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bigapplesauce2015-08-04 08:07 pm
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Event: Flu Season

Ah, October. A time of crisp weather, beautiful foliage, pumpkin spice lattes—and the flu. Make sure you get vaccinated!
Of course, vaccinations can't keep you safe from everything. Especially not a capricious, omnipresent entity that has, quite recently, been treated to the highly entertaining sight of someone struggling with illness for the first time in their life. Oh, dear. Someone's been giving the Rift ideas.
On the morning of October 2nd, those rifties who would never consider getting vaccinated against paltry human illnesses--because why would they need to?--will find themselves awake to a new level of personal hell: the flu. It will instantaneously infect any entities who are generally immune to such things, leaving them snotty, achy, miserable, and completely powerless to stop what is happening to them. What is this?! Are they dying? Oh god, the pathos.
Symptoms will persist until October 4th. Get plenty of rest, stay hydrated, and maybe investigate the wonders of chicken soup. Probably don't go see a doctor. Clinic doctors will be very confused and unhelpful about your weird anatomy, and The Doctor will probably be really gross and contagious.
Definitely don't consult WebMD. No good can come of that.
[OOC: Post here for initial reactions or start your own threads using the tag Event: Flu Season. Characters who can be affected are: the Doctor, the TARDIS, Zagreus, Aziraphale, Crowley, Desire, Ascended Daniel, Gabriel, Lucifer, and Rashad. You could probably also make a case for various other non-human/not-quite-human folks. No one's gonna tell you you can't have the flu, okay. Go nuts.]
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His lower lip trembles and he sniffs in a very wet, congested breath that does nothing to end the constant leakage of his nose. "You are on the upward path," he points out. "You have better things before you. You could be a force for the good of the universe if you so chose."
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"You know, you might wanna try soup," he says, inelegantly changing the subject. "Even if you don't need to eat, it might help?"
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"Soup?" The concept is not unfamiliar, just generally inapplicable. "I am...capable of eating," he allows. "The remedies for illness with which I am familiar rely on rituals, the materials for which are difficult to procure here. I am not aware of food being itself a remedy."
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He lifts an insubstantial shoulder, expression wry. "Take it from someone who's been there."
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"I mean, I have no idea if it'll help?" he adds belatedly. "Seeing as neither of us should be getting sick in the first place. Odds are, it'll fade on its own after a few days. It always does."
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How do people live like this? He does not understand how people live like this.
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Then again, Daniel has a point of reference. He's been human, he's been sick before. He's had to deal with the lasting, human consequences. Whereas Rashad and others like him must be utterly unprepared for the surplus of unpleasant bodily secretions that would otherwise be little more than a brief if miserable inconvenience.
"I guess that would change if you're not used to it," he amends. "Though, to put things in perspective, a good five million people deal with it annually. The flu."
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Rashad's apparent predicament should be far from entertaining, but seeing exactly how unprepared he must be in the confrontation of small, persistent inconveniences such as cold and flu season is startlingly intriguing.
"In terms of finding a purpose, I don't think I can really help you there." He shrugs, his expression sympathetic. "Except for maybe job-hunting. And I know how that can go."
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He drags in a deep, very wet breath that comes out again in an uneven sort of sob. "Do you think employment would help?"
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"It - it might?" he says weakly, confidence diminishing in the face of obvious, unanticipated distress. "I'm sorry. I really do wish I could help, but, uh." He remembers his former employers before he Ascended - distantly he hopes his disappearance didn't startle or otherwise inconvenience them too much, as he doubts appearing to them now in his current state would be of much help - but somehow he doubts Rashad would be a good fit for that line of work.
"Sorry," he says again, somewhat sheepishly.
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"The contents of my apartment were teleported into the park," he says, volunteering information sans prompting for once. "Most of it has since been stolen. I do not -- I do not need those things, but -- I do not even have a place to put myself."
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"There are shelters and places like that," he ventures slowly. "Not sure where you might be able to keep your stuff in that case."
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He sighs, a wet, unpleasant sound. "It is difficult."
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He sniffs once, which isn't a function that should be available to him at all in this form, but there's not much he can do about that one way or another. "S'not so out of the question to try doing the same."
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"So, you know - maybe adapt? Just, uh, think - "
Whatever he means to say next is promptly lost in a gusty sneeze that scatters his atoms to the proverbial winds again.
Again.