NINJAMEME MASTERPOST 8|

[whatfriendsdo]

I have nothing to say here DEAL W/I.

Comments

[cowled]

Yes. It involves getting some rest.

[He's doing the administering as he speaks. He's not terribly affected by the cold. He's spent several years of his life in like climates, and it's more an issue of mind over matter to control his body's natural urge to shiver.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[She buries herself in the cape again, fighting her own increasing tremors. It doesn't seem possible or fair that he's not reacting the same way.] You're kidding, right? I thought that was the opposite of what you're supposed to do.

[cowled]

I didn't say sleep.

[Yes there is a difference, gosh.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[She looks out over the frigid landscape, twists of ice swept into curling waves by the wind. Murphy closes her eyes, finding the St. Jude medal under her shirt with one fingertip.

Make use, I implore thee, of that particular privilege accorded to thee, to bring visible and speedy help where help was almost despaired of.

Her voice is all but inaudible, ghosting away under the howl of the arctic weather.] Come to mine assistance in this great need, that I may receive the consolation and succor of Heaven in all my necessities, tribulations, and sufferings.

[Please. I know I owe you about a thousand times over, but I'd appreciate the favor.

She peeks a hand clear from the cape to rub the back of it across her eyes.] Okay. And when one turns into the other?

[cowled]

I'll wake you.

[Yeah he's not going to be sleeping, sorry. He's going to be MacGuyvering a communicator out of the wreckage.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[She frowns, her focus narrowing. She can read between the lines.] What will you be doing?

[cowled]

Our helicopter crash wasn't far from here. The flames will have died off by now. I'm going to work on salvaging any communication components that I can.

[He keeps his words succinct, trimmed of any unnecessary explanations. The facts are a bare minimum, but there's no sense lying to her.]

[whatfriendsdo]

Then I'll help. [She glares, braced for an argument. Batman isn't exactly known for playing well with others.]

[cowled]

[Batman isn't. And for that matter, neither is Bruce. But it's different with someone that he respects. He only ever argues when he has to.

And Karrin-- is different.]

Stay near the fire. I'll bring back whatever's useful, you can help me sort it out.

[whatfriendsdo]

[She eases to her feet, joints stiff already. The concession is more than she expected - and logic says she won't be much help if her hands fall off hunting through the wreckage for components. Logic says the fire is warm, she is freezing possibly literally, and moving away from the heat source is stupid on multiple levels.

Wind cuts up under the cape and hammers into her legs like a spiked mace fashioned out of frost. Murphy shudders.] What about you? Sooner we get the stuff, the sooner we're both back here.

[cowled]

The body shivers when it's in a state of mild hypothermia.

[He gives her a pointed look. Do you see what you're doing right now, Murphy?]

When it ceases to shiver, you'll be in an advanced state. Stay by the fire. You won't be of any use to me if you lose consciousness or become frostbitten. I understand your wanting to help, Lieutenant, but 'helping' in this case means being smart and acknowledging your own limitations.

[whatfriendsdo]

[She wavers. Harry's at the point in his career where they've worked together long enough, he's gotten strong enough, that she knows he's well out of her league. She'll still follow him into hell at the drop of a hat. Fight alongside him without hesitation. But he knows her limits, she knows her limits, and she trusts him to guide her to where she's most useful. If this were Harry giving her instructions, she'd obey.

But like a dog whose territory is being threatened, right now all she wants to do is fight. Bare metaphorical teeth. Exercise defiance without reason. She shakes hard enough to knock her knuckles together and forces herself to sit.

Her pride burns with the submission. She hates it. Hates it. But he's right, and she's not stupid.]

[cowled]

Thank you.

[The words are stiff. Unaccustomed. But he means them.

And then he's gone.

Disappearing acts are kind of his thing.

He's absent for some quarter hour, and when he returns he's fashioned a sled out of the helicopter's door (it was blown off, he found it embedded in a wall of ice nearby) and is dragging several dozen kilograms of equipment. Emergency rations, flight manuals (charred, but still burnable) and anything else out of the helicopter that could hold a slow burn. The first aid kit, salvaged from under the pilot's seat, has a space blanket. The electronics are piled neatly at the centre of his little bounty, and he pulls the sled to a stop beside her.

The sun's nearly down, but he has night vision and can work perfectly well in the dark. He's more worried about the cold. In this part of the world, it rises at three AM in this time of year, but that's still a good five hours, and the temperature will drop considerably in that time. Bruce cracks the seal on the first aid kit and digs the blanket out, shakes it once and then puts a hole in it approximately halfway down. These blankets are designed to cover people quite a bit bigger than Murphy, so this is the most efficient use of its size as relative to her.]

Put this on like a poncho. Cinch it around the waist with this.

[A charred scrap of harness from the pilot's seat.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[She's been singing quietly to keep herself company, and to try and stay alert. She stopped as soon as she heard the grind of the makeshift sled, and drags the blanket over her head as soon as it's offered. Belting it is trickier. She drops the harness twice. But as soon as it's tied, she offers him the cape.]

How long until sunrise, d'you think? [She's watching the horizon, watching the sunlight leak out of the sky like orange ink being drawn out of dark water. Murphy snaps out of it, picking up one of the flight manuals.] This fuel, or did you need it for something?

[cowled]

Keep it for now. I'm not cold.

[It's true. Sitting by the fire is good enough for him.]

Five hours from now. We'll be fine for the first two. We'll probably both be moderately hypothermic by the time the sun comes back up, but with any luck we won't be out here that long.

[The beacon in the batcave. Someone will come. But just in case, he has several other contacts in mind. Bruce is far too intelligent to gratify his stubborn nature by refusing to ask for help when he needs it.]

Burn it.

[He starts building a framework with some of the scrap, lashing pieces together with parachute cord. Too bad they were lacking in actual parachutes. The heavy nylon would serve them well right about now.

Still.

When he finishes the frame, he tugs the cape gently from her shoulders and props the cape up on the framework. It's not quite a loue, but it's close. He stakes the edges of the cape down to the ice, securing it against the wind. The cape is heavy enough that it won't buffet them about, and the way he built the loue has their backs to the worst of the wind. It will take some of the immediate warmth away from her, but it'll create a cradle that will reflect it back once the fire builds up a bit.]

Do you see these components? [He holds a chip up between his fingers.] We need ones that look similar to this. Their designation will be 37-A-1889-CB. That helicopter was state of the art, you'll find them.

[He, however, is going to go a short distance away, break apart some magnesium flares and melt lines into the ice that can be removed and stacked as shelter. Because boyscout.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[She does find them. Some look damaged, but she scavenges them anyway. She can't feel half the tiny cuts that stipple her hands from sorting through the debris. Anything that looks like it will burn gets set aside, anything survival-related gets moved to the edge of the little shelter. It's fully dark and she's two-thirds through their cache when her hands start shaking badly enough that she drops one of the chips and it vanishes. There are little freckles of blood across the snow, dark spots making it impossible for her to pick out where the chip fell.]

Goddamnit. [Murphy stuffs her hands under her arms, willing them to be warmer. The shelter helps - but the cold hunkers and snaps around the edges of the fire, squeezing slow claws between Murphy's ribs and making it hard to breathe. She slips her hands out from her blanket poncho long enough to rub sore ears. She's fine. She's one-hundred-percent okay. If the Bat can do it, so can she.]

[cowled]

[In that time, Bruce has got half a dozen blocks, roughly 2x3, carved out of the ice, and he packs them one by one to their makeshift shelter. He adds them to the front, near enough to the little fire, which he shifts closer with his boot. There's enough fuel to keep it burning a few more hours. All night if they're frugal with it. The cape's natural insulation is the best windbreak they have short of building a wall of ice to huddle behind.

He blocks off the sides of the loue and enters himself. There isn't much room, but Murphy takes up hardly any space and Bruce has endured worse training with Zatara.]

You're bleeding.

[He can see it, with the cowl's night vision. Little dark spots on the snow.]

default icon woo

[whatfriendsdo]

[She tucks one hand back under the blanket, sifting through the snow with the other to try and find the chip. She switches hands after a few seconds.] I'm fine. Do you make a habit of getting lost in frozen wastelands? Because I'm starting to think you've done this before.

[cowled]

It pays to be prepared for any scenario.

[short answer: 'yes'. He shifts until they're shoulder to shoulder.]

Let me see your hands.

[He has small, slow-burning flares in his utility belt. Two of them. Each will last for an hour, and they put out a few BTUs of heat each. He cracks one, and then takes his gloves off. His fingers are stiff from the cold and old injuries. His knuckles ache. He accepts the pain, uses it to sharpen his mind, and then boxes it away, its usefulness spent.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[She reluctantly uncovers both hands and holds them out, glaring at him like she's waiting for him to construe the fact that she bleeds as some kind of weakness. Pain isn't the thing keeping her sharp - it's the rabid need to keep up, to outdo, to perform above and beyond the expectations of her peers.]

The junk has edges. [The statement comes out as much a flat challenge as the glare. Tell me you could have done better. Prove that you could have gotten it done differently. It's not even that the cuts matter one way or the other, or that she cares how he would have sorted through the helicopter remains; the anger is a shield. It keeps her wired, ready to push herself that much more should the need arise. Dare me to do better.]

[cowled]

Mm.

[He takes her hands gently. Any damage done in the cold can be made worse by rough handling. She's cut the tips of her fingers to ribbons. She probably doesn't feel much, but he does take a small bottle of saline out of his belt, tears the tab off with his teeth and douses it sparingly over the lacerations.

He doesn't speak while he works, or look at her at all. If she lets him, he'll bandage them as well.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[She lets him, watching him work with a sense of deja vu she can't shake. She didn't expect the Batman to be capable of gentleness. It's not really something that comes to mind when talking about Gotham's resident criminal-scaring bogeyman. As soon as he's done she pulls her hands away and tucks them back underneath the blanket.] You should put those gloves back on. If they do anything for the cold.

[It's Murphyspeak for thank you.]

[cowled]

Later. Dexterity is more important at the moment.

[He offers her one of the emergency rations from the helicopter.]

Digestion raises your body temperature. Try to eat something.

[Meanwhile, he's going to jury-rig his communicator for long-range calls. He's Batman. Don't ask.]

[whatfriendsdo]

[The thought of food makes Murphy feel sick, but she eats it anyway, watching him work in silence until the rations he handed her are polished off with a minimum of gagging.

If she had to be stuck here with someone, she could definitely have done worse.

The firelight makes the world around it black with shifting fits of gray as the flames lean one way or another. Murphy closes her eyes and curls in on herself, shaking, humming again to occupy her mind. She wouldn't be missed back home for another day at least; she had tomorrow - maybe today, now - off. And who would be looking for her here? Absolutely no one.

She manages a few shuddering words:] Who're you going to call?

[cowled]

Ghostbusters.

[It's said with a perfectly straight face and the bare minimum of Batman sarcasm. In fact, he almost sounds serious.

Damn you, Dick.]