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The twitching calms, though you can't help but read his dim gaze as accusatory. His finger lifts slightly and comes to rest by his hip. He taps it incessantly.
"Can't you <span class="mu-i">talk?</span>" you say. He groans. "...Okay, is there— are you hurt there? Is there something poking into you? Can you step up the effort a little—?"
"He has something there," Gil says with authority. (Huh?) "Under the— under the robes."
"...Uh-huh." Parts of his robes stick to his skin, and he moans angrily when you pull at them, but eventually you manage to uncover something: a <span class="mu-i">drug</span> stash. You'd been warned about these many, many times— those shadies, lowlives, <span class="mu-i">corpselovers</span> with their needles and their seawater, clogging up the streets, <span class="mu-i">dying</span> in the streets, doing nothing with their lives but shooting up and rambling about infinite love and purpose. You'd half-thought your Aunt Ruby made them up to scare you, since you've never had the misfortune of meeting one of those (unless Ellery counts?), but here it is: a beltful of syringes, all sorted by size and plainly loaded up. You had no idea Eloise interacted with these people. But then again, he already <span class="mu-i">was</span> a pagan.
...He does look really bad, though, so the whole "breaking the law" thing is probably the least of his problems. And it wasn't even the seawater that killed him here (you think)— <span class="mu-i">Lucky</span> exploded him, like he exploded Annie. You'll stomach your disgust for now, but... his finger tap-tap-taps at the smallest syringe. The one with clear liquid in it.
Before he dies, he wants to be on drugs? That's— your mental projection of your aunt is having an apoplectic fit right now, but she'd have a fit if she heard about <span class="mu-i">any</span> of the stuff you do. There's no pleasing her now, that's for sure. (Not that anything you've ever done has pleased her.) So why not? Is it hurting anybody? You don't have to look if you don't want to.
You pick up the syringe. "The neck!" Gil says. "Um, I-I mean, he did the neck earlier—"
The flesh of his neck is scalded all red. You look at it sideways, trying to find something in there, than shut your eyes and jab the needle into a probable veiny area. Arledge inhales deeply—
"Oh, shit!" Gil's tone is encouraging: you crack open one eye, then the other. Arledge's own eyes have shot open, gazing up at the night sky. The skin of his neck is knitting itself together rapidly, and it only spreads from there— even with most of the damage hidden or internal, you can track its progress by Arledge's loosening features. Eventually he sits up, cradling his forehead. "...Thank you."
"That was magic!" Gil says, a tad tetchily. "That was goddamn—"
(5/6 lol)
