ArchivedLogs:Bite the Hand that Feeds

Bite the Hand that Feeds
Dramatis Personae Dusk, Lucien, Parley, Micah, Jackson
In Absentia	8 November 2013 Jax is alive and no longer incendiary, yay! Everything else is still terrible. WARNING: Lots of violence. (Takes place just after Lucien shoots Jax.) (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> The Mendel Clinic - Lower East Side
With its sharp crystalline edges and sleek lines knifing up into the sky, this building is one of the most /distinctive/ new additions to the neighborhood. An angular structure in glass and steel, the tall tower has a deceptively slender look to it that is belied by the heavy security as soon as you enter the doors. The front doors are frosted with the Clinic's logo -- a rising sun over a rod of Asclepius -- a motif echoed in many places throughout the building. Visitors to the clinic must first pass through a small mantrap, guarded by some of the Clinic's security guards; once they make it through the metal detector and airlock's double doors they emerge into the much more hospitable lobby. With dark wood floors underneath and comfortable black and red couches at its edges, the high windows give the room an airy feel. A bank of elevators to one side carry visitors to the many destination floors, while the wide welcome desk at the other side is manned by a security guard ready to help point visitors in the right direction. The Mendel Clinic is not on fire. For those who’ve paid attention to its Friday Night so far this might be considered a bit of a miracle. If miracles have a tendency to shoot their friends in the head. Somewhere one floor up there is still a hallway with a lot of scorchmarks, a lot of blood and bone spattered on its wall, but down here -- well. It’s still grim and tired and smells of sweat (and Indian takeout) and unwashed humanity but it’s slightly less /grisly/. Especially since Karrie arrived, flown down from the Lofts to the Clinic by Dusk to put Jax’s /skull/ back in some semblance of order. Even with a fresh body it’s not /easy/; by now, work successfully completed, the girl has been put back to sleep in an empty patient bed. Dusk is still here, watching, from a place slumped in the corner. With no danger of attacking to worry about Jackson hasn’t been put in the isolation rooms but only on a bed in a room of his own, liberally festooned with towels and plastic underneath to keep the worst of the pre-resurrection mess from glooping beneath his head. He’s nibbling on a stone-cold samosa, pale and exhausted after Karrie’s energy-sucking to perform her magic. And he’s watching. Lucien doesn’t look all that /much/ better than before. But a short nap is better than no rest, and he’s been roused by the time Karrie is done, still scrubbing knuckles against his eyes as he makes his way out of his family’s room and into Jax’s. There’s a little bit more calm to his mind, but its surface still ripples. Mingled emotions. Some relief that Karrie was successfully summoned. Some apprehension at having to work again so soon. Parley will drift in as well, gradually. It's entirely possible the amassing of minds has served well enough as an alarm clock for the next stage in Jackson's treatment - for a psionic, even exhaustion and heartsick worry has its volume. His aural boundary is all the tattier than normal - the minds and colors and presences of those around him pouring in and refracting so that his moment of arrival is difficult to pinpoint. At some point, he's simply here now. Touching faint fingertips to Dusk's brow, as though he'd always been here. He doesn't look towards Dusk's eyes when he does - only some vague point at his hairline, his own face also drawn and tired and even. His pupil dilated and glassy behind his glasses. Micah looks like several miles of bad road, if he had been /dragged/ down said road behind a vehicle. His clothing shows more red than any of its original colours, the image on his T-shirt obliterated under the stain of it. The tear in his pantsleg has ripped open far enough that his prosthetic knee pops out through it whenever it bends. His hair sticks up in odd curls and spikes where blood was smeared in it and dried. Someone must have had him wash his hands and arms at some point, though instead of blood they sport sets of bruises and scabbed over bite marks, the left forearm wrapped in a blistered burn that is now starting to weep and both of his hands scorched deeply to match. All of his visible skin is reddened as if he had spent all day in the sun in a desert, with no protection from its rays. His face is puffy, splotchy against its already-red burn from crying, and he has bitten his lip to the point of bleeding. He is wedged firmly into a chair at Jax's bedside and has been quite literally growling and snapping at anyone who attempts to move him, the aggression from his disease finally taking hold more firmly in the fertile soil of severe emotional distress and exhaustion. “You,” Dusk /accuses/ Parley, though at the moment he’s too tired for this to amount to much more than a low-level surliness, “look like shit.” His nose twitches, eyes skipping between Parley and Lucien and Micah. And without really /asking/, he lifts his hand to his lips, teeth biting down to puncture the vein in his wrist in two quick small pricks. He holds the bleeding wrist up to Parley. “I’ll be sleeping soon anyway. Don’t need it.” Lucien just quirks an eyebrow upward at this, puzzled and also too much past caring to really ask. Maybe Parley just has a taste for blood, stranger things have happened. Many of them tonight. He moves past Micah to Jax’s opposite bedside, dragging a chair over to slump down into it without preamble. Reach a hand for Jax’s head, mostly just feeling it out right now, searching the other man’s thoughts for what sickness remains. Though his fingers trace a little shakily over the lingering circular scarring left in the center of Jax’s forehead. A very faint tension forms between Parley's eyebrows, and the moment Dusk offers his wrist, Parley is turning his head away. Looking over Micah's haggard features with semi-meaningless movements of his eyes. Past him, to Jackson, to Lucien. "Do I?" He doesn't sigh, nor take a breath. He doesn't grin and eagerly move to take Dusk's wrist either. He curls his fingers around it, one arm remaining at his side, and lowers his head. Slips out his tongue to gently rasp it's developed barbs over the wound, increasing the blood flow. Soon, he's closed his mouth over it, breath trembling, to drink harder. Hypervigilance vies with weariness in Micah's posture and his eyes, like a wounded animal run to ground. He sinks down in the chair whenever there is peace from sound or movement. But the moment something changes... His gaze tracks each person as they enter the room, honing in on Dusk as he speaks. Once Dusk and Parley are keeping one another occupied, he locks in on Lucien, glaring sharply. His jaw clenches as the man moves past him, teeth grinding creakily as Lucien approaches Jax. He leans forward in his chair, muscles tensed, eyes glued to the two men by the bed. Lucien, for his part, seems to pay no attention to Micah at all. He’s watching Jax’s face and then watching Parley with Dusk -- this comes with a quiet questioning. << Blood? >> His brows have furrowed in mild noncomprehension. With Parley occupied, for the moment he just sits back in his chair, rubbing fingers against his temples with his eyes slowly closing. Dusk keeps his wrist held to Parley’s mouth, eyes skipping between Micah and Lucien. There’s a question that’s been bubbling in his mind -- just exactly what /happened/ to lead them to this point -- but watching Micah’s climbing anger and Lucien’s steady refusal to acknowledge it at least /some/ parts of this click into place anyway. His cheeks puff out, breath exhaled in a sharp burst. “You’re hurt, too.” His eyes are shifting to rake over Micah. “You next. I don’t think these doctors really have time to tend anyone.” Somewhere inside he acknowledges that it is probably prudent to make this offer to Lucien, too, but the still surly part of him that is as much as the sickness can manage through his current exhaustion is Kind Of Reluctant to do it for the man who just killed his friend. “Did he turn?” He’s absently wresting his arm away from Parley, after a few swallows more, pushing himself slowly to his feet instead. "-they don't," Parley doesn't require Dusk to wrestle his arm terribly hard - he's disengaging, lips making a soft final suck, last lick, on his own at the mention of Micah needing it. Even if it's with a deep reluctance. His eyes remain directed elsewhere as he licks the faint red remainder off his lips. Smack. << (it has) >> he murmurs to Lucien << (healing properties.) >> His mental landscape is as dilated /open/ as his eyes, full to brimming with coursing shimmering-ruby dazzle. Which may not actually be the best for a mind that's desperately trying to /shut down/. It swallows in Micah's aggression, Dusk's surly reluctance, that faint incomprehension in Lucien, though he's soon organizing, compacting, as the initial rush of feeding from Dusk fades. "If he had," he murmurs to Dusk as he withdraws to his seat, "we'd possibly all be vaporized by now." Instead of just burned and shot full of holes. He's working his scrubs shirt up over his head, to expose bandages binding his shoulder and torso that are no longer necessary. And goes about unwinding them. The bandage at the side of his neck can go, too. Rip. << (we don't have time.) >> He adds, to Dusk alone. Quiet, conversational, with a mild /poke/ at Dusk's reluctance to share blood with Lucien. << (he needs it.) >> Micah's silent threat assessment has clearly prioritized Lucien, the way his attention remains primarily on him, eyes only darting now and then to Dusk and Parley when either of the other men speaks. The rate of his breathing quickens as Dusk actually addresses him. He does not move at the offer of blood for his injuries, but does hiss out a low, “No,” at the question of Jackson turning. “Just needed a few more minutes.” Flick, his eyes run over Parley once, twice, as he pulls the bandages off. Then back to Lucien once more. There are responses rising in Lucien’s mind, to this, but he gives none of them. His eyes stay closed, fingers still rubbing slowly at his temples. << Useful. >> Though there is a bit of distaste in his tone even as he acknowledges this, not overly enthused at the idea of blood-drinking. Dusk bristles silently at Micah’s answer, looking from Jax to Lucien with a smokey curl of anger twining deeper through his thoughts. A soft rumble sounds in his chest -- and then is quelled by Parley’s quiet reminder. Lips compressing, he moves to Lucien’s side of the bed first, offering out his arm without preamble. Lucien just /eyes/ it, once there is someone beside him and blood in front of him, his eyes cracking open to stare for a long while. “This evening,” he finally says, “is getting no less strange.” He steels himself before touching Dusk -- though his distaste at the idea lingers, the bracing is more for his reluctance to make /contact/ with a new mind. A heavy dose of his own headache and exhaustion spills through to the other man as his lips press to skin. “Well. Nobody’s vaporized.” Dusk leans against the bed through this, fingers clenching down against the sheets. “So I guess it’s all --” But here he stops. Thinking of the overrun city and Jax only freshly not-dead in the bed and the Lofts full of people just waiting to maybe-die and Hive off /somewhere/ through all this perhaps eaten himself. And he doesn’t finish this sentence. Just closes his eyes, too, and waits. Not over/long/ before tugging his arm away. He moves back towards Micah. “Drink.” “Are you ready?” Lucien is pressing the back of his hand to his lips, swallowing once with a slight grimace. But he doesn’t quite look like he’s going to keel /over/ anymore and the troubled waters of his mind are smoothing back into glassy placidity. With a neat pile of bandages set to the side, a few errant patches of fur at Parley's shoulder are soothed with a few passes of tongue before ducking into into his shirt again. "Are you?" He asks mildly, rotating in his seat to the form that seems to suit him most. With legs up over one arm of a chair, back propped against the other. It cradles him this way, takes weight off the base of his spine. And, lacing his fingers over his abdomen, he swells open to Jackson's mind. And the mind of Lucien as well, whose sleek placidity is rapidly becoming /familiar/, the quicksilver-trickle that conveys so /little/. Like cool mountain water running beneath his strained gray mists. His respiration begins to slow. Micah tenses further, if such a thing is possible, jumping slightly at the beginnings of a growl from Dusk. The other man approaching Jax's bed, placing his hand on it, does not help matters. Micah's eyes stare at him, unblinking, as if they could pierce him at the slightest misstep. He keeps half-focus toward Lucien as Dusk draws nearer to his own chair, his lips twitching as if he means to bare teeth at the winged man. “No,” he replies sharply at the offer, though he continues with concerns that seem as much at odds with his guard dog behaviour as the behaviour does with.../him/. “You're...still sick. An' there's too many of us. Not good for you.” His head shakes as he pulls himself a few inches back into the chair. As if that would put him too far away for the offered blood to reach him. “Fucking hell, dude, you are /obnoxious/ sometimes with the -- ffff.” Dusk’s eyes narrow with a sudden flare of irritation, and he steps forward when Micah scoots back to just /press/ his wrist up against Micah’s mouth. “Nobody’s got time for this shit. Those burns are ugly.” His other hand moves for the back of Micah’s head, evidently not planning on letting him /free/ of this. Lucien just glances up. Flicks a glance over the other two. And then turns his attention right back to Jackson with no further regard given the other men at Jax’s bedside. He rests his fingers again at Jax’s head, hand covering the scar now, and just closes his eyes. Even now there’s an instinctive tensing in his mind at psionic touch, too well-trained for even the past days to beat it out of him, but it relaxes again soon. And just focuses on Jax, the by-now familiar pattern of waiting for what tangled churning knots Parley can find to tease forth so that he can start meticulously picking them back into order. Seemingly unaware of Dusk's manhandling of Micah, the deadly knots will rise up in Jackson's mind, in the same steady progression that they had before. Naturally falling into rhythm with Lucien, Parley seems to both lead with the prompt of each new cluster, and then step back to follow, on the tails of Lucien. Two hands braiding the same task - or unbraiding, as the case may be. At Dusk's pressing forward, Micah slams himself into the back of his chair, head twisting away from the other man's wrist, burned hands coming up with the intent of /resistance/. But then the blood touches his lips and leaks in through them and he can't fight both Dusk and the insistent urges of the illness rooted in his mind, overwhelming his taxed and tired will. He whimpers and then growls softly, pulling at the blood, tongue brushing over the flesh to coax it to flow faster. His hands reach up to grasp at Dusk's arm, heedless of their own injuries as they grip tightly. The growl in Micah's throat becomes deeper and more insistent. His teeth sink eagerly into the flesh of Dusk's wrist, clamping down, fortunately lacking his own set of fangs to dig in even deeper. Lucien continues his steady work. Quiet. Methodical. Pluck, pluck, pluck; he’s just -- ignoring the growling over there across from him. << They might not be far from the edge themselves, >> he does observe without looking up again, though it comes with an underlying ripple off << (oh well.) >> At least the city won’t be incinerated if either of /them/ turn. Dusk relaxes his grip on Micah’s head when Micah starts to drink. Some of the tension in his posture bleeds away, and he leans back against the side of the bed again. Until teeth sink into his arm; his fangs bare in a sharp snarl, hand moving straight /back/ to Micah’s head to pull it back away from his arm, fingers fisting up tight in the other man’s messy hair. His own low warning rumble is restrained -- barely. “S’enough,” he mutters. “Should be enough to help you fix yourself up some.” Though he hasn’t yet let go of Micah’s hair. His eyes are fixing down on the other man’s neck. Hungrily, but then again he’s almost always hungry. Sitting still, loose in his seat, Parley's body has little reaction for the tension in the room. << (it's) almost (hard to tell)(isn't it.) >> It's distracted for the most part, underpinned with the steady stream of << city night water heal sorry >> trickling like sand particles down the creases of Jackson's brain, triggering and irritating small clusters as they tumble. Except that he does shove at Dusk's mind - it doesn't shove /well/, more presses himself up against the outside of it. And a strain of waspishness bites like a quiet wind. << (you would)(avoid) a lot of (/trouble/)(down the line) if you (picked a better)(target.) >> And, dryer, << (/outside/). >> Fighting just the euphoric chemicals released by Dusk's blood or just the sick call to /flesh/ ordered by his diseased brain, Micah might have been able to hear Dusk's words and obey them. But the unfortunate combination of the two has his teeth digging in harder when the pull at his hair starts them /sliding/ against their claimed purchase on the other man's wrist. He growls more fiercely, the guard dog gone feral when his /food/ is being stolen away. One hand grips tighter on Dusk's arm while the other releases, reaching for the other arm where it pulls at his head. His fingers dig in with painful accuracy against the median nerve and press /toward/ himself, the task of preventing Dusk from pulling at his hair simpler and a higher priority than working to get the hand to release him entirely. Poking one by one at the clusters in turn, Lucien continues unravelling them back into order. Though not all the way. About half of the way through the repairing process he simply stops, dropping his hand from Jackson and passing it instead across his eyes. “-- You have your pet back, or near enough. Dr. Toure and Regan have a new treatment to try. You /all/ might be due for a dose.” He rises, fingers absently flexing at his side. And heads for the door. Dusk is starting to tug his hand away -- his eyes widen in startlement when Micah’s hand clamps in tighter, perhaps for a brief moment /forgetting/ that he’s just been feeding the man; instead he is only surprised that this task is more difficult than predicted. His growl sharpens when Micah’s fingers press in at his nerve, and his other hand /shoves/ forward, straight against Micah’s mouth. Not, admittedly, hard enough to break teeth, he’s (barely) restraining himself; mostly just to shove the other man back. Topple his chair. He’s not picky. The growl turns towards Parley next, at that quiet mental touch; he shakes his head like he might /clear/ it of this voice, his wing snapping out to thwap quick and sharp up against Parley’s shoulder where it rises over one arm of the chair. Parley's eyes slid open, when his shoulder is thwapped - blank at first but rushing to a point of clarity. Then, abruptly, he's swinging his legs down off the chair and standing. He manages that fine, though once up he shuffles backwards a step with a hand pressed impatiently against the side of his head. And turns to actually /look/ at Dusk, to /look/ at Micah. And past them, down at Jackson, laying prone and still alongside them. His eyes move, for a single moment, in the direction Lucien had gone, lips compressing. He then walks to the door. And engages its lock. Just in case. And then walks back towards Dusk, murmuring softly, "Dusk. You need to stop. Come outside." As long as he is able to maintain the grip, Micah continues swallowing greedily at the blood flowing from Dusk's wrist. He doesn't register the other man pushing /into/ him until it is too late, the wrist forcing his jaw open too far, causing him to gag and sputter. He jerks his head back and away, unfortunately in the same direction of the shove, and his chair does, indeed, go over backward. He lands hard on his back, knocking the breath from him, leaving him coughing up the blood that catches in his throat. Not a second later, his head cracks against the floor, stunning him into silence. Something about the mild head trauma, or just having a moment pulled away from madly attempting to /eat/ his friend, allows him to consider what has just transpired. Perhaps Lucien's words finally manage to filter through, as well. Micah moans softly, pressing up to his knees. He shoots a deeply ashamed and apologetic look at Dusk, unable yet to undertake the task of /words/ (with some of the ones he might use being strictly forbidden, besides). He grasps at the bed to haul himself to his feet, finally just crawling up beside Jax and lying against him with his head resting on the other man's chest. “Khhh --” Dusk’s irritation continues as Micah continues to grip him. It might almost start to subside when he has his hand back, but the clicking of lock flicks some switch in his brain from simple aggression to a sudden desperate cornered-animal /fury/. The next crack of his wing isn’t really a brief thwap so much as a heavy outward /slam/ towards Parley’s midsection, aimed to shove back against the wall as he steps /over/ Micah in the moments before the other man pulls to his knees, stalking (admittedly with increasing /wooziness/ to combat his increasing anger) towards the door. Though something flexes down Parley's legs, weight leaning towards his toes as though trying to fall into some movement, it doesn't end up coming - the wing-blow lands square in his abdomen and he folds over it like wet paper. The wind is already slammed out of him /before/ his back hits the wall, and he crumples soundlessly. Almost - deliberately, even. Folded over and retch-coughing, his palms are held out, breathing hard and /even/. When he raises his head, his eyes focus square ahead. He remains in this careful position when Dusk strides past, now following with his eyes. In the bed, Jackson stirs. In mind first, slowly registering the other presence in bed with him and finding it comfortingly familiar -- only /then/ beginning a sudden startled-panic of ohgodwhat. But he's too exhausted still for this to translate into wakefulness rather than continued troubled dreams. Outwardly, it manifests only as a slow shift of hand to rest against Micah's. Cool enough as compared to his usual heat that now it feels cold. The rest of the commotion passes him by unawares. Micah has reverted to a little ball of sick, raw nerves. He twitches and flinches at the sounds of wing striking flesh, body hitting wall, coughing, even Dusk passing to the door. He curls against Jax's side with a continuing series of near-inaudible whimpers, his eyelids squeezed tightly closed. One hand pets at the other man's stomach as if to reassure him of his presence. When Jax's hand reaches for his, he grips it, wetness from silent tears spotting his already much-bloodstained face. His shoulders shudder for a few moments, then he falls into an exhausted, fitful sleep. Dusk doesn’t look at the others, anymore. Just unlocks the door, wings folding in tight against his back as he storms out of the room. His storming only lasts the very long distance of Across The Hall. Far enough to find a free couch in a room opposite to drop down onto, taking just about no time to pass out into sleep as well. Once Dusk has moved on, out of the room, and those on the bed are otherwise engaged, Parley has relaxed into something almost luxurious in its dishevelment. The wide collar of his scrubs has slipped off one shoulder, his already chaotic hair of spikes fallen over one eye. The other is rolled upwards to consider the ceiling. Actively. His eyes scan over it with his brows raised up. One hand is left draped over his abdomen, loose along the joints save the fingers, which are white at the knuckles. And pressing down hard against his hip bone. He takes in a breath, then lets it out. And takes his time standing up, brushing off the seat of his pants, straightening his shoulder. And then he, too, with the side of one eye tightening and then releasing again, sees his way towards the door.