taxonomites | 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

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."

In Person [location: Taxon Forest Cliffs]

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]