EVENT: DIONYSUS ▒ AROUND THE SHIP

[ataraxites]

CHARACTERS: Ensemble production!
LOCATION: Around the Tranquility.
WARNINGS: Sickness, body horror, disturbing imagery, small spaces & claustrophobic elements, etc.
SUMMARY: Characters dealing with technical difficulties around the ship (while also suffering through the sickness).
NOTES: Open to all! IC-ly covers from now until the jump.

Perhaps you're attempting to make it to Medbay, or just travelling around the ship. It feels as if nothing is working right — your body feels dragged down and pained, your mind isn't as sharp as it should be, and even the doors - or your comms - respond sluggishly and erratically, if at all. Getting trapped in a room or a lift is likely, and it might be tempting to simply save energy from any attempt to get out and just stay where you are, at least for a bit. The symptoms are only getting worse, though, and the days to the jump are slowly ticking down… But will anyone even hear your screams for help?

Comments

[open to all / closed to jehan]

[daringwaistcoats]

[All the usual nausea heightened; the more than physiological twisted feeling in his gut; the fevers that abated into chills; the endless, endless itching -- all of it was more than enough to render Bahorel stark raving mad, and where his irritability had started as something that was only a reaction to their continued plight on this godforsaken ship, it was just as likely that it was a direct result of the Mlle. Tranquillité.]

[01] AND WE FAAALL THROUGH EMPTY CORRIDOOORS
[Bahorel would be stumbling through the corridors, trying to make his way to his friend Jehan's room, that the excruciating pain beginning to compress against his chest was to hold no candle to his concern that his messages were not going through to the other man. Each step felt like pulling his limbs through quicksand, but if anyone was to be labeled stubborn, Bahorel would be the one. So sluggish though his movements might be, he'd do his best to make it down the hall.]

[02] HE TOTES LIFTS, BRAH.
[Working on pulling himself into a lift at last, Bahorel clutched at the doorframe for balance, took a moment to pause and breathe, sweating profusely in his exertion and in pain. The lifts had become one of the few places on the ship which he had come to find great distaste for, for how many times it had taken him the wrong way, refused to work, denied him access, but would have to curse its necessity, its usefulness, and would do so, loudly, in a string of obscene French, heedless as to who was either within or approaching it from behind him.]

[CLOSED] FOR JEHAN
[Bahorel knocked weakly on Jehan's door, in hopes that his journey here had not been in vain, and that the young man was actually in. He leaned his shoulder against the door, tried to bang it with the heel of his palm a little more loudly.]

Jehan...! Jehan, are you okay in there?

[A beat, and then added, accompanied by another bang of hand against metal. The clinch in his gut was beginning act up again, and he would have doubled over in pain if he wasn't being supported by the door.]

Reynaud? Courfeyrac, are you two in there? If so, open the door!!

[vivelavenir]

[It would take a bit; there was the rustling of sheets and the pad of bare feet; before he'd reach the door. His throat felt too tight to call back to him, but he unlocked it with all the haste he could afford in his current state, and opened it slightly.]

...He's gone to fetch soup.

[Greeting an explanation both at once, relatively dressed down to accommodate the fever, and with rag in hand, to accommodate the bleeding when it occurred.]

...To be sure, I think it may not help, but it gave him something to do. [Clearing his throat, and focusing on him now.] How are you faring? Is there some emergency?

1

[jondrette]

[Let's be clear: Eponine was not dead.

At least, not in this lifetime. Yes, in Paris, like the others, she was very much dead. But on-board this ship? Not so much.

But don't be fooled. The pool of her blood that she's lying in was indeed, very much hers. She'd been suffering periodically from spontaneous bleeding through nearly any place she possibly could bleed from. She was no stranger to it, being a woman, though her menses could hardly be considered regular, but following the barricade, it tended to cause panic in the small woman.

This time, the panic had been enough to cause her lightheadedness, and, as she tried to run, her illness had gotten the best of her, causing her to fall to the floor in a dead faint. And that's exactly where she was, when Bahorel came struggling through the halls.]

and we'll make it a true bingo going with 2

[forpoland]

[It's the echo of rather familiar language that draws him out towards the lifts step by painful step and he squints, trying to make sense of the blurry shapes in front of him. His eyesight sharp as it may have been fails with the sickness gripping him and he mutters a few choice words of his own, inching his way closer.]

Bahorel? Bahorel, is that you?

[2!]

[but_civilization]

[Combeferre had, honestly, not been paying much attention to things going on at the strange places where the lift had taken him. He'd initially had some sort of plan in mind, but, now, he could not think very much of anything. He'd thought at first, when things had progressed from what he'd thought was a cold, or even just a fever, that he had managed to pick up the cholera from something here.

It would have been horrific if he had, but instead, things had moved on from there, and his attempts to do something had been hampered by the fact that everything seemed hazy now, and that his skin was particularly yellow, where it was not flaking off his face and arms. Curled in his corner, he glanced up at the stream of French and blinked a few times himself. ]

Bahorel? I...I do not think that it is going anywhere. How are you feeling in all of this?

Sam Alexander, open

[newnova]

[The puking was getting worse, and as soon as one batch came out bloody, Sam decided it was time to visit Medical. Except, as he waited in the lift, all of a sudden the elevator shuddered to a stop and the lights went out, leaving him stranded.]

Hello? Uh... Help?

[He presses the Door Open button repeatedly, to no avail. He's starting to regret leaving his helmet in his room. If he was Nova right now he'd blast his way through the doors or ceiling and fly out. But Sam was sick, not Nova. So he'd left it behind. Stupid.

He's stuck for hours when another bout of nausea hits him, and he has no choice but to puke in the corner.]

Ugh, [He wipes his mouth and can taste blood.] This is gross.

[He shouts to the ceiling,] Somebody get me out of here! Anybody!

...Rich?

[brassbucket]

Sam?

[ Rich starts from his miserable and worried patrol, and stares at the elevator door. ]

What the...

Sam! Can you hear me?

ota

[redheaded_rock]

"Are you kidding me?" Alexis huffed at the very tightly closed door and put the flat of her hand up against it. "Come on. You're supposed to open." She pushed lightly against it, frowning. "Please?"

Of course, the door doesn't respond. Why would it? It's not like doors are supposed to be useful or anything. Alexis sighed and leaned forward, aching forehead resting against the cool metal. "I want to go to my room and lay down. That means you have to open."

The door was frustratingly still. Alexis whimpered and kicked it.

What good was a door that wouldn't open?

[coldhardy]

It was beginning to seem to Elsa like it would be a good idea to find a room where all of her needs could be met in one place, in her line of sight, without having to worry about doors. It had taken half an hour for her to leave her little room that morning. So when she rounded a turn in a corridor later in the day and found someone doing battle with a recalcitrant panel, it was utterly unsurprising.

"Hi." The girl had just kicked the door; the likely problem was obvious. "Is it stuck?"

These doors were heavy... not all that easy to pry open. The way they worked seemed magical to her, but she could understand that it was more that they were a technical innovation. Still, hinged doors shouldn't do this unless someone was intentionally keeping them from being opened. The sliding doors were useful when your hands were full, and when they were behaving as intended, but other than that, not all innovations were worthwhile. Why did nothing seem to work reliably in this place?

[nutsaboutscans]

John isn't feeling great. No one is. But it's a relief to see Alexis. It felt like they had a camaraderie, so he approaches her, a slightly amused, but sympathetic smile on his face.

"Hey, stranger. Having trouble?"

ota && combeferre && gavroche

[jondrette]

open

This is the sort of thing that Eponine had often had hallucinations about. Back when she was starving on the streets of Paris, half-mad with starvation and cold. The things that drove her to consider her own death. Well, she'd gone after that death and achieved it, only to be granted a second life here.

The way people looked was wrong. Little things that she could pick up on, but didn't want to. It was terrifying, and her usual attempts to flee tended to lead to malfunctioning doors and corridors. "Is it supposed to be this way?" She asks out-loud, her voice barely above a whisper, her already hoarse voice worse now. "Technology is awful as it is wonderful. If I do not find my way back soon, I shall have to lay down here, for I am weary. Oh, it shall be like Paris again..."

combeferre

Her scream cuts through the small room she shares with Michel, early on in all of this. Having risen from the bed, she'd gone to get some water from the refrigerator, and caught sight of her reflection. Blood was crusted in the corners of her eyes and lips. Looking down at her hands, she could see blood coming from her fingernails. Blood. Unexpected blood.

The sight is too much, tearing the scream from her throat in the first place. Breath shallow, her head begins to swim, and it isn't long before she pitches to the side, falling down in a dead faint.

gavroche

Keeping in the small room that she had taken Gavroche into, she remained there, trying to ignore the blinking lights, panicking whenever a movement or touch caused her skin to spontaneously begin to bleed. Eponine had been wrapped in bandages, pathetically. The whole thing was pathetic. Her weaknesses on full-display. She'd never been afraid of a little blood. But sitting in a pool of your own as you felt it leave your body tended to change things.

But she had to put a brave face on for her brother. That much was evident. He was a brave boy, but still a boy. And she, while still a child herself, was closer to a woman than him to a man. "How are you feeling, p'tite?" She called over to the bed that was now his.

[or you can start your own or request a different one!]

[lecentre]

Insistent that he was not as ill as he might believe, or as anyone else may believe in that matter, Courfeyrac was out taking a stroll. Isn't that what everyone does when they are under the weather? No? Well, apparently some people did, as the halls were not nearly as empty as he expected them to be.

His intentions, aside from sheer stubbornness, were to grab broth to bring to Jehan. He was terrible at taking care of those ill-- just as terrible as he was of taking care of himself. Still, as soon as he saw Eponine, he started towards her, container of warm broth tucked under his arm.

Each step carried a sway to it, but he managed to reach her somewhat easily. "Are you well, cherie?"

Well, as well as one could be, that is.

[lafautedevoltaire]

The bandages worry him. How could they not? But managing to do anything about them would be challenging in his current state. Emerging from his cocoon of blankets would be challenging.

He's not asleep, though. He sees her there. Sees her lips move. And yet... nothing. "Did you just say something?"

Louder than he meant. But he can't hear himself either to correct it.

Re: ota && combeferre && gavroche

[but_civilization]

Combeferre had heard the scream, even while he was bent over the trash basket, throwing up. As soon as he was able to stop, he dragged himself back into the room, already apologetic, and rather terrified.

"Eponine!" He called, frowning as he saw her on the floor, and racing there, fast as he could. He was not certain he could lift her, as it was, so before anything else, he'd pressed his fingers to her collarbone, resting his head on her chest a moment, to be sure there were signs of life.

If Combeferre got a little covered in her blood, he did not notice that at the moment, or how terrible it looked against the yellowing of his skin. He'd seen Eponine, once, like this, in their hall of the dead and wounded, at Corinthe, and he fought to keep his mind on the here and no, instead of fully succumbing to the memory as tired as he was.

"My dear, Eponine, please!" he murmured, rather intent on his work there.

ota + closed to gwen stacy.

[adhesion]

OTA, HALLWAYS;

[ Peter Parker patrols.

He goes between the Security beats he's more or less managed to figure out, with exception to change ups beyond his knowledge, but no one necessarily has to think twice about a random teenager going for a walk down a given, populated level. Except maybe to tell him off for skateboard useage, usually followed by his apology and then the vaguely infuriating sound of wheels hitting the ground again as soon as he clears a corner.

The emptier floors above are ones he goes by quieter -- crouching in the shadows of the rafters, texting on his comms device to kill the time or simply waiting for a new bout of nausea and aching to pass him by, sometimes going from one end to the other without ever touching the ground, without ever being seen. As far as he knows.

Filmy strands of left over biocabling he's neglected to pick up occasionally mark his trail. ]

LOCKED TO GWEN STACY, LEVEL ONE;

No? Not today.

[ The hallway is mostly empty, save for Peter, who waves his hands at his closed door before pressing his palms against it, leaning in. ]

C'mon, open sesame. Caraway. Cilantro.

[ Exhausted, for no good reason. Dragging his hands off the door's surface is temporarily difficult, and a hiss of discomfort escapes him. Fingers curl in. He feels like hell.

As does everyone, and he's starting to look it, too, a sweat standing out on his skin that has at first glance gone strangely grey. There's a muttered kay before he draws himself over towards Gwen's room. With any luck, she'll be in. Or won't be in, maybe that'd be lucky too. His knuckles rap sharp against the door. ]

It's me, [ is supplied, voice thick in his throat. ]

[timeisluck]

[ It takes a little longer than usual for Gwen to get to the door. She'd had to drag herself out of bed, from an unrestful sleep and a headache that makes her skull feel like it's grown three times bigger, which is impossible and also really stupid.

But she gets the door because she hears Peter's voice and ... well, he doesn't sound so good either.

She's not exactly prepared for how high the levels of 'not good' are when she opens the door and catches sight of him. ]

Peter -

[ She's aware it's redundant to ask if he's all right, so she beckons him inside instead. ]

Hey. Come in.

Helena (Orphan Black) | Closed to Rex

[excoria]

Three floors below medbay and a dozen yards from the elevator, Helena is on the floor. Her shoes kick feebly against the smooth floor and her face is pressed down into it, clotted already with long, blonde hair that is having a lot of trouble staying rooted to her scalp lately. "Tse bolyache," she mumbles to no one in particular. She steels her weight onto her hands, tries to push herself up, but a few frizzy blonde locks get caught under her fingers.

Rip right off her head, painlessly, as she raises herself up on wobbling elbows, almost astounded.

"Fiendish ship. You take my strength away from me."

Never let it be said that Helena pulls her punches when insulting space-age mechanisms of kidnap and torture.

She casts around, glazed eyes roving the immediate hallway. Clenching her teeth, gamely, sucking breath into her lungs as hard as she can. She tries to drag her feet up close, manages to get as far as planting one boot sole-down on the floor; her other leg stays pretzeled awkwardly out beside her, but at a slightly different configuration than before. The clone takes a breath, visible even under the bulky, shapeless contours of her anorak. This is attempt number twelve preparing for launch. Helena lurches toward upright.

[evo_lution]

Rex is on his way to the kitchen for the third time that day. He's not sure why he's burning calories so fast as he hasn't exactly been fighting monsters or even casually using his powers to reach things on high shelves. Still, with the space-flu going around, a big appetite is better than an absent one.

His (third) lunch plans are rather put on hold when the elevator doors open to reveal Helena lurching unsteadily to her feet. He screams and jumps back reflexively. Being the kick-butt savior of the human race does not exempt him from fearing sickly humanoids coming at him with singular purpose. By the time she starts losing her balance and pitching forward, his reflexive freak-out is over with and he rushes forward to catch her before she breaks a tooth on the floor.

There's nearly forty feet between them, no way to reach her by normal means... which is why it's a good thing he's got motherfuckin hover board powers yo. He still only manages to catch the scruff of her jacket and winces sympathetically because getting yanked around is never fun, but it's better than spitting teeth.

He lowers her gently to the floor and flips her over with far more delicacy than his initial rescue.

stiles' room on the teen wolf floor | closed to cora + malia (maybe other, idk)

[de_void]

[stiles hadn't been handling the sickness spreading through the ship all that well to begin with, admittedly. malia had made no bones about telling him how awful he looked during her full moon, and he could only be incredibly grateful that it had fallen when it had and not, say, a day or two later, because stiles was reasonably certain he wouldn't have been able to help.

he hasn't even been able to leave his room, lately. the pain was too great for him to even get out of bed.

his body had apparently been tired of being one of the only purely human residents of beacon hills, only it couldn't seem to decide on exactly what it wanted to be, since it kept changing his mind. the pain was excruciating with every change to his skin, to his bones, and it was only getting worse with time.

today he had started coughing up blood.]

[strayed]

[Stiles isn't in Medical. Cora knows, because she's been there almost solidly since the 27th, the beds slowly filling up and every member of medstaff needed on duty. She doesn't worry about it at first - doesn't worry about any of them not being there, because it could just mean they're not sick, and that's a good thing. She doesn't even really have the time to think about it, either, until she starts hearing more and more talk about doors shutting people out, lifts not working, the idea of getting down to medbay in preparation for the jump a week ahead of time.

The communicators are unreliable. The lifts might be, too, but Cora would rather trust her own feet, ducking out on a quick break and heading up to floor nine. Isaac's room is empty, as is hers and Derek's, but she gets to Stiles' door and the scent of sickness is thick, the sound of his heartbeat strained and distressed inside the room - and recognisable, the same as she's been hearing in the medbay for days.

She's bashing the side of her fist against the door before she even thinks about it, nothing gentle in her voice as she shouts through,]

Stiles. Open the door.

lifts | OTA

[yardbird]

It's been getting progressively worse. His sight, that is.

But he's since chalked it up to age and hell if it's something he wants to admit to anyone. Need glasses, Grandpa Murph? was kind of the last jest he wanted to hear.

So pride won over reason, and even though the halls were blurry and his head was hammering, he ventured out to do his work anyway. Because damned if he was going to let his shitty health get in the way of his work.

Until it occurred to him. How the hell was he supposed to operate the trucks if he can't see clearly? Sure, he could maybe get by on sheer instinct. By now it's been routine for him. But there's so much that could go wrong if--

The lift he's in stops abruptly. Murphy grunts, fumbles for the control panel. Maybe try to open the door manually.

Nothing.

Shit.

Shitshitshit.

"Hello?" Murphy calls out through the door crack. He tries prying it apart at first, but stops soon as he realizes he can hardly hold himself upright. His hand spiders down the pocket of his shirt, down to his jeans, and goes to grab his communicator. Good, he's remembered it this time. But his hands are shaking, and he can't see the screen clearly. He blinks hard, and sees nothing but blurred text on a dimly lit screen.

No, nonononono. This can't be happening. It isn't happening. He'll close his eyes, open them, and wake up from this shit dream.

When it was obvious that it wasn't, he lifts his head and yells: "Dammit... Hey. Hey!" He frantically begins pounding at the door. "Can anybody... CAN ANYBODY HEAR ME OUT THERE?"

[wolfchild]

Wolves have a keener sense of hearing. The animals too seem to be the only ones untouched by illness. Meaning, of the two, Nymeria hears the calls for help.

No matter how hectic her day ( week ), Arya takes an hour or two to let Nymeria stretch her legs, nap on grass instead of metal, eat calmly. It's so much an ingrained part of their schedule that even when sick she gets up and gets into a lift. Just in case the doors refuse to open, she has taken to carrying a crowbar with her both for escape and as a possible weapon. It meant the doors would be partially damaged ( more work for her in the long run ), but it was better than being trapped again with an unhappy direwolf.

They're coming back from the gardens when Nymeria walks off. Being sick has worn down Arya's tolerance into nothing; that her calls go ignored only annoy her further. That is until she hears the calls and sees Nymeria scratch at the lift doors open only a crack.

"Wait!" she calls back. "I'll get you out!"

She ignores the dull ache located behind her right eye when she jogs up to the door. Arya fits the crowbar through the gap in order to widen it. Her hands are sweating.

"Move back! I just need to — "

Gardens | OTA

[handelaar]

[Coming down with whatever the hell the entire ship has on top of whatever the hell he has sucks. By the time the rest of his department starts exhibiting serious symptoms, Ned's already acquiesced to keeping tabs on everything - and to delegating - rather than working.

So he keeps tabs on the Gardens and anyone acting suspicious, yes, but also tabs on his own people: any department member he finds can expect to be plied with water and father-henned over, as well as the usual not-questions about work, and the perhaps less usual not-questions over their health. He looks about as horrible as anyone else, pale and clammy skin abruptly blooming into flushed and sweaty and back again, but with the added loveliness of sunken cheeks and deep, deep undereye bruising.

It's been hard to stay awake, keeps getting worse. And so does everything else - one day he accidentally locks himself in one of the storage sheds when his nanites refuse to respond. The next finds him jabbing at the control console on the second level like that old man who's convinced he hasn't pushed the button hard enough and surely if he does it'll work this time, only for the systems to flare to life and do another thing altogether. Surprise torrential downpour on this section of level two? Check.

Despite trying not to overwork himself, he ends up conking out a few times, usually after taking (an attempt at) a smoke break and slumped against a tree or a work bench.]

first come first served (ooc plot comment here):

[And then one day he just passes the fuck out. Stays that way.]

Closed to Alison

[evo_lution]

Rex never realized how much he took having functional hands for granted. With his fingers damn near immobile, he was fast discovering how hard day to day living could be without them. It had taken upwards of thirty minutes to shimmy into his clothes and the tag of his shirt was tickling his throat but like heck he was going to acknowledge that. He had breakfast to construct.

The kitchen was in a sort of disaster-state as a result of his attempts. He'd figured canned soup would be easy enough, except working the can opener had proved impossible so he'd gone the over-sized robotic hands route to gently break the can open... which ended in a lot of tomato sprayed over the walls in an unintentional murder-scene mock-up. His soup dreams crushed, Rex moved on to peanut butter, but got as far as setting the jar on the counter before he realized that unless he was going to lick it out of the container, he wouldn't have much luck. A lot of similar ~simple~ food ventures were started and abandoned.

Eventually he managed to spill some cereal into a bowl (and all over the counter) and sat down so he could comfortably eat it like a dog. Sure, clamping a spoon between paralyzed hands was possible but at this point...? Why even bother.

[scaenica]

It was intensely frustrating not to know where she stood. Alison's whole life back home was a careful construction, everything planned out in perfect detail, every role rehearsed to perfection. And even with the c-word revelation, she'd still had that to cling to. She was a wife and a mother, soccer and figure skating coach and potluck host.

Here, she had none of that. None except her psychotic double, apparently. The only stroke of luck was that she was nowhere near as ill as most of the other people here, her symptoms little more than a bad cold. That, and the abundance of alcohol. When she headed to the kitchen in the morning it was with a slightly worse headache and a slightly stronger sense of dizziness than she'd been experiencing so far. She was, therefore, entirely unprepared for the state of the kitchen. She paused, eyes widening, a little oh of surprise popping out as she spotted Rex with his face nestled in the bowl. One hand fluttered up to her neck and she turned, ready to leave him to it -

but honestly. The kitchen was a disgrace.

She turned back and bustled in, flapping her hands at the young man in a shoo-ing motion.

"Look at this mess. What the dickens are you doing in here?"

Closed to Search Team

[alsohawkeye]

They meet in the Medbay, just on the off chance that there's something Kate's missed in her searching; there isn't. The unused gravcouches are empty and the pipes disappear into the floors and walls.

They branch out from there, searching the surrounding halls, trudging toward the center of the ship for what feels like forever before they finally find a door that doesn't just open back onto Medical. There's nothing in that first one, or in the next ten, or the dozen after that. It's an endless hall of empty rooms and boring supply closets, but they check each one, broken up into shifting pairs or trios to speed their otherwise lurching pace.

Kate's lugged along a bag of supplies, in it some paint from the recon efforts to mark the doors with as they go. Hopefully it'll serve them better in this mission than it did in the last. She has a couple heavy books from the library, too - stuff to shove in the doors while they search in hopes of not getting trapped in closets. (If she hummed 'Trapped in the Closet' when they were distributed, hopefully the level of preparation redeemed her a bit.)

She's about ready to give up and suggest they try some other area when whoever is furthest ahead reaches a bend in the corridor. The lights are out, but there's one last set of doors just within sight. It'll take Medical access to open.

The Devil went down to Medbay

[wentdowntogeorgia]

For the guy who was supposed to be keeping everyone from keeling over, one might have expected Lucifer to look a little less like death warmed over himself; when he arrived in the Medbay, the effects of whatever the hell was going around was pretty readily apparent on him. There were no major visible deformities yet-- that was kept at bay by the same powers that would be helping their party-- but there were lesions across his face and visible on his arms and hands, like his vessel was rotting out around him. He seemed mostly unperturbed by this, however; been there, done that. It was fairly similar to the way this body had nearly burned out around him back home.

He still moved well enough, anyway; he'd had plenty of practice in ignoring such petty human things as pain and fatigue.

Lucifer went around a bend in and-- oh, well, those sure were doors that weren't opening for him. How annoying that the Devil could be blocked by a set of doors and a lack of some access nanites. He leaned back out around the bend, to call to the rest of their motley crew.

"Bring someone down here with security clearance."