03-15-2017, 09:44 PM
Roland couldn’t say for sure exactly what happened in the moments after the bomb went off. There was a stifled shout, a roar like an avalanche tumbling down to crush his brittle, brittle bones, and then a shuddering silence, followed soon after by an almost irrepressible urge to gag on the dry dust clotting around his head. When the world finally stopped spinning, the man found himself lying flat on his back with his arms flattened against his sides like a dead man in a coffin, staring blankly at the jagged rock ceiling, lungs and ribs burning something fearsome as his lungs greedily sucked in air.
At length Roland was able to rise up onto his hands and knees, coughing around the sharp shale dust inside his lungs with raggedly rough splatters. His chest felt like a pincushion stuck full of needles, his ribs creaking ominously under the soft skin of his belly. Everything was spinning, purplish and wavy like the inside of a bottle of ink, and he swallowed around the bile burning at the back of his throat.
After a moment of only hearing his own harsh, labored pants in the dark, he glanced round for Smith, Burgess and Piers. Something fitful and anxious in his chest eased up when his gaze alighted on Smith, the man rolling over from where he had shielded the other two by pushing them to the floor.
Smith was white as a sheet and peppered with cuts from the shower of rubble, the powdered dust making him seem almost luminescent in the darkness. His dark hair and clothing was smattered in greyish-white, as if he were some kind of ghoulish apparition. The effect was ruined, however, by the man’s sour expression, making him seem more like a puffed-up Persian cat or a flour-coated child caught playing in his grandmother’s kitchen cabinets.
“Are— are you— is everyone alright?” Roland asked, stifling the urge to let out a hysterical laugh, because now isn’t the time, dimwit.
For a lengthy, horribly stretched moment, Smith didn’t say anything. That was okay, Roland supposed, because his ears were ringing a bit too loudly to be able to hear much of what he might’ve said, anyhow. Then Roland was reaching up to touch at his face and— oh. Oh.
It was blood. There was blood smeared on his fingers, and Smith looked at it, too, almost going cross-eyed with the effort. Roland again had to fight down the sickening urge to giggle. He was so tired.
They sat in the dark for a few more minutes, silent and trembling violently from the cold. Roland recognized that they must have been fairly close to the exit— caves couldn’t have breezy drafts, not without an opening someplace, so it only made sense. It took a lot of willpower not to crawl over to where the others were clustered together just to pool their body heat and split it between them. Instinct had everything to do with that urge, but manmade decorum was what cut it down before the idea could bear fruit.
“Roland, Smith? Piers…” Burgess’s voice was near deafening in the silence, despite not ever rising above a soft murmur.
Roland watched as Smith grit his teeth, rising into a sitting position so he could ease his back against the wall. He looked regal as ever, the silver sabre at his hip somehow defying science and arithmetic by not jabbing into his calf. There was also something strange about his face, as if it were pinched a bit too tight or the man had tasted something bitter, slick with sweat and glistening… Smith squinted blearily down at Burgess and Piers, blinking in rapid succession like he was trying to clear a mite of dust from his eye, and then it became obvious. Ah, the concussion! No wonder his comrade in arms was behaving strangely. How could Roland have forgotten? The screaming of his nerves as he sat up and tried to get a good look at Burgess and Piers was reason enough.
Brilliantly, Burgess seemed none the worse for wear, only mightily startled by the collapse. There was a small cut on his forehead, sure, but nothing fatal— only a faint trickle of red streaming into his left eyebrow. The uncomfortable, tight pinch beneath Roland’s sternum eased further, relief washing over him. That just left one more. Steeling himself against the uncomfortable tension in his lower back and— bizarrely— in his chest, Roland craned his neck to see Piers, as well, the boy appearing to be nothing more than the shade of a body curled up beside the other young man. His hands and cheeks still seemed clammy and speckled with perspiration in the gloom, but no other wounds had been visibly added to his condition. Roland counted that as a sign of goodwill from the gods.
“Sit tight, lad.” Smith’s voice sounded cracked and dry, like the feeble notes of a songbird left without water for far, far too long. “We’ll get the both of you out of here in no time at all, just you wait and see.”
Burgess didn’t seem convinced, but the panicky trembling Roland could notice even from across the way subsided in trace amounts. Roland slumped back against the ground, breath rasping weakly from between his lips. He was trying to see through all the strange black dots marring his vision when something foamy and wet gurgled from deep within his esophagus, bursting out with a cough and dribbling onto his lips. Despite feeling like a babe blowing bubbles with their own spittle and all the more embarrassed for it, Roland didn’t miss the way Smith’s eyes focused on his face, dim and worried.
“Ah, drat,” Smith hissed, shifting onto his feet and wobbling uncertainly over to where Roland was resting. “Whatever you do, don’t look down.”
Roland looked down. Wheezed, and hated Smith for telling him not to look down because what conscious human being can resist words like that?
“My ribs?” asked Roland, the words curiously void of emotion.
Blood-flecked spit continued to leak down his chin. It was possible that it was a little more serious than just his ribs, then, but he was no medic. Roland’s eyes slid shut as his throat worked, chest burning and feeling like it had more than a few holes in it.
“You’ll be fi—“ Smith began, then abruptly cut himself off, expression suddenly cagey, cornered. Roland understood. Well-meaning assurances only worked on those who were either too green to know otherwise or not involved in their line of work. “…take a breather.”
He attempted to stand and move away only for Roland to reach out and grab his sleeve, words hissing out through clenched teeth, “Smith, you get those boys out of here. I’ve had a good run, you know that, and the captain and the others might still have a chance of finding me,” and then he dissolved into another coughing fit, choking and quivering and spitting with frantic gulps of air in-between.
“Fine, just, don’t leave this spot, you heroic bastard. I’ll come back for you.” The ‘ if I can ’ floated silently in the air between them. Roland staunchly ignored it and put on a brave face.
“What’s happening? What’s wrong?” Burgess asked, --somewhere in the distance, Roland wasn't sure,-- only to be loudly shushed by Smith. Seeing the disgruntled face the boy made at that, Roland chuckled faintly. It sounded like little more than a few shallow intakes of breath.
“Nothing,” soothed Smith. “Roland’s just going to wait here for the others.”
Smith seemed finally set on leaving, the unconscious body of Piers slumping against him with Burgess assisting, when the leaden clomping of steps boomed down the passage, rattling against the moistened, dewy walls and stale air.
Roland had hoped despite all odds that it would be one of their friends, but those hopes were dashed against the ground when a warm, too-friendly voice called out, “O-ho! Gotten yourselves into a little spot of trouble, have you?”
If the blood in his veins could have turned to ice, Roland was certain it would have.
At length Roland was able to rise up onto his hands and knees, coughing around the sharp shale dust inside his lungs with raggedly rough splatters. His chest felt like a pincushion stuck full of needles, his ribs creaking ominously under the soft skin of his belly. Everything was spinning, purplish and wavy like the inside of a bottle of ink, and he swallowed around the bile burning at the back of his throat.
After a moment of only hearing his own harsh, labored pants in the dark, he glanced round for Smith, Burgess and Piers. Something fitful and anxious in his chest eased up when his gaze alighted on Smith, the man rolling over from where he had shielded the other two by pushing them to the floor.
Smith was white as a sheet and peppered with cuts from the shower of rubble, the powdered dust making him seem almost luminescent in the darkness. His dark hair and clothing was smattered in greyish-white, as if he were some kind of ghoulish apparition. The effect was ruined, however, by the man’s sour expression, making him seem more like a puffed-up Persian cat or a flour-coated child caught playing in his grandmother’s kitchen cabinets.
“Are— are you— is everyone alright?” Roland asked, stifling the urge to let out a hysterical laugh, because now isn’t the time, dimwit.
For a lengthy, horribly stretched moment, Smith didn’t say anything. That was okay, Roland supposed, because his ears were ringing a bit too loudly to be able to hear much of what he might’ve said, anyhow. Then Roland was reaching up to touch at his face and— oh. Oh.
It was blood. There was blood smeared on his fingers, and Smith looked at it, too, almost going cross-eyed with the effort. Roland again had to fight down the sickening urge to giggle. He was so tired.
They sat in the dark for a few more minutes, silent and trembling violently from the cold. Roland recognized that they must have been fairly close to the exit— caves couldn’t have breezy drafts, not without an opening someplace, so it only made sense. It took a lot of willpower not to crawl over to where the others were clustered together just to pool their body heat and split it between them. Instinct had everything to do with that urge, but manmade decorum was what cut it down before the idea could bear fruit.
“Roland, Smith? Piers…” Burgess’s voice was near deafening in the silence, despite not ever rising above a soft murmur.
Roland watched as Smith grit his teeth, rising into a sitting position so he could ease his back against the wall. He looked regal as ever, the silver sabre at his hip somehow defying science and arithmetic by not jabbing into his calf. There was also something strange about his face, as if it were pinched a bit too tight or the man had tasted something bitter, slick with sweat and glistening… Smith squinted blearily down at Burgess and Piers, blinking in rapid succession like he was trying to clear a mite of dust from his eye, and then it became obvious. Ah, the concussion! No wonder his comrade in arms was behaving strangely. How could Roland have forgotten? The screaming of his nerves as he sat up and tried to get a good look at Burgess and Piers was reason enough.
Brilliantly, Burgess seemed none the worse for wear, only mightily startled by the collapse. There was a small cut on his forehead, sure, but nothing fatal— only a faint trickle of red streaming into his left eyebrow. The uncomfortable, tight pinch beneath Roland’s sternum eased further, relief washing over him. That just left one more. Steeling himself against the uncomfortable tension in his lower back and— bizarrely— in his chest, Roland craned his neck to see Piers, as well, the boy appearing to be nothing more than the shade of a body curled up beside the other young man. His hands and cheeks still seemed clammy and speckled with perspiration in the gloom, but no other wounds had been visibly added to his condition. Roland counted that as a sign of goodwill from the gods.
“Sit tight, lad.” Smith’s voice sounded cracked and dry, like the feeble notes of a songbird left without water for far, far too long. “We’ll get the both of you out of here in no time at all, just you wait and see.”
Burgess didn’t seem convinced, but the panicky trembling Roland could notice even from across the way subsided in trace amounts. Roland slumped back against the ground, breath rasping weakly from between his lips. He was trying to see through all the strange black dots marring his vision when something foamy and wet gurgled from deep within his esophagus, bursting out with a cough and dribbling onto his lips. Despite feeling like a babe blowing bubbles with their own spittle and all the more embarrassed for it, Roland didn’t miss the way Smith’s eyes focused on his face, dim and worried.
“Ah, drat,” Smith hissed, shifting onto his feet and wobbling uncertainly over to where Roland was resting. “Whatever you do, don’t look down.”
Roland looked down. Wheezed, and hated Smith for telling him not to look down because what conscious human being can resist words like that?
“My ribs?” asked Roland, the words curiously void of emotion.
Blood-flecked spit continued to leak down his chin. It was possible that it was a little more serious than just his ribs, then, but he was no medic. Roland’s eyes slid shut as his throat worked, chest burning and feeling like it had more than a few holes in it.
“You’ll be fi—“ Smith began, then abruptly cut himself off, expression suddenly cagey, cornered. Roland understood. Well-meaning assurances only worked on those who were either too green to know otherwise or not involved in their line of work. “…take a breather.”
He attempted to stand and move away only for Roland to reach out and grab his sleeve, words hissing out through clenched teeth, “Smith, you get those boys out of here. I’ve had a good run, you know that, and the captain and the others might still have a chance of finding me,” and then he dissolved into another coughing fit, choking and quivering and spitting with frantic gulps of air in-between.
“Fine, just, don’t leave this spot, you heroic bastard. I’ll come back for you.” The ‘ if I can ’ floated silently in the air between them. Roland staunchly ignored it and put on a brave face.
“What’s happening? What’s wrong?” Burgess asked, --somewhere in the distance, Roland wasn't sure,-- only to be loudly shushed by Smith. Seeing the disgruntled face the boy made at that, Roland chuckled faintly. It sounded like little more than a few shallow intakes of breath.
“Nothing,” soothed Smith. “Roland’s just going to wait here for the others.”
Smith seemed finally set on leaving, the unconscious body of Piers slumping against him with Burgess assisting, when the leaden clomping of steps boomed down the passage, rattling against the moistened, dewy walls and stale air.
Roland had hoped despite all odds that it would be one of their friends, but those hopes were dashed against the ground when a warm, too-friendly voice called out, “O-ho! Gotten yourselves into a little spot of trouble, have you?”
If the blood in his veins could have turned to ice, Roland was certain it would have.
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Gamzee Makara Wrote:S’aight. After all, dogs have a tendency to motherfuckin’ bite.