ArchivedLogs:Rainbow CRASH!

Rainbow CRASH!
"Um...I'm just wondering if it's okay if I hold you down against your will for a little bit?"
Dramatis Personae Tag, Micah
In Absentia	27 February 2013 Tag gets hit by an AT-AT! And then he's really squirmy, but gets sent to the hospital anyhow.
Location <NYC> Lower East Side - Some Street
Night is closing in rapidly, the heavy clouds in the sky seeming to sink low to wrap the streets in a light fog. The intermittent rain of the day has decided to become a steady sprinkle into the evening, enough for the drivers on the roads to need their windshield wipers switched on. A TARDIS blue van with a gorilla in a racing wheelchair emblazoned on it side is rolling along with the steady traffic, headlight beams mingling with those of the other vehicles in the fog. Micah is sitting behind the wheel, headed home after his last equipment delivery of the day. He is singing along to Led Zeppelin’s “Over the Hills and Far Away”, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel softly to help keep himself from being hypnotized by the steady swish of the wipers. Tag clambers down the fire escape and, hanging from the bottom rung of the ladder, drops to the pavement in the alley beside his apartment building. His black jeans are decorated with intricate networks of stylized phosphorescent green vines. The same vines creep up over his sky-blue sweater and wind along the edges of a cerulean wool cap that does not quite contain a shock of rainbow-colored hair. He takes off, running at full tilt out onto the sidewalk and slowing down just long enough at the intersection to look both ways. This cursory glance does not warn him of the taxi cab that suddenly darts into the left lane from behind a Hummer stopped at the red light just as he begins to cross the street. With a high-pitched shriek, Tag throws himself out of the way--which happens to be into the intersection. He has enough time to register two headlights carving cones of raindrops out of the dusk, and to flinch away. Micah lets Robert Plant finish the next verse solo, instead uttering a string of surprised, nonsensical curses at the sudden appearance of shadowy human-shape /in the road/. Not that he could be heard over the sound of the taxi driver leaning on his horn. He manages to fight the urge to just slam on his brakes and go skidding on the wet road, instead pressing down urgently, swinging the wheel quickly toward…there aren’t a lot of good options here. A flash decision sends him into the bus lane, which at least is empty immediately next to him. It’s a breathless-close turn, with unfortunate tire squealing. Turning away as the van swerves around him, Tag looks briefly graceful, like a dancer, until the trailer--lagging behind the vehicle towing it--swings into his path. He has just enough time to tilt his head in ill-timed confusion as the miniature All Terrain Armored Transport knocks him from his feet and sends him tumbling. The world inverts, then comes round right--sickeningly. Horns blare and traffic grinds to a halt. Tag rolls onto his side, curls up, and whimpers. The van jerks to a full stop, and Micah’s hand flips on the emergency flashers perfunctorily. He slips out of the driver’s side door, rushing to the fallen figure, silently giving thanks that traffic has stopped. His hand continues to work on its own, pulling out his phone, tapping 911 as he approaches. Micah takes a knee at Tag’s side, surveying the damage. “Cheese and /crackers/, I’ve killed Rainbow Dash,” is the first /incredibly unhelpful/ thing he thinks to say. “Hey, are you conscious?” fortunately follows, voice tight with concern, as the phone obediently dials and rings. His free hand has taken hold of Tag’s wrist, prepared to check for a pulse if no answer comes. "Aiiiii..." Tag squeaks, curling up tighter. "Why does it hurt?" He squeezes one eye open and quickly closes it. "And why is everything spinning?!" So saying, he rocks onto his knees and tries to get up. The trying doesn't quite make it to doing, and he flops back onto his side. "Okay...okay..." he says, then, for good measure, "okay. I'm fine. It's fine! I just gotta...get back up." “/Do not/ try to move!” Micah orders firmly, trying to block Tag from getting up but not wanting to restrain him physically. “You could have internal injuries. Lie still. Breathe. Can you feel your hands and feet?” Why does it seem to be taking /forever/ for someone to answer the phone? This is the /emergency/ line! Hazel eyes are /darting/ over Tag’s form, looking for any signs of bleeding. "It's only a flesh wound!" Tag protests, but does not make another attempt to rise. "Probably? I can feel my hands and legs. I can feel pretty much everything, which sucks 'cuz everything kinda hurts." As if to underscore this point, he groans. "Look, I'm fine. I gotta go..." He starts to get up again, only to fall right back over. The asphalt beneath him starts turning a paler shade of gray, like paper turning to ash. “Stop movin’! If you’ve got a spinal cord injury, you could /paralyse/ yourself. Just stay on your side.” Micah is pulling off the green plaid flannel shirt he was wearing as an outer layer, draping it over Tag to help keep him warm. A woman’s voice finally speaks up on the line. Micah spills out the location of the accident, trying to slow himself down enough to enunciate clearly. He continues talking, pausing between each statement, apparently answering questions. “Pedestrian struck by vehicle… In the road, but traffic has stopped… He’s conscious and without visible external injuries… Reporting pain and a spinning sensation… Yeah, I’m /trying/ but he keeps gettin’ up.” He rests a hand on Tag’s, tapping gently to help keep his attention. “Emergency operator lady says you should stay here and /not move/ and wait for the ambulance, too.” His brow furrows, watching Tag’s face. “Hey, buddy, can you keep talkin’ to me?” "I'm fiiiine!" Tag lies still, finally, with a kind of resigned noise of generalized frustration. The pavement beneath him has gone impossibly white. The wet sheen from the rain makes it look almost like he is bleeding white in an irregular, expanding patch. On his clothing, the vine-like patterns have gone similarly bone-white. "I don't wanna go to the hospital..." he mumbles. “Sugar, were you carryin’ a bottle of something? Ground’s goin’ white under you and that’s not what I’d expect here.” Micah is mentally checking off /normal/ colours for various bodily fluids: blood, cerebrospinal fluid, waste products…white isn’t on the list. “You wanna go to the hospital, hon. It is not negotiable. You might have a concussion or internal bleeding. You are gonna be /fine/, but you gotta let the docs take care of you.” He’s talking to the woman on the phone again. “Yes, ma’am, he’s still with us. You might tell your boys to hurry, though?” "Noooo..." Tag groans. The white blotch, like bleach with no respect for physics--or chemistry, or time--suddenly shrinks back again. The white in the vines on his clothes, however, start spreading across the fabric. "I don't do hospitals. They give you drugs...I don't...it's illegal." He is still for a moment, and then--with obvious effort and Micah's efforts notwithstanding--propped up onto one elbow. His hair starts fading to white from the ends up, as if they were frosting over. His eyes open, squinting against street lights and headlights, dark brown. "I'm okay. Really." It takes Micah a moment to process what, exactly, is ‘illegal’. The hair fading finally buys him a clue. “Sugar, that’s the least of anyone’s worries right now. And you’re /injured/. No one’s gonna argue any of that is voluntary use of whatever right now, okay?” At last, sirens can be heard wailing in the distance, drawing closer. “That’s the ambulance now. You gotta stay put. They’re gonna give you a pretty collar and a really uncomfortable bed to help protect your spine. Then the docs are gonna make sure your organs are still whole and healthy. Okay? This is important.” The woman on the phone demands attention again. “Yes, ma’am. Sounds like they’ll be here in a minute.” The talk of hospitalization and doctors finally gets Tag's attention. "/Gan!/" This comes out like an invective even to non-Chinese-speaking ears. He sits up, winces, sways. "Hey, I know you! Maybe?" Blinking rapidly, Tag's eyes search the street for the dreaded source of the sirens. "From the snowball fight...war...whatever." He looks down at himself--his clothes are mostly white with veins of black and blue at this point--and gasps. "Um, it's not just that! I mean, yeah, that's illegal, but I really, /really/ need to get outta here!" Pulling away from Micah's grasp, Tag staggers to his feet. The van is conveniently where he would have face-planted, and holds him up. "Hey...bad gravity! Bad. Um, give me a sec..." He looks like he might throw up. Colors pulse and flutter across his entire person, making him look like a very excited and confused cuttlefish. “Yeah, you’re Jax’s friend. See, you’re in good hands.” Micah gives Tag a kicked-puppy look when he gets up, clearly against /all sane advice/. He’s torn between possibly hurting Tag by forcing him to stay put and almost certainly letting him make things worse by trying to run away. Fortunately, his van proves to be a timely ally. Micah mentally offers Lucille thanks for the assist. /Good/ van. Micah brings his body close to Tag’s, a hair’s breadth from touching, his arms raised and pressed against the van to either side of Tag. He makes a pretty decent Micah-shaped barrier. “You /can not/ run off. Internal injuries could /kill you/. This is /not okay/.” The ambulance is pulling up, its sirens ear-splitting. It has apparently brought a cop car as an escort. The flashing of lights in the rain is dizzying. "Ohhh, no." Tag tries inching away in one direction, then the other, foiled by Micah's insistent vigil. His eyes track the ambulance unsteadily as it pulls up. The hair is stark white now, along with the cap and shirt and jeans. "Does not want!" he whispers, then sinks down against the rain-slick side of the van and starts sliding /beneath/ the vehicle. “Nononono,” Micah loses just a second of reaction time /gawping/ at Tag as he continues to effect an escape. What is /wrong/ with this kid? Probably brain damage… Failing any less ridiculous ideas, he mirrors Tag’s sliding movement, gently wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “Stop movin’, stop movin’, I’ve got you, hon,” he’s prattling incessantly in Tag’s ear in a soft whisper, like he’s trying to talk down a spooked horse. “We got folks what can help right here.” In fact, the clomp of several pairs of booted feet has met up with them. There is a stretcher. A man and woman both in navy blue uniforms, light glinting off reflective stripes on their jackets. Another pair of men following, obviously police. Clearly aware now that he is outclassed, Tag stops struggling and starts /crying/ instead, though that is probably taken as an indication that he is more hurt that he actually is. Somewhere in the midst of the sobbing, he tries to form words, but they may or may not actually be in English. He shrieks like a dying rabbit and tries to hide behind Micah when the first EMT touches him, but then calms down and submits--or maybe exhausts himself and gives up. At the very least, the colors around him stop changing. He just looks impossibly clean and white. Every instinct in Micah is demanding that he hug Tag close, but the EMT’s pull him away bodily. They need to do their jobs. Micah manages to construct a /steely/ look out of his own near-to-tears visage. “I’m going with him,” he demands coldly. “We’re engaged.” The look /dares/ the EMT’s or the cops to deny him. “If you want a statement, you can get it from me /at the hospital/.” He hands the keys to his van over to the younger of the two officers. The young man takes them silently, clearly not having a safe response to offer. The EMT’s are fussing amongst themselves as they work on getting Tag onto the stretcher and into a cervical collar. “Fine. Come,” is all the female EMT replies.