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[wheyoftheadept]

[Saturday is sitting up in an infirmary cot, swaddled in bandages - including her throat.  The tablet is hovering in front of her, near her head, and her heavily bandaged hands are obscured in her lap.  She's focusing fiercely on whatever she's got there, and appears to be typing.

In a moment, the distorted voice of Alexa reads out what she's trying to say.  The speakers on the table are just good enough to hear it, though it sounds reverb-y and echoed.]

 Hey.  Just wanted to join the sickposting club.  It's really fucking boring here -

[The robotic way Alexa breaks 'fucking' into two distinct syllables briefly cracks her up]

 - and I can't talk or even use my hands that much.  Also Alexa keeps correcting my grammar.  Doctor says I am gonna heal up though, one hundred percent.  So, what did I miss?  And does anyone wanna come keep me company?

Comments

[wheyoftheadept]

Like I got punch in the throat and stabbed a whole bunch is what Saturday intends to say. What comes out is a dry croak and a dusty sigh. Saturday makes a face and tries to work up some spit - her mouth is dry as a bone. All it does, somehow, is make the pain worse - like the muscles of her throat and mouth themselves are sore.

She scowls, and looks around for a water pitcher or something to write on.

[garmr]

The look of relief melts into a familiar horror, like the days after that terrible eclipse. Like the year he'd spent wandering on his own and returning to find someone a mute shadow of what they once were.

Could she not speak anymore? She at least seemed to recognize him. She didn't jolt away in fear. Guts is awfully gentle as he stands up off his chair to help, as if sudden movement might stress her needlessly.

He does his best to look calm, and follow her gaze. What was she looking for?

[wheyoftheadept]

There's a pitcher on a table set between the beds, within reach if she was healthy, which she promptly forgets she isn't. She starts to reach for it and then realizes her hand's barely moved. Fear knifes into her heart.

She breathes very deeply, very quickly, and focuses. After a moment just long enough to scare her, her hands flex. Saturday tries to lift the hand again, with more patience this time, and it moves. Slowly. Now that she's not asking so much of it.

The thought brings the fear back. Her fingers shakes a little as she tries to close them around the handle, clumsily. Her grip is shot to hell, too, goddamn.

[garmr]

"You're thirsty."

Guts hates like seeing her like this. In the back of his head he expects the worst, because that's often how things went when he failed to protect someone else. When he was unaware, or too slow, or too weak, and a terrible fortune befalls them all. He can't help but feel some amount of guilt. Would Saturday be able to fight again?

He grasps the handle of the pitcher for her, carefully moving his own hand beneath hers, and serves a glass. He holds it out to her, supporting the glass so that she won't need to use her own grip beyond guiding it to her lips.

[wheyoftheadept]

Saturday appreciates his help, can see that she needs it, hates it nonetheless. She tries to bite her inner cheek to keep tears from welling, but it's one drop of pain against a backdrop. All she can do is breathe carefully and drink the glass dry, tipping it and her head as far as she can bear for them to go.

When it's done, her mouth is fine, but her throat still aches. Like a raw wound. She touches the bandages at her neck, frowning, and tries to speak. Only that dusty pant comes out.

Oh, I don't like that. She locks eyes with Guts, alarmed.

[garmr]

"Don't rush it."

There is a soft, quiet sympathy in his features, though he doesn't quite shed tears. He has found himself unable to cry ever since the Eclipse, no matter how badly it hurt. All Guts can do for her is hope that it'll go better than the last time. Trust that whatever they have here is better than the medicine back home.

"If you push yourself too hard, you'll get injured again. Here..."

He offers her another glass to soothe her throat.

[wheyoftheadept]

Saturday drinks it down. It doesn't do much. Some soothing coolness while she's drinking; that's it. She shakes her head and stops trying to hold it, so that Guts can put it aside.

The weakness in her limbs makes her gut clench. She's been fucked up before, but never - Maggie was always there, healing spell at the ready, there was never any damage that time wouldn't heal. Saturday doesn't remember a lot but she remembers her wrists being torn apart, it felt like; when she feels, under the bandages, there's some kind of splint, or thick stitching. And they hurt, hurt so much that she's not sure she'll be able to raise them again for - a while.

If she can't raise her arms, how can she hold a sword?

Then she makes a gesture as if typing on her tablet, looking around for the thing itself.

[garmr]

Guts observes patiently, recognizing the gesture even if he didn't do much typing himself. Her communicator. He remembers where the nurse left it last - a little out of reach for the way Saturday was now.

Setting aside the glass, he gets up off the chair to find it and hand it to her.

"This? Want to send out a message?"

Guts spoke as if nothing was wrong with her, as if they were just spending another cold night on the bunk beds. No matter how much it hurt to see her this way, the least he could do is try to provide some sense of normalcy. At least, what was 'normal' on the Rig.

[wheyoftheadept]

Saturday nods grimly, taking a slow breath before she brushes the switch, carefully as she can, and boots up the machine. She doesn't dare try to hold it up; instead she bends over her lap, letting it lie flat.

Careful to move as if she's underwater, she pulls up a notes program and types.

what happened will i be okay

She straightens, letting her hands fall from the tablet, and nods towards the words on the screen, hoping he can read them. People have always been able to read a little, right?

[garmr]

Guts takes the tablet and looks, only to find the unreadable markings staring back at him. Even if it'd been same alphabet as a Midlander's, he wouldn't be able to parse it in it's entirety.

"I'm sorry..." he starts, hesitant to admit his shortcoming when Saturday was the one who needed help. This was always a little awkward the rare times it came up.

"I'm sure there's a way to get this thing to read it aloud."

He begins to paw at the device, looking for the familiar little rune that read out the text displayed on page. He's never needed to use a notes program before.

[wheyoftheadept]

Saturday takes it back, moving a bit too fast again and suppressing her wince. She examines it more systematically, and eventually, with the care of technician defusing a bomb, presses symbol. Waits for the program to fully load, and then a bit more. Carefully clicks through the menu, taking each step one at a time. She's found this is the way to - not prevent, but minimize the chances of something going real fucking wrong. Technology is an exercise in patience for her; the magic in her bones disagrees with it, so all she can do is try to gently suggest less fatal glitches.

QU'EST-CE QUI S'EST PASSE JE VAIS BIEN?, Alexa reads out, stiffly. Saturday huffs like a restless horse, and takes another slow walk through the options.

WHAT HAPPENED? WILL I BE OKAY? Then a beat, and she types a bit more. DATA OKAY?