24th September, 8 am. Prison cell.

[therealpm]

*Peter wakes up feeling groggy and disorientated.  Although not as bone tired as yesterday, his muscles still ache and cramp.  Something nags at the back of his mind, something important that he needed to do and he rubs his eyes, mentally replaying yesterday's events, trying to remember.  The first memory that surfaces- being shoved into the wards by Alastair, causes him to shudder and wince.

His fringe drops in his eyes and he pushes it back, noting with distaste the grittiness of mud on his scalp.  Still trying to recall what it was yesterday, he heads off to the shower, limbs protesting against the effort and back stiffened straight more from cramp than good posture.

It is not until he is beginning to wash his hair for the third time (he hasn't felt so filthy since secondary school and it is not pleasant), that he remembers: the conference.*

Fuck!

*He finishes washing, then towels of and dresses rapidly, nearly running (well, hobbling quickly) to the phone.*


Text received from 07### ######

John,

my presence is required at Labour conference next weekend.  Cancelling not an option.  At least one of the events is after dark.

-Peter

Comments

[bamfbercow.livejournal.com]

*John stands awkwardly in the corner. He isn't a computer whiz so he can't help with either of the tasks, but he can't exactly just leave Peter here, unguarded...*

*Perhaps he should have brought a book...*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter wanders away from the console, towards a peripheral piece of The Machine that looks more like a cross between a lab bench and a dentist's chair than anything to do with computation. It's covered with dust and he begins to clean the surface and all the components meticulously.*

[bamfbercow.livejournal.com]

*John keeps a close eye on what Peter's doing, but doesn't keep his wand in view. He knows The Machine has probably already scanned him and noticed the magical implement targeted on it's master, but it feels wrong, somehow, to be so brazen about it.*

What is that, Peter?

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter grabs a vial of something that doesn't quite smell like rubbing alcohol and pours it over the surface, then scrubs away industriously.*

A sampling lab.

The Machine controls the appendages here...

*He indicates mechanical arms curled like dead spider legs*

...here, here and here. They can take blood and... other fluid or solid...

*Peter points to something with an array of drill bits, scalples and other rather more invasive devices*

...samples from whatever specimin is kept here.

*The last is punctuated by a slap of the bench-cum-chair thing.*

It's really very versatile, but requires careful cleaning.

There's also a non-invasive scanner that operates at a variety of frequencies.

Taken together, the components of this lab can analyse alomst anything.

[bamfbercow.livejournal.com]

...I see.

And you're going to... subject yourself to this testing to attempt to diagnose the source of your lycanthropy? Once it has been cleaned?

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter gives John an odd look.*

I believe that was one of the conditions of my being here, or did I not hear you correctly?

[bamfbercow.livejournal.com]

No, no, no, no, you- you most certainly heard correctly.

I was just... unaware of the - erm - the extent to which you had the capabilities to go to... to...

*John coughs*

I shan't interrupt you further.

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter rolls his eyes and gives the surfaces one last wipe down.*

Manipulation of the sampling appendages is hardly computationally challenging.

*He sniffs*

Not after the problem of object recognition was solved anyway- do you have any idea how many surgery and anatomy related videos there are on YouTube? Anyway...

*Peter arranges himself on the bench-chair hybrid.*

Machine, you may begin.

[bamfbercow.livejournal.com]

*John doesn't answer Peter's question. Instead he takes a few deep breaths and tries to calm himself. Peter has a habit of being theatrical - the sampling thing probably isn't capable of anything truly horrific. After all, Peter is willingly subjecting himself to it. It must be safe.*

*John's rational thoughts fly out the window as the mechanical arms begin to move.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter observes John out of the corner of one eye- the man is fixated on the movements of the mechanical arms, jaws agape and skin an unhealthy shade of pallid green. Peter finds it vey hard not to laugh, not to allow even a glimmer of amusement to cross his features.

The blood sampling itself is quick and relatively painless. Despite the name, the scanner is far more invasive- imaging him inside and out, on levels magical and mundane, it provides the most complete picture of his internal workings it is possible to get other than via vivisection.

Peter considers screaming. He's not in any pain but the expression on John's face would be hilarious. He ruefully rejects the idea- John might do something stupid like try to save him and then he'd have to start the scan all over again. Instead, he settles in for the respiratory test.

Peter really doesn't like the respiratory test. It's very useful for detecting whether he might be breathing out anything that could affect anyone else, but it involved The Machine clamping a mask over his nose and mouth with a hose to allow synthetic air to be pumped in. Peter knows he's not going to suffocate and he knows the air supply isn't contaminated- he did check. But still. He can't repress a shudder as the mask goes on and his feet twitch as a cold blast of synth air hits his nostrils.*

[bamfbercow.livejournal.com]

*Don't throw up, John, don't throw up, don't throw up... John thinks to himself as the process continues.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*At last the breathing test is over. Peter slumps in the chair as the mask retracts back to some shadowy corner. He lets his head fall to one side and gives John a deliberately ghoulish grin.*

You couldn't fetch the biscuits, could you? You know where they are...

[bamfbercow.livejournal.com]

*John absolutely does not squeak when Peter turns to look at him.*

*John fetches the biscuits from their place under the head, quickly returns and hands them to Peter.*

[therealpm.livejournal.com]

*Peter wonders idly whether Freddie would like a head. The flesh has mostly been eaten by mice at this point, there's really very little left of the oft tissue beyond a foul smelling stain and some ropey fragments.

He selects a biscuit, stale by now, of course, then closes the tin and hands it back to John to replace.*

Results should be available in the day or so.

*He carefully peels back the gauze The Machine has bound to his arm with medical tape and inspects the puncture wound.*

[bamfbercow.livejournal.com]

*John quickly replaces the biscuits under the head.*

...now what?