Title: O Captain, My Captain- Chapter 2
Author: A.K.H.H
Summary: "O the bleeding drops of red, where on the deck my Captain lies, fallen cold and dead."
Warnings: Plot. Possibility of higher (M) rating for later chapters. Oh, and some (implied) violence. Slash throughout the story, too, obviously.
Disclaimer: CSI still doesn't belong to me. Lame!!!
A/N: I expect this story will turn out rather long, as I am having so much fun writing it!!! Remember to R&R, like it or hate it. Concrit, flames and encouragement gleefully accepted. To current reviewers: Thank you!
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A morgue is a great place to hide a body.
A good place to hide anything, to tell the truth. Especially secret and not particularly legal science labs that have a bent toward medical experimentation.
The close proximity to the CSI labs is an added bonus, providing an unlimited supply of superglue and glass vials, handy for putting the bodies back together and as decorations, respectively.
It's not a mad scientist's lab without ambiance, and vials of green liquids (food colouring and water— chemistry isn't the primary focus here, and open containers of chemicals is a better idea on paper than in real life) look great beside the distiller—a type of chemistry this mad scientist does experiment with.
Greg Sanders sips at his newest creation, Corpse Juice 3.2. It's fermented grape juice from Hodge's lunch (actually, his last fifteen lunches), but Corpse Juice labels on a few of the decanters add to the ambiance of the lab. Besides, the smell isn't dissimilar.
Despite his contemplative glare, the corpse in front of him remained disappointingly still.
His experimentation with voodoo is unproductive. He carefully scratches out a series of notes on his clipboard, and then flips the page to cross out voodoo as a method of resurrection. His printing wobbles, making the notes on the process of killing the goat more of an abstract drawing than anything else.
The goat let out a lot of blood for such a small thing. It made a complete mess of the pretty drawings the book had indicated were necessary. The pretty drawings that were swirling slowly, Greg noticed. It was really quite nauseating and confusing. They hadn't done anything at all during the ritual, so why would they react so badly afterwards?
Greg chugged the last of his vial as he contemplated this.
"Baaaaaa."
Greg slowly pours another vial, taking in the really very inexplicable noise. The goat was dead. Seriously, he'd checked, and he had CSI experience. Dead was one of those things you learn early on.
"Baaaaaaa."
And there it was again. He sniffs the vial and then moves on to the decanter. Only slightly rancid, not bad enough to be causing hallucinations… probably. Because he'd be damned if that goat wasn't getting up. It wobbles like one of those baby antelope on Discovery Channel, when they're getting up for the first time and are still covered in that weird baby shit. Amniotic fluids. Yeah.
The goat stumbles forward, blood still dripping from the gaping neck wound. It head butts Greg's knee then starts to eat his pants. Greg wonders hazily if goats are like chickens, able to live without their heads, before he realizes that the point is not ablis—aplice—applicable. The goat still has its head. It's just missing blood flow to the brain because Greg slit its throat.
In retrospect, that might have been a bit cruel, Greg suddenly realizes. No wonder the goat was trying to eat him. Greg morosely decides that he was an asshole. An asshole that nobody liked. He sobs drunkenly.
The goat tugs on his pants, unbalancing him. The inebriated man topples ever so slowly, dropping to his knees, then falls gently to his side. Sleep follows.
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TBC!!!