Dr. Siebren de Kuiper (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
harness_the_harness) wrote2020-06-19 04:49 pm
harness_the_harness) wrote2020-06-19 04:49 pm
[ For soul_siphon ]
Mechanical failure on International Space Station leaves one dead, several injured
ATLAS NEWS, JULY 20, 20XX
NOORDWIJK, NETHERLANDS. A press release this morning confirms reports of a catastrophic mechanical failure on the International Space Station (ISS). A single fatality has been confirmed: Dr. Siebren de Kuiper (58), a celebrated astrophysicist from the Netherlands. Several other crew members suffered minor injuries while responding to the emergency. ISS program managers have released a statement insisting that a rigorous investigation is currently underway to determine the cause of the malfunction and ensure the safety of the rest of the crew. A spokesperson from the ESA expressed his condolences on social media: "The scientific community has suffered a great loss this week, and our hearts go out to Dr. de Kuiper's friends and loved ones in this time of grief."
Siebren de Kuiper wouldn't have been surprised to learn he had died. The boundaries of his self and everything it contained shattered. Then there was nothing but deep, silent darkness. Time -- if it even existed anymore -- was both infinite and instant. Light returned, first as a pinprick in the dark, then fracturing outward into a prismatic web, each connective string vibrating with a different eternal note. In that moment, there was only his own tiny particle of awareness and the invisible structure of the universe.
No questions, no uncertainty. It was all perfect and whole.
If he was still capable of structured thought, he would find this death agreeable.
How long was it? Days? Weeks? Years? There's no way (no need) to mark the time elapsed, but eventually the sounds of messy existence begin to invade his supposed afterlife. First, his own blood pumping in his veins, followed by air rising and falling in the cavity of his chest. Finally, the ambient hum of human life: structures, machines, voices and footsteps.
The pristine inner universe ebbs, replaced by brackish emotion: a turbulent mix of grief and panic. He desperately clings to the fading net of threads with all of his will, yanking them to himself. They snap one-by-one, each matched with a loud crash.
Siebren's eyes crack open as he flinches away from the noise. Blurred, unfocused vision doesn't help with his rising panic, nor does the claustrophobic paralysis of his heavy limbs. His heart pounds faster and his lungs keep pace, pushing a flood of adrenaline through his body. A litany of deep aches and stabbing pains emphatically confirm that, yes, his body is still very much alive. If only just.
If there's anything you need me to change, let me know. x3
Acceptance inevitably set in as time passed and that was that. An unfortunate happenstance, but as for her, life went on. Blackwatch, Oasis, Talon; far from her home in Dublin, but finally free from her oppressive shackles to practice to the full extent of her research, her experience grew and the breakthroughs she saw were almost yearly. She faded into the shadows; her work known only to those who supported her.
And then it happened: An urgent assignment came through for her to aide in the infiltration of a top secret government facility, and the capture and transport of Siebren de Kuiper back to Talon headquarters.
What?
To his chagrin, Gabriel wound up repeating himself an additional two times when Moira seemed a touch too baffled to comprehend the instructions given to her. This would have been just another assignment that she played a part in had the core part of it not been a touch too personal. However, she conceded as she did with anything Talon requested of her.
The infiltration went on without a hitch, but the transport back was another matter entirely. Subject Sigma, as they so brilliantly labeled him, was in far worse condition than she ever could have anticipated. The muscle atrophy and malnutrition associated with being placed in a medically induced coma was to be expected; his mental state was abysmal. Just the slightest deviation of the sedatives seemed to cause a shift from peaceful to panic; incoherent mumbling about the universe and the ramblings of a man who was truly broken.
Hours turned into days of struggling to keep him contained and stable, while trying to contend with the anomalies in gravity directly surrounding him. He had certainly found his breakthrough, but this was not the reunion that she had predicted or wanted. Finally, the question of is this worth it eventually surfaced, to which Moira found herself at a crossroads: a split in the path of agreeing with the hopelessness of his state and pushing further. A small part of her felt that someone owed him another chance of the life that was stripped away from him by the same sort of people who would have silenced her. Overly cautious, fearful, and unwilling to even attempt to find a route other than containment. With the rest being personal, there wasn’t a doubt in her mind that she would see this through until she exhausted every single option.
Weaning him off the sedation and then treating his symptoms with other medication seemed almost counterproductive until she found a regimen that worked. It boiled down to trial and error symptom management and simply waiting it out until the withdrawal symptoms subsided. She monitored his bloodwork closely, switched the nutrition from nasogastric tube to his central line when it became apparent that more tubes only agitated him further. With her own regenerative therapy perfected, she began daily infusions when his labs stabilized. Unfortunately, while it was extremely effective, it also seemed to wake his entire body up a little too quickly.
Today was a day like any other during the past few: He was awake, panicking and the room was again reduced to a mess from the unstable gravity that surrounded him. Speaking to him over the comm had never been effective and she waited for the chaos to ebb before slipping in through the heavy titanium door. Her steps were careful and soft as she approached his bed, keeping a small distance as she drew up a dose of alprazolam into a syringe. “Good afternoon, Dr. de Kuiper,” spoken quietly and almost gently in a small effort to soothe him. “Can you hear me?”
That destroyed me. But like, in the good way.
The peaceful tide withdrew and left nothing but a daunting mess of mental flotsam: memories, convictions, and concepts scattered in incongruous piles. Language is meaningless in the same way that a word repeated too many times is rendered down to an empty sequence of sounds.
The voice, though? That strikes a richer vein of emotion. It's primitive and easy to process.
A single word jostles loose and bubbles up in response: sláinte. Just as much nonsense as any of the rest, but it feels right. He repeats it out loud, barely audible on a shallow exhale. "Sláinte."
The spontaneous association is only small consolation in the midst of persistent, buzzing panic. His heart continues to pound. His vision remains tunneled and unfocused. Smaller items scattered on the floor chatter and slide slowly towards his bed.
._. Your starter destroyed me, too. This thread is gonna hurt.
For a moment, she is too stunned to even react, feeling as though she was just punched in the chest. Of all things for him to suddenly recall, that simple blessing of luck had to be the one. Once she feels as though she can breathe, she finds herself staring at his panic-stricken face, and then her eyes are briefly drawn to the objects on the floor moving closer to the bed.
How curious… This response? It's something. At least, she finds herself daring to hope it is.
“Sláinte…” she repeats, waiting to see what his reaction might be as she slowly advances the plunger of the syringe to its halfway point and stops. She doesn’t want to sedate him, especially when he appears to have recognized her voice. “Siebren,” she adds after a moment’s pause, her right hand reaching to very hesitantly and gingerly touch his cheek. There's no force behind it, and it could barely even be called a touch at all as she doesn't want to increase his panic. But if he would look at her and see her, perhaps the recognition could serve as an anchor.
no subject
In the silence, it gives him a rush of satisfaction to hear the word repeated the way he remembers it. The second gives him another pause. Siebren. No longer stifled by anxiety, his mind easily latches onto the sound's significance, recalling memories of the name being spoken, called, whispered by hundreds of different voices. The name is a reassuring foundation in rebuilding some semblance of self.
His vision is still blurry, but his eyes begin to move in a focused, intentional way: locking on tangible features of the room instead of whatever invisible phenomena commanded his attention for so long.
Eventually, his eyes land on the hovering human shape and the dash of red that stands out against the otherwise cold, monochrome room. The muscles in his arms twitch and his head flinches away when her hand comes into focus. A word of objection catches in his throat.
It's easy to understand the impulse: lingering evidence of the many crude attempts to invoke, then sublimate the phenomena are scattered across his head and neck. The electrical burns on his temples are the most striking, only just beginning to fade into dull, circular scars.
i figure his brain waves would be all over the place and weird? more bullshit science. xD
In the meantime, she twists the syringe off the port, flushes it and then caps it off before pocketing the remainder of the medication. Her eyes shift over to the various machinery at his bedside, checking the IV pump and it’s flow rate, his heart monitor displaying his vital signs that have stabilized since his panic has resolved and the EEG tracking his brain waves which had never once been normal since his arrival, though there’s a shift in its pattern now, if only marginally. Huh.
She notes the time for further assessment later with a neurologist, and returns her gaze to his face, taking in the sight of those electrical burns that would surely leave scars beneath the various wires attached to his bare head. Speaking to him seems to be what brought about his responsiveness, so she might as well continue. “Siebren,” she repeats, pausing for a second or two as she thinks back to their last meeting. Simple words have encouraged these responses, and he recognizes her voice, so perhaps…
“Moira.”
Oh, absolutely. Probably been spiking well out of normal ranges.
Siebren's focus shifts when she repeats his name, then tosses another breadcrumb to process. Moira?
Setting his jaw against the pain, he props his elbows and forearms back far enough to begin lifting his upper body. His head and neck immediately begin to cramp and he hisses through his teeth, falling back against his pillow. He tries once more, this time bracing himself on the bed rail and gingerly bending a knee to help support the upright, slightly twisted posture.
The name, her voice, the angles of her face, the way she carries herself ... they all finally coalesce into familiarity and, more importantly, a sense of trust. Relief. The deep furrows in his brow soften and the hint of a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth. He slumps back down, either satisfied by this inspection, or too uncomfortable to maintain the position.
"Moira," he finally says, eyes still on her, as if confirming yes, that's correct. He rests the heel of his hand on the railing between them, extending his fingers slightly, as if in invitation.
no subject
Those thoughts come to a halt as he tries to lift himself from the bed with such great pain and difficulty, and she allows him to do just that, remaining silent throughout. His heartrate isn’t spiking like it was moment prior and he isn’t panicking; not yet, at least. She lifts the cable that the EEG leads hook into to prevent pulling and displacement, giving it some slack as he raises his head. A more effective pain regimen may be in order, but the fact that he can purposely move at all is promising.
When he finally settles, something resembling a smile forming on his face as he repeats her name, she releases the cable and moves closer to the railing again. Her eyes flicker from the needle of the EEG and its intermittently normalizing spikes, to his face, and then to the hand that rests against the railing, watching his fingers extend. For a moment, she questions the reality of what she is seeing, but then dismisses the thought entirely. Exhaustion, it must be. Exhaustion, relief, and the far more familiar pride that builds in her chest in knowing that a breakthrough is underway. What isn’t quite as familiar is the feeling of breathlessness, and the sharp twist in her chest when she finally slips her hand into his. It disturbs the objective nature of her work, and yet...
“Welcome back,” she says, managing a small smile of her own.
*casually abuses google translate*
Whatever broke him in the first place was only amplified by his body's heinous neglect, but the tenacity of Moira's treatment and these slow, waking steps are mending the shattered pieces. The clumsy and painful attempts at intentful motion, the welcomed human touch are pulling him back to stable reality. Or, as tenuously stable as his new reality will ever be.
Siebren recalls the past life where they met and drank and connected, to put it modestly. It's so distant -- light years ago -- he questions whether it actually happened at all. But he's holding her hand again. And maybe more importantly, he delivered on the promise.
His eyes open again.
"Ik kon het zien ... Ik kon het horen ..." he stammers, the syllables catching thickly in his throat. For a concerning moment, his eyes roll upwards and lose their focus. The EEG records a few steep, staggering spikes before settling back to normal. He releases a ragged exhale.
A tear rolls down the outer corner of his eyelid, following a particularly deep crease and he gives her hand a weak squeeze as he comes back to himself. He locks his gaze on her face. "It was beautiful."
don't we all? x3
More questions arise and she immediately yearns to know more. What did he see up there on Horizon Lunar? What sent him into such a frenzy, shattered his psyche, awakened a phenomenon so unstable and powerful that the world meant to lock him away and forget him? It was enough to bring tears to his eyes, enough that his broken, scattered mind still wished to share it with her.
At a momentary loss for just how much further she should push him, Moira stands in thoughtful silence, watching the tear that streaks down the side of his face as he grasped onto that, apparently beautiful, memory. Her fingers curl around his hand, her thumb absently stroking the side of his. Lifting her other hand, she catches that tear with the back of her knuckle and brushes it away from his face. "I can only imagine."
He looks to be in and out of consciousness, yet he’s thinking, communicating and perhaps that would continue to anchor him. Speaking of something fond and familiar. Engaging him, but treading slowly. If all else fails, she has the other half dose of medication waiting in her pocket. Not wanting to overstimulate him, she takes note of the movement of her thumb and stills it, pulling her other hand back to rest in the pocket of her lab jacket. She has rarely been so inclined to show affection, and now that she wants to reach out and touch, she finds that keeping track of her hands is becoming a chore of it's own.
“Can you tell me what you saw, Siebren?” she asks.
no subject
"Everything ..." Siebren says, unhelpfully.
It takes a very long moment to both process the question and synthesize his experience into something as inadequate and -- presently -- difficult as words. The closest parallel his mind can make is the (extra) hazy, but incredibly visceral memory of the one and only time he took full advantage of his country's notoriously loose restrictions on recreational drugs. Namely, mushrooms. By no means exact, but a similar upending of reality.
Ruminating on that other state is enough to invite it back. Not with the same potency, but the strings and their tones return. It's not something he can see. It's also not something he can hear. Not physically. Synaesthesia? the word drifts by and feels partially correct. A fusion, but also a defiance of senses.
It's both comforting and dizzying to know it's all still there. And why wouldn't it be? Silly. He spent his life attempting to quantify the unobservable and he has the gall to assume something so fundamental would vanish when his senses no longer detect it? Object permanence, another word flits by. Yes, maybe a bit like that, he agrees. He does feel like a child: emotionally raw, weak, trying to make sense of the world, comforted by a simple touch.
Maybe it's easy to show her results? He cautiously focuses on a small sharps disposal bin next to a sink, bright red and easy to see, even with his reduced focal range. He raises his other hand and waves it at the wrist, feeling for the tether of energy he knows is there. His nerves buzz as they cross a weak, humming frequency. The bin rattles, the items inside jostling forward and upending it. The EEG judders in unison.
A look of satisfaction crosses his face.
"Everything ... is connected," he says absently, continuing to swim his hand through empty space. He hums experimentally, mimicking the pitch as best he can.
no subject
The rattle of the sharps container draws her attention over to the sink and she turns halfway to look in that direction as it overturns, the sealed lid of it keeping its contents safely tucked inside. Of course, she’d already gleaned that objects in his immediate area was affected by his presence alone, and perhaps even emotion driven. But seeing that he can control it after having just reached a state of coherency? It only makes her wonder how long ago he had awakened these abilities.
Whatever the case may be, Talon will be pleased with her next report, and this progress would buy her more than enough time to get him back on his feet. There is so much potential, though that hardly matters at the moment.
She looks up at the EEG, watching it momentarily before her eyes finally settle upon him again, his words and actions causing her to curiously tilt her head. Given the context of his research, the string theory comes to mind, and honestly? It isn’t so farfetched; especially not when the evidence is right there in front of her. “What is it that connects everything?” she asks.
no subject
Then fear strikes: that he won't ever be in a state to share what he's learned. Not in any articulate, scientific way. This is an icier, lucid terror than any physical panic that has swept his body thus far. What actually happened to him physically? A stroke? Brain damage? Maybe something terminal? Will his extraordinary discovery be just as wasted as it was in his vegetative state? At least unconsciousness spared him from realizing the full potential of that hell.
There's still one lifeline, though. His grip tightens, his second hand reaching to grasp at Moira's wrist, using this as leverage to pull himself forward. The force is stronger than anything his weakened body should logically allow and the EEG readings spike again. The frame of the hospital bed creaks in brittle resistance to the unnatural influence at work.
Siebren's eyes aren't clouded with diffuse panic, they're intensely alert. His voice is insistent, pleading: "Am I okay? Am I dying? Not yet. Moira, help me. Please, it can't be this way. Not after everything."
no subject
Taking a second to swallow against the sheer emotion that’s welled up into her throat, she actually has to consider her next words. Being a comforting presence has never been a specialty of hers and while she does hold a medical license (amongst her other degrees), she lacks much of the bedside manner present in a sizeable fraction of physicians. One might say she would fit in perfectly with that select group of the cold, but brilliant doctors who only have patients due to their straight-forward assessments and good judgement, but that certainly doesn’t help her now, staring at the face of a man that she considers a friend.
During her time in Blackwatch, she recalls being just close enough to observe the work of one Dr. Angela Ziegler, a brilliant mind, a peerless healer and, while incredibly protective of her work and narrow-minded, had a certain warmth to her that Moira had never seen anywhere else. If she should look to anyone for a positive example regarding comfort, it would be her. She takes in a calming breath, giving Siebren’s hand a squeeze and relaxing her expression.
“You are not dying, Siebren. You have shown much progress today simply by waking up and speaking to me. Your body and its functions have stabilized and the regenerative treatments I have given you are slowly, but surely rebuilding both your immune system and your muscle tissue.” She pauses, reaching to place her free hand over the one of his that is holding her wrist. “I will tell you everything once you have recovered more extensively. As for today, I need you to rest. Allow your mind time to fully return to lucidity.”
And for a couple of seconds, she watches him, making sure that he is taking in and understanding what she just told him. She has never cared too much to repeat herself, but she would for the sake of keeping him calm. Finally, she adds: “I agree with you. It cannot and will not end this way. You have my word.” A hefty promise, but one that she genuinely intends to keep.
no subject
His attention lingers on her right hand before he withdraws his own. He hazily recalls the moment he first laid eyes on its unnatural state. How long did she have to keep working on her own body? Did she uphold her end of the bargain? What else has Moira accomplished in the interim? What was the interim? Time: yet another frightening unknown to consider, but exhaustion and the alprazolam have properly set in and his body can't be bothered to work up another spike of adrenaline.
Movement has made him more acutely aware of the lines and sensors taped in place. He glances down and curiously touches the central line catheter. Her suggestion to rest is very appealing, but a part of him worries that he won't wake up again. Maybe this was just another hallucination. Really, what are the chances he'd end up in her care?
"How long has it been?" he finally asks, the fatigue apparent in his voice.
no subject
She pulls her hand back to rest against the rail of the hospital bed, taking note of the way the rattling stops when he settles. Her curiosity is only growing and finding out everything that he is capable of gives her an even larger reason to continue working at this grueling pace. However, for today, he does need to rest as much as he can get.
With a shake of her head in response to his question, she reaches to readjust the sheets over him. “Shhh… Rest, Siebren.” Logically, she can’t imagine that he might even be able to handle everything she has to tell him: how long he had been in a medically induced coma, the years that he was presumed dead… the fact that he was labeled as a subject instead of a living person.
And then, for once, Moira O’Deorain questions her moral compass for the first time in decades. It comes in the form of a fleeting thought, but one that she gives the recognition it deserves: The expendability of life itself. Scientific progression comes at a cost, but to what extent should the line be drawn? And then she looks around the room and the loose objects that were tossed around, further evidence of a scientific breakthrough. She sees the vials and drips that hang off the pole next to the bed; her own treatment that she created after years of hard work, research, and countless trials. Trials that did not fit within the meager confines of what society proclaimed to be safe or ethical. Discoveries that were rapidly improving the weakened condition of the man before her. With a shake of her head, she smiles bitterly to herself, busying her hands with the task of readjusting the leads attached to Siebren’s head and then adjusting his pillow.
What a silly question.
“I will tell you everything in due time. There is much for us to discuss, after all.”
no subject
The answer to his question isn't what he was hoping for. It has to wait until he's ready? That doesn't bode well at all. He wheezes in a way that could almost pass for a wry laugh. "Mmm. Must be bad, then."
He gives a last, resigned sigh and crosses his hands loosely on his chest, over the neatened sheet. His fingertips slowly brush the raw skin around his wrists as his eyes blink closed and, for once, the EEG readings suggest the possibility of a healthy, restful state.
After a few moments of long, even breaths -- just shy of soft snoring -- he mumbles: "I'm glad to see you again, Moira."
no subject
After finding that he looks comfortable enough, she pulls back, reaching to place her hand over one of his, giving it a light and brief squeeze. “Likewise, Siebren.” Stepping away from the bed, she takes one last look at the equipment and then turns to leave, opting to tidy up the room once he has rested for a few hours. “Rest well. I will return shortly to check on you.” The heavy door opens and then closes with a click and she’s gone, the lights dimming as the room falls silent.
Weeks pass and once Siebren is able to get out of bed on his own, he is moved to another, slightly less secured room with a normal bed and a few minimal essentials. The room isn’t used for much more than giving him a place to sleep. The rest of the time is spent in intensive physical therapy and training to control his abilities.
Moira is there every step of the way, between giving him the restorative treatments, to pushing him a little further along in his therapy. He was usually placed in a room alone or with an armored Talon operative when training his abilities while Moira watched from the other side and guided him along in his daily exercises via intercom. Today, however, she joins him, garbed in her own armor, a container strapped to her back and a curious looking tube winding around her neck and under her shoulders. A few days prior, Siebren was given a prototype for his own armor. It is… about as clunky, unfinished, and primitive looking as any prototype, but the essentials are there, and that is what these tests runs are for, after all.
The room itself is nearly as big as an arena, nonetheless monochromatic as the rest of the facility. Heavily armored and armed Talon soldiers stand on the opposite end of the room, loading their assault rifles as they chat amongst themselves. Moira steps over in front of Siebren, bidding him a quiet good morning before observing his armor and reaching to adjust one of the misplaced straps in the front with a soft, mildly frustrated sigh. Someone certainly got him ready in the hurry. “How does this feel? Can you move well enough?” she asks, her gaze lifting to meet his own.
no subject
His scant down time is consumed by blinding headaches, intrusive thoughts and hallucinations -- whispers in a silent room, faint melodies, afterimages -- moments where his physical senses dizzyingly blend with his new understanding of universal structure. If these disappear, it’s with the help of medication that leaves him with a bland numbness behind his eyes. As deeply compelled as he is, his recovery and fragile consciousness leave him precious little time to record his own theories and observations. He wakes to find pages full of sloppily-scrawled notes from the evening before, only for his stomach to drop when he realizes they’re nearly unintelligible.
What happened to me? Will he ever be in a state to objectively observe a phenomenon tied to his own mind and body?
Testing his abilities feels incredible in the beginning, but the more he uses them, the more his symptoms compound. Simple tasks are safe enough, like moving small objects with a modicum of precision. At first weakly pushing and pulling, then applying sharp, intentional bursts of velocity or pausing a thrown object mid-air. Items with greater mass (especially those that meet or exceed his own) require more power. With each step up in complexity, he has to surrender more, sink a little deeper, let the universe flood back in. A troubling number of these times, he wakes up back in his room, groggy and confused until someone -- usually Moira -- explains that he exerted himself too much. His next visit to the practice room might provide evidence of this overexertion: a panel of the observation window replaced with plywood, massive dents in the walls, a stubborn red stain in a crater on the porous concrete floor.
Excitement and cold dread mingle every time Siebren enters this space and today is no exception. He glances across at the assembled soldiers (far more than he’s accustomed to) then at Moira and her own strange apparatus. It all adds up to another odd evolution of an increasingly opaque methodology.
"It’s a bit much," he replies, rolling his shoulders against the awkward bulk around his arms and chest. He meets her eyes, looking -- as has become his habit -- for some assurance. “Is all of this really necessary?”
no subject
Lifting her hand, she runs her fingertips over the armor on his right shoulder. “First and foremost, this armor will protect you. It is meant to keep you grounded and focused as gravity fluctuates around you. You will only be able to ascend approximately 15 meters in the air before an apparatus from within will weigh you downward.” And then she touches the pieces above his shoulders and gestures to the ones over his hips. “These offer pressure support, acting as an anchor to negate the effects of anti-gravity on your spheroidal joints.”
Slowly, she moves to circle around to the back of him, taking stock of the large bulk perched upon his back. Everything seems to be in order, thankfully. Just a couple of belts out of place in the front. “And, amongst the aforementioned mechanisms, the device on your back also contains a shield generator to protect yourself and those around you.”
With a subtle smirk, she fades out in a black shroud from behind him, only to reemerge in front of him again as though she stepped through a portal. The wisps of blackness surround her and then fade away without a trace. It has been quite some time that she has been genuinely eager about showing off the flashier results of her work. There is some dismal heaviness associated with this discovery, but it is nonetheless a useful advancement.
“Do you have any questions?”
no subject
That is, until his head twitches towards the unnatural motion on his periphery. No, it's just Moira. Calm down. He blinks rapidly and brings a hand to his forehead. That glimpse of black tendrils isn’t like anything he’s seen before, but a lack of precedent means nothing in his experience. It’s clear that he can’t trust his senses. Maybe the strange circumstances are already pushing him off kilter? His toes flex against the concrete, bare feet still firmly planted against natural gravity.
"You're participating this time?" he finally asks, with a note of concern. He pauses, takes a leveling breath and circles back to what he saw, or thinks he saw. His eyes flick apprehensively between Moira and the soldiers, then back again. When he speaks up once more, his words are halting, almost sheepish. "A-apologies. I reported that I was stable before, but I'm already experiencing some ... hallucinations. Maybe it would be best ... would be safest to postpone this exercise, Dr. O’Deorain?"
no subject
If all else fails, she could put him out in the matter of seconds, sapping his energy and forcing him into unconsciousness. Even if she would rather not resort to such measures.
She nods her head in response to his question, certain of her decision. “I want to monitor you closely in your armor. There is little need for concern. My abilities and my own armor will ensure my protection, as well as yours,” she assures him. The way he looks around is concerning and she wonders just how close he may be to panicking.
With her smile fading into a small frown, she takes him by the arm and pulls him over to the entrance of the room, reaching to press her hand against his cheek as she looks up to meet his gaze. “Siebren. Look at me,” she instructs, watching for rapid eye movement or loss of focus. “…Tell me what you see.”
no subject
In the past weeks, details about his imprisonment had gradually trickled out: the deplorable conditions, the tests, the images and video feeds chronicling his decline. When he saw them, he was filled with a foreign emotion: white-hot anger. A fury stoked not by the violation of his individual rights, but by the grievous mishandling of his profound discovery. After several days, the primal emotion burned down to a low, ongoing simmer. It was here that he found a deepening gratitude for Moira and the organization she-- no, they now work with.
It's easy to recall those emotions when his eyes finally return to examine her face. Gloves and straps creak as his hands flex and unflex. They saved me. I owe it to them and to scientific progress to be stronger.
"It was nothing,” he repeats firmly, grey eyes once again sharp with resolve. "Let's proceed, shall we?"
He carefully moves her hand from his face, takes a breath and focuses on the tethers of gravity holding him fast to the earth. They snap one-by-one until his feet lift off the ground, toes a foot from the floor. The plates of the prototype armor also float slightly aloft, removing some of the strain from his shoulders while still providing a sense of steadiness.
His readied state comes with a baseline hum along his nerves. He keeps his focus on how exhilarating this ability is. How incredible. How wonderful it is that he can use it, is encouraged to use it. Mastery will surely unlock more doors, expand his understanding, defend him against those who might try to hide the power away again.
He moves further into the room, feeling the open space and the invisible energies that fill it.
"Where are my manners?" he says brightly. "Good morning, Dr. O'Deorain!" The greeting is repeated for the soldiers, as much as he's found most of the staff don't tend to reciprocate his pleasantries. Certainly not ahead of whatever two powerful scientists have planned.