medic. If it was a military bullet, I'd say leave it, but not sure what sort of state that guy's gun or ammo was in," Chess says, frowning at the wound and the dilemma. "I think I should grab the bullet and bandage you up, but gonna leave the tailoring job to an expert."

She doesn't like needles.

She takes the bottle and looks back up at him. "This'll hurt like a bitch. Hold on to something." He knows the drill. There's no need to sugarcoat it.

With that she pours the whiskey over the wound, before passing it back to him for another swig — he'll likely need it.

At the mention of the state of the gun and ammo, Luther tenses - and grimaces with the movement - in revelation. "You're right," he says with a short sigh, "you'd think those guys were clean and professional but better to not take the chance." Especially given that the pair of men are now recently deceased. His eyes fall to the bottle as she picks it up. He knows what's coming, and barring having anything but dust to hold on to, he reaches around to pick up the jacket, rolling it up and stuffing sleeve into his mouth to bite down. He nods for her to go ahead. And when she does, he utters a gutteral growl around the fabric. His face screws up in pain, but otherwise he remains still, only moving to grasp the bottle when it's offered over. He spits the sleeve out, sucking in a breath. "What've you been up to?" the man finally asks after a few beats. "Can't be making a living off darts…"

"Sorry," says Chess through teeth gritted in an empathetic grimace. She opens the kit and takes out a package of gauze, handing it to him to hold against the wound while she puts on the latex gloves within the little white container.

"I'm just a tourist over here tonight. Picked a crap night for it. Basically I'm a contractor, I guess. Blow shit up for half the cost since you only have to pay me labor," she says, snapping the latex at her wrist with a small smirk. She reaches into the kit for the hemostat and pours a little alcohol over that as well. "You?" She touches his hand to get him to let go of his wound. "Don't worry, I was always the last one standing when we played that Operation board game," she quips.

The initial stinging dies down after a minute, enough that Luther can press the gauze down. His words come out with a forced breath, pleasantries pushed between the gritted phrases. "Yeah? Sounds like a perfect gig." His hand releasese, reluctantly, but exposing all the same. "I found out my old position was still open… and signed back on with Raytech." He's been working with their Safe Zone staff, readying the building to open. "But bet I could slide some jobs over your way. What's your goin' rate for demo?" His expression flickers from a smile to frown to a grimaced smile as she works on extraction. It's not a pretty job, like she said, but necessary.

Chess lifts a shoulder, regarding her rate. "Depends on the job and how legit it is," she says, picking up the flashlight to push into his hands. "Shine a light on that for me, yeah?" she instructs, before using one gloved hand to pull apart the edges of his wound; she reaches in with the metal hemostat to get a hold on the bullet — the first try doesn't take, with metal sliding off metal, but she manages not to knock the tool into the wound. She takes another steadying breath and tries again — this time the metal ridges of the utensil manage to get their grip on the projectile, and she pulls it out.

"One piece, so there's some luck," she says, examining it, before setting both bullet and hemostat on the ground, reaching for the gauze to press against the wound.

There's a humored huff from Luther for her terms and an understanding nod. He takes a quick swig of the whiskey, then the flashlight as bidden, lifting it so the cone of light holds as steadily as possible. There's some wobbling, naturally, but he focuses on stability as she works, going quiet. His features twitch with the sensations, eyes turning to the clamped bullet. "Better me than you," he says with long look to the younger woman and a thankful nod to her, waiting until she's got some gauze back on before holding out the flashlight to return to her hands. He'll take over with applied pressures. "But that was some excitement, wasn't it? Just like old times." Maybe there's another deeper reason he retreated to Staten Island. One that he doesn't truly acknowledge.

"One more rinse," she warns, moving his hand away so she can pour more whiskey over the wound, then hands him back the whiskey bottle for another swig.

"I should be a surgeon or something," Chess says wryly. She's hardly patient enough for that, and he knows it. "I could do without a whole lot of that excitement. Fucking cats and megalomaniacs and I don't even know what the fuck." Chess begins to wind gauze around his arm until the wound is bandaged and tapes in place. It's hardly an expert job, but at least it's a little cleaner than it was before, and might be able to make it through the night.

"The more things change, huh?" It's true in a few ways — including the dodging Chess does of any sort of permanence.

At least she warns him of the second rinse, so Luther can brace himself again. He foregoes the jacket sleeve this time, choosing instead to merely shut his eyes tightly and sit perfectly still one more time. See, that wasn't so bad… except it'll obviously leave a scar. The next time Luther laughs, it's due to the reminders via the what the fuck just happened summary from Chess. "You got that right," he says, shaking his head even so. "Whoever that Mr. Black guy is, you'd think he was delusional that he's running the show out here." Still, Luther frowns as he reaches up to help with the bandaging process. "That guy, could tell he's got some clout at least."

His frown smoothes out as he looks over to her, a genuine smile replacing his expression at her words. "Really has been a while. Lots of changes. It's also good to see you… even given the circumstances. Especially, given the circumstances." He adjusts his seated position against the floor and pushes the whiskey over to her. "That bein' said. I can take first watch." His brow arches up, the man easing right back into his mannerisms from when he'd encountered her during the war. Just like old times.

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