jason todd. | red hood. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
gutpunching) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
epidemiology2017-03-21 01:40 pm
gutpunching) wrote in epidemiology2017-03-21 01:40 pm
I've got blood on my name.
CHARACTERS: Jason. ft. Lucina, Asher, Sigma, Aqua, & OTA if you want to deal with this, ig, why would you ever.
DATE: I've lost track. vaguely late march, shortly before (tentatively during??? idk I'm flexible) the 3/25 log.
WARNINGS: Violence, gore, death, reference to cannibalism and other zombie rage virus things. Embarrassing angst logs. A mess, basically.
SUMMARY: finally gonna get full horror game up in here.
ONE.
[In the days following their discovery of the tunnels, he spends most of his time in and out of them to try and track down their presumed guilty party. As distractions go, it's not bad. Gives him something productive to focus on that isn't the acid hollow feeling crawling its way up his gut. His increasingly unraveling hold on his hunger and his temper, the way his instincts are screaming at him to bite back. (Go for the throat.) It's easier, just barely, when he can duck out alone. Without a target to focus that on. But after a while, tracing the halls of the winding maze lends itself to too much opportunity to lose traction.
He loses time for the first time a few days in. He'd done the math, and all things considered, it should have happened sooner. Most of the reported cases involving the locals had the worst parts of the virus kicking in anywhere between 3 to 5 weeks after showing symptoms. He's been sick for at least the upper end of that. Maybe even more, if you count the parts where the symptoms were small enough to slide under the radar. Is it a physiology thing? Alternate earth humanity just different enough to slow the process? An immune system thing? One last parting gift from the Lazarus Pit? Whatever it is, it isn't slowing things enough. He'd been taking the edge off his hunger pangs with nicotine, because it was easy to find, but that had stopped helping a long time ago. The next thing he knows he's drifting, (searching for something,) and he doesn't recognize the tunnels around him when he pulls his focus back.
Really pushing his luck, now.
He gets the hell out of the underground and back into the fresh air of the city as if it'll clear his head. (It doesn't, but he starts putting some distance between him and the higher traffic of the sewer entrance nearest the search. Pacing his way out from where the people pulling mapping duty are coming and going.) Distantly, he can feel the phone that serves as his connection to the magitek network buzzing in his pocket. And he ought to answer it, because maybe they've made a breakthrough on the search, or the treatment, or any number of pressing problems on their plate. But right now, it just registers as unimportant.
He ignores it. He never even notices when it stops buzzing.]
TWO.
[It would be so much easier, it occurs to him once again, as he slams a late-stage Bristol-zombie back against the brick facade of a building, if they just thinned out the herd. (The man looks at him wildly, snaps and lunges at him like an animal, something (someone?) else's blood dried around his mouth and down his neck, crusted into his filthy clothes and caked under his nails. A fetid iron stink on his breath.) All's fair isn't it. You don't blame a rabid dog for what it becomes, but you still put it down when it starts baring its teeth at your neighbors. How much of Woodhurst's population has been attacked, consumed, or poisoned by this madness because they've been holding out vain hope for a quick cure? How long would it take to outnumber the rest of the city? Worse, to breach the walls of the quarantine? Odds are that one's happened already.
The smell of blood in the air should turn his empty stomach, but mostly it just pulls at him. Sharpens his focus, narrows his attention, spurs him into action before he's even aware he's come to a decision. He swings a fist for the man's jaw, colliding with a crack that staggers him. Follows it up with a knee to the gut that drops him onto the pavement, gasping.
His hands curl at his sides while he stands over the man—still struggling for breath, grasping at the straws of his own fleeting sanity without success. (Two birds, one stone. It would make so much more sense.)]
THREE
[There aren't a lot of places in Woodhurst that he'd really consider secure. (And that includes the ALASTIAR-maintained petting zoo they've set up for the infected. Not really the most attractive of options.) But at some point, he happens to duck through a familiar door in an effort to find a place to get his bearings. (His own, yours, a public place that's at least a little out of the way. Etc. Surprise me, I'll roll with it.)
He lets himself in. Slipping through the door quietly but fumbling the effort at the finish line. It closes with an audible rattle that echoes through the room, and he drops back against it for a second, or a handful of them. Eyes closed, hands shaking.]
FOUR
[A MYSTERY. if none of this bullshit works for you, feel free to wildcard me or hassle me for a different starter or ping me via PM or plurk, you know the drill. I'll be slow for a bit while handling network nonsense but gets this up now.]
DATE: I've lost track. vaguely late march, shortly before (tentatively during??? idk I'm flexible) the 3/25 log.
WARNINGS: Violence, gore, death, reference to cannibalism and other zombie rage virus things. Embarrassing angst logs. A mess, basically.
SUMMARY: finally gonna get full horror game up in here.
ONE.
[In the days following their discovery of the tunnels, he spends most of his time in and out of them to try and track down their presumed guilty party. As distractions go, it's not bad. Gives him something productive to focus on that isn't the acid hollow feeling crawling its way up his gut. His increasingly unraveling hold on his hunger and his temper, the way his instincts are screaming at him to bite back. (Go for the throat.) It's easier, just barely, when he can duck out alone. Without a target to focus that on. But after a while, tracing the halls of the winding maze lends itself to too much opportunity to lose traction.
He loses time for the first time a few days in. He'd done the math, and all things considered, it should have happened sooner. Most of the reported cases involving the locals had the worst parts of the virus kicking in anywhere between 3 to 5 weeks after showing symptoms. He's been sick for at least the upper end of that. Maybe even more, if you count the parts where the symptoms were small enough to slide under the radar. Is it a physiology thing? Alternate earth humanity just different enough to slow the process? An immune system thing? One last parting gift from the Lazarus Pit? Whatever it is, it isn't slowing things enough. He'd been taking the edge off his hunger pangs with nicotine, because it was easy to find, but that had stopped helping a long time ago. The next thing he knows he's drifting, (searching for something,) and he doesn't recognize the tunnels around him when he pulls his focus back.
Really pushing his luck, now.
He gets the hell out of the underground and back into the fresh air of the city as if it'll clear his head. (It doesn't, but he starts putting some distance between him and the higher traffic of the sewer entrance nearest the search. Pacing his way out from where the people pulling mapping duty are coming and going.) Distantly, he can feel the phone that serves as his connection to the magitek network buzzing in his pocket. And he ought to answer it, because maybe they've made a breakthrough on the search, or the treatment, or any number of pressing problems on their plate. But right now, it just registers as unimportant.
He ignores it. He never even notices when it stops buzzing.]
TWO.
[It would be so much easier, it occurs to him once again, as he slams a late-stage Bristol-zombie back against the brick facade of a building, if they just thinned out the herd. (The man looks at him wildly, snaps and lunges at him like an animal, something (someone?) else's blood dried around his mouth and down his neck, crusted into his filthy clothes and caked under his nails. A fetid iron stink on his breath.) All's fair isn't it. You don't blame a rabid dog for what it becomes, but you still put it down when it starts baring its teeth at your neighbors. How much of Woodhurst's population has been attacked, consumed, or poisoned by this madness because they've been holding out vain hope for a quick cure? How long would it take to outnumber the rest of the city? Worse, to breach the walls of the quarantine? Odds are that one's happened already.
The smell of blood in the air should turn his empty stomach, but mostly it just pulls at him. Sharpens his focus, narrows his attention, spurs him into action before he's even aware he's come to a decision. He swings a fist for the man's jaw, colliding with a crack that staggers him. Follows it up with a knee to the gut that drops him onto the pavement, gasping.
His hands curl at his sides while he stands over the man—still struggling for breath, grasping at the straws of his own fleeting sanity without success. (Two birds, one stone. It would make so much more sense.)]
THREE
[There aren't a lot of places in Woodhurst that he'd really consider secure. (And that includes the ALASTIAR-maintained petting zoo they've set up for the infected. Not really the most attractive of options.) But at some point, he happens to duck through a familiar door in an effort to find a place to get his bearings. (His own, yours, a public place that's at least a little out of the way. Etc. Surprise me, I'll roll with it.)
He lets himself in. Slipping through the door quietly but fumbling the effort at the finish line. It closes with an audible rattle that echoes through the room, and he drops back against it for a second, or a handful of them. Eyes closed, hands shaking.]
FOUR
[A MYSTERY. if none of this bullshit works for you, feel free to wildcard me or hassle me for a different starter or ping me via PM or plurk, you know the drill. I'll be slow for a bit while handling network nonsense but gets this up now.]
no subject
The smart thing to do would be to cut this conversation short. Most of the time, for now, he's got himself handled. (Most of the time.) Busy concentrating on following Percy's trail. But he's tired, he's hungry, and Asher's got a habit of rubbing him the wrong way on a good day. And despite what ought to be his better judgment, he steps forward instead of back. Spreads his hands in front of him. What can you do. With an exaggerated amount of inappropriate enthusiasm—]
Well, gosh. Nothing gets by you, eagle-eye.
[Where Asher is quiet, he is caustic. Which is more than enough answer on its own. But once you stop and look for it, it's not hard to see. The edgy way he's acting, the dark marks under his eyes. Veins visible creeping under what too-pale skin is left visible. He smells like cigarette smoke and looks like hell. Sure, it could just be from overworking himself. But given the circumstances—]
Is this the part where you tell me to lock myself up for the good of the city?
no subject
He shouldn't have gone out for that short breath of air, no matter how brief his walk would've been. In fact, his apartment is merely half a block from this very spot, and there is a good chance that if he somehow drops his shit and runs he will be able to make it before Jason takes him out.
That would be the smart thing to do, the smart thing-]
No.
[But not the right thing.]
Nah, dawg, it's-
[There is distance between them now, a good deal. It's likely that there are other infected in the area, and if they were able to take down an expert in combat like Patroclus-]
Some of the science nerds are bustin' their butts workin' on a cure for this thing. You talk to any of 'em?
[Sieglinde has been staying at his place for a little while, so he's aware that they are on the verge of a breakthrough.]
god I lost the notif for this, gomen
His temper ticks up without his permission. He scoffs through his bared teeth.]
I haven't been in much of a talking mood, lately.
[Can't imagine why. Besides. He's keeping tabs on the cure efforts. They've got plenty of volunteers and no results, yet. So he's pursing other avenues. Tracking down the person responsible, because if anyone's going to have information they don't, it'll be the guy who spread it in the first place. And besides—]
I go play guinea pig and who's going to make sure our fishy friend from the hospital gets what's coming to him? Won't have to worry about contaminates while I'm following his tracks down in the tunnels. Pretty convenient, if you look at it that way.
[Hah.]
no subject
He too is uninterested in letting that extraterrestrial mad scientist run free, believing that the creature deserves to die for what he's done. But then by that logic, shouldn't Asher also be in jail? Ah, well.
Simple thinking can only get you so far.]
So you think you're gonna stop him? All by yourself.
Like, that's not just a bad idea, bro-
[His palms press together in a motion that resembles a prayer, pleading that Jason listen to him.]
That's crazy. You're crazy!
no subject
Well, that has been going around, these days.
[Crazy. Not that that's what Asher was getting at. (But hell, virus or no virus, it's not like he's ever been a picture of stability in a long time. Never really was the same after the crowbarring. Or maybe it was the explosion that did it? Or the part where Talia tossed him into the Lazarus pit.) Either way, he's not really concerned about what Asher thinks of this plan. He's taken down worse with less.]
If I'm gonna go all Night of the Living Dead before this is over, I suppose I may as well be productive about it.
no subject
[Foolishly, he too takes a step closer.
His heart has always been the thing he's followed first, perhaps because it beats the loudest, thrumming away inside his chest at a pace that seems to drown out the inner workings of his rational mind. Convincing a man whose sanity has already partially left him is a near impossible feat, but that doesn't stop him from trying.
The initial simmer of a temper dies down as he lowers his voice, pressing a thumb and an index finger together for emphasis.]
I get that things are gettin' a little-
[He wobbles his fingers in a very Asher sort of way.]
Batshit, 'round here-
[aHAHA BAT???]
But, what if you lose your mind down there?
[And so begins the series of unfortunate events.
Asher is near enough now for Jason to pick up an odor, a slight stench of sweat and dried blood, the second scent masked somewhat by his clothes. For a person, a normal, non-human flesh eating person, the smell might be unpleasant, but for a zombie?]
Who's gonna bring you back up?
[It's downright delicious.]