Dillon Cole || Scorpion Shard (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
orderfromchaos) wrote2015-01-12 07:40 pm
orderfromchaos) wrote2015-01-12 07:40 pm
25. the driver was left-handed
[Spam for Cassel]
[He's just popping into the art room to grab a new sketch pad, but he pauses when he sees Cassel, hovers. He's in the middle of transforming something, and to Dillon it looks a little bit like eating pop rocks feels, alien static-y crackling, sharp bursts of understanding. Working doesn't supervene on physics even slightly; it's not something he could decipher without having seen it.
But when he does - the piece reflects the whole, the type reflects the kinds, and something that's been nagging him about Chris for weeks snaps harshly into place.
He is, he tells himself firmly, probably wrong. Stressed, projecting after what his other self did. It's not like Chris is here, so he can't be seeing - he just wants and answer, and of course he's assuming the worst possible -]
Cassel - hey - are you. Okay?
[They aren't really friends, though they've spoken a few times in passing, know each other mostly through Chris. He's distantly aware that he sounds both overbearing and like a socially maladapted idiot, but it doesn't really matter. The important thing is making Cassel react, so Dillon can get a proper bead on him, reassure himself that he is misunderstanding the powers he's only just gotten his first glimpse of.]
[Private to Bush]
...if you've got the time and the rum, I made Shepherd's pie.
[Obliquely referring to their agreement, sometime, to discuss his counterpart. Too many people are twisted up wrong. It's time.]
[Private to Jean and Iris]
Hey. Cassel's in the artroom with me, and he's all messed up - worked - but it's feelings so I can't fix it. It's really - he needs not to be like this.
[It is really hecked up.]
[Spam for Horatio]
He slides into a chair next to Horatio at the library, close enough for a low undercurrent of rejuvenation and calm, but not really enough to notice - like soft background music in a movie. He wonders if this is a good time. Probably not. Horatio is - concentrating.]
[He's just popping into the art room to grab a new sketch pad, but he pauses when he sees Cassel, hovers. He's in the middle of transforming something, and to Dillon it looks a little bit like eating pop rocks feels, alien static-y crackling, sharp bursts of understanding. Working doesn't supervene on physics even slightly; it's not something he could decipher without having seen it.
But when he does - the piece reflects the whole, the type reflects the kinds, and something that's been nagging him about Chris for weeks snaps harshly into place.
He is, he tells himself firmly, probably wrong. Stressed, projecting after what his other self did. It's not like Chris is here, so he can't be seeing - he just wants and answer, and of course he's assuming the worst possible -]
Cassel - hey - are you. Okay?
[They aren't really friends, though they've spoken a few times in passing, know each other mostly through Chris. He's distantly aware that he sounds both overbearing and like a socially maladapted idiot, but it doesn't really matter. The important thing is making Cassel react, so Dillon can get a proper bead on him, reassure himself that he is misunderstanding the powers he's only just gotten his first glimpse of.]
[Private to Bush]
...if you've got the time and the rum, I made Shepherd's pie.
[Obliquely referring to their agreement, sometime, to discuss his counterpart. Too many people are twisted up wrong. It's time.]
[Private to Jean and Iris]
Hey. Cassel's in the artroom with me, and he's all messed up - worked - but it's feelings so I can't fix it. It's really - he needs not to be like this.
[It is really hecked up.]
[Spam for Horatio]
He slides into a chair next to Horatio at the library, close enough for a low undercurrent of rejuvenation and calm, but not really enough to notice - like soft background music in a movie. He wonders if this is a good time. Probably not. Horatio is - concentrating.]
Private
[It is well time. The alcohol and food will dull the worst of it, he thinks.]
Private
Re: Private
Mister Cole, it's Captain Bush. May I come in?
Private
Come on through. Should I take your coat - jacket thing, or is that weird?
[There's a little kitchen attached, through the next door, two places immaculately laid out at the table. The second room is, if possible, eerier than the first. It's a homey room, with knickknack Saguaro and Prickly Pear salt and pepper shakers, childhood drawings on the fridge with googly-eyed magnets, a spill of pill bottles and old medical paperwork over one counter, most of it completely untouched in the year Dillon has lived here again. It's a room with soft ghosts.]