taxonomites | [ visual | location: outside "sanctuary for all" ] [ open ]

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[ visual | location: outside "sanctuary for all" ] [ open ]

Bruce Wayne has kind of had enough of today; while the world of Taxon doesn't look nearly like the (artistically rendered, he suspects) Doctor's looming apocalypse, it's still in a near-cracking state. The destruction of citizens vs sentinel robots, accidentally-detonated bombs, and his own creative use of the tram have left a notable impact. Still, there is more to come - but just how much more depends on all of them.

"There's no radiation in the individual bombs," he says, and he's walking, headed straight towards the Sanctuary building in downtown Osten. "The machines are there to protect civilian life, not the explosives. If you're still here and can't get to a safe zone or on the ship, stay as far away from any sentinel activity as you can."

Speaking of the machines - they're approaching, because he isn't stopping, and neither are the people behind him, whose shoulders or backs can occasionally be seen in his broadcast. Bruce is holding something small and heavy in his hand, somehow both calm and extremely annoyed.

"Unless you'd like to get down here and help break this goddamn facility open, because the Doctor is right here."

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He nods. "East wing is full of bedrooms or you can triage one of the ballrooms, whatever you need. Enfys, do that, use the Rolls, it has space and nobody will drive it into a wall by accident." If there's a slightly ominous tone there it's one of do not let anyone touch my Lamborghini or they'll wish they'd gotten blown up.

"Make sure they can actually drive. Get going, I'll see you around." He is just going to head out on foot, apparently, because he'd just be slowing Enfys down. He gives Trixie and Sol one last look - solidarity, if not appreciation, he's too stoic for that. "Good show," is all he says, and then he's off.

"All right. Yeah, we'll want a bus--however makeshift--down here before I do anything else, I'll keep her stable until then." The injuries aren't presently life-threatening, just painful, but they could worsen, and Trixie makes a mental note to get Morgana some of the good drugs. And maybe someone to explain what IV medicine is, because if Morgana wakes to that with no one to tell her what it's for, it might be mildly traumatic.

"When we get there, I'll get her set up, and triage in a ballroom ain't the weirdest thing I've done, but it'll sure be new." She'll be pleased to have all the space such a thing suggests, though. "Here's a thing," she says, conversationally, to Sol, "how exactly did you clear up those internal injuries of hers?"

"I'm on it- Trix, I'll send somebody back down here with 'care of Enfys' stamped on their arse, you two stay out of trouble."

Enfys takes the unused helmet with her, since it's Bruce's and not hers to dump haphazardly around the city, and leaves moments later.

"I'll do your heavy lifting," Sol offers, dryly, for the ballroom triage. "If you don't need me for anything else," he adds, as he considers her question. At this point, it's more or less pointless to equivocate about it.

"Verbena. I might not be the most accomplished healer - and I'm not - but vitakinesis is part of the package." He'd strangle somebody to have Calista here right now, actually.

"Yours is a hell of a lot more developed than mine," she mutters, but then Trixie can primarily only use hers to destructive ends, so. She stays leaning against the bench, mentally going over everything that she'll need in the next few hours- she doesn't anticipate getting much sleep for a while, but that's all right, she's prepared for that. Her clothes are dirty and she's exhausted, but she can handle it.

"Verbena. That doesn't mean a damn thing to me unless you're secretly a plant, but does that mean you can figure out if she's going to need a CT scan? Concussions can look like they're over, but that doesn't necessarily mean there's not lasting damage to he brain."

She doesn't mean to be abrasive, per se, but it's pretty clear she doesn't even notice it if she is (and there's a significant chance of that).

It's been one of those days and Sol's moving through it at this point like he might not even notice someone else being abrasive, so there's that. He's checking over the ties he has on River's wrists and ankles, just to make sure they're not actually doing her any damage in the midst of all this mess- "They're interesting conversationalists but I like my sex life a little too much to join their ranks." Plants. Thanks, Sol. "And yeah, I can. Just give me some room."

"...good to know!" Trixie decides she likes him, even if he is toting an unconscious teenage girl who has been tied up for some reason. She takes a step back to check on said teenage girl, actually-

"What happened here?"

With his attention now not wavering from Morgana, he still manages to aside- "I think someone screwed with her head, we had a little explosion of violence from her back at the cabin where the madman in there was stashing radioactive material. I've been keeping her out until we can get her somewhere safer and figure out what happened and who I need to discourage from doing that again."

Since apparently it goes without saying that he will. It's just a matter of who.

"...so, you've been carrying an unconscious teenage girl for the past however long?" Trixie gives him a contemplative once-over (not like that, mind; he's cute enough that her tendency to mostly veer to the other end of the Kinsey spectrum could conceivably be tweaked, but now's hardly the time) and shrugs.

"You're gonna need a nap. How's patient numero uno?"

"I need a cigarette and a bourbon," Sol says, dryly, and smoothes Morgana's hair back down before he straightens away from her. "She's got a hard head, the concussion is minor. She'll be fine once we get her sorted out at the manor."

"All right. Good, you Verbena are useful motherfuckers, aren't you? I'm going to generate what's needed from the hatches before our ride shows up, give me a sec--" She should be back in a flash.

Since River's not going to be waking up until Sol is good and ready for her to, and they're about to be somewhere that'll have a lot more in the way of resources- he judges the bindings unnecessary and so while Trixie acquires her supplies from the nearest hatch, he unwinds his tattered shirt from around River's ankles and wrists.

So Dean's driving stylishly, and he might actually look kind of inappropriately gleeful as he pulls up--it's a nice car, shut up-- but at least he's there. Slipping out of the car, Dean leans over the hood, taking in the scene before him. Looks about right.

"Enfys was telling me you need a ride," Dean calls, lifting a hand in greeting.

"Well, it beats the Partridge family bus," Trixie says, appraising the car with raised eyebrows and a mildly impressed expression, while in the process of hauling an IV stand and necessary accoutrements back to the bench.

"All right, slugger, you take sleeping beauty over there-" Sol, this means you, we apologize for any bizarre sports-oriented nicknames and/or metaphors. "Mr. Driver, would you be a prince and help me with Morgana? I seem to have left all my gurneys in my other jeans." Not to mention she's got her hands full of equipment that an ambulance might have, but the Rolls understandably lacks.

"Much appreciated," Sol tells Dean, dryly, as he lifts River under her back and knees and ignores the protests of his own exhaustion; when he finally lets himself sit down, there will be an awful lot of not moving in his future. Until then - it's probably a while away - he occupies himself obediently getting River organized in the car. She, at least, has no injuries and can be safely propped up on Sol's lap while Morgana will likely need more space and precautions taken.

Dean flashes a grin at Sol, but otherwise ignores him, concentrating on helping Trixie out. Sol's got River, and Dean thinks the guy's gotta be trustworthy enough if all these people aren't protesting. Anyway, Dean makes his way over to Morgana, giving her a quick glance over to make sure he won't disrupt anything if he picks her up, and then, once he's done that, carefully hoists her up. She's not very heavy, so Dean can manage it easy enough, heading back to the car.

"I got her. Where am I putting her?" Dean calls over his shoulder to Trixie. That lack of a gurney problem is starting to suck right about now.

"Uhhh--"

Well, she assumes if the owner of this amazing car doesn't mind that it's being used to transport injured people, he won't mind her modifying it to accommodate that a little better. Trixie sets down her supplies, and starts preoccupying herself with ripping the back out of the Rolls to make space for Morgana and, if Sol chooses to put her back there, River.

She's pretty efficient about it.

Shoving useless cushions to either side of the back for the purposes of guarding the girls' heads against hitting anything steely back there, Trixie hops up into the back, drags her supplies in, and beckons Dean first.

"Here."

They've got the space, now, so he might as well; Sol sets River down in the cleared area that Trixie's just made and makes himself useful getting the supplies they have with them put in neatly aside. (Not far out of the way, just organized.)

"How far are we from the manor?" he asks, staying near River after, vaguely paternal in the way he guards over her.

-- Well. Okay, sure, just... rip the car. Dean would be more offended if he wasn't preoccupied with holding Morgana. Since he is, he doesn't say anything; whatever, it's not his car.

"Not far. Probably'll take us 'round ten, twenty minutes to get there," Dean shrugs. He'll drive like a maniac. Dean sets Morgana down in the back, making sure she's comfortable, and then heads to the driver's seat. He pauses, though, and glances back to Trixie.

"Need help with anything else, or we all set?"

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