Logs:The Fungus Among Us

The Fungus Among Us
cn: Eye trauma
Dramatis Personae Bryce, Roscoe, Tok, Quentin
In Absentia Jax, Scott, Dallen	2025-01-08 "Don't come too close I got the zomb."
Location <XAV> Batcave - Xs Residence Hall
Accessible by sliding pole or elevator from the rec room above, the dormitory basement is austere, with concrete walls and industrial lighting that throws the exposed steel and ductwork into stark relief. Along one wall is a row of computers with a massive holographic interface, the chassis detailed in blue and yellow, with swivelling office chairs upholstered in black leather. Branching off from the computer room is a well-outfitted training gym, though much smaller than those in the Athletic Center; an enormous penny hangs on the wall beside the treadmills. Guarding the door to the students' garage next door is an enormous animatronic T-rex, periodically wagging its tail or yawning. Rumors that it will bite you if sufficiently harassed are still unsubstantiated. Though there is still plenty of snow blanketing the grounds, still a little light left in the day, the mood on campus is a lot less frolicsome than it was at the same time yesterday -- more students vanished down to the med lab or hiding in their dorms, more sternly but vaguely worded emails about quarantining the mansion, more rumors. At least by now, students have begun to see this glowy pink stuff themselves, rather than rely on their classmates' increasingly dire word-of-mouth accounts. Maybe something about the spare and stony architecture in the basement has drawn Roscoe down here. He's curled very compactly in one of the rolling computer chairs -- fluffy-socked feet curled under him, back curled over his knees, sweatshirt hood pulled low around his face; on closer look there is a faint and eerily pulsing pink glow within it. His hands are enveloped entirely by his sleeves, but even through the fabric he's very precise with the keyboard controls, the orange Among Us creature on the screen in front of him skipping cheerfully around the screen (he is the Imposter, this round.) There's a quiet shifting sound as someone starts to make their way down the sliding pole, oddly slower than the usual whoosh of entry. Bryce is looking particularly Brycey today -- big bug-eyes in his soft-furred face (mask over his mouth and nose), bold crown of feathers, long simian arms, his entire lower half gone and traded for a thick python-like serpentine body, currently coiled several times around the pole and scoot-scoot-scooting his way down. Though his snake-belly is segmented, scaley, the upper half of the snake-body has grown a thick fleecey coat. It's not a quick or efficient method of entry, and it takes him a little bit to get -- well, halfway down the pole, at which point his grip fails and he whumps to the floor with a quiet "oof". He's uncoiling himself carefully, winding sinuous over to take a computer not-quite-adjacent to Roscoe's -- he pushes the computer chair to the adjacent station so that he can just belly up to the desk. "Are you --" he starts to ask, not quite as chipper as his usual, but when he peeks in Roscoe's direction something quiets him quick. Tok is sliding down the pole quick, tail curled about it, sometime after Bryce. They seem to be looking for something, lacking their usual constant excited eagerness, something a little more serious set in their expression. The sweatjacket they always wear is gone, and instead they wear just a t-shirt with a faded restaurant name on the front, their basketball shorts, and long socks. They are, miraculously, free of any glowing fungus. They’re beelining towards the t-rex, but at Bryce’s voice they’re glancing over, doing a double take. Their eyes dart between the two of them, squint slightly, and they’re walking over closer, purposeful. They stop some distance behind the two chairs, a visible concern furrowing their brow, “Hey are you guys…” Their voice trails, and their gaze jumps between the two again, scanning Bryce, then landing on Roscoe, “You guys feeling okay?” Roscoe glances aside at Bryce, then turns his whole head to look at him with an amused-fascinated grin, front teeth pressing down at his lower lip. Unfortunately this casts his face into slightly better relief -- some reason the fungus has concentrated itself around his eyes, his skin bubbled and glowing along one eyebrow, eyelids heavy and swollen almost shut, his sclerae an unpleasantly vivid red bloom of hemorrhage. He seems to remember this a moment later -- he ducks his head hastily and shakes his hair back down in front of it; though the pulsating glow is still visible along his brow this at least sort of hides his actual eyes. Hits the pause on Among Us -- "Don't come too close I got the zomb," he says dolefully, though then his head is swinging in Tok's direction -- "I guess at least it won't last too long?" he adds hopefully. Bryce's expression is hard to read, but when Tok enters he brings himself up abruptly straighter, serpentine lower body rising slightly out of its comfortable coils as his shoulders pull up tenser. He does not have time to decide whether or not he is going to leave, though, distracted almost immediately by the sight of Roscoe's face. "Oh-h-h, gosh. Wow that's super gross." He is peering at it just a little more intrigued until Roscoe pulls the hood down. "Do you want to eat people yet? When does that part start." He wriggles back down, turning his head toward Tok; the face mask shifts slightly with some unseen expression beneath. "Did you really burn Mr. Jax?" Tok’s eyes widen at the sight of Roscoe’s fungi covered features, “Shit- Roscoe.” Concern, sympathy, manages to worm its way into their voice. They swallow, harshly, and they rake their claws through the fur of their tail in an agitated manner. Their slitted eyes lock on Bryce, and they glance away, quick, ears dropping down and back, “It- I wasn’t-” They huff out a breath, “I didn’t…mean to. Something wasn’t right. I felt-…” Their stare lands back on Roscoe, eyes narrowing suspicious, “How are you feeling?” "Uuuggghhh I know it's gross," Roscoe yanks the brim of his hood even lower, shoulders hitching up; his voice has pitched low and plaintive, guttural on the dragged-out syllable. Where one of his sleeves has slipped off his hand, his fingers are knobbled with the fungus too, growing in oddly delicate ruffles where he's trying to dig his fingers at the fabric. "You didn't mean to. Sure, I believe that." He's not answering the question. "Wait, how are you feeling? Weren't you -- I thought you had --" Bryce stares a little longer at Roscoe's hands but then he's twisting around where he's sitting, looking more carefuly at Tok now. "Why aren't you gross?" Tok’s jaw muscles pulses and they grumble, “Figured you wouldn’t.” They curl their fingers into their fur, and begins their cycle of pull, release, curl, pull, and release. “I did. I feel fine now. It was…” Both their ears twitch, as if testing their movement, “I…got better.” They say, unhelpfully. They hesitate, then glance nervously at Roscoe, “Maybe- we can get rid of yours too? We just- we can ask Mr. Jax. Maybe he won’t mind.” They explain, that sort of serious look setting their brow, “We might even be able to get the whole school better?” Roscoe has twisted his torso toward Tok again, though now his voice is a little muffled where he's pressed his mouth against one of his knees -- "Ask Mr. Jax to do what?" "Wait, did Mr. Jax get you better? I didn't think he could do that." Bryce does not sound skeptical here -- more in awe. The fact that his eyes are too buggy to widen does not make the wonder in his voice any less obvious as he quietly adds one more piece to his stack of Jax Legends. "Can he get all of us better, how would that -- we should probably ask him, right?" Tok doesn’t answer right away. Their breath hitches a little on the deep breath they try to take. “Yeah, he did.” They pull on their fur, “I traded with Mr. Jax.” Tok says, quick, like ripping off a bandaid, “And- fuck- you guys aren’t gonna believe me.” Their voice pitches frustrated, hands lifting from their tail to run through their hair and curl into it by the back of their head, “But I didn’t mean- something wasn’t right. I started- growling at him? I wasn’t-” Their brow scrunches, like even now it confuses them, “But- his powers burned the fungus outta me, and things felt better again. Maybe we could- if we ask him maybe we can help?” They look between Roscoe and Bryce, and their tail whips back and forth behind them, nervous. Roscoe's hands claw in deeper at the hood of the sweatshirt, then drop down, his legs shifting so he can clench his hands tight at the hem of the sweatshirt; visible again through his bangs, under the draped fabric, his bloodied eyes have gone as wide as the fungus will let them go. Maybe the only thing he fully registered enough to respond to, his voice rising with sudden hostility, is: "You didn't trade with him, stop calling it a trade! Did he get anything out of it or did he just get hurt like you hurt Bryce?" Bryce dips his head, his body nestling a little bit further down within itself, pushing some of the heavy coils out wider as if to make a place for him to disappear into. He does not sink down enough to disappear, though. Just watches the others uncomfortably. "-- Was he hurt, isn't his power really --" he's starting to ask, but this is half-mumbled and eclipsed by Roscoe's sharper tone. Roscoe's sharpness oddly seems to ease something in him, some of his uncertain scrunch straightening back out. "Hey," he's quiet still but not quite as hesitant, "-- what he did was terrible but this is getting really scary, if there's a chance they could fix it --" Though now he's swinging back to a sudden question: "Wait, burned it, did you start that fire?" Tok’s eyes widen, and the fur of their tail puffs up. Their ears pin back, and they take a small step back. They’re staring at Roscoe, unsure, caught off guard by the outburst. “What…do you mean?” They look at Bryce, panicky, confused. “Just- I got too close on accident..? I burned Mr. Jax’s hand. A fire happened but-” Their tail tucks down, wraps a few times about their leg, “Did I hurt you?” They’re jumping back to that again, a rigidity in their shoulders. As Bryce is gathering himself smaller Roscoe is jolting closer, putting his feet on the floor to walk the rolling chair closer, his posture pulling upward with pique -- "You just got too close and his hand burned itself? You were just standing there and a fire happened? Did Summers just accidentally blow up his own garage, too? Do you think we're stupid?" "You took a part of my body." Unlike Roscoe's heat, Bryce just sounds confused that this is even a question. He's been starting to uncoil, body winding down over itself as he pulls longer and more mobile. He's sort of curved around the desk chairs beside him but halts his forward motion to look at Roscoe. He crosses his arms hard over his chest. "Like you stole it, do you not -- think about what that's like?" Tok stares at Bryce, “I gave it back?” It’s their turn to sound confused, and it sounds genuine. “I’m not trying to hurt people.” Tok’s eyes narrow at Roscoe, now, “…You think I- what- attacked Mr. Jax?” They ask, and actual hurt manages to slip its way in. Their own eyes are widening with growing alarm, at Roscoe’s fungus ringed eyes, “Grabbed his hand and watched it sizzle?” "You did attack him! Stop acting like --" like what? What does Roscoe think? These very pressing questions will have to wait for later, Roscoe is yanking himself out of his chair to give Tok a shove in the chest. Behind him, the chair rolls to bonk lightly against the computer desk, as Roscoe says accusingly, "Quit playing dumb, do you not understand that his power is part of him?" "It doesn't matter if you give it back, that's -- you're stealing something from us. And Mr. Jax of all people is -- do you have any idea what he's been through and you just --" Bryce's arms are unfolding, his hands curled into fists at his side. He's shifted forward in an undulating motion, but sways back again when Roscoe shoves Tok. His shoulders square, fists clenched a little harder. "It doesn't matter what you're trying, you are hurting people." Tok isn’t expecting the shove, and they stumble back. A faint white glow pulse just barely lights up their blood vessels, but not anywhere close to their eyes. Their eyes are wide with surprise, and their mouth pulls back into a sharp toothed snarl, ears twisted back, and their throat bobs but no sound comes out. Their eyes dart between the two, wild, “I ain’t- don’t call me dumb. I’m not playing anything.” They snap. “Roscoe you’re acting weird.” This comes as a warning, scanning over the fungus, concerned. They grit their teeth, “It goes totally fine with other people!” They say, exasperated, “I’m just- why are you guys so weird about it!? I already told you I wasn’t-” they shudder out a breath of frustration, and a stream of clicks sound before they’re able to speak again, “I’m trying to help. Why don’t we go to Mr. Jax and ask him?” No helpful answer is forthcoming from Roscoe, here, he's just throwing himself bodily at Tok in an aggressive tackle, trying to wrestle them to the ground, face contorted and teeth gritted. This definitely would not fly in point karate. "Weird about you going around hurting people just because you can? What is wrong with you?" Bryce's voice is rising sharper in frustration, but then Roscoe is flying towards the smaller mutant. "Wo-o-oah --" Though he starts to rock forward, hands lifted as though he is going to intervene, he looks for a moment at Tok and reconsiders. "-- Oh no," doesn't sound upset so much as a sudden realization, "you're going to zomb him again." Anger flairs Tok’s fur more, “I’m not- are you seriously-” Their eyes widen at Roscoe, and they only manage a short shout of, “Wait-! Rosc-!”, Tok attempts to stutter back a step, but they aren’t fast enough. They’re tackled to the ground, and hit it with a resounding thud that knocks the air out of them. They suck in a rattling, panicked gasp on the collision, and at the same time their eyes and blood vessels flood with a bright white glow in reaction. Theres a sudden, nauseating change in perspective. And strangely, it’s Roscoe(?) finishing off that wheezing gasp. Roscoe’s(?) arms are flying out, scrambling clumsily backwards away from Tok(?), socks sliding against the ground. Roscoe(?) is blinking, hard, gaze unfocused behind the fungus and hair, eyebrows harshly drawing down in confusion, breathing heavy. Tok, as Roscoe, suddenly whips their new hands up to their head, “Oh no.” They say, in a voice that’s not their own. They feel for a pair of horns, then try to feel for pointed ears, and are only met with hair a little shorter than they’re used to, rounded ears. Their breathing picks up, and a look of pure unadultured dread is settling on their face, cracking their voice like they don’t quite know how to operate it, “Nononono.” They clumsily scramble back some more, shaking their head, “I-I- didnt- mean- I swear-” They say frantic in a way that Roscoe probably never sounds. From the ground, Tok(?) surges back up well before they actually have their bearings, trying to throw themself back at Roscoe(?) and instead treading heavily on their tail. "Ow," they grumble, with a tone of deep affront, and then, "What the --" Roscoe as Tok has doubtless already noticed the vast drop in his visual acuity but he's automatically feeling at his face anyway, rubbing harshly at his eyes for just a second before he registers the sharpness of claws digging at the thin skin of his eyelids -- he yanks his hands away and stares down at them, then up at Tok-as-Roscoe with much more slowly dawning comprehension, his eyes bright and wide, a thin trickle of blood spilling from his eyelids, pooling like tears. When he first tries to talk it comes out in a sharp hiss, and then his hands are reaching to scrabble with panic at his throat. "Ack -- what -- why did you --" though for a moment his voice is just strained and confused, it quickly picks up steam -- "Give it -- give it back, give me -- that's -- what's wrong with you, give it back, give it back!" Bryce's head is turning, slight one direction, slight the other, attention ping-ponging in growing confusion. "What did you do," he's demanding of Tok(?), though this is slipping into an uncertain look at Roscoe(??) -- "What's going on, did he -- did you --" He, though, makes absolutely no sense of this confused situation, just, "-- now you're acting really weird are you zombing for real?" Tok’s breathing is short, quick, and their bloodshot eyes are jumping side to side, but not actually focusing on anything. They try to crush their eyes shut, then open them (barely against the swollen lids), then crush them shut again. “Fuck. Fuck. I didn’t- it was an accident.” They hiss, but lacking their usual hissing quality with Roscoe’s voice. They reopen their eyes, barely, “Don’t- don’t freak out. I can fix this.” Tok is saying, despite thoroughly freaking out themself. Their hands twitch to their waist, like they’re searching for something there, but when they come back empty they jerk them away in realization. “Fuck. I can fix this.” They shake their head, “I just- I can’t see shit.” "You can't see?" Roscoe demands -- in Tok's voice this is coming out hissy, his ears pressing flat against his head. His hands are twisting into the hem of Tok's raggedy shirt with agitation as he watches them open and shut their -- his? -- eyes. "What did you do to my eyes, those are -- seeing is all they do seeing is all I do you have to --" through this he had been devolving into a panicky babble, but then, eyes widening with a new idea, he regains some of the strength in his voice, and it comes out in a snarly growl, his tail puffing out, as he so so helpfully shoves Tok again like maybe they can just reverse their steps: "Fix it!" "You can't see? Did he touch your eyes, did you --" Bryce is saying this to the not!Roscoe first and then turning to Tok his own voice a little strained as he tries to sort through this. He's started to surge forward, surprisingly fast in the sinuous lunge, but it's somewhere around my eyes that he checks himself. His motion arrests in a sharp snap just before actually twining around Tok(scoe) -- the long ropy length of his body is now just curved in a wide half-circle periphery around this confusing fight. "Can he trade -- can you trade --" He does not know where to direct this question, though, and it lapses into a tense silence before he's angling himself towards Ros-tok. His brow is scrunching, looking first at the fungus, then at the twitchy hands. "Put him back." Tok’s thud against the ground again is less of a thud as before from their spot on the ground, and they throw their elbows out to catch themself. They grit their teeth, and when they push themself back up they try to shove back at Roscoe in an attempt to bat him off. “Dude-stop- Careful with the claws! You’re gonna scratch something.” They snap, more worried than angry, even though they clearly can’t really see anything—or more like they can’t stop seeing everything. They push themself onto their knees, and try to move further away from where they hear Bryce, hands going out a little unsteadily. Their eyes dance in twitching side to side, and they bring a hand up, then yank it away when they brush against fungus, “Yeah yeah it’s me.” They say, and the tone of it, the way the pitch fluctuates is so familar, like Roscoe were doing the greatest Tok impression. Their head twitches vaguely in Bryce and Roscoe direction, “I’m- Trying. To fix it.” Their voice pitches higher, a little panicky again. “I just- I gotta- Roscoe how do I- make your eyes stop- doing that? it’s- I just gotta look at you then I can fix it.” "Good looking out," Roscoe is hissing, stretching himself as tall as his-Tok's small frame is capable of, "I wouldn't wanna scratch something!" is this helpful? Maybe he has entirely given up the pursuit of Being Helpful, for his advice is a very helpful growl that bursts into, "Try harder! Try harder and let every fucking shitfuck in the building poke them with tools maybe that will help! What the fuck did you expect? -- don't touch them they're fragile!" "Roscoe, we're at school, we're --" Bryce falls quiet after this, though. He's snaking out longer, shifting to block Tokscoe's potential retreat -- his long form is now closing most of a circle around the others, roping them off in some strange serpentine ring match. He digs in the pocket of his sweatshirt to pull out his phone, sending a quick text that is accompanied, loud and blaring, by the mental equivalent of a signal flare. (Bryce --> Quentin): SOS Tok's stealing bodies!!! << Goddamn, you really are a freak-freak, aren't you? >> Though all three of the kids in this strange Freaky Friday Fight can hear this, clear in Quentin's disdainful voice, there's no doubt at all that his contempt is directed towards Tok. The real Tok; discorporated, distant, these bodyswap shenanigans are oddly unconfusing. In the wavelength of mental space the stark distinction in Quentin's mind and understanding carries immediate and visceral through the words: freak branching itself into abuser, bully, perv, standing somewhere in sharp-angry distinction to freak: one of us, irrevocably, claimed in this tenuous kind of family by right of genes but certainly not by right of merit. Some part of his mind is starting to reach out directly to Tok(scoe) first, but he pulls back from this instinct at the first touch of diseased-fungus-brain -- instead there's a shift, first, in Bryce's mind. The image that then plants itself -- even in the mental scape there's a feeling of distance, of disgust, like Quentin is revulsed just touching Tok's mind -- but whatever he may be feeling the contact is coming with a picture at once more- and less- vivid than human eyes are used to: Ros(tok), viewed through Bryce's buggy vision. << Fix it, >> presses in with the inexorable weight of command. “I’m not-!” Tok’s voice starts defensive, then after a slow, forced breath, they try again, “I’m not. Going to touch them.” They say, slow, attempting to calm, brow scrunching down in concern. But there’s a harsh panic that streaks through Tok’s mind as Quentin’s presses down upon them. Quentin catches their mind mid-frenzied, currently actively resisting the fungi’s influence, like they suspect what’s happening this time around and they’re attempting to hold on for as long as possible, for as long as they can to fix this. Their own voice, but it’s not their own, is keeping them focused, repeating << “Try harder!” >> << “let every fucking shitfuck in the building poke them with tools” >> Tok physically flinches, snagging onto Quentin’s visceral version of freak and swirling it into their mind, every ounce of them attempting to protest against it, but it infects, consumes and rots into their fraying thoughts. << Accident. Accident. I didn’t mean it. Accident. >> their mind chants, desperate, to get someone to understand, to know. But there’s a sort of distant haze to it, like they’re trying to forcibly remove themself from their own mind. Their breath shudders, at the command, and their mind scrambles more, desperate, trying trying to fix it, to obey the command, like perhaps they just weren’t trying hard enough before? That must be it. Surely. Because now their mind locks onto the mental image, and something flutters up, a worried thought that perhaps this is not a good idea, but Tok forcibly rips apart the connection, between Roscoe and Tok’s mind, yanks their respective minds, and there’s a painful sort of surge that comes with them slamming back into their own bodies again. Tok, as Tok again, doubles over with a gasp, “Fucking- hell” <<Thank you thank you thank you>> their mind whispers, quiet, angry. Roscoe is panicked and flailing, too, his mind more violently repulsed by the telepathic touch than it is when it's whole and healthy, shrinking back in his skull along with the clench-tear of his claws at his scalp (sorry to Future Tok!) that is his instinctive response to any telepathy, with a phantom sensation of electrodes and hands he can't shake off, spiking terror and defenselessness. When he jolts back into his own body it sends him reeling back, heels bumping at Bryce's long and serpentine tail before he just doubles over into a crouch where he's standing, hands going at once to rub fiercely at his eyes with a palpable relief that the familiar kaleidoscope of the tissues in his fingers and eyelids is back, when he presses at them. He drags in one long breath, and then several increasingly shorter breaths before a sense of profound, humiliated embarrassment steeps into his relief, and then he is overwhelmed with an immensely distressing urge to start crying -- "Thank you," he mumbles instead, mouth pressed up against his knee. << Thank you, >> Bryce is adding to this chorus, relieved and angry and pressing down the quiet uncertain shame that has swelled in him through this whole escapade, the angry violated feeling of his body stolen and then defiled, worse even than the actual pain. He has crossed his arms hard over his chest, trying with none success not to think too much annoying worry in Quentin's direction, trying with middling success not to feel too much pity for Roscoe out of some vague sense this is disrespectful. He's looking between the other two, exhaling a quick breath -- << thank you, >> more firmly once the other kids are speaking with their own intonations again. It's not exactly relief, no visceral jolt snapping him through this moment -- instead the anger he's been feeling (for Roscoe? For Dallen? For himself? It's kind of muddled all together) simply overflows. The sudden elongated whip of his body moves with startling-strike speed, and though there's no venom bite at the end there's plenty in his voice: "That was mean --", this very underwhelming invective accompanied by a strong and hard crack of his fist towards Tok (as Tok again)'s jaw. Job done here, there's no further answer from Quentin. His mind has pulled sharp away from the others, leaving in its wake just a distant but growing sense of decided unease. Tok is breathing, heavy, staring harsh at their hands. They trail their hands up, carefully, to feel the scratches at their neck, in their scalp. Their tail whips around into their waist, and they dig their fingers into it. Pull. Pull. Pull. “…I’m…I’m sor-” They don’t get to finish their sentence, because they’re flinching hard at Bryce’s approach, and they’re slamming their eyes shut just as they instinctively flare white against the shock of pain against their jaw. They go stumbling, careening hard, hand coming up to cradle it. A pained warble-whine-growl sounds out between a slack jaw, and they lean over to let a globule of blood drip out from where they bit their tongue with their sharp teeth. They stumble, away, further attempting to get out of range. Their teeth are bared, covered in blood, but they’re back away all the same. They hesitate, though, when they look at Roscoe, like they don’t want to leave but know they should. “…m’ so-rry.” They slur out, heavy, then dart away. Roscoe has rocked back into a seated position, back hunched and head hanging between his knees, staring silently up at Tok and Bryce, his eyes widened in their grisly crimson hemorrhage, his whole body flinched against this outbreak of monster violence, but he's gone motionless and silent. Maybe he thinks if he stays real still they'll all forget he's here. "Um --" Bryce isn't making any move to follow after Tok. His head hangs as the smaller teen flees. He glances over at Roscoe, but all he says again is: "Um." His hands are wringing; when they stop his arms folding in a tight cross over his chest. "Sorry," he's mumbling, and, head ducked, he also darts -- -- at least as far as the sliding pole, which he's slithered around. Coiled tight. Scrunched, unscrunched, scrunched again -- his slooow upward exit is going to be a far less dramatic reverse-slinky of a thing.