ArchivedLogs:Equinox

Equinox
Dramatis Personae Nox, Matt
In Absentia	2013-09-22 Part of Prometheus TP
Location Somewhere far, far away...
The facility in which Matthieu has been kept is not terrible, as such things go. The beds are comfortable, the food is both tasty and nourishing, the cells look more like dorm rooms and there is a solarium where well-behaved "residents" may partake of various activities meant to maintain a baseline of settled cooperation. The mutants collected here are those that Prometheus has found most interesting and that comes with its blessings. Of course, given the choice, most of the residents would rather be elsewhere. And who can blame them? Their freedom is gone. And attached to the more comfortable living areas are surgery wards, laboratories, experiment chambers which are soundproofed and built to withstand incredible levels of damage. There is no sunlight in these areas, no bonsai plants to trim, no easels and canvases to dab paint onto. Here all is sterile white and stainless steel, occupied by men and women in white coats or green scrubs. There are domed mirrors in every corner, there are cameras, and there are guards. Matt has been summoned to an operating theatre. It is not the first time he has been brought here; surely it has become a terrible routine by now. The guards are impassive and do not look at him. The nurses and surgeons moving around the room do not look at him. One orderly, rolling a cart closer to the operating table, does spare him a glance but the man is an unfamiliar face, possibly new to this work, and curious about the young man present--perhaps because he has been afforded the luxury of a straight-backed chair with cushions to sit on. Guards stand to either side of that chair, their arms folded across their chests, moody gazes fixed on the hustle and bustle of surgery prep. The team is very efficient at what they do. In minutes, the area will be ready for whomever is scheduled to receive their chip today. Straight-backed though his chair may be, Matt sits in it rather drooped -- though at the moment he looks more /bored/ than wilted. A little resigned. A little frustrated. Dressed in the same scrubs most of the inmates here tend to be, they hang a little loose on him though his thin frame -- is still thin, but has filled out to no longer /emaciated/. His hair is still gone but now /shaved/ rather than bald, his scalp covered in a thin tracework of surgical scars, some fresher than others. Around one finger a simple ring in a band of plain black titanium is a sole throwback in his attire to the non-Promethean world; he spins it restlessly at intervals before dropping his fingers to the armrest of his chair. Matt looks at the guards, for all they never look back. Some days he attempts conversation. One-sided. Today it's just kind of a tired /blink/ that slowly shifts from face to face before he starts watching the nurses at their task. Then the orderly who actually glances at him. It's sort of automatic, the upward hook at his lips with that brief moment of eye contact; his fingers drum against the arms of the chair. "It's because I'm sick," he explains lightly. "I mean, was sick before I got here, not, uh, from all the stuff you guys do to us. Actually, you all have made me a lot better. Um, the cancer, I mean. The rest of it sucks. But if you ever think about branching out, you might do a lot of good in oncology." The usual soft murmurs have hummed through the room, previous to Matt actually speaking. If he had hoped to win some attention then he's succeeded--several heads turn, mostly the younger nurses, and yes, the orderly whose eyes he'd met. The man's eyes are a watery shade of grey and they widen slightly...before flicking towards the tall older man in surgical drapes, faced masked, a pair of glasses perched on the bridge of his nose. When /he/ looks at Matt, it does not take a telepath to know that he is displeased. But his voice, when he speaks, is almost gentle. "Quiet, please." At that, everyone looks /away/ from their guest and returns to their tasks. Trays are laid and covered, a second cart produced which holds shears, razors, a squirt bottle of sterilized water. This is placed well away from the operating table, closer to Matt. The orderly who'd placed it withdraws as soon as it's settled. The gathered team stand still and ready. Now they are looking at the door. The lights grow noticeably brighter. In the scant few seconds before the door whooshes open, the surgeon addresses Matt again--though he never looks away from the door. His shoulders are tense; his hands hand loose and capable at his side. "When they bring her in, you will suppress her abilities immediately. Failure to do so endangers your life as much as it does ours. Understood?" But there's precious little time to agree--or argue--for the door rolls back in that moment. The hallway outside is perhaps even better lit than the operating theatre. The light /glares/ and from that haze of illumination steps a team of four guards and a slight, hunched figure walking in their center. Nox is also bald--bald bald, not shaved--and her skin has gone the blanched grey tone of meat left too long out of the refrigerator. Even her eyes have been affected, no longer an abyssal or even an inky black but now a flat charcoal that shows no depth or spark. Her hospital gown is loose and gaps in the back; one of the guards carries a second over his arm, still wrapped in plastic to keep it sterile. She is walking with a hand over her eyes but shade is impossible to find; this room is only slightly better. Still, she peeps through her fingers at the people gathered before her and it's clear she's terrified, as her gaze flicks from table to medical staff to the corner where... Her eyes widen, her lips part--and then her brow furrows with doubt, confusion. Matt has no particular sensitivity to light but his eyes flutter half-closed anyway as the lights brighten, hand lifting to rub across them. He sinks back in his chair when he's told to quiet, head dropping back against the cushioning. The following instructions have his mouth opening again -- it's hard to say whether he /would/ have agreed. Or argued. (Though judging from the slight upward crook of his lips it might have been some ill-advised smart-ass remark that was really neither. They tell him how dangerous everyone is. He isn't dead yet.) His mouth doesn't close again when the door opens. His hand just lifts, palm pressing across his open lips and a very /small/ hitch of sound lost against it. His other hand curls down hard against his wheelchair, gripping there tightly. "Wh --" He's quite forgotten to suppress anything; instead there's a thin flex of rather underdeveloped muscles as he pushes to his feet, perhaps /also/ forgetting the roomful of guards when he takes a step towards Nox. "Dead?" Nox whispers just before Matt gathers himself to stand. The guards, already tense, have begun to snap hands towards holsters--no guns there but rather flashlights, high powered beams coming on with the flick of a thumb. But by then the tiny, shrunken woman has already begun to undergo a change. Darkness floods back into her eyes, wisps of shadow appear to wreath her bald head. "Dead, not dead, dead like I am dead, they lied, they lied to us oh Matt..." Almost in the same instant, a hand comes down heavy and hard on Matt's shoulder and one lands between Nox's shoulderblades. /He/ is silently--but strongly--urged to sit down again. /She/ is shoved forward, as if they meant her to stumble to the young man. Instead, she goes down to hands and knees. Three beams of light and then a fourth are trained on her heaving back. Her scream is agonizingly quiet. The surgeon has taken several quick steps to bring him over to Matt. "/Suppress/ her /abilities/," he hisses, no longer gentle. Matt shakes his head, shoulder tensing up thin and hard beneath the man's heavy hand. He thumps down into his seat again, chair rocking back hard into its brakes. "Dead? I'm not -- I'm not /dead/. Not yet. What are /you/ -- you can't, they /can't -- /no/," this last is sharper, as they shine the lights at Nox. It's /this/ rather than the repeated command that finally snaps him out of alarm and into compliance, scrubbing his palms over his face as he pulls in a breath and composes himself enough to work. Which isn't /very/ composed, to be sure; keyed up as he is, the change is quite sudden, an abrupt kill switch thrown on Nox's powers. "Stop. Please. I just -- I know her, I -- don't hurt her." His eyes shift back to Nox, brows rumpling inward. "-- like you're dead?" Though even as he says this his eyes are skimming over her, and then over the sterile-cold theatre they're surrounded by, shoulders slumping slightly more inward. Two of the nurses exchanged alarmed looks; another one has retreated to the far wall of the theatre. The surgeon has found his calm again, however--it helps that the effect on Nox, when Matt finally complies, is immediate. Where shadows had grown, blonde hair now falls forward to obscure her face. Skin is showing as pale--or mottled red where light had struck it--but with a tinge of pink rather than grey. And when she looks up to give Matthieu a panicked glance, her eyes are not black but a warm honey brown. The breath goes out of her lungs--she has /lungs/--in a rush of pain, a grunt of, "Nnghhh," that leaves her sounding winded when she /does/ speak again. To say, "They think we died." And then for the first time since she was sixteen, Nox begins to cry. She has functioning tear ducts finally and the sobs break free, as the guards hook hands beneath her arms and haul her forward. The orderly is there again, wielding shears. Facing Matt, she is knelt to begin the process of having that freshly appeared hair removed. Matt presses the backs of his fingers to his lips, his eyes screwing up tighter. His own breath pulls in shakily, let back out in a sudden rush as the guards pull Nox forward to begin to shear her. "{Oh -- Jesus. Fuck --} Stop. Can't you. Just give her a fucking /minute/. This isn't exactly -- have some compassion." His teeth press down against the back of his hand; when he drops his hand to his lap there are neat little half-moon bite marks dimpled into the skin. He doesn't attempt /standing/ this time, just sinks down from his seat, slumping out of the chair to a kneeling position on the ground in front of Nox, very /tentatively/ reaching a hand out to try and touch fingertips to her arm. "We're not dead yet." As the staff continue their preparations, it is clear that they cannot give her a minute. The orderly is the only one who hesitates, the shears pausing above Nox's head--and then returning to snipping hanks off when the surgeon raises an eyebrow at him. At the table, a nurse is conferring with the anaethesiologist; two others are checking and rechecking the trays; another is pushing buttons on a small tablet, standing beside a tray with a plexiglas box. The chip is inside, waiting. The touch sees Nox reacting by reaching for his hand. Her fingers are cold, clammy but with a crushing strength in them--she is unaccustomed to /gripping/ with /flesh/. Above the pair, the surgeon observes intently but keeps his silence. Not so the no-longer-shadow woman. Through the tears, which continue without abatement--or wiping away, because clinging--she blubbers, "Not dead. Here. Dead everywhere else. Oh, Matthieu. How..." Finally she remembers to sniff wetly, clearing heretofore unused passages, her eyes rolling around the room to survey what surrounds them. "You were here?" Matt's hand squeezes back, warmer and dryer and less strong in his return grip. He does lift his other hand, knuckles brushing away tears from Nox's pale cheeks; his eyes linger on hers long and with a faintly disconcerted tinge of /puzzled/ that he has to shake away as he adjusts to the brown colour there. "I've been here. When did they -- how long have /you/ --" His eyes slip away, tracking back over to the chip resting in its box. In Nox's hand, his trembles. "Not dead yet," he agrees, a little more dully, "but I'm going to help them kill you. Oh, God. You can't be here --" His hand stays in hers, though he's rocking back to sit on his heels heavily, shoulders slumping. His eyes drop down to his knees, lifting again a moment later to look back to that chip with another shudder. His gaze slips around the room afterwards, his other hand lifting to press to his temple with a small pained wince. There's a very faint /slip/ of his powers, a tiny breath of Nox's true nature easing back in before he stops rubbing at his temple and drops his hand back to his lap, shadows dampening again. "... How long have you been here?" "No one is going to die," the surgeon smoothly interrupts before Nox can answer. She flinches, shrinking back enough to almost connect with the orderly. His snipping and shearing pauses again, that pale drift of hair ceasing to sprinkle her shoulders. Almost gently, he nudges a knee forward to set her upright again. The surgeon ignores the exchange. "Provided, of course, that Mr. Tessier retains his control of the young lady. It is a very delicate operation. As he well knows." The shudder that goes through Nox travels through her arm and into Matt's, her hand clutching and relaxing in shaky procession. It is not the talk of death that seems to upset her again--or the chip sighted when she follows his gaze--but that brief pulse of shadow inside of her head. For that, she whimpers and locks teary eyes to emerald. Control. Without the fog layered over her thoughts, she's able to grope for a response that might help maintain it. Should help? Hopefully will help. "Look at me, Matt," she whispers, by choice now rather than necessity. "Look at me. Just me. I do not keep time. There is now and you are here, you are alive. I thought you were dead but you are alive and not alone. You are we now." Behind her, the orderly sets the shears aside. The clippers snap and then buzz into life. Her head dips under its pressure, the sure and firm strokes that work to reduce her to baldness again. But she keeps her eyes on his, blinking away the water collected there to keep her vision clear. The puzzlement in Matt's expression only grows at that whimper, his hand curling tighter into Nox's. "... You want this?" His other hand scrunches fingers against his scrub pants, head giving a small shake. "They take -- everything. Who you /are/. It's not the powers, it's this whole place, just." He swallows at Nox's words, blinking once hard. His thumb brushes against the backs of her knuckles, gaze tearing away from hers to look down at their joined hands. "Luci's alone. If he thinks I'm dead and he thinks /you're/ dead now --" The colour is draining from his face. "{I can't do this,}" is in a sudden agitated-teary spill of French, rapid in the panicked-quick mode of one well used to sudden outbursts being suddenly shut /down/, "{you're strong I could /make/ you /so strong/ stronger than them you could go /home/ you could /be/. Alive.}" The guards might not understand Matt's French but there is something about his manner that sees one of them unholstering the flashlight again. The other, who'd never put his away, clicks it on. But before he can step forward to hold it on Nox--he seems to be aiming for her temple--the surgeon lifts a single elegant finger. Wait. He is observing with /interest/. The orderly has finished the buzz cut. He quickly steps back, away from the kneeling pair. And Nox. Sweet, gentle Nox. She blanches, hearing the words that spill from Matt's lips. Her response is immediate: she too lifts a finger to rest it against his mouth. Shh. Shhhh. "No. No, Matthieu. Please. No." No one protests when she all but falls forward to collide with him, his hand released so she can work one arm around his neck. The other curls beneath his arm, around his ribs. "{I will not be that person anymore.}" Something in the surgeon's expression relaxes. He gestures. The nurses move forward. Matt's eyes widen, a stifled noise of protest muffled against Nox's lips. He wilts forward into the hug, his arms lifting to wrap back around hers, tight as his head tips forward against her shoulder. His head twitches in a small sneeze with the stray wisps of shaved hair scattered around her, breathing uneven afterwards as now it's /his/ eyes wet with tears. His words, at least, are calmer when he finally speaks, soft and hitched but not panicked. "{But who are you going to be? Here they don't exactly -- make you into. Anyone --}" His palms press against her back, head twitching again in another stifled sneeze. He just finishes this sentence without real descriptor: "{Anyone. They only tear you down. The world's done so much of that, I don't want to... }" But he just trails off, hugging Nox tightly against him. "{You are not torn down. Not broken. Not you, no, shhh.} For once, Nox has actual strength to put into a hug. Wracked by fear and grief she might be but she channels these things into holding Matt close--even more tightly, when he sneezes, as if she worries he might shake himself loose. Or that she will be seized and pulled away from him, as the medical staff closes around them. "Shhh, shh. No. No tears from you, please," she murmurs near his ear. "This is not your fault. None of this is your fault. This is mine. My choices, to here. I did not need /their/ help for that, Matthieu. What comes after whatever they plan for me..." Her head turns just enough to press cool lips to his temple. The novelty of such a thing should delight; the way her heart is racing, her stomach clenching, do not allow that emotion. "{Do not let them hurt you for me, do not.}" For some reason the surgeon has allowed all of this. Listening closely still, exchanging a look with the head nurse and then nodding to her. Only at that signal do they finally lay hands on Nox. Nox, not Matt. The guards are there as well, so many hands, and she twists against them, reluctant to let the young man go. Her thrashing is pointless--there is a gurney waiting for her, and the anaesthesiologist with a plastic mask in hand. Matt's fingers scrunch inward, curling into Nox's gown as his lips press against her collarbone, not kiss so much as a simple steady contact. "{/After/.}" He repeats this word a little skeptically; it has no follow-up, though. Nox is being twisted away from him, and between her thrashing and his clinging grip it does immodest things to the loose light hospital gown. Hospitals have never been places for privacy and Prometheus less than most but even so he drops his hands sharply, drops his eyes sharply, palms eventually lifting to scrub down his cheeks in time with a shaky rough exhale. He starts to push his way back into his chair but then just sinks down again onto the floor where he is, hugging his knees against his chest. His eyes eventually lift, fixing not on Nox or the plastic mask or the thrashing but on the chip in its holder. His elbows rest on his knees, one hand curling into a fist as the other slips the ring off his finger and tucks it into the pocket of his scrubs. He cups one hand over the other, jaw setting as he rests his chin atop his knuckles, pulling in one slow breath and then another; the bright glisten in his eyes no longer spills over as a steadier focus settles into him. It's a strange thing, this sense of fleshy clarity. Nox can think. She can feel air moving over her skin. Fingers pressing down hard on her arms, her ankles. All experiences she might have marveled at on any other day. On this one, she keeps her eyes locked to Matt's as she's lifted and then stretched supine on the gurney. The team is moving quickly now, well oiled, smooth and efficient--while the woman gazes across the room, hardly blinking, they are stripping and brushing her off, rinsing, adjusting, strapping her down. The surgeon remains by Matt. While his people work, he says, "Orderly," and that man steps up without needing to be told what to do. The intention is to see Matt back into his chair, assisting if possible, lifting bodily if needed. As that is done, the doctor looks down at his charge. Contemplative in that moment. When he speaks again, it's to quietly say--in functional if inelegant French-- "{Would you like to come in with her and hold her hand through the procedure?}" Matt moves, when the orderly steps to him, unfolding slow and stiff to rest one hand on the man's arm for balance as he shifts back into his chair and settles there. His hands curl slowly into tighter fists as the surgeon speaks, nostrils flaring when he pulls in a very slow breath. He tips his eyes up towards the ceiling, locking there a long moment. "{Some days I really want to understand why you all do what you do,}" he answers, fingers uncurling to smooth at the light fabric of his scrubs. "{But other days I just want to stab every one of you in the eyes.}" His own eyes finally shift back to Nox, his tongue running to wet dry-chapped lips. "Yeah." His gaze doesn't leave her face; something in his expression twinges, very akin to disgust, when he tacks on after this: "{-- Thank you.}" The orderly lets his hand rest overlong on Matt's shoulder. Perhaps there is a gentle squeeze before he withdraws to take up position behind the chair; the man is probably not long for his job, with slips like that one. "Perhaps you might be able to reconcile those feelings if you were willing to speak with one of our psychologists. Something to consider." The doctor leaves it at that. He still has to scrub in, a process that will take some time. He strides off to handle that detail and leaves the others to their tasks. Undoing the brake, the orderly moves the chair smoothly towards the gurney without hesitating for things like...nurses. They part for the intrusion. They have to. But their work goes on. One of them has an IV in Nox's left arm, secured with board and tape. Another has the intubation tray prepared. A third continues tapping at the chip control tablet. Nox ignores them, slipping her right hand to the side within the loose cuff attached to her wrist. Her fingers stretch for Matt. "{They seem to know what they are doing,}" she observes with only a faint tremor of fear. More of it shows in her eyes, rendering that honeyed hue almost translucent. "{What is it? That they mean to do? You know.}" Matt's eyes flick up to the orderly, not exactly with a smile, this time, though there's a faint softening to the clenched tension in his jaw. Only briefly. It returns for the doctor's suggestion, his lips compressing and his hand lifting to pinch at the bridge of his nose in an expression very reminiscent of his younger brother. He drops his hand as he's wheeled over to the table, murmuring a quiet thanks -- this time with an actual smile, small and tight though it is -- to the orderly. He reaches for Nox's hand, curling his fingers around hers. His eyes have dried, steadier now when they meet hers. "{Yeah. They've done this a lot. Everyone who gets processed into here, they --}" He tips his chin towards the plexiglass, the chip inside. "{They put those chips into our brains. It's kind of like a leash. They monitor a lot of stuff through them, I think. Brain activity. But they can control us with them too. I don't know exactly how much. They've only used mine twice that way. I know they can shut our powers on and off. People say it's worse though. Like they can make you -- follow orders and things. Do whatever they want. I've heard some stories --.}" His lips press together, his head shaking as his hand squeezes hers a little more tightly. Someone clips a pulse-ox to Nox's finger, someone else slips sticky cardiac pads beneath her fresh gown to affix them to her chest. Other electrodes are being glued carefully to her head in a map only the technicians are likely to be able to read. One woman frowns at the pair, the only one to look at them, and that in disapproval for the /chattering/. Nox ignores her. She doesn't look away from Matt, not even to size up the chip. The squeeze he gives her is returned, gently. "{All the bad I have done I did by myself,}" she whispers--but that isn't meant for Matt to answer. Else she wouldn't move so quickly onto a different subject: "{...Lucien.}" There's a twinge in her expression, something felt deeply but quickly suppressed. "{He is not alone, Matthieu. He has the children with him. People who care.}" Matt is paying little attention to the routine bustling around the room, now, tuning it out as a process he's probably witnessed before. His expression twinges, too, tightening but then staying tightened with a press of lips and a squeeze around his eyes. "{He's always been alone. I mean, it was just us -- and then it was you. The rest of the world -- he's never been /good/ at it. But you he loved.}" He shakes his head, correcting this a moment later: "{Loves. Shit. You can't be dead.}" For that sentiment, Nox will squeeze Matt's hand again. For the first time she allows her eyes to close--they are burning, and small wonder as blinking is not a habitual response for her--but it's a brief respite. "{After you were gone, I...I was worse. It is like remembering dreams, how I behaved. I can see it now. I was not good to him. Losing you...but you are not dead either. Somehow...}" Whatever else she might have said is lost as the nurses finally opt to intrude. One gets her hip in between Matt and Nox, taking the woman's arm to press it back against the gurney's mattress. There's a second line to insert; a tourniquet goes on, and veins are thumped to the surface. The anaesthesiologist chooses that moment to step up. Something is hissing inside of the mask he presses to Nox's lower face, his other hand cupped beneath her head to keep it still. "Wait," she tries to say--but speaking requires breathing now, and a deep breath in means a larger dose of the initial anaesthetic. "{After what you'd been through --}" Matt hesitates, leaning down low in his chair so that he can reach Nox's knuckles where her hand is strapped down, brushing a kiss to the back of her hands. "{And he's not exactly good with people either, I don't imagine he was --}" But then there is an intruding nurse, and he leans back in his chair, eyes widening as he presses his back to the cushions. "No, wait --" This echoes Nox, his head shaking quickly. "{I don't know what it's going to be like -- it takes a while to wake up sometimes. But I'll find you. When I can -- when you're done -- if they. Let me --}" For a moment there's almost the ghost of a smile across his face. "{They have a lot of books.}" "{Books...}" Had she more time to prepare, Nox might have chosen better final words. But her eyelids have grown heavy, lowering against her will. As soon as they're shut, the orderly intervenes before the nurses can get to being /truly/ pushy. Matt is wheeled backwards, and the flock of green-clad medical professionals descend. She is rolled over, transferred from gurney to operating table, iodine-painted, draped, hidden away behind sterile coverings and a businesslike handling. But Matt isn't removed from the room. The surgeon, he of the cutting blades, said that Matt could stay and so he does. The doctor removes, anonymous in his mask and gown and gloves. He spares a brief level look for the young man before moving to the head of the table. His hand turns up and it begins. "Scalpel..."