I hate you (Attn: Cabal with No Name)
"I Fucking Told you So"

~Clementine Ruth, Hermetic~

The House. 2 in the Morning. After a start and stop drive back from the nether realms of buttfuck nowhere. 

They had to stop and start several times, trying to re-orient themselves after switching drivers twice (Because Margot was having trouble seeing through all the red and Doc had been trying to drive one handed and low blood pressure, leaving Ned to take the Wheel and be oh so fucking careful about it). 

Eventually they would pull into the driveway and Ned would kick the driver door open with a grunt and a growl, followed closely by pulling open passenger doors and hoisting William onto one shoulder and out of the car because let's face it: the newest addition to to the Cabal was not in much condition to do anything right now.

"If any of you fucking idiots says 'I told you so' I'm going to leave you in the driveway for the wolves to find."

Ned is kicking open the front door, after trying to juggle his keys and William at the same time. He'd repair the lock later. Half-dragging, half-cursing, the young Orphan is already on the look out for something more comfortable then the floor to lay his cabalmate on. One of the sofas they had dragged into the main library immediately to the left serves the purpose and the hermetic is dumped tiredly across the length of the cushions, face down for the moment while Ned catches his breath and clutches at his back and ribs. The ache is real, though he seems to be in the best condition of the lot of them at the moment.

"No more cults. No more fanboys. No more evil hungry things looking to devour souls. No more stupid 'what does this button do' attitudes. We're all gonna stay in for the next month, let Halloween pass us by and just be that quiet Cabal no one talks about because we're too busy watching paint fucking dry..."

Ned's looking around the library, still holding his back, pulling at the biggest books he can find and flipping them open in search of something.

"Where's the emergency tequila, Doc?"

((OOC Tally of the Post Rescue shennanigans:

Denver @ 7:58PM
'Sup, Ned. How YOU doin'?

Ned @ 8:06PM
Rescue Tally:
2 Paradox Backlashes (Sphere of Choice)
5 Lethal (Stabbings)
10 Bashing (fists, bludgeonings and falls)
Doc = 5 Lethal (Stabbed in the artery)
Margot = Prime Backlash (Attempting something harsh) (3 Bashing + Minor Paradox Flaw)
Ned = 4 Bashing (Punched and Fell)
Will = 6 Bashing (Punched and Bludgeoned). Time Backlash. (3 Bashing + Minor Paradox Flaw)

Ned @ 8:07PM
Ned (Soak)
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (1, 6, 6) ( success x 2 )

Ned @ 8:15PM
Margot Backlash Roll (4)
Roll: 4 d10 TN6 (2, 6, 10, 10) ( success x 3 )

Ned @ 8:28PM
William Backlash Roll (6)
Roll: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 4, 7, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )
Ned barrels inside as if propelled by anger, leaving his bleeding mentor and even bloodier sister-friend in the Jeep.

The Etherite is pale as hell and breathing fast. Blinking like he's disoriented, he stumbles out of the vehicle and helps get Margot out onto the driveway. Bad call: he loses his balance and eats shit halfway to the front door. If Margot is actually using him for assistance he may very well take her down with him. She is the only person in their circle who makes him look average sized.

Where is the tequila.

"Under the sink!" Huff. "Come on, Margot, gravity isn't shit."
Look. I have school. And RP. And all my other time is taken up by sheer, unreasoning panic. I don't have time for Reddit.
-- ixphaelaeon
William doesn't actually bounce when he hits the sofa. By all means he probably should bounce, but he hits the couch like a sack of dry cement and doesn't seem keen on being anything other than cement. He has bruising around his throat where it looked like someone had held on too tight for too long too tightly, but it hadn't been there ten minutes earlier. It was a quiet sort of show- first the telltale bruising on the inner arms of bad decisions long since past, then a snap of his left wrist twenty miles into the drive. 

He was in what he'd been wearing when he went and decided to be a big damned hero. Shorts and a tee shirt. Not a lot of cover to keep from covering much up. The briefest moment of wakefulness came when he needed to breathe. 

"... putain."

He turns his head just enough to not die face first in a sofa and seemed content to just phase in and out of cognizance.
The spill out in the driveway was marked by a cry of dismay and the thud-crunch of two bodies hitting the ground. Margot had been walking by supporting herself with arms around her mentor's middle, and had made a weak attempt to keep him from spilling too severely to the ground. This resulted in them both landing on asses and knees instead of on damaged arms and torsos, at least. That made getting back up off the ground less of an ordeal, though Margot did have to get basically hoisted up since she just clutched at her lower ribs and dry-heaved some when she tried herself.

It wasn't quite so apparent in the dark of night, but come morning there would be an alarming number of red dribbles and smears leading from the jeep to the house, especially where she'd caught herself landing with one open palm to the ground. Inside the red was more apparent; red dyed her hands solidly, streaked bright down her arms and dried dark where it dribbled regularly from her elbows at the bend. The white laces on her shoes had turned red; the rest of the shoe was black and thus unaffected but they looked wet and squished quietly (unpleasantly, in a way that sent a shiver up her spine the first time she felt and heard it) with each step.

When she heard it combined with a small 'squeak!' of rubber on tile in the entrance, Margot hesitated and frowned uncomfortably. The red smeared her face as well, but she hadn't touched it in a while (lesson learned) so the blood was flaking from her cheeks and tear trails cut clean lines through the mess as well, and it made her look all the more miserable as her expression downcast further when she turned her hands to catch a glimpse of the dark weeping holes in both palms. Unsurprisingly, still going. Swallowing hard, she pulled her arms back to herself so she could tuck her hands firmly under either armpit to try and staunch the flow of the blood in the black tee-shirt she was wearing.

"I could use some of that... And towels." And, flinching with her steps, she tried to shuffle toward the kitchen.
Ned's in the kitchen.

The other three have made their sluggish, injured and broken way into the house in various states of fucked up and the young Orphan is fishing around for the unifying force of pain killing and memory deadening that helps with situations like these.

Margot is interrupted on her way to the kitchen with a rather sizeable beach blanket towel, thrust in her direction, followed quickly by a double shot of tequila in a sippy cup minus the lid. Ned, dark eyed and grim jawed, pushes both into her bleeding hands before pointing back toward the library with a firm sort of 'git' and then turning back into the kitchen with nothing more then a wince and a bellow for all ears involved.

"If any of you are going to puke and/or bleed profusely, try to find a clean spot on the hardwood to do it so the clean up isn't a disaster later." There's rummaging and then there's clattering and then there's Ned cursing in a rather intense under-the-breath manner followed by the scraping of something off the kitchen floor with what sounds like a cooking pan.

A minute or so later and he's coming back into the Study with a collection of plates, with utensils and on the top one in one hand and an entire cheesecake balanced on a dish in the palm of his other hand. He kicks past several books, brow furrowed in concentration on approaching the main study table and simply lays all of it out with a scattering of forks and the delicate placement of the cake toward the centre.

He puffs out a breath and stretches into an arch backward, hands held in the lower part of his spine. Then he's turning back around to go and fetch the Tequila and some more glasses, bellowing back over his shoulder on the way.

"So who needs immediate attention and what sort of reduction of suffering can we manage right now?"
They lose Sepúlveda somewhere between the sippy cup and the cheesecake.

He's ghastly pale beneath the sorry excuse for an overhead light someone installed at some point in the house's history. His salted-black hair is drenched with sweat and he's shivering like he just walked out of a meat locker. His arm is completely fucked, the full extent of the damage concealed by the fact that he wore more than a couple of layers out on this venture tonight. At some point his eyeglasses broke. That's the least of his concerns.

Once the bathroom is cleared he kicks the door shut and drops into a heap on the floor. He uses the toe of his boot, again, to open the cabinet door and confirm that his black bag is where he left it. He has to grit his teeth to work up the nerve to lean forward and grab it. Now that he doesn't have an audience he's less concerned with keeping his shit together "for the kids."

He keeps his shit together for the sake of his arm. He has to snip off the clothing below the tourniquet to get a look at his arm, figure out where the best place to inject the healing serum is going to be. There's not much left to salvage. His upper arm caught a blow that was meant for someone's neck. That person is welcome. If this were someone else and they rolled into his exam room, Sepúlveda would wonder what kind of shitty fucking ER doctor let him bleed to death.

Sepúlveda is a phenomenal forensic pathologist, not even a shitty fucking ER doctor. He grabs a towel and jams it between his teeth so when he screams, the kids can't hear it. Regrowing nerve endings are angry little bastards. It hurts. A lot. They can however hear him bang his head against the bathroom wall a couple of times before silence returns to his corner of the house.

That could have been a lot worse.

Panting, he lets the towel go and wiggles his fingers to make sure everything works the way it's supposed to. He flips the floor the bird, satisfied with his work, then jams the heels of his hands into his closed eyes as his endorphins crash and allow cortisol to flood in. Saltwater stings his eyes and he sobs, once, before sitting back up and deciding that okay, his shit is back together.

He washes his hands, staining the sink with blood, then grabs his black bag and opens the door.

So who needs immediate attention--


He barrels into the study like nothing happened and finally gets a good look at Margot.

"Is it prom night already?"


Harv's iPad thingie wouldn't let him stamp it but here are the rolls they really happened

Denver @ 3:10PM
One does not simply walk into Dedicated Dicing Den, Witness!.
Denver @ 3:12PM
Doc has wandered unwittingly into the dangers of Dedicated Dicing Den, hoo hoo ha haaa >:]
Doc @ 3:14PM
[int + med: aw christ what a mess. spec: frankensteinian technique.]
Roll: 8 d10 TN6 (2, 5, 6, 6, 6, 7, 8, 9) ( success x 6 ) [Doubling Tens]
Doc @ 3:16PM
[life 2: physician heal thyself. vulgar base diff 6, -3 for the medicine roll.]
Roll: 3 d10 TN3 (3, 5, 9) ( success x 3 )
Doc @ 3:16PM
Look. I have school. And RP. And all my other time is taken up by sheer, unreasoning panic. I don't have time for Reddit.
-- ixphaelaeon
William was still seeming to be pretty happy to be a lump of unconscious on the sofa (if unconscious lumps on the sofa could exude joy, that is). When he's out, he is out.
Beach towel wrapped around her hands, unable to do much about her blood-soaked shoes just yet, Margot accepted her lidless sippy of alcohol and shuffled with a pained and miserable look on her face toward the library. In there she found William on the couch, and initially she startled to find him face down and motionless with bruises about his throat, but a pained breath that rocked his unconscious back up-and-down assured her of his life. As suggested by shouts through the house, she found a patch of hardwood away from the shelves and furniture and tried to settle herself into a sit, but found bending to hurt too much and settled for standing hunched over her cup and gradually pooling blood under her feet.

She'd already drank half of her tequila when Ned arrived with cake and various utensils, and she made what would almost have passed for a chuckle were it not mostly a wheeze and accompanied by a matching set of tears trickling along well-cut paths down her face. "Nice."

With the help she requested from Ned she managed to get into a seated position on the floor. When Doc returned with his arm mended and black bag in hand she'd managed to get off both shoes and was in the process of peeling away a saturated once-gray sock. She'd gotten one sock halfway off, cringing all the while, before giving up. Now she had her sippy cup bunched up in the beach towel once more and was holding it for something to keep pressed against her palms.

"The after-party," she answered to his prom quip, and took another small drink from her cup.
Doc re-enters the room and everyone is roughly where they were before he left. Margot's in her towel which is steadily going from the rainbow fashion sense it was before, to a steady arterial dripping red with the passing minutes. Will is still unconscious on the couch, sporting a half dozen various discolorations and asymmetries of biology (there may or may not be the muted snap of a pinky finger that jolts the young Hermetic into agonizing wakefulness courtesy of a future circumstance he has yet to encounter) and Ned who is sitting at the study table gingerly prodding at a large piece of cheesecake.

The cake itself, missing a hunk which showcases the soft insides, filled with chocolate chips and a swirling dark mousse, is still on it's platter while the utensils are arrayed around it in a haphazard display. Ned is hunched over his plate of cake, chewing ever so slowly, as if he'd just found the act of eating told him about a particular ache he hadn't known was there yet. He flicks the pointy end of his fork at the cake again, before digging it back into his slice.

"Get your blood sugar levels back up." A beat. "It's the only edible thing left in the house other then booze right now." Another small mouthful.

"I'll go do some grocery shopping after I maul the rest of this cake."

Ned glances across the room at Will on the couch, brow furrowing together again.

"Can we do anything about him?"
Standing there in a flannel shirt overtop a henley with the left-hand sleeves of both snipped off and his body covered in his blood and the blood and guts of Reality knows how many other people, Sepúlveda isn't going to win any points for fashion sense himself.

The Etherite strides over to the nearest empty table with an irate sense of purpose, slamming down the black bag and throwing it open. Out of it he takes an antiquated chemistry set the two of them have seen him use at least twice each.

"'We.' Now he wants to 'we.'"

Something something cake. Doc rummages around a moment longer and then removes what looks like a mutant Geiger counter. He twists a dial and slowly sweeps the room with it, hitting first Will then Margot then Ned before twisting the dial another three clicks and aiming it square at Margot. Whatever the screen tells him he keeps to himself.

"Stupid fucking Hermetics," he says under his breath, throwing the device back in his bag and mixing together vials that turn colors. Pink and blue are supposed to make purple. Pink and blue in his chemistry set turns green. "Ought to have stuffed him in a bag and dropped him in the river but noooo, no no no, we have to keep him saaaaafe..."

Into a syringe goes the goop. He kneels beside the couch and takes Will's pulse at the radial artery before manhandling his shirt until he finds a good muscle to inject into. It's going to have to be his deltoid. He's not fucking with the kid's glutes right this second.

"... because we do soooooo well traveling in a fucking cabal, let's just collect every stray we find on the fucking--"

The second the last drop of green stuff disappears into Will's back, two things happen.

First, the worst of his injuries heal themselves. Not the ones produced by Paradox. Those are illusory and cannot be helped by medicine anyway. He at least won't die in his sleep.

Second, the unseen pendulum that tallies up a man's vulgar choices swings back in the opposite direction, socking Sepúlveda so hard it cracks him in the jaw and sends him sprawling on the floor beside the couch, still conscious in the loosest sense of the word.


Doc @ 5:06PM
[corr 1/life 1: TRIAGE. literally scanning the room to see who's the most fucked up he's super fucking lazy.]
Roll: 3 d10 TN4 (4, 4, 8) ( success x 3 )
Doc @ 5:07PM
[mind 1 scan on margot while he's at it he doesn't have empathy and she has a tendency of freaking out]
Roll: 3 d10 TN4 (2, 3, 9) ( success x 1 )
Doc @ 5:07PM
[oh my god are you serious +1 diff for extending]
Roll: 3 d10 TN5 (5, 7, 8) ( success x 3 )
Doc @ 5:09PM
[life 3: ugh why tf isn't ned doing this he's the one who wanted to bring will into the house and he can't even take care of him properly beh beh beh beh beh beh beh -1 for using his personal focus or whatever tf it's called]
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (5, 7, 9) ( success x 2 )
Doc @ 5:10PM
[extending, +1 diff]
Roll: 3 d10 TN7 (1, 8, 9) ( success x 2 )
Doc @ 5:10PM
[okay that's it party's over ned can just heal like a big boy and he can't do anything for margot]
Witness for realz though @ 5:11PM


Denver @ 5:17PM
Speak "Dedicated Dicing Den" and enter, Witnessing the backlassshhhh.
Doc @ 5:17PM
Roll: 8 d10 TN6 (1, 2, 5, 6, 6, 6, 9, 10) ( success x 5 )
Doc @ 5:17PM
Doc @ 5:18PM
Roll: 3 d10 TN6 (5, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )
Witnessing the backlassshhhh @ 5:26PM
Look. I have school. And RP. And all my other time is taken up by sheer, unreasoning panic. I don't have time for Reddit.
-- ixphaelaeon

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