ArchivedLogs:Scans
| Scans | |
|---|---|
| Dramatis Personae | 13 February 2014 Some initial results... |
| 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. At some point Hive was probably waiting in a waiting room. With no small amount of agitation, undoubtedly; that agitation has only increased since being brought back to the actual examination room. There have probably been /several/ occasions when Micah has needed to nudge Hive's grasping mind away from his, one or two when he's needed to be talked back down from impending panic, in between the nurse coming to take his vitals as he waits for the doctor to arrive. He's moved on -- for the moment, at least -- from panic attack to pacing. Restless. Back and forth, forth and back in the small room, fidgeting with the sleeves of his Grumpy Bear sweatshirt as his eyes dart ceaselessly around the room, lingering on the various medical accoutrements unhappily. Sharp mental claws are reaching out once more to start closing around Micah's mind. "How long do I have to wait?" It -- /might/ only have been five minutes or so. Who knows. Micah's massive pile of winter gear takes up an entire seat next to him, with his holstered snow-attachment crutches propped against the pile. He still wears a dark blue sweater with a robin's egg blue henley under it, heavy jeans with fleece lining, thick socks in a multicoloured polkadot pattern stuffed into boots, all layered-up for warmth. The extreme level of muss to his auburn hair reveals just how many times he's been fussing his fingers through it as they wait. "Hive, it might just be a few minutes." He nudges gently at those seeking claws again. "Y'wanna go through another cycle of breathin'? Might help take the edge off the nervousness a little." "I don't think I can breathe, man. This isn't -- getting --" Hive breaks off, hands lifting to scrunch up into his hair as his claws pull back. His fingers tremble, mussing at his own hair; he slumps back against the examination table but then jerks away from it like it's electrified. << Fuck. >> A heavy bludgeoning slam of a word. There's a quick rapping knock at the door. It opens shortly after, Rasheed's head sticking in. He's in a dress shirt, slacks, no tie. "Hive. Good morning. -- And Micah." His smile is very brief. "Apologies, we're a little bit short-staffed today." He closes the door behind himself as he heads inside, a folder tucked beneath one arm as he crosses over to take a seat on the stool in front of the computer. "How are you feeling, today?" "Hey. Hey, y'kinda have t'breathe honey. Required." Now that Hive has stopped his caged tiger pacing, Micah stands and goes over to him, moving to wrap an arm in a reassuring squeeze of the other man's shoulders...if he lets him. "I'm sure he'll be in soon. Takes a second t'move between patients an' have your files ready an' all." After which comes the knock and the arrival of Rasheed, as if on cue. "Mornin', Doctor." He cringes a little at the question posed to Hive. Hive draws in a breath. He doesn't let it back out again until he leans into the squeeze, exhaling shuddery-jerky like a sob. Not sobbing, though, just shaky-uneven as his hands drop from his hair. << fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck >> slams back into Micah's head in a sharp-panicked chorus as Rasheed enters, Hive's bony shoulders tensing hard. "Feel like shit," he answers, head shaking. "But I told the nurse all that already. Can we just --" He nods towards the folder in Rasheed's arm. "There was an email. That the scans -- can we just talk. About that part. I don't really do so great being back here long." Rasheed's mind is tranquil in a way that suggests he's had extensive practice /making/ it so, but there's a ripple of unease as Hive gestures towards the folder. A flicker of concern, of resignation, of -- "Of course." He sets the folder aside on the desk, swivelling on his stool to face the others. "Unfortunately, I don't yet have anything conclusive to tell you. The scans did show a mass -- besides the chip that is likely to be causing problems of its own -- but we're going to need to schedule a biopsy for you to be able to diagnose it conclusively and you can't get that done here." Micah wraps his other arm around Hive, a tight hug from standing behind the other man, so that he can be supported, but still speak face-to-face with Rasheed. He says nothing, splitting his attention between Hive and the doctor through the news. Which, when delivered, causes his arms to tighten around the telepath again, as if he needed to be held upright. After a longer silence, he asks, "Where would that need t'be done?" "Oh." Hive does manage to hold himself upright, though his shoulders tighten all over again, his breath shuddering inward in a harsh gasp through his teeth. His mental claws press outward, digging hard against Micah's mind, against Rasheed's, angry-sick-panicked in the echoed feelings they brush along with them. "I guess --" He's already looking towards the door. /Turning/ towards the door. "Should. Schedule that then. Can do that at reception?" "My clinic still works with Mount Sinai, I can help arrange for you to have the test done there. Hive, if you need a minute --" Rasheed stops, hand lifting to touch to his forehead at that sharp dig in against his mind, eyes squeezing shut and his breathing quickening. Reflexively he pushes back against it, head shaking. "Yes, they can -- help you, just let me --" His eyes squeeze shut harder. "Hive. This is." He's speaking through clenched teeth now. "A lot to take in. It's alright to. Take a minute to. Process." Simultaneously, Micah pulls Hive closer and nudges back at the clawing of the other man's mind. “He'll prob'ly process better...not in this room, t'be honest, Dr. Toure. If there's anythin' y'need 'im t'know, that's fine. But...as for just bein' able t'/think/? It might be better for us t'go home.” He gives the doctor a vaguely apologetic look. Hive's claws withdraw, head bowing as he leans in against Micah. "Right. Right -- right. I'll, uh. Schedule that follow-up over the phone. Sorry about the --" He waves bony fingers towards Rasheed's head, stopping only long enough to collect his winter gear and let Micah collect his own before he takes off for the exit. On his stool, Rasheed just slumps against the desk, rubbing still at his forehead. /Well/. | |
