Event: Flu Season

[applesaucemod]

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.]

Comments

[peacefulexplorer]

Something's wrong.

Something is - really wrong.

How does one get sick when they have no immune system or internal organs or physical body to speak of, and how does one transduce the sensation of aching temporal pressure and uncooperative sinuses and vertiginous nausea into something that can affect that which exists without form, or shape, or tangibility?

As usual, Daniel is choosing to blame the Rift.

His consciousness compresses into what can only be classified as a cosmic sneeze that puts him through the deeply unpleasant process of feeling the whole of him come apart and go scattering through the city, atoms afloat in every direction possible, some sinking beneath the earth's crust even as he tries to knot himself back into a halfway-comprehensible shape.

Now this?

This is, he feels he can say with certain amount of authority, the worst.

[ooc: Daniel will be materializing randomly throughout the city in various states of disarray so feel free to run into him.]

[theoldgirl]

It begins as a morning of particularly miserable rift energy levels. First, a harsh increase makes her power converters wheeze and groan with the strain, just short of reaching dangerous levels she would need to alert the Doctor for, then a sudden drop to very nearly nothing leaves her empty, shaken, frail. It is nothing she hasn't weathered before, though she could do without the exhaustion and the reminder of how precarious her survival really is in this universe.

But the TARDIS' discomfort does not stop there. Even once rift activity has stabilized into low but serviceable levels, some of her systems don't seem to be getting enough power, others too much. It leads to minor malfunctions at first; some kitchens and bathrooms running out of hot water, a few light bulbs exploding, screens blacking out, the fault locator having a fit. And still the feeling of profound exhaustion. She doesn't bother her pilot with it, not least of all because he's making something of a fuss himself.

By noon, the malfunctions have spread to critical systems. Environmental regulations, dimensional and temporal stabilizers, sensors, all are working only intermittently; even her cognitive functions seem dulled, slower. Large stretches of her dimensions are running high temperatures, a few rooms and halls are so cold there's ice on the floor, most pipes only deliver scalding steam, and gravity certainly isn't a constant any longer. She's doing her best to keep the inhabited areas stable or at least safe, but her focus keeps drifting, and she is aching to the foundations of the Cloister Room.

This is definitely, undoubtedly, awful, and inexplicable, and terrifying. With the fault locator affected she can't even properly express what is wrong (one might have thought the Doctor could have found a workaround for this problem at some point since his first incarnation) and so eventually the forlorn tone of the Cloister Bell begins to drone through her corridors, though faint, and only one gong at a time, in irregular intervals.

[The TARDIS' perception filter and door lock are also on the blink, so just about anyone might see her and wander inside. Naturally, the console room is likely to match the mood in some way. Or you could come by on purpose, and the Doctor will in fact see patients because he just cares so damn much.]

[omnomnom_feels]

The first indication that something is wrong comes when Rashad wakes up. It is not the alley that is the problem, but the fact that he is waking up at all when this form, flawed as it is, holds no requirement for sleep in the fashion of mortals. He casts his mind back for evidence that the Rift caused him to sleep for the sake of a shared dream, but the last such dream he can remember occurred several days ago now.

The second indication is a gestalt of wrongness that suffuses his entire being and which is rather hard to overlook. The fluid discharge from his nose and the ache in his head might initially be dismissed as some sort of damage incurred during whatever event rendered him unconscious, but when he sits up the throbbing in his head intensifies and he finds that his nostrils are paradoxically clogged while also giving out a constant (if low level) discharge. He waves a hand to clean and groom himself, which should ordinarily help with momentary malfunctions of various orifices, but the moment passes and all he has to show for it is a fresh trail of nasal discharge down his otherwise clean upper lip.

Unacceptable. He gropes through his pockets for his communication device, digging it out with some difficulty, and checks the network for any notices regarding magical attacks. There is nothing, so he sends out a query and spends some time conversing with those who respond, attempting to track down the cause. He remains absorbed in this task for quite some time, abandoning it only when he is no longer able to ignore the odorous presence of a nearby dumpster. Sickness. It is impossible, he is not capable of being sick, but it has been suggested that this is the case. If so, he requires a healer, or perhaps healing herbs. This he will procure, and so he comes stumbling out into the street in search of a pharmacy.

[whofrownedthisface]

Like many others on this fine and flu-filled day, the Doctor wakes up, with no real memory or understanding of how he came to be asleep, silly antiquated nightgown and all. It's so rare that he makes a dedicated effort to sleep, in a bed, in sleeping clothes. Maybe age really will catch up to him. It certainly feels like it has, replete with all the trappings of an angry mob long denied their justice--his head feels full of pitchforks and his blood full of torches. Which is a really weird thing to think, so add that to the list, along with the odd roughness in his throat, what, did he spend yesterday shouting? Not implausible. Well, whatever this is is no step to a high stepper. No reason not to keep at it, whatever 'it' is--in his currently wired yet strangely exhausted state, 'it' could be anything. For right now, despite the lethargy in his limbs, 'it' will be some equations he's been batting about in his head, now to be chalked out on the walls in monochromatic glory. Then perhaps he'll feverishly rearrange some furniture, the better to stand on it, reach more walls.

...

There, that should do it. Now for some breakfast. Maybe some tea will ease the scratch in his throat. Or, you know what, he could just. Take a nap. Right in this doorway. That's fine.