E. B. Sledge (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
withtheoldbreed) wrote2014-11-14 06:54 pm
withtheoldbreed) wrote2014-11-14 06:54 pm
d-day ✯ spam
[Open Spam for the Deck]
[It happens quickly. One minute, Gene's sitting in the rocky Peleliu hills, hearing Burgie's voice over and over in his head - Sniper got the Skipper, Ack Ack's dead - watching someone pull the wool blanket over the Skipper's head, and the next, he's here. Standing on the deck of a ship, looking out at a seemingly endless horizon of stars. He remembers the conversation, the promise that this could be fixed, a wrong could be righted, and he remembers agreeing, but he blinks, and suddenly, the hills, the crackle of gunfire, the solemn footsteps, his buddies are all gone.
He's alone. For the first time in well over a year, he's alone, and that hits him like a ton of bricks.
It's cold, is the next thing he realizes. At least, it's colder than the hundred and fifteen degree temperatures he's been forced to cope with for the last month, and he shivers involuntarily. He's still holding his helmet in one hand, his rifle in the other. His pack and sidearm and filthy fatigue green dungarees he's been wearing since they landed on that fucking beach have all come along too, along with the dirt and dried blood. Sometimes, it feels like he'd do anything for a shower, even a cold one with salt water.
He's filthy, exhausted, and he's staring out at an ocean of stars. Everything hurts - the scrapes and sores on his face, arms, feet, his feet in general, but his chest, too, even if that's a different kind of pain entirely - but for a moment, he's utterly distracted, staring. What is this? What kind of ship had he volunteered for?
For the hundredth time since he got on the LVT, Eugene Sledge wonders what the hell he was thinking when he volunteered for any of this.]
[ooc: multiples & fuzzy time are all welcomed. c8]
[It happens quickly. One minute, Gene's sitting in the rocky Peleliu hills, hearing Burgie's voice over and over in his head - Sniper got the Skipper, Ack Ack's dead - watching someone pull the wool blanket over the Skipper's head, and the next, he's here. Standing on the deck of a ship, looking out at a seemingly endless horizon of stars. He remembers the conversation, the promise that this could be fixed, a wrong could be righted, and he remembers agreeing, but he blinks, and suddenly, the hills, the crackle of gunfire, the solemn footsteps, his buddies are all gone.
He's alone. For the first time in well over a year, he's alone, and that hits him like a ton of bricks.
It's cold, is the next thing he realizes. At least, it's colder than the hundred and fifteen degree temperatures he's been forced to cope with for the last month, and he shivers involuntarily. He's still holding his helmet in one hand, his rifle in the other. His pack and sidearm and filthy fatigue green dungarees he's been wearing since they landed on that fucking beach have all come along too, along with the dirt and dried blood. Sometimes, it feels like he'd do anything for a shower, even a cold one with salt water.
He's filthy, exhausted, and he's staring out at an ocean of stars. Everything hurts - the scrapes and sores on his face, arms, feet, his feet in general, but his chest, too, even if that's a different kind of pain entirely - but for a moment, he's utterly distracted, staring. What is this? What kind of ship had he volunteered for?
For the hundredth time since he got on the LVT, Eugene Sledge wonders what the hell he was thinking when he volunteered for any of this.]
[ooc: multiples & fuzzy time are all welcomed. c8]
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Gene hesitates again before rolling back his left sleeve, revealing a pretty gross looking open sore on his wrist and then leans down to start unlacing his boots for what feels like the first time in two weeks, maybe three. Since the landing was over, it's been easier to do things like dump sweat out of your boondockers without worrying about getting caught off guard and killed, but not by much.]
I'm with the First Marine Division. [And realizing he hasn't introduced himself:] Private Eugene Sledge.
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[Scott glances at the rifle - it looks kinda like something out of a game, but it's like something Bucky might have, too. He doesn't keep his attention on it for long, instead focusing on gathering everything onto a small wheeled tray. He pauses as he turns to bring it over to Gene, scanning for every wound he can spot.]
I'm Scott. Um. Veterinary assistant? [He smiles a little, at the joke, but it fades as he gives Gene an earnest look.]
Are you in pain?
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It's not really Scott's fault, though, so Gene just keeps unlacing his boondockers and carefully pulls one off, than the other, wincing as his half rotted off socks peel away from his skin, revealing raw and painful looking sores on the top and bottoms of his feet. They probably smell a little ripe, too, but they're not badly infected or really harmful, just gross.
Is he in pain? Yeah, but he's used to it, and it's nothing serious, so he doesn't really know how to answer that correctly.]
I'm alright, Doc. [The nickname slips out before he really even registers that it's coming, because it's not like Scott couldn't be some guy treating him on Peleliu, or on some hospital boat or back on Pavuvu. Some of the Corpsmen are pretty young, even compared to Gene.]
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He does stop breathing through his nose entirely when the socks come off, though. His nose is too sensitive. The nickname catches him off guard, though, and Scott blinks in surprise.]
Oh, I'm not - I'm not a doctor.
[He wishes Jack was here, though. He shakes that away, and reaches for the hand with the bad looking gash. At first, he hesitates - the last time he did this, he was depowered and it hurt a hell of a lot more than normal. But he's back to normal - as normal as possible - and while he cleans with one hand, he absorbs what pain he can with the other.]
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(How is he supposed to go back?)
He lets Scott take his hand, and at first, he almost doesn't realize what's going on. His gaze has tracked to the rest of the clinic, taking in the unfamiliar equipment, but then it kind of hits him that he can feel Scott cleaning the wound, but it doesn't hurt. He turns, more than a little surprised, because it's not like he felt the guy jab him with morphine or anything.]
How- [His question gets cut off as sees the black lines of something running up Scott's arm, seemingly from under his skin. And then he just stares, because what the fuck is going on?] What are you doing?
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[Scott pauses in reaching for a roll of gauze, but his other hand is still holding Gene's, still absorbing. It doesn't hurt as badly as it did on the other ship. It's like it used to be, an endurable, steady ache: like stubbing a bunch of different toes in a row, sharp and fading.]
It's okay, [he finally says, grabbing the gauze so he can start wrapping it around Gene's hand.]
It's just, um. Something I can do. Make the pain go away.
[It doesn't go away, but there's no point in making people worry about that.]
Is it all right?
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So Gene holds still and lets out a breath, nodding, trying to just relax. He glances from Scott to the other guy's arm again, and then at his own wrist with the angry red sore.]
How?
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Um - promise not to freak out?
[It's a ridiculous question, and his expression says he knows it.]
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Any of those, really. He's seen so much in such a short period of time, he thinks he can handle just about anything right now.]
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I'm a werewolf. What else is hurting you the most? Or - was, I guess. I can get any cuts cleaned out, at least.
[Yep, just. Laying that out and moving on real quick.]
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My feet, [He answers a little numbly, like he's still trying to process what just came out of the other guy's mouth. Just... what?]
You're a what?
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A werewolf? [He looks up again, and slowly his eyes turn red. He lets them stay a moment, then fade back to brown. He doesn't bother with the rest of the...facial reconstruction that usually goes on.]
You know, when the moon is full and all.
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He's not shaking, and he doesn't look terrified, but there's definitely that steady thrum of unease. If he didn't know what Scott could do or see that, he probably would have just thought he was crazy, but it's kind of hard to fully dismiss this as a joke, or some weird misunderstanding.]
Are you a warden or an inmate? [Maybe it's not a fair question to ask considering Scott's been nothing but helpful and gentle with him, but he doesn't know what to expect, and what he knows about werewolf lore isn't exactly encouraging.]
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He can hear the change in Gene's heartbeat. Either he'll accept it, or....well. Scott tries not to think of Clementine.]
Warden.
[He can't blame him, really. He'd probably have just assumed he was an inmate, before he was bitten.]
It's not like the stories. I mean, I assume the stories you know are the same...I don't turn into a wolf, and I have it under control. I'm not gonna hurt you.
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He's too worn out to do anything else. It's accept it, or go full on Asiatic, so he accepts it. Seems easier in the long run.]
Okay. [He relaxes a little again. Slowly, but it happens, and he lets Scott get to work on cleaning his feet up.]
Sorry.
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It's okay. You're not the first person to freak out. I didn't know werewolves were real until I was bit. Then I found out a whole lot of other stuff is real, too. It's hard.
But...thanks for not flipping.
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How long've you been one? [That kind of seems like the safest question to ask here, outside of just changing the topic of conversation entirely. It's starting to hit him that maybe this is all just some very realistic nightmare, or hallucination, or who knows what. Not being in steady, more or less constant pain helps it feel more surreal, too.]
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[He works quickly, cleaning and applying topical creams to work against infection before wrapping the cuts.]
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Is that normal?
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The whole werewolf thing? No, there's...I mean, there's a lot of weird supernatural stuff where I'm from, but it's like. Kind of a secret.
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