[ Drake is about as comfortable with Lup as it's possible for one person to be with another, which is why he doesn't see it coming. He should have -- they reach for one another so easily, he should have been more aware that she may be less aware, so to speak. He's barely been curbing himself with Ephemera, another one that Drake doesn't actually mind sharing things with in this way but ideally only with warning so he can think of something less traumatic. The first swap where they figured out what was happening was... rough. And every now and then, like now with Lup, a touch catches one of them by surprise, and that's dicey,
This isn't even dicey, this is one of the worst things possible to be shared.
--
"I'm never going to see my son again."
Drake is crammed into a containment cell with at least a dozen other people, their expressions running the gamut from sad to terrified. He's cold and hungry and doesn't remember how he got here, but he is here and he has to deal with that. The man who spoke is sitting on the tile floor, head in his hands. Drake crouches next to him, gripping his shoulder. His voice is gentle and determined when he replies. "Hey, you gotta try to calm down a little bit, buddy, all right? We're gonna find a way out of this."
The man shakes his head, despairing, voice hitching as he continues. "He thinks I killed myself. He's never gonna get over it."
Drake presses his lips together for a moment, draws breath to say something else when a door slides open in the hall outside the cell -- men in scrubs and lab coats come into view, struggling with a man -- or something that used to be a man -- at the end of a dog catcher's stick. They're forcing him along using jabs from a cattle prod and he's thrashing and snarling and frothing at the mouth, trying to get at his captors. They shove him into an adjacent cell.
"That's the guy they took yesterday... what did they do to him?"
A lab tech turns away from his previous rat and addresses the people in Drake's cell. "Now, which one of you freaks wants to try cure version number three, huh? Eenie, meenie, miny--"
"Moe." Drake stands up and steps to the glass, squaring his shoulders and tilting his chin high. He can't let anyone else be taken away, turned into whatever that monster across the hallway is. He has to protect these people and maybe, just maybe, buy them enough time to be rescued. "Three's my lucky number."
"Look at you. The brave one."
"Why don't you put the cattle prod down? We can have a brave-off." The tech hesitates, looking him up and down, and Drake nods knowingly. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
"Get down on your knees." Drake obeys and the tech calls out to his teammate at a control panel. "Door." The glass of the cell slides away and another tech hooks the loop of the stick around Drake's neck, tightens it and drags him to his feet. "Come on, let's go."
Drake is led, on the stick, down the hall and into a sterile-looking exam room. They direct him onto a steel table, fasten straps and cuffs around him to keep him contained. A woman in a lab coat wheels over an IV bag and takes the cap off the needle, other hand pushing his shirt sleeve up.
"Cheer up," she says as she taps the inside of his elbow, "You're getting the cure."
Drake ignores her, ignores everyone, closes his eyes, and they don't even bother to swab his arm before sliding the needle into his vein. Like they know already that it won't make a difference. They all know that this is it for him -- he'll never see anyone he loves again, and he didn't get to say goodbye.
The needle is cold and the liquid that comes through it is colder but burns somehow at the same time, icy fire spreading from the crook of his arm. The memory fades out as he turns, gone for good.
/chants deathswap deathswap
This isn't even dicey, this is one of the worst things possible to be shared.
--
"I'm never going to see my son again."
Drake is crammed into a containment cell with at least a dozen other people, their expressions running the gamut from sad to terrified. He's cold and hungry and doesn't remember how he got here, but he is here and he has to deal with that. The man who spoke is sitting on the tile floor, head in his hands. Drake crouches next to him, gripping his shoulder. His voice is gentle and determined when he replies. "Hey, you gotta try to calm down a little bit, buddy, all right? We're gonna find a way out of this."
The man shakes his head, despairing, voice hitching as he continues. "He thinks I killed myself. He's never gonna get over it."
Drake presses his lips together for a moment, draws breath to say something else when a door slides open in the hall outside the cell -- men in scrubs and lab coats come into view, struggling with a man -- or something that used to be a man -- at the end of a dog catcher's stick. They're forcing him along using jabs from a cattle prod and he's thrashing and snarling and frothing at the mouth, trying to get at his captors. They shove him into an adjacent cell.
"That's the guy they took yesterday... what did they do to him?"
A lab tech turns away from his previous rat and addresses the people in Drake's cell. "Now, which one of you freaks wants to try cure version number three, huh? Eenie, meenie, miny--"
"Moe." Drake stands up and steps to the glass, squaring his shoulders and tilting his chin high. He can't let anyone else be taken away, turned into whatever that monster across the hallway is. He has to protect these people and maybe, just maybe, buy them enough time to be rescued. "Three's my lucky number."
"Look at you. The brave one."
"Why don't you put the cattle prod down? We can have a brave-off." The tech hesitates, looking him up and down, and Drake nods knowingly. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
"Get down on your knees." Drake obeys and the tech calls out to his teammate at a control panel. "Door." The glass of the cell slides away and another tech hooks the loop of the stick around Drake's neck, tightens it and drags him to his feet. "Come on, let's go."
Drake is led, on the stick, down the hall and into a sterile-looking exam room. They direct him onto a steel table, fasten straps and cuffs around him to keep him contained. A woman in a lab coat wheels over an IV bag and takes the cap off the needle, other hand pushing his shirt sleeve up.
"Cheer up," she says as she taps the inside of his elbow, "You're getting the cure."
Drake ignores her, ignores everyone, closes his eyes, and they don't even bother to swab his arm before sliding the needle into his vein. Like they know already that it won't make a difference. They all know that this is it for him -- he'll never see anyone he loves again, and he didn't get to say goodbye.
The needle is cold and the liquid that comes through it is colder but burns somehow at the same time, icy fire spreading from the crook of his arm. The memory fades out as he turns, gone for good.
--
What does he see from her?