07-03-2013, 05:10 PM
Jim eventually comes to. A deep and telltale inhale, then a long sigh as his eyes flutter, and you can tell that he is the type that sleeps like a baby. Even when the universe has put hammer to nail (the second being his head) and soundly knocked him into oblivion.
Of course, as the system begins to boot, what comes next is the groan of a headache. The butts of his palms come up to his eyes to rub them. Thumbs find pressure points near the bridge of his nose while multiplying figures in his vision are finally unified and brought into focus.
He's regained consciousness. Coherency comes later, the concussion finally fading, the drugs finally giving up their hold, and his jaw flexes. His tongue roots around along roof of his mouth, and his fingers touch the contours of his skull, like he thinks he can feel for and identify a subdermal hematoma with their prehensile tips.
He's in a truck. He can smell Taco Bell. He can hear the crackle of the drive through. “Baja Blast,” he utters from wherever his knocked out self has been stashed in the vehicle. It's better than the incoherency about dancing with the rain and the Wizard of Oz he'd been babbling about earlier.
Eventually they are at Sid's place. He spends some time examining it. Exploring what he is allowed to explore. It might make it seem the concussion has returned, the way he fixates on points, objects, expressions of a life he hasn't fully considered her having.
Baja Blast is the oil that finally gets those gears whirring inside his head. It's plain on his face his full mental faculties are on the case.
And they go to work. Looking through the microscope, examining the unknown substance, checking for its reactivity to other substances – is it a salt, alkaline base, acid – and all that bad stuff. And finally...
It's that smell of ammonia that gives it away for Jim, once the substance is sterilized, brought to the right temperature, and isolated from everything that hides it. Once they are through discussing its makeup, piecing together a chemical profile and proper scientific name...
Eureka.
"PCP. That explains the dissociation. And... It's like schizophrenia. Not just in the short term. This can cause lesions on the brain," he recounts, eyes squinting at the little bit of dried powder that remains. Really, with another science nerd, another Cultist, and Jim's focus on pharmaceuticals, organic chemistry and neuroscience, along with less academic proclivities, it doesn't seem like an accident they would stumble on this.
"She might've dropped it on purpose. A more conscious and lucid part of her. Might've wanted to let us know," he continues. "There was someone else. In the alley. Someone wrapped up in junked time."
He leans over the microscope again, and begins analyzing it for color and contaminants, now that they have a base for comparison, all of which might end up telling them how well (and how professionally) it was synthesized.
"Who made you," just as much his tone as the wording showing he is anthropomorphizing the clue.
Next, he looks at the vial. "Depending on who bought this and from where, how common vials like this are in head shops or medical suppliers, we might be able to figure out where they bought this. If I ask around, we might even be able to figure out what dealer uses this kind of packaging."
Again he is in motion, questing headlong and forward, full steam ahead, his mind jumping from one possibility to the other. Like if he stopped, he might realize all that has happened in the last 24 hours and keel over under the rogue waves that are bombarding him.
Of course, as the system begins to boot, what comes next is the groan of a headache. The butts of his palms come up to his eyes to rub them. Thumbs find pressure points near the bridge of his nose while multiplying figures in his vision are finally unified and brought into focus.
He's regained consciousness. Coherency comes later, the concussion finally fading, the drugs finally giving up their hold, and his jaw flexes. His tongue roots around along roof of his mouth, and his fingers touch the contours of his skull, like he thinks he can feel for and identify a subdermal hematoma with their prehensile tips.
He's in a truck. He can smell Taco Bell. He can hear the crackle of the drive through. “Baja Blast,” he utters from wherever his knocked out self has been stashed in the vehicle. It's better than the incoherency about dancing with the rain and the Wizard of Oz he'd been babbling about earlier.
Eventually they are at Sid's place. He spends some time examining it. Exploring what he is allowed to explore. It might make it seem the concussion has returned, the way he fixates on points, objects, expressions of a life he hasn't fully considered her having.
Baja Blast is the oil that finally gets those gears whirring inside his head. It's plain on his face his full mental faculties are on the case.
And they go to work. Looking through the microscope, examining the unknown substance, checking for its reactivity to other substances – is it a salt, alkaline base, acid – and all that bad stuff. And finally...
It's that smell of ammonia that gives it away for Jim, once the substance is sterilized, brought to the right temperature, and isolated from everything that hides it. Once they are through discussing its makeup, piecing together a chemical profile and proper scientific name...
Eureka.
"PCP. That explains the dissociation. And... It's like schizophrenia. Not just in the short term. This can cause lesions on the brain," he recounts, eyes squinting at the little bit of dried powder that remains. Really, with another science nerd, another Cultist, and Jim's focus on pharmaceuticals, organic chemistry and neuroscience, along with less academic proclivities, it doesn't seem like an accident they would stumble on this.
"She might've dropped it on purpose. A more conscious and lucid part of her. Might've wanted to let us know," he continues. "There was someone else. In the alley. Someone wrapped up in junked time."
He leans over the microscope again, and begins analyzing it for color and contaminants, now that they have a base for comparison, all of which might end up telling them how well (and how professionally) it was synthesized.
"Who made you," just as much his tone as the wording showing he is anthropomorphizing the clue.
Next, he looks at the vial. "Depending on who bought this and from where, how common vials like this are in head shops or medical suppliers, we might be able to figure out where they bought this. If I ask around, we might even be able to figure out what dealer uses this kind of packaging."
Again he is in motion, questing headlong and forward, full steam ahead, his mind jumping from one possibility to the other. Like if he stopped, he might realize all that has happened in the last 24 hours and keel over under the rogue waves that are bombarding him.