ArchivedLogs:What Not to Say

What Not to Say
Dramatis Personae Micah, Doug, Dusk	7 November 2013 Spreading the word(s) on what little is known about the plague. Also, soup. (Part of Infected TP.)
Location <NYC> 503 {Doug} - Village Lofts - East Village
This apartment is, for the most part, laid out like most of the others in the building. A small entryway opens up into a living area occupied by a worn-looking leather sofa covered in a multi-colored afghan. In front of that, a low cost-effective coffee table is generally littered with tech and gaming magazines, post-it flags stuck to various pages. The kitchen is separated from the living area by a bar-island with two high stools. Down a small hallway, two doors stand face to face, vigilant in keeping the bedrooms beyond secure, while a third, facing the living room, leads to the bathroom. Throughout the apartment, various gaming posters have been framed and hung carefully, most of them classic arcade titles. Knockknockknock, Doug-door! Micah is announcing his presence at you. By hitting you with a fist. Poor door. It is a little early for dinnertime, but the redhead is standing outside with a large lidded container of what looks to be soup. The way his hands are wrapped around the soup container implies that it is still warm. He is dressed in his typical not-work attire (which is all he's been wearing lately, honestly), consisting of a pair of patched jeans and a black 'Stand Back I'm Going to Try Science!' T-shirt worn over a white long-sleeved shirt. For those who have seen him much lately, the lack of surgical mask covering much of his face is of note. It's a long moment before Doug reaches the door; the sound of all his locks being unlocked the only indication that's he's even home. Slowly, the door cracks, and he peeks out with one reddened eye, staring blankly at Micah for a split second before he swings the door open. He's dressed in a pair of grey boxer-briefs, and he looks as sick as anyone in the building has lately. His skin is fever-blotchy, and his movements are slow and almost pained as he moves behind the door. "Come inside," he croaks. He motions in what is probably intended to be a hasty summons, but is really more of a half-hearted twist of his hand. "I don't know if they're still up here or not." “Hey, hon. You look like you're still not feelin' so great. Upside, that's actually better news than feelin' better,” Micah observes as he steps inside, sounding rather clear of the coughy-sniffles, himself. “Don't know if who's still up here? I brought soup. S'good for congestion. An' also makin' soup stock from scratch helps t'keep me from goin' crazy sittin' around all day. Boil all the root vegetables. So much peelin' an' choppin'. I figured out how to make vegan matzo balls. Therefore.” He taps at the container. “Soup.” Inside, Doug's apartment looks...like a sick person has lived there for a week. His couch seems to have become a makeshift bed, the coffee table littered with tissues and empty Gatorade bottles. In the kitchen, some attempts at soup have been made -- a couple of empty microwave containers and a sloppily closed sleeve of saltine crackers on the counter clear evidence of this. Of Alt and Delete, or Doug's former roommates, there is no sign. The kitchen proves to be a bit further than Doug is willing to go, and he drifts toward the sofa, collapsing on it with a groan. "Soup sounds good," he says, turning his head to watch the redhead. "It's the only thing that does, right now." Micah sets the container down on a table to free his hands up for returning to the door to close and lock it. “I can get y'some served up now, then. An' maybe tea, if you want? Or just w--aitch-two-oh, otherwise. You havin' any symptoms other than the flu kind so far?” He surveys the room idly. “Need help with anythin' else? Cat feedin' or some such?” Knock knock knock! Here's a knock again. Thump thump thump, Dusk isn't even trying to be stealthy. He's outside in Vans and a plain grey t-shirt, shifting restlessly as he looks from his phone to the door. "Mmmm." Doug nods at the offer, his brow knitting slightly at the formula substitution. He reaches up to rub at his face, watching Micah with one uncovered eye. "I feel like I'm trying to translate the whole U.N. at once," he says, grimacing slightly. "And I keep getting really spacey." The knocking earns a deep sigh from the teenager, and his body moves as if he might be attempting to rise. It doesn't seem to be very successful. "You could answer the door if you want," he suggests to Micah's question helpfully, managing a weak sort of smile. "Since you're there." “Spacey's also less than good. Been havin' any trouble with gettin' stuck tryin' t'say certain words?” Micah wanders back to the door, peeking through the peephole before unlocking locks and throwing latches again. “Hey, Dusk. Doug's got the plague. I'm deliverin' soup t'the sickies in the buildin'. Step inside; the halls aren't the best place t'chat anymore.” He steps back to let Dusk in. "Eh?" Dusk spreads his wings out wide to each side, his hand turning upwards in apparent nonchalance. "Halls are fine, dude, I've been clearing biters out of our building as they break out of their apartments. We have security cameras through half the building, it's /pretty/ easy to keep track of where's dangerous. Gimme your phone, I'll loop you in." He takes his time about folding his wings in and stepping inside. "How long you been sick, man?" Doug struggles to his elbows at the question, pulling his body into a more seated position. "Words?" he echoes Micah, furrowing his brow. "Not that I've noticed." He watches the door as Micah opens it, and has another half-smile to offer when it proves to be Dusk. He winces at the reminder of the elaborate security system, and reaches up to pinch at the bridge of his nose. "Yeah. We do have one of those." He sits there in silence for a long moment, fingers resting on his nose as he stares vacantly at a spot on his knee. Then he suddenly looks up, and furrows his brow at Dusk. "What?" Despite Dusk's assurances, Micah locks the door after him. “Ain't just the biteyfaces I'm worried about. S'the people as haven't been infected yet. Been tryin' not t'run into too many not-sick people t'minimise risk of spreadin' things.” He ducks into the kitchen to retrieve a bowl and spoon and a glass of water for Doug. The remaining soup container finds its way into the refrigerator, then Micah returns to set the meal on the table by the couch. “Words, yeah. Y'might not be t'that point yet. Most people start gettin' stuck on particular words. Um, speakin' of which. I've got somethin' for both of you.” He digs into his pockets and retrieves two pieces of folded up paper, which he passes to each of them. They both contain lists labelled 'Don't Say These Words :(' followed by a string of words: 'Night. Sorry. Water. City. Weird.' “I can give y'the full report or the highlight reel behind those, dependin' which y'prefer.” "Yeah, we do, and since yesterday I've been using it to keep tabs on the building and clean it out as trouble crops up. New neighbor just moved in across the hall from us yesterday, shitty time to do it we ran into a pair of them while she was unpacking. -- And I asked how long you've been sick," Dusk repeats as he takes the list from Micah. "From all I can tell you should be thankful you're still in the sick phase, it's after that that people start dying. -- Why aren't I saying these? Words have been fucking --" He stops here, frowning at the paper as his words trail off into a briefly vacant expression. "... Huh? Um. Right. What? I want to know whatever you know." "I didn't even think about looking at it," Doug admits sheepishly, sitting up further as Micah prepares soup. "No alerts, and I --" he frowns, and blinks hard a couple of times, leaning back into the couch. "Didn't think about looking at it." He watches Micah as the redhead sets down the soup, and then glances at Dusk, working through the question before he blushes, and touches his neck. "Oh. Maybe a day or two after..." He lifts a shoulder limply before taking the paper and reading it with a blank expression. Like he temporarily doesn't understand them. "I don't get it," he says, frowning first at Dusk's brief fade-out, and then at Micah. "What's wrong with these words?" “/That/ would be why we're not sayin' those words,” Micah affirms, gesturing to the confused-fuzzed out expressions on both Dusk's and Doug's faces. “Just readin' those made y'feel all befuddled, yeah? We got a theory an' did some testin' down at the clinic with Io an' Parley an' Lucien. T'see what was goin' on with sickfolks from a psionic basis, on account of all the neuro. symptoms an' then the...weird reanimation kind of thing. Been keepin' track of what words seem t'be trippin' sick folks up, makin' the brain-static come on. That's the list we have so far. S'worse'n just that, though.” "I've been feeling fucking --" Dusk stops again like he's /going/ to stop himself, but it doesn't work: "Weird -- weird. Weird. Feeling -- fff. Fucked up for days now." He glances down to his phone again, absently tapping at it; it's got security feeds from around the building pulled up that he's intermittently looking through. "Worse than eating your brain and turning you into a flesh-eating zombie? Mmn. C'mon, hit me." His expression pales slightly at Doug's blush. "-- Right. I. Fuck. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry." "I've been feeling befuddled all along," Doug says, still not looking like he understands what the problem is. "But yeah. It was real fuzzy, there." He glances at the paper again, setting it carefully on the coffee table and sliding it away from himself. He nods at Dusk's question about how much worse it could be, and lifts his eyebrows. "Yeah. Living in a zombie movie is pretty bad. What's the worse?" Dusk's stuttered apology gets a shake of his head. "If I don't zombie, it's cool," he says, offering a game attempt at a smile. "I make no promises if I die, though." "Hm. Y'might not want t'be near people that aren't sick at all if y'can't /not/ say those anymore, Dusk." Micah's brows furrow as he leans against the arm of the couch. "Ain't worse than the people turnin' into zombies. Just worse'n creatin' head-static. We're pretty sure those words are how the plague is spreadin'. Found out...kind of by accident. Lucien wanted to compare what minds felt like sayin' the words in someone who /was/ sick an' someone who /wasn't/. So he had me say 'em. An' Io. An'...Io went from not sick at all straight into the confusion/wordstuck phase. It seemed like the combination of me sayin' the things an' /him/ sayin' 'im, too, was the culprit. Not /great/ evidence on a sample size of one, but I wasn't willin' t'try it again. Infectin' people with deadly diseases on purpose is...just no." His hands both rake their fingers through his hair simultaneously, feelings of guilt readily apparent on his face when he talks about Iolaus falling ill. "It's all about...language. And psionic things. Lucien an' Parley felt that the communication centres in people who are sick felt...messy. Tangled up. People in the fuzzy-brain mode didn't have feelin's or thoughts t'pick up on. Folks that have gone all zombie-like just feel that way all the time, accordin' t'Parley." Micah stares at his hands for a moment once they drop down again. "I'm s'posed t'meet up with Lucien again t'let him poke around the communication-related spots in my head. He started tryin' it at one point an' it was--odd. Felt less fuzzy. Might be it could give us some information. Or maybe make it worse, who knows! But it's a lead." "If you die you'll probably bite me right back so maybe, uh, even? But I'm likely to die first. Had it longer." Dusk's wings shrug quickly. "-- Wait, wait, the plague is spreading through /words/ that sounds like a -- /wait/." The rest of this sinks in afterwards and he looks at Micah with a note of horror. "... so you just killed Io? But we /need/ the clinic to --" He winces, taking a step back. "Um, sorry, I -- sorry, I -- ffff." His knuckles scrub at his eyes. "This disease makes you communicate badly? I mean, shit, maybe half the internet's been sick all along and we've only just started to notice." Doug just stares as Micah explains, his expression sharp and full of dawning horror. "But that's...insidious," he says, his eyebrows lifting. "And kind of brilliant. Language is shared easier than germs. More reliable delivery system, when you think about it." He seems to be having trouble keeping the thought, and he lifts a fist to bump it against the side of his head lightly. "But. If it's language-based..." There's a deep inhalation from the teenager, sucking air through his nose and holding it for a long moment before releasing it. "It might be the worst idea ever, but I could try and see if I can focus long enough to see if there's anything to the words themselves. Like a code or...." The thought is too much to hold, and the teenager trails off, looking at the bowl of soup blankly. Then he blinks, and looks up, and frowns. "What?" “Don't know if it's the words themselves, or if they're just servin' as some kinda psychic-hypnotic trigger or resonance or somethin'? An' that's prob'ly not even an exhaustive list of trigger words, just ones we've /noticed/. All we know is that those words cause the same brain-static an' communication centre tangliness in people who are infected. An' that Vector said the person involved in the original infection was a telepath. An' then there was Io gettin' sick from repeatin' the words with me.” Micah winces at the accusation of killing the doctor, a small sound approaching a whimper staying quiet in his throat. But the litany of sorries wipes the expression into blankness and then confusion. “We--what? I...mmn. It doesn't make you communicate badly so much as wreck somethin' about communication in your /brain/, s'far as we can tell.” "I don't think there are any bad ideas, right now," Dusk says wryly. "I mean, until people figure out what the fuck is going on, you might as well try what you --" His head swivels abruptly, eyes locking on Micah with that small whimper. His fingers twitch, lips pulling back for a moment to bare his fangs -- and then he steps back towards the door with a sudden rub of knuckles against temple. "Fuck, I -- fuck. I should --" There's something intensely troubled in his expression; one hand reaches for the door. "Still, it's language-related, and that kind of stuff is kind of my thing," Doug says as his brain comes back into alignment. "Maybe there's a reset or something. Hopefully." He grinds the heel of his hand into an eye socket, and sighs. He glances up at Dusk, seeming confused by the other man's need to excuse himself despite the sudden baring of fangs. "Oh, yeah," he offers dully, sitting up and reaching for his spoon. "I should eat, probably. It smells delicious." He holds up the spoon as if to wave it, only to glaze over again. Then he snaps back, blinking. "Wait. What's happening?" “That's what we figure. If there's any chance Lucien tinkerin' about in the ol' noggin' will give us an idea of how t'stop this thing, we should take it.” Micah frowns at Dusk's baring of fangs combined with disorientation and troubled looks. “Yeah, y'should maybe...go rest for a bit. I'll be by later with soup for you'n Flicker.” He manages a soft smile for Doug. “What's happenin' is that you're gonna eat a bowl of soup. An' drink that glass of...that glass there. An' then you're gonna go back t'restin' an' I'm gonna deliver more soup. Dusk's gonna go rest, too.” His eyes flick back to Dusk where he stands at the door. Dusk only answers this with a low brief growl, his wings flicking outward -- almost towards Micah but then pulling back in sharply. He opens the door, ducking his head and /hurrying/ out into the hall and the stairwell beyond. "Maybe I should talk to Lucien," Doug offers, the thought taking a moment to formulate. "I mean, maybe the two of us working together could get it sorted. Is he sick, too?" He furrows his brow at Dusk's sudden departure, but Micah's instructions draw his attention back. "Right. Eat and drink," he repeats, nodding slowly. "And rest." There's a long stretch of silence before he continues, speaking abruptly. "Then language wrangling." Micah watches Dusk quite closely until he is out of the room, moving to lock the door behind the fleeing man with no visible urgency, unless one happened to notice a slight tremor to the movement of his hand. He returns to the couch, sitting next to Doug. “I wouldn't bother tryin' t'figure anythin' 'til you're feelin' a bit better. Just take care of yourself. I'll...sit here for a little bit,” the way he eyes the door may betray the addition of some ulterior motive in not leaving immediately, “then let y'be t'get some sleep.” "I don't think there's a 'feeling better' to be found," Doug says, dipping his spoon into the soup and stirring it idly. "Just a big clock, counting down. Least I can do is try to stop it." He smiles as Micah joins him on the couch, and lifts a shoulder. "But first, soup."