mental link | early day :006

[nirsighted]

[It's late in the evening - or technically very early in the morning when not so people are at least considering sleep -and somewhere, something goes quiet. Very, very quiet. A pressure that was there a moment ago is now gone, snipped away like a cut line. It's a sensation with some growing familiarity: the distinct odd moment of being unbalanced that comes from a host sliding into a coma. It's happened twice already in the last few days, and now a third. Maybe there's something in the air of Concordia that doesn't agree with you?

In an echo of Castor earlier brood's experience with Jessica, the sensation of something missing sticks with Adara brood for a few lingering moments. But the pang quickly evens out, fading to a dull uneasy tingle at the back of the mind.

--Or would, if it weren't for the bolt of anxiety that follows. It's loud, frenetic. Panic sweat on skin. A pliable stick bent too far and cracked across the knee. It punches through the mental link connecting every host, rattling high and sharp, and is tangible like copper taste on molar teeth.

It makes sleeping, uh... difficult.]

( Stop that. )


((ooc: /hacks another limb off Adara. Hi friends! Ares has dropped and will be going into a coma; on day 007, Nirad will be taking a trip back to the Station to transport all our comatose friends home and pick up some new faces. Until then everyone please hug Adara brood and just...don't stop...))

Comments

[nirsighted]

[He eases. By degrees - by pieces. That's how it works. She finds the stones turned over in a series of crooked directions and rights them, realigning them with each other until everything sits straighter. It's a minor rearrangement, the patient work of a steady hand, and he gives into it like a fish carried by a current. It's the easiest thing to do; anything else would be... exhausting.

He still feels stretched thin by it though. Not ragged, not anymore, but whittled down under the pressure of his own mind smashing itself against the careful, gentle borders Carata has given him. Nirad breathes out, ragged and tired, and retracts by degrees: peels himself free of the tenuous connections between himself and, well, everyone else. It's lonelier, quieter. But maybe that's better sometimes.

The mental hum of him settles, grows small and soft and quiet. He nods in agreement. She's right. He should rest. After a moment, he summons some complete thought and brings his head up. He rubs his face (with his unbloodied fingers) and clears his throat.]

You should check on, uh-- [what's his name? For a second it's hard for him to remember even though he's Nirad's favorite of the new people] Aoba. His brain's falling apart.

[serenae]

[It is delicate work, at times. At this time, and with him. Less like the weapon it could be. A gentle redirection, without force or attempt to disguise what it was she was doing.

She sits straighter as he gathers himself up, mind as quiet as she would like to make it, tired but calm enough. There is satisfaction in that, even if the way he puts distance between himself and her- and everyone. That was fine. Withdraws her hands from his hand and his neck, folding them into her lap.

Hm- Without Nirad drawing the whole of her attention it's quite easy to see what it is he means. Her lips narrow slightly, another warning she'd received. But she could handle that as well, she's certain. They wouldn't have been trusted with this responsibility if they weren't capable.]

I will. I think you should go to the Station this time. You haven't been in awhile.

[It wasn't quite home, but it was nearly as comforting. A reminder that they were not alone. She stands, steps over the tangle of his legs to wind her way back out of his room again, heading towards Aoba's room without having to question if she was going the right way. Too loud to ignore.]

[nirsighted]

[He doesn't bother to respond even if he agrees. It'd be good to go back, to stretch his legs, to be somewhere familiar in the way only the Station could be. Not that he dislikes it on Concordia; the lights are nice, the press of people is okay. He likes the bullet trains and the computers and the information everywhere. But maybe his brain's just tired from trying to process all of it. Maybe he just needs a little break. Maybe...--

Anyway. Nirad doesn't bother to say anything to her as she draws away, as she leaves the room. He doesn't exactly need to, does he? It's fine. They'll all manage somehow. Everything is perfectly all right.

She wouldn't lie to him.]