multiversallogs | i see today with a newsprint fray

Who: Logan, Njoki Rainmaker.
What: Logan plays errand medic in the destitute Mafaton.
Where: Mafaton.
When: Just after the healing of the sky. The healing of everything else will take a little longer.
Warnings: References to gore and injury. Undead medicalness.

The night is crawling to a close and the storm gashes in the sky are beginning to fade, a mark of optimism for the residence of Baedal. With the horizon beginning to tinge with light, the streets of Mafaton are clearing as nightwalkers are forced in doors. The young (seemingly so) man that Logan is escorting back to Njoki's place lapsed into unconsciousness about a block away after deliriously muttering in Spanish before his weight listed against Logan's arm, twisting to fall with a leg fishtailing out before he'd been caught by the front of his jacket. From there, he's been since bundled over a shoulder as carefully as Logan could, all things considered, and continued the pre-pre-dawn trek. No cigar smoke, just a fine steam expelled from his mouth in Doberman like exhales.

He hopes the guy isn't actually dead. It's really difficult to tell.

Logan is fine, of course. There's dried blood making a half-moon at the corner of his mouth, his nose having squirted some when punched in it for all that it never broke. All injuries healed to usual, without even a break for scarring in scraggly hair lined down his jaw. He's in leather, cotton, and denim, and doesn't seem particularly tired about the hour.

Once out front the right address, he gets out his CiD and dials a number, bringing it to his ear because he's just more used to things functioning as phones do. "Special delivery," he says, because he already texted Njoki ahead of time.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Logan is gonna be taking that label at its word.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, contemplated the cold-dulled smells an oversensitive nose can pick out before it finds meat that isn't the 'DO NOT EAT' variety; leftovers in a container, taking out and inspected, before it is claimed for himself, lid tucked beneath it and a fork discovered to dig at vegetables and cooked chicken. Heating it up doesn't actually occur to him to do.

And apparently Logan has enough of an iron stomach to brave shoveling food down his gullet in the presence of gore.

"I usually like 'em over easy," he comments, upon spying the egg. It's sort of out of his mouth before he can reel it back in, stabbing a piece of chicken thigh with his fork. "Thanks for doin' this. In case no one said so." Manners tends to slip in times of crisis.

"You wouldn't like this one. It's already half-rotten," she says casually while getting ready to stitch the fingers back on. It's not a neat job, but the thread is more just to steady the fingers before she holds the hand of the vampire in her own, runs her palms over the cuts and the flesh quivers and neatly restores itself. Rubbing a little of the van-van oil over the scar removes any trace of injury and makes the room smell of lemongrass.

He finds a place to sit, near enough to have a view of what's happening without crowding her and her work, or even make it seem like she has an attentive audience. Logan is interested first in eating, and second watching the progress being made. That said, he doesn't not notice it, when she heals the hand of a man who was carrying his fingers in his pocket like spare change not so long ago.

Logan raises an eyebrow, and sinks back into his customary silence as she works.

After a few moments, the man on the floor starts to struggle but once Ki puts a hand on his shoulder, he drops as if he's a puppet with its strings cut. Chatting to herself as she works, Njoki trims around the edges of the scarring on his face, peeling the tissue back, and slathering on some sort of cloudy gel over the raw tissue.

Once she's satisfied that all the affected skin and muscle has been repaired, Njoki plucks the egg off his chest and drops into the jar with the old coffee mixture.

"Just like that, huh?"

He says that by the time she's putting things away, and by the time the corpse is looking thereabouts whole. It's not like there wasn't effort and delicacy in Ki's work, watching the knife cuts, the sewing, but relatively speaking-- putting stiffs back together has a hey presto quality to it all the same.

"This is a bit messy, but it's fresh and he's easy to work with." Njoki tests the depth of the gel on the man's face before touching his shoulder again. Once she lays his hand on him, the body shudders and shows signs of being able to move again but the man stays semi-conscious.

"Hey, you stay still for a while, right?" There's some mumbling and complaining about how dare she and what did she do and he couldn't move and he could eat her with ease, etc. etc.

"Try it, bub," Logan invites, not as flippant as it should be; it comes out as a quiet growl, nearly, but still a lazy kind of aggression, considering the walkin' talkin' corpse is still half out of it. And besides, he wouldn't want to be the one guilty of undoing all of Njoki's careful work.

Njoki raises an eyebrow and turns toward Logan as if to say 'well, look at you'. Should it become necessary, she's comfortable and perfectly able to smack down her irate patient, but she's pleased by the offer.

"I wouldn't worry about it. You need anything else? Shower still runs hot and cold, and the spare room is full of bodies, but I can find space somewhere if you need to rest a bit."

The look he gets for that is met with a raised eyebrow of his own, a mild sort of 'what?' that doesn't get any further than that. She's capable-- he knows that, from the way she put that guy out so easy, the way she carries herself, even the way she smells-- but, you know. A little back up never hurt nobody. Unless you are Wolverine.

He doesn't entirely manage to suppress the quirk of crooked smile at the corner of his mouth, but it's a good effort. "I wouldn't say no to a shower, but I can get out of your hair for tonight."

"Scrub up. Who knows how long the water'll last, right?" Leaving the stiff in the living room, Njoki heads down the short hallway to find a towel for Logan. Fortunately, the nature of her work requires that she's well stocked with linens and she's able to find something relatively clean and entirely free of blood splatter.

"There's a bottle of van-van soap and another that's unscented. No mint for your pillow, but I do what I can."

His brow wrinkles, like a drawstring of confusion pulled beneath it. Van-van. Kinds of soaps. He doesn't ask, though, just accepts this information placidly as he goes to follow her and take the offered towel. "Well, anything more than that is likely to confuse me." Also, it's been a few days. Reliable water and electricity being a luxury, which is probably why he's taking up the offer at all.

She's a goddamn lady and it's her prerogative to have kinds of soaps in the bathroom.

"Hot and cold taps are reversed, don't use my toothbrush, you die or need anything else, I'll be moving the body up to the attic." It's important to know your priorities. "And if you're done before I'm finished with him, lemme know when you're going so I can reset the wards. You good?"

"I'm swell."

Logan isn't so bad at being managed. Sometimes he needs it, sometimes he really doesn't, but it's the goddamn lady's house and he's about to take up a bunch of hot water in a neighbourhood, time and place that it doesn't always come so reliably. Amusement cracks through the generally stoic mask his expression makes out to be, punctuation at the corner of his mouth, and he moves for the bathroom.

i see today with a newsprint fray

rghdff lateness /lies prone

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