ArchivedLogs:Like a Hole in the Head

Like a Hole in the Head
Dramatis Personae Dex, Martin	2013-12-09 Martin encounters Dex with a problem. (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> Lower East Side
Historically characterized by crime and immigrant families crammed into cramped tenement buildings, the Lower East Side is often identified with its working-class roots. Today, it plays host to many of New York's mutant poor, although even here they are still often forced into hiding. There's a pulse of orange energy and some fiery effects down the street and up in an alley. This zone has seen it's share of various pyrotechnics it seems, as a vigilante mops up some of the undead walkers that were low priority to others... due to being out in poor town. So it could be that. But that's all down the street. There's a teenage boy limp-shuffling along past the coffeeshop, at a mismatched gait that suggests some kind of difficulty with running, clearly leaving the area where the battle was going on, although it's quiet now. He has one hand pressed against his forehead and hair, and a little bit of one shoulder of his jacket is on /fire/. So, that shuffle-run isn't helping with the firey spot, particularly. Martin is in the act of unlocking the door to his hardtop Wrangler parked on the street when those fiery effects go off and catch his attention. He looks up and in that direction, then steps over to the sidewalk to try to get a better view. When nothing else explodes with light, and there's no screaming or otherwise, he sounds a, "Huh," and starts to turn back to his car. But then he spies the teenager shuffling along. While partially on fire. Quiet befuddlement turns immediately to concern. "Hey. Hey, kid," he calls out, heading the way of the boy. The teenager, Dex, orients directly towards the call, twisting around to face him, as if expecting a direct attack from that direction. His hand stands planted to his head and eye on that same side doesn't drop, stays there. While the teen does seem to be aware that he was yelled at, the fire is noticed only a little bit later. Dex freezes, as if trying to decide if the fire or the yelling person is the bigger problem. He's certainly acting disoriented. "Don't shoot again!" Dex declares, a bit shrill. The walk turns into a quick trot as Martin hurries to close the distance between. Dressed in jeans, a heavy, tan coat, a black knit cap, and thin, black leather gloves, he is probably not the most friendly-looking guy ever when running your way, especially considering he looks pretty in shape. His focus, though, is on that fire, which is usually dangerous when burning on somebody. Instead of responding to that plea, Martin goes to tackle the teenager so he can try to smother the fire. Dex is extremely easy to tackle, despite also seeming to be in good athletic shape. He doesn't even dodge really, he ends up with about two steps backwards and one half-twisted to one side, which... means he went nowhere. "Ah!" Dex says, a quick, sharp noise, pulling his other arm in halfway up and forwards as he's tackled. Martin will find nearly no resistance to whatever he intends to do with the fire. Down they go to the cold sidewalk, for a combination of partial stop-drop-and-roll and Martin beating at the flames with his gloved hands until they finally die. Once he's satisfied that the fire is out, he looks to the teen's face to try to get a read on his current state. "Good lord. You all right?" he asks, quick, while trying to assess just what might have happened. He also moves to give the kid some room. "You were on fire, there, champ." Dex doesn't seem to have enough in him to fight, he's a bit ragdoll. He's extremely pale, as if in extreme shock. His eyes mostly seem to register somewhere past Martin's head, but his voice isn't frenzied, it's more just flat, closer to someone who isn't functioning at full reaction time, but it isn't full of pain either. "I just saw I was on fire," Dex agrees lamely. "Am okay. Just a little shot." This much closer look suggests Dex has his hand crushing hard down on what's probably a nasty burn on his head; the hair and ear past where his hand covers is very very burned. "I thought you were the 'hero,'" Dex adds, and starts to very awkwardly work on getting his legs under him. "Hey, easy, champ," he says, and though he's game enough to help the teen sit up, Martin's not especially keen on letting him stand up fully just yet. He scrutinizes him, a frown pulling. "Shot? Shot by who?" he asks, icy blue gaze flicking up to take in their surroundings, as if half-expecting to see somebody hurtling toward them. "I think maybe we ought to get you some help." Dex will attempt to stand up, but he also won't fight particularly if Martin puts some effort into pushing into staying seated. Dex turns his head and torso to look back the way he came. "I was with two zombies, so I think he---- I ran," Dex says, with a pausing reluctance. "Just want to get off the sidewalk, out of sight," Dex adds, and will try to get up again. That frown stays pretty steady on Martin's features, with his brows set low in a straight line. "He who?" he asks. Then he gives another glance around, watchful with the mention of zombies. If he calls 911, would help be able to get here faster than Martin could drive the teen to hospital himself? Deciding that answer is no, and worried that there could be undead running amok, he gets to his feet and then helps the teen up. "C'mon, champ, let me take you to see a doctor." Dex releases a funny breathy sound upon getting up as if some life squeezed out of his chest, a little jerky about standing. And, still without using his right hand, it stays on his face. "No, I'll just... over there's good," Dex says vaguely, and will start his shuffling pace the exact same way he HAD been going at the start of all of this. "Also, Dex," Dex says. A pause. "That's me I meant. Not the guy. I don't know who he was. Just left, when he interrupted me," Dex continues, without much inflection. Worry lines etch into Martin's features, particularly at the corners of his eyes and at his forehead above his nose. He attempts to steer the teenager towards his Jeep, instead. "It's nice to meet you, Dex. I'm Martin," he says, apparently believing in always making time for proper formalities. "C'mon, how about we go this way, and I drive you over to the nearest hospital. They should really check you out, Dex." At first, Dex is steered. He clearly isn't terribly aware. "Martin, okay," Dex agrees, appropriately steered. In fact, he doesn't resist until the hospital word comes up, he'll pull away. "No, no," Dex barters slowly. "I'm not ready to go to the hospital yet," Dex adds, which probably makes no sense at all to Martin. "Martin, don't freak out, okay? But let me go?" Dex says, and drops the hand from his head. He has a fairly good-sized hole burned into his face, just over an inch wide, to the side of and above the eye, with charred burned flesh all around it, eye misted white and empty and partially cooked. The hole clearly goes at least halfway into his brain, a black charred, horrific chasm injury. Dex should /probably/ not be walking. Martin has seen active combat. He is, unfortunately, not a stranger to gruesome wounds. He's both seen them and experienced them himself. Still, though, when Dex reveals the extent of his injury, Martin can't help but to breathe out a, "Holy Mary, mother of God," as his eyes widen. But then he rotates his jaw from one side to the other and back, squaring it away along with his initial surprise. He keeps a hand on the teen's arm. "Look, Dex, I really think you should come with me," he says, words on the careful side, and slow. "You need to get that looked at." But in Martin's head, the wheels are turning furiously now. How long before the kid collapses? How's he even alive to begin with? Dex puts the hand back, in a sort of methodical, relaxed way as if masking a bruise. However, he doesn't seem to follow fully everything that Martin says, although his good eye clearly is staring at (or through) him. Dex slowly frowns a little, as if really trying to think hard, to come up with a better reason to not go to the hospital. Finally, he comes up with, "I'm a freak, okay? So you'll let go?" Dex asks, as if that were good logic. It's not full of emotion, it's just said flatly, with very little inflection. He narrows his eyes slightly. Not in a suspicious or distrusting manner, but more along the lines of shrewd curiosity. "Join the club, Dex," Martin says, just throwing it out there to see how the teen reacts. "Now c'mon. At the very least, let's get you off of the street and out of the cold. Okay, champ? My car's just over there," he says, and hooks a gloved thumb over his shoulder to it. Sometimes baby steps are needed. Dex doesn't look suspicious, or annoyed, or anything in particular other than just really very blank. "I want to get off the street," Dex answers, agreeing with that statement as if the rest of the problems were momentarily forgotten, but then Dex stares around, as if looking for something that's missing in the area. But then comes back around to Martin with, "I'll get goo in your car." "That's-" How exactly does one respond to that kind of statement, anyway? "That's all right, champ. I can always get it cleaned. It's just a Jeep." Jeeps are meant to get dirty, right? Sure. Martin hits the key fob to unlock the doors of the Wrangler, and it blips and flashes its lights to let them know. "C'mon. Out of the cold first, yeah? Then we can talk about where you want to go." "Mmmmm." Something has clearly distracted Dex, because he shuffles over to the car as if very very interested in it. More specifically, the door. He won't need help to get over there, he'll shuffle and not really lift his feet, but he's not terribly slow. Then it may become more apparent about what he's distracted by. The door handle, passenger side. He actually lets go of his head to wrap fingers around it, and really focuses on trying to both unlatch and pull. "I'll do it," he says, maybe to himself. Martin follows, keeping an eye on Dex to make sure the teen doesn't keel over. Which, honestly, most human beings would have surely done right now. The kid mentioned he's a freak, which is a word that gets tossed around pretty frequently for that specific group of people of which Martin is a member himself. But can he count on that meaning? Is he endangering the teenager by not stepping in and doing more? He worries. "You need help there, Dex?" "Mmmmmmmmgggg," Dex groans, but will get it. Determined, if nothing else. He stumbles back with the door's weight, but recovers with a jolt of legs, and hangs onto the door. Dex looks at Martin, as if confused by him hovering close for a moment. "Are you going to kidnap me?" Dex asks, with the first slight emotion so far: he made a joke. Which, with the fully visable glaring wound marring his face, probably makes a disturbing clash with the small joke. He'll get in the car. Entirely without grace, but he can do it. One leg at a time. A gloved hand might even help to steady Dex when he stumbles back. Glaring wound or no, the joke manages to crack a half of a grin on Martin's otherwise worry-worn face. "Not really my style," he assures. Once the teen is in, he shuts the door after him. He then moves around to the driver's side of the Jeep, keeping his haste in check to not come across as panicked. As bizarre as this all is, acting like he's freaked out won't help it. Once he gets in and shuts his own door, Martin cranks the key to at least get the heat running. "You want to tell me why you're still talking and upright with a shiner like that? Or is this really something they'd put on Ripley's Believe It or Not?" "I told you. I'm a mutant or something," Dex says, similarly flatly to every other thing he's said, but watches Martin without really turning his head at all. He replaces the hand over the wound on his head. "But I didn't intentionally get shot," Dex adds, as if the next question he expected was whether he dove into danger stupidly. Something seems to occur to Dex. "Are you /worried/?" he asks, as if that was a very interesting thing. But then follows with. "Wait, you said you were one also?" Dex pauses. Martin, who tries to get a closer look at that injury until the hand is replaced. It probably should have been fatal. He flexes a gloved hand, thoughtful for a brief moment. The leather is supple and worn enough that it does not really creak under the tension. If he tried to heal it... "Just a little," he says, on the edge of gruff. "And that's right, champ. Two peas in a pod. You stuck with that shiner now?" Apparently he prefers the under exaggerated term to saying gaping hole out loud. "It doesn't hurt, so don't worry," Dex says, and does something that might make lots of people lose their lunch--- he probes his fingers directly into the hole, as if investigating. Or he has an itch on his brain. Clearly there's no pain, though, Dex just sits there and does that, while his other eye seems to be registered roughly on Martin. "Oh, it's pretty deep," Dex observes, with some emotion-- dismay. "Don't, uh, poke around too much in there, champ," he says, watching with a fascination usually only accorded trainwrecks of the metaphorical sense. "Yeah, it is," Martin agrees, not going to sugarcoat it. Not that you can exactly sugarcoat a gaping hole in the head, but. "Listen, Dex. Are you stuck with that? Do you heal that kind of thing up, maybe?" It is a leading question. He can't exactly in good conscience leave the teenager with a giant hole in his head. "It doesn't seem to be healing," Dex says, frowning. "Some things yes," Dex adds. And then, as if realizing that wasn't much information, "I've healed some things before. This is the worst one I've had," he clarifies. He doesn't seem to be exhausted, he just.... sits there, but ignored the comment about not putting his fingers into his face, he's still examining it. "I hope it gets better." "Okay," Martin says, passing a gloved hand over his face. "Okay." After a couple of seconds of sitting there, he then moves to pull his seatbelt on, buckling. "Look, Dex. I'm going to take you someplace that's safe, okay? And if that shiner doesn't start healing up, I'll give you some help with it, okay? Get you all fixed up." A frown pulls at the corners of his mouth when he glances the teen's way. "Stop poking at it." And then he throws the Jeep into first gear and they pull away from the curb. The school is his end goal.