Well Well Well [RP]
thefabladyinpink:
Penelope is a Lady. A Lady doesn’t get ruffled. She doesn’t panic. She most certainly does not vocalize any vulgar phrases that might come into her mind about a situation. (Though it doesn’t stop her thinking them.) And she definitely doesn’t cry, even when she’s in a great deal of distress over having dropped a rotten piece of wood down a well and broken one of her best friends’ noses.
“JOHN!” she calls, fighting down a wave of panic. It’s her job to be calm and think through problems rationally, but today is slowly starting to wear at her composure. Parker, however, is right on time, appearing at her elbow with an immense coil of rope. She could just about kiss the older man, but her dignity and the urgency of the situation win out. The rope coil is very long and the rope itself is very sturdy, and she fishes one end out and ties a large loop at the end with a knot designed to tighten the loop when tugged. The other end she hands to Parker with instructions to tie it to FAB 1.
Cautiously, she picks her way close to the edge, looking down at the darkness of the well. “Parker brought some rope. I’m going to lower the end down; see if you can put it around your chest under your arms. The knot will tighten when pulled on, so make sure it’s snug and won’t come up over your head. And pull on the rope a bit to let me know when you’re set. We’re going to use FAB 1 to pull you out!” Hand over hand, she lowers the rope down, inch by painful inch, until it dips into the water in front of John with a small splash.
“N’elope...” John groans as the rope splashes down in front of him. The water’s mostly thick mud but it’s cold and he’s shivering. It’s icy enough that it totally steals his breath as it soaks through his t-shirt against his chest; provoking pained little hiccoughs as he tries to draw more musty oxygen in through his mouth. The sounds echo something awful in the confined, claustrophobic space.
Numb and trembly, John knows he has to take his hand away from his face to grab a hold of the rope. His other arm is broken and useless and yet more hot, red blood spills out over his lips from his broken nose as he releases it. He’s getting very light headed. It might just have be the fall in the first place, or the staleness or the air down there, or the way, as John loops his arms with painful, fumbling difficulty through the rope and pulls it tight around his chest, his lungs stutter awfully under the constriction of it.
At least he can’t smell the decay and the blood in the air. The mud gives a sucking squelch though, as the pale, shocky-looking spaceman tries to push himself further upright, and he grimaces at that.
“N’ny...” His mouth tries to shape her name again; craning to see her tiny shadow high above him. There’s blood in his throat and a tightness in his ribs and his arm is hanging useless at his side. John’s been sliding slowly into the mud and he’s not at all sure about this plan but he can’t seem to complain because his brain appears to be not working. There’s television static roaring in his ears and everything has slowly faded from dark and murky and verdigris green into a softer, muted grey. Like a woolen blanket has been draped, smotheringly over his senses.
“..Nyy... p-ple...ese..”