Rashad Durant (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
omnomnom_feels) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
bigapplesauce2015-02-25 08:26 pm
omnomnom_feels) wrote in bigapplesauce2015-02-25 08:26 pm
Soup Kitchen
Rush is a good source of energy. Rush is a very good source of energy, or at least a very plentiful one. There has never been a time when Rashad has encountered him and not found him bursting with some form of emotional distress. At the party -- Rashad had not even meant to feed on something like panic and anger at the party; he had intended to find some form of joy so that he might stay and partake in the event itself. Temptation had struck, and once he is in his right mind again he will decide that it was right after all that he partook while he had the opportunity, even if it was not his first choice. It can be difficult to find sustenance; he will not turn his nose up at what is offered.
The downside to getting a rush from Rush is that the emotions in question strongly incline him to flee to his apartment and hide there in agitated solitude for some time. It is the next day before he recovers, and then he must go to work lest he call attention to himself. There is much work to catch up on, too much for him to take a long enough lunch break to obtain the kind of lunch he actually needs or to leave work on time. That evening is one of slim pickings; somewhere in the city there is sure to be someone going through an emotional state that would feed him, but Rashad is unable to find such a person and finally retreats home to conserve energy until the next day, when he must go to work again, this time running on reserves. It is unlikely that he will find what he needs by chance on his lunch hour, and unlikelier still that he will remain in prime control of himself if he does not feed before the afternoon. Manhattan is a neverending hubbub of emotions, but he needs more than happiness or sadness -- he needs extremes, the intensity of emotion most mortals feel only every now and then. The decision is a deliberate one, a calculated risk -- but it is not difficult to obtain the home address of someone he knows is all but sure to give him what he needs, perhaps with a little prompting if necessary. Then he will be able to think clearly again.
At lunch he makes an excuse and leaves, work undone, for home. It will be a simple operation, he thinks as he makes his way upstairs and stalks along the hall toward Rush's apartment. He will feed quickly, perhaps even through the wall if Rush is close enough and upset enough, and then he willhave a lengthy panic attack quietly return to work with no one the wiser.
The downside to getting a rush from Rush is that the emotions in question strongly incline him to flee to his apartment and hide there in agitated solitude for some time. It is the next day before he recovers, and then he must go to work lest he call attention to himself. There is much work to catch up on, too much for him to take a long enough lunch break to obtain the kind of lunch he actually needs or to leave work on time. That evening is one of slim pickings; somewhere in the city there is sure to be someone going through an emotional state that would feed him, but Rashad is unable to find such a person and finally retreats home to conserve energy until the next day, when he must go to work again, this time running on reserves. It is unlikely that he will find what he needs by chance on his lunch hour, and unlikelier still that he will remain in prime control of himself if he does not feed before the afternoon. Manhattan is a neverending hubbub of emotions, but he needs more than happiness or sadness -- he needs extremes, the intensity of emotion most mortals feel only every now and then. The decision is a deliberate one, a calculated risk -- but it is not difficult to obtain the home address of someone he knows is all but sure to give him what he needs, perhaps with a little prompting if necessary. Then he will be able to think clearly again.
At lunch he makes an excuse and leaves, work undone, for home. It will be a simple operation, he thinks as he makes his way upstairs and stalks along the hall toward Rush's apartment. He will feed quickly, perhaps even through the wall if Rush is close enough and upset enough, and then he will
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"Yes, yes," he mutters, wishing for the spare physical control that would enable a dismissive wave of a hand. Asadi made that point quite transparent in her unanticipated defense of him. Any potential for elaboration of that factor is lost in the involuntary grunt of pained exertion that accompanies his wrenching, tortuous attempt to stand. The amount of resistance in both kinetic effort and air density is quite remarkable, as if his various faculties have systematically decided to abandon his body to the slide and pull of gravity, ceding everything to its destructive, dominant force.
The end result is less than satisfactory. Awareness signals vertigo, and vertigo sags him uselessly against the wall, breathing perhaps heavier than is typical, but unquestionably vertical.
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"You okay?" she says. Obviously he isn't, but this is a man generally predisposed not to ask for help and loathe to reveal that he needs it at all. She takes a step back but stays in range if he should topple or sag down again, sipping her own coffee.
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"I suspect I'll have no difficulties recovering." His expression darkens meaningfully, eyes flicking back to Asadi and away again, one muscle twitching subtly in his cheek. "At least this time."
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"I agree," he answers quietly, closing his eyes in a largely ineffectual effort to scrub the sensation of being lifted and pinned from his mind.
The memory replays itself with distressing clarity - Durant's hand closing around the front of his shirt, a snap of fingers wrapping around the material and pinning him inescapably against his own wall while he did little more besides writhe and panic and make himself vulnerable.
The corner of his mouth twitches in distaste.
He fixates instead on the wall's numerical scrawl, and redirects his attention back to Asadi.
"Encrypting a message should be fairly simple," he says with dry, forced insouciance, "assuming you have access to a cryptographer." He meets her gaze finally, canting a wry eyebrow to mirror hers.
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He navigates the empty stretch of apartment to his laptop and the table on which it's balanced with something of his usual dexterity and coordination, then opens it with a quiet, satisfying click. Shattering the vertigo beginning to burrow mercilessly into the fringes of his vision with a brusque shake of his head, he opens a sequence of programs with a burst of furious typing and sets to work.