snowblindrpg | [log] Day 046 | Silence in the School Yard [closed]

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[log] Day 046 | Silence in the School Yard [closed]

Characters: Clayton, Dio, House, Miranda, Ellana, Dorian, Beckett, and Brian.
Location Building 29 (aka the Party Shed).
Date: Day 46, evening, probably after lockdown.
Summary: There are a lot of people packed into an equipment shed. There's bound to be friction. Or maybe they'll get along. Sing Kumbaya... Yeah, that's probably not happening.
Warnings: Gross mold lungs, House being his general insensitive self, and so forth. Please note specific warnings in the headers!

[The shed is really not meant for eight full-sized adults. It is meant event less for eight full-sized adults who have only met for the first time that day or even just that week. It's close quarters tonight, but at least the equipment shed has some minor forms of entertainment. There are hurdles, various sports balls, giant mats to potentially sleep on, and the like. Of course, if you make any noise, everyone in the place will be aware of it. Better mind your manners.

Or not. That's always entertaining, and after a day of near absolute silence in the school, most everyone is probably starved for at least a little noise. Something other than that weird piano music coming from more than one piano. One good thing to come of all of this is that they are well stocked up on food. It's a veritable bounty!]

((OOC: This is a mingle style post. Put up a top-level and tag around to others!))

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[What's that, Beckett? You wanted to be left alone with your misery? Sorry, but when Clayton Epps, professional worrier is in the same room as you, this simply isn't an option. Clayton gingerly steps over the other feet and bodies in the shed to get to him and crouches down in front, soft blue lunchbox tucked in his hands.]

Guessin' that cough ain't gotten any better, huh?

[That's exactly what he wanted, damnit. This is... the physical discomfort isn't the real problem. It's the sheer impossibility of it that he struggles with, and he has absolutely no interest in sharing that with anyone. His first instinct is to pull further into the blanket and hope that Clayton goes away.

He doesn't, of course. He's still rational. Losing that would be about the only worse thing. Instead he shakes his head without raising it.]

Leave it. I don't want help. [There, he's said it clearly. Maybe that would be enough?]

Don't want help? [House may be eavesdropping. Not that it's... It's kind of hard to not eavesdrop at the moment. He's gotten restless in his corner and started pacing as much as he can. He comes to a stop next to Clayton and points at him.] This is Dr. Clayton Epps. He's a professional helper. Care oozes out of his eyeballs if he can't get it out.

None of us want that! I hear he's got a medical degree and everything. You should probably talk to him about that cough. Maybe tell him if you're spitting up blood or something.

[Well, if he's going to be bored, he might as well torment Clayton and the sick 'vampire' guy.]

[Clayton would go with the usual persistent worried badgering route if House hadn't stepped in first. He gets the glare Clayton was saving for Beckett. Not a malicious one, mind; Clayton honestly can't tell if House is just being nosy and intrusive for the sake of being a pest or if he genuinely wants him to help. Maybe because House doesn't want to deal with the aftermath of an even sicker Beckett. Hard to say.]

[Either way, this does give Clayton something to work with. The Look he's giving House softens, he purses his lips in deadpan seriousness and turns back to Beckett with a grimace.]

'Fraid he's right. I have a problem, ain't gonna deny it. Lucky fer you-- [Clayton starts idly pawing through his lunchbox.] --my problem pairs well with the degree. You were lookin' fer cures earlier? Antibiotics?

Then maybe he should be getting help with that condition, [Beckett mutters sourly, not made more cooperative by the intervention of another well-meaning soul. Except that ignoring two of them is twice the effort.

He shrugs the blanket off just slightly, glaring at both of them from under it, not for the first time wishing that his eyes still glowed the predatory red of his bloodline. No such luck. At close quarters, he looks just like the animated corpse that he is, a disturbing grayish pallor to his olive skin. It's frightening, but even he acknowledges that probably not frightening enough.]

Resources, not cures. And if I were spitting out blood, that would be much more normal. [Just try to tell him you don't believe the vampire story. He dares you.] I can't be sick, I'm - not - even alive. [This would be considerably more convincing if he could stop coughing through every other word.]

[House is used to dealing with people on the brink of death. Clayton probably is, too. Beckett has probably met two of the people least likely to be fazed by his appearance. It must be a good day in Snowhell.

House rolls his eyes.]

Give me your wrist, Count Dracula.

[And whether Beckett willingly complies, House will make a snatch for it and check for a pulse.]

Sure seems pretty alive, but he sounds convincing. I'll leave it to you, doctor.

[He'll let go and step back, though he'll be listening and watching... and potentially making snide remarks as the moment calls for it.]

[It's frightening only insomuch as it's worrying. That kind of nasty cough paired with someone who looks near death is not a good combination. Clayton's already taking a breath to fuss more at him when--oh, right, the vampire thing.]

[You know, if he wasn't here and he hadn't heard from Steph that vampires are a Thing in some places, then he might take on more of House's mindset while casually playing along. As it stands, Clayton has much more sympathy for him. He flashes a sad smile while House checks his pulse.]

Sorry, man. Whoever's bringin' us in don't like havin' folks with enhancements; I'll bet they took away yer vampirism like they took away folks' magic 'r powers.

[He shrugs, turns to House as he steps away.]

I'll take yer professional diagnosis, doctor. [Then back to Beckett: ] I'd say if yer livin', you'll appreciate some cough medicine. But I suppose if you don't think you got a problem...I can save it fer someone who does?

Edited (phrasing!) 2015-10-28 15:45 (UTC)

[House might never know how lucky he is that Beckett's instincts, already whittled down, are further dulled by his illness; that uninvited touch would have cost him at least a finger, otherwise. As it is, he lashes out a moment too late, snapping no longer very impressive fangs. There's really nothing he can do but glare at the two of them, though now House gets the greater share of that glare.]

I'll grant you "alive", for argument's sake [he says after a moment, grudgingly.] But I am what I am. It can't be taken away as simple as that. Or mocked out of existence. [You hear that, House?

He hesitates on the offer, though, because god it would be nice to just breathe for a bit. Very few things win over practicality for Beckett; alas, pride is one of them.] You... shouldn't waste it where it might not have any effect.

[House just raises a brow at the snapping because really? Clayton gets a sideways glance.]

Gee, I dunno, Epps. This one's a toughie. Thick, mucous-filled cough, hung out in Moldtown, USA, went in the water like a moron and lowered his immune system defenses, looks like he's running a fever, weakness, general malaise. I think there's a name for that. Might start with one of those silent 'p's. [He mock-giggles.] Oh, the English language!

And I'm guessing if he's human again, he'll be fine on human medicine. But it's been well-established that he's an idiot. So whatever.

Thank you, doctor.

[Said in about the most deadpan way Clayton can muster. The diagnosis is simple, sure--he just wants some backup to lend a bit of credence to his argument. Strength in numbers and all that. He's thankful at least that House is cooperating, as much as he can, although it's debatable if that's because he genuinely thinks Clayton's an idiot or because he has nothing better to do. Clayton will take either or.]

Yeah, it's that--whaddya call it? "Pen-u-monia?" [Using one of those possible excuses as joke fodder? Why yes, maybe he will. Thankfully Clayton doesn't keep it up for very long.] I'd say fungal, 'n darn nasty, too. Good thing we caught ya early.

[For a moment, Clayton busies himself with his soft lunchbox again. This time he follows through, pulls out and holds up a bottle of cough syrup so Beckett can read the front label. He may note that it's marketed for children.]

Think I'm willin' t' take the risk. We'll give you a cap a this, see how yer doin' tomorrow mornin', then keep up the same each night 'til you start clearin' up.

[...Which, as a cough suppressant, is not at all going to be helpful in curing a case of spooky fungal pneumonia and Clayton knows it. He's pretty sure Beckett doesn't know that the best cough syrup will do for him will just make him sleep a little better, and he kind of hopes House won't spoil the placebo effect, either. It's not like either of them have any antifungal medicine lying around.]

[At least he does have a slightly better alternative.]

We'll move ya to the house with the hot shower, too. Jus' west a here. The steam'll clear yer lungs right up, an' it'll feel darn nice, too. How does that sound?

[He's being goaded, Beckett knows; getting a reaction out of people is practically the Kindred national sport, after all. He'd danced that dance a thousand times, and if things were normally he'd never rise to it.

Things are not normal. His eyes narrow, and for a moment he looks at House like the blood bag that the uppity mortal is.] What do you think you know, human? [he hisses.] I heard you panic at what Freya showed you. You'll burn through your excuses sooner or later. But keep thinking you're the only sane one among us, if that's what helps you sleep at night. Treat the monsters as delusion, too. They'd be delighted.

[The outburst takes a lot out of him. Is he just taking a potshot at House's sense of reality because his own is falling in pieces around him? His head drops again and he breathes slowly, fighting with the growing certainty that he's going to be sick. Clayton might want to step back if he likes his shoes.]

[He frowns at Clayton with his questionable bottles and his entirely too helpful attitude. What does cough syrup actually do to a human body, anyway? The only thing he knows about pneumonia is that it kills people. Almost always, back when he was still a living man. Still, sometimes.]

What does that mean? [He asks, a little haltingly.] "Fungal pneumonia". What's - actually happening to me?

[House stares impassively at Beckett as he snarls and snaps. Then, all at once, he reaches over and grabs hold of Clayton's arm in mock-distress.]

Epps... Epps, oh, my god, I'm so scared right now. Like shaking in my boots scared. He's a super scary vampire.

[He drops the act and his hand away from Clayton's arm.]

Who's going to drown in his own fluids if he doesn't cut his own delusional crap and listen. Mucous and apparently a really cool fungus that acts faster than anything I've ever seen or heard of are filling your lungs. You will literally die if you keep up the 'oh, this isn't possible' routine. It's possible, it's happening, and neither of us has the anti-fungal medication you actually need. What he's giving you will alleviate some of the symptoms so you body can try to figure out a way to stabilize on its own.

Short answer: You're gonna die; listen to him and you might not. [He points briefly to Clayton.]

Edited 2015-11-04 02:58 (UTC)

[Okay, so that's one way to play along. Still viable, and inwardly Clayton is grateful for House's cooperation. He can play the straight man to House's bitter skeptic routine. Clayton rolls his eyes at House's dramatics, but maintains an anxious, sympathetic stare as he weaves an excuse.]

...I didn't wanna be so grim about it, but I'm afraid he's right. [He passes a quick look at House, as if quietly seeking strength from him.] There're other folks like you--folks who ain't supposed t' die--who've died 'round here. Seen it happen. An' even if it don't kill ya, you'll be darn miserable 'til you work towards clearin' it up. You don't get nothin' from it either way.

[Drown in his own fluids is a very... vivid way to describe it. This isn't mockery anymore. Beckett looks between the two doctors, and it strikes him that they are agreeing with each other when they clearly aren't used to. He goes very quiet, except for his ragged, rasping breath, coming in and out too fast, too shallow. He feels every bit of that - breathe, heartbeat, the shivering of a living body that reacts to the world around it, nothing like the sealed safety of Unlife. This isn't what I wanted. This isn't a gift...

Abruptly, in a kind of fight or flight instincts, he pushes up to his feet, but getting away doesn't work as planned. One hand bracing himself against the wall, he at least makes an effort to turn away from them before the inevitable throwing up. At least his stomach is already mostly empty, after a day of queasy disinterest in the rations. It's some comfort. These are the kind of comforts he's reduced to.]

[House pulls a face, but is otherwise indifferent to Beckett's suffering.]

Well, doc, I'll leave playing nurse to you. And nice going, Count Dracula. You ralphed and now everyone's going to be smelling it for the rest of the night.

[Without further comment, House turns and limps away from the pair and over to his backpack and un-vomited-in corner. He rummages for a moment, then comes out with a full roll of paper towels.]

Epps! Catch. Make sure you wrap it up in a bag or something for the spiders when you're done mopping.

[He'll wait for Clayton's attention before tossing the roll over to him.]

Edited 2015-11-06 00:26 (UTC)

[So that could have turned out better. Clayton stands as soon as Beckett does, at first to give him some room to move if he desperately needed it, but later so he can side-step what was on its way to being a mess all over his cherished snow boots. He hisses in sympathy and is already moving in to help as soon as it looks like Beckett's done heaving.]

Alright, alright, that's fine...jus' sit down fer a bit 'til I clean this up, bud. I'll get you some water.

[Clayton would advise him to lie down instead, but the area he could have done that in is now compromised. He grimaces, realizing that all he has to clean with is some dish soap and a couple towels that he'll never be able to use again after this, and is just about to reach down and pull one out of his boot when House gets his attention.]

Hmm--? [He turns with his arms already out to catch the offered roll of paper towels, apparently on instinct, and captures them cleanly when House gets around to throwing them.] --Yeah, thanks. Wouldn't want you t' strain nothin'...

[The puke really doesn't seem to bother him at all. Clayton's lying out the paper towels with the toe of his boot primarily so he can focus on putting away the cough syrup and switching it out for a bottle of water. He keeps it captive until Beckett cooperates and sits down again.]

[It's a moment before Beckett can adequately focus on anything besides cold shock and nausea. He half staggers against the wall, catching himself by instinct rather than going to his knees or worse. He registers that House is still taunting him, but can't rise to it anymore, doesn't care - it has now firmly sunk in that he has other concerns. Namely the real possibility of death. Final death.

He's afraid. It's very sudden, and leaves little room for other feelings.]

No - leave it, let me - I'll do it. [He tries to pull at Clayton's arm and get him away from the exceptionally unpleasant business of cleanup. He doesn't sound guilty or embarrassed, just - set. Others shouldn't clean up his messes, literal or figurative. He must stick to that, at least, because it's all he can do. With the rest, he will clearly have to trust others. Trust them. And the thought chokes him almost as much as the illness.]

All right. You were right. [He talks to both of them. His voice has gone quiet. Not hissing, just a very tightly drawn restraint. It's sadly obvious that he still wants nothing so much as to bolt, like a wild animal cornered when in pain.] I'm sick. I don't know what to do about it. I would - rather not die. Not like this.

[House rolls his eyes at Beckett suddenly diving to clean up his own vomit.]

Well, first, leave the mopping to somebody with a stronger stomach. Second, just listen to Epps, you idiot.

[Bless House. Clayton does his best not to give him more credit than he deserves for that remark, even though he quietly hopes that the harshness coupled with his persistent attempts to press on Beckett's shoulder will get him to actually sit down like he needs to.]

It's alright, man, I got it. It's alright. You ain't gonna die, not if I can help it. Jus' settle down.

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[log] Day 046 | Silence in the School Yard [closed]

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