02 ▒ EVENT: STASIS SICKNESS ▒ MEDBAY

[ataraxites]

CHARACTERS: Ensemble production!
LOCATION: Medbay.
WARNINGS: Sickness, body horror, etc.
SUMMARY: Sickness central. Treatments, dying slowly, related events.
NOTES: Divided by days a la medbay organisation log in the comments!

You're not feeling too well. The last couple of days have been - rough. The medbay seems to be a bit more full than usual, but you're sure it's nothing to be worried about; whatever the illness is, it'll go away once you've rested and gotten a check-up. Right?

Comments

▒ FRIDAY ( 15th )

[ataraxites]

Aragorn | 006 » 095 | BETA shift

[therangerking]

[jurisimpudent]

[He does not, at least, have it so bad as some others. That's worth something. He's having a bit of trouble standing, admittedly, and he's thrown up a few times, but that's it. He's not suffering like some of the others, and that means he just needs to come in here to get something to suppress the symptoms and then get back out there. An antiemetic, maybe a fever reducer, some aspirin to keep in his pocket...That's all.

Maybe a good strong cup of tea, too. That sounds - nice.

So he sits a moment in the chair he'd claimed briefly to regain his strength, and then he pushes himself to his feet, pushing from his eyes the hair that had come stuck to the sweat on his forehead.]

[therangerking]

[ It has been five days since the first patient with blue-tinged fingers had came to me, and Aragorn now keeps a sharp eye on all those who enter the med bay. His eyes flicker to their faces first - their lips, their eyes, their complexion. It's habit by now, and he does this even as he first steps into the medbay, a bag of athelas leaves in his hands.

(It worries him. No matter how quickly the plant grows, it has only been a little over a week since it has been planted. By now it has almost been stripped bare, and Aragorn has stopped taking any of the tea for himself. His own will have to suffice, for others have greater need of the herb than he.)

When he sees Miles sitting there, pale with a sheen of sweat covering his face, he immediately moves towards him. He recognises the youth from his video posts, and Aragorn cannot help the wry smile that curves up his blue-tinged lips as he stands over him. ]

I had said that I did not wish to see you as a patient of the medbay, Miles Edgeworth. [ Softly. Then, before Miles can reply- ] Still yourself for a moment.

[ Then he's going over to his counter - to the ever-present boiling kettle of water, and he pours out a cup of athelas tea before he brings it back and holds it out to Miles. ]

Sip this, and tell me what your symptoms are.

[jurisimpudent]

[Miles' lips turn down at once. He's weak, but not so weak that he can't summon up a great wave of displeasure at seeing the greasy-haired fool condescending to him about his illness. He wishes...He wishes that von Karma were here. He wishes his mentor was present to send this man scampering away with his tail between his legs, whimpering from a withering bon mot. More than anything...He wishes he could ever be as good as von Karma.

He takes the tea sullenly.]

A doctor, now, as well? You do everything.

[He scowls.]

Vertigo, nausea, weakness. Fever. I just need something that will suppress the symptoms so that I can move out there reasonably quickly.

[therangerking]

[ You do everything, and he almost laughs because of how untrue it is. There is much that he cannot do. He could not save the Rangers who died under orc swords and orc arrows under his command. He could not save Boromir as he laid in Amon Hen. He could not save Theoden King as he died on the battlefields of Pelennor. He could not relieve Frodo of his great burden. He could not assure Legolas that he would not one day be left alone, heart hollowed as his friends die around him.

He could not heal this damn disease. ]

I am a Ranger. [ Simply, because for Aragorn, that explains all his skin.

Aragorn wipes at his own eyes for a moment. His hands are gloved to better hide the blue that stained them, but nothing can hide the blue that stains his eyes. But he removes his glove for a moment, reaching out and placing his hand against Miles's forehead. ]

There is little I can do for the vertigo. [ As he speaks, coolness and relief spreads from his hand to Miles's skin, spreading outwards and turning to warmth when it reaches his lungs and heart, giving him strength. ] But for fever, nausea and weakness, I have solutions.

[ He eventually drops his hand, pulling his glove back on. A healer's art is in his own strength, and he takes a deep breath to steady himself. ]

'Tis athelas tea you hold in your hand. It will help with the weakness.

[jurisimpudent]

[There's a moment where he genuinely does feel better, and Miles' eyes half-close with relief. How soothing it is, to have someone touch one's forehead - strangely so. He's not felt that since he was very small. Von Karma, of course, was not so sentimental as that, and doctors aren't going to do something like that...

Like -

He jerks back, his eyes gone suddenly wide as it sinks in that somehow this man touched him and that altered him in some way. And that was no illusion. He knows it wasn't. His eyes are gone wide, and his lips are twisted in wariness and distrust as he prepares to push away from his chair.]

What did you just do to me?

Helen Magnus | 007 > 090 | ANY shift

[longevities]

[because what is sleep]

John Watson | 001 » 197 | ANY Shift

[theblogger]

(´∇ﾉ｀*)ノ HEY BUDDY.

[spider]

[It isn't so much fear as it would be annoying to be bothered by three grumpy men at once.

But he likes to think he's absolutely perfect with timing. Organization is a big part of his game; you can slip in anywhere with good timing. 'On your bike,' he said. The one that has a clearer stride, apparently untouched by fear. Ready. Willing to put up a fight with Mr. Araneae.

—That is not the case, at least for today.

Among the few days of people stumbling here and there, he had his own stubborn struggle with it. Despite what the few testimonies had to say, "not a man", etc, science and logic says otherwise. He can feel pain and be very displeased about it; become a sick dog if the circumstances happen to twist that way, like any other man (Now, fear, he still debates with that). With a warped mind like his, you could say this illness turned up the notch by at least 99.99999%. Things carry on differently when you're i n s a n e and down with the sickness.

Oh blah, who cares about that rubbish? Richard, sweet, sweet Richard has already stumbled into the Medbay and is attempting to get his attention. A very lazy, or perhaps just weak, wave from a short distance. He's leaning against the nearest thing (Oh, what is that? Maybe it's a wall, he isn't sure) blinking and apparently unfocused.

But even like that, it's difficult to hide the slightest smile. Like two men sharing an inside joke that no one else is welcomed to.]

WEEPING ON THE INSIDE

[theblogger]

[ It isn't that John isn't afraid so much as he's learned that running away has never solved anything. One day, John Watson went to war in the desert - it was hot and brutal and many men died on the sand, wrapped in fire and full of metal, in the name of loyalty and the dream of freedom. But some lived - not because John sat crouched behind the rampart, where life was closer to guaranteed, but because he ducked his head and dove into the fray. Shaking hands did not staunch a wound or hit the target. Caution brought accuracy, but did not generate results on its own. Fear for his life and praying hadn't saved John when he was shot and dying - determination to live and the bravery of Bill Murray had.

Bowing to terrorism didn't assure a reprieve of its influence, only its continuance.

And so, when fear arose from the manifestation of an epidemic, not just in himself, but within a score of passengers in the ship, John took it by the hand. He put it to work, made it into a muse that kept him awake and moving. Fear wasn't a cure, but it was a motivator.

But then, there were several types of fear, weren't there? Because while the fear of dying and the fear for his friends allowed themselves to be pliant to his whim, the fear of Moriarty was as different a beast as the man himself.

John spotted him. Not as soon as he might have liked -the spider was a slight creature by nature's decree- but soon enough. He's in the process of showing someone how to draw a blood sample, of which there will be countless before all is said and done, and he can't be bothered to let his time be taken by the monotony of it when there are greater challenges to face in trying to find a cure. He also can no longer trust himself to find a vein without digging at any given moment or, worse, spacing out in front of a patient. Dizziness comes and goes, along with the migraine that tells him he's getting more coffee than sleep. His fingernails and scleras are stained a telling azure, though he's managed to hide the former with gloves.

When he meets the man's eyes, he pauses in his brief lecture. His throat has constricted like that pull of lips cinches a noose, but his gaze remains steady for all of about a minute before it drops back to the patient. Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant. But he blinks and forces his mouth to work, makes sure the student is nodding with some semblance of understanding, before he dares another look. This time, there's a smile for Moriarty, just as unfriendly, just as ugly. If John doesn't address this himself, someone's going to get hurt - that's a fear that reins in the rest. He's ready for the same reason he's still on his feet: he has to be.

James Moriarty is just a man. He's a smart man, a dangerous man without compassion, but he's mortal. Has to be. He's a voice and a face that haunts John's dreams more often than he'd say, but if John punches him, he'll bleed. If John shoots him, he'll die. But if he's here now, it means he's got a plan to keep that in check. It means he wants John to see him and, indeed, approach him. John can't afford not to.

Drawing up his resolve, and his stance, John leaves the patient beds and heads right to him, rolling his steps like a soldier on the march. He's shorter than Moriarty, but not by much, not enough that he has to tip his head up to look him in the eye when he gets within earshot. His stride is a threat, one that slows, but continues to close in on the other man as he speaks. ]

Get out.

[ No nonsense, a clipped warning, low enough that it's between them. His hands flex at his side, open and shut, revealing his displeasure and begging for a reason to strike. He might not hit Moriarty, but hauling him out of the medbay? Definitely an option he's leaning toward. ]

Good weep, I'm sure?

[spider]

I know, crazy, right?

[The reply is difficult to jail along with the face, an untouched identity, but a small sacrifice if any lingering eavesdroppers cared for the comment (and take note of a drastic change in character, wouldn't that be wild?). It isn't expressed in it's normal pitch, no. Not quite the same chirp, but low and rough sound through a raw throat. A hint of a purr, just as he naturally expresses when he plays and paws for attention, despite the circumstances.

It takes a few fumbling movements to flatten his smile, clearly bubbling with amusement. Maybe he will dig his heel into the ground and appear bashful, should the opportunity for humor resurfaces. An odd case, Doctor John Watson. The sore thumb for the Consulting Detective, loyal dog, soldier, and friend. Friend. He pinches at that attachment, attempting to squeeze every bit of reason for it. Friend, a heavy weight tied around the ankles and dragging into depths. Heart-warming. Tender. Fickle? Especially when a man assumes to have only one.

Odd little thing.

This mortal is keeping his eyes locked, dropping Richard Brook and stilling his expression on the other. There's a layer of weariness, white as a sheet and slight furrow of his brow. Actual fatigue, but still calling a bluff to the gesture. His eyes flicker off and return, wearing surprise and disbelief as to say "really? Even now?"]

Oh, Doctor. We don't want to make a ruckus, I doubt everyone here is up for a scene. Enough of that on the telly.

Only the best for you!

[theblogger]

[ The disconnect is rather disturbing for a man who must take him in as a whole. A bright expression and an ominous, dark tone. Nevertheless, John's depth perception is a bit off - his toes scuff against the other man's shoes before he stops, and James Moriarty is right there, and so is he. But John's not backing down; he can't.

The consulting criminal had never looked like much to John. He wasn't a frail thing, but he didn't look the part of a homicidal maniac. Even when the man was shouting at Sherlock, hissing over his mobile with the threat of skinning his prospective client, it was still a bit difficult to believe. But then, that was rather the point. Whatever he's about to play at here, he'll likely succeed. ]

Talk of scenes.

[ The devil's in the details; in this case, it's the eyes. John's eyes are narrowed, wary and rimmed with his own exhaustion. There are blue starbursts in the corners of where the whites would be, like broken blood vessels, creeping color where there shouldn't be any. And for the other man? Darkness, where his expressions should dictate light. Moriarty's face twitched and contorted, smiled, sneered, danced, and those eyes never changed. Terrifying.

John rolled his shoulders, and stilled them, aggression he caged with reluctance. Moriarty was right - it wouldn't do to strike him here in the open. Killing him would bring him trouble. But would John do it?

Would if he could. Truth be told, he didn't have the strength to fight. But he could stand, and that he did, drawing himself up. ]

What the hell do you want, Moriarty?

[ What are you playing at? ]

Not just a chat. I've got a phone.

[ Which he probably wouldn't answer. ]

hope you dont mind herrr;;

[longevities]

[ She knows he's been working as tirelessly on this as she has. Taking in patients, running tests.

She wasn't exactly sure if he even left the medbay recently. Actually, she wasn't sure when she has left it for anything longer than to get a cup of tea, but those were unnecessary details she wasn't too concerned about.

The wellbeing of her colleague, however, was an entirely different question. ]

John. When was the last time you took a break? [ She's going to get straight to her point, her gaze steadily turned to him. ]

of course not~

[theblogger]

[ It's a problem that won't be solved sitting down, no matter how much his body tries to protest. People need to be sorted, medicated, assured that they're working as fast as they can. Calls need to be made, records need to be kept, and arrangements need to be organized.

When Helen approaches him, he's in the process of letting the rest of him know that James Moriarty is now a factor they have to consider on top of the rest.

It takes him a moment to notice he's being spoken to. His hearing fluctuates, makes everything sound as if spoken beneath the water. When he looks up to survey the medbay, there she is, and she'll see him jolt just a bit before settling. ]

Sorry, what?

[ Helen will certainly notice the way blue has crept into his scleras at this proximity. Even as he looks amenable to conversation, his shoulders are tightening. ]

Have you found something?

COMM TRANSMISSION - KIRK -> WATSON

[goldshirt]

[blinking to life on Watson's communicator, sometime in the morning, will be OPR » 001 » 033]

Voice;

[theblogger]

[ No need to promote worry, this call will be in voice. His eyes are too blue in all the wrong ways to say otherwise. ]

Tell me something good, Jim.

Voice;

[goldshirt]

[he pauses, then:]

We're almost at the end of the maze, according to the map Sherlock's got.

[Jim's voice is rough, like his throat has had too much strain put on it.]

Voice;

[theblogger]

[ Doesn't sound good. John's own voice is lower than usual, but if Jim's hearing is flickering as his is right now, it won't matter. ]

What've you found?

Voice;

[goldshirt]

A lot of walls. Oh, and a black hole.

[and here he cuts off, turning his face away from the communicator to cough into the hankerchief Jack had lent him earlier that day. it's muffled, but still wet and deep rooted in his chest.]

Leonard McCoy | 006 » 052 | BETA shift

[imadoctor]

[leaps]

[ hi bones, 006 » 107 is contacting you! ]

[imadoctor]

[ He drops whatever he's doing the minute he sees the incoming message is from one of his crew. ]

McCoy here. What's wrong?

[leaps]

[ there is a whole minute's internal debate on whether or not sticking to text is a smart move. in the end, he clicks over to audio, even if his voice sounds small, exhausted and far away. ]

Nothing. Well, lots of things but nothing new.

[imadoctor]

[ Sulu can text all he wants, Bones will just switch it back to voice. HE IS A BUSY MAN. ]

You callin' 'cause you're bored or you got an update for me?