( OPEN | DAY 19 ) the brainiacs club

[skaikru]

CHARACTERS: clarke, sam, damon, elena, murphy + everyone who wants to meet the symbiote face to (brain) face
WHERE: Hyrypia - The Graze, an impromptu coroners tent
WHEN: DAY :019
SUMMARY: Before his cremation, Lavellan still offers a few answers to some burning questions.
WARNINGS: Mentions of character death, medically accurate gore, an autopsy, a lot of talk about brains, the symbiote is terrifying, and probably puke.

( for clarke, it seems like the next logical step. first, a rough introduction to the symbiote. second, glimpses of a brain scan from the depths of john murphy's mind. third, seeing it with her own eyes.

so naturally, it doesn't take much convincing.

they have a body. when asked, they're provided with a set of odd tools and a wealth of apologies for their loss by the hyrypian natives. and before they go about building a funeral pyre, they set themselves up in a well-lit tent and carefully remove the corpse coverings. clarke's never done this before, sam's never done this before, and as intently as they hover, damon and elena offer little advice, mostly morbidly driven moral support. murphy has a wide variety of medical supplies at his side, and doesn’t say much. but it's not hard to figure out. under sharp instruments, skin cuts like butter, and dead bodies barely bleed. it's easy to get through the skin and hair, to peel it back and reveal the white bone of lavellan's skull. it's harder to look at the dead man's face, peaceful as if in a deep sleep, while fumbling for an archaic trephine and swallowing down bile.

first, they punch holes. cautious, careful to draw back when the tool burrows too deeply. if they want to examine his brain for answers to all the questions digging (quite literally) in the back of their minds, they can't damage the delicate tissue. as bone dust flies and catches on her hands, clarke quietly wishes for sterile latex gloves — anything to buffer the sensations, to make this feel less real.

then comes the drill, held at an angle to cut relatively straight lines between the burr holes. lavellan's head wiggles under the vibrations of sawing through bone, the same tremors that run up the length of clarke's arms as she cuts, and her throat is uncomfortably tight when she asks elena to hold him still. it takes some time, but piece by piece the hard bone is chipped away, each sliver of skull carefully set aside in a bowl until they're faced with a grey layer of dura. the tissue is cut and snipped, pulled to expose the veins and the intricate tubing of lobes — the brain, the epicenter of all life, now red, and wet, and still.

it's not over. the brain is soft, threatens to break under her fingers as she claws into his skull; pushing and pulling until she can cut at the spinal cord tethering mind to body. and with a trickle of cerebral fluid, the brain is born into her hands, a squishy and floppy mess. the answer to so many questions, and disgustingly delicate.

for a moment, they all just look at it. choke on actions, implications, guilt. then: )

There, ( clarke announces, turning the brain over in her hands. on the underside, just above the base of where the brain stem had been cut, a soft bundle of white. it looks almost like particularly dead nerve endings, a tight grouping of listless threads, but that's not right. clarke uses her pinky finger to shift the elastic folds of the brain, tugging to try to see where the branches of the symbiote dig deeper into grey matter, and brush the hard black flecks embedded into the alien organic tissue. there, that's what it looked like in the flesh.

her stomach churns. nausea or nerves, the uncomfortable idea that that is inside all of us at the forefront of her mind — her distress is tangible in the air, but it's anyone's guess so far as contributing factors. she extends both cupped hands, offering a better look to those around her. )

( ooc | dogpile all in one thread, write your own starters post tent, someone eventually get clarke a jar to put the brain in or something please for the love of god…! basically, do whatever and have fun with it. )

Comments

[skaikru]

( she hasn't cried yet. lavellan had been a stranger, and to an extent, she had just actively participated in desecrating his corpse, all in the name of useless science. but the inclination to shed a tear was still present — drawn to the forefront of her mind, made all the more forceful as exhaustion, a blossoming headache, and frustration fold over themselves. and when bellamy takes her hand, it's like carelessly brushing against a hair trigger. when he says he can't, she sniffs.

you're not going to lose me — her fingers flex within his, an instinctual squeeze, a reaction to an imagined knife in her sternum. as close as they're walking, side by side and stride for stride, that small comfort isn't enough. clarke craves something more complete, like physically gathering everyone she wants to stay safe to her chest and holding them tightly until this was all over; something more tangible than holding hands and continually pressing against his mind, like a thumb over a pulse point. checking to make sure it hadn't stopped. )

( You can't promise that. )

( but she doesn't know what that something is. can't put a name to it, and can't think of a way to remedy it. not now, at least. so she will have to settle to using their joined hands to tug him just a little closer, so their shoulders bump with every step. )

[deployed]

( I promise I'll always come back, Clarke. I'm not going to die so far away from our home. )

[ If Clarke didn't believe that he'd go to any lengths to keep her from feeling him die, then she'd perhaps believe that sentiment. Dying before he had to a chance to mend things with Octavia isn't an option. Clarke had always known what Octavia meant to him. The link between their minds would only illustrate that further. He squeezes her hand before he lets go, guiding her into the tent with a hand at the small of her back. ]

Trust me, Clarke. I'm not risking anything worse than Mount Weather.

[ And he'd come through that alive, if worse for wear. ]

Come on, sit down. Let me see your hands.

[ The discomfort there lingers. Bellamy has just as much blood on his own, too much to flinch from the idea of helping Clarke clean away the memory of the autopsy any way he could. ]

[skaikru]

( his words do little to sooth the preemptive despair gnawing on her mind. it could have been bellamy that had died in the canons, just as easily as it could have been lexa wrapped in cloth in the tent, or rust they were preparing to burn tomorrow. and if there had been any measure of control over who died here, no one would have. but he's trying to offer some strain of comfort, trying to drag her out of the darker pools of thought. clarke can recognize the effort even if she can't swallow his optimism, and makes an attempt to steel herself as bellamy sweeps back the tent flaps and guides her inside.

a deep breath, dragging up slumped shoulders. busying herself with undoing the wrappings around her head instead of sitting down as bidden and allowing herself to be fussed over. )

I'm fine. ( a lackluster excuse. she both is and is not fine; both wants to glue herself to bellamy's side and wants to be left alone to her own thoughts. it's a tug of war of desires, and clarke makes no move to strip off her gloves. )

I didn't ask before. Did you know him?

[deployed]

Not well.

[ Which is why the grief is easier to distance himself from, as it had been with Anakin. There are lines between himself and the others Bellamy tries to draw. He cannot let himself be pulled into the Nest. As he circulates and bonds, there are people he hasn't clicked with. The pull of their minds are familiar, and the void is pronounced, but he isn't mourning Lavellan the way he would have mourned anyone he knew personally. It's a fine line, but Bellamy holds it firmly. It's a barricade against slipping further towards the kind of blurred lines Cathaway and Carata have illustrated for him. ]

He would have helped us get through this. I'm sorry about what happened to him.

[ And what had happened to Lavellan could have very easily have happened to Bellamy. But he won't mention that now. He reaches up to take Clarke's hand, and start working off one glove to set aside. She's not fine. Bellamy doesn't contradict her outright, but he lets his own quiet sense of disbelief pass between them unchecked as he reveals the first bloodstained hand. ]

This would have all been easier to get through if we had access to the Station.

[ The autopsy would have been easier, and Clarke could have washed up properly after. But they'd have to make do here. ]

[skaikru]

( maybe it's because she's new, or just didn't expect it to hurt as much as it did; because she leans too easily into others hurts with vain hopes of belaying the pain, or because she'd managed to fool herself into believing death wouldn't be the same here once learning lexa was alive and well — but if not for the various distractions around them, clarke would let this grief consume her. she didn't have to know lavellan well, didn't have to know him at all. his death cut right to the core of enough of them that there was a constant, collective thrum of despair that didn't feel like it would abate any time soon.

having learned basically nothing of any real use from cutting into his head just heightened the helpless, floundering sensation. stuck in the deep end of a pool and not knowing how to swim.

bellamy strips off her glove. him, he's one of those distractions. a solid, seldom wavering presence. stronger in this moment than she is, inspiring in his composure. clarke very desperately wants to shake off the fatigue and continuing headache; to think ahead from this night and come up with some sort of plan for how to avoid future tragedies. she wants to be calm and useful, and tries her best to rally like bellamy has. he pulls off one glove, and she starts to tug at the other.

but even in the comforting haze of his company, clarke can't completely erase the bitter, mutinous edge in her tone. )

If we'd just stayed on the Station, this wouldn't have happened at all, would it.

( a question that isn't really a question. a not-question edging toward the very real question of why they hadn't blown up the planet, but lacking the follow through to air such heartless sentiments aloud. )

[deployed]

[ Clarke's not wrong. It's not even something that hadn't been said. Misato and Asuka had raised the possibility at their first briefing, and Bellamy and Lexa had immediately recognized that it was a valid suggestion even if they had relegated it to a last resort. They would have been safer had they eliminated the planet from the Station and moved on. Clarke's question isn't really a question; it's just a retreading of the proposal no one had wanted to entertain.

His answer doesn't come immediately. He stretches for a water jug first and douses the corner of a blanket to start wiping at Clarke's palm. The answer to the question is yes, obviously yes. They both know that. Bellamy's trying to measure out his own words against that truth, but it still feels like that moment in Mount Weather when they had put their hands on that lever and agonized about the reality of what they were about to do. The crushing weight of it is still hard for him to feel. ]

No. It wouldn't have happened.

[ There's blood streaked on her hands. Bellamy draws her hand down to him, begins dragging the damp fabric carefully across her fingers. ]

But it's a whole planet, Clarke. I couldn't...we had to try from the ground first.

[ Though when he looks into her face, Bellamy can't tell if he's being selfish. Would it have been better to eliminate the planet from the air? It wouldn't have felt real, Bellamy thinks. They'd have been so far removed from the effects of that decision. He'd never have had to walk through the carnage he'd wrought. Is it selfish to let his own hesitation to have guided this mission into a conflict that cost them a life?

He knows he wasn't alone in the idea that they shouldn't gut the planet. But Bellamy could have argued alongside Misato and Asuka. He hadn't. He'll have to live with that now. ]

[skaikru]

( for someone with literal blood on their hands already, clarke griffin edges towards genocide awfully quickly.

but her resolve to blow up the planet they are currently resided on is short lived. she mutters her stonefaced inclinations, bellamy's response is heartfelt and reasonable, and her tightlipped resilience starts to slip. there's a wave of guilt for actions not taken, and under the wet rag her fingers twitch as if to pull away; recede into her lap as if to wallow in her own unkind decisions uncomforted by the tender way he cupped and wiped at her hands. )

I know. ( tired, defeated. muttered as clarke weighs the knowledge that every alien ambassador they've lived alongside had a life as vivid as their own against the memory of lavellan's brain in her palms. did one life so far outweigh a hundred others? no. but was it difficult to remember that when the sensation of his conscious being ripped from her head was so easy to recall? yes. and he'd been as much of a stranger as the nest allowed.

i know, i just — she can't help but wonder if it came down to it in the end, would destroying hyrypia be as easy as pulling a lever. again.

in his grasp, her fingers twitch again. )

Was this the right thing to do? ( a dangerous question to tack onto a conversation that drifts so close to the topic of mount weather, but watching the rag slowly take on the color of lavellan's blood, clarke's thinking about the haphazard autopsy again. those careful, painstaking hours of kneeling with drill and chisel had just served to reinforce what they already knew: the symbiote was as much a part of them now as their own mind. carefully peeling back grey matter, brushing the tendrils of the symbiote; trying to prod the two apart with her pinky only to watch the tissue start to disintegrate around them. ) That's inside all of us, and there's no way to get it out.

[deployed]

[ Bellamy's first thoughts split between whether they had been right to come down to Hyrypia and risk themselves, or whether they had been right to accept the symbiote in the first place. Should they have come here? The sacrifice had come so easily to Bellamy. If he'd stayed, there was no guarantee that their people wouldn't have paid a price. But now they're snared. Murphy's suspicions on Concordia had proven correct: the symbiote was growing, and by now it was too late for them to dig it out. ]

Yes.

[ His own doubts must be set aside. Bellamy knows there's only one answer he can give to Clarke now. His hands cradle hers, anchoring Clarke even as the urge to draw away ripples between them both. ]

It was the right thing to do, Clarke.

[ It was the only thing either of them could do, really. They wouldn't have been able to live with the guilt if they hadn't tried. Bellamy can recognize that in Clarke. ]

We needed to know. And it'll keep people from making the same mistake Murphy and I almost did, now that we've all seen how it spreads.

[ At the very least, it could be a warning for anyone who might try to cut out the symbiote. Bellamy could understand the impulse, but the consequence would be death or worse. Having a concrete safeguard against that would keep them all safer in the future, even if they couldn't come up with a way to extract the symbiote. ]

[skaikru]

( was it right to come here and accept the symbiote in the first place? clarke's first instinct upon coming to grasps with her situation had been no. no she should have stayed in the city of light and died there if that's what it had taken, because maybe in the last few moments before death she would have somehow managed to find the kill switch and now she'll just never know. it's still difficult to rank which threat to their people was greater: alie or the enemy. and no matter how many times she played bellamy and then murphy's reassurance that she'd done it, completed her mission, killed alie over and over to herself, clarke still wonders exactly how that works. did it really happen if she didn't remember it, could it still happen if she wasn't there to see it through.

was it the right thing to do, cutting open lavellan's skull? a part of her still held out hope that maybe, maybe her own symbiote was small enough that it could be separated from brain tissue without permanent damage. but clarke's hope is a fickle creature, prone to wither in the face of dire straits. it's not hope that has her wondering, wishing, even praying — it's denial.

she's still watching their mingling hands for a few moments, letting bellamy's insistence wash over her that yes, they'd done what they needed and learned from it. it's difficult to tell if she believes him or just wants to so badly she's willing to go through the motions of pretending, but eventually clarke summons the resolve to drag her gaze up to watch his face.

it's on the tip of her tongue to ruminate about other ways of killing the symbiote — it was a parasite, they were livable hosts and if something were to change so as to make them inhospitable to the brain bug, perhaps it would remove itself; maybe finding exactly who'd introduced the parasitoid their rescued, comatose bodies could give them an opportunity to ask questions, maybe find out if there was a way to separate themselves from the organism growing in their brain without killing either party.

but before she can open her mouth, lexa's impatient words wash over her thoughts. commanding attention, gathering them all in for a conversation she's not ready to have, but will inevitably rise to join. clarke's fingers twitch within bellamy's grasp again, and this time she withdraws her hands. )