taxonomites | In Person [location: Taxon Forest Cliffs]

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.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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."

Scott's head tilts, listening to the inhale and focusing on it.

"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."

Mick's mouth quirks into a grin followed by a barely there huff of mirth. "Natural analgesic, Summers. Beats ice wrapped in a towel, or frozen peas."

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."

"The possibility of me exploding apart any poor bastard caught in my line of sight." He's a lot less tactful about it. He has the right to be.

"Painkillers. Yeah. Anti-inflammatory. That." He ducks his head into the touch. "Ice packs if you've got them. That's nice."

Poor bastard. Yeah, that's one way to put it. Mick keeps his hands in place, framing Scott's eyes for a little while longer.

"It's not the exploding thing I'm worried about," he remarks casually. "It's the risk of going up in flames. Explosions I can handle. ...I think."

Yet another thing he's intellectually intrigued by but really doesn't want to experiment with.

"I think we'll need to do an inventory of people's skill sets. Be nice to know you're backed up by someone who can deflect or suppress laser beams. Want some more OJ or plain water?"

...or pass you a blood bag so you don't feel too eager to snack on your patient. That sort of thing.

At another time, Scott would suggest Logan, who has actually done surgery on him before, but instead he shrugs slightly, feeling petulant and antagonised and not at all like acting his age.

"Water," he finally murmurs. "Water sounds good."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

In Person [location: Taxon Forest Cliffs]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

Re: [location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

Re: [location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

Re: [location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]

[location: Mick's place]