Lunch, aka eating work time

[Johnny Delacroix]

Half of a table in the back was on reserve. Well not exactly on reserve, but Johnny commandeered it for work space. Papers lay scattered in what would appear to be an unruly mess all around him. The lord of this land of chaos would be the man consuming his lunch of highly-sweetened coffee, overseeing the mess. Honey-blonde hair was a barely brushed mess around his face. Upon a well-toned upper half was a black cotton shirt, barely buttoned. Upon the lower extremities, a pair of heavy black combat boots and a pair of black cotton trousers that looked as if they might be something other than cotton. They were sewn nicely enough. Over his ears, a pair of headphones blasting rock music. One would think the man to be deaf by now.

"If it wasn't for your misfortune, I'd be having a pleasent day.." Was sung quietly in a thick Louisiana accent. Despite his last name, he didn't have a Cajun accent, but that strangely soft southern drawl that they have down there. Doe-like grey blue eyes scanned over a sheet of paper in his hand, full of text and formulas. "Copper acetoarsenite... like in paint?" He mumbled absently to himself while reaching into the mess, not needing to so much as glance at what he was doing, and pulled out the sheet he was looking for.

He took another sip from his styrofoam cup while reading over this new sheet, absently sifting out a few crime scene photos from the mess. "How does it fe-el!" He snickered at the groans from around him, and plucked up a particular photo. He went back to mumbling to himself. "Makes pretty colors.. But it's not used anymore, really hard to find at paint stores. That should make it easier to find the person who bought it and filled his face with it. Unless he made it, in which case we'll have to find a chemist. I'm done." He tossed the photo onto the table with the others, pulling a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

[Eric]

There had been a murder. It was nasty, hell yes. Eric had woken up this morning on his couch to find the file being twapped onto his chest by his superior office, at his apartment no less, and had been distrubed to wonder how the hell he got in. Maybe through the window. After seeing Triss safely off to school Eric had thumped his way into work and been shouted at and paniced at and generally just sat there puffing away on his cigarette while a dozen other people paniced and chicken flapped around him until Eric had picked up the mortiacian's report, read it, thought about the man's status and what he'd done.

Three days ago, Jerimiah McGregror, a member of the OB and one of the founding members of it, had been chased through the park and shot at. Now there was that half lazy blurry footage that always surrounded Maxwell Conner, although there was no actual pictures of him so he must've been in the undergrowth. There was footage of a girl that he'd have to get up to Zaleman to get her to have a look at it, but that wasn't the main incident. Mr McGregor, at 1am this morning, keeled over and died. The autopsy shows traces of something, although it means all greek to Eric and he decided to take it to someone who might know what the chemical balances meant, and had a high possibilty of having done the autopsy anyway.

So, trailing cigarette smoke, black boots thumping heavily on the floor, dark blue jeans loose because he hadn't found time for a belt and the white shirt with the sleeves rolled up and not tucked in. Hair was pulled back, a bright red bandana holding the majority of it out his face. He flumped down heavily in the chair oppsite DelaCriox, reached out with a long arm and yanked the headphones off, tossing the brown carboard file in front of him.

"Is it possible to graze someone with a weapon that's got poison or something smeared on it and then have them die like three days later so hopefully the two incidents seem unrealted?" He asked, one eyebrow raised. Straight down to business, like always with Eric. Cigarette perched between his lips as he pulled over an empty plate and ashed his fag.

[Johnny Delacroix]

Johnny was a little surprised to say the least, when mister Latner sat down across from him. Not as surprised when his headphones were pulled so forcibly from his head. That which canted curiously to Eric's question. "Sure, if it's strong enough." As he usually did with papers for some odd reason, he pulled the file closer to himself with fingertips only, carefully pulling out a few sheets of notes to start looking over them. "I want to meet the person who made this one actually. It's a strong, hybrid version of Acetyltrimethylcolchicinic Acid. Royal Lily. Damage is in the cells and nerves. People take the store brand of this stuff to kill themselves. This kind works more slowly, and doesn't even show symptoms until it's too late. It's mixed with the smallest bits of chemicals from other plants that makes me think if those other chemicals were more abundant, someone could actually make a cure for it."

He rested his elbow on the table, cheek in his hand. The other was busy holding up the paper with all of the formulas written out. He wrote them, but he hadn't done the autopsy this time, just the toxicology screening. "Yeah, whoever cooked this one up knows what they're doing. I'd lay my tokens down on someone with a knowledge of what drugs can be found in different kinds of obtainable plants, and a good level of skill with mixing them. Home medic." Grinning faintly, he straightened up and sorted the papers back neatly into their folder. "Do you have any suspects yet? When you catch them, can I have them when you're through with 'em?" There was an excited kind of glimmer in his eyes when he looked up at him, pushing the folder back over.

After a second, he appeared to forget that excitement and his grin faded to a mild smile while he pulled a cigarette and his lighter out of the pack he'd already removed from his pocket, placing the cig in his mouth and lighting it. He stuffed the pack back into his pocket, puffing away happily while going about neatly stacking the papers all over the table. "Is that all you wanted? We should do beer some time. You look like the kind of guy who parties off-duty." Johnny had heard all about Eric from co-workers, was told he wasn't one for social visits. He was like.. The one who got things done, the one who so many secretaries and pencil-pushers and god knows who else would kill their mothers if it meant he'd love them like those dogs. Needless to say, it doesn't ever look like Johnny's listening, but he's listening. Even though he doesn't care. He's two feet from the guy, but looking up at him over the papers he was stacking, he only saw a regular dude. Who smelled kinda like dog. Not that dogs had a stink about them or anything. But they did have that doggy smell.

[Eric]

Eric shifted, eyed his ciagrette after the explination about the plants. As far as he knew, Max didn't have any real knowledge of plants, although he was aware he'd worked as a drug runner for the mafia when he was younger so it was possible that he did know. Wouldn't surprise him if he was self taught, or, needing a poision he'd have gone out and found out what he needed.

Or found someone who would've told him. Although his green eyes were fixed onto the cigarette as it burned slowly down, ash dropping to the table and bouncing off his arm - though he didn't seem to realise- burning him just a little. Head dipped a little, drifting off into thought and reaching the conclusion Max must have a medic or something on board. Must do. Had to. Fuck. This was getting complicated. Max himself he could handle, just. But if Max was pulling in resources? Had nut-jobs pshyco enough to give him all the information he wanted?

Medias was royally screwed.

Reaching over he pulled out the picture of the body on the site of death. "Between the time of Mr McGregors death, and DPS arrival at the scene, someone got past his stricken wife, had avoided the cameras in the tower block where he lived, and drawn...*that* onto his body."

Eric's hand pointed to a simple line, that if looked at in the right way looked like either a cutting flint tool, or the outline of a standing stone. "That's the symbol for Stoneage. It's not a murder, Johnny, its an assassination."

Dropping the cigarette without ever stubbing it out Eric leant back, and slapped both his hands on his face as he stretched and groaned gently. This was the third offer for going out for beers or something he'd had this day. And you know what, it might be 1 in the afternoon, but he was sick to death of this.

"I'm free for beer now, if you're interested. But you've got to help me out with this damnable fucking poison...thing. And other various medical phorensic stuff."

[Johnny Delacroix]

When the cigarette was dropped, Johnny quickly pulled the last paper out of the way so it wouldn't catch fire. He studied the photo thoughtfully. Turning it around in a little circle. He could see at least five different things, and hey if you move it like this, it looks like Mr. McGregors is dancing! He laughed lightly, then quickly set the photo back down with a straight face. "Okay I can do that. It'd sure as hell beat sitting around here listening to secretaries. You know Mary, the blonde with the enormous chest? She's got some sick tastes, man." He ashed his cigarette over his nearly empty coffee mug before scooping the papers into his sort of brief case/shoulder bag thing which he slung over his shoulder afterward as he got to his feet and placed his headphones around his neck.

"You look tired, you could use a sedative. I could hook you up with some. You know, for medicinal purposes. Without a good sleep, it's hard to think straight." He talked while he started down the table, pausing to look over his shoulder to see if Eric was following. "Hey Eric? Have you ever considered getting information from these captured Stoneage guys without going through all the trouble of you know, torturing them? My test subject didn't die so I've successfully perfected a truth serum. I never thought about how it'd benefit you guys, some people talk around that you like torturing people. But I thought I'd offer." He didn't have any real notions of Eric's nature, and he definitely wasn't one to believe or even give a flying fuck about rumors. Though some of the fantasies the medical assistants talked about were hilarious. Not hilarious as in they meant to be funny, but hilarious as in.. He didn't think anyone would want to have a riding crop put -there-.

At the end of the table, he lost interest in his cigarette and pulled out a little altoids tin from his bag, stubbing the cig out and closing the tin again to toss it back into the bag. "So where do you go for beer? I always just drink at home." Grey-blue eyes turned up to Eric again.

[Eric]

Nose crinkled to the torturing comment, the only thing that really penetrated his brain. What he needed, what Eric really needed, was some peace and quiet. A few days off without an assassination or an explosion or some fuzzy image of Maxwell Conner evidently up to something. Hell, maybe he'd take that Tristian kid shopping tomorrow. Yea, seemed like the best plan. Help the kid get the stuff for the costume for the cos-play thing he was ranting on about.

Fingers pinched the of his nose and Eric managed to crawl to his feet. "I don't torture people." He replied, frowning a little. "I only slap them upside the head when they play silly buggers." The frown was an Eric equvilent of a pout. He wasn't one that tended to pout, but rather frowned at the moments when he felt slightly confused and wondered why the hell there was rumors flying around the building about him anyway. But truth serum seemed like a good idea. Not that he'd ever get his hands on Maxwell, tie him down and get him to answer questions, after all. The orginal concept was welcome, and would maybe work on other cases that weren't tied in with Maxwell fucking Conner.

Hands reached into his pocket and pulled out the battered packet of ciagrettes (Regal king size if you must know) Pulling it open he produced one thin, if slightly bent ciagrette from it and dangled it from between his own lips, before wordlessly extending his arm and offering the packet to Johnny.

"Beers at yours it is then." He'd already had Tai up at his bit, and wasn't quite willing on pulling *all* the people he was working with into his little apartment.

[Johnny Delacroix]

Johnny took the offered cigarette without a thought as to having just stubbed out his own a second ago. "Good man, not torturing people. Though I reckon some deserve it, I wouldn't blame you even if you did." It would really be unnecessary to type the pronunciation, 'ah woulden' blayhme you eihven ehif you deehid', one can just assume the soft deep southern accent, but I did anyway. Johnny headed for the cafeteria doors, whipping his lighter back out to spark it into life and take a lighting drag before extinguishing it and replacing it to one of the many pockets in his bag.

Drinks at his place. He didn't care to think of the chemical testing equipment laying around being something that should be hidden. It probably wasn't. Neither was the stone bowl and grinding stick, most likely. Though he did keep that along with the little pill baggies safely tucked away. He usually kept a couple of six packs in the fridge in anticipation of visitors, or a rare binge. If one knew he spent most of his time alone, one might wonder why he bothered anticipating visitors. Johnny wasn't a particularly lonely person, he just always welcomed company. He wasn't an exceptionally social person, either. Not for fear of embarrassment or any sort of shyness. He just didn't care.

"You're a pretty cool guy, Eric." Stated casually as he turned down the hall, exhaling a cloud of smoke. "You've gotta relax more, shoot the breeze, you know? We humans are given a short lot in life, we've gotta make something good out of it while it lasts." He looked over at Eric thoughtfully with a mild squint. "Not that I'm proposin' to tell you what you should do. Somebody's gotta be worrying about you." He turned his gaze ahead again, stepping out of the way of the gorgon lady. Even if there wasn't a real gorgon lady there, they were unpleasant to have to walk through. "D'you have any other pets besides those cute little pups of yours?"

[Eric]

"A bunch of fish...I was contimplating getting some birds of some sort and turning my extra bedroom into an avairy...but the child care sector's given me a kid to look after for a while, so he's got it. S'price of being given a DPS edu-ma-kation suppose..."

A smirk curled across his lips at that. Oh, yes, the DPS education was different from the education given in the schools and the universities, mainly geared to turning the students into DPS officers and workers. Eric had liked it, he'd been bright as a kid but never particually good at acedemia and always brought in poor english and math grades. But high tactics and marksmanship. Oh well. Fingers lifted the smoking ciagrette to his lips and he inhaled, pulling a long thing drag and letting the smirk drift off, watching Johnny step around an empty space of air.

Riiiight. Maybe their was some gum or food on the floor and the guy was pretty careful about his shoes, or something. "What 'bout you? Should i be expected to have anything shed hair on me?"

It was idle conversation, for sure, and for Eric, his work was his life. At least, it was until he found a way to escape this bloody prision that was Zeshia. Hell, he didn't *mind* the life. It was decent, pretty much everyone was treated equally, and most people were used to the insane amounts of privacy invasion, and all the little robotic things that ran around. They were used to the computers and the tokens, to the vending machines and the regulations. So was Eric.

But he still wanted to see the world. He'd seen *bits* of it, but mostly when they were blowing bits up or having bits blowen up near them and were trying to run away from the booms. And he'd seen a dark, dank interior of Cercia too. Something he didn't talk about, pretty much the only thign apart from how he got Meg that wasn't in Eric's rather extensive file.

[Johnny Delacroix]

Johnny stared ahead silently for a short time in thought. Kid, kid.. He ran through in his head conversations he'd heard throughout the building, rumors and stories and random things picked up wandering the halls. A smile finally curled full lips and he turned his slightly clouded gaze back to Eric. "Right, that kid! Tristian something.. Heard he's adorable. How's that going for you? Must be kind of hard with all this work, and then taking care of a kid on top of it. But it's gotta be cool having company all the time." It's always 'I heard' with Johnny. For obvious reasons. And the way he talked, it was always distracted and usually without thought. Surprising really, that he hadn't been in trouble with some woman somewhere for saying the wrong thing yet.

"I don't have any fuzzy things. Or any kind of living thing in my place, really. I might have a visitor from a few years ago still trapped in my mess though, sometimes it moves and I could almost swear I hear a tiny voice callin' for help." His smile turned into a grin. He didn't really need a pet, at least in his own opinion. He had enough fuzzy things he knew weren't real floating around the place. He called them 'poppies', for one obvious reason and the other 'only obvious if you were him' reason. Little pink and yellow balls of fluff that'd bounce all over creation and make little squeaks whenever they hit a hard surface. They usually only stayed in his apartment, though. So they were sort of like pets. That he didn't have to feed. Really irritating pets.

Johnny turned his eyes alone to Eric and stared for a couple seconds with a slightly scared expression before putting his hand to his mouth and turning his gaze away. A second after that he dropped his hand as if nothing had gone on there. "Maybe a cat.. Maybe I'll get myself a cat some day. Those are nice, right? And they shit in a box so there's not much to clean up after." Johnny hadn't had any real thoughts about going out to see the world either, for that matter. He kind of lived a reclusive life even before the drugs. If someone up and asked 'Hey do you wanna go to -insert place name here-', he'd go for the hell of it. That was really how he ended up in Zeshia years and years and years ago. He could have stayed with other family where he was born, and he didn't care about his parents enough to worry about staying with them, he just went because his shit was already in the trailer anyway.

[Eric]

"Cat's are fucking asses." He said softly, mind still away somewhere else and drifting in and out of the conversation. "They scratch shit, they want food, and they sit and glare at you when you're doing shit around the house as if to say 'You're doing that wrong. Heh, you're a dumb fuck' At least dogs are dumb, but dumb enough to love you. Cat's are assholes. People only like them because they purr."

So, evidently Eric wasn't a fan of every living thing. Like cats. And rabbits. Rabbits, were in his opinon, chickens that lived underground. They were stupid, got ugly diseases, and made holes that he fell down a lot. Bastard digging chickens.

As for Tristian....Again, Eric had no idea how these things got about. He had no idea that people thought Tristian was adorable, because, for Tristian's sake, Eric was trying to mention him as alittle as possible and introduce him to as few people as possible incase Stoneage got any ideas. It wasn't exactly Max's style, but then neither was poisoning people so Max's style was obviously changing.

"Well. Yea. You find a way to look after kids properly, don't you?"

Something then clocked into attention at the front of his brain that had been yelling. An eyebrow rose, ciagrette halfway to his lips. "Johnny, why the hell did you just stare at me like I'd told you I was going to saw off you ankle? I'm not altogther that terrifying am I?"

[Johnny Delacroix]

"They're cute when they purr.." Johnny's brows furrowed slightly as he turned his gaze back to Eric again. Though he was hesitant to look again, when he got his eyes up there he let out a relieved little breath. "It's hypnotism to keep petting them. Oh and they do that sprawling thing, where they're all floppy and dead-looking til you pick 'em up and they bite your hand." Grey-blue doe eyes drifted off into space again.. How did he know this? Must've had a cat before. Maybe he knew someone with a cat? Not important.

He blinked a few times slowly then found his attention back to Eric to the questioning tone about kids. That just resulted in a little shrug with one of those 'I have no clue' smiles. He really had no idea. As far as kids are concerned, they're little and make noises and run around all over being a general distraction. He didn't find kids a pain, particularly, but then again he hadn't had the opportunity to be stuck around any for prolonged periods of time.

To the last question, Johnny just kind of stared at Eric curiously. Look..look.. scary? It hit him then and he laughed, waving a hand dismissively. "Oh that.." His hand dropped into his bag to pull out that little butt-holder of his, cushing his mostly gone cigarette out inside of it. He smoked them fast, had a bad habit of that. "It's not that, you don't scare me." He snapped the ash tray closed, stuffing it back into his bag. "I saw something. Thought I saw something." He was rather used to the cute fuzzy happy hallucinations. It wasn't often he'd see the scary bloody ones, but he at least had a good idea of what Eric would look like without skin, now. When he drew his hand out of the bag, he had a little package of twizzlers in it, and offered it over to him. "Candy?"

[Eric]

Eric shook his hand dismissivily at the offer of candy. He wasn't a fan of sweeties. Sandwiches were where it was at. There was an art to making them, or at least thats what Eric told himself. The only thing he could make was freakin' mince, and that was for the dogs so it was just cooked mince. Not even any herbs in it.

Saw something. Thought he saw something. Eric raised an eyebrow but let the subject drop there. Johnny was strange, but then anyone who specilised in anything was weird, it was all part of the gig, part of the scene, part of the reality. Tongue dashed over his lips and he let out a sigh, stepping into the elevator and leaning back against the wall. Taking one long inhale on his ciagrette he canted head up, and closed his eyes.

Part of his mind was on his work, it always was. But he was sorta looking forward to hanging out with Johnny, maybe making a friend, maybe not, you never really knew.

"So." Eric fished for conversation. "See things often?"

[Johnny Delacroix]

In the elevator, Johnny stuffed the bag of candy back into his bag, letting a single twizzler hang out of his mouth in doing so. The beauty of that candy is how hands-free it can be. The candy did make little squealing noises when he bit a piece off. Makes it difficult to eat when the food talks. But he was grateful at least it didn't continue to talk in his stomach. "All the time." He finally remembered to push the button, doing so before leaning casually back against the wall.

"It's a nuisance, but it's not like when crazy people see things. I know what's real." Johnny really didn't have a whole lot to hide, but he didn't feel like going on about himself. If Eric wanted to know about his little hallucination problem, he could always look through Johnny's medical files. Half of the chemicals running through his system would kill a normal person, but they're counteracted by the others. Most of it concentrated in his spine. He had complete confidence that he was only hired into DPS and not turned down for the drug results is because he's damn good. Could have been any other reason, but this was his thought.

"What kinds of things do you do for shits and giggles?" Johnny was nibbling absently at his twizzler. He did like sweet things. But that should be a givin, the way he makes his coffee. He also had a wide assortment of candies, cakes, and fruit pies at home. Along with the usual. He never kept anything that wouldn't last awhile, though. Eating was just one of those things that casually slipped his mind often.

[Eric]

Eric had glanced over Johnny's records, but mostly at his abilties and his track record. He tended not to look at things like medical records, because so much of his shit was confidential he felt it unfair that he was given such oppertunity to look at other peoples. And the fact was he didn't really give jack shit if they were missing a leg and could only communicate through banging their head against the wall. As long as they were good at what they did, that was all that mattered.

The halluciations though. Now that was funky. At least the guy admitted it though. That helped. Nodding slightly he drew out a long sigh, listening to Johnny crunch on the twizzler.

"Shits and giggles?" He tossed the phrase like no-one had ever asked him before. Fact was, no-one really had. Life outside work was small and near enough non-existant for Eric. Life outside work was his animals. Hell, even Tristian was work in a way, mainly because it was work that had given him to him. The frown normally etched on his face deepened some...

"I used to play guitar." He finally concluded. Rock slide blues, if anyone cares to notice. "But now I just mostly walk the dogs and play with my fish. You? Aside from talking to the carpet people..."

[Johnny Delacroix]

"I don't talk to the carpet people, they're assholes." Johnny mumbled absently while pulling the twizzler from his mouth. Though the part about the guitar did bring a smile, and he perked up some, losing the pout he had for a moment while talking about the carpet people. "Why don't you play the guitar anymore? God I'd love to hear that some time. I never thought you'd play the guitar. But I guess if I had to pin any instrument to ya it'd be that."

He had to stop himself before he ended up babbling, and settled back against the elevator's wall again. "I read, listen to music, mix chemicals.." Shoulders rose and fell in an absent shrug with a mild smirk. "Nothing terribly excitin'. Unless something decides to combust, then my night's just fucked. What type of fish d'you got?"

He finished off his twizzler absently while watching the lights indicate they were nearly to their stop, his hand moving to re-adjust the strap of his bag. It was always more heavy than it needed to be. But then again he usually carried an entire world of stuff in the damn thing. Not so much to make it look huge and bulky, but enough for it to be heavy.

Someone once said 'After a certain number of acid hits are taken, you're declared legally insane. If you mix that shit with other drugs and alcohol and funky stuff, and your trip doesn't go away in twenty-four hours, it will never go away. You just get used to every light leaving a trail behind it, and go about your normal life.' Johnny sang 'the whole shebang' in a near-silent way under his breath.