ArchivedLogs:Quarantine

Quarantine
Dramatis Personae Tag, Micah	4 November 2013 About that plague... (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> 303 {Lighthaus} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is cheerful, in its way -- bright and airy, its floor plan open and a plethora of windows providing it with an abundance of light. The tiny entrance hall opens into a living room, small, though its sparse furniture and lack of clutter give it a more open feel. The decor is subdued and minimalist; black and white is the dominant theme, with occasional splashes of deep crimson to offset the monochrome, though of late myriad bright-coloured dragonflies swarm across the living room wall. The couch and armchair are upholstered in black corduroy, the low wide coffee table central is black wood and glass-topped, and a few large pillowy beanbags provide additional seating by the large windows that dominate the back wall. The living room and kitchen both hold a rather inordinate number of lamps in addition to the ceiling lights; standing lamps, small lamps on each counter, large sunlights in the corner. More often than not, they're largely all turned on, too. Towards the back, a couple of doors lead off into bedrooms and bathroom, and to the right, the kitchen's tile is separated from the living room's dark hardwood floors by black countertops. Above the bedroom to one side, there is higher space; a ladder climbs up to a lofted area looking down on the living room. Standing in front of the partition between living and cooking area is a large fish tank: one lone Betta, blood-red, swims regally among several species of black and silver fish. A hallway beyond the kitchen leads further into the apartment. Another bathroom stands just into the hall and the farthest door leads to the apartment's final bedroom, the door usually kept shut to hold in the acrid fumes of turpentine and paints from within. A gray, chilly afternoon finds the Lofts emptier than they have been, with so many rescuees moving on to greener pastures. On the other hand, plenty of residents both temporary and permanent are home sick. Tag lets himself in through the front door, hauling a bright yellow messenger bag and a polyester tote patterned like a blue sky dotted with puffy white clouds. He is bundled up for the weather in a pale blue windbreaker with Rainbow Dash cutie mark patches on its shoulders and heavy black cargo pants subtly stitched in multi-colored thread. His cheeks ate flushed and his rainbow hair wind-tossed. The bike helmet dangling from his fingers looks like some sort of iridescent blue beetle. A pair of matching /goggles/ hang about his neck. "I'm home," Tag calls out, heading for the kitchen. "Hope no one cooked cuz I brought dinner." Micah looks up from his spot camped out on the couch with his laptop, bludgeoning his way through paperwork since he could not be at work sick and potentially contagious today. His auburn hair is a worse mess than usual, having likely received little attention, and he is wearing plaid pajama pants with his TARDIS-blue Doctor Hooves T-shirt. A yellow surgical mask dotted with bouncing Tiggers covers most of his face and a clip-on bottle of hand sanitizer is attached to his pants pocket. A large travel mug full of tea sits on the end table beside him. “Hi, Ta--” His greeting is lost in a bout of coughing, his arm coming up to cover his face out of habit, despite the mask. “Tag. Hi. No, nobody's cooked anythin'. I been afraid t'do any food prep. like this.” While his frown is not visible, the furrowing of his brow is. “You sure y'wanna be here? You haven't felt sick at all, have you? We..still don't know what this thing is or how it's spreadin'. But just about everybody's got it now. Might be better if y'stayed with some folks as /ain't/ sick.” Closing the laptop, Micah sets it out of the way, on the coffee table. “We got a lotta the refugees outta here over the weekend. A number of 'em went t'the school, but don't know how much /better/ that's gonna be. At least they got more rooms t'keep folks separated there. But, I gotta give y'some bad news an' a warnin' on this all at once.” He looks like he wants to ask Tag to come sit, but isn't sure if that's a good idea. Tag pokes his head out from the kitchen. "Of course I wanna be here! I mean, sorry I was out most of the weekend, the Halloween Harvest Party at the farm was crazy. I know you really coulda used my help here..." He dips his head. Green, blue, and purple hair fall across his face. "...but I scored a new job! Courier-ing. Got /good/ Chinese takeout with my sign-on bonus." He ducks back into the kitchen and starts removing containers from the tote. When he emerges again, he is carrying two bowls with spoons in one hand and a tall tub of soup in the other. "Anyway, yeah, I'm as fit as figgy pudding." He manages to keep a serious face for all of two seconds before adding, with a smirk, "I'm not actually sure what figgy pudding /is/, but it's in Cards Against Humanity. All else being equal, I'd rather not get sick." Despite saying this, he plops down beside Micah without much apparent concern. "But sickness happens, and I wanna be here for you. Want hot n' sour soup?" He wiggles the container. Slosh, Slosh. Micah actually slides further down his couch cushion to avoid being too close to Tag when the colourful fellow sits. “I meant more that y'might not wanna be here for your own well-bein', honey. That's...good news on your job. An' you not bein' sick. An' thanks for the food, just.” The Tiggers on his mask bounce a little more as he chews at his lip beneath it. “We still don't know how this is spreadin', an'... I guess there ain't no way t'tell it but t'tell it. Two of the kids down at the twins' school have /died/ from this, Tag. Daiki,” he swallows hard before continuing, “an' one of the kids from the last raid, Arjun. If you ain't sick yet...it would be a really good idea for you t'find another place t'stay. We sent Hive off t'Rachel's t'try an' keep 'im away from all this, what with the level of care he needs now...seems like he's extra vulnerable an' could be /messy/ attached to half the East Coast like he is.” Tag's magenta eyebrows arch higher and higher over magenta eyes as Micah speaks. He pours some soup into a bowl and dabs at it with his spoon, stirring both liquid and curls of steam. "Oh frak, I'm sorry. I mean, people die from the flu all the time, but usually it's like...people who are already sick. Or otherwise immunocompromised." The word tumbles readily from Tag's lips, clashing with his typically sloppy diction. "But really, even healthy young people..." He starts strong but trails off, frowning. "The school's got their own doctor and everything, I just have a hard time imagining..." Trailing off again, he stares down into his soup. "Look, cutting sick folks off isn't gonna help you get better. It's not like I spend that much time at home anyway. I'll be OK." He does not sound at all sure about this. "I'm not Hive. I can look after myself, and other folks, too." “This ain't the flu, hon. We're sendin' folks over t'the clinic throughout the day t'see if we can get this thing figured. But it's startin' off with the flu-like symptoms, progressin' to neurological symptoms, and then...apparently it may be fairly fatal. This ain't an' 'I don't want you t'get the sniffles' warnin'. This is sincere concern about your well-bein' an' future existence.” Micah's head shakes, messy hair rustling with the movement. “We ain't cut off. There's folks up in a couple of the apartments yet, that ain't all of 'em got sick. Liam's been doin' supply runs for us so far, an' not hangin' around after. Which is the best plan. I ain't gonna kick you out...it's your own home. Just. With me'n Jax'n Spence all sick? Don't give you the best chances.” Tag slouches heavily, hunching his shoulders in. His eyes are wide, though, and excessively alert, as if he now expects mysterious plague-beasts to /pounce/ on them at any moment. “I...oh...” He sucks in a breath as if to say something, but then just attacks his soup with sudden vigor. After he has demolished half of the bowl, he sets it down and withdraws his feet, clad in bright pink socks, onto the couch cushion. “Maybe Hanna and Jayna would let me crash on their couch for a while.” He shakes his head to clear away the curtain of colorful hair creeping down across his face. It’s not very effective. “I dunno...wouldn’t that be exposing /them/ more, though? I’ve been here, may be infected already but asymptomatic. And you know damned well I’m gonna end up coming back here all the time, supply delivery or no.” One of his slender fingers pushes the spoon around the edge of the bowl. “What /kind/ of neurological symptoms?” “Might not be a bad idea t'ask 'em,” Micah agrees with a nod before his head falls back to rest on the back of the couch. “I'm sorry.” He coughs again, clearing his throat a few times before he can speak without his voice breaking. “I don't know. It's up t'you an' them, I guess. Just...want you t'have better chances.” He rakes his fingers through his hair. “Confusion. Memory loss. Difficulty with word-finding. Eventual behavioural changes, some violent behaviour reported in some cases.” Tag finally digs a blue hair band from his pocket and gathers his mane into a ponytail. By the time he is done with this, it has become a fuchsia hair band. "Ok." He nods and licks his lips. "Ok. Io...Mendel clinic's working on it, right? They'll cure it. But just in case...I'll ask Hanna tomorrow, when I go to Happy Cakes. I mean, I could just go /upstairs/, but I should probably try to sleep some before I go in for night shift." He makes a small, unhappy sound that is not quite a whimper and topples over, laying his head in Micah's lap and curling his limbs in close. His voice drops low and quiet. "I wish there were more I could do." His eyes swivel up toward the other man. "What /can/ I do?" “Yeah, that's the plan. Io's an infectious disease specialist, so, that should hopefully be of benefit t'figurin' things out. I don't guess it'd be too bad if you're sleepin' up in the loft away from us an' things we're handlin'.” Micah looks down at Tag when he puts his head in his lap, eyes widening. His hands twitch, clearly wanting to touch him, to pet at his hair comfortingly, but instead he just flinches away. “Tag, no. Y'prob'ly shouldn't...touch me. We still don't know how this is gettin' around. I been sick since Friday night; I'm prob'ly contagious. The best thing y'can do is help stop this thing from spreadin'. Keep yourself well.” He lifts his hands up to rest on the back of the couch, well away from Tag. “Can get you Rachel's number t'text an' see if she needs any help takin' care of Hive. Ain't many as aren't sick an' he's pretty much total-care right now. S'a lot to foist off on one person like we did.” Tag actually does whimper now, but he obeys. Removing his head from Micah's leg, he coils further into himself so that he is looking up at Micah from a fetal position like a cat curled in a circle. "You're right. I gotta be responsible. 'Sides, can't work if I'm sick, and I don't get paid medical leave." He sighs, awkwardly given the way his lungs are compressed. "This is a bizarre position, you know? And Hive...he took care of me when I was out of /my/ head. Total-care. I'd like to be able to help him now. Even though he'd never ask it." Tag closes his eyes, suddenly looking almost his age. "Thank you." Micah closes his eyes and nods, keeping his hands back as a reminder of no-touching. “It's good...t'be able t'have somethin' t'help with. We've gotta...figure Hive out. Once all of this has settled down. Need t'get another telepath t'help clear his head out, I think. Usually once we get 'im to /agree/ t'let folks go, he just /does/. This time was more like he said he would an' then /forgot/. Or forgot /how/. But there ain't no good way t'get 'im help with everybody sick an' here an' the school both a wreck.” He shakes his head at the thanks. Tag snickers, though there is not much joy in the sound. "Man, I can't even figure /myself/ out, much less Hive. Or anyone else?" He shrugs, though the movement is barely anything at all from his position. "Not my talent. But I love him, and I can do basic nursing stuff, so that's gonna have to do. Somethin’s always gonna be a wreck, one way or another." With what looks like a tremendous effort, he levers himself back up into a sitting position and, scooping up the bowl, downs the rest of his soup in several long gulps. "I'm gonna catch a few winks up in Rainbow Land. There's plenty'a food in the fridge." He stretches out an hand and brushes Micah's sleeve, brows wrinkling. "Holler if you need something?" “No, honey, I didn't mean t'suggest /you/ needed t'figure out what t'do with Hive. Just, us. In general.” Micah nods at the conclusion of things being a wreck. “But it won't always be the kind of wreck where it's dangerous for us to /interact/ with each other. That's a real inconvenient wreck. Sleep's a good plan, though. S'good for stayin' healthy. Lots of good food an' water an' sleep.” When Tag reaches for his arm, he pulls away, his expression pained at doing so. He comes to his feet, collecting his laptop. “Thanks, I'll let you know. I think...maybe I should go work in my room,” he says hurriedly before retreating down the hall.