CLOSED.

[acreage]

WHO: James Holden, Dick Dickerson
WHAT: Hijinks with field testing
WHEN: Time is fake
WHERE: Creepy old ruins, somewhere
NOTES: cw: SPIDERS

The rift isn't actually visible from beyond the ruins, but easy enough to find once inside — illuminates much of the cavernous space with its green glow from overhead, a rip positioned to look like a hole in the stonework, and not the Veil. Maybe surprisingly, it's quiet. None of the usual suspects seem to be clustered around it, demons hurling ice or fire; though wraiths flicker, in the corners of the space, and beyond into further corridors. A local townsman, whom they'd run into on the way up the hill, had warned of rumors of bloodthirsty creatures. He probably didn't mean these. It's not clear, as of yet, what he meant.

Closing the rift is an easier job to get done than setting up the magic gun, truthfully, in hopes of something wandering across their path in here. Tony's gravity grenades are, at least, easier to carry and transport and more likely, Jim thinks, to see use. He's pulled one out, at the pause in their work, runs a thumb over its surface carefully.

"I'd say there's probably nothing else here, but I don't think either of us are that lucky."

Comments

[nonvenomous]

The clang of Richard Dickerson hitting the ground is more dignified than the cymbal crash of a kicked trash can, but only just. He’s face down, one of the spider’s legs folded down across his back like a chitinous tentacle, mechanical joints cracked all the wrong way, seeping fluid.

They’re both seeping fluids, Silas through the nose and a split in his brow. It’s hard to see until he sneezes himself awake, a spray of crimson rendered black by the Rift’s lurid light. He twists his jaw around degree by degree to find Holden. Labored, scraping, smearing.

Behind him, the spider is also stapled to the floor, but only by the pin of two and a half of its legs contorted into the grenade’s radius.

The rest of it is a panicked flail of shrieking and struggling leggies jigging helter skelter for purchase to pull itself free. A fresh snap of light from the open rift throws its shadow into sharper relief across the cavern ceiling, blending legs and darkness into a lovecraftian bustle that it’s probably for the best Silas can’t currently see.

[acreage]

It's not even the first time he's been kicked in the chest with — at a guess — something like 3 g's of pressure. The Roci's had harder braking burns, to say nothing of maneuvers in battle, of the 15 g's they were pushing during the Eros incident. Of course, all of those times he also had the benefit of crash couches stuffed full of gel to support his body, and a drug cocktail carefully formulated to keep him alert and less likely to stroke out.

Right now he has a cold stone floor.

It doesn't register, immediately, the way he got lucky. What he notices first, as he comes to, is the bloom of pain in his head where it cracked against the floor, the push against his lungs like the hand of a giant who hasn't made up its mind about crushing him or not. It takes longer for his eyes to focus on the ceiling above. And it's about then that he realizes that he landed on his back; and that if he'd landed face-first, he'd probably be dead. The sword had fallen out of his hand at the impact, pommel now crushed hard enough into his shoulder to leave what's sure to be a hell of a bruise. But if he'd fallen forward, onto the blade —

well, there's a good chance Richard Dickerson would've returned to the Gallows alone.

Long habit and training mean he doesn't make any effort to move until the grenade's magic starts to fade, felt first in an easier time breathing. Then he hazards a look towards Silas for any sign of injury, manages to stay on that task for a solid few seconds before he's distracted by the boiling dark mass of spider, enraged by its brief captivity.

[nonvenomous]

The sanctuary offered by gravity is short-lived. Flight has failed and there is only one other way out mapped into the lobes of the spider’s little brain.

It proceeds to bite, wet fangs carving at the air, punching into the thick of its own twisting legs, and finally: snapping against the floor just shy Dick Dickerson. The rest of the spider’s face crunches into cold stone after them, gravity slammed into its own eye glop and venom with force enough to crack the carapace and pop a pedipalp clear off at the root.

Now only the ass and a few legs are free, dragging feverishly backwards against the grenade’s fading hold.

Worse yet for the spider, Silas has finished gritting a spell out into the blood slick under his chin.

Hemolymph erupts from fresh wounds torn along the lines of old scars in the exoskeleton, rippling back from the leg pinned across his shoulders to rupture the thorax and pulse grey through the fresh split in the noggin.

The scrabbling doesn’t cease, but it does slow. The abdomen sags.

[acreage]

It really is a shame that the only ranged weapons Holden had brought with him are the magic gun, set up far enough away that it may as well be on another planet, and the grenades, which he's sure as hell not trying again. And there's the danger, too, of how close Silas still is to the creature. Twofold: hurting him on accident, in attacking it, and that it may hurt or kill him before Holden gets the chance to do anything about it.

The spell is a good move, at least, and it would probably be more terrifying to know he can do that if Jim hadn't been introduced to the idea of his magic through dream treason.

He's halfway through thinking up a plan that involves dragging himself to his feet and doing something, never mind the wave of nausea at the thought, the thudding pain his head and everywhere else, when a peculiar sensation in the palm of his hand starts to resolve. A weird, uncomfortable, faintly pulling sort of feeling, and when he lifts his hand a flash of green light erupts from the anchor. For a second, he thinks his shard has somehow connected to the rift above them; but the light becomes a bolt, slams directly into the spider's thorax.

[nonvenomous]

The sound Silas makes upon clocking that swell of green light swirling at Holden’s palm is the stifled growl of a cat swaddled in a lead blanket, tension flinched through his neck with just enough force to bury his face under his shoulder. He’s been ragdolled enough by this particular force to know.

The sound the spider makes is that of a rotten ostrich egg being struck with a hammer.

A deep cracking, a wet pop.

Splattering guts spill blue to grey from the crater Jim’s rocked through the crown of the thorax, split wide open along existing cracks. The spider’s remaining legs crumple in, the pump of liquid pressure against the carapace let off entirely.

A howl pierces the veil from the rift’s far side.

[acreage]

Well, that was new!

Not that there's time to dwell, the spider's death coinciding nearly exactly with the sound of that otherworldly shriek. Which: fuck that, actually.

"The rift!" he shouts, raises his hand again to seal it, and hopes Silas is up for doing the same.

[nonvenomous]

Yes, the rift.

Silas has struggled to one knee, his left hand raised out blind to lock in a crackling bolt from palm to Fade. He’s greasy with his own blood, clots of spider goo falling through the plates of his raised gauntlet.

Swiftly between the pair of them, the rift chews itself shut, sizzling a terror demon all to glowing dust just as it’s forced its way through. Quiet descends, and with it darkness -- the barely-there lap of Dick’s torch rocking in a pitch of wind through the ceiling.

He spits.

[acreage]

All told, if this was the only way they were going to get lucky today, it's not the worst. The only thing worse than fighting a giant spider is fighting a giant spider and a terror demon.

He'll take it.

And lowers himself back down to the ground with the closing of the rift, breathes out heavily. He'll get back up, but like, in a minute.

In the meantime, he offers, "I'm sorry. How hurt are you?"

[nonvenomous]

“Minor injuries.” Probably.

He reaches up with one sticky glove to feel up under his breastplate once he’s stilted to his feet and in so doing coaxes a grunt out of sore ribs. He’s filthy more than anything, worn ragged and damp. The details are difficult to make out in the dark.

“Are you alright?”

[acreage]

"Fine." Probably.

He sighs, then levers himself upright with a groan, favors the shard hand. It feels more normal than he'd have expected, given the shooting magic phenomenon, and better than the one attached to the fucked shoulder.

"Hit my head," and his everything else, obviously, "but it's not a concussion." His eyes catch on the shell of the used grenade, abandoned on the ground and wet with spider viscera; and he adds, wry, "That'll be something to put in the report."

Faulty lag time on at least one. He's not going to try the rest to find out how prevalent the issue is.

[nonvenomous]

Silas comes to the same conclusion after a protracted study of Jim in the dark. Double-checking in silent standoff, the angle of his silhouette inclined to the gauge pain in the anchor, wooziness, lack of balance.

A muttered spell, a turn at his wrists, and he turns in pursuit of his torch, healing himself as he goes.

“That device could easily have been the end of us.”

[acreage]

He's torn between a reflexive impulse to suggest he shouldn't have risked them both in the grenade testing, and the fact that it probably would've gone worse if he were alone. Torn, too, between a kneejerk desire to defend Tony's work and the objective reality that, yeah, they're lucky it didn't kill them.

"I'll make sure he knows it's not safe to use."

— is where he lands, and moves to stand after making that promise.

[nonvenomous]

A banged knee puts a small hitch in Silas' progress -- something he can walk off while he stifles a sigh to himself. He stoops to collect the torch and gives it an experimental swish to clear a crust of dirt and kick the flame back up across damp tar.

“Is your anchor painful?”

This plague of rifters firing blasts out of their hands.

[acreage]

He considers the question as he, moving carefully, goes to pick up the inert grenade casing. Under no circumstances can they afford to leave experimental tech laying around where any Venatori or Tevene sympathizer can find it. Not difficult to imagine, though, what's likely to be on Silas's mind; the same thought had crossed his.

"No, not really." Twinging a little, but not much worse than after any rift-closing. A pause as he considers it, green dull in the darkness, before going back for his sword. "I'm going to have to remember it can do that."

Accidentally shooting a spider is one thing, accidentally shooting, say, a wall of the Gallows would just be terrible.

[nonvenomous]

“Please.”

His resignation is distinctly that of a man who has already been somehow betrayed by an unexpected flash of green light. So is the distance he’s maintaining with his torch, though that could just as easily be due to the grenade recovery process Jim has volunteered himself for.

The light is, at least, enough to find the casing by.

“If the pain worsens I trust you will report it.”

[acreage]

The torchlight may or may not be sufficient to illuminate the faint smile that pulls at his mouth. The casing is picked up, the sword sheathed, and then there's the question of taking apart the magic gun. He doesn't yet move to do that, promises,

"I will. If anything else changes, I'll make sure someone knows."

Which really isn't an unfair concern with him.

[nonvenomous]

’Someone’ with the spine to bend Captain Holden into doing something about it, he hopes.

His disapproval at the lack of specificity there is fleeting; it would be unusual for Jim to outright lie.

More imminently pressing is the spider’s oversized corpse crumpled in the cavern with them. With the torch flared back to full strength, he tilts it to the spider.

“Will you hold this for me so that I can take samples?”

If those samples seem to consist primarily of giant fangs and venom sacs, there is surely some scientific reason.

[acreage]

No, he isn't much of a liar. He imagines he'd tell Tony, probably, or maybe even Silas himself — a benefit to being in the research division has to be the Venn diagram overlap between friends, and coworkers, and people you'd need to tell about idiosyncratic rifter/anchor-shard issues.

He takes the torch on an instinct while still, frankly, processing that request. What he feels about it is writ pretty clearly across his face.

"Why?"

It's important to note that even as he asks that, he holds the torch closer, to shed more light on the carcass.

[nonvenomous]

“She’s outsized, even for a ’giant’ spider. Prolonged exposure to the Fade might have granted the venom unusual properties.”

He’s waited until he’s slotted his dagger in at the base of the chelicerae to say so, cracking through connective tissue with a wrench of his shoulder. Fluid dribbles through the gap like vanilla pudding. Thick.

“Potentially useful,” he further explains while he works, “for medicine, or for applying to weapons with fewer moving parts.”