Welcome to Gaia! ::

The bare ceiling of room 113 hadn't changed at all in the hour he'd spent staring at it. Lucky was sprawled across his bed like some kind of spider, all arms and legs dangling off the edges and occasionally scratching at a raw red patch of skin on his right hand. There were a few books and some papers on the floor beside the bed, but in all that time he didn't even so much as give them a glance.

To an observer, he didn't appear to be doing anything.

The occupant of 113 answered at first with a THUD as he jumped, turned, and fell right off the bed in a confusion of limbs. A few things went skittering across the floor - among them his glasses and totem. From down here he could see that most of the light under the door was blocked out by something - someone - multiple someones? He reached out, desperately, patting along the floor until his fingers wrapped around the fuzzy white shapes of plastic and fur and brought them close to his chest. At some point he'd started to hyperventilate, and a wave of dizziness alerted him to it.

The door shook again, more impatiently than before. He became more keenly aware of Song's attention than ever. She was like an observer practically leaning over his shoulder.

His mind leaped from thought to thought, recalling warnings, imagined scenarios, and everything else that had been driving him insane with worry. Would someone who was coming to kill him really bother to knock? He practically smashed the glasses back onto his face, askew, and scrambled the last few feet up to the door. Song's totem was rolling between his fingers. He didn't really know what the hell he was planning on doing - being a hero was probably going to get him only as far as the end of the hall, making it utterly pointless to even consider. Still, it was a comfort to know she was there, just in case. Just in case.

Lucky pulled the door open, frazzled in appearance but trying to give off the impression he was cool and collected and definitely not contemplating making a break for it. "Cześć...?"

Lance was one of the last people he would have expected to pay him a visit - Lucky had been the one to call on him as a suspect in the murder trial. He'd never have suspected the guy for real, but knowing what he knew now... Lucky spared a glance toward the box with a mix of curiosity and apprehension.

"Vhat? No, I - er - yes," he babbled, thoroughly unprepared to handle normal human interaction. He took a few steps backward to allow Lance space to wheel himself inside and sat down heavily back on the bed, the only actual piece of furniture inside. There was no room for either of their weapons in this tiny cell of a room, which was about the only comfort he could hold on to. He just smiled nervously... and stared. "Uh. Is there problem....... sir...?"

It was actually hard to sound any guiltier than that. If he had any awareness of how awkward he was, he probably would have wished he thought about the stuff he said before he said it.

"About that--" he began, but was cut off by the surprise gift landing in his hands.

The contents of the box made him seize up for a moment in catharsis. Nothing sinister - just ordinary medical supplies. The look on his face was the human equivalent of a loading screen, unable to process what he was looking at.

Lance drew his attention down to the injured hand. While the nauseating smell of burnt flesh had (mostly) gone away with enough fussing and washing, there was still a spreading redness and dead skin peeling like an awful sunburn. The circle branding persisted, charred black deep within the skin and utterly unmistakable. He'd avoided any sort of first aid for it for fear of having to show anyone in-the-know the symbol of his near-betrayal. Basic first aid was a practice he thankfully knew, and with a few wordless, wide-eyed nods he set about properly bandaging the injury - with the double-bonus of hiding it as well.

But Lance had to know exactly what it was - and if he did, why was he helping? Something about this whole thing wasn't right.

"Apologies," Lucky murmured, picking at the edge of the bandage around his hand. The guilt of accusing Lance of being some kind of serial murderer was starting to weigh on him. "Am wrong to have suspect you."