taxonomites | In Person [location: Taxon Forest Cliffs]

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In Person [location: Taxon Forest Cliffs]

Scott’s marker comes back onto the map with as much pomp and circumstance as it vanished.

More strangely, his tablet doesn’t join him instantly to broadcast his misfortune. It appears nearby, resting on a tree stump out of the way, but whereas usually it delights in showcasing these moments, it remains quiet now, when perhaps he needs it most.

Five days is a long time where he’s been. He’s pale and drawn, deprived of sunlight and enough food and water. He has dark circles around his eyes, a mixture of exhaustion and bruising.

There’s no awareness of being moved again. He’s simply regaining consciousness and feeling grass and dirt rather than the metal and stone of where he’s been held, a deep ache in his head and uncomfortable pressure in his eyes.

Slowly, he reaches up, feeling over his face and flinching as his fingers poke sore skin and no visor. He has to risk it anyway, bringing his hands to his face, fingers white knuckle laced as he flickers his eyes open.

Nothing.

No light. Not in or out. No warmth over his hands.

He opens them again, fully, but nothing reaches outwards. Nothing explodes, nothing is rent apart.

Everything is dark.

He can’t see.

He snaps his head up, eyes wide and unseeing, a solid, lightless red covering them from side to side.

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Sherlock rolls his eyes at the threat, then remembers Scott can't see him rolling his eyes any more than he can sprout wings and fly off to Mount Olympus, and probably even less than that. So he just rolls his eyes harder, like it'll send out sixth-sense eye-rolling shockwaves. And it makes him feel better.

"I'm walking now," he informs him and then starts, one long step after the other. How ironic that Scott Summers is one of the few people in Taxon with a stride that remotely matches his. It's so tidy that it's irritating. "You're dehydrated, exhausted, hungry, bruised, uncomfortable, and generally miserable, and you have eye-shields of some sort that have been inserted into your eyesockets, maybe of ruby quartz, maybe not. I don't know. I'd have to have a closer study. I'm sure Mick can tell you what else is wrong with you."

He drags out a long, deep, you're-testing-my-patience sigh. When he finishes he changes the subject a little, though -- "Mr. Blood had a vision of you attached to a table, bleeding from the eyes," he says. "Madelyne knows that much, I do. I don't know if anyone else does. She sent a message to everyone when she realized you were missing. Mr. Blood and Mr. St. John were among those who turned up."

Scott keeps pace. He's fit, which is why, because he's in a terrible state and shouldn't be able to, but he just turns off that bit of his brain and tells himself to keep moving.

"Fine. Hang on." He focuses himself, eyes closed to help (it doesn't) and thinks outwards.

Maddie, I'm okay. I'm heading to Mick's, I'll call you once he's given me a check over.

Sherlock falls silent for the rest of the walk, listening to Scott's conversation with Logan with one of the tracks of his attention span and dedicating the rest to thinking about the situation: Scott's situation, specifically. There seem to be three relevant questions in all of this mess: what happened to Scott Summers?, how can he be restored to normal without endangering others with his unshielded eyes?, and what does this imply about our captors?

The first question is straightforward. In fact, Sherlock's fairly certain most of it has already been answered, and the rest will be answered with a cursory examination by Mick St. John. The second question, too, should be relatively straightforward: it'll take some doing, but with Scott's ex-wife the telekinetic and plenty of open space, Sherlock doubts it'll be a problem for long.

So he mulls over the third, but there's not much to be deduced from such sparse secondhand information. Someone decided to block Scott's eyes in a more permanent way -- was it punishment? Safety? Amusement? Scientific curiosity? Well, some of that should become evident from how they react to the removal, at any rate.

Sherlock breaks the silence when they're approaching Mick's house. "It's up ahead," he says curtly. "Far be it from me to assume anything about the biological particulars of Mr. St. John's species, but I should inform you that it's daytime."

Maddie notified, Logan... probably off cheering or marking trees or something, Scott is focusing on just getting to Mick's.

"I know. But I don't know any other medics here. I can wait until sundown to go and get him up." He has no idea what time it actually is, but he can feel the sunlight.

"I presume he's in the habit of leaving his door unlocked?" By habit, Sherlock's already examining Mick's house in a few glances for obvious points of weakness. It's not difficult to break into most Taxon residences; most denizens don't have much reason to keep things nailed down tight, Sherlock included. But he doesn't take Scott Summers for a trespasser, not even famished, thirsty, and in an atrocious mood.

In truth, Sherlock's not in the best mood himself -- not the sort of tightly wound upset that gets him snappish and angry, but the nebulous cloud of stress wrapped around any unsolved problem that isn't a game to him. There is nothing fun in this one. He's flustered; he's always flustered when he puts effort into something and it's not working and he doesn't understand why.

I thought to look. I noticed, he thinks. No powers, no great soft touch with crisis management, but genius is an infinite capacity for taking pains and no one else takes goddamned pains like Sherlock Holmes does. Does Scott think he found him by idly glancing at his tablet at the right moment? No. No, Scott's probably not thinking anything right now. Wishing for validation is juvenile, he reminds himself. Get ahold of yourself.

There is one tried-and-true way to get ahold of oneself. The sound of someone striking a lighter is fairly distinctive, as is the faint smell of a cigarette. "I don't imagine there's any point in offering you one," Sherlock says as an afterthought.

In ~~Moonlight canon~~ Mick's world, vampires are light sleepers for one very simple reason: if you aren't, you'll wake up with a stake in your chest and what's very probably your very own sending away party. Involving meat cleavers (in some cases) and bonfires (slightly more likely).

So, Mick sleeps lightly in his freezer chest on the lakeside end of his two stories high building.

Those with observant inclinations (and functional eyes), will note that one of the windows up there are boarded shut. From the outside, yes of course.

Edited (link to teal deer description of Mick's place - and a retcon of how many floors again?) 2012-09-28 13:04 (UTC)

Scott really won't intrude on someone's place, even like this. Maybe especially like this.

His nose wrinkles at the smell of smoke, but he's used to it by now. "No. Definitely not. If I manage to live through my lifestyle, I'm not killing myself by cancer." He heads to the apartment building door and feels over the intercom buttons, reading the numbers by touch until he finds the one he wants.

Buzz buzz. "Mick? It's Scott. I'm sorry to get you up, but it's a bit of an emergency."

Upstairs, Scott's voice breaks the silence of the flat, but for a moment, nothing stirs. Nothing happens.

Then out comes Mick, rushing from the room that isn't an actual bedroom but merely storage, and goes directly for the buzzer.

"Want me to come downstairs? What happened?" Then, dashing for the closet in the actual bedroom, grabbing stuff off hangers and drawers. Sweatpants and a t-shirt will hardly do if he needs to go out into the sun.

"Buzz us through and we can come up, keep you out of the sunlight. Holmes seems to think it's serious. I suspect he's just determined to prove he can save me since I hauled his ass off a cliff he climbed up without knowing a damn thing about rock climbing."

Interesting thing about dehydration. Affects your ability to control what you say and do, like being drunk.

That last comment of Scott's provokes an incongruous little smile out of Sherlock, one that didn't show itself when Scott complimented his playing in Pedestrian Plaza and didn't show itself when Scott, in fact, hauled his ass off a cliff. As if Taxon needed any more proof that interacting with Sherlock Holmes is like playing a game of Mao for the first time. "Far be it from me to be a bad influence on Mr. St. John," he remarks with a little puff of tobacco smoke that winds itself into Scott's personal space -- not on purpose, but he's not really trying not to, either. "I wouldn't presume to diagnose you."

He squints at the buzzer like it might tell him more about Mick St. John than previously known, which in truth, it has: what sort of vampire goes bustling out into the sun at the first sign of a man in trouble? A medic. It would figure. "You can see for yourself if you think Mr. Summers's condition is serious. But I can certify that he can walk. Let us in and we'll go upstairs."

"Done." The buzzer does its thing, the locking mechanism on the door clicks softly, and in the meantime, Mick finishes getting dressed.

Well. As dressed as he's going to bother with before going for his first aid kit.

...though who is he kidding? Summers wouldn't ask for help if it could be dealt with by using the contents of a standard issue first aid kit.

Damn, but it's been a while since anyone asked his help in this particular area of expertise.

Scott pushes the door open, pausing when he gets in and realising he has no idea where the stairs are. "Holmes, stairs. Where are they?"

"You don't need my help," comes Sherlock's reminder, along with his footsteps off to the left and then slightly around a corner. "Considering I'm just attempting to prove something to you about my ability to help, you just need me to take you to Mick's place, and then leave you and your supreme self-sufficiency to their own devices."

Sherlock commentary aside, he's spoken up clearly -- pointedly, in fact -- and it's rather easy to follow the trail of his voice. Pointedly easy. It's probably coming from the foot of the stairs along with his cigarette smoke. He waits there, piping up with watch your step in front of the first step itself if and when Scott follows him.

He uses the sound of Sherlock's voice and the smell of his cigarette to follow him, slowly making his way up the stairs. He uses his toes to feel each step, kicking into it with his shoe and feeling for the turns with a hand on the bannister.

He's also not so quick, moving in a slightly stiff fashion.

Sherlock walks upstairs in front of him, which is considerably easier when you have the use of both your eyes. He glances back at Scott over his shoulder once or twice, but says nothing and doesn't offer his arm. He's not going to be the man's nursemaid, God forbid; if he doesn't want his help, he can trip all he very well likes.

Still, when he reaches the top he turns to see that Scott doesn't do this very thing, figuring that falling down a flight of stairs isn't going to do Scott's health any further favors. He looks around while he does, overcome by a bit of childish fascination by the prospect of being inside a vampire's house. There aren't even any coffins. No reason that there should be, exactly, but still. "The last step is taller than the others," he offers in an indifferent manner.

In all honesty, Mick is far too young to acquire the kind of ego to take over an entire apartment building, small though it may be. He's in 201, and he's left the door wide open.

In fact, that's him peeking out the door right now.

"Hey." He gives Sherlock a nod and a small but not entirely self-assured smile. New faces usually mean introductions, and he's getting less and less fond of playing the poster boy for Harmless Vampire Monthly. With the turnover rate of this wretched (but sometimes awesome) place, it got old faster than he'd expected.

It's easier to think about your own petty problems rather than the sympathy pangs or phantom pains you get when seeing a new kind of injury for the very first time.

Funny how you get to a point where you think you've seen it all, and you wish for something new, something different. And then you get it, you really wish you hadn't been so ignorant.

"I made coffee. Lemonade for you, Scott. Door's wide open, so, uh." He shrugs, and his eyebrows do a bit of a jump to emphasize it. "Come right in?"

Scott follows Mick's voice. He doesn't have much in the way of concentration right now, while he's focusing on Mick, he can't spare focus for Sherlock. Sorry about that, Sherlock.

"Think I broke the caffeine habit while I was in there. Is there somewhere to sit down? Because otherwise I'm sitting on the floor." His legs are feeling weak, exhaustion starting to catch up after the trip with Sherlock.

Sherlock's eyes flicker in Mick's direction once or twice but otherwise he doesn't bother to offer a greeting, or anything else, in fact; he's withdrawn from conversation entirely for the time being, back to cataloguing and arranging data in his head. Mick isn't everything he's defined vampire as being so far, but that just necessitates a redefinition of the term. He glances through the doorway Mick emerged from: where does the man sleep? If man is the right word? If sleep is, for that matter? Life in Taxon for Sherlock is nothing if not a constant exercise in... well, taxonomy.

There is an injured man in the room, though. Sherlock's impulse is to leave him to Mick, let medics do what it is that medics do, but he looks over at Scott again and shrugs, making a face. "There's a chair through the doorway about ten paces directly ahead of you," he says neutrally.

He leans against the wall with his cigarette and tries his best to look aloof and broadcast his most convincing I've done my bit, it doesn't really matter to me what becomes of him body language. It could be more convincing.

"Well, the coffee's for your friend, not you," Mick points out to anyone interested in the choice of beverages. "Take my arm. Right in front of you, Scott."

Once inside the two bedroom apartment (which makes it sound more spacious than it is), there really are only two potential answers to Sherlock's question. That is, if a coffin is what one's looking for.

There's nothing of the sort in the living room-slash-kitchen, but might be behind doors # 1 and 2.

But, more importantly, Mick would happily answer questions, once Scott's been looked after.

"We're not friends. I don't have friends. I have team mates. And enemies. And a nemesis, which is ridiculous, but I do. And my father's a space pirate captain, which is even sillier."

He latches onto Mick's arms, his own hands feverishly hot on the coldness of Mick's skin. When he sits, it's with that finality that he has no plans of getting up any time soon.

"That does sound a bit silly, yeah. But it's also the coolest thing I've heard all day, so maybe I'm the wrong guy to bring your complaints to." Ah. Right. The 'no friends' speech. Nothing new there. You get old enough, you've heard all of it before, even if through osmosis. Scott's eyes, though... That was definitely new.

Once he's seated, Mick drags the chair slightly to put Scott face to face with the living room window. Natural light seems like it's ideal right now, even if he'll have to pay for it later.

"Why don't you talk me through your stats while I get some equipment. For instance, if that's you running a fever. What do I need to know that I won't, never having treated a super human before?"

Scott closes his eyes and twists into the sunlight like a starving man smelling dinner. "Mm. I run hot. Energy conversion. Normal is about a hundred? Little more sometimes. Don't really get sick easily, metabolism burns fast. My face hurts. My eyes hurt. Like wearing contact lenses for too long, with more burning and more sheer pressure on them.

"My cheekbones ache. Probably because of whatever's in my eyes." He opens his eyes again. "I can't see anything. I know there's light, I can feel the warmth, but I can't see it."

While Scott talks, Mick washes his hands in the kitchen, thinking over what equipment he'll need. It brings him back to the days when there was no need to pick and choose out of an unknown quantity of tools - you had your two pouches and the suspender and the grace of God (and maybe the luck of the Devil) and that was it.

"And you need sunlight to heal, right?"

What he comes back with is a conservatively assembled kit courtesy of the tablet and a bit of quick thinking. A kit, and a glass of orange juice, before making for the blinds. They need to go up even if it means he'll have to grab his jacket.

"OJ's in my hand right in front of you. I want you to drain it, and then we can get going."

Preliminary ocular assessment: go. By which we mean Mick is watching Scott Very Intently. From all angles.

"Need? No. I'm human, I heal like normal people. My whole process just works faster with plenty of light, makes my mutation works faster and the whole body speeds up. Or something."

He takes the glass and drains it with absolutely no preamble.

He's clearly been through a rough few days. He's dehydrated, probably needs food, but he was in excellent shape and a few hard days have only taken the edges off him.

Except the restraint marks and the bruised face. Those are all bruised. He struggled, fiercely. And his face has been badly messed with.

Forehead, neck, across his chest, arms and wrists... He can imagine the same marks can be found around his waist, thighs and ankles, but he's not about to look.

Mick takes a seat on the coffee table just slightly to the side but facing Scott just the same. Then he breathes in - and it doesn't matter that it's habit, he still isn't sure he wants to know.

What brief flashes he gets are by far enough to give any man chills. Cold, sterile surrounds, too bright lights and the sickening sounds of surgery and struggle.

On a less traumatic note, the smell tells him one good thing. "No signs of infection. It smells clean, and looks it. I'm going to touch your face, but it'll be over in a second."

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