epidemiology | ( open + some closed prompts )

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( open + some closed prompts )

CHARACTERS: stiles and YOU, stiles and a bunch of ppl
DATE: between march 17 and march 23
WARNINGS: injuries, panic attacks, more or less zombies, idk man i'll update
SUMMARY: peter's infection finally reaches the more serious symptoms, and like any well-adjusted individual, he runs away after lashing out unintentionally. stiles deals with the injuries and tries to mobilize a search for him (mostly by doing the searching all by himself, good job??)

i. i'm frozen to the bones — university

[ it isn't a common sight, to see Stiles out and about so early in the morning it can barely be called morning — sure, he makes a point to be at the station early enough, but never without complaining about the time and increasingly desperate attempts to drown himself in coffee. now, though, he looks wide awake, despite the heavy circles around his eyes.

no, the sight isn't a common one, but it certainly is alarming, especially when one pays careful attention to the way each step he takes is somehow less steady than the one before it, the way he cradles his arm at an awkward angle and winces when moving forward jostles it slightly. still, he isn't stopping — he makes his way across the university grounds, then to where the cars are parked...

... yep, you guessed it, he's totally going to drive his car like this, with one arm out of commission and looking like he might actually clock out any minute now.

someone.

should probably stop him. ]

ii. i'm a million miles from home — random city location of your choosing

[ he's no longer sure how long he's been walking around. hours, days — he's trying not to count how long it's been since his ill-adviced decision to try and tranquilize a sleeping super-powered individual, seriously, just how did he think that was a good plan?

(he didn't, that's what. he didn't think, because he had no plan. none... just like he doesn't have a plan now. for someone whose strength tends to be coming up with plans, he sure seems to be lacking in that department lately.)

the magitek is of no help, because what good is a locating system built in when you can just leave your magical jewelry in a lab, right? right. quietly, he mutters, ] You just had to remember that too, didn't you? Great.

[ as if talking to himself in the place of the one he actually wants to talk to, making dry comments about the situation, made it all somehow easier to deal with. (spoilers: it doesn't.)

after another block, Stiles finally has to sit down, finding the nearest bench that's empty. it's cold, but he doesn't care, curling in on himself as he leans his head in his hands. this... isn't working. he has no plan, no idea where to look for Peter, no clues to follow. nothing. it's like he's disappeared into thin air and all he can do is walk around the city until his legs give out under him, until the curfew once again forces him back inside — back to the dorms, to his room, in the faint hope that maybe, maybe this time it won't be empty.

breathe, he reminds himself. it'll be fine. it's fine. it's — ]

Fine. It's fine. I'm fine, [ he whispers out loud, his voice brittle, barely there.

(spoilers: he's not.) ]

iii. wildcard!!

[ feel free to wildcard me with whatever strikes your fancy!! or poke me over at celen for a closed starter! all closed starters will be their own comments, just bear with me as i write them up...

also, the explanation (and plotting post) for "how not to deal with being infected: a guide by peter parker" is here in case none of this is making any sense! ]

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[ it's the slightly concerned voice of one of the younger officers that greets him with hey Stilinski, should you even be here? upon arriving at the precinct — a concern that he waves away without even looking at the guy.

instead, he scans the room for people who could actually help him, and once he zeroes in on Koltira, Stiles quickly (well, as quickly as he can with the current state of his injuries, really) makes his way to him. ]

Hey, [ he says, voice sounding roughly like he hasn't slept in two weeks, ] have there been any... weird reports this morning? Last night? Anything?

[ he doesn't sound too hopeful, though — if Peter wants to avoid being seen, he's more than capable of it. ]

Edited 2017-03-16 14:33 (UTC)

[ one day. one day is all it takes for the bandages he's used to piece himself together again to loosen enough for him to start shattering again, piece by piece.

he has never been one for optimism, always carrying the tendency to think of the worst first, and this... this has been worst-case scenario right from the start. Peter's gone, and no matter how much he searches, he just won't answer. and what chance does he have, to find someone who can scale walls and buildings, move from one block to another within the span of seconds, if he doesn't want to be found?

he doesn't know why he walks there, to the place he visited once before, when he had got the book for Olivia and ended up staying to chat with her pretend-husband instead — suddenly he's there, sitting on the sidewalk outside the building, too tired to leave, too desperate to move away.

he glances at the notebook he's carrying, full of writing — originally meant to contain all the places he's looked, but now it only reads variations of make sure he's alive and he's fine, the last of which he underlines, once, twice. circles it, his pen red like blood on the white page.

he barely even notices the way his lungs feel heavy, unable to draw breaths; the way his vision fills with small, black dots. panic has been his constant companion for the last twenty-four hours and more — is it any wonder he's losing the fight, now?

(for someone who can feel emotions, the onslaught of panicanxietydespairworryangerpanic is probably somewhat overwhelming.) ]

Edited 2017-03-16 21:31 (UTC)

[ he isn't sure how many hours it's been. his time is measured in places, in nos, in too-lates. he is too late to the lab, too late to the hospital. the university can tell him nothing, the police station is useless, the employees of Woodhurst Watch shake their heads and shoo him out of the offices.

(with every lead that turns cold, with every second he spends being no closer to finding Peter, a string tightens around his lungs, a drop of water drips down his throat, down into his lungs, filling them one by one until he's slowly drowning.)

he sits on a bench, crossing off places in his notebook, one by one until there is nothing left. underneath the list, he writes a question mark.

a second, two, three.

he hurls the notebook away, away, with all the force he can muster — sorry if it ends up hitting you, Reika... ]

Edited 2017-03-18 22:07 (UTC)

[ you know what they say of university campuses — there is nothing that can happen there that's too strange; you can find a body bag on a bench and it could be anything from performance art to an actual murderer hiding a body in plain sight... this time, though, there's no murder, unless you count kicking the side of your car as attempted murder —

right, let's rewind.

after two days of searching and a whole lot of nothing, it's fair to say Stiles' morale isn't too high... yet he's not giving up. giving up is just not an option, not even a notion to vaguely entertain, which is why that morning, too, he goes to his jeep, ready to drive all the roads, listen to the police scanner for any kind of weird reports, anything. anything.

only this morning, his jeep isn't cooperating. he turns the key and the ignition rumbles, rumbles — dies. he tries again, and it rumbles, coughs, dies. ]

Seriously? [ jumping out of the car, he turns and kicks the metal, swearing under his breath when it ends up just hurting his foot. and poor Wylan who just so happens to be walking past... as soon as he spots him, Stiles just waves at him. ]

Hey, you have a second? I need you to turn the key in the ignition.

Edited 2017-03-18 21:40 (UTC)

[ yes, the message he sends Anakin this time is roughly similar to the one he sent before, asking for assistance with the bunnies — but it also could not be more different. all text, an I need your help, followed by I can't that cuts off there, like the thought-typing wasn't quite working for him, like he couldn't cut himself off quickly enough for his desperation not to bleed over.

when Anakin arrives at the precinct, Stiles is waiting for him outside, his skin even paler than usual, looking roughly like he hasn't slept in days. ]

... sorry. I wouldn't have asked you, I mean, you've got a lot of stuff to worry about [ Padmé, is who he means, but it isn't like he can say it out loud ] but I... it's important.

Edited 2017-03-18 22:20 (UTC)

[ someone had suggested he go to the hospital — no, Stiles responded, they've got their hands full already. another suggested he go rest back in the dorms — no, Stiles responded, I've got work to do.

and he did — he does. only the work he has to do is not writing papers or even going to help the police officers with their already-crippling workload; he heads to the city, to Woodhurst Watch, to the city hall, to any place that might give him clues.

(driving his jeep is still a struggle, even with the bandages; when he walks, every other step he feels like his head spins, or maybe it's the world that's spinning. he ignores the looks he gets from the locals because of the bruises he has — everyone has more or less bruises, now. it's nothing.

it's nothing.)

he barely makes it back to his car before collapsing, slumping on the floor of his car, nearly knocking his already-broken arm on the open car door. to the flash of gold that's suddenly appearing in his vision as he tries to look up, he mutters, ]

If I told you I'm fine, would you believe me?

Edited 2017-03-16 15:03 (UTC)

[It's not that he doesn't understand. It's not that he doesn't get the urge to work oneself to death--he does, incredibly well. That's where he lives. What's the point of not keeping moving? What's the point of not pushing, pushing, pushing? Why take care of himself when other people need him, when he's capable of doing so much and stopping feels like losing people?]

[But he's nothing if not a hypocrite. Which is why, when he catches sight of someone weaving, covered in bruises and stumbling, ultimately collapsing in what appears to be his vehicle, his brows furrow in concern immediately. And when he recognizes who it is, he puffs up a little, agitated and ready to scold as he approaches the vehicle.]

Not even a little bit. What did you to to yourself?

[So, all hell is breaking loose. Infected team members (an alarmingly high number that's only growing) are being quarantined or running off solo, the streets are full of infected and it's taking quite a bit of willpower for Maya to keep herself from freaking out. She's not prepared for this-- any of this---]

[But there's too much going on for her to stop and feel sorry for herself, or panic-- these people need help and if no one else is in any shape to give it to them, she'll have to step in and do whatever she can-- regardless of how she feels. That's her plan of action.]

[Right now she's scrounging for supplies, for once being mindful enough of her surroundings so she doesn't run into trouble --- but there's trouble right there, or rather, someone looking in trouble. What is he doing? He's just saying "I'm fine, I'm fine, I'm fine" over again]

---Stiles!

[She jogs over to him, her arms full of candy bars.] What are you doing? Your butt's gonna get cold!

[Truly, this is the priority here]

[Fugo hasn't been going to class much lately. Not that he went often to begin with. But he's a creature of habit, he likes routines, and for a while it was kind of nice to stop by the university three times a week. The library's not bad for what it is. Which, speaking of: that's his destination this morning, because he's sick of the streets and he's even sicker of the increasingly cramped-feeling apartment. He feels tired and out of sorts, but. That's an every day sort of feeling.

He doesn't know Stiles. But he does know a messed up arm and mobility when he sees it. His eyes flick from Stiles to the direction he's pointed at: a university parking lot. He restlessly sticks his hands in the pockets of his hoodie and frowns.]

You sure you should be trying to drive with an arm like that?

[ it has been a long time since olivia has been without control of her powers, so she is fortunately spared that myriad of emotional hell.

not that she would have had any use for her powers, actually, given how the lines of his face — drawn and weary and made worse by the heavy shadows from the evening light — spell it all out quite perfectly. ]

Stiles...?

[ there is a curious tone to her words, but it is not about his identity. she knows him quite well now, or at least she likes to think she does. she knows, at least, the shape of his body, the arc to his shoulders, and the furrow in his brow when he is particularly stressed. there is a paper bag in her arms, holding a small collection of food she'd meant to take home, but her path stalls now, stopping just before him so she can crouch down to meet his eyes.

she reaches for his cheek, feeling it cold and shuddering. ]

Tell me what's wrong.

I didn't, [ he grits out, even though it's a half-truth at best — it had been his fault in the end, hadn't it? if he'd just talked to Peter, if he'd been more careful, if, if, if.

it wasn't Peter's fault. ]

... okay, I sort of did. I surprised someone who's infected, he didn't react well, that's it. [ his voice is tight, brittle; talking about what happened hurts worse than his arm, than his head. ] It's not that bad.

[ it absolutely is that bad, as evidenced by the way his eyes seem to have trouble focusing on Giorno, the way he sways in place as though his consciousness is having an internal debate about staying with him for much longer. ]

[ it is funny how someone so small, so delicate as Olivia still possesses a presence that is impossible to ignore — he looks up at her, and despite the way his breaths are quick, shallow, barely reaching his lungs before he expels the air from them again, he feels... relieved, like with a touch of her hand, she is giving him focus, centering him again, pulling him away from the spiral that is his mind —

only her question pushes him back, back over the edge, over the cliff and into the storm waiting below. ]

I —

[ everything, he thinks.

Peter is infected, he's missing, I don't know if he's still alive, if he's hurt someone else.

All I'm good for is making plans, and I never saw this coming, I have no plan for this, nothing. No plan B, not even plan A. I'm useless and I hate it.

I might be infected, too.

instead, what he manages to say is, ]

I can't — breathe.

[ he knows a panic attack when he has one, has had enough of them in the past for it to be familiar, but this? this is quite possibly the single worst one yet. he hopes Olivia understands what is happening, because he can't force out the words to explain. ]

[ Maybe she should have checked up on Stiles sooner, but the situation had been escalating far too quickly for her to be able to pull herself away from her immediate circle. She's also been running herself ragged to the point that even her superhuman metabolism started to protest, so she was forced to take a break for a few days. Even though it did better her health, it compromised on the amount of work she could do.

Maybe it's luck that she's passing by, lucid enough to notice the notebook and do some sort of spontaneous limbo to avoid it hitting her head. ]

Uh, hello?

[ It's... probably not intentional? Which is why she goes to pick up the notebook first before going over. ]

[It takes Wylan a moment to realize he's the one being addressed. He still feels too new, a bit like an intruder in this strange new place. He slowly turns toward the voice when he realizes that there's no one nearby the stranger with the stalled vehicle could be addressing. The jeep is a far cry from the last vehicle he helped start (aka stole), but it can't be that different from a tank, right? ]

What? Oh. Sure.

[He twists the strap of satchel slung over his shoulder as he approaches the other teen and the unusual looking vehicle, still looking unsure.]

[ perhaps it hadn't been the wisest thing to do, to draw his attention back to whatever it was that was causing him trouble in the first place, but it had been her intent to parse the main problems — be it an injury, a fear, another bout of anxiety, anything.

it seems, instead, to be everything.

and fear, too, spikes harder in her chest; it hurts to see him so distraught, so undone, but she is quick to push her own fears aside and, instead, focus on his. on him. ]

Of course you can, [ she replies softly, gently. as noiselessly as she possibly can, she shifts and sets the groceries aside, freeing up her other hand to reach for the other side of his face. to hold him there and steady and force him to keep his focus on her, her voice. ]

You're doing it right now, you see? In... out... in... out...

[ her tone takes on a gentle, almost melodic sound. soothing in the way it mimics a person's breathing when they are in deep slumber, and she takes care to let her shoulders and chest rise and fall with each of her words, providing stiles a visual to mimic just in case her words alone are not enough. ]

[ for a moment, as he blinks, his eyes focusing on Maya, it seems as though he barely recognizes her — then his gaze sharpens, the words sink in, and.

slowly, he starts to laugh. her comment is so silly, so normal, the mere idea that him getting cold might bother him at all when he could be frozen solid and wouldn't care —

he laughs, but the sound is hollow, without humor, the breaths he takes in-between turning into gasps as his lungs refuse to hold the air in for long enough. ]

Maya — [ he manages, before leaning his head down again, trying to steady his breathing, to stall the hysteria that is bubbling up inside him. ]

[ Fugo may not know Stiles, but Stiles... well, to say he knows Fugo would be to exaggerate wildly — to say he recognizes him would be more accurate. he's one who tends to keep close track of those he considers friends, the few people he truly, actually cares about... and as it happens, Giorno Giovanna just happens to be one of them, which means Stiles had, at a point, flagged Fugo as "Giorno's weirdly-dressing attachment" and left it at that.

not that he's in much of a condition to recall that right now; all he manages is a he looks familiar before he has to struggle for a second to focus his eyes on Fugo. ]

Dude, I'm fine.

[ ........ ignore the part where he winces slightly as the moving to face Fugo jostles his arm, he's totally fine here, nothing to see! ]

[ even if the guy looks to be ready to bolt within seconds, Stiles musters up what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he yanks the car hood open, waves distractedly in the direction of the steering wheel (not the wheel, really, but the ignition — not that Wylan would know, if he's not exactly familiar with these type of cars yet). ]

You try to start it when I say so, okay? [ a pause as he leans forward to see whatever could be wrong with the car. ] Thanks, by the way, I know this is a weird request and I don't know you at all but I really, really need to get this to work.

[ it's only when she speaks that he seems to even realize she's there — he lifts his head from his hands, blinks at the sudden appearance of a familiar face in his vision. then, he glances at the notebook, realizing what must have happened. ]

... sorry about that. I didn't mean —

[ he swallows down the rest of the words, shaking his head as though it'd help to clear it. ] You okay?

[ asks the guy who definitely, definitely does not look okay. ]

[ it is hard, to try and shut away the constant shouting inside his head, the way his anxiety has multiplied into full-blown panic, but even if she can't quite silence it, what she does is make his world narrow into a pin-point focus until everything around them is meaningless, his eyes fixed on her, her voice the only sound he allows himself to hear.

he doesn't quite manage words, but he nods. in... out. in... out. his breaths don't quite match hers, still shallow, still resembling more the breaths of someone who is slowly drowning, fighting for the last drops of oxygen.

still — it's better. slowly, the tide of panic withdraws, ceases boiling over, spilling over the edges of his mind. ]

Is... is this... alright?

[ the question makes no sense, but at least he's speaking. ]

[Stiles' first impression of Fugo, while rude, is entirely real. Considering that literally nothing about him matches, between his bright red jacket and ... whatever the hell his sweater is trying to be. Good lord. The only thing that's missing is Giorno, which is probably lucky for Stiles.]

"Dude," you're lying. [He folds his arms and looks, very skeptically, from Stiles' arm up to his face.] If a little movement like that hurts, you've pretty obviously broken something.

[ For all her youth, she comes from a world where death is the norm for even teenagers, so it's not hard to recognize what he might be feeling. She's had experience in dealing with this, so she walks closer: ]

I'm fine. Here. [ Holding out the notebook to him. ] Um, are you busy?

It's perfect, [ she assures him, ] you're doing great.

[ he's speaking, and he's breathing, and for the moment, she still has him here with her. without even thinking, she leans forward, pressing a brief kiss to the center of his brow, right where the worst of the wrinkles are, as if hoping the simple gesture might help smooth the tension that knots there so strongly. ]

You're doing just fine, Stiles.

[She knows she's hilarious, Stiles, but that's a little too much laughter, even for her. Besides, it's a very serious issue? Cold butts aren't something to laugh about!!]

It's not that funny. [More than that, he looks like he's about to lose it. She shoves the candy bars in her sleeves, putting a hand on his shoulder instead.]

Hey! C'mon, don't do that, you're gonna choke. Take it slow.

[ ohhhh, using his way of talking against him like this, that hurts, man. no, actually, his arm is what hurts, but let's just not focus on that... and don't swear on that! since Giorno is actually healing him later — at least one of the duo has a fashion sense, maybe Giorno just got all of it so it was inevitable there would be nothing left for anyone who associates with him. ]

Look — [ in an amazing feat of coordination, he actually manages to turn to face Fugo, and this time his expression is less bravado and more a sense of urgency he doesn't bother to hide. ]

I have to go. I don't care if I — [ another pause as he swallows; it feels like shards of glass inside his throat ] ... it's fine, seriously. I can still drive with one hand.

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Page 1 of 6

( open + some closed prompts )

KOLTIRA ➙ march 18, early morning

OLIVIA ➙ march 19

REIKA ➙ march 19

WYLAN ➙ march 20

ANAKIN ➙ march 20

GIORNO ➙ march 18

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miles to go for stiles

i. university

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