multiversallogs | don't make me cry

Who: Nazca Barsavi, Don Draper
What: Blood and guts
Where: Somewhere between Gallmarch and Raven's Gate (Creeksideish?)
When: A bit after reality had holes ripped through.
Notes: Sorry, Don.
Warnings: Aftermath of violence, character death.

Raven's Gate hadn't been tenable. There'd been things coming up through the water - they'd destroyed her boat, but she'd slipped off. Swimming was as easy as walking, but she hadn't been able to stick to the water for long.

It hadn't just been the water, though, and the streets had proved no safer.

She'd killed two of the things, and chased the rest of them off, but she hadn't gotten far before she needed to stop. In a conveniently deep doorway, she unhooked her leather dueling harness and hissed - the white tunic beneath was soaked, and some of the blood was definitely hers.

Muttering a stream of Verrari curses under her breath, she ripped off a sleeve and started trying to fashion a makeshift bandage. Mainly, though, what she can think is not again.

(And she can't help a small pang over the fact that, at least at home, she'd had people to mourn her. She wondered if anyone would here; Gabriel. Sebastian? Dean was already dead himself.)

It had been a shitty sort of afterlife.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Don locks the door on the way out. A last show of optimism. His CiD's in his back pocket, the gold piece and his lighter in another. A pack of cigarettes over his heart; a lug wrench in one hand.

The sky bleeds color over the ocean. He glimpses something dark and sinuous skimming above the waves, hesitates. Dread rising in his throat.

He starts along the beach at a walk, keeping back from the water to where coarse grass shoots up through the sand. The air seems charged, ringing with unfamiliar noises. Within minutes he's jogging.

He ignores the first chittering thing to knock against his leg. Then comes a second, a third, leaping and hissing. They pluck at his clothes; something nips the meat of his hand and he swings the wrench in wild surprise. The blow connects--he feels it in his arm--and the thing gurgles and after that he's bashing at them, kicking, trying not to trip or think what'll happen if he does.

The ocean roars in his ears. He staggers as the sand underfoot turns dense, soggy. In the next moment water's washing over his shoes. All at once the things put up a screeching; in the corner of his eye a mushroom-pale claw emerges from the water to snap one up. He stumbles, plants a knee in the water, scrambles up and runs heedless of direction.

Later, dry, breathing in gasps, he collapses into a doorway. Slides toward the ground, eyes on the verge of closing. Something moves and he recoils, raising the wrench with trembling hands. He's filthy: face and clothes smeared with blood and grime, coat torn open at the shoulder.

Her stiletto blade is her hand before he's even fully sitting down, but she's a moment ahead of him with recognition. She laughs, and it's a mistake - pain shoots through her side, and the sound ends in a gasp and a wince.

"Mr. Draper, you suit may be odd, but it's a shame to wreck anything that well-tailored."

He looks about like she feels, but she doesn't see any external wound that's more than glancing.

Her speech registers first as sound, animal noises softer, subtler than what he's been straining to hear. "I'm okay." It tumbles from his mouth, a reflex pitiful as a flinch. His gaze blunders across her face but doesn't rest there.

"Christ is that a knife," he says in a breath. The wrench drops to his side; he wipes his free hand on his pant leg.

She puts the blade down. "For all the good it did me, but yes." She leans back against the closed door. "It's dangerous out there, if you didn't hear.

"Are you actually fine, or are you in shock, I wonder? It would be a bit macabre, racing to see who'll bleed out first."

"Nazca," Don manages. Realization isn't a blow, doesn't hit or strike. It courses through him, a poison spread as his heart clenches and unclenches. He stares at the blood and fumbles to think of something other than how much there is.

He has to pry his fingers off the wrench. Or that's how it feels. He doesn't hear it hit the ground.

He steps toward her, swallows. "How bad--how long..." It takes effort to look at her and not the wound.

"There we are, Mr. Draper, hello." Good, at least his brain was lurching into action again. "Bad and a while. You should probably keep moving if you're able, though."

She manages a wry smile. "This isn't the most defensible spot."

She's talking sense but it's competing for his attention with the scent of her blood, cries in the street, a desperation he can't quell. "Did you try the door?" he asks, urgently now. Tenses as if to hurl himself against it, reaches instead to grapple with the handle. "We'll get--there's gotta be doctors out there. Magic. You can't bleed to death--"

She half laughs, half coughs. "Hell, don't tell me you've never seen a person die before. I'd have lost that bet." With effort, she uses the frame to slide herself up, one hand pressed against the wound. "It looks like one of the hinges is broken - if you kick there," she points, "it'll probably give."

Nazca doesn't really have the steadiness to do it herself at the moment.

He straightens and faces the door, squares his shoulders. "That was in a war." The task, its cut-and-dried simplicity, settles him. The ground solid underfoot. He aims a kick; the door splinters with a muffled crack. He steps back, grunts out a breath as he kicks again.

The door sags in. He lends it a shove.

Nazca smiles a bit. "Well, there's that. At least we can keep a closed door between us and whatever." She can walk - her legs are intact - but probably not far. "You don't have to stay, though. Probably safer to keep moving."

don't make me cry

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