snowblindrpg | [network] @ASolomons; audio, morning of 265 [open]

It's disappeared. Stephen and Peter are out there investigating. The Admin told Angel the place is under quarantine and it seems to have just... vanished.

It's gone?

[A tense pause. His breathing is notably shaky, edging closer to panic.]

...I should be relieved. No. Can't be that simple.

Quarantine means they're looking into it and trying to fix the problem, Enoch. It's not gone, no. It's just cordoned off to keep it from infecting the rest of the system. But for right now, it's out of sight, out of mind, yeah?

I...I don't think that's possible.

[The whole putting it out of his mind thing, that is. Nothing comes without some kind of catch here.]

Try your best on that, mate. I know it's going to be hard. [John is excellent at suppression. So much so he can have gaps in his memories... probably not what Enoch is looking for. Also unhealthy, but he's not going to mention it.]

They're still hurting...

[He can't just let it go. He can't. Not as long as the people his hands were turned against still see him in their nightmares, not as long as the sound of his voice causes them distress. How could he do that to them even if he knew how?]

And so are you. You'll all be hurting for a long time after this.

I'm still hurting them. Even if I didn't-...

[The way Rhys panicked, the way Billy sounded like he was going to...it's like taking the utter despair the day after their surgeries and pinning it to his heart so it never goes away.]

You can't fix what happened right now, Enoch. I know it hurts. I know. But you did what you could when you could. And you helped get them all out before whatever end that program had in mind. Keeping away from them might be for the best, but keeping away from everyone is going to hurt them in the long-run. We need your help to get out of here.

I know.

[He can't keep away from everyone for being potentially dangerous. He's intensely aware of this, of how hypocritical it would make him. But at the same time, once he retrieves his things from Brian, where should he go? Where can he go to avoid accidentally running into either of them?

And then there's the entirely selfish but very real pain that has its claws sunken deep in his gut, that he may never be able to speak to either of these people again. That they will always hurt. It's a little too much like the utter dread that had gripped him as the days had gone on after Clayton's death without his return, that prelude to the crushing despair of not having been with him.]

I don't know what to do.

Keep going. Do everything you can to get us out faster. That's the best any of us can do to stop this happening again.

Keep going...

[He would like to just say he'll try, really, like he had with Alfie and Billy. But he can't, this time. Too many other thoughts in the way, like the way the door feels like an impossible distance away and the minimal effort it should take to simply sit up isn't actually doing anything.]

I should. I can scarcely will myself to move.

Don't do it for yourself right now, then. Do it for the other people here, right? Let them motivate you and drag you forward until you can do it yourself, Enoch. I believe in you. I know this is... it's an impossible situation. It's a horrible one. But your depression is making it worse. You'll want to make sure you're still taking it. Or... are you out? I can put in another prescription.

The medicine... I was separated from my things when I died.

[And thinking of it makes him uneasy. He doesn't know how to put it into words. He's just so tired. Maddeningly enough, not in a way that is conducive to sleep.

He'd probably just have nightmares anyway.]

Oh... Christ, d'you have enough right now?

It's all in my bag. I only took one. I don't know if it affected me.

[...Would he know, if it did?]

I mean enough anything, Enoch. Food? Supplies? Forget about the meds.

[His mind is caught on the meds, unfortunately, in its fettered state. Thankfully, it's too indistinct to voice, ideas that lack words. When he does reply, it's in response to the actual question, at least, if very delayed.]

Eve left food and water for me when I revived.

[Not that he's eaten much lately. Being made into a monster tends to kill the appetite, no matter how long it's been since real food was had.]

Are you eating it? [John knows full well what depression can do to the appetite.]

I was. I haven't had any appetite today.

[Or for the past three while he was in the tower, though at least there success was in close enough sight he was able to force himself to eat at least a little. Now, though? The prisoners are freed, and he is left with the mental image of their mangled bodies, especially the two he personally mutilated, and the way they must still see him in their own minds' eyes. That actually worsens his appetite more than the grisly sights.]

I know it's hard to eat when you're not hungry, Enoch, but I'd really appreciate it if you would eat. At least one full meal, preferably two. It would put my mind more at ease.

I could try.

[He drags his bag of supplies over to himself and manages to pull out some kind of packaged pastry.

And he just stares at it. Eating is instinct. Basic human survival. And yet, the hand he's not holding the pastry with, the one he needs to open the wrapper, feels leaden and sluggish.]

Why does something so simple feel so challenging?

Because your brain is tricking your body right now. It's not well, so of course the rest of you doesn't feel good. Please just try to eat, Enoch. I promise it will help you, even if it doesn't feel like it.

I've- I've felt despair, felt unmotivated, but not- never... ugh, the dead might be more lively.

[Somehow voicing his frustration helped, at least enough to tear the packaging open with the audible crinkling of thin plastic. The pastry, of course, slides out and lands on his chest. Another inconvenience that shouldn't even matter, but does. It takes entirely too much focus just to pick it up again.]

This is pathetic... All of this for something so small.

[A deep breath, a reluctant nibble. Vanilla that's too strong, too sweet. Somehow still also tastes like sand, and is just as hard to swallow.]

...They fed us generously.

[He's not entirely sure what good that does, really. It was the first thing he thought of when he began to eat, the food they gave them.]

[John can remember, keenly, going for days without eating after he thought Sherlock had died, after Mary had died. People at work had prodded him into it. Coffee with Mary had made him want to eat again. She'd brightened his life in the middle of a very dark place. Having a purpose here again had kickstarted John's own motivations. He could see through the despair to keep Sherlock safe here where he'd put his best friend in harm's way back in their own reality.]

It's okay to be pathetic sometimes, Enoch. It's okay to be weak and unmotivated. Just remember that it's not something that's forever. You will get past this. Give it time and keep yourself alive in the meanwhile so you're there to see it through.

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