Scott Summers (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
no_rose_tint) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
taxonomites2012-09-25 12:03 pm
no_rose_tint) wrote in taxonomites2012-09-25 12:03 pm
Entry tags:
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.
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.
[location]
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."
Re: [location]
"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.
[location]
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.
[location: Mick's place]
Moonlight canonMick'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.
[location: Mick's place]
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."
[location: Mick's place]
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.
[location: Mick's place]
Interesting thing about dehydration. Affects your ability to control what you say and do, like being drunk.
[location: Mick's place]
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."
[location: Mick's place]
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.
[location: Mick's place]
[location: Mick's place]
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.
[location: Mick's place]
He's also not so quick, moving in a slightly stiff fashion.
[location: Mick's place]
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.
[location: Mick's place]
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?"
[location: Mick's place]
"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.
[location: Mick's place]
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.
[location: Mick's place]
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.
[location: Mick's place]
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.
[location: Mick's place]
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?"
Re: [location: Mick's place]
"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."
[location: Mick's place]
"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.
Re: [location: Mick's place]
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.
[location: Mick's place]
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."
[location: Mick's place]
"So long as I know it's happening, that's okay." He can not flinch too much. "And I'll even forgive you your freezing cold hands."
[location: Mick's place]
He doesn't waste time once he's got the okay, starting with a light touch to Scott's cheekbones. They're warm, but really, only minutely warmer than the skin on his cheek. A touch swollen, no doubt because of whatever's been inserted into his eye sockets.
Then the temples, feeling over the many bones of his orbit. Definitely swollen, but again, not infected. Very, very warm to the touch, but that's to be expected.
"All things considered," he says slowly, "You're healing well. The swelling will go down within a week, probably less for you. I'd recommend painkillers, but..."
Oh, but he really doesn't like the idea of this, not without a proper non-Extra surgeon in the city. "If we're talking corrective surgery...that'll take a bit of planning. X-rays, analgesics," protective gear "Logistics."
Re: [location: Mick's place]
[location: Mick's place]
[location: Mick's place]