Logs:Overdose

Overdose
cn: dead body, aftermath of murder
Dramatis Personae Joshua, Scott, Lucien
In Absentia	2024-03-17 "-- you can trust him." (some time after finding out, followed by seeking help.)
Location <XAV> Scott's room, Xs Third Floor & otherwhere
Scott's room, unlike most of the students' dorms right now, is spacious and comfortable; it retains much of the old-fashioned furniture it came with, and only a few elements of the decor have been updated to reflect its occupant -- a framed vintage military recruitment poster on one wall; a neatly alphabetized bookshelf doubling as storage for several model airplanes; a small TV on the dresser; a minifridge under the desk, covered in magnets from National and State Parks; a tiny Alaska state flag and a tiny American flag side-by-side on the desk, along with a wireless radio and a soldering iron. The windows look out at the lake, but usually the sheer curtains are drawn. The radio and TV are both on right now, the radio tuned to an easy-listening rock station and the TV muted on ESPN. Scott is kicking off spring break with a single beer in his room; he's even wearing his most comfortable loungewear, which for him is just the same clothes he was wearing earlier, but with house slippers instead of boots. He is sitting at his desk, his chair angled to watch the game and one ankle crossed on his knee, whistling tunelessly along to the radio, a mostly-depleted leather repair kit neatly laid out on the desk around the large scorch marks he's patching up on his motorcycle jacket of Theseus. There's no forewarning before Scott gets a visitor. Joshua simply appears just beside the desk chair, in his boots, jeans, a drab grey tee under a drabber grey sweatshirt; the kippah pinned a little askew to his shaggy hair is not his usual red and black but styled like a bright slice of watermelon. For a second after arriving he's just frozen in place, frowning stolidly at the desk. At the shelves. At Scott, his eyes lingering on the slippers as his frown sets heavier. "-- shit, sorry." It's all he mumbles before vanishing again. The next moment there's three sharp raps on Scott's door. Wonder who that could be. So many of Scott's expressions are hard to read, but the tug at his lips is undeniably amused as he turns off the radio, gets to his feet, and goes to the door. By the time he opens it, though, the smirk has morphed into a sharply worried frown -- he's not making any obvious overture of welcome, but the way he steps aside is a silent invitation (back) in. "Everything okay?" Joshua lingers a moment on the doorstep, one hand dropped to fidget restless with the knotted tassel dangling from beneath his shirt. He's nodding to the question, vague and automatic as he slips inside, and this rote bob of head continues through his. "-- No," before he remembers, no. Shakes his head instead. He's wound his tzitzit entirely around one finger, tight, and twists his wrist to slowly unwind it. "You talk to Matt today?" Scott's frown deepens, his brow scrunching down over his glasses as he shuts the door behind Joshua. "The Professor went over when we got the news about his brother," he says, though now his frown is starting to shift into -- still a frown, but a more complicated one. "But he's on bereavement leave, he hasn't been up to the school. You heard, too?" Joshua's eyes snap to Scott at the mention of Xavier going over. His fidgeting has gone abruptly very still. His frown remains approximately the same, though. "... what did you hear." Apparently sensing that whatever is going on might be somewhat emergent, Scott has paced back to his desk to replace the cap on the leather adhesive. His movements slow when Joshua freezes, still holding the container in one hand, his expression now severely disconcerted. "Heroin overdose," he says. He resumes screwing the cap tight, and sets it back on the desk. Only now does Scott's voice begin to reflect strong concern -- that is, it's gone abruptly stern and commanding. "What's going on, Joshua, did you hear something different?" Joshua's cheek twitches with a sudden clamp of jaw. He pulls his upper lip between his teeth, biting anxiously down, and exhales hard when he releases it. Maybe he's about to say something but he doesn't -- just shakes his head once, hard. He's moving over to Scott's side, lifting one hand to the taller man's shoulder. The world warps -- it's not the seamless in-out transition that his teleporting often is, normally fairly smooth save for the potential disorientation of Abrupt Place Change. This time it's felt, not painful but an odd pressure and a dizzying lurch. When the world coalesces again it is -- somewhere else. Where is an open question; there's an alien feel to the landscape, broad and flat and disconcertingly seeming to just continue into the distance past where there really ought to be horizon. The ground beneath their feet at the moment seems at once like and unlike earth, soft and crumbling to the touch like fertile soil but seeming to ripple like waves when someone attempts to look at it too long -- is it more or less dissonant that it nevertheless feels solid enough underfoot, who knows. The air is uncannily still. Around them are -- maybe trees, maybe something else entirely, but they're tall and spreading fronds overhead whose colors seem far too saturated. Beneath one of them a very prosaic camping cot has been unfolded. There's a body lying on it, mostly covered under a brightly colored patchwork quilt. The ankle band is helpfully identifying the deceased as Lucien Tessier, 32, M, 184, 6'1", bl / gr. A date, an address, a physician signing off. The case number is blank. Joshua moves away to pull one edge of the quilt down -- oddly gently, like he's worried about disturbing the man, stopping short when he's exposed up to the shoulders. There's an expected amount of lividity splotched dark beneath his body, but the finger-mark bruising that circles his neck, the cracked angle of his nose, the blood where his lip has been split open, those are not corpse-standard. Joshua wraps one arm around his chest, fingers curling tight at his opposite arm. He glances aside to Scott, glances back down at the body, and his heavy brows lift questioningly. "Heroin overdose." "Where --" Scott doesn't manage to finish this question; it pulls into a quiet intake of breath, not sharp so much as steadying. He doesn't speak for a long moment, staring down at Lucien Tessier, 32, M, his own face blank and calm under his glasses, his fingers at his sides lightly flexing and unflexing. "Heroin overdose," he repeats, finally. His next sentence starts as a question, but his tone is not questioning at all as he lifts his head to look at Joshua again. "Did Matt... Matt did this. I -- I knew that, that was why I took him off the training, I don't --" He breaks this sentence off and shakes his head, which doesn't appear to help his sudden feeling of disorientation. Probably the strange effect of the ground here is not helping; when he looks down again, he seems a little unsteady on his feet, so instead he tilts his head up and back, staring up at the maybe-trees. "How do you know?" Joshua just nods again, heavy and affirmative. "Heard from a friend," is all the explanation he gives then. "No autopsy ordered yet. Responding cops said no foul play." His eyes are turned down where Scott's are looking up, fixed on the fingermarks bruised into too-pale skin. His own fingers squeeze down a little harder at his arm. "... I've taught so damn many kids with him. I don't get it, he and Lucien were --" There's an uncharacteristic crack in his voice that he swallows back down together with the end of this sentence, but by the time he says, "Guess I can ask," his words are low and steady once more. He's dropping to a crouch, then, beside the low cot. His shoulders tense in the moment before he reaches out to touch fingers lightly to one of Lucien's shoulders. It's more dramatic by far than much of his healing, the reverse creep of the pooled dark blood, the color starting to flush back warm through skin. Joshua's own rapid pallor and nauseated sway seem more stark than the norm, too. Scott shakes his head, just once -- "No foul play," he echoes, a tiny disbelieving pause after each word. He drops his gaze back to the body before them, swallowing thickly at the suddenness of the change, lifting his head to regard Joshua with a placid but intent stare; his mouth presses into a thin line, but he doesn't say anything else. The inherent stress of using this power is not helped as Lucien is pulled back to life. With several vital functions regained before actual consciousness, Joshua is treated first to a thick spill of sensation -- the thick crushing pain at his damaged throat, the throb of bruising, the itch of rapidly healing wounds. Below that a confusion, deep and wrenching and then trying doggedly to cling to the waning void; the neurochemical spillover might well have pulled Joshua along into unconsciousness if some semblance of awareness was not creeping back in. Beneath his hand Lucien twitches, shifting minutely in some ineffectual attempt to withdraw from the physical contact. For a moment there's an increase of spillover -- panic, grief, shame, that all turn off sudden and sharp as flicking a switch. Lucien's eyes open -- promptly close again when he sees the alien trees overhead. Open again more cautiously. He's blinking in blank confusion at the odd-colored fronds overhead, but it's not until he looks slightly to the side that his brow creases. His voice is a little rasping-hoarse when he manages, baffled: "Mr. Summers?" As Lucien looks increasingly better Joshua looks increasingly worse. By the time Lucien's eyes open he's pulling his hand away sharply, and rocking back to drop a bracing hand against the ground. His other flies to his mouth, but despite the shudder of his shoulders he does not actually vomit. He's shifting to sit more properly stable, cross-legged and taking slow breaths. He swallows once kind of testingly, and seems almost surprised to find his voice comes out as easily as it ever has when he speaks. "-- you can trust him." After a worried glance at Joshua, Scott crouches down too, resting his elbows on his knees, his eyebrows quirking back into a frown, which he directs first at Joshua and then at Lucien. "Hey," he says gruffly, super trustworthily, one hand rising to chest height in a very awkward wave and then, even more awkwardly, dropping back down. Probably it is a fool's errand to ask, "...how do you feel?" but this is apparently all that comes to mind for now. Joshua can feel the slow but methodical shifting that is happening as Lucien's power begins the tedious work of setting his house back in order, a million minute and intricate adjustments to his neurological landscape. His hand starts to lift when Joshua retches but he stills this motion almost immediately as his arm moves beneath the blanket, and instead pulls the quilt just a little higher around his bare shoulders. "A little bit tired." It's still rasping, but aside from this there is nothing in Lucien's mild reply that suggests this situation is out of the ordinary. His bright green eyes are sweeping the queasily shifting landscape and he quickly seems to think better of this and focus instead on the men beside him. "Where, ah, are we?" But perhaps he's also thinking better of this question because it is swiftly followed with: "I ought to get home." Joshua's frown deepens. "Sounds real safe." Scott's frown deepens, too. Probably he does not appreciate sarcasm. "I don't think you should," he says. "Do you remember what happened?" Lucien's fingers bunch hard into the quilt in time with a small compression of his lips. "I would like to dress. My clothing is at home." He's saying this with a quiet determination, clinging doggedly to this small attempt to reassert some kind of normalcy. Maybe it's not an answer to Scott's question but the very slight lowering of his eyes and the reluctant addition, "-- Matthieu is also at home," may serve well enough there. His thumb brushes slowly over an embroidered seam in the quilt. "I --" For a moment he doesn't seem to know where to go next from here, glancing up brief to the other two and then lowering his eyes again. "-- do not wish. To be further trouble." "Man --" Though Joshua's frown is not easing off, his gruff tone is -- just a little, at least. "You've helped so damn many of our people over the years. You can be a little trouble right now." He might be just adjusting his position where he sits on the ground but when he leans just slightly closer it gives his words a somewhat conspiratorial air, like this next is offering Lucien a great bribe over and above the not-being-murdered: "You let us help, Scott can draw up whole new paperwork about this."