riverviewlogs | Vikings Make The Worst Patients (OTA)

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Vikings Make The Worst Patients (OTA)

who: Ivar and you!
what: Someone is the worst sort of patient when healing
when: Later half of May
where: The hospital and communal housing
warnings: Cranky Viking and possible mention of graphic injuries

I. The Hospital

To say that Ivar was angry was an understatement. He was absolutely furious. Mostly at Dodger, but he saved a little bit for himself. He'd almost died, but who cared about that? Dying in battle was no shame. Losing to some arrogant, idiotic mutant, now that's what really had him steamed. He spent the first couple of days alternately sleeping, healing up from the various stab wounds Dodger had given him, and plotting revenge against the older man.

But by day three, Ivar had had it. He wanted out of this hospital and back on the streets. When the doctors stated he had to stay for at least a few more days to heal properly, he went ballistic. They'd ended up sedating him when he'd managed to grab a scalpel and managed to slash up one of the doctors attending him. After that, he'd calmed down, but only enough to promise not to kill anyone while he was resting.

However, this didn't mean he was going to be a model patient. Anyone who was on the third floor of the hospital right now was going to hear a very angry Viking teenager. Ivar could be quite loud when he wanted to be. There were yells, the sounds of something breaking, and then Ivar roaring, "Get out of here!" Following that was a very loud crash as he threw a tray at the nurse making a hasty retreat from his room. He was in a foul mood and everyone was going to know it.

II. Communal Housing

Eventually, the hospital let him leave after the stab wounds had completely healed. His ribs were still on the mend, but there was nothing to be done to help him there. They told him to take it easy for the next five weeks, and that they would mend on their own. One big bottle of painkillers given to him later and he was on his way.

Despite his fury at being confined to a hospital bed early in the month, he was thinking perhaps leaving the place so soon was a mistake. He was still in a lot of pain, though anyone who saw him would be hard-pressed to realize it. There was just the little signs, how he would wince every so often as he wheeled himself back towards the communal housing building, or press a hand to his ribs if he had to move in the wrong direction for too long.

It was slow going, and by the time he pushed open the door of the complex, he was completely exhausted. All he wanted to do was go up to floor five, eat, take a shower, and sleep, in that exact order. Anyone who encountered him right now was going to find a very tired Viking who was nonetheless still as bad-tempered as he'd been at the hospital.

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Despite how much Cain had been pushing to be outgoing and getting into other peoples' businesses, he really didn't have a whole lot to fill his days lately. Sure, there was his job but it was easy (and he liked it that way), and there was exploring the city (and there was plenty to look at), but he didn't have his old resources nor his nice toys and he definitely didn't have his brother or his niece-descendant or the twins...

There was a whole lot of not enough going on, basically. So when he saw someone entering the communal housing ahead of him, someone obviously with something going on, his interest sparked. Interest and some pity, although he was conscious of making it look more like sympathy since most people didn't react to pity well at all.

"You all right there?" he asked, making to walk alongside the poor wheelchair-bound guy.

Ivar turned a pair of angry, fierce-looking eyes on the man who approached him. He was in a lot of pain despite his attempts to hide it, both the sharp stabbing sensation of his broken ribs and the dull ache that he felt near constantly in his legs. It was a good thing Ivar couldn't read minds, for the thought of anyone pitying him would send him into a flying rage. He hated that above all else, having been told even by his own brother Sigurd that it was all anyone would ever feel for him.

"I'm fine," he said gruffly, a curious Norwegian accent coloring his words. His eyes were odd as well, the sclera a pale blue instead of the usual white, making his eyes blue-on-blue. It marked what the doctors would call in the twenty-first century as brittle bone disease, the reason he was unable to walk.

Cain tilted his head at seeing it, understanding it for what it was and realizing now some of the problem wasn't what it all appeared to be. He doubted that was the whole deal of it, though, because it never was just the one thing. Raining, pouring, et cetera.

"You're capable," he allowed easily, "but that's different from fine."

Not exactly the most persuasive of arguments but he was going to stick around for a while longer. See what else this kid had to say, whether he would accept the offering or continue to shove back.

"Point being? Unless you've got a way to heal broken ribs instantly, you're welcome to fuck off." Ignore the grumpy teenager. He was naturally this abrasive even when he wasn't just out of the hospital after getting into a near-death experience.

He pushed the button for the elevator, but the machine was damnably slow. He was forced to continue to share space with this stranger. Ivar folded his arms, looking very much like he wanted to stab something. Or someone. He really wasn't picky when it came to random acts of violence.

That was a look Cain knew well. Angry teen, but one who would follow up on it given the chance. He'd seen plenty, been father to plenty more. Attitudes like that said nothing of personality but he knew he wouldn't get very far while all that was still hanging around.

"Sorry, magic isn't my forte," he said, leaning up against the wall next to the call button. Elevators were definitely too slow. "Have you checked with Gramarye or any number of openly magical something-or-others around here?"

"I'll do that after I've been out of the hospital for more than an hour." His bed was calling to him. He could practically hear it. At this point, he didn't know if he was more tired or hungry. Hospital food sucked. He needed something more substantial. Meat, probably, and lots of it.

He pushed the button again impatiently. When would these doors open? While he waited, he finally took a moment to study the man who seemed to not take a hint. Ivar's mind was always switched on, thinking five steps ahead of everyone around him. He read people, seeing what made them up, but more importantly getting inside their heads, and being able to predict their behavior.

Hm, recent escapee huh? Kid probably had a lot going on by now but he wasn't going to let that stop him. When all eyes were turned to Cain, he just smiled as if it were a pleasant greeting. He definitely didn't give much outward indication of his thoughts or ancient demeanor, but he knew fully hiding his maturity wouldn't get him anywhere, either. People here were odd and no doubt expected everyone else around to be just as strange, and if some mid-twenties punk saw more than most people his age — he hadn't met a single person yet who was overly surprised.

Not even the ones who knew how old he really was.

Truth be told, Cain felt like he was the one most often put off balance by the strangeness of the place. He'd seen so much in his lifetime but only within the parameters of his reality, and now he was seeing new things every day. It was tiring to just take it all in, unable to block anything from constantly sinking down and changing his perspective and...

... well, that elevator could come any time now. Maybe he could use a nap sometime soon, too.

"You look like you could probably use more time there instead of running home," he said helpfully. Just a bit pointed.

Who did this guy think he was? Ivar didn't need advice from anyone, even when he could use it. Stubbornness was one of his defining traits and it would take beating him into the ground to get him to listen to anyone. He saw something paradoxical in Cain, something that seemed both open and closed off at the same time. He was too tired to figure out why that was.

"And what was I going to do? Sit on my ass and think up ways I'm going to butcher the man that put me in there? I don't do well sitting still for too long." The Viking teen was like most of his people despite his keen mind, more prone to action than just thinking. Besides, he had a definite plan on how he was going to get back at Dodger. That bastard was going to rue the day he ever tangled with Ivar The Boneless.

The elevator door finally opened with a soft Ping! Ivar wheeled himself in and turns to the buttons, stabbing the one for floor five with more force strictly than is necessary.

Cain slipped himself inside the elevator behind the kid. Briefly he debated not pressing any button of his own and letting him think they were on the same floor, but the lie could hardly be sustained, could it? He reached over the kid's head and pressed floor six before settling himself back against the wall.

"Is that not what you're doing here?" Whatever the kid actually wanted to do with the person that put him in the hospital, Cain wasn't sure that he cared. Way too much he didn't know to mull over that part.

Ivar didn't hide his displeasure when the man entered the elevator with him. Some people just didn't know how to take a hint. He winced as the jerky motion of the elevator starting to rise jolted his ribs again.

"Food's better here, there's a bath, and I like sleeping in my own bed." Also, he'd pretty much terrorized the nurses and doctors until they were all to quick to discharge him as soon as he'd been stable enough to do so. "Plus I left most of my weapons here." He'd been given back his knives when he left, but there was nothing like the feeling of his favorite axe in his hands.

There was also the fact Letha was going to worry herself into the ground over him if he didn't come back soon, not that he was going to share something so personal with a perfect stranger. He cared a lot about her well-being. Most of the time, anyway. Ivar would never fully shake that self-centered nature that most psychopaths possessed.

"Huh. Got anything good?" he asked, interest piqued. While he wasn't a fighter so much as he was a runner, sometimes fleeing to flee another day wasn't an option. All he had on him was his switchblade. Getting a gun might have been a good idea but he didn't need that distance like most others would have. Besides, getting back into shape with something less prevalent nowadays would be a good time-consumer. "From around here, I mean."

If a teenager could get his hands on some lethal weapons in the Quarantine, Cain doubted there would be any issue in looking around for himself.

Talk of weapons was one of the few ways to get Ivar talking civil. He didn't sound nearly as full of attitude and sullen as he had the rest of the conversation thus far. "Just a few knives." Ivar was proficient with ancient weapons, but he hadn't had a chance to practice with anything modern. He reminded himself to look up the man teaching him to fight better later. Bucky had promised that he would teach the Viking how to fire a gun.

"Most of what I have was on me when I got brought here." Good thing he'd just come from battle or he might not have much at all.

Now there was a change. Not surprising, really. Cain grinned at the less-hostile tone and was glad the elevator wasn't too reflective to give him away unless the kid turned around.

"Yeah, only got my one knife," he said. Had it on him right now, actually. Was it a good thing or a bad thing this kid apparently had all his weapons upstairs instead of on him at the time? "And a multitool but I'd rather keep that one gore-free. Other uses and all that."

There were definitely ways to get past that prickly defense he kept up at all times. Not many, but when people did, he tended to relax. Ivar mainly just tried to keep people at arm's length because he was afraid of getting hurt. Too many times at home he'd been mocked and made out to be nothing because he couldn't walk. He'd developed a tough shell to compensate.

The elevator finally stopped and Ivar winced again. He thought about putting some ice on his ribs before getting something to eat. "You should get something else. Or the monsters might eat you if you go outside the walls."

Cain moved to hold the door open by placing a hand on the frame while the kid took a second. However long he needed, really. Would suck if he got there, missed the window long enough, and had to ride up to Cain's floor before he could come back down. Cain would have found it amusing but they clearly lived too nearby for him to forget his manners.

"Any suggestions?" His own preference was very likely the exact cliche people would expect of him, but he was always open to trying new things. Cain would only settle his ways permanently when those ways themselves settled.

Ivar got through the door with no small amount of struggling. He was going to need to break into that bottle of pain pills sooner rather than later.

He looked at Cain, giving one of those penetrating, observant stares, looking him over like he was trying to get inside his head. Then he looked away after deciding on whatever he had found. "I can't speak for modern weapons, but I think you'd do well with a short sword."

"What, like a gladius?"

There was some definite entertainment in the tone — and hidden in it was a tone that said Cain was clearly impressed. Although it wasn't the end-all, be-all of potential short swords, no one in the world could fault him for having a soft spot pertaining to anything that came out of his empire. He'd breathed life into that, and it had gone on to make a place in the world. No matter how stained that place was. He'd taken what he had gotten. Hell, just gladius didn't mean anything specific back in the day but now it generally referred to a certain type of blade and he could roll with that.

As long as this kid was willing to entertain him, he'd probably stay standing in the doorway. Not that he figured it would be for long because it really looked like the other needed to rest and get off his metaphorical feet. Still.

Were they not talking about weapons, Ivar would have told Cain to go find someone else to bother. But the topic was enough to keep him going, at least for a few more minutes till his exhaustion took over.

The mention of the Roman sword got a blank look from Ivar. He was too many centuries away from the last time such swords had been in use to get the reference. "I don't know what kind of sword that is. We use Carolingian ones back home." Swords manufactured from the eighth century onward, used mainly by the Viking clans in their quest to conquer anyone in their path. That would be a big hint which time period Ivar had come from before ending up here.

The response and his accent really nailed it down for Cain and he nodded. "That's pretty close," he allowed. "The sword I mentioned is one of the Carolingians' ancestors. They're relatively simpler, although I'll admit time does allow for better advances."

That said, there were even better types of short swords out there now. He wondered if this kid had been able to look into such things yet? Warfare didn't hold a whole lot of interest for Cain but it was hard not to pick these things up, especially not when it helped him feel a bit closer to his wayward brother whom had only known violence and bloodshed for so long. There was nothing wrong with keeping tabs on millennia of gruesome weaponry and fighting techniques just so he might have something to talk about with Abel, right?

"Viking, then?" he asked, rather preferring to work on facts instead of conjecture for this.

"Time always improves weapons. I want to learn some of these moderns ones. There's...someone who told me they would show me how to shoot a gun." He'd nearly slipped up there and mentioned Bucky's name, after he'd promised the paranoid old soldier that he wouldn't tell anyone he was training him. He must have been really tired to start getting that sloppy.

He nodded at Cain's question. "From 816. My names is Ivar The Boneless." A name Cain might have recognized from the history books, the Viking known for three things: Being unable to walk, being very clever, and being utterly cruel to all who knew him. He was young right now, barely at the start of his many conquests and adventures.

"And I'm the king of Rome," he said with a heavy tint of wry sarcasm. Of course, he was telling the absolute truth but it just figured that he'd end up with the high school reboot of someone he'd actually heard of in his own times. Once he'd realized that he wasn't going to be getting any of the time back that he spent, Cain had started paying a lot more attention to the passing of history around him. It was a familiar name with an idea attached to it, at least, even if he'd have to pick up some books to remind himself of specifics. "No, but really, it's cool to meet you. Jacob Kane."

That said, he definitely could appreciate the initiative at moving from medieval weaponry all the way up to firearms just because the chance was there. "Did this someone tell you what kind or are you just going to work your way through the list?"

Cain's sarcasm was lost on the young Viking. He was brilliantly ignorant of the world that came before and after him. Most of what he had learned was due to the people here telling him of the things that had come to pass, which made for an interesting learning curve. He could point out Russia and America on a map or identify Metallica songs, but other things he remained completely unaware of.

"I figured I'd start with the simplest ones and work my way up." Guns seemed simple enough. All he needed to do was aim and pull the trigger. He'd soon find out it was a little more complicated than that, but it was still better than starting off with, say, a plasma cannon that he'd have figure out.

That was for the better. Catching Cain up in his sarcasm and hidden remarks would lead them down a very different road and somehow he didn't think it would end as well as a conversation about killy things would with Ivar. Much better to stay on the current topic, although at some point he was going to have to poll how many people from some form of earth had a Rome at all. Some of them did, he knew that much, but could there really be that many different versions of him...?

"So a handgun," he said with a nod. "Good idea. Recoil's pretty tame in those and they're no less punishing."

Cain was wise. Volatile as Ivar was, conversations always had at least a twenty-five percent chance of ending in a murder attempts. Although in Cain's case, that would likely end up being multiple murder attempts. Boy just never knew when to quit.

"I'll keep that in mind." He tried to stifle a yawn unsuccessfully. The teen was dead-dog tired at this point, only sheer willpower and the pain in his ribs keeping him awake right now.

Multiple murder attempts and perhaps some kind of therapeutic lessening of rage. Eventually. Who knew. Cain might not have opposed it as long as the kid wasn't overly sadistic about it. What could he say? He was a pretty magnanimous kind of guy.

"Go on," he said, stepping back into the elevator with his hand still on the door. He'd probably been holding up a whole bunch of other people trying to use the lift, too. "Go do whatever. I'm just upstairs if you feel like talking more about weapons or anything."

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ragnarsson - 2017-05-28 15:37 (UTC) - Expand

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