synanthrope | (no subject)

[The camera is expertly handled this time, and it shows the Garage. Saya is currently dressed to nines in expensive couture, as usual, despite the fact that she's working on cars. She has her head under the hood of a car, her hands inside doing something unseen. The camera pans away from her for a moment.]

The Garage is an immaculate place; despite being home to constant repairs, everything is in it's place, much like the owner, who works every day no matter the condition or the holiday.

She attributes this to the work ethic instilled by-

[The narration is cut off by a sudden loud thump, and the camera pans back to Saya just in time to see her, holding the back of her head, stumble back a couple of steps, and then there's a snap as she falls at precisely the same moment, like a marionette with cut strings, not fainting as much as simply collapsing, her limbs tucked under her in odd ways]

Sy-

[Her voice stops and she looks, confused, at the heel of her shoe, which is no longer attached to the rest. The heel snapped off.]

That's never happened before.

[She looks up at the camera for a moment, and then it shuts off.]

[ooc: Action for Garage employees, audio for everyone else. She'll be going to the hospital eventually! Italics are the documentary narration.]

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[This part takes a moment]

The hood of a car.

Hard?

They're taking me to the hospital.

[There's no panic in her voice, just a slight quiver to the flatness. Come find me, please.]

Hard enough, then.

[And a pause.]

I can meet you there.

Only you.

Of course.

[He's a man who understand the keeping of secrets, after all.]

[After her intake and her demanding Rudy more than once, she's waiting in a patient room. She hasn't had a head CT, nothing more than a simple examination]

[Saya's lucky things are a little strange in the City, maybe luckier still that her employees don't know him-- calling in a prosthetist isn't usually the right response to a head injury. He gets straight to business when he walks in.]

How is it?

[She needs someone who won't scan her head, okay?]

I'm dizzy and they say it's concussion. I need blood.

Not a transfusion.

[It sounds like a statement, but it's more of a question. A request for confirmation, at least.]

Not a transfusion. A+, if possible.

[Though he's hardly squeamish about blood, the idea is more than a little distasteful; he raises an eyebrow oh so slightly, but nods.]

I'll see what I can do.

[She looks at him, and even unfocused, there's something flat and nasty in her eyes.]

Bring me a bag and I'll make it worth your while.

[Don't bring one, and she'll make that worth your while, too.]

[Making deals and playing games is one of his favorite pastimes, but under the circumstances he's hardly in the mood.]

Any pain?

Yes. It hurts.

Let me look.

[Probably someone already has, but checking for blood or swelling on his own is easier than asking for whoever's already examined her.]

I can get you some painkillers, too.

[Another tacit question, as he leans over. He has a better idea of what she isn't than what she is; maybe the medicine wouldn't work.]

[She leans forward to give him access to the back of her head and closes her eyes]

I can handle the pain.

[There's a lump there, and a cut, and it was clearly bleeding before]

Suit yourself.

[He frowns slightly, parting her hair around the injury with careful fingers. The motion is more about precision than gentleness.] We'll clean that up, too.

[He stands, and gives her a measuring look for a moment.]

I'll be back. [Time to raid the blood bank.]

[She looks up at him, blinking slightly]

Thank you.

[He nods without smiling-- no reason to waste false gestures between them-- and leaves.

A little while later he returns, with a little assortment of first-aid stuff and a cooler from the blood bank.]

[She's sitting, still, but not asleep; she looks like she's trying to focus her eyes, when he gets back. She looks up at him]

Will you hand me a bag, please?

[He does, then in no particular hurry takes out all the rest of it-- a bottle of alcohol, some gauze, the ice pack from the cooler which he wraps in a towel.]

[She takes the bag and puts a corner in her mouth, and her jaw moves oddly for a moment, and then next she's drinking the blood. She's very neat - not a drop spills, even as she leans her head down for him to look at her head]

[He'd be distressed, to say the least, were she a messy eater. His mind is elsewhere-- caught on the strangeness of her mouth-- as he bends to clean her wound.]

[She sets the bag down when she's finished, and looks a little more focused.]

It was a stupid accident.

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