Nicholas Rush (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
lottawork) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2015-01-10 11:08 am
lottawork) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-01-10 11:08 am
Entry tags:
he's withered, weak, and weary, his bones are bare and brittle [closed]
[tw: mild gender dysphoria]
Today is the day for self-establishment.
In the days that follow his sloppily conceived, poorly enacted integration into a city in a brane that is not his, Rush has not bothered to streamline his introduction to ROMAC and its indiscreetly watchful employees, who take in his ragged appearance and neglected beard and straggling hair with an admixture of pity and distaste. It would seem that scaling ROMAC’s institutional ladder becomes significantly more difficult when it is patently obvious that one has for several years been in an extremely resource-poor environment.
Rush has little interest in truly living here, but existence in any space requires certain foundations. At the very least he will make the necessary adjustments to advance his appearance from ‘unacceptably disheveled’ to, at minimum, ‘academically unkempt’, because said appearance seems to be something his overcritical co-workers have vested an undue interest in, despite the reality that Rush has previously and independently decided, quite simply, that he cannot list all the ways in which he does not give a fuck.
He’d spent most of the night of his arrival divesting his apartment of its non-necessities, which largely involved removal of all furniture save the unremarkable table and its accompanying chairs, and on the whole he succeeded. He favors a space without distraction. The place is etched cleanly in white walls and hard angles, perfectly bereft. It's an advantageous arrangement. The day lacks distractions. The day lacks interference. He showers. He shaves. He makes himself presentable. He cuts his hair. He purchases clothes. They’re similar enough to the ensembles he favored before catapulting himself across billions of light years of space and into Destiny, that of the finite resources. They approach formality. They’re satisfactory. They achieve what they’re meant to. He can radiate poise and smoothed-over self-possession and competence, and this is what ROMAC prefers, the clear-cut and sharp-edged lacquer of deceptive professionalism.
An unreasonable amount of time is wasted in delaying the final constituent. Rush made it his final item for a reason, and this is because that while Destiny did not lack mirrors it did not have them in abundance, and following his release from stasis he took his care to avoid them. He has no wish, then or now, to see the physical evidence of his steadily reversing biology, the inexorable unraveling of years spent meticulously scheduling the proper care. But then when he showers he stares, and he sees it anyway. He locates a medical clinic specifically for those of Rift origin, he memorizes the number of the street, and today he’ll fucking well be done with it. He takes a cab. He’s cutting down his travel time. He’s reducing the half-life of his own escalating, splintering nervous energy, but he has a handle on it. He does. He's certain. He’s performing a necessity.
Rush enters the clinic and makes an appointment, and sits in the sterile white-walled waiting room and thinks of bone density.
Today is the day for self-establishment.
In the days that follow his sloppily conceived, poorly enacted integration into a city in a brane that is not his, Rush has not bothered to streamline his introduction to ROMAC and its indiscreetly watchful employees, who take in his ragged appearance and neglected beard and straggling hair with an admixture of pity and distaste. It would seem that scaling ROMAC’s institutional ladder becomes significantly more difficult when it is patently obvious that one has for several years been in an extremely resource-poor environment.
Rush has little interest in truly living here, but existence in any space requires certain foundations. At the very least he will make the necessary adjustments to advance his appearance from ‘unacceptably disheveled’ to, at minimum, ‘academically unkempt’, because said appearance seems to be something his overcritical co-workers have vested an undue interest in, despite the reality that Rush has previously and independently decided, quite simply, that he cannot list all the ways in which he does not give a fuck.
He’d spent most of the night of his arrival divesting his apartment of its non-necessities, which largely involved removal of all furniture save the unremarkable table and its accompanying chairs, and on the whole he succeeded. He favors a space without distraction. The place is etched cleanly in white walls and hard angles, perfectly bereft. It's an advantageous arrangement. The day lacks distractions. The day lacks interference. He showers. He shaves. He makes himself presentable. He cuts his hair. He purchases clothes. They’re similar enough to the ensembles he favored before catapulting himself across billions of light years of space and into Destiny, that of the finite resources. They approach formality. They’re satisfactory. They achieve what they’re meant to. He can radiate poise and smoothed-over self-possession and competence, and this is what ROMAC prefers, the clear-cut and sharp-edged lacquer of deceptive professionalism.
An unreasonable amount of time is wasted in delaying the final constituent. Rush made it his final item for a reason, and this is because that while Destiny did not lack mirrors it did not have them in abundance, and following his release from stasis he took his care to avoid them. He has no wish, then or now, to see the physical evidence of his steadily reversing biology, the inexorable unraveling of years spent meticulously scheduling the proper care. But then when he showers he stares, and he sees it anyway. He locates a medical clinic specifically for those of Rift origin, he memorizes the number of the street, and today he’ll fucking well be done with it. He takes a cab. He’s cutting down his travel time. He’s reducing the half-life of his own escalating, splintering nervous energy, but he has a handle on it. He does. He's certain. He’s performing a necessity.
Rush enters the clinic and makes an appointment, and sits in the sterile white-walled waiting room and thinks of bone density.
no subject
"Don't call me that," Rush snaps back with as much acidity as possible. "It's obvious you're attempting to be ironic, and it isn't working."
no subject
"I'm not being ironic," he says, sneering at Rush. "But fine. I shan't call you anything you don't want to be called, unless you prove to be a real pain in the neck."
no subject
He breaks off through no fault or intent of his own in response to the unanticipated blaze of supraorbital pain, no doubt a product of sustained restlessness in conjunction with the unpreventable heightening of anxiety that has begun, most aggravatingly, to fuck with oxygenic density to the point where it has become very difficult to breathe properly, which is truly not an ideal standpoint from a conversational or interpersonal perspective, and if he wishes to retain something of his appearance as a completely uncaring, unflappable bastard, he is going to need to rein it the fuck in accordingly.
Rush loosens the fists he did not intend to clench at his sides. Engineer the lungs into proper order.
"Dr. Rush," he repeats, the irritation abruptly draining from his tone due to devoting nearly all his remaining mental energy to not letting his inexplicably mounting panic overflow and drown him and everything else. With more effort than should be necessary, he keeps on that line of dialogic necessity, which requires some form of polite reciprocation. "And you are - ?"
no subject
"I'm Jay Zimin," he says, his tone clipped. "Unfortunately, I'm far from privileged enough to bear any, ah, fancy titles. You may call me Jay. Anything else feels too ... ahhhh, stifling." He gives Rush a stern look, as though expecting him to disregard his preferences and stick an honorific in front of his family name.
no subject
"Yes," he says, the word only marginally fainter than it would be typically, before it strikes him that this is not precisely an adequate answer, as the previous statement issued was not a question that required a yes or no answer. "Well. Unsettling you was not - not my intention."
no subject
"Well, regardless of what you intended, Dr Rush, snapping at someone who merely exists near you is very much unsettling," he says, primly. He ignores the fact that he's been known to snap at people who merely exist near him. That, to him, is immaterial because he's aware he unsettles people when he does that. It's partially why he does it.
no subject
He grips the back of his neck in a movement both sharp and abrupt, leveling pressure onto the tensed musculature of his shoulder and regularizing the rise and sink of shoulders in conjunction with lungs in one jerking movement. He made a fucking appointment. He wants to discuss the requirements and leave and not be verbally besieged by this person who is obviously, obviously not remotely human.
'Verbally besieged' may not be an entirely fair assessment.
They both came here, presumably, for access to some medical service or equipment that could not be obtained in the average sense. Perhaps Zimin's anatomy renders typical medical care impossible, but fuck knows. He certainly doesn't care.