Infection {OPEN}

[Scott Payne]

^{((branching off from http://angdar.com/nightsomen/index.php?topic=1445.0))}

There was no way that Bly could fly back the entire distance between the CDC center and the Onyx guildhouse-- he was a quetzal, not some damn goose powerwinging along on a migratory path, or a bird of prey soaring aloft on giant thermal columns (not that those were all that common at night, anyway). No, he was a flutterer. A tiny flutterer dripping blood wherever he fluttered. With his fluttering and dripping combined, he was doomed to a sudden, premature landing if he pushed himself too hard.

Flutter-flutter, drip-drip.

He didn’t make it far before he made a conscious decision to land, coming to rest under a tree and shifting back to his human self to prevent too much loss of blood from his tinier, more fragile form. “This is shit,” he grumbled to himself, fishing in his pockets for his cell and, upon unearthing it, bringing up his contact list. One such contact was a reliable black car service in the city, one of a handful that he employed the assistance of. This one had proven in the past to be the most reliable, in his opinion, and now seemed the perfect time to take advantage of their services. Once he was sure he had a car coming, he scrolled back through the contact list and called ahead to the guildhouse. He wanted Doc Mitchell ready and waiting, he was NOT gonna deal with any more crap tonight.

It was not a pleasant wait, huddled under a tree in the hot dark, feeling around his chest for pieces of glass that had remained embedded into his skin even after a round of shifting and wondering what exactly the bullet had passed through in his leg (not something important, judging from his continued ability to walk, but important enough, if the pain was any indication). But the black sedan pulled up before long, headlights flashing in search of a client, and Bly hauled himself into the backseat, buttoning his jacket around himself to hide the wounds that would most certainly draw notice. Nothing to see, here, nope.

Upon arriving at the guildhouse, he was inwardly surprised to receive prompt medical attention from the Doc, and was pleased enough that his complaints and gripes and generally obnoxious behaviour was subdued to the point where he might have been a tolerable patient. After he was patched up, the prescription was an immediate dose of bedrest, and Bly was not in the mood to argue, for once. Spending the night in the infirmary wasn’t exactly something he looked forward to...but sleep in general was. He’d call Ortega first thing in the morning and dump this sad excuse for a job on HIM. But for now, blessed relaxation.

The Doc had advised him to avoid sleeping on his stomach...like he needed to be told. Touching his chest was enough to cause the dull ache to burst into a whole new level of pain; he wasn’t about to lay flat against a surface, no matter how soft, and settle all of his weight onto that unforgiving chest of his. Jesus H. Christ. And his leg wasn’t helping any.

For a while, Bly attributed his sleeplessness to a number of things, only one of which being the pain his injuries was causing him. Stress, sure. The sort of annoying exhaustion that prevented sleep, maybe. Being in a damn creepy infirmary, why not? Anger at the idiot who’d given him this job, of course. The fucking lion, HELL yes. But as the night pressed on and the sheets were kicked into a ball at the foot of his bed and he twisted to and fro as much as his injuries would allow him and STILL sleep did not come, reasonable explanations began to drift out the window. Shit, was the window open? Chilly...no, that didn’t make sense, it was stiflingly hot outside... Oh, right, sheets were down there. But wrong again! Once he’d pulled them up to his chin the heat was unbearable; and removing them resulted in chills. Up came the sheets again, and this time the chills stayed...on top of the heat.

It was not a very comfortably spent night, to say the least. He must have fallen asleep at some point, however, miraculous an occurrence as that was, for he woke up the next morning feeling as though someone had run a bulldozer over his recumbent body. Everything hurt. Every. Fucking. THING. At least, it felt like pain. Most of it was; malaise was a new sensation, though. With a slight groan, Bly rolled to his side, braced his arm on the bed, and pushed himself into a sitting position. Ohhhhh shit. Bad idea. His head throbbed and his stomach did a neat little flip-flop and...whoa...spinning room...

Blood loss. It had to be the blood loss. That and lack of sleep. Bly stubbornly tried to stand, not understanding what he was feeling. His stomach performed another impossible acrobatic feat as his knees quivered and dumped him to the ground. Not the only thing that hit the floor.

His first thought: That chowdahead doctor fucked me up.

Second thought: When did I have carrots...?

[Victor Batten]

Victor had gotten a delightful voicemail from Mitchell the previous night, outlining the situation with Bly Devlin that had drawn the man away from a quiet night of television and an early bedtime, but there was no sympathy out of Dr. Frankenstein.  He'd worked a late shift at the hospital, crashed for a few hours, woken up to take a piss, and found the voicemail.  Now, he was showing up at the Onyx guildhouse much earlier than he intended to even be awake because he had to check in on that particular patient.  Mitchell's talent when it came to medicine was up there, but Victor was still the surgeon, so he didn't mind checking in on things.  They couldn't just leave the infirmary abandoned with a patient in there, anyway.

Oh, how he wished they could.

He had a newspaper in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other, with his nephew, Keith, following closely behind.  "It should be pretty quiet, even if this one has a mouth on him.  From what Trey said, he had a bullet wound and plenty of cuts that were apparently caused by glass, but nothing extreme enough to be life-threatening.  We'll wait around until he wakes up, give him a look-over, and then we should be done here," he explained to Keith as he walked and read the paper.

Yeah, Victor could multitask like that, and drink coffee at the same time.  Talent that comes from not having five seconds peace, and between the guilds and the hospital, he really didn't have much time to himself.  When he got a day off, he had to shut his phone and beeper off, or he'd get harassed all day.  Fortunately, he didn't take many days off.

When he walked into the infirmary, it was just in time to see Bly puke all over the place, and he just stopped a few feet in the doorway, coffee mug partway to his mouth and the folded newspaper he'd been glancing over still in front of him, but his eyes were on the bright-haired punk.  These were the times he wished he took more days off.  "I'm sure, if you'd have stayed put, you could have held that off until a nurse or intern came in," he drawled, truly not impressed with having to deal with vomit first thing upon walking in, especially after having gotten so little sleep.  He stepped around the mess to put his coffee and newspaper down, and then moved to help Bly to his feet, and preferably over to the examination table.

"Keith, ten dollars to clean it up," he offered, glancing at his nephew.  He wasn't cleaning it.  If Keith refused the money, he was going to start with the threats, and those could get pretty creative with a guy like Victor. 

[Keith Mitchell]

Keith hadn't realized what he was getting himself into when he stepped into the infirmary, which happened to be just in time to see some guy lose his lunch.  Keith gagged, shielding his face from view and attempting to ignore the horrendous sound of the vomit hitting a solid surface.  His petite shoulders shook unpleasantly, fingers parting to allow him a chance to look once he was sure that it was over.  He was not looking forward to the smell that would inevitably come.

He had always had a weak stomach.

His uncle was regarding him again and Keith's eyes instantly narrowed.  What?!  "Kiss my ass," he answered from behind his hands, the sound muffled.  "I am not your maid."  And, of course, Keith had to have attitude about it - nothing was ever easy.

Despite his words and rather indignant pose - chest puffed, shoulders back and eyes scrutinizing, although his hands never left his face, leaving the overall effect little more than comical - he turned and popped open the closet door, pulling out a pair of bright yellow cleaning gloves, a mop and bucket, and what appeared to be some sort of disinfectant.  He really wished he had one of those little face masks too, though.

He wheeled the bucket and mop over to the sink, filling the container with water and adding in the soap.  Then, turning to face the mess, he gagged again, cleaning it up as efficiently as effectively as a maid would.  Of course, not without sending a heated glare to Bly.  This was disgusting.

And he wouldn't have cleaned this up if he didn't think the puke would fester and just get even more disgusting over time.  This had nothing to do with listening to Victor.  Damn his OCD.

When he felt that he was done, which meant that it was more than done, he leaned on the mop and sent a look to Victor.  "Shot, huh?  Got some glass cuts on him?"  His eyes shifted to Bly accusingly.  "Then what's with the hurling?"

[Scott Payne]

Bly heard a voice and decided that looking to see who was there would be infinitely more agreeable than staring blankly down at the rank mess he'd just made. Lifting his head resulted in some nasty throbbing, but he did his best to ignore it and conjured up one of his trademark 'asshole' grins...though this attempt was rather halfhearted. "Well, hey, if it ain't Doctah Vic. What's doin'?" he uttered languidly, inwardly glad for the hand up and not intending for a moment to thank Victor for the assistance. "So I shoulda stayed put and waited, huh? Sos I could throw up on the lucky nurse or intern?" He could act as cool as he wanted, try and appear unfazed and collected and sardonic as all get-out-- there was still absolutely no hiding the fact that he felt miserable, like he'd never felt before. Worn. Light-headed. Hot. Pained. Nauseous. Slightly pissed off. He would have been far more enraged about the situation if it didn't hurt his head so much: he had to settle for sarcasm to vent.

He smirked at the kid who'd come in with Victor and was now cleaning up his vomit and throwing him dirty looks as he griped. A snarky remark was on the tip of his tongue when it flew right out of his head. The kid had a point. Why HAD he thrown up?? He NEVER threw up...had never thrown up before in his life. "And I don't really wanna again," he muttered aloud, bracing against the examination table and pushing an unsteady hand through his hair, pulling it out of his face. Too hot. "Hey, Vic," he went on, turning to the surgeon and swallowing an unwelcome bout of apprehension, "see if ya can't get things workin' straight again. I think Doc Mitchell broke me. I don't feel right." He tried to laugh derisively. Even to Bly it sounded unconvincing.

Shit. What the fuck is wrong with me...?

[Victor Batten]

Good, Keith was cleaning it up, even if he shot off his mouth and gave Victor some great attitude in the meantime.  Victor didn't care, as long as it got cleaned up, and mostly ignored it.  He had a more important issue to deal with, which was obviously Bly and whatever was wrong with him.

Just touching the guy, he could feel the body heat coming off of him.  Victor frowned, pretty damn sure that Bly was a shapeshifter, and left him on the examination table to go check the file that Mitchell had left out.  It only took him about 30 seconds to find the information he was looking for, and then he was scowling Bly's way, both because of this strange situation and being called 'Doctor Vic'. 

"Throwing up on a nurse or intern is fine with me, so long as you don't get it anywhere near me," he informed the shifter, snagging a pair of rubber gloves from the box on the counter, then grabbing the equipment he needed.  Fortunately, for this situation, it was all on a single stand that also happened to be on wheels, so it wasn't much of a hassle.  Bly was just going to have to cooperate, and if he didn't, Victor would just pull out a horse tranquilizer and set it down nearby, just so it could be seen.  He'd use it if he had to.

"Put this in your mouth," he instructed, holding out a thermometer attached to the machine on the stand, and he turned to taking the man's blood pressure and heartrate.  Bly was a quetzal, a type of bird, so Victor was going to have to take that into consideration, but he was pretty sure that Bly had a fever.  How the hell that was possible, he didn't know, but he also knew that normal medications weren't going to cut it with a shifter immune system.

"Honestly, I don't know what's up with the hurling.  To my knowledge, shapeshifters can't get sick, but he certainly seems to be.  I highly doubt Mitchell had anything to do with it, though," he responded evenly, not sounding overly bothered by it, but it was definitely stumping him.  He didn't like that in the least, and yes, Bly had a fever.  Lovely.  "Congratulations, Mr. Devlin.  As usual, you're proving to be ridiculously difficult to deal with, and you seem to have done the impossible.  You're a shifter, and you're sick.  I'm going to need to take some bloodwork, and all I can do at this point is send you off with some incredibly strong medication and have to come back in to see if it's doing anything."

Pretty much, there wasn't much else he could do until he had an idea what was going on.  "Are there any symptoms I'm not seeing?  Anything other than the vomiting and fever?"

[Scott Payne]

Bly was behaving shockingly well, really, given how he normally took to being ordered around, even by doctors. He frankly didn't have the energy to pitch a fit...and, believe it or not, he wasn't stupid. Something was WRONG. His best bet was Victor, here, when it came to putting things right, so cooperation came readily. Fairly readily, anyway. He made a horrible face when he was handed the thermometer, but obediently inserted it under his tongue and waited for the reading, while Victor bustled around and did crap and talked to that damn kid as if Bly weren't sitting right there in front of them. Fuckin' whatever.

He listened to Victor's assessment without a clear expression on his face, not entirely certain he was understanding what he was hearing. He didn't get SICK. He just didn't. No one in his family did, the quetzals, anyway-- the shifters. But that's just what Vic was saying, wasn't it? It WAS impossible...and yet here he was.

Okay. Starting to get annoyed again.

"Don't forget my medal," he interjected blandly, staring the surgeon square in the eye. "Don't I get a medal?" Then he leaned forward a bit, brows arching downward to meet over the bridge of his nose in a glare that made his pounding head protest. "Quit making it sound like I won the frickin' prize." Aaaand...okay, that didn't last long. A moment later he was leaning right back, wincing and sucking in a deep breath. "Shit, Doc. Not used to this. This is a frickin' weak deal...how much is the fevah supposed t'hurt? Whole fucking body?" He managed to refrain from glaring again. "So yeah, there's ya answer. Everything hurts. Feel like I just ran a marathon. Can I lie down yet or what?"

[Keith Mitchell]

Quite frankly, Keith had no idea what was going on, nor did he really have anything to say to this situation.  He wasn't a doctor - he wasn't here to help Victor diagnose the sick shapeshifter who thought he was something special.  He snorted and put the pieces of his cleaning ordeal away, dumping the soapy water out and removing the gloves carefully, still mildly aggravated by having to clean.

He folded his arms over his chest, pursing his lips together.  If shapeshifters couldn't get sick, then clearly either this shapeshifters immune system was laughing at him or he had some shifter disease.  As far as Keith knew, animals could get specific illnesses that humans couldn't get, so maybe it was the same for half-animal people too?  Or maybe this was just karma kicking this shifter in the ass.  That was a possibility too.

Deciding that he more than likely couldn't be of assistance, he took a seat on the opposite side of the room and pulled at a thread hanging off of the bottom of his shirt.  Feeling both out of place and useless, he allowed himself a moment to think about what he could have been doing.  He had followed Victor here because he was getting a tour of the guild houses.  He hadn't ever been before despite the fact that he had family involved in this business, actively even.

Oh well.  He was here now, well, almost.  Close enough.

[Victor Batten]

Bly may have been behaving well, but that didn't mean much with that particular patient.  Victor had come to understand that one of the few people who was actually worse was Domingos Verde, and that was simply because you didn't top Verde in the 'pain in the damn ass' department.  Victor had sedated him just for the hell of it in the past, and he'd do it again.  Verde was human, however, and that made him easier to sedate.  Bly had to be dealt with without the use of tranquilizers, usually.

That didn't mean Victor wouldn't ever try, though.

"Devlin, you have some mystery illness that is somehow affecting a shapeshifter when no illness I have ever seen is capable of doing that.  Keep your damn distance," he ordered, and he meant it.  One issue in that department, and he was getting out the horse tranquilizer. 

No, Bly wasn't used to this, and that was because he was a shifter.  This was a pretty rotten deal, but it made no sense.  There must be something wrong with Bly to have caused this, as far as he could tell.  Otherwise, other shifters would have gotten ill in the past, and he'd have heard of it.  "You mean that you have aches?  You're not just talking about the damage you took in your little scuffle, I'm assuming.  Headaches?"

He continued moving, pushing the wheely stand with the equipment on it to the side, making a few notes on Bly's file, and then busied himself preparing to draw blood.  "Go ahead and lie down.  Keith, would you go into the refrigerator and get me a vial of Ketamine?" 

[Scott Payne]

Bly was sorely tempted to lean forward and cough loudly and deliberately in Victor's face...but even he had enough sense not to do something as admittedly stupid as that. As much as he hated it, he needed Vic right now: his 'independent streak' was just going to have to deal and take a backseat.

Damnit, this was frustrating, though. "Sure, I got headaches. And backaches and armaches and legaches and ya followin' me yet?" He gingerly reclined on the examination table, favouring his injuries from the previous night, at the very least (it was proving difficult to favour every part of him that ached). "But OK, Vic, ya want specific? If it helps, then whatever." He paused to consider. "Joints. Hurts to move, ya know? And..." He broke off, sitting back up and throwing a suspicious look in the direction of Keith. "The fuck is Ketamine?"

[Keith Mitchell]

Keith started at being addressed, raising his head to give his uncle a puzzled look.  He shrugged though, standing and doing as he was told.  It was better than being useless, anyway.

He twisted a few of the vials, attempting to read the labels on them.  After glancing at a few, he found what he was looking for.  The refrigerator door shut behind him as he turned around, catching Bly's eyes on him.  He could only offer the shifter a shake of his head, signaling that he had no idea what it was.  Medical jargon was beyond Keith - he was artistic, not scientific.  Anything he knew about medicine was a result of hanging around Victor for too long.

That also happened to be the case for a bit of his personality and his smoking habit.

"What are you gonna do to him?" he asked Victor, more than willing to bet that what he had in his hand was something that could be used for evil.  How very like a doctor.

[Victor Batten]

Victor listened to Bly complain and left Keith to find the medication he'd asked for as he put the elastic tourniquet over Bly's bicep and stuck him.  He drew three vials of blood, enough for multiple tests if he needed it, before he even acknowledged the vial Keith brought him, and then he took it, reached back to the needles and such he'd collected, and showed Bly one that was still wrapped along with the Ketamine.

"It's incentive, Mr. Devlin, and what I do to him is entirely up to him, Keith.  This medication is commonly used as a horse tranquilizer, and it'll knock you out if I give it to you, Devlin.  I'm going to give you some very specific instructions, and a choice.  If you can't cooperate with those instructions, I'm going to stick you with this and leave you in the infirmary, because this may be more serious than you think," he explained, watching the other man carefully before bothering to continue.

"I don't know what you have, so I don't know if it's a problem with you or if it's something that others can get, so I'm actually being sympathetic in offering to let you go back to your room.  I understand you're not feeling well, so you should be more comfortable there, but I don't have to let you.  I could quarantine you here until we understand this.  If I let you go to your own bed, you can not make direct contact with anyone else, particularly shifters.  Do you understand me?" 

He meant it.  One wrong look, and he was going for the Ketamine and going to leave Bly passed out in an observation room.  Erik Lucio hadn't liked one of those rooms in Crimson, and he was doubting that Bly would like it any better. 

[Scott Payne]

Okay, NO. He could sit underneath the needle and let the doctor squeeze out a few ounces of blood, as much as he thoroughly enjoyed the experience. That was acceptable. This Ketamine-horse-tranquilizer shit? That was NOT. Incentive, bull shit. Victor was threatening him, and Bly did not take kindly to threats, ESPECIALLY not a pretentious, patronizing threat like this. Be a good little boy or take your medicine. I'm doing you a favour, really, look how nice I'm being about this, right up until the moment I pump you full of a fucking sedative. Right. Uh-huh.

For now, he merely grinned. "Yeah, I hear ya," he drawled, eying the needle and vial in Victor's hands. "I'll just go right to my bed, gotcha. Rather sleep on my own than with the help of that shit, if ya know what I mean." He slowly edged his way off the examination table and collected himself, hoping he wasn't too weak and achy to walk. "I'll get outta your hair."

Way, WAY out of his hair. Out of the guildhouse and back to his apartment, in fact. Vic wanted him to go to his own bed, and he would. Sure, he knew what Victor MEANT. Needless to say, it didn't frickin' matter. He wasn't going to take any more of this crap, and he was going home.

[Victor Batten]

Victor wasn't an idiot.  Bly could play happy and cooperative all he wanted, but it wasn't his smile that Victor was paying attention to, it was his eyes.  You could tell quite a lot about people and what they were feeling just by watching their eyes, and only the best liars could keep that from being an indicator.  Unfortunately for him, most of his nieces and nephews had that one figured out from years spent trying to stay out of trouble with him.  Connor was easily the best at it, but given his position in Crimson, Victor wasn't surprised that he'd learned so well.  Bly was nervous, and he wasn't nearly as cooperative as he was pretending.

Victor handed the Ketamine and syringe off to Keith to put them out of his own immediate reach, and shook his head at Bly's attempt at a quick exit. 

"Wait a moment, Mr. Devlin, I'm afraid I need to ask you a few questions first, and get you those antibiotics.  You may be used to going home and sleeping it off whenever you get hurt, but this looks like it's going to require something a little more hands on to deal with it.  Please, bear with me," he told the shifter, getting up to approach the locked cabinet that he and Mitchell kept the prescription drugs in.  He could ask questions while he set up the prescriptions.

"This last job you were on, tell me about it.  What caused your injuries, the target you were after, all of it.  That was the last place you were before you started getting ill, so we're going to just have to work our way back from it."

[Scott Payne]

Bly did not want to accept antibiotics from a man who was just as willing to administer a horse tranquilizer to him. Victor had lost the quetzal's trust along with his cooperation-- although not due to any rational thinking or reasoning on Bly's end. In fact, by this time his judgement was beginning to wax hazy and clouded, as can happen to a person when a fever has settled into their brain and decides to set up shop for a while. It wasn't anything Bly noticed, naturally. All he was focused on was getting himself out of there as quickly as possible, and to avoid pissing Victor off too much, lest he wish to face a squirt of Ketamine and an indefinitely locked door. Never mind the fact that Vic WAS a doctor and DID know what he was doing and WAS trying to help. Didn't matter. Don't care. Outta here.

Still, he had to answer the questions, or Victor would never let him leave. Leaning against the table (and trying not to droop too much), he pushed at his hair again, this time keeping it held it back with his palm braced against his burning temple. "Okay, shoo-ah, lessee, some rich-arse guy hired me to off this scientist who works at the CDC...y'know, the center..." He jerked his thumb vaguely over his shoulder, not sure which direction it was in. "I shot up the lab, but there was a FUCKIN' LION waitin' for me, he's the one who shot me an' chased me around the friggin' place...s'how I got cut all ovah." He shook his head and sneered slightly. "Real messy. I flew away. Anythin' else?"

The relevance of his being at the CDC and shortly thereafter becoming ill did not seem to be striking him.

[Victor Batten]

Potential use of the Ketamine didn't mean that Victor wouldn't take care of Bly, just that he'd be willing to do so while the Quetzal was pleasantly silent and cooperative.  Victor didn't NEED Bly awake to tend to his illness.  That didn't mean the prescription drugs would be anything but attempting to help the guy.

He listened to that brief description of the hunt-gone-wrong and frowned over the pills he was handling.  None of this sounded possible.  First, a lion?  Well, those weren't common, so it shouldn't be too hard to find it, but the CDC?  Had Bly really been to the Center for Disease Control, shot it up and then gotten sick?  What the HELL were they cooking up over there?  Something strong enough to hit a shifter?  "The CDC?  When you were shooting the lab up, were you exposed to anything abnormal?"

Then, "Tell me about this lion.  Did you see him in his human form?"

This was all very important information, since finding that lion could end up being rather important to figuring out what was going on with Bly.  The man may not have been ill, which could suggest that he either didn't make contact with the same substance that Bly had, or that it couldn't affect him.  Working blind made things incredibly difficult.

Victor handed him a bag with the pill bottles in it, fixing Bly with a very stern look, which was saying something coming from him.  "The instructions are in the bag.  Do NOT forget to take them, and if you get worse, I need to be contacted immediately.  You have a room here at the guildhouse, correct?"