ArchivedLogs:City. Night. Water.

City. Night. Water.
Dramatis Personae Eric, Iolaus, Jackson, Lucien, Parley, Sebastian, Shane, Karrie, Daiki	2013-11-06 (Set shortly after zombiedodging.) (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. (TEXT, Wednesday night.) (Shane --> Eric): Where are you. (Eric --> Shane): Coming off shift in twenty to crash at the station. What's up? (Shane --> Eric): Don't crash at the station. Do you know the freak clinic? (Shane --> Eric): Meet me there. I need you. (Eric --> Shane): Be there in twenty five. (Shane --> Eric): Just as a forewarning I need to kill you. (Eric --> Shane): I hope you mean a little death. (Shane --> Eric): No. I mean a really excruciating unpleasant one. (Shane --> Eric): But you can live through anything you'll live through it. (Shane --> Eric): It'll be extremely unpleasant, though. (Shane --> Eric): I know I'm selling this well. But I need you. There is a pause of almost a minute before the text message comes. (Eric --> Shane): I'll be there. You can explain then. Shane is outside at the appointed time, just on the end of the block from the clinic. He's perched on the roof of a shuttered Falafel stand, very quiet and very still in the night. Much farther down the street there's the rattly croaking of one of the undead, a trio of them fallen on the inert body of a teenager, skateboard on the ground beside him. Hungrily devouring. Shane is watching this with gills slowly fluttering, dressed in dark boots, dark cargo pants, a dark peacoat; there's a pair of strange wristwatch-looking things at his wrists and he's doing his best not to move, save for his thumb swiping against his phone screen to give Eric his cross street. As well as a caution to be careful; the streets north of the clinic have been heavily infested. Eric's arrival is quiet as well, the soft purr of a car engine pulling up to the curb in front of Shane. It is not a police car, but it looks like it might have been one day - a Crown Victoria with bars on the back windows, but with rust covering the front hood. A smear of dried blood is spread across the front grill. "Hey." Eric says, parking the car on the curb and getting out of the driver's seat. The police officer looks tired, and his uniform is neither clean nor pressed. Dirt and muck stain his pants, and there is a rip in one sleeve of his shirt. "So. Not sex, then?" he murmurs, voice quiet. The zombies up the street look up, at the passing of the car, but they don't follow after it, already having a source of meat right in front of them. Shane slides down off the roof ot the cart, wrapping his arms tight around Eric. He looks pretty bedraggled himself, dirty, clothing stained; there's dried blood on his shirt but he doesn't look injured. He presses his face up against Eric's chest, his gills rippling faster. "Daiki's dead," he tells Eric. Eric's smile slips on his face, and his arms wrap tight around the younger boy in a moment, hugging him close to his chest. "I'm sorry, Shane," he murmurs, quietly, nuzzling his nose down into the teenager's hair - though his eyes flick cautiously to the zombies on the street. "I'm so sorry." he murmurs again, his hand running up and down Shane's back in soothing small swirls. He looks up at the clinic for a moment, then back down to murmur into Shane's ear, "was he being treated here? I thought it was closed." "It is closed. They took him here after he died. He was one of the first to --" Shane shudders, pressing closer to Eric. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I -- sorry. I just. He's /dead/. But we have a -- I have a friend. His best friend. She -- can bring people. Back." Tensing slightly in Shane's arms, Eric's hands still on the smaller boy's back. "Why do I feel like this has something to do with why ya' asked me to come, and said you mi' have to kill me?" Eric asks, voice low. "Somehow I ain't think you were kiddin'. That kinda thing never ain't come without a price." "She takes energy. From living people. To give it to the people she brings back. But -- even bringing back someone just-dead is enough to kill most everyone. Me and B can handle it up to a little bit but it's harder for her the longer they've been dead -- it'd kill us by now for sure. But you --" With his not-so-mild state of current agitation, his voice is growing louder than its whisper; the trio up the street looks up again, though this time their attention stays raised. "... fuck," Shane whispers, tugging Eric down the street towards the clinic, "Fuckshitdamn. B and Peter and the others are on the roof." He's already pulling out his phone to hurriedly text them to join him at the door. "The others? I thought ya said the hospital was closed," Eric asks, confusion in his voice. He certainly notices the zombies focusing on him, and as he follows along with Shane, his hand goes to rest on the service weapon on his waist. "So where the hell are we goin'?" he asks, voice a low hiss. "What do'ya mean, take energy?" "It is closed. But we had to bring -- Karrie to -- they might not let us in," Shane admits unhappily. "They were just waiting so that I could grab you, it's safer up there --" His steps hurry as he drags Eric along to the clinic's front door, waiting for the rest of their party to join him before banging his fist against it quickly to try and summon Reg's attention. Hopefully before the zombies get there. It may or may not have taken some convincing to get Reg to let the twins (and Karrie) down to see their father; it's true that with Flicker accompanying them they could have circumvented this necessity altogether but the young man, after having been apprised of their plan, was largely along to watch /out/ for the teenagers in the zombie-infested city rather than to partake of their attempted raid. He and Peter now wait upstairs in the lobby with the guard (and the dead thumping on the very solid outside doors); the twins and Eric and Karrie have descended below. Sebastian is quiet, Shane fidgety; Karrie just looks grimly determined. All of them look kind of a /mess/; it's uncertain what, exactly, they had to go through to get back to the city and then through it to the clinic but it is certain that whatever it was was /messy/. A few bloodstains on clothes, tears, grit. The twins' plasticky hair, at least, looks exactly the same as ever. Karrie's frizzy red hair -- actually mostly also looks the same as ever. Disheveled. Messy. Jax is on duty in his same hallway station as before, compact carbine at his side though it remains untouched as the elevator slides open. He gets up to hasten over to the others, enfolding all /three/ of the teenagers in hug. No hug for Eric, sorry; he's too busy devolving into /parent/ mode: "You were supposed to wait for me to pick y'all up, oh my gosh you guys could've been /killed/," is sharp and annoyed and immediately segues into a relieved: "Thank /God/ you got here alr -- Karrie." He's only just seemed to /notice/ that he's hugging her too. "Karrie. Hi. Oh. -- Oh. Um, you guys, you shouldn't be --" The biohazard door slides open, but this time Iolaus looks neither recently showered nor clean. He is wearing scrubs - now with fashionable acid burn on one side of his sleeve - and has a surgical mask covering his face. His eyes scan over the little crowd, and when he speaks, his voice is rough and clogged. "You shouldn't be here," he says, eyeing the police officer with some trepidation. "This is a restricted area, by order of the Department of Public Health. If you want to come in the back, you need to bring their representative with an order." The doctor's voice is loud, and he sniffles once before continuing, softer, "Don't you have bigger problems right now? I'm trying to find a cure for this thing; I don't need the fucking interruptions by the damned police." A door whushes open further down the hall, unleashing Parley and Lucien from another prolonged session of playing with the dead, where it's possible Desi had joined them to engage in what technically count as necromancy, if they'd had any success in controlling the subjects. Parley conveying the software-signals of the mind – limited as they may be – and possibly observing through Lucien the hardware side in turn. As grotesque as /this/ may be. Emerging now, Parley is still dressed comfortably in scrubs, the neck open enough to show the shoulder of his undershirt beneath, the side of his neck bandaged. A clipboard under his arms. He's murmuring low to the taller man when he marks that there are disheveled teenagers in the hallway. Habitual as mental connections form for him, Lucien may find himself default-fed a few imparted glimpses of the newly arrived minds as he approaches, scanning each of them – and Eric. Asking, "—how bad is it out there, now." "Shhh," Lucien murmurs this in absent quiet placating to Iolaus's bristling, trailing along beside Parley with little apparent concern for their sudden deluge of teenager. He's dressed still as he was when he arrived, corduroys and t-shirt and unbuttoned button-down over it, considerably more /disheveled/ by now than he's likely been at any point in quite a long while prior. Unshowered. Hair mussed. Eyes growing a little shadowy from a failure to sleep. "Iolaus, you need more sleep, perhaps. I imagine your anarchist watchdog might be showing more concern if this policeman was here to /police/. -- Hello, Eric." His eyes skip from Eric to the twins and Karrie, eyebrows raising slightly. "Are you already all sick? Desirée would be more than glad for company that is not here to /prod/ at her, I believe." Shane has been more than happy to receive HUG, but he shifts himself kind of protectively in front of the others at Iolaus's loud voice, his teeth baring in a sudden sharp snarl; where before his mind was clouded with stress and worry and a /wired/ adrenaline-energy, very abruptly it's snapped into something entirely less cogent. An obscuring white-noise static underlaid with nothing but aggression. "-- Fuck you, we --" "Shh shh shh," Sebastian tugs Shane back /hastily/, his eyes widening and his hand lifting to brush down against Shane's gills. "Ohgod this is /so/ not the time -- um. I'm /so/ sorry -- sorry. Sorry --" His inner eyelids blink, and then his outer ones, his own frayed-edged exhaustion blipping into momentary blankness. He keeps one hand firmly /clamped/ around Shane's wrist, but leans into Jax on his other side. "-- Doctor, I'm sorry. We're just -- we came here to --" "We came for Daiki," Karrie pipes up, not seeming particularly eager to leave her hug. She'll just speak from right here behind Jax, thanks. "If you need more dead people there's lots outside but I need -- him." Shane yanks his hand against Sebastian's wrist, snarling now at his brother, but his thoughts slowly calm at the familiar soothing touch. "Um --" Now there's just confusion; it takes a moment longer for him to reorient himself to the conversation. "It's bad. Out there. The streets north of here are pretty much packed. It's a little quieter south but not -- um, not. Well." He shrugs. "If you decide to go home at any point you should probably grab yourself a gun like Pa's." "Easy, there, doc." Eric says, raising a hand and closing it down on Shane's shoulder. "Easy, Shane," he murmurs, taking a step closer to the other man. "I ain't here for work. Shane asked me ta' come." Iolaus eyes the police officer suspiciously for a moment and then lets out a long sigh. "Sorry. I'm not feeling very well, and I've got a lot of work to do before this thing kills me." he says, lips curling into a smile that might be tinged with a little bit of madness. His laugh certainly sounds bittersweet enough for it. "I can sleep then. Or not, as the case may be." It takes several moments for Karrie's words to sink into his head. "Came for?" A pause. "I'm sorry, miss, but Daiki isn't here for you to get. He's dead, and what's left isn't your friend anymore. He's not safe to be around, for any of us." "That answers that," Parley seems to murmur softly, seemingly mostly to himself, though likely of Lucien's question whether the children present were sick yet. Though he does consider Karrie thoughtfully still – the jury's out yet, there. If he hadn't been broadcasting the teenager's mental signatures to Lucien before, he does now – when Shane's cascades in on itself. With the minds of the dead so recent on their minds, it makes a fair comparison. For much of these exchanges, he remains quiet, arms crossed and leaning a hip against the wall as it plays out. Roaming eyes idly over faces. And the empty hall in the opposite direction. Abruptly asking, mildly, of Iolaus, "Do you have guns?" "Ah." Just that, from Lucien, though it comes in the form of mild agreement with Parley: yes, yes it does. His eyes close at that touch of Shane's mind to him, and there's a ripple breaking through his general composure with the shiver that follows, the heavy touch of regret in his mind. Both are soon to fade, easing back into still calm when he looks at the children again. "There is much work to do. But it will be done better with at least some rest in you." He doesn't offer any opinion, really, on the topic of zombie-extraction. Just glances to Jackson and then answers Parley, "The guards carry guns. I am sure they must be stored here somewhere; they cannot carry them in the streets." "No," Karrie is very insistent, here, "no, I don't want to take him /dead/. I --" Her words falter, thoughts sluggish beneath a cloud of worry and exhaustion and /worry/ and grief and sick heavy guilt at the /hordes/ of dead she can do nothing about. But this one, her best friend: "I resurrect people. I can bring him /back/. But I have to do it before too much longer, it's been days already that's stretching my limits. Please let me back there." Though even with this ‘please' there's a firm /resolve/ in her mind, already rather determined not to leave regardless of answer. She's eying the doorway, eying the others' access cards, contemplating how fast the twins can move against the others if they try to bar the way. Her fingers rest lightly on the small of Sebastian's back. "She can," Jackson affirms, quietly. There's a moment when his mind is troubled -- not because of Karrie's ability but because of the /stress/ he knows it brings her, in situations like this more than any. So many dead, a choice who to save that she never wants to make. "S'that why you're here, Eric?" He drops his gaze to the gun at his side with Parley's question. And, after a long moment of thought, unstraps it. "... with how many of us are sick down here --" He shakes his head. "Do you know how t'shoot, Parley? Luci's got a gun. I don't need one if I'm in my right mind. An' if I ain't, you'll probably want to use it on me s'quick as you can." His attention shifts back to Karrie, afterwards. "... let her in," he says to Iolaus quietly. "He's her best friend. And she /can/ bring him back." "Maybe," Shane says glumly. "It's been long." Sebastian presses his fingers to the webshooters he also wears at his wrists. "We can get him pinned down well enough he can't hurt anyone. The glue doesn't wear off for at least an hour. That's long enough to see if she can manage it, at least. And if she doesn't we're not -- worse off." "I went to a range a few times, last month," Parley admits, palm offered out to accept the gun. It's not really a rush to take it, but it's not shy either. Admitting almost brightly, "I've been shot /at/ more times than I've personally shot one." That counts, right? If he's handed the gun, he will then be looking down at it, hefting its unfamiliar weight. Without looking up he adds, conversationally, "And anyway. If you don't let her, you'll likely have to restrain the lot of them. Their minds are decided." It's only to Jax that he murmurs, with a shift of thoughtful, hooded eyes towards Sebastian. << (hmm.)(his self-control) is (magnificent.) >> It's only one level of comment, perhaps. It could almost have a secondary interpretation of << (how much)(practice) it (must have)(taken...) >> "I guess. Not quite sure what'm signin' up for, to be honest with ya, Jax." Eric says, giving the other man a smile - though, almost instinctively, he tenses as the other man shifts his position on the gun. The gun gets a second glance as well, and he raises an eyebrow. "P90. I ain't know where you got that, but I'm quite sure I ain't seen it, ‘specially not in a hospital." Iolaus' voice is growling. "Now /hold/ on a minute, damn it. Let's not get ahead of ourselves and go all weird." In the middle of his phrase, he pauses, freezing for a second before he shakes his head and looks around, stream having escaped him. "No one's shooting anyone." Iolaus frowns, crossing his arms over his chest. "Even if you somehow resurrect him - a process I would very much be interested in seeing some time when I am not quite so busy - he's just going to get infected again, almost immediately. What are you buying him? Maybe… a day, two? And at what cost?" He gestures behind him. "Go ahead. Be my guest." He strides forward and reaches out to take the gun from Jax. "If things go badly, I'll shoot him myself." "Maybe a day or two," Karrie agrees with a defiant lift of her chin, "and if he dies again I'll do it again. And again. Until /I'm/ dead myself or until you find him a cure." There's a sharp hot anger rising to cloud her mind, all static-fuzz and an impulse towards violence the longer her path is barred. "It'll hurt," Jax answers Eric quietly. "It hurts a lot actually. But it could bring Dai back." He doesn't hand the gun over to Iolaus, looking at the man's outstretched hand for a long moment and then deliberately reaching past him to put it in Parley's hands. He moves closer to murmur, quiet quick-and-dirty introduction to its particular configuration. << … had a lot. Of practice, >> Jackson agrees quietly of Sebastian, glancing briefly upwards towards his children. There's a rising tension in his mind as he watches them, not with the benefit of any psionic gifting but just long familiarity with his children -- it's not anxious or apprehensive, just /readying/ himself if this comes to violence. Quietly taking stock of what reserves of light he is carrying. Quietly gauging the distances between everyone in this hall. "Bring him back? Would he still be infected after that, do you think?" There's nothing but open curiosity in Lucien's mind. "I should rather like to monitor this procedure. Come." He gestures towards the door they all came out of. It's to Parley that he directs, "-- I've never felt a mind come /back/ to life." With the heavy implication that he's felt it in reverse, and a large dose of curiosity as to this procedure. Karrie just looks at Iolaus with that hard anger still bristling in her mind. She reaches out to /grab/ at Eric's wrist, practically tugging him along. "/Woah/ woah woah we go first," Sebastian says sharply, hastening forward. "He'll just /eat/ you if he isn't restrained. -- Shane, you might. Want to. Stay --" He's thinking of Daiki's pull -- strong with everyone but strongest still with his brother, after their years of relationship. Of what might come of attraction to a zombie. And then he's abruptly not thinking at all, only blanking on an uncomfortable mix of hunger and nothingness that freezes him for a moment with senses abruptly very /acutely/ aware of the (warm) (fleshy) bodies around him. "This isn't a competition over who gets to most honourably execute Jackson Holland, Dr. Saavedro," Parley says dryly, his eyes meeting Jackson's when he accepts the weapon. "Much as I'm sure there are branches of the government devoted to it." He steps back, with the gun, looking it over, "-- if it's all the same, I'd rather save the bullet. This is strictly about defense. The uninfected are going to be vastly outnumbered soon." He's at least familiar enough with the construction of a firearm to locate the safety. And to make sure it's properly engaged, before tucking it away in his waistband. "It sounds like very little cost, really." Pain apparently doesn't cost much, "-and a day or two is a day or two more than he would have had." He's casting a quick look up to Lucien that, for once, has eyes fully opened and /interested/ in this development, admitting "I haven't either, actually." That implication is easily understood and returned, to the point of being only passing - like discussing a mutually appreciated brand name - his brows raised up and remaining there for a moment. He is turning towards the door that will lead deeper into the holding area, murmuring to the teenagers, "They're restrained. I'm not sure /how/ restrained you would need them…" But he slows, looking back, at Sebastian… then Shane. And murmurs, "There's a monitoring room we could go into. You'd be only a few yards away." << (unless) something (changes). >> He whispers at the back of Lucien's mind quietly. Less anticipatory, but methodical. Flat. << (we're) going to (have a)(transition) from (stage two) into (stage three) to (observe.) >> "For Daiki… and for Shane, I ain't mind a bit a' pain." Eric murmurs, quietly, eyes flicking to the teenager affectionately. "Jus' tell me what I needta' do, and it's done." His hand taps on the butt of his pistol as he watches the gun exchange hands, warily. "Rumors in the force say that the military's comin' in sooner'n later to… cleanup. Not sure how much stock I give it, considerin' how little sleep anyone's been getting, might right just be hopeful talkin', but…." The police officer shakes his head and shrugs, as he's led/dragged down the hallway. Iolaus' lips purse into a thin line and he shakes his head. "Madness. I am surrounded by madness," he murmurs, and he takes point in the hallway, heading towards the large door marked with the red biohazard warnings on it. His ID card, for this area, is not enough - he has to lean forward and have his iris recognized before the door slides open with a click. "Don't go into the lab, and don't touch anything, even in the room. There are things here that could very well kill us all if they're accidentally triggered." he warns, as he gestures into the room. The trip through the warm zone into the hot one is a quick one, helped along by Iolaus shuffling people through the airlock, then down the patient hallway to a door. His fingers tap a code next to the door, and the door clicks and slides open with a loud hiss. "God speed." Jackson doesn't follow them down. He looks -- and feels -- very much like he would /like/ to join them. Worry about the children, a deep /hope/ that Karrie can still succeed. But he sits back down at his post, taking in deep slow breaths and turning his attention back to his sketchpad. Shane doesn't enter with the others; he gives his brother a quick hug and then hangs back in the observation room. As he looks through the thick glass towards the restrained (still thrashing) body, his gills start to flutter, his arms curling tight around himself. It's not the same unstable rise of anger as before, though. This is just sick, and pained, his eyes closing slowly. Sebastian doesn't seem particularly any /more/ thrilled, but he turns his wrists over to check the webshooters and continues inside before Karrie and Lucien and Eric. He steels himself at the rattly sounds coming from Daiki, fighting down the gorge that is rising in his throat. "-- If you stay near his hands I guess it's all okay. His head isn't -- going. That far." But he still stands watchfully nearby. "Just, um, don't -- touching him always makes it worse. So be careful." Karrie gives Sebastian a Look like she really doesn't need to be reminded how her best friend's mutation works. Her fingers flex, hand still curled around Eric's wrist. "Okay." But even after this it takes her a long moment to actually approach, fighting down the panic and ache and trying not to look at Daiki's face. Lucien has no such compunctions. Blandly neutral as ever, he takes quick stock of the room and moves across to station himself on the other side of Daiki's bed, resting his fingers lightly on the back of the teenager's hand. His lips press together thinly, but this is the only external sign of distaste he shows at the contact. Daiki's mutation is still very much in effect. Within the room it is felt more strongly, a strong affectionate pull that is only amplified by the touch; outside in observations its effects are more muted. It is oddly far more even in death than it ever has been in life; with no emotions to guide it one way or another it stays at a steady middling-strong level, not distorted or amplified as it sometimes gets. His mind has been largely blankness until the arrival of others in the room; what flares in it isn't exactly life so much as some ceaseless driving force, all hungry-aggression wrapped beneath an unthinking layer of fuzzing static. Parley stays back, with Shane, showing him the way to the observation area and then walking to the far corner of the window where he can rest a hip against the wall; it's less a lazy or sloppy posture as it is kind of /tired/. But also, it clears the window. Shane's view, painful as it may be, is spread out before him. Uninterrupted. As he watches, for one listless moment, Parley's eyes sweep over those entering the room, noting the effects of Daiki's ability on them that, in any other circumstance, likely warrant a great deal of curiosity. Instead, he only relaxes his mind to all of it; limber and softened like a muscle already, from the long hours of use. Allows in the intensity and the hunger, the anger, the /affection/ being dragged up, packages them neatly in small, clearly labeled samples. And lays them, as they develop, at the foot of Lucien's mind. -- showing him his /own/ as well. Should he perhaps want to keep an outside view of the influences in the room around him. Eric follows obediently, but when he approaches the bed, one hand rests on the butt of his weapon, fingers drumming against the cold metal as he watches the zombie warily. Despite the pull of the boy's mutation, his sense of self-preservation - for the moment - is overriding. Iolaus seems to want to have no part in this shenaniganery. "I'll be down the hall. The door will lock behind you. Hit the intercom when you want to leave, and I'll come unlock the door." With that, the doctor turns on a heel and steps down the hallway, towards the hot lab. Karrie doesn't say anything further. Just keeps her hand clamped around Eric's wrist, her other moving to curl around Daiki's arm in between two of the heavy restraining straps holding him down. She closes her eyes, the fear and stress and worry slowly drifting away -- first in favour of the fierce swell of /love/ that comes when she holds his cold arm but is not /entirely/ prompted by his mutation. And then in favour of /focus/, determined concentration as she begins to work. At first there is nothing -- not in Daiki, anyway. In Eric there is pain, flaring fierce and hot to sear through his nerves, a deep burn of it that comes together with a sudden stomach-turning dizziness and a heavy crush of fatigue. But then the odd static of his mind shuts off entirely. His thrashing calms. Eric's pain does not. Karrie leans heavily against the bed. It takes a while. A good long while. But slowly the blankness is replaced by a quiet stir of not-quite-consciousness. Sluggish and tired and dredged up from somewhere deep, Daiki's brain does not restart all at once, disparate parts of it taking longer to reboot. His breathing has resumed long before conscious thought has, autonomic nervous system restarting before higher brain functions. He doesn't /wake/, even once she is done, lying in his restraints still and quiet -- but definitely /present/. No more hunger, though the weird tangled-twisted confusion of the communication center of his brain remains as testament to the lingering illness that has already killed him once. Karrie releases Eric's wrist, dropping slowly to sit on the ground beside the bed with a tired wilt of shoulders. Lucien stands beside the bed throughout this. The placid calm of his mind is ruffled by proximity to Daiki, warm affection spiking through in a way it doesn't tend to normally; he actually removes his hand for a moment to compose himself before setting it back gingerly. And paying attention, closely, both to what Parley feeds him and to Daiki. His eyes slowly widen as he starts /feeling/ the boy's brain whirring back to life, and his fingers twitch like he /wants/ to be doing -- something. But isn't. At least not until this whole process is complete. When Karrie releases him, Lucien does not, still tentatively poking through Daiki's brain in slow curiosity. Nudging into the tangle that the sickness has left in him. << Still there, >> he comments quietly to Parley as he pokes at that knot, mental senses fluttering out, pressing over it like searching for a loose /end/ to pull. Outside, Shane has been glued to the window despite not really /wanting/ to be. Not even /breathing/ much, gills fluttering quickly. His knuckles press hard to his lips, eyes still watching until Karrie drops. And Daiki still isn't moving. << (ohgod) >> << (please) >> << (did it work?) >> is largely currently the only gist of his thoughts, staring through the glass like hopefully it will /tell/ him something. Like a hurricane wind, carrying its load of dragged up sand and debris and pelting sideways rain, it all lashes through the wide channels Parley has opened, doing no harm but leaving very little /left/ to him save a pounding pulse and dilated pupils. Still leaning against the wall, his features have narrowed down with tighter concentration, slow breathing, vacant stare somehow /sharp/ in a different internal direction. He has a braced foot against the floor to keep his weight propped hard against the stable wall. Rather than speak - rather than misspeak and give the /wrong/ information, he instead takes a shaky moment of combing through the different streams, keeping the flow /to/ Lucien, without any flow of Lucien to the /others/, of filtering down and minimizing the intense /feedback/ of Eric's anguish and working to backpedal his own mind - with only minimal effect - out from under Daiki's influence on his own perceptions. And, gradually, like locating a single cluster of muscles, he opens a brief window between Daiki and Shane. << (not awake.) >> He identifies to the boy, not in a promising tone. Not seeming particularly interested in otherwise looking at him. But he does add, as if in an afterthought << (not dead.) >> To Lucien, it's considerably less soft and whisping. Flat, harder. << (it's all over) his (language centers.) >> There's a long pause, full of a growing /lack/ of understanding of the other people in the room, as he goes about delicately disentangling and releasing those minds that distract more than they aid. And instead, there's a wider, /broader/ look at Daiki alone. Somehow, it's the impression of a feline coiling its haunches, fixed on a target and preparing some complicated leap-- << (keep doing) what (you're doing.) >> He says, slightly strained. << (--i'm going to)(try) to (trigger it.)(watch for it.) >> And into the channel linked to Daiki, opening wide, he shifts. The passive in-flow eddies as he rallies himself to project. << (...CITY.)(...NIGHT.)(...WATER.) >> In the quiet viewing room with Shane, the line of fur down his back stands up in its pores. "-- Oh --" It's not much but it's /something/, and whatever tension has been coiled through Shane bursts at this, released in only this one breathy exhale. His head thunks forward against the glass and then he turns, sinking down to sit beneath the viewing window, back against the wall and his head dropping forward into his hands. His eyes close, palms damp soon with a sudden overflow -- not so much /sobs/ for their still silence. Eyes just sort of -- /leaking/ their built-up accumulation of stress and grief. In Parley, at least, there is no change that happens through this, the words flowing out of him into Daiki smoothly. Daiki's slumbering mind is pulled closer to wakefulness with this touch, though; the knotty tangle in his brain writhes in further contortion. Lucien reaches for this, when it writhes, mental fingers clamping down on the tangled knot there. Turning it over, twisting it around to find -- one thread and then another and then another to carefully /pull/ and set back straight. The knot there responds, at this, mental distortion teased apart with this treatment. There's a spike of pain that pulses through Daiki's head; he clenches up in his restraints. The mess tangling his brain takes quite a /bit/ of unravelling, but it is starting to unravel. << (SORRY.) >> Parley maintains the litany << (WEIRD.) >> And then starts again, pouring them down onto Daiki's mind, bathing it, small echoes of << (weird) >> and << (city) >> and << (night) >> rippling along beneath. And, idly, as though speaking over Lucien's shoulder, he comments absently. << (it would seem) it (doesn't spread.)(if you say it) (first.) >> Slowly, he's come forward from his lean, movements not perfected in balance but - it's hard to take note of it. As ever. And takes to standing alongside Shane. Not touching nor looking to him - nor facing the same direction, either. Arms crossed, weight settled to one hip, he looks in through the window. And watches. His pulse hammers in the side of his neck at the influx of pain in the subject - he doesn't seem to notice it save a rise of color to his cheeks. << (keep going)(do you feel it?) >> << Or if you say it psionically? >> Lucien isn't quite certain in tone, here; he's not dismissing Parley's suggestion so much as taking it into consideration and setting other possible variables alongside. << I feel it. >> And as Shane cries and Karrie drifts into sleep and Sebastian just watches, leaned up against the glass from the inside, he continues his work. Grabbing at threads that Parley stirs up, setting them painstakingly back into place. There are a lot to set. They shift and move, they /roil/ under Parley's litany -- but in the roiling they become more /prominent/, more easy to grasp. And as Parley lines them up, Lucien will knock them down; the longer he works the /shakier/ he gets, eventually taking to sitting on the edge of Daiki's bed (still somewhat warily carefully away from the boy's /head/ -- juuuust in case) for stability as he works his way through the churning tangle. Eventually there are no more threads left to unravel -- a few loose ends easily tamped down, but the knotty bulk of /mess/ has finished its churning. Parley's communications stop having the same effect -- still asleep, Daiki's mind calms back into a heavy dreamless slumber. There's a very vague stirring at the words, but no more than he might if he heard some noise in his sleep -- a brief twitch of almost-attention that fails to rouse him.