overjoyed_logs | open(ish) | things get lost, lost without a trace

( continued from here. )

[ Cheerfully, irrespective of Rhys's... everything, really: ]

Got it in one, did you?

[ Sort of. ]

You were in a quite a state, that much is true. Touch-and-go, I thought, for a bit there... Just for a bit.

[ But here they are. Kendry, fit as anything again, right? And Royce, standing across from him. Like any pair of no-longer-strangers might. If Rhys has been scanning him over the course of their acquaintanceship, he's taking the fact of their respective affiliations very well.

But who knows? Maybe Rhys Kendry is like that. Like... him. And doesn't mind. Doesn't care. That'd be refreshing. ]

Would've been nice if you'd been allowed to rest a little longer, though. But politics... hah. Politics don't wait for anybody, mm?

[ Wondering, probing. Had he been dragged to Qresh as well? ]

Edited 2017-03-08 21:35 (UTC)

You're telling me. [ Rhys scoffs a little and shake his head, arms crossed over his chest at the thought. He really would have liked a little longer to rest after the horror that had been hallucinating Jack's melting all over his room.

But taking time off and not working like he'd been so keen to insist upon was like telling his parents they'd won and he was going to give up on everything he'd set his mind to for the last few years. And that was so not going to happen. ]

It's fine though. I've got a clean bill of health and doesn't look like there's anything wrong with my cybernetics. They said it was some sort of brain...thing, where the information it was getting from the fever and stuff was so different from what my tech saw that it kind of imploded on itself. Pretty easy to just power it down until I got better.

[ It's funny because he is telling Rhys. With Arune's ascension, what had once been a small price to pay for being left in peace a majority of the time is quickly turning into a larger demand for his time than he'd like.

Not to mention way less interesting than Rhys's ailments. The alarming thing is he really means that.

He nods briefly, briskly, looking pleased with Rhys's summary of the situation. ]

There's a... structure. In your head. The signals, the visual signals, under normal circumstances they don't compete. They don't have to compete. But the brain especially, it's, well, it's delicate. A delicate edifice; not—temperamental, not that far, but delicate. Intricate, too, even before the tech. Fever that high, inflammation that great, why... no wonder, sure they'd get confused.

[ Royce smiles a bit as Rhys's phrasing really registers. ]

"Imploded," though, uh... let's not go that far, either. That's a whole 'nother set of problems there.

Edited 2017-03-13 20:10 (UTC)

Well--yeah okay not, not imploded, but y-you get what I meant. [ Rhys rolls his shoulders a little, fighting back a sheepish sort of grin. The conversation has an entirely different feel than his one with jack concerning about cybernetics, which is interesting. But then again any interaction with that man is...different.

Royce isn't the sheer annoying charisma and confidence, but there's definitely a social awkwardness to him Rhys doesn't find that offensive. Kind of like meeting someone you realize is a bigger nerd than you. ]

Complicated brain stuff, but it's all good now. Sorry if I was, uhh...weird at all. When that was happening. I was sort of hallucinating a lot of stuff I would reeeeally prefer to forget.

( continued from here. )

Well... yes.

[ Royce's eyebrows lift a little, like somehow incredulous that Steinbeck's incredulous. ]

I mean. Look at you. You're out of control, aren't you? Out of control.

[ And he hazards a step closer, palms up and fingers splayed in deference save for where his cigarette perches safely between them. ]

How systemic is it? How much of it is in you? How much of it—is you? I'll be perfectly honest with you, and say that I've, well now, I've never seen... anything, quite like this before. Buuuut, at least from where I'm standing... things aren't looking too good. You understand? Not very good at all.

[ With a small sigh, he lets the cig drop. Snuffs it out with a grind of his shoe. ]

Why not let me have a closer look?

Edited 2017-03-08 21:35 (UTC)

I'm perfectly in-

[He can't finish the sentence. Something looms in the corner of his eye, large and dark, slimy and full of dark voice-like holes, and Steinbeck twists his head with some inner stab of hope that it's there (hope? what an odd emotion to attribute to seeing such a monstrous thing). There's nothing there. Of course. The roots continue up his arm, distending his skin like pulsing veins.]

[He turns back to Royce, cursing under his breath. In any other case, he'd just pull out his knife and tell him to get lost. But he's vulnerable, he's sick, and his mind isn't all in one place. He feels like he's going insane.]

[Finally, he lets out a sigh. He shouldn't place his trust in a stranger like this, but he doesn't know what else to do. The vines from his wrist grow out, seeking hold on something, anything. But, before Royce approaches, Steinbeck has one request, said with a hiss:]

If you're going to yank it out of me, I'll kill you. Don't you dare.

[ Royce legit laughs at that—a short and faintly musical sound that ends on a weak cough—and shakes his head. ]

Oh... no, no, ha, no. No, not... Thaaaat'sss. Not. Not quite the plan.

[ Really, now. What is he, some sort of ape just tugging on strings? Mashing buttons, throwing feces? Please.

Ahhhh. Laymen.

Well. So to speak. ]

The fact alone that you came aaaall the way down off the mountain for this... But, anyway, come along, then. Come along, there ought to be a free room or two.

[ And off Royce starts, pausing only to peer over his shoulder and beckon Steinbeck to follow. ]

[Steinbeck almost has half a mind to tell the man to get a check-up himself. The smoking can't be doing his lungs any good.]

Still, I'm warning you. [His eyes narrow as he pushes himself off the wall, bidding his vines to wrap around his arm, forming a particularly strange and leafy sleeve.] And I didn't come here because of this. I'm here to help the people who are sick, I just...well, got caught in the damn crossfire, it seems.

[He's also here for RESISTANCE PURPOSES but like he's going to tell Royce that. With a sigh, he follows, hoping to his beloved Mother Tree that this man doesn't turn out to be some kind of serial killer or something.]

[ Oh yes, that's his nefarious plan. Lead the Scarback into the dark alley he's constructed inside the hospital for just such a purpose.

Royce politely holds the door for Steinbeck as they enter into a quiet wing of the building, empty save for the occasional patient with their escort and the low hum and clatter and beeping of instruments. Eventually Royce leads him to what appears to be a large exam room sealed off by double doors, one of which is stopped open; again he gestures for Steinbeck to head inside, gracious as ever. ]

Go on and have a seat. And tell me.

[ He looks over from where he's already firing up a tablet, gaze fixed on those undulating tendrils beneath Steinbeck's skin. ]

About you. About... that. Your—story. If you like.

[Steinbeck looks like a wild animal being introduced into a zoo exhibit - his eyes dart here and there, uncertain and paranoid of who might be paying attention to this strange duo that's just entered. He isn't like this, usually. Not when he's allowing himself to be half plant, at least.]

[He enters the room, obediently taking a seat (though he glowers at Royce the whole way). Having relaxed, the vines unwind from his arm, some seeking out holds on some of the equipment nearby.]

My story? What are you going to do, write a book about me? [He lets out a short, unamused laugh.] This is normal. For me, anyways. It's my way of being better connected to the Mother Tree. I did it to myself a year or so ago.

[He raises his other hand to wipe some of the sweat on his forehead.]

And that's all you need to know. This is my show of faith. It's not one I'd expect you to understand.

I realize that's quite true. There isn't any reason to expect it. But then I've been around rather more than you would expect, too. Why, I'll bet you don't even need hooks with those little numbers there, do you? That is, assuming they can support your entire body, am I right? Or is the point less the suspension at all, and more—enduring the pain?

[ The machines in the space hum to life rather like Royce does as he flits over to this console and that; after a moment or two he reapproaches Steinbeck, thrusting toward him a tablet PDD bundled with a hospital gown. ]

Buuut unfortunately, that's not all. That I need to know. Di...agnostically speaking. Why not fill out what you can? We'll tackle the rest later, no problem.

[ Having relinquished them, he immediately retreats behind the partition separating seat from equipment; lots of beep boops issue from the vicinity. ]

But no. Ha. No... No books here.

It's both. The suspension puts us in a position of balance, takes us away from standing on solid ground. And, of course, the pain elevates us to a spiritual plane, of sorts - to meditate on that pain, focus in on it, understand its depths...it's much more complicated than it seems.

[Steinbeck huffs. Sometimes, he finds explaining his religion a bit tiresome, since most people simply simmer it down to something exceedingly simple. It's almost annoying, but even so, he spreads the word like any good monk. His religion makes a large part of his being, his life, his essence. He can't just detach it from himself.]

Tch. [He sneers down at the tablet and hospital gown.]

You keep talking in circles, old man. What do you expect me to tell you? "Oh, I have a giant plant vine coming out of my arm, wow!" What other kind of diagnosis stuff is there?

[The vines curl in response to his annoyance, one even popping an IV bag hanging on a stand. The fluid drips down to the floor. Steinbeck doesn't care.]

[He'll start to pull off his robes, though, depositing them on a chair nearby before pulling on the gown. Ugh. He hates all of this.]

What are you even doing back there?

open(ish) | things get lost, lost without a trace

rhys | silo's genetic emporium | chapter 3

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steinbeck | leith | chapter 2

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