[COLOR=DIMGRAY][INDENT][COLOR=#a12b47][SUB][SUP][H3][I]A week ago...[/I][/H3][/SUP][/SUB][/COLOR]
[Quote][i]Tapping his foot with a jittery impatience, Siro waited in line. He was in a bus terminal somewhere near Edmonton. The place was a stinking cocktail of mildew, diesel and coffee; shaken, not stirred. It wasn’t too busy, but busy enough to stifle Siro in his current state.

He was spent; his endocrine system burned-out from overuse. It wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. It happened when he overextended himself, which, given his stubbornness and propensity for foolhardiness, was more often than he’d admit.

He was paler than usual, and afflicted with a cold, clammy sweat. His posture had sank, as had his eyes. His heart-rate sauntered, bradycardia and tachycardia exchanging blows, leaving him light-headed and sensitive to his surroundings. The unfiltered light bit at his eyes, the rabble of the crowd, however small, screamed at him, and the ache of his body set his hair on edge. All of this discontent was punctuated by visible tremors and twitching, giving him the appearance of some kind of junkie. Passers-by looked at him with disdain, concern, or fear. He needed them to stop looking. He needed to be somewhere dark and dry. A numb, persistent anxiety had fallen over him — not quite panic — something more slow and gnawing. [COLOR=#a12b47]“Shit,”[/color] he rasped, digging his fingernails into his palms.

Two days ago he’d been dispatched to de-escalate an incident involving a Delta-class Hyper who’d snapped and started smashing up a block of buildings. The kid, whose skin could harden up like steel, was up on the rooftop when Siro arrived. He had a young woman by the scruff of her neck —  ex-girlfriend, it turned out. Didn’t take the break-up so well, apparently, and let the whole neighbourhood know about it. Even when Siro subdued him and prevented any immediate threat, the kid would just not budge; he knew he was going to end up getting arrested, he knew his ex would put a restraining order on him, and he knew his life, in its current form, was over. Siro felt for the kid; he’d been in the same place, felt the same kind of terror, when he was eighteen. Even without the fear, without the rage, the kid was frozen in place. They were up on that rooftop for six hours before the kid eventually let his skin meld back to flesh and threw himself off the ledge. Siro stayed a while longer to try and quell the young woman’s agony, as she knelt by the rooftop’s edge, wailing out in regret. After all was said and done, Siro found a motel to crash into and slept for seventeen hours. Now he had to get back to Base Alpha. Rinse and repeat.

Things were moving slower than usual. Checkpoints had been implemented by local law enforcement after a surge in incidents. It never used to be like this. Damn-near border patrol at the local bus terminal.

Over time, the line in front of Siro thinned out. He eventually found himself at the front of the queue, where two security officers stood, filtering people through the line, one by one. They took a good long look at him, and then exchanged brief glances.

One of them cleared his throat. [color=white]“Sir, you’re sweating through your jacket. I’m gonna need you to step aside.”[/color]

[color=#a12b47]“No.. It’s alright, I’m uh…”[/color]

Siro trailed off. His hand reached for his wallet in its usual spot. Nothing but lint. He patted around himself, disoriented. A little panic set in. Had he forgotten his wallet in his feverish state? He began to search and re-search every pocket he had, instinctively dropping his rucksack to the ground as he did so.

The second officer, while Siro was preoccupied, heaved the bag up onto a counter.

[color=white]“Sir,”[/color] the first officer repeated. [color=white]“Please come with me.”[/color]

[color=#a12b47]“Just hold on a second, I —”[/color]

That was it — his wallet was in his other jeans, he recalled, which were buried at the bottom of his rucksack. In his delirious haze last night he’d vomited all over himself and wrapped up his clothes in a trash bag, his mind too delirious to worry about retrieving his wallet. He glanced over to the second security officer, who was now fishing through his rucksack.

[color=#a12b47]“Hey, jackass — get your hands out my bag.”[/color]

The second officer, who had been wincing at the bag’s odour, seemed to almost stifle a smile from what he found inside.

[color=d6d9ff]“You thought you could stumble through here with paraphernalia that easy? You people are dumb as bricks.”[/color]

The fuck? The word paraphernalia bounced around Siro’s skull like a cueball. He blinked at the object in the man’s hand. It was a subcutaneous auto-injector — a syringe, sort of like an EpiPen — that Siro used to administer inhibitors when his tank was empty.

[color=a12b47]“What? That’s medication, genius,”[/color] Siro said, voice low and rasping. [color=a12b47]“Ain’t party supplies. You think I shoot up for fun with that thing?”[/color]

[color=white]“Sure looks that way,”[/color] the first officer said with disdain. [color=white]“Now, this is the last time I’ll ask. Come with me, Sir.”[/color]

[color=a12b47]“Now just hold on a second, I’m not goin’ anywhere. You’ve got this whole situation twisted —”[/color] 

A hand clasped his shoulder and jolted him forward. In his weakened state, it felt like an anchor dragging him down to earth, and he nearly lost his footing. Reflexively, he pushed out his arms, shoving back the officer who’d tried to restrain him.

The second officer didn’t flinch — he wanted this. Siro saw it in his face as soon as he looked up. A little vindication. He’d seen it before in these kinds of men; the sort that thought putting a badge on their chest made them some kind of god. He was already gripping the taser at his belt, thumb lazily resting over the release.

Siro staggered a half-step toward the officer, arms loose at his sides like they might swing. [color=a12b47]“I swear to God, you hit me with that, and I’ll—”[/color] 

CRACK.

Siro’s legs buckled as a wave of static tore through his nervous system. Onlookers gasped and scattered backwards as he let out a croaky, dulled yelp. One knee locked, the other folded under, jaw clicking as his teeth rattled together. His fingers scratched at the tile involuntarily, and then he lay still, too exhausted to move.

Somewhere, a little girl started crying. Someone else snorted, either in laughter or disgust. Then a smug voice above him: [color=d6d9ff]“Freak tried to pull a stunt. But look at that, down like a lawn chair.”[/color]

Siro might’ve had a quip or a comeback on a better day, but all that came out of his mouth was slurred nonsense.

And then he passed out.
[/i][/Quote][/INDENT][hr][CENTER][img]https://t4.ftcdn.net/jpg/00/80/19/85/360_F_80198587_Jiwc58i3fcT80XUKYqUhi69hM8uwYj0h.jpg[/img][/CENTER][indent][sub][COLOR=SILVER][B]Location:[/B][/COLOR] [I]Siro's dormitory,[/I] - [I]Base Alpha, Dundas Island[/I][/sub][sup][right][COLOR=SILVER][b]Time of Trouble #1.03:[/b][/COLOR] [I]Cocoon[/I][/right][/sup][/indent][sub][hr][/sub][INDENT][sub][color=SILVER][B]Interaction(s):[/B][/COLOR] [I]N/A[/I][/sub][SUP][RIGHT][COLOR=SILVER][b]Previously:[/b][/COLOR] [I]N/A[/I][/right][/SUP]
[INDENT][center][url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UT14prvQ1tk]♩ ♪ ♫ ♬[/url][/center]

Five days had passed since Siro made it back to Base Alpha. H.E.L.P. pulled some strings and got him out of police custody without any issues. Didn’t make the shame sting any less, though. Even if he hadn’t needed the rest, he’d have likely recoiled back to his dormitory for a while, as he often elected to do in times of fatigue and recovery.

His room was dim. Almost midday outside, but it was hard to tell. The curtains were drawn, all lights were off, and the door was shut like a seal. Siro was flat on his bed, fully clothed, looking up at the ceiling vacantly. He fidgeted with a tennis ball, which he’d periodically throw up against the ceiling, causing a soft, rhythmic pulse.

He hadn't moved in hours. Aside from fetching food and bathing, he hadn’t done much at all since returning. This was just part of the process. When he hit rock bottom, he had to retreat away into his cocoon to heal.

Soothing jazz throbbed out from the stereo in the corner; one of his favourite cassettes that he played as part of a wider rotation throughout his seclusion. He knew it well enough to let his fingers dance along with the sparkling keys, and to hum in unison with the saxophone. It massaged his tired skull, but wasn’t intrusive enough to poke its way inside.

Recovery looked like this, most days. His power came back in bursts, never all at once. Until then, he went still. Lowered his vitals. Pretended the world didn’t exist.

The telephone in his room began to ring. A dormant part of his brain registered that he had a call appointment with Dr. Chloe Morin, a psychologist who worked with the HR department at H.E.L.P.. He’d spoken with her briefly after his incident, but he had been in no state to provide much insight into his condition. HR usually wouldn’t bother him so soon after a crash, but Siro had been offered a new opportunity, and Dr. Morin was more than likely checking to see if he was up to the job. He composed himself and reached over for the phone.

[COLOR=#adeff1]“Good morning Siro,”[/color] came the voice of Dr. Morin. Her tone calm; professional.

[COLOR=#a12b47]“Hey.”[/color] Siro matched her restrained energy — not that he had much to give, anyway.

[COLOR=#adeff1]“I heard about the offer.”[/color]

[COLOR=#a12b47]“Course,”[/color] Siro said dryly. [COLOR=#a12b47]“Why else would you be calling me?”[/color]

[COLOR=#adeff1]“It's always good to check in. In any case, congratulations. It's quite the opportunity.”[/color]

[COLOR=#a12b47]“Thanks, Doc,”[/color] he said, toying with the tennis ball as he spoke. [COLOR=#a12b47]“But I’m guessing this isn’t a social call.”[/color]

[COLOR=#adeff1]“No — it’s not. I just need to run through a few things before I can finalise your clearance.”[/color]

Siro sighed. [COLOR=#a12b47]“Right. The old rubber glove.”[/color]

[COLOR=#adeff1]“Standard evaluation. Nothing invasive.”[/color]

[COLOR=#a12b47]“So why's this a call, huh? I coulda jogged to your office faster than it took for you to dial me up.”[/color]

A pause followed.

[COLOR=#adeff1]“— I have to ensure my results are authentic.”[/color]

[COLOR=#a12b47]“You think I'm gonna juice your dopamine and mind-fuck my way into a promotion?”[/color] Siro scoffed. [COLOR=#a12b47]“I'm not like that.”[/color]

[COLOR=#adeff1]“I'm not suggesting you are. But protocol exists to prevent any disruptions.”[/color]

[COLOR=#a12b47]“Do you also put on a snorkel when you evaluate a hydrokinetic? I'm insulted, Doc.”[/color] Siro’s cadence suggested he was joking, but, in truth, the distrust did irk him. The Doctor didn’t want him in the room with her in case he manipulated her biochemistry: made her favour him in one way or another.

[COLOR=#adeff1]“It's for everyone. But I understand why it might feel personal.”[/color]

[COLOR=#a12b47]“Nah, nothing personal about a psych evaluation. Let's get it over with.”[/color]

[COLOR=#adeff1]“Very well. Let's begin. I'll be asking a series of questions. You can answer freely, but I need you to be honest with me.”[/color]

[COLOR=#a12b47]“You got it.”[/color]

And so the questions came. Cold; clinical. There were curve-balls in there, but he knew what they were really getting at. [i]Was that shitshow at the bus terminal going to be a recurring problem? Was he going to shame his new team with a pathetic taser-slump in the midst of a crucial operation?[/i] He knew people judged him for it; saw him as a sloppy agent. He told himself he didn’t care. And when the question came, he told Morin it wouldn't happen again. Both were lies.

The tennis ball thumped softly against the wall. Again. And again.[/INDENT][/INDENT][/COLOR]