ArchivedLogs:Gordian Knot

Gordian Knot
Dramatis Personae Emma, Hive, Tag	2013-08-11 '
Location <NYC> La Quinta Inn - Lower East Side
Soft beiges and wood tones make up the rooms at La Quinta Inns all over the United States. Vaguely interesting prints of pineapples line the walls, while thick striped bed skirts catch the eye the most in these rather uniform and bland rooms. In this particular room, there is a king sized bed, a couch with a small coffee table, with two pseudo-wingback armchairs standing in attendance at the oval, dark oak, in the same livery as the couch. There is a long, short dresser and a desk with a mirror on the wall behind it, all in the same rich wood. The sheer curtains are drawn, letting in a little natural light while giving the occupants privacy, but the true light dampening curtains remain bunched up at the sides of the window. The lights are on, adding an amber glow to the brown palate. The bathroom provides a reprieve from the warmth of the rest of the suite, the floor as stark white as the fluorescents that light the room. The towels smell of chlorine bleach and are whiter than most people's dental work. The curtain, while a standard beige, does not overpower in this light, appearing to match the light tan wall tiles. There is a bathtub (standard, smallish, economic) with a shower head. Two sinks span the countertop under a large, impressive mirror, perfect for fixing one's appearance after a meager night's sleep in a foreign bed. A small stand with complimentary coffee packets waits by the bathroom door, a coffee pot nearby, waiting to brew the dark glory for its occupants. The room has been paid for. Someone was hired for that. They purchased the room and used a pseudonym that will lead to the tightest sealed lips that money can buy. It's a dead end. That dead end sent one electronic key to Emma Frost. The other was sent to Hive for himself and his friend, with a postit note on it, noting the room and the time to meet. Upon arrival at the hotel, it may or may not be obvious that this room is in a section of the hallway where there are no video cameras for the hotel's security. The room is not specifically requisitioned for Hellfire at all times; it is used by several organizations for their more secretive rendezvous. Emma carves out a good portion of her Sunday to devote to this endeavour, having arrived very early so as to not be anywhere near the entrance when her guests come in. She has ordered room service, tipping the waiter heavily and leaving him with absolutely no memory of who was there. She is now stretched out on the bed, every bit of the bedding tucked in and secure, reading her tablet and sipping from a cup of coffee, the desk covered with the sad dishes that follow one meal, plus two others, still covered by metal bowls, awaiting the others to dig in. Hive arrives on time, with his companion in tow, a little rumpled, a little sweaty from the not-too-long but not /short/ walk from the East Village. Outside of work hours he looks even /more/ casual than his normal construction gear, sneakers held together with duct tape, cargo shorts fraying in places. Black t-shirt with a picture of a Death Star reading, 'Ceci n'est pas une lune' beneath it. His mind is visible before /he/ is; even in the few days between this meeting and his last with Emma, it has grown to incorporate a few more people into its quite background bustle. There's a sense, somewhere in the white noise, of urgency; some part of Hive's mind is /very/ focused right now, though on something far removed from the present circumstances. Above this, Hive -- a little more diffuse than he was before, a little less himself. Which is probably good, really, on some level; a little less /grouchy/, a little less prickly. The electronic lock clicks open; he holds the door for Tag after he's entered himself. There's a distinct glassiness to his expression, eyes not really /focused/ though his mind is sharply alert. << Emma, Tag. >> “... Tag. Emma Frost." The verbal introduction comes only after somewhat of a delay. Tag trails in Hive's wake, fidgeting with a neon rainbow cat's cradle. He wears a blue shirt with 'BAD WOLF' scrawled in white across the chest, a knee-length black pleated skirt, and blue canvas sneakers. His hair, washed and combed but still long enough to cover most of his face, is deep purple laced with orange and red like a fiery sunset. He looks more together--and more androgynous--then usual. "Hello, Ms Frost." Tag bows deeply, his curtain of hair parting just enough when he straightens back up to reveal gold-amber eyes set in a face drawn and pale as if from long illness. Those eyes flick around the room, as much nervous as curious. His mind is largely preoccupied with free-floating concern, but there is a definite streak of fearful defiance as well as a running cycle of Buddhist mantras. Satisfied that the room is as prosaic as any hotel suite and that it would be untoward for him to improve upon it, Tag returns his attention to Emma, his specific anxiety about her growing more pronounced. He edges a little closer to Hive. << Hydra, >> Emma's presence moves to Hive's mind with the equivalent of a telepathic handshake, which turns to a slightly longer squeeze of the knuckles and a reaching of the other arm to place a hand at his proverbial elbow to demonstrate affection, or a desire to keep the contact for a little while longer -- her fascination with his changing brainscape and activity levels capturing her attention as she leans in psionically to look. << Your mind is fascinating. Ah, but I am supposed to look at your young friend today, aren't I? Forgive me. >> She backs away and keeps a more professional distance. As the pair enters, she looks up from her tablet, her eyes moving swiftly from the scruffy looking architect to the young androgynous one at his side. Her lips spread into a warm smile, but she does little to cross the room to Tag's side, sensing his discomfort. "Hello. I do prefer to meet people under better circumstances, but that can hardly be helped." Her legs slip off the surface of the bed, standing up and smoothing out the white skirt around her thighs. Her top, a nearly transparent cotton t-shirt with a bow at the left side of a wide neck, does little to provide warmth or modesty, leaving the latter task to the spaghetti strapped camisole underneath. "Now, you're nervous, that is only natural given what you have gone through, but you have brought with you a good friend, correct, one that is also psionically gifted, right?" Emma moves to the end of the bed, setting her tablet down on the desk a moment later, then lifting the tops on the dishes she has waiting for them. Inside are roast beef and cucumber finger sandwiches. "Would it be any comfort to you to know that your friend here could render me unconscious quickly - as soon as any untoward thought appeared in my mind?" << We're here for his mind, >> Hive agrees in his oddly echoing voice. << Ours will still be here after. >> Though in this there's a soft undertone thought of 'hopefully' that he does not /quite/ voice. He rests his hand briefly at the small of Tag's back when Tag draws closer, but then is pulling away to go drop into one of the armchairs. << Pulled you out of danger. No intention of leading you back /into/ it. >> He rests an elbow on the arm of the chair, his head dropping to prop his temple against his knuckles. He doesn't seem to notice the food, his mind more attuned to the other people in it than its trappings. "Not really," Tag says. "But I'm more afraid of what's in my head than of you. So..." He shrugs. His eyes follow Hive to the chair, and that other /general/ concern waxes again. Almost by reflex, he starts thinking about--penguins? Sliding on their bellies, diving into icy blue water, flying beneath the surface... He turns back to Emma, glances at the sandwiches. "I'm not hungry, thank you." This, at least, is the unvarnished truth. He pulls the cat's cradle taut and loops it over one slender wrist. "Thank you, though. I..." He does not actually know what he meant to say, but he does not avert his eyes, either, still studying Emma. "I understand. There actually may be potential booby traps, if you will, built in to keep you from seeking help too." Emma puts the lids back down on the plates and moves over to the couch, settling gently upon it, sliding one hand against her skirt to keep it in place as she sits. "I am going to ask your permission to look inside your mind and to alter it, Tag. Your friend here is going to monitor us both, but mostly I want him protecting your true self," << As I do not know you well, >> "and helping you feel safe." "Since no one requires sustenance, would you like to begin? Do I have your consent?" “Khh." Hive chuffs out a quiet breath at the mental image of penguins, and his fingers curl tighter into a fist, knuckles digging in at his temple. << S'not easy but fucking relax, man. This is shitty for you. Probably going to be shitty for you. Sorry. Not a lot of point in coming to a telepath to root through your brain and toss its garbage if you try to shut the door on them, though. >> His eyes are still glassy, unfocused, but his /mind/ focuses on Tag. << Not gonna let anyone fuck with you. >> << Alright, alright, >> Tag thinks. Then, with a deep breath, "Alright. I consent." The penguins vanish into the sapphire depths, leaving wakes of miniscule iridescent bubbles and only the vaguest suggestion of what they had concealed--wrenching fear not for his /own/ true self, but Hive's. But he lets it go now, and, so doing, sinks down on the couch beside Emma. With a practiced effort, he lets /everything/ go, even the Heart Sutra and the color critique of the room. This leaves his mind placid, its conceptual landscape marred only by the tangle of implanted instructions. Hua Yong left behind not just a few odd compulsions or inhibitions, but a whole mess of rules, ideals, and suggestions tied into cultural and familial identity. Whatever he lacked in pure telepathic virtuosity, he made up for in knowing which buttons to push. His handiwork is dizzying in its complexity, a Gordian Knot anchored in his victim's sense of self while attempting to twist it into the image he wanted: the obedient daughter who will pursue a career of use to herself, her family, and her community. All he lacked was enough time to carry through. << Fuck me, you didn't say it was a family member... >> Emma whispers in a hushed bit of frustration to Hive, << I am once again thankful that I am immune to my sisters' influence. >> She takes a deep breath and closes her eyes as she ventures further into Tag's mind, taking a lay of the land and attempting to mark foreign influence for later eradication, versus the more natural responses a person learns over time. << Okay, let's get to work. >> She broadcasts her thoughts so that both of her guests can understand her. << We need to start with some of the more pressing issues, try to get you more freedom and worry about things like career choices when we're not as stressed. >> She works her way through, still categorizing, mental fingers tripping over some of the compulsions as gently as possible to see what they are attached to, verifying first and foremost that cutting these ties will not lead to any internal bombs exploding. << You are both going to have to help me figure out what is most important to work on first. >> Hive's mind touches briefly against Tag's, at that trailing wake of bubbles, flitting against it and then away with a quiet sense of /puzzlement/, a vague feeling that the concept of Hive's True Self is not one that currently even registers in the strange amalgam that passes for his consciousness right now. He watches Emma's mind as she delves into Tag's. As he observes what she finds, he matches it up against his own mental picture of who Tag is, one compiled through a number of stretches of joining the other man's mind to his own; in answer to the request for help he offers this contrast, finding the places where Hua Yong's compulsions jar the most with the Tag he has come to know and highlighting them. << Father, >> he agrees, to Emma's frustration. << Is that a problem? >> To him this connection just registers as deeper betrayal, a relationship that should be there to help a child find and become their /own/ person twisted into suppressing Tag's identity instead. << I don't really know what's more important and what's less, >> Tag admits, suppressing an inwardly cringe at Emma's presence. << Besides, whatever I think right now must be influenced by...whatever Dad did to me. The only stuff I even noticed were things like 'Don't leave the room' and 'Speak to me only in Chinese'. >> Thinking about those compulsions highlights them in lurid green and scarlet. << When he visited me, he /talked/ about things while he made me eat. The importance of family, duty, tradition and shit like that. >> Tag's somewhat confused memories of his 'sessions' with Hua Yong surface. Despite his claim to not know what mattered, Tag keeps fixating on how his father addressed him: always Tsai-hong, never Tag; always daughter, never son. The recollection resonates with entire sections of programming, which pulse with the suggestion of sickly mauve light. << Hmmmm. >> Emma considers for a moment and then begins to wrap her mind around thing in particular that catches her attention. << Well, if you don't have a scale of things that are needing of immediate fixing, I'll choose something that stands out to me. >> Emma begins to tug at the compulsions to be an 'obedient daughter,' trying to untwist it from the sense of self and pull all of the foreign colored strands away from the whole, all the while watching Tag's health for serious spikes in tension or pain. She starts off slow and gentle, but it could still stir up a lot. << No, not really a problem - it's just, our families are so much better at getting under our skins, primarily due to time and exposure. It just may take longer. >> She speaks quietly to Hive, her voice distracted by her concentration. << Do the most damage sometimes when they're trying to help. >> There are memories here, summoned by this thought in Hive's mind, or at least /trying/ to be summoned; they never quite surface more out of a lack of /self/ there than out of any conscious effort at suppression. << Helpfully color-coded. >> Hive pays more attention, now, to how Emma works, focusing on the way she tugs and unwinds. The other voices under his are surfacing louder, here and there. A sharp stark rise of horror, quickly quashed, a restless agitation colored in vivid bright shades, an erratically blipping mental signature that Hive's mind curls around hardest in some futile reflexive effort at /protection/. A report of gunfire. An undercurrent thought: << Well, /fuck/. >> somewhere in the back of his mind. Tag grits his teeth and squeezes his eyes shut so tight that unnamed colors blossom in the darkness behind their lids. He is not in any physical pain, but unwinding Hua Yong's programming triggers a host of related memories, none of which are particularly pleasant. Most of them come in broken fragments, starting with some kind of defiance ending with some kind of corporal punishment. It is not a current rendition of Tag that notices the rising turmoil in Hive's presence, but a scrawny twelve-year-old, short hair jagged from a self-administered trim. Strikingly poor in color save for red welts on the backs of his hands, the boy pushes his way out of the gray memory that gave him shape. << What are you doing to him? >> The question is not directed at Emma, as such. Both the subject and the object seem to be Hive. << Minds have a type of... flavor, for lack of a better term. With practice, you can begin to tell what the difference between things that taste uniformly the same and what is from the outside, but it's still as hard as trying to find a single grain of pepper inside a mouth full of food and spit only that out. >> Emma offers to Hive as she continues pulling, enduring some of the flashes of memory with Tag, her own jaw setting against some of the faded memories of pain. After a more intense memory, she tries to encourage Tag. << These are all things you've already survived. You know the end of them. You can go through it again. Please just -- >> Emma's concentration lessens as gunfire and a young Tag capture her attention. << I'm not doing anything to him... >> she admits, confused, turning her attention instead to Hive. << My dear Hydra, are you okay? Is one of your many heads in danger? >> She is concerned, her presence offering to boost his well being in any way she can. << To who? >> Hive's answer to Tag comes blankly, uncomprehending. His attention sharpens, focus reorienting to the companions /physically/ present with him. << His mind is -- >> Hive turns over in his own mind his sense of Tag's consciousness, vivid-bright colors, vivid-bright /feelings/. Passionate, /com/passionate, governed frequently more by impulse than /prudence/, in his thoughts the flavor of Tag-mind comes out to a colorful fizzy soft drink effervescing in his mind. The dutiful-obedient-daughter does not quite /fit/ this mental picture. The word 'danger' registers now, sinking in through the focus on reconstructing Tag's self. << Always danger. >> That is his first answer, though after this he filters through the background noise, touching at this fearful mind, pressing gently back at that one. << Danger here, yes. >> This time the acknowledgment comes with a sudden /sick/ clench, a rising swell of nausea that he pushes back down to just focus on that continued blip-blip-blip. Filtering hazily through his consciousness there are many feelings; a sharp /terror/ (somewhere, far away, a truck is /hurtling/ over a cliff), a sharp savage hunger, a steady gritted determination. A flare of panic that cuts past the determination. An abrupt /quieting/ of many of the peripheral voices that hover not /in/ his network but around it. Hive swallows; his fingers have /clenched/ down hard against the arms of his chair. << … always danger, >> comes again, softer; his expression is more vacant still, but his mind closes in more /firmly/ against Tag's in a sudden protective -- hovering. << But not here. Not now. >> He almost seems to be reminding /himself/ of this. << Not you... >> Tag addresses this to Emma--or tries to, for he cannot localize her presence in his mind. << Hive. What are you doing to...you? >> "{What have you done to yourself?} Hua Yong's voice roars. It is hard to pinpoint the memory from which this originates. Young Tag flinches away from the question. << Is /he/ here? >> Fear descends, bone white, over the technicolor mindscape, followed closely by the cutting black wind of rage. Even before his body moves, Tag's consciousness is casting around for the quickest way to /hurt himself/--not because he wants to, but because it helps keep his father out. The boy who once was Tag is reabsorbed by the memory from whence he came--back into the thick of his father's fury, his siblings' terror, his mother's silence. But he looks back out at the present one more time, eyes fixed on the middle distance. << We won't let him hurt you. >> It is hard to say whether this is addressed to his young siblings, his older self, to Emma, or to Hive. Formless, shimmering like aurora, Tag's consciousness calms under Hive's mental embrace. << I know. I'm okay. Or I will be. >> Emma's face takes on a deep frown, her hands rising to her temples, the movement used to help her concentrate rather than rub away pain. Her eyes remain closed as she pushes on, spurred by Hive's comfort and the calmness it produces. She yanks the threads of 'dutiful daughter' out and move on to the next flared up foreign string, applying more pressure this time as she unwinds it, taking out more of the roots of the Gordian knot, rather than attacking it directly. << I won't let him hurt you either, Tag. Focus on what I'm doing, get the feel for it. The more you can help me tear this out, the more you'll be able to resist in the future. Your own mind is still that - yours. >> It is, after all, aggressive psionic defense she is teaching here. << Not here. >> Hive's assurance comes as soon as Tag's fear begins to rise. << We're not -- doing anything. >> These words are reluctant, unhappy with all the things he is /watching/ and not assisting in. << Not doing. Only listening. >> There's an enormous world of pain buried underneath Hive's words, but it's muted, walled off by a careful barricading of all the other-minds that surge beneath his. /Hive's/ own mind is just growing in concern, trying not to focus on this pain but watching it closely anyway. Somewhere nearby, that hungry feral mind is getting louder, ravenous; at the edges of Hive's consciousness it prickles in an uncomfortably alien thirst for blood. Hive's fingers still clench down against the seat. His eyes are unfocused ahead of him, fixed on no point in particular. His mind is listening carefully to Emma's words, watching carefully as she uproots the knotted threads. Tag's body nods, though he remains ill at ease, convinced that something has gone terribly wrong out there. In his mind this manifests as a brief and subtle brightening and dimming of every color,. << I don't know how to--take hold of this stuff. I don't have /hands/ in here. Can I just... >> He does not fully articulate this thought, but demonstrates it on the mustard yellow thread that bids him to 'abandon sexual deviance'. A pulse of light travels down the snarled length of the instruction until it reaches the anchor point--a culturally imprinted inclination toward modesty. There it remains for a moment, and when it fades the two threads are separate, severed at their point of contact. << Unweaving them is very helpful, because then your friend Hive here can pull on them when he is calm and gentle. It'll be good practice for him. >> Emma might be annoyed, but all the feedback she is hearing in Hive's mind keeps her frustration with his lack of concentration at bay. Instead, there is a wedge of concern and curiosity welling up inside her, something she pushes away to give Tag her full attention. She starts working more quickly, yanking out the yellow restraint now that it is freed from the more ingrained cultural modesty. << Keep up the good work, Tag. This will give memories of /him/ less to hold onto as well. >> << You have hands in there. They're just -- not made of meat. >> Hive's thoughts follow that pulse of light, travelling back along it and watching as it separates the threads. He nudges, not freeing any of the additional threads but gently tugging at one nudging Tag towards a Proper Career. << Try here? >> The mental walls in his own multi-layered consciousness are shoring up stronger, a very /determined/ attempt to keep the panic and worry and pain at bay. Hands, rendered in every artistic style Tag can summon at a moment's notice, emerge from the many-colored mindspace around the soothing blue of 'Proper Career', grasping at it without rhythm or purpose. << Gah! >> They quickly fade away. << Uh, maybe not quite like that. >> He approaches the thread more cautiously this time, the prismatic mist of his consciousness growing denser, even opaque in areas--less like hands and more like a mass of tentacles, but effective all the same. They grasp the intruding instruction and gather it, tugging and wrenching until it snaps free from Tag's love of helping people. Tag flinches, sucking in a sharp breath. << Ouch. I'm not good at this. >> << No one expects you to be good at it on your first try -- >> Emma begins, following the other two's progress through the young man's mind, << but you're showing an immense amount of beginner's skill. I believe you have a strong sense of identity, despite what has been done to you. >> She turns her attention on the larger knot, starting to pull some of the severed ends out as best she can, wiggling them out from the mess of feelings and experiences, causing them to dissipate in effervescent bubbles when she gets one free. << Keep working, the more you two help, the healthier your mind and the more you'll be able to watch his back in the future. >> << Not an easy thing to be good at. You're doing alright. >> Hive's voice sounds more distant, still, but despite the weird dissonance of echoes that he speaks in, his attention is still focused on Tag. On Emma, as she pulls tree the loosened ends of knot. His mind flexes outward through Tag's, pressing here and there and at last at a strong compulsion towards obedience, tap-tapping at it in a slightly uncomfortable /prickle/ of awareness to highlight the strand that does not belong. Tag's attention focuses on the taproot Hive points out, wrapping it in a luminous halo. It was hard to spot before because it does not seem to hold a single color--that is, Tag's color-coding faculty is unable to assign it a single color, and so it looks uncomfortably like every color at once. << /Everything/ attached to this one. >> This thought, though tinged with revulsion, carries a hint of amazement and curiosity, too. Rainbow tendrils pull on it, and the entire mass shifts ominously. << Awesome. So we just /rip/ this out, right? >> He pulls on it harder, but is unable to dislodge it even from a single anchor point. Emma draws in a deep breath, the concentration starting to wear on her, but she continues. << You're doing a very, very good job, >> she remarks to Tag, but there's some encouragement directed at Hive, her concern still evident. She moves in beside the young man and wraps herself around that colorful root and pauses, waiting to see how it reacts. << if this is the core of it all, this will be the most painful. I'll go slow, but persevere as much as you can, okay? >> That said, she begins to pull, focusing a wealth of strength into a single pincer that grasps and pulls, not letting up the pressure at all, but smoothly wiggling it out - out and away from all the other parts of Tag. << Like tearing off a bandaid. But more satisfying. >> Hive presses, a quiet encouragement for Tag as he tugs at that complex strand. When Emma starts to pull instead, his strong mental grip loosens, shifts, turns instead into a cupping platform to curl around Tag in a bolstering support rather than his usual pincering /grip/. Tag emits an inarticulate thought of distress as the taproot begins to pull loose. << You know, this is why I never use bandaids. >> He unwinds his tendrils from the intruder and lets Emma handle it. << I want it out, though. Who knows what it'll grow into otherwise. >> A clip from /Little Shop of Horrors/ flickers through his mind: 'Feed me, Seymour!' He brace himself against Hive's presence. Emma's grip pulls the root of the command out, the slow and steady pressure making sure that it is pulled out cleanly, leaving nothing behind. She keeps a good grip on it, despite when it is free, then starts pulling it away from the rest knot, pulling each and every little connection loose, carefully. Hive settles in, a little more heavily in the supportive /lean/ of his mental presence; not sinking fingers in to Tag in his usual reflexive intrusion but just -- being. Watching, as the knot comes loose, with a sense of relief that is /refreshing/ against his other backdrop of pain and anxiety and worry. << Thank you, >> he murmurs to Emma, << there's no way we could have done that ourself. >> 'Obedience' begins unraveling as it comes loose under Emma's skillful manipulation. The rainbow mist that is the /rest/ of Tag's mind fluctuates, the parts not fabricated by his father's telepathic influence, shudder and fluctuate as the remainder of the alien instructions start to disintegrate. Many smaller strands of instructions remain, but they are damaged and easy to spot. Tag recoils. He would like nothing better at the moment than to disappear into himself. It seems disturbingly plausible, at that. Instead, he just clings to Hive and tries to let it happen--whatever /it/ is. << Is that it? Is it all gone? >> Emma exhales moodily as she pulls back, looking at Tag's brain as a whole before backing off entirely. "There... That should help." And then, she's rubbing at her eye sockets and temples alternatingly, trying to alleviate some tension. "That is all I can do for now. There are going to be some ticks, some odd feelings for a little while like you /should/ be doing what you were programmed to do, but it will go away when you decide it does." She leans back in the corner of the couch and cracks her eyes open to look over at Hive, taking in his posture. << and you, Hydra? How fare your other heads? >> << Gone enough that you can shake the rest off. >> Hive slumps back in his chair, head still resting against his curled knuckles. << Alive. >> Slowly, gradually, his eyes refocus on Emma. << S'all we can ask right now. You need some -- water? Tylenol? >> Tag opens his eyes and blinks at the light. He opens his mouth experimentally, and all that comes out is "Erg..." << Thank you, >> he thinks quite deliberately, the way non-telepaths do when they are trying to say something with their brains. << Both of you. I don't really think it is even possible for me to repay you. But if it were, I would. >> He stretches, then stares at the wrist with the colorful cord wrapped around it, as if he cannot quite reconcile with it being his own arm. "Everything looks funny," he says, and is taken aback by the sound of his own physical voice. << Right. Definitely /odd/. But I'll take odd over brainwashed any day. >> << Painkillers might be in order. >> Emma admits, her own gaze a little unfocused after the ordeal. "It's like trying to thread needles all day - feels like my eyes will not uncross." She slants her gaze back over at Tag, a small smile pulling at her lips. "You're welcome. Just - go out there and life your life however you want - stick it to your father that way." << Might have a thing against overbearing fathers, >> she admits wetting her lips. "And if you two still aren't hungry, you can leave the trays of sandwiches with me." << Erg, >> Hive agrees with Tag. << That's about where we are, too. >> He is slow to move, pushing himself up stiffly out of the chair. << You should eat. You should /both/ eat. We're going to grab you some -- drugs. Back in two minutes. >> His hands shove into his pockets as he starts for the door. << It's an understandable thing to have. >> His mind touches lightly against Emma's at that last comment, and then he opens the door, taking his chorus of minds with him on search for painkillers.