The Chivalrous -Pilot Episode 28-

Scene 8

O.S.I Headquarters, Quantico, VA, 1:20 am

Sweat lingered on the forehead of the twenty-nine-year-old, his brown hair clinging to his skin like gum to a sole of a shoe. The word pain couldn't even begin to describe what he was feeling. He couldn't even begin to describe what he was feeling. Unsure of whether it was the aches in his legs or the surge of numbness that brought his mind to the edge of sanity, Scottie let out a deep moan. No could hear him, or at least no one had acted like they had in previous days. He was alone in his misery, and he liked it that way.

Scottie fished for a bottle that he had stuck in his blue, Aeropostale jacket. When he brought it out into the dim light, his heart skipped a beat. Anxiety pressing in. He knew that humoring the pain would only come back to haunt him like it had several years ago. But right now, as he sat on the cold, tiled bathroom floor, the pill bottle looked more appetizing than before.

"Bethesda Hospital, MD

For: Jeffery J. Scotts

Oxycodone, 20 mg to 640 mg, one pill per day

0 refills

Released on 12/04/17

Discard after: 10/06/22

Dr. O'Malley, Anna"

Scottie's green eyes scanned the label attached to the narrow, orange, see-through bottle. The container held a hundred little, white tablets still protected by the plastic casing over the bottle's lid. It wasn't as hard as he thought it would be for his fingers to scratched the plastic off the cap and unscrewed the lid. Without another thought, he dumped a pill into his clammy hand and chucked it into his mouth. He sighed heavily, then almost instantaneously he smashed his fist against his left thigh. There was no pain, no feeling, not even a tingle in his leg. Then again, he hit it, and again no pain, just vexatious numbness. His aggravation was almost unbearable. He would feel pain. He would hurt.

Scottie ground his teeth, in frustration and after a few rounds of his legs playing a punching bag, he gave up. It was in that silence that he heard the elevator bell ring out in the hall. He sighed. Placing the cap on his medication bottle, he threw it back in his jacket pocket and wiped his sweaty palms off on his ripped jeans. Scottie then reached over to grab a metal wheelchair that had been lingering at his feet the whole time. When it was by his side, he positioned himself on his knees. Then with hands gripped on the wheelchair armrests, he lifted himself up into the chair, with no help from his legs at all.

Scottie was breathing heavily now, and he let himself have a moment to bottle back up his feelings before he became a stable forensic scientist again. When he had recomposed himself, he wheeled out of the bathroom, entering his lab just as the steel, automatic doors parted.

Agent Kimberly Scotts entered the forensic lab with a smile on her thin lips and her brown eyes wide from too much caffeine. She immediately froze in the doorway, her attention focused on the origami swans that were strung from one end of the lab to the other. The swans' paper wings were laid out, unfolded and neck outstretched in the air, giving the appearance that they were flying. Her eyes went back and forth from the twenty-nine-year-old, child-like, Forensic Scientist to the ballerina-like origami swans.

Kimberly was speechless, eyes narrowed in confusion she stuttered. The swans didn't really go with the whole "kicking ass" vibe that Scottie usually put off. His lab was decorated with several metal tables against the wall to the right of the doors, with crime scene photos displayed on computer monitors; there were flat screens mounted on Scottie's pale, gray walls that showed the blood splatter measurements, and there were countless, tan machines lined against the rest of the walls that calculated blood levels, broke down human cells, and examined fingerprints. Yes, the origami swans weren't Scottie's usual choice of decorations.