(Untitled)

[eversomuchfun]

There's a pale young man out back of Milliways, leaning against a tree by the lake with a cigarette and a contemplative expression.

He would be entirely amenable to company.

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[40410]

In fact there are two pale young men, though the latter is pacing about a little way down the shore and considerably less well-at-ease.

It's not been long since the disaster of a conversation with Strat, and his mind keeps going back to it, playing over the fact that the man might be searching for ADAM right now. Maybe he'll find it, maybe he'll find Alex again and give it to him.

But Alex knows where that train of thought leads, and he tears himself away before he can get lost in it. He doesn't want to start seeing things again, or hunting for the stuff that'll kill him. He just needs to last until Milliways unlocks its door, and then he can find Sof and ask just how she plans to help, because he needs he hopes it involves more plasmids some serious help.

He forces himself to stop pacing, but still tears up grass with his trainers as he watches the play of crimson and blue that the moon isn't casting over the water.

[eversomuchfun]

Even through the smoke, Sherlock can smell it.

"Excuse me," he calls, "I have to ask. What are you on?"

[40410]

Shit what the shit. Alex looks around sharply and spots the other man.

How the hell does he know?

"Nothing," he calls back. He's not even sure whether his tone is closer to denial or to anger. "What the hell."

He makes a tactical retreat, which here means 'stalks away along the shoreline, deeply unsettled'.

[eversomuchfun]

"Oh, no," he says, following. "Really, just a moment of your time. I know it's rude, but I am curious."

The voice is slightly familiar, come to think, but he's about twenty years too young.

[40410]

Which unless it's coincidental probably means one of two things: either the guy who introduced himself as Sherlock Holmes has a just as nosy brother, or Milliways hasn't given up on trolling Alex.

There's the urge to just turn around and lay into the guy, but he still knows that that's not right.

"No. Go away."

[eversomuchfun]

"Pretty please?"

He walks deceptively fast; he's already catching up.

[40410]

The sense of someone chasing him closing in on him so fast is too unnerving; it's either break into a run or wheel around and aggressively stand his ground, and Alex chooses the latter.

"What the hell do you want?"

[eversomuchfun]

"I love that question. It has so much potential. I want to find out what that delicious smell is. I'd be much obliged if you'd let me know."

[40410]

"'Cause that's not creepy as hell."

This conversation is getting off to a golden start.

[eversomuchfun]

He laughs.

"I am sure it is. Nevertheless."

[40410]

"Fuck off."

He's half tempted to just tell the guy, see if he finds some and fucks himself up too.

He turns and starts walking again, this time away from the lake.

[eversomuchfun]

Cheerfully: "No."

Sherlock continues to follow him.

"I only want a taste," he adds.

[40410]

That holds a twofold threat: the continuing creeptasticality of it, and on a less conscious level, the threat to Alex's potential claim of any ADAM that might become available. It's one hell of a strung-out and paranoid kid who whips around again, struggling to keep the icicles from pushing out of his hands.

Those hands do twitch, and shudder as though hit by a sudden chill.

He controls himself, breathes through his nose and says: "There isn't any."

[eversomuchfun]

He smiles, displaying teeth.

Not fangs, mind you-not yet.

"Perhaps you mistook my meaning."

[40410]

Guess who just went far enough beyond creepy to merit icicles?

Gloves of frost turns his skin pale blue. Both hands and all the fingers on them jerk as needles of ice stab their way out, level three sharp. They always come out with streaks of his blood on them, already frozen. This time is no exception.

Alex keeps his hands a little raised, and glares.

"Leave me alone."

[eversomuchfun]

"Oh," he breathes, "is that the way of it, then."

His forehead hardens into an exaggerated pattern of grooves and ridges; his teeth lengthen with the soft, impossible sound of stretching bone.

He pounces.