#pftask7

Orion: Your heart rate is elevated, Helena. As is your body temperature.

[Just because he was laid out in bed, puking every half hour, did not mean that Nashville was going to get all bummed out. Hey, they were going to be docking soon, right? Right. Everything would be fine.

For the moment, however, he was bored. And he'd gotten his hands on an empty IV bag. Blowing it up, he set about drawing a happy face on one side, a sad face on the other, decorating it with hair and big ears and a hoop earring.] 

Look, I'm not saying puppet show.

But seriously. Puppet show anyone?

Augusta was sick. She didn't think she'd been actually sick since she was sixteen years old and she had mono. And then it hadn't really been so bad because she got mono from making out with Jeremy Moore and she had no complaints about that.

But god, did she have complaints about this.

She had spent the last hour retching into a bowl at the side of her bed. The medical bay was uncomfortable, she wanted to leave. She wanted to go back to her room and put on some music and complain, because for all her life that was how she had handled being sick. Through bone broth soup and soft music. But now, she lay helpless in a room that was too bright. Heavily medicated for all intents and purposes.

She was half asleep by the time the comms opened up, leaving her head ringing and jaw sore.  "I...regret to inform you that Agent Jackson has passed away as of yesterday evening. As you may be aware, he was the first case of infection identified. Unfortunately, we were unable to halt the progress of his illness before he succumbed. He will be...um...missed." 

It took her a moment to realise what had just been said. To realise that someone aboard the ship had just died because of this. That she could die. That she had survived nearly a decade in the ODST only to die from a cold in the middle of space. If she weren't on anti-nausea medications, she might have been sick. Someone was dead. And she could be next.

There had been more than a few moments in the past two years where she had wanted to die. Where she had decided that it would just be best if she let go and let it happen, but now, as she stared the possibility square in the face she wanted to fight. She had to fight. She had done so much already, but there was still more that she could do. More battles she could live to see, more lives she could save. Augusta wasn't ready to die. 

She rolled off the bed and moved groggily to the bathroom, running cold water from the faucet and lowering her head under the stream of water. Her face erupted in fire, the cold liquid against her feverish skin burned and simultaneously offered relief. After a moment, she lifted herself up and looked into the mirror. Green eyes hard set against green eyes. The bloodshot nature of them only made the colour spring out more. 

Charleston sat at the counter for the moment, a cutting board in front of him as he tried to figure out what thing to add would make the meal smell less horrid. As he examined the selection of things in front of him, he mumbled to himself, unaware of anyone else that could possibly have wandered in.]

D-don't think that's, ah, h-how it's supposed to turn out...

"Looking up at the stars, I know quite well That, for all they care, I can go to hell, But on earth indifference is the least We have to dread from man or beast."

Her gaze was hard on him. His prone body resting on the bed lazily as his arms cradled a bucket of his own vomit. He'd thrown up everything. No matter what they gave him, he vomited it back in a mess of bile and half digested food. Still she pushed him to eat, no matter his protests, she administered spoonfuls of soup. It was better that way. When he had nothing in his pit of a stomach and vomited air; the misery that leaked through was painful even to Lyra.

In his rest, the tears of forgotten pain had slipped from the corners of his eyes to settle in the spoons of his ears. What a poetic notion.

Idly she reached out and removed the bucket from Jackson's loose grasp. If Lyra had been anything but a machine she would have vomited herself at the rancid smell. Instead, she set it aside, the silver surface making a heavy metal thud as it hit the floor. There it would wait patiently for him to wake up and start up the process again. It was disgusting.

It was weak.

That's what he was. Now, as he slumbered and let bright red rashes blossom on his skin. Then, in the occurrence of their sole conversation; and even farther back, to when she'd first been implanted into him. He had been weak throughout all their encounters. Weak like all humans were. Weak like the glass vase packaged inside a styro-foam box with a Fragile sticker slapped on the front.

Her lips firmed together and she checked his vitals for the twelfth time. Nothing had changed - she doubted anything would. Perhaps in an hour when the drugs wore off and he resumed his stint of nausea and vomiting - moments only cut up by his sprints to the bathroom - but for now, he would remain the same.

A blessing, she supposed. Though, she knew better than to trust it, often the hardest of things followed the quietest of moments. The calm before the storm it was called. Perhaps this was it. While they waited his body plotted against them. Thirteen steps ahead and already winning. She shook her head.

June had finally forced herself out of bed, she couldn't hold down and food or liquid but she couldn't stay in her room any longer. With a blanket wrapped tightly around her she walked down the halls of the Equinox stopping frequently to cough. Her body ached and her head felt as if it were on fire. She had refused to go to the medbay, others needed Helena's attention more than she did. June knew she would be okay as long as she rested. She had promised herself that if she were to get worse then she would visit the med bay. 

Eventually June made her way to the sitting room. She let herself sit down for a moment. She was exhausted just from walking and her cough was worsening. She heard someone else enter but she was too weak to sit up and look, instead she just laid still staring at the ceiling like she had all morning. 

[The ship was not doing well. Already, Nashville had hauled three of his fellow soldiers down to the medical bay, including his stupid ass brother who had apparently thought taking a goddamn walk while sick was a great idea. And it seemed like it was only getting worse.

For the moment, Nashville felt fine. A headache, but that was to be expected. Legs a little shaky, but neither Richmond nor Hartford were fainting violets, so that could be explained.

The way the halls were spinning, though, probably wasn't good.] 

Shit.

[He stumbled a bit, struggling to keep upright, a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He needed to make his way back to the medbay. There was no point in pretending he wasn't getting ill, and if something should happen and he was needed, he couldn't be compromised.

So he made one heavy step in front of the other towards the stairs. Almost there. He could make it.

And then he tripped, fell with a groan, sprawled out in the hallway.

Great.] 

Does someone want to give me a hand?

How is everyone feeling? Can I help at all? Blankets, soup, a cold compress? Anything at all?