True, I'm nervous.

[radiopalkiller]

Who: Philip, Jo Harvelle, Tauriel & [OPEN]
Where: Second floor hallway & the clinic
When: February 12th - February 21st
Rating: PG-13 to R for violence, blood and frequent mentions thereof
Summary: You'd thinking surviving the Valentine's Day killers attack would mean you're in the clear, but then again, this is Philip we're talking about here.
The Story:

He made it out, thanks to a certain Doctor's lucky intervention. He should've called it a day then, and headed for the clinic with him. But luck just didn't seem a good enough reason to brush off the fact that he couldn't get Evie to answer her device, no matter how often he tried. So he moved up to her room on the second floor, so he really should've changed out of his tunneling outfit first. Well, at least being mistaken for the murderer along the way guarantees he'll make his way to the clinic after all, and stay there for a solid week...

[[ OOC: Long story short, on February 12th Philip gets attacked by Tom and escapes. Jo mistakes him for the killer and shoots him. Tauriel finds him and patches him up, and he spends the next week at the clinic. That part is open to everyone, in case anybody wants to visit, comfort, bother, torment, entertain or question him. ]]

Comments

Feb 12th - 2nd floor hallway - [CLOSED] to Jo

[radiopalkiller]

Bruises, cuts, and whatever happened to his ankle when he fell, none of those are enough to convince him that he should be calling it a day right now. Not when he has no idea what just happened, not when he can't even get hold of her. He clenches his teeth, and runs up the stairs faster, before he can get any ideas about letting the pain slow him down.

"Evie!"

He calls out in the hallway already, as if that gave him a better chance of finding her just there in her room, opening the door before he can even knock. Dirt and sweat clings to him, and he didn't even make it into the proper tunnels. The equipment still dangles from his back, rope and axe at ready, not a second to spare to shrug it off. He finally reaches the door, and knocks hard.

"Evie, open up!"

[lightgunhustler]

Martha's death had already set her on edge. Everyone had heard about it by now, some people had even been to see the body for themselves -- Jo had been one of them, unwilling to pass up the chance to investigate.

Something is coming. Around Valentine's Day. I want you to stay out of it.

The words came back to her unbidden when she saw the body. The open chest cavity, the bottle of pills where a heart should be, stuffed full with Valentine candies. A gruesome and perverse mockery of death, so much worse than other things she'd seen simply because it was Martha. It was a friend and not a stranger she had failed to be there in time to save, though the latter always left her wracked with guilt all the same.

It didn't matter that she couldn't have known. She's still convinced she should have known. She should have been more vigilant, should have noticed the signs--

But thinking back, she can't remember any. No clues, no tip-offs that the killer she'd been warned about was already here.

If you see a guy in mining gear, don't go near him. You shoot and you run.

It was bad luck on Philip's part that he happened to be in that very corridor just as Jo turned the corner. She drew on instinct, pulling her pistol from its place tucked away at the small of her back, and it made an audible click as she aimed, her hand unsteady-- it didn't feel right to just pull a weapon on someone without doing her own investigation, but it was damn near automatic, and she had been warned.

"It's you."

[radiopalkiller]

No answer, but he already saw that coming. She could still be with Mark, or in the library, at least he'll repeat that with conviction until he can check for himself. That's what he's about to do, when he turns away from the door, and reaches for his comm device. Call Mark, check the library. Only--

"Jo?"

...That's her name, isn't it? Dean's stories, maybe a handful encounters at the bar, just in passing. Just enough to remember a name, just enough for that sight to make no bloody sense.

She wasn't the one who attacked him, that much he's sure of, even with the struggle, even if he thought there was enough time to slip out of all that gear and run up here, just to- just to what?! What kind of event did they get themselves into now? But most importantly--

"It's-- what? What- what's going on here?"

He remembers to raise his hands. His gun is gone. Throwing the communication device in self-defence doesn't quite seem like the best plan. Better go for appeasement, which he'd me a lot more confident about, if he had the slightest lick of an idea about the mess he just fell into.

[lightgunhustler]

"Stay right where you are!"

As if she expected him to listen, after the stories she'd heard-- Harry Warden didn't give a damn about anyone but himself, didn't care who got hurt or who he made an enemy of. He raises his hands, and that-- that strikes her as odd, not typical of someone who's been chronicled as going on bloody rampages, but it's not enough to make her drop her guard.

Her finger rests lightly against the trigger, ready to pull at even the slightest sign of movement.

"You know my name?"

That was troubling.

[radiopalkiller]

All right, so on the bright side that was apparently the right name, though looking at her face that begs the question whether he's just made his situation better or worse. Well. One explanation at a time.

"You're- you're at the bar sometimes, right?"

Philip anxiously shifts his weight. You'd think staying perfectly still was the sort of thing you could do if your life depended on it, but it's all easier said than done when you're in a hurry to be anywhere but here.

"Dean mentioned it, I think."

Not that Dean, and not in that context, but everything else makes for just a bit too much information for a one-sided stand-off.

"Look, if you tell me what's going on, then I- I can probably explain."

Probably.

Feb 12th - 2nd floor hallway - [CLOSED] to Tauriel

[radiopalkiller]

It's not the worst day he's ever had.

See, when you're lying in a puddle of your own blood, optimism is absolutely key. For example, on the bright side, it's still a pretty small puddle of blood. He might not even slip in it, if he tried to get up. Which he probably should, to be perfectly honest, because the number of people trying to murder him today is somewhat higher than usual.

And he didn't even catch the announcement.

That's what's bothering him most, that he hasn't skipped his network duties, and there was still no warning, at least none he caught. So what's this supposed to be, a bloody surprise? Or just... or just people?

He forces himself to take a deep breath, and tries to get up.

Sorry this took me so long to get to I kind of suck this month

[itisourfight]

Thanks to Pan's cryptic warning, Tauriel was aware that someone was attacking and killing people in the mansion. However, it is very much not her way to simply lock herself in and wait for the bad things to pass, and so she has gone out to do a bit of hunting.

Yes, quite obviously this murderer is a very dangerous creature, but so are giant spiders and she has been dealing with those for centuries now. There is always reason to be cautious, but cowardice is unacceptable and if she can put a stop to this madness then she considers it her duty to try.

She creeps cautiously around a corner, bow ready to fire at a moment's notice, and that is when she sees Philip.

In spite of his injuries she approaches with some caution, making sure that she isn't about to get attacked when helping him, not to mention ensuring herself that he isn't faking his somewhat helpless state to get to her. Stranger things could happen in this place.

"Who did this to you?"

's fine, no problem at all! :D

[radiopalkiller]

"Erm--"

Ow. So, problem of catching his breath well enough to speak aside, Philip's in just about the same predicament. Much as he'd love to beg for a helping hand right then and there, without all the information (which he's severely lacking) he's got an about 50/50 chance of running into a good Samaritan or somebody to finish him off for good.

...Difference being, he's no longer in much of a shape to fight either way, so he might as well hope for the best.

"I don't-- 'got shot."

Crouching against the wall he thinks now might be as good a moment as any, to show some - or more accurately, the last of his - incentive: Exhaling a sharp and stuttering breath he pushes himself into a standing position, or at least the shaky and chalk-white equivalent thereof.

"Clinic, please."

Though if his ability to directly answer simple questions is about to become an indicator of his trustworthiness, then he's in for a bumpy ride.

You're the best ;_;

[itisourfight]

"Clinic?"

Pardon her for not knowing what he's talking about but that isn't actually a word in her vocabulary.

She does, however, understand getting shot, though she finds herself wondering where the arrow is.

No matter, it is easy to see that he will not remain standing for long if she doesn't help him, and so she hangs her bow on her back so that she can close the distance between them to get a better look at his wound.

"We need to slow the bleeding down before we go anywhere."

Feb 13th to 21st - Clinic - [OPEN]

[radiopalkiller]

Lying down and getting some rest is about the last thing on his mind, which is why he forces the communication device into a drawer by his bedside, and pointedly looks at the ceiling, until the urge to check every single peep on the network is down to a quiet whisper at the back of his mind.

Maybe if he reads a book or two, or twenty, maybe then he'll even forget about putting a rush order on his healing. Because he could, he could so easily, but then he might be tempted to forget that this is where his own skills get him, and that there's nothing, absolutely nothing he can do about it now.

[Feb 15th-ish] we're going to have to put him in a giant rubber ball to protect him

[nascensibility]

After a great deal of effort, Ardeth got her down.

...er, got her body down. Being dead, one can hardly have a say in the matter, but he made a good effort of arranging her on the chaise lounge and letting her heal in the spectacularly ridiculous Wonderland way. It felt like waking up from a nightmare. The first death was something she barely remembers, maybe a prickle here or there, but this?

This was an entirely new level of pain. And she's been in labour.

Regardless of how horrifying it was to wake up covered in your own blood (really, what is it with men and tearing out hearts?), Evelyn was acutely aware that whatever killed her would certainly be striking others - unlike the last time, this didn't feel like a personal statement. Unmitigated carnage fit the bill far more neatly. Venturing out again after arming herself - and taking a very, very long shower - Evelyn found that her services were best suited to assisting those in the clinic.

It is where she finds herself now, making sure they've got all the right equipment and acting as a makeshift nurse when necessary. On the rounds to check the injured survivors, she slides another screen back to stare at the man in bed.

"...I don't know if I should hug you, or hit you."

IT'S JUST A SCRATCH

[radiopalkiller]

He made it through the first day well enough, and by evening he'd been patched up properly. He'd called her again then, and put the device away afterwards, still without receiving an answer. By then he knew what was going on in the mansion, and he had exactly one theory about what Evie's involvement might look like.

Anything else and she would have called.

Same day. Dead. Next day. Still dead. The day after. Revival. He dialed her number, and put the communication device away without establishing the connection. Because what if she still didn't answer? So he stayed in bed then, so he stays in bed now, wondering if the discomfort that comes with holding a book would be worth the distraction. Honestly, he'd probably just end up staring at letters rather than the wall.

No point to it, not when he keeps thinking about the murder, the victims, about everything missing in this picture, about--

"Evie!"

There's a lesson to be learnt here, and it's that there is a time and place for an enthusiastic reunion, and a clinic bed isn't entirely it, at least not when it features jerking upright in your bed, and angering the bullet wound in your side.

Philip hisses accordingly.

"Mrghhmaybegoeasyonthe hitting todayowjesuschrist..."

He groans, and sinks back into the bed.

oh you say that NOW

[nascensibility]

Philip's assumption would be correct - death does tend to put you out of commission for a bit, and Evelyn (being more used to methods of communication that involve either going to the post office or spending five straight minutes with the operator placing your call) neglected to check her transmissions device.

Even now it's sitting back on her bedside table, accumulating both dust and messages.

"For Heaven's sake-"

Evelyn glances around the screen, notes that no one else seems to need her at the moment, and ducks back in to settle on the edge of his bed. The bandage, which fortunately appears to not have loosened at his sudden movement, gets a thorough checking-over either way.

"-I cannot believe you got yourself into thi- have you seen yourself? You look dreadful, and with that madman about-"

Martha told her how to make sure the wrappings were secure and clean, but the rest of the fussing comes from bringing up a reckless eight year old with a penchant for getting into trouble. It isn't necessary, but she presses the back of her hand to his forehead to see if he's got the heat of infection.

"-you..."

Evelyn's voice cracks.

"...you need to be more careful."

Feb 14th

[selfrespecting]

Having revived from her first true death about midday on the 13th, Martha's been doing all she can to carry out her duties as a doctor despite the fact that she jumps halfway out of her skin each time that someone walks through that door.

She's had people to help her, thankfully. People like Daryl, like Adam, like Alphonse, and of course Victor -- all present to deal with the number of injured.

Instead of making the long trip up to her room that night, she sleeps in the clinic with the patients, a gun next to her on the bedside table. She'll defend the wounded with all she has, if that's what it takes.

Thankfully, morning arrives on the 14th and all is well. Sam and Philip are both laid up in bed, and so after Martha takes a moment to wake up and get her head on straight, she goes to check on them.

Sam's sound asleep, but the same can't be said for Philip. It's unfortunate that their first meeting is under these circumstances, but Martha will do everything to see to it that he's comfortable.

"Morning," she greets, keeping her voice down for the sake of the others who are sleeping. "Did you need some pain medication? And I should change your dressings."

[radiopalkiller]

The night has come and gone, Philip hasn't slept a wink, and it had very little to do with the killer on the loose. Whatever healthy amount of sleep he used to need has long abdicated in favour of a few hours of tired exhaustion daily, after a prolonged morning exercise routine. And since a quick jog isn't really in the cards right now it's back to sleepless stares in the darkness, waiting for the sun to come up.

"Morning," he mumbles back absent-mindedly.

He blinks a few times and shifts, in an effort to drag his mindset into whatever the weary and hospitalised equivalent of sociable might be. He could be worse off though, much worse, and Doctor Jones is once-again-living proof of that. Almost impossible not to hear that story down here, even if he wasn't there to see the body. Almost impossible to imagine that she's decided to stay here, despite everything.

"I'm, erm, I'm good, thanks."

Or close enough. The scrapes, bruises, the axe that hit his leg, and the bullet wound in his side - on his history scale of Wonderland injuries that much barely scores a frown. And, well, maybe some sort of constant, throbbing pain, but it's either that and grinding his teeth every few minutes, or feeling physically comfortable enough to really spend time thinking about who else might be out there, getting attacked right this very second.

No, he'll probably pass on that.

"Do I- need to sit up, or...?"

He tentatively reaches for the edge of his bed, and slowly ventures into a more upright sitting position.

[selfrespecting]

Why is it that everyone here seems to insist on refusing pain medication? Considering Martha's used to far more drug-seeking behavior, it's bizarre. She's dealing with a bunch of masochists who would rather their physical pain add onto their guilt, apparently.

Still, she isn't going to force medication onto someone who doesn't want it, and Philip's at least accepting her offer to change his dressings.

"You will for the wound on your side." His leg and everything else she can probably handle with him laying down, but they can get the worst of it out of the way first. Martha reaches forward, setting a bracing hand against his back to help him into a sitting position.

"Just one moment," she says, moving away to wash her hands, gather the supplies she needs, and then put on some gloves. She pulls a chair over and sits at his bedside, flicking a finger upward in a gesture as she asks, "Can you get your shirt off, please?"

So much of this is on automatic. Not that she isn't paying attention -- if anything, she's extra-focused. This is something she can handle, this is something she can control. Whatever else is happening here? Well, it's already been proved that she's powerless to do anything about it, and that's not something Martha's used to feeling.

WHO KNOWS WHAT DAY probably the 18th or something whatever

[itsahotone]

Santana shows up.

That's it, that's the tag.

"...Hey."

WOW.

[radiopalkiller]

Philip wakes up.

Well, more 'squints with one eye after keeping both closed and thinking to himself in the privacy of his own head'.

"Hey."

He sits up. Slowly, this time, despite his surprise about the visitor.

"...Everything all right with you?"

impressive, I know

[itsahotone]

"Uh, sure." She sounds super convincing. "I'm alive, so."

Now. But that's implied.

"How'd you...not die?"

Feb 13th

[not_apriest]

Aramis had been at the clinic for much of the time the carnage had been going on. Prayers. Last rites, in some cases. It wasn't a certainty that everyone would wake up...or what it would cost them when they did.

He sat by Philip's bed with a Bible on his lap, muttering a prayer in Latin, a rosary clutched between his forefinger and thumb.

[radiopalkiller]

Philip doesn't sleep. No, that's a bit of a lie. Two attacks, blood loss to match, honestly, that's as good a time for a time out as any. And when he can't reach Evie in the evening there's really no reason for him to stay awake and alert any longer.

So the night comes and goes, and when daylight shines on his face it sends a shiver down his spine, because he can hear the whispers again, word after word he can't decipher, that ominous chant of--

...Of something that, as soon as he's properly awake, is nowhere near remotely alien, and decidedly not caused by ancient zombies, or the infections thereof. No, Philip recognises a word or two now. And worse, the voice is starting to sound bloody familiar too.

Without turning his head he opens one eye. Then the second. Then he closes both again with a groan.

"You've got to be kidding me."

[not_apriest]

Aramis looks up when he sees movement in his peripheral vision. The words, familiar to him in repetition, stop.

"Welcome back."

18th; evening

[oversight]

Calling it a rough week for Wonderland is a lacking assertion, and one that Blake can't even make without feeling a bit guilty for his own part. Having been locked away with Crowley for so many days, aware but unable to react, he'd considered himself unlucky; pacing the aftermath of the killing spree does more than enough to wipe away that mentality.

When he arrives in the clinic, he does so with something of a heavy heart, several books tucked under his arm and a Thermos in hand. While no one seems to have suffered a fated fifth death by the hand of Tom Hanniger, there are more than a few still dealing with injuries and whatever mental trauma is associated with such heinous acts. Blake would be remiss not to check in.

"Philip," is his greeting. It's not particularly warm, but it's not exactly cold, either. Blake speaks quietly, authoritatively, expression carefully schooled. "Brought some books if you're lookin'. Coffee, too." He shakes the Thermos.

[radiopalkiller]

It's been almost a week, and Philip's bed is starting to develop an unpleasant prison flair. Jogs are out of the question, he knows that much, and even walks are dangerous, given Wonderland's current state (for all he knows). Which only leaves standing up, and stretching his legs inside the clinic.

That's still better than nothing, and that's what he is about to do, when he hears Blake's voice approaching.

There's a surprise for sure, though unlike a certain priest it's not an inherently unpleasant one. Still, as far as he knows he was shot because somebody apparently confused him for a serial killer, and who's to say that rumour hasn't quite died down yet? Well, unless Blake is just making the rounds, which Philip might as well hope for.

Warily.

"Hey."

He grabs on to the edges of his bed, and makes sure he's sitting upright, before bracing himself to shift his weight. One slight wobble and a sharp breath later he stands on his feet. Exercise A: Turn around, and face Blake.

"I'll take the books."

Not so much coffee, at this point. The fewer reasons to relieve himself here, the better.

"Cheers."

[oversight]

"All yours," Blake says, holding out the small stack of paperbacks. It's just a random assortment, the type of grab-bag books you might find in the section of the bookstore reserved for employee favorites. It's honestly the easiest option, and since he hasn't read any of them himself, he doesn't usually have to offer his opinion.

As he turns to look around the clinic, he takes note of the conditions. Martha keeps a pretty clean house, but it's obvious that people other than Philip have been staying longer than a day at a time.

"You need anything else? Change of clothes or a better pillow? Guessin' someone's takin' care, but—" John shrugs. "Doesn't hurt to ask."

He wants to help, even if he doesn't have all that much to offer by way of conversation topics. With the dust settling around him, he's just got to take it slow and assist where he can until the issues with Tom's killing spree can be a little more directly addressed.