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thebastion2013-06-17 01:01 am
clockworknazi) wrote in thebastion2013-06-17 01:01 am
Entry tags:
The Broken Tin Soldier
Who: Stein and Kroenen, possibly nosy peepz
Status: Tentatively open
When: Day 78, early morning
Where: Initially behind the apartments, likely to move somewhere less open.
What: Kroenen is struggling to repair the damage done before he arrived at the Bastion, and during the core retrieval
Format: action
Warnings: Possible body squickiness.
The emotional tolls on everyone were high. Some more than others, Kroenen noted as he absconded to the Skyway and back several times through the previous "night" after their return. He needed supplies, bits of metal and screws, pieces of old clocks and debris from pulleys and winches. Anything that might be useful and re-purposed.
As he came and went, he could see the grief in others. He didn't feel it himself - wasn't even sure he could if he wanted to - but he could recognize it in the Children of New Eden. They had lost one of their own, gone in search and ended up losing two more. Three people in as many days? It did not bode well for the continued survival of the people expected to be the new master race. Whatever that was, considering he'd seen a blue deer-man recently, and the young girl was apparently some sort of kin to Anung un Rama.
Despite his own lack of emotional investment, the loss affected him in other ways. It meant more work spread among fewer people, it meant distractions and prolonged grief. No matter how one looked at it - practically or personally - it was a sour situation. And to make matters worse, he'd been critically damaged.
He had taken a solid thrashing out on the Skyway, and while he had hidden the worst of it from the others, the damage was severe. Now, he was trying to repair himself alone, sitting on a crumbled bit of stone wall with his coat and jacket over his lap, a selection of gizmos and gadgets cradled there with tools borrowed from all around the Bastion. He didn't dare fully expose himself, trying to work over his shoulder with most of his uniform still on. His shirt was pulled down enough to expose one shoulder where the unitard was shredded, the skin pallid with thick scars and the puckering of long healed stitching.
Under his clothing and beneath the black one-piece his skin was split, spilling sand instead of blood and exposing bone and metal beneath. The highly complicated clockworks mixed into his body around organs and bones were badly compromised, some of them crushed beyond repair. The trouble was, Kroenen couldn't lift one arm enough to work over his shoulder.
Normally he could twist and bend and do his work alone with a good mirror and fine tuned tools. Here in the Bastion, with so few tools and materials available, and no one he believed could help, Kroenen wondered if he wouldn't be out of commission permanently. Granted he was dangerous even with only one arm, but the damage was making it difficult to move his head and even walk. The longer he waited, the more the damaged pieces started grinding against the pieces that weren't, causing even more problems. It didn't help that the lenses of his mask were spider-webbed with cracks, obscuring his vision. He would have switched to one of the other masks, but they weren't finished being fixed either, and now he could barely use one hand.
Mercy, but how he longed for a tool-kit and free-standing mirror.]
Status: Tentatively open
When: Day 78, early morning
Where: Initially behind the apartments, likely to move somewhere less open.
What: Kroenen is struggling to repair the damage done before he arrived at the Bastion, and during the core retrieval
Format: action
Warnings: Possible body squickiness.
The emotional tolls on everyone were high. Some more than others, Kroenen noted as he absconded to the Skyway and back several times through the previous "night" after their return. He needed supplies, bits of metal and screws, pieces of old clocks and debris from pulleys and winches. Anything that might be useful and re-purposed.
As he came and went, he could see the grief in others. He didn't feel it himself - wasn't even sure he could if he wanted to - but he could recognize it in the Children of New Eden. They had lost one of their own, gone in search and ended up losing two more. Three people in as many days? It did not bode well for the continued survival of the people expected to be the new master race. Whatever that was, considering he'd seen a blue deer-man recently, and the young girl was apparently some sort of kin to Anung un Rama.
Despite his own lack of emotional investment, the loss affected him in other ways. It meant more work spread among fewer people, it meant distractions and prolonged grief. No matter how one looked at it - practically or personally - it was a sour situation. And to make matters worse, he'd been critically damaged.
He had taken a solid thrashing out on the Skyway, and while he had hidden the worst of it from the others, the damage was severe. Now, he was trying to repair himself alone, sitting on a crumbled bit of stone wall with his coat and jacket over his lap, a selection of gizmos and gadgets cradled there with tools borrowed from all around the Bastion. He didn't dare fully expose himself, trying to work over his shoulder with most of his uniform still on. His shirt was pulled down enough to expose one shoulder where the unitard was shredded, the skin pallid with thick scars and the puckering of long healed stitching.
Under his clothing and beneath the black one-piece his skin was split, spilling sand instead of blood and exposing bone and metal beneath. The highly complicated clockworks mixed into his body around organs and bones were badly compromised, some of them crushed beyond repair. The trouble was, Kroenen couldn't lift one arm enough to work over his shoulder.
Normally he could twist and bend and do his work alone with a good mirror and fine tuned tools. Here in the Bastion, with so few tools and materials available, and no one he believed could help, Kroenen wondered if he wouldn't be out of commission permanently. Granted he was dangerous even with only one arm, but the damage was making it difficult to move his head and even walk. The longer he waited, the more the damaged pieces started grinding against the pieces that weren't, causing even more problems. It didn't help that the lenses of his mask were spider-webbed with cracks, obscuring his vision. He would have switched to one of the other masks, but they weren't finished being fixed either, and now he could barely use one hand.
Mercy, but how he longed for a tool-kit and free-standing mirror.]
no subject
If there was anything Kroenen enjoyed, it was being a subject of interest. Awe, fear, envy. It didn't matter so long as someone wanted something from him, or wished they had something he did. Stein was pleased by the lab and fascinated by Kroenen's work - so far as the German was concerned, it was the equivalent of genius in another field looking upon him as a wunderkind in his own.
Stein was a God in the world of fringe science. Passing up an opportunity to work with the man would be on par with turning down a drink with the Devil; just because it was dangerous didn't mean you shouldn't take the opportunity to pick the mind of someone with all the answers.
Of course he wasn't entirely certain what Stein planned, but any help from someone with a resumé like Frankenstein's was foolish to turn down. He needed his arm fixed, he needed full mobility and if it meant sating the curiosity of one of history's greatest geniuses, so be it.
Then he notes the soured expression, forcing him to look around curiously. ]
Ist somesing ze matter, Herr Doktor?
no subject
He needed to be prepared for his operation to proceed long past sunset; possibly well into the evening. But without spotlamps - let alone the electricity to power them...]
If we run out of daylight, what will we do then?
no subject
[ Reaching up overhead, the German pulls a small chain attached to a simple pulley. A plain iron ring - formerly on a wagon wheel - is attached to the central a-frame and affixed with five glass-window lamps. In a short moment, Kroenen has each one lit and the attic is bared for Stein to see in its entirety; it was beyond spartan, no bed, no personalization beyond the work area.
Gesturing vaguely, he paces around the tables, showing that the wide arrangement of the lamps keeps the amount of shadowing around the table low. ]
Zere ist anozzer lamp zere on a piviot arm attached to ze table for closer vork. Vill zat be sufficient?
no subject
Yes, that will work.
[He answers finally, walking over to help finish clearing off the table. The blank walls of the attic are comfortable; perhaps even a bit familiar. Stein's lab was the same way, after all - no personal touches, just the essentials. (Of course, said "essentials" were not anywhere close to what the word normally implies...) That was the way he liked it. And apparently, he and Kroenen shared that in common, as well.]
no subject
At least the German's system iss simple; everything arranged by size, common use and alphabetized. The latter only problematic because German is his first language, so most things aren't precisely English oriented.
At one point Kroenen stops, hands hovering over the tools neatly lined on the table, gloved fingers weaving to music only he could hear as though each item were keys on a piano. Once, he might have moved lips, forming quiet words to accompany the concert, or let his eyelids drift slowly closed in satisfaction; those days were long since past, but body-language read just as well as facial expression to the observant - Kroenen is excited.
Here is someone equally - or more, if possible - qualified to do the work Kroenen so enjoys. Someone with a very specific set of skills that the German admires more than most, able to create works of art, or tear them apart and find precisely what made them tick.
The danger, the thrill of allowing someone rumored to be quite as...unhinged, as Stein to know his secrets? It is precisely the sort of challenge and recklessness Kroenen needs to distract himself from the blind, bland, banal monotony of such simple life that he was doomed eternally to, in this place of "community" and cooperation. ]
Zere, zat should be everysing. So, Herr Doktor...If you are satisfied, are ve ready to begin?
no subject
Oh yes, he's more than ready.
But before he answers he stops and stretches; cracks his neck, then his knuckles; and finally, adjusts his glasses. He doesn’t bother to hide the morbid glee on his face; surely a man as intuitive as Kroenen could see it in his eyes, anyway.]
I’m ready if you are.
no subject
They might have been talking about sex for all the sudden tension of the two men standing on either side of the table cleared for Kroenen. The image is only further impacted by the German's slow return to life, a reptile sluggishly slithering from its den as one hand goes to his head, sliding off his hat and setting it aside neatly on one corner of the table. The hand rises once more, tugging loose his tight collar like a man loosening his tie. The medallion is removed and folded, set atop the hat. All the while those cracked black lenses stare unblinking at Stein.
The hat and medallion are soon followed by his leather vest and gloves, black uniform shirt and ornate breastplate. The lycra one-piece beneath all of his clothing was shredded beyond repair, so in the course of a few deliberately drawn out minutes, the professor is soon offered a fully exposed torso.
Low slung pants and the mask cut off the expanse, leaving the work space confined to everything in between hips and throat, but it is enough to get a very good grasp of the sort of person he is dealing with. Stein's scars are neat, his stitches refined. Kroenen is put together carelessly, all the attention to detail underneath the flesh, within it. His body a road-map of agony, and he wears it as proudly as a cock wears its comb.
Ready? Oh, he most certainly is, and with his clothing all set aside, he simply waits to be directed to the table in a position the professor finds satisfactory. ]