ScoundrelQueen

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Ranch House, Ashlands

"Use that brain of yours," Drake said.

And God, was Larke trying.

It made sense for the younger man to be with the Wanderers; he had been in prison for terrorist affiliation. But where had he been? And.. The mentalist. But Larke had no reason to believe she was alone. Drake had no reason to tell the truth about that; perhaps no motive to lie, either. She had refused to invade Larke's mind without his consent, but Helena was sick and Oren was dying....

And Drake had been treated horribly in captivity. But children were not treated the same as prisoners. Helena's father was in a position of power, and her mother had been... And they had killed Oren. Oren was dead in some hole.

He blinked hard, mouth hanging slack as he watched Drake look back at something beyond his own field of vision: A camera? A sniper? A clock? There was nobody in his head- It was too disorganized, too swimming to have been construct... Or was that the construct? . In a few more days, maybe, this would make sense: When his head was less full and his healing factor less exhausted and his eyes less swollen. 'This,' he thought with fleeting clarity, 'must be what it feels like to be broken.'

Which had to mean that they were ready to use him. To recruit? To brainwash? They grew their numbers somehow- And he was never leaving this attic alive, if things went on as they had been. He had to get down, and there were only so many ways.

Larke swallowed, and his throat stuck together with dusty attic air. He hacked once more, and looked up to lock eyes with Drake.

"Okay, kid," he rasped. The scrutiny faded, and his gaze did not falter. "I'm listening to-"

There was a smell of citrus, and then a fresh spike to the pain in his head. Someone was yelling. His hearing came in and out and he caught a few sparse words in between a screaming buzzing. The floor fell out from beneath him. His skin prickled with goosebumps as a chill enveloped his body. He lurched to the right as his balance took a dive in the opposite direction, his wrists catching against the ropes binding him to the roof beam.

His fever spiked. Anyone but a healer would have died days ago.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Capital Base, Liberty

Beretta took the glass that was offered, trying her best to look... however she thought an Agent ought to look. Canvas said she should try and have fun, and it would be a lie to claim that the near-glistening, pale-pink liqueur in her glass did not look fun. She wafted it under her nose and swirled it in it flute, as she had done with her glass of juice in etiquette training. It smelled sweetish- flowery and soft with an underlying smell she could not place. A bit like bread? Perhaps, but not quite.

It made her nose crinkle, but she sniffed it again.

Mayday did not look happy about having to drink, which said that she should not be happy either. But Riza and Canvas were not concerned, and that encouraged her. She took Mayday's free hand in hers and gave it a squeeze. She did not know if it put him at ease, but it certainly made her feel better to have something to hold onto as she raised her glass. "Cheers, yes." she replied to Riza, settling on a smile for the occasion.

She drew the flute to her lips and swallowed a sip. It was dry, but cool, and crisp- A strange but not unpleasant flavor. She took another, noting the warmth of it as it settled in her gut. It was not as horrible as she had been expecting; odd, but not awful.

Mayday's glass was empty. Riza's was not.

"Is there a reason for to drinking these first...?" A softness was settling into her joints, making them feel looser, like after a good drill and cool down. "Because there are the... The shots? For drinking all at once. And then the wine and the... the beers..?" she trailed off, glancing down at her shoes before looking back to Canvas. "Which what are you liking the most?"

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

"You're serious?" Commander Botrelle asked, locking eyes with one Alchemist Sairan as others issued protest. "You're serious, Achemist?" He did not care that she had tried to conceal his statement prior, and now several field ops, as well as their visitor were waiting in outrage to see how things were handled under her lead.

Botrelle would handle them.

Her rouge lips turned down into a scowl, and she pushed back from the table to stand. "Who here knows about this?" she demanded, her shining red nails drumming against the table. She looked from Commander Green to Alchemist Johnson, over to Kora, and back to Sairan. He was standing in for one Commander Zaide, a department head who was nowhere to be seen this morning. "Has anyone heard of this from Zaide? Or anyone else, for that matter?" Perhaps Zaide was trying to shirk away from picking up Green's slack- but it did not matter. His employee had caused a stir, and it was a stir among people she had no intention of silencing.

She swallowed, and shot a shallow smile toward Green. "I'm afraid I'l have to ask you to conduct the remainder of this meeting, Commander. Pardon us." She smoothed her skirt down against her slender form and headed for the door with her things in hand, waving over one shoulder with a curt gesture. "Knights Norrevinter and D. Elcove, would you kindly escort Alchemist Sairan down the hall to my office? I wish to have a further discussion regarding his reports."

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Ranch House, Ashlands

Names and reasons and misplaced kindness came pouring from Drake's mouth, and Larke just stared. He did not have the energy to pull away from the coolness of the boy's hand, but it certainly crossed his mind.

This was a new tactic- And how was he supposed to know if someone was in his head? Or an illusion?

There was hope, and there were facts. Larke had never had a good gut instinct for people; he was too soft, and too willing to trust. It hadn't gotten him far, and now this... This trick was too much to swallow.

"I wish you were real, Kid," he said, his voice weak. "I really, really do. But it's not real. And I've got nothing to say that I haven't already-" He broke off, body shaking as he coughed again at the dryness in his throat.

Oren was dead- he had not seen or heard from her in over a week. They had stopped using her as an incentive, possibly because he had run out of useful things to offer them. Helena was likely suffering from her ailment. Nobody was coming to let them go anytime soon.

"Kill me if you're gonna kill me. But let Helena go home, if she's alive. "

---

"Easy," said Mina, working through a more difficult section to slice through. "I'm nearly done with the worst of it, now. Nobody else is gonna come at you as long as I'm down here, alright?" The diseased flesh was so damaged that it hardly bled where she sliced, instead weeping yellow or cloudy-clear fluid along the open edges. She dabbed at the open wounds with a bit of gauze, clearing away the ooze before continuing to chip away at the rot.

Most of the cutting was done by the time Dawn came in with her bucket and rack. "Thank you," she said, casting aside her gloves to rifle through her bag and pull out a flat plastic pack wrapped in sterile wrap. She ran over her hands with the light once more, opened the wrapping, and snapped a small bar of powder inside of it. She submerged it into the water Dawn had brought, the bag inflating from its nozzle first. The water turned bright blue, at first, and faded to clear after Mina withdrew it and sloshed the contents about. "If you've got somewhere to be, go," Mina said, her tone curt. She hung the bag from the rack, withdrew a pack of tubing and an IV needle, and began setting up the required treatment.

"Last needle, I promise," she told Oren as she pricked her veins one last time. A few more adjustments to the tube, and the sterilized saline began to drip into her veins. "That should bring you around in a bit. Don't fiddle with it." Mina taped the needle to her arm, sterilized her hands once more, and began placing gauze over the worst of the open wounds. Where there was enough skin to stitch, she stitched.

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Cyrus's Bus, Ashlands

Dog was a good dog, and she was teaching Jimmy how to be a good dog, too:

He could chew through tough meat, howl like a wolf, and even burry his own poo in the bushes, when he had to. When birds came by to try and steal their food, he barked at them. When squirrels came, he chased them all the way over to Dog's hiding spot. He liked being wild- doing what he wanted, and staying up late, and nobody making him brush his teeth.

Dog was teaching him a lot about being a good Dog.

But he was starting to understand, or at least as much as a four-year-old could understand, that he was not becoming a good boy. He was forgetting his numbers, his recitations, and sometimes, when he was laying down to bed, he could not remember what Mommy's voice sounded like.

Mommy.

Dog was not a bad dog, but she was not Mommy. She did not know any of the songs that Mommy sang at night, and when he fell down, Dog did not know how to kiss it better right. The food she brought was tough to bite, and the plants tasted funny: She did not boil them or grind them down with water to make into "Repas." They ate a lot of peanut butter, when they found it, but that was not Mommy-cooked food. That was "Elli is here with you while Mommy is busy please listen to him" food.

Jimmy held on to Dog, his little fists clutching her shirt while his face was leaned against her shoulder. The morning sun was just coming up, and he was tired- They had walked all night, for a long, long time, across a very far place. He had ridden on her back for a bit, but now, too sleepy to hold on, he clung to her side. She said they were meeting her brother, and as they approached a bus, he held onto the bleary-eyed hope that her dog-brother knew someone who could drive them home to Mommy and Elli.

But, as they came upon the door, he hid his face in Dog's hair.

Her "brother" did not seem nice.

In fact, something was quite wrong about him.

"Pssst, Doggie," Jimmy whispered, "Him's not a doggie."

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Erubesco, The Citadel

Commander Botrelle nodded as Commander Green spoke. His requests were not unreasonable, and Red Queen was a strong priority, from her understanding. That being said, it was regrettable that he had managed his personnel so poorly that he would now be requesting transfers from other departments. Already, she was forming a mental list of those under her she would be placing under a transfer hold; unlike her peer, she knew the value of retaining reliable individuals.

Simon was near the top of her list. Kora, too- Though that was more to keep her friend away from a Commander who had historically tossed soldiers to their deaths without a second thought.

"I'm sure we can come to an arrangement regarding the dispersement of additional tasks when it comes time to address Red Queen," she replied, tapping away in her personal notes. People she could let go; tasks she was outright refusing to take on in her own department. "That being said, all departments tend to feel short-staffed in the heat of our own pursuits." She laughed lightly, turning to Lovette with a knowing smile- A shared understanding that all Commanders would be able to commiserate over. Or, perhaps, an assertion that there was one Commander here who was grounded, and one who liked to get ahead of his own importance. "I think these decisions would be best handled internally- The higher-ups will move anyone anywhere, and it's always better to have us 'boots on the ground,' so to speak, make decisions regarding personnel reassignment. As always, those wishing to transfer should seek permission from their direct supervisor."

She turned her attention to Kora, furrowing her brow in the same casual way that she might in response to, "Have you given up drinking, then?"

"Of course we're not hiring madmen, Norrevinter. It's a manner of speaking, and a bit overblown, if you ask me." Her narrowed gaze fell on one Alchemist Sairan, looking at something more in him than on him. If he attempted to speak in protest, he would find himself at a loss for words. More accurately, he would find himself at a loss for recurring laryngeal nerve function until her made eye contact with her and she was positive that she had been understood.

Later. I'm going to talk to you later.

The Runes (In Need of Players!)

Do you need tech support?

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Ranch House, Location Unknown

Looking at Larke had become not unlike stepping over dead bodies: The more you did it, the less you gagged. After a few weeks of handling the husk of a man, Mina just felt dull and cold. There was guilt, too, though more guilt over her lack of emotion than her allowance of the act.

Never looking at his face helped.

Drake's reaction to the scene cracked her fragile apathy, and her hands trembled as she replaced the cap on a tube of anti-bacterial ointment. It was only easy to turn away when nobody was pointing. "They've been-" Her voice cracked, and she shoved the remaining supplies back into her pack. Dawn's summon came as a welcome relief, offering an escape from the squirming scrutiny of a third-party.

"I've gotta go- Dawn needs a hand patching some things downstairs." She grabbed her bag and hurried out past Drake, not so much as glancing back as she climbed down the ladder and shut the door to the roof. Her mind switched tracks as soon as the opportunity arose, and her thoughts turned to Kovalenko as she headed out the back door and down to the basement cellar. The young Doctor had expected Montana to have ended the intruder's life, by now: It did not take a surgeon to figure out why she had not been asked to treat a captive for over a week.

Either she was no longer hurt, or there was no use wasting supplies.

Which was why, once her eyes adjusted to the dim light below, she was shocked to find the prisoner still breathing, let alone conscious. Her forehead creased as her brows furrowed, and she glanced from Montana to Dawn, and settled on the plate of food in front of the prisoner.

The room reeked, and the sight of food turned her stomach more than the gore.

Mina hurried forward after her brief pause, passing the others in the room without a word. What went on down here was beyond her jurisdiction, and nothing in her oath demanded that she speak against injustice or intervene against the actions of others; only that she aid the ailing and do no harm.

She could at least uphold the former.

The food was placed on the ground, replaced by a pile of supplies that Mina pulled from her bag. It took but a second to note the lines across Oren's skin; telltale signs of advanced blood poisoning. It had to be sheer willpower keeping her from succumbing to the sepsis already. "Stay with me, now," she instructed, as if the weakened woman had a choice.

The doctor withdrew what looked like a flashlight from her bag first, and clicked it on to run a blue sterilizing light over the table. A cloth was laid over that and sterilized, and the same procedure was repeated with a number of smaller tools. She shone it briefly over the surface of both of her hands before pulling on a pair of gloves. "Someone get me a fresh pail of water. Are there any foreign objects still embedded?" A pair of surgical scissors ran up what was left of the patient's diseased clothing, and Mina tossed it aside.

She took Oren's arm in her hands and turned it over so that she could swab the crook of her arm with iodine, and then drew up two syringes of liquid, one clear and the other a foggy blue: A powerful antibiotic, and an opiod to combat the upcoming debridement. She pricked Oren's skin with one and then the other, managing to find the veins despite their near-collapse from dehydration.
"And bring a tall rack- coat rack or something. She needs a drip."

She paused for a few moments to change her gloves and re-cleanse her hands, waiting for the pain reliever to kick in before grasping a pair of forceps and a scalpel.

"Stop me if it's too much," Her forceps took hold of a bit of rotten flesh around one of Oren's torso wounds, and Mina began cutting.

---

Larke was quite sure his head was going to burst. The pulsating pain drummed against the walls of his skull, the rhythmic drive under the continuous ringing in his ears. He could tell from the sheet of sweat pouring off of his body that he had a fever, but the chills that swept over him spoke otherwise.

He was suffering from an infection, that much he knew. And his body was tired.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, he knew that his gift would not let him die from this; but in his fevered haze, it seemed preferable. The sound of people walking across the floor made his head swim. Mina was there, maybe. But he could not be sure that he had not dreamed that. He was delirious and cornered, and from what he knew from his psych rotation, those two conditions could fabricate a lot. These people who held him could have been planting thoughts, manipulating him into seeing things, even.

It made the most sense. It made it easier to bare.

Another familiar voice sounded, and he felt a hand on his shoulder. A friendly touch, it seemed.

Larke's eyes opened, bloodshot and glossy. The light in the attic hurt, and he squinted at the face in front of him. Shaggy dark hair, grey eyes... "...Kid?" His voice was horse.

Drake was here- he recognized the boy from his time in prison. He had helped him escape, when his friends came, and then... He said he was there to help. Larke's gaze wandered to the space past Drake's body, looking for someone else. Or perhaps a logical explanation written on the wall behind him. It only added up one way.

His grimace bordered on a disbelieving smile. "You're all... You're fucked up." He coughed, and his eyes clamped shut from the pain in his abdomen. "Who else've you got? My ex, my cellmate- You gonna pull my father next? How about my brother? I'm sure you could find a picture of him to copy, if you-" He hacked again, and spat to the side. "Get out of my head."

The Runes (In Need of Players!)

Okay, so... Who's dead?

Tiwaz, Berkano, Algiz... Maybe Laguz?

A Truly "Gifted" Life (Ignore post count)

Capital Base, Liberty

Beretta knew the others who filed in behind her- Agent Mayday, her "date" for the mission, was a welcome sight. His presence had become familiar to her with prolonged exposure, and she was pretty sure that she could almost let him take her hand without either of them cringing away. She liked Canvas, too, though some of his jokes escaped her. But he was kind to her, and warm, and quicker to smile than he was to chide. He seemed a bit warmer than usual this morning, all truths be told, but it was not her place to pass one judgement or another on her superior.

Agent Riza Kahn was a comfort, too: One of the few faces that traced back to the start of her memories, and the closest thing the young agent had ever been able to compare to a father, or perhaps favorite uncle.

They were good people to work with.

"Thank you, Councilor," she replied to Laxton, shuffling her feet to better show off the shiny leather of her high-heels. A near-giggle escaped as Mayday came in, and she stared at his absolute absurdity for a solid five seconds. It was good- Sparkly.

The Councilor wanted her to act as if she was not there- Or rather, to do "whatever" they did when she was away. Which meant... What? Acting casual? Beretta's violet gaze drifted over to the table as Canvas set the bottle down among the others, watching them shine under the room's soft light. They reminded her of the multi-colored tubes of chemicals she had seen when her training class toured the genetics testing facility- All labeled "DO NOT TOUCH" in angry yellow lettering. Danger this, danger that. Keep your hands to yourself, please-and-thank-you.

But these said no such thing.

Unable to hold her own curiosity, she cast a furtive glance toward Canvas and trotted (as well as the shoes allowed) to the display. She leaned in to read the curling scripts on their labels, the unfamiliar words failing to fall into place. “Peanut... Peanut no-ear,” she read aloud, brow furrowing at the strange words before continuing down the line, “Shimmering Mos- Moscato?” She stared intently at this bottle, noting that there was some form of settled metallic debris at its bottom.

She looked back to Canvas, doing her best impression of someone who was not at all excited about the prospect of drinking glitter. "These are... for to drink?"