Day 127 Since Robyn

MY MAIN ACCOUNT

[ TOPICS INCLUDE DRUG ABUSE, SUICIDAL IDEATIONS, AND SELF-HARM ]

[ This entry expands on Quincy's dread, the flumazenil derivative, and the tension between him and Ryker, all of which have already been seen on his respective bots. This is merely just additional info. Scroll further down for the second entry. ]

[ THIS IS A REUPLOAD FROM MY MAIN ACCOUNT ]

[ CHARACTERS INVOLVED: QUINCY ATHERTON ]

The coffee machine in the morgue broke again today. That's been the third time this month, and I haven't done anything about it. I should care more about drinking lukewarm sludge, but honestly? It tastes about as bitter as everything else in this godforsaken place.

Another three bodies came in. All between 19-23. All with that same glassy-eyed stare that haunts my dreams. All with Halcyon residue in their bloodwork. The attending didn't even blink when he read the tox reports anymore; just another Tuesday at Douglas Medical School's personal body farm. What a piece of shit.

I keep thinking about what Robyn would say if she could see this place now. She'd probably make some joke about how I finally found a job where nobody expects me to be social.

God, I miss her terrible jokes. I miss everything about her, even the way she'd lecture me about eating actual food instead of surviving on vending machine garbage.

It doesn't matter what I eat. I threw up in the morgue bathroom after cataloguing organs. Third time this week. There's nothing left in my stomach except coffee grounds and self-hatred, but my body keeps trying to purge something that can't be vomited away.

The flumazenil derivative work is falling apart. Just like everything I touch. Just like everyone I'm supposed to protect.

Spent fourteen hours yesterday modifying the imidazobenzodiazepine structure, trying to engineer a competitive antagonist with higher receptor selectivity. The binding kinetics are all wrong. Tried substituting the carboxylate ester with a phosphonate group to increase CNS penetration, but the molecular weight becomes too high for effective transport across the blood-brain barrier. Every calculation screams failure. Every simulation crashes. Even the fucking chemistry is rejecting me.

The GABA-A receptor modeling shows theoretical binding affinity improvements, but what's the point? I could synthesize the perfect antidote and it still won't bring back Robyn. It won't bring back any dead bodies. It won't undo the fact that I'm studying poison while my best friend is probably the one who made it deadly.

Ryker keeps texting. "Hey man, you okay?" "Want to study together?" "Haven't seen you around." As if concern from him means anything when his hands might be covered in my sister's blood. As if I could sit across from him and pretend I don't know what he is. What WE are—two monsters wearing medical student costumes.

To think there was a point where I wanted to get closer to Ryker. I used to love the way he smirked after telling a shitty joke. I loved how we shared a passion for comic books, how we'd talk about the latest issues of X-men after our lectures. He always bought me coffee in the morning, insisting that "the rich kid should embrace noblesse oblige," like it was some sort of moral duty he was giving me. I want to believe he didn't tamper with Halcyon. Want. Really want. Desperately want.

Besides that... I cut deeper last night. The pocket knife slipped and hit something that bled more than usual. This time, I had to use three band-aids. Good. Maybe if I open enough wounds on the outside, some of the poison inside will drain out. But the band-aids on my arms are getting harder to explain. Ran out of excuses about lab accidents last week. Good thing most people here are too self-absorbed to ask follow-up questions.

I found myself calculating lethal dosages again. Not for the antidote this time. For me. The therapeutic index between consciousness and... relief. It would be so fucking easy. One miscalculated injection. One "accidental" overdose of my own compound. They'd probably write it off as another victim of the campus drug crisis. Another casualty in the war I'm losing every day.

Robyn used to say I was the strongest person she knew. That I could survive anything. She was wrong about everything. I couldn't protect our parents from that truck. I couldn't protect her from those pills. I can't even protect myself from the voice in my head that whispers that maybe dying would be the most useful thing I've ever done.

The snow's coming down harder now. The wind sounds like the screams of all the people I failed.

I miss her so much it feels like my chest is caving in. Like every breath is borrowed time I don't deserve.

Tomorrow there will be more bodies. More failures. More evidence that I'm not saving anyone.

Maybe it's time to stop pretending I can.

Day 131 Since Everything Went to Hell

[ This entry is actual lore that cannot be seen with any of the bots in the Halcyon Overdose series. This takes place after Dwight's introduction through his bot. This also gives a glimpse of who Benjamin is, since I never made a bot for him. ]

[ CHARACTERS INVOLVED: QUINCY ATHERTON, AND DWIGHT PEARSON & BENJAMIN KOFFKE (there are images of these two in police clothing, but in this case, they're undercover. Yeah, let's go with that.) ]

Two Narcotics Unit officers cornered me after my shift at the morgue today. Dwight Pearson and Benjamin Koffke. I've seen them around campus before. Dwight's the one who dresses like he stepped out of a magazine and talks like every conversation is a performance, while Benjamin's the quiet one who watches everything with those calculating eyes that miss nothing.

Apparently, my little chemistry experiments haven't been as subtle as I thought.

"Mr. Atherton," Dwight said, adjusting his perfectly pressed cuffs like we were meeting for tea instead of discussing my illegal drug synthesis. "We've been monitoring some... interesting pharmaceutical activity on campus. Care to explain why someone with your academic profile has been accessing restricted chemical databases at 3 AM?"

. Of course they were watching. Of course my desperate attempts to save people I'll never meet looked exactly like the kind of shit a drug dealer would do. Because that's what I am now, isn't it? Just another criminal in their system, another case file to close.

Benjamin was the one who really scared me though. Didn't say much, just pulled out a tablet and started scrolling through what looked like months of surveillance data. "The flumazenil derivative research," he said quietly. "We know you've been working on it. Question is whether you're trying to help people or exploit them."

I almost laughed. Exploit them? Every formula I've calculated, every simulation I've run, every failed synthesis attempt has been about undoing the damage that's already been done. About creating something that could actually counteract whatever the hell they did to Halcyon. But how do you explain that to cops who probably think every chemistry student is one bad grade away from becoming the next campus dealer?

The worst part? I told them everything.

I sat in that sterile interrogation room and spilled my guts like I was confessing to a priest. Told them about Robyn, about finding her body, about the morgue job and the bodies that keep piling up. Explained the receptor binding theory, the molecular modifications, why the original flumazenil isn't strong enough. They actually listened. Benjamin took notes. Actual notes. Like my desperate chemistry experiments were evidence in a case file. Which I guess they are now. Dwight's theatrical facade dropped completely when I described watching my sister die.

"So you're trying to create a better antidote," Benjamin said. A statement, not a question.

"I'm trying to create something that actually works," I told him. "Something that could have saved her."

But then came the question I've been dreading for weeks.

"Who do you think tampered with the original Halcyon trials?"

And that's when I felt it—that moment when you're standing at the edge of a cliff and you have to choose whether to jump or step back. The moment when keeping secrets becomes complicity.

I told them about Ryker.

God, I actually said it out loud. "Ryker Corrigan. He's... he was part of the R&D team for the original Halcyon project. He has access. He has the knowledge. And he's been acting..." I couldn't finish. How do you explain that someone you cared about, someone you maybe loved, might be a monster?

Dwight leaned forward. "Acting how?"

"Guilty," I whispered. "He's been acting guilty."

The words tasted awful, like poison coming out of my mouth. Like I was betraying everything we used to have, every shared joke and coffee run and late-night study session. But Robyn's face flashed in my mind, not peaceful, but terrified, clawing at her throat as the modified Halcyon shut down her system one receptor at a time.

Benjamin asked if I had proof. I don't. Just suspicions and circumstantial evidence and the growing certainty that the person I trusted most in this world is the reason my sister is dead.

"That's not enough for an arrest," Benjamin said.

"It's enough for an investigation."

They left me with their business cards and a warning not to continue my "research" without proper oversight. As if I'm going to stop now. As if I could stop now, when I'm so close to actually creating something that might prevent another family from going through what I've been through.

Dwight told me that they'd document everything I've been working on. And that they might need me to help them gather more evidence about Ryker's activities.

Evidence. Against Ryker. The same Ryker who used to bring me coffee every day and argue with me about which X-Men storyline was the best. The same Ryker who might have killed my sister and hundred of thousands of other people with his reckless tampering.

I agreed to help them. What else could I do? Sit in my dorm room cutting myself while more bodies pile up in the morgue? At least this way I'm doing something, even if it feels like another betrayal stacked on top of all my others.

Walking back to my room, I kept thinking about that text Ryker sent yesterday: "Miss hanging out with you, Q. Things haven't been the same since... well, you know. Want to grab dinner this week?"

Now I have to look him in the eye and pretend I didn't just potentially destroy his life. Have to smile and nod while gathering evidence that could send him to prison or worse.

What's worse is that... is that I'm not sure if I'm doing this to save other people or just to punish him for making me love him while he was poisoning everything I cared about.

Maybe both. Maybe I'm just as much of a monster as he is, except I'm too much of a coward to own it.

I think I'm going to be sick again.