A Pesky Little Bug

[Westbrook Academy]

Ashley Jenkin moved through the infirmary like a doctor in a battle field. All around her, teenagers laid along the beds, the nightstands filled with empty caps with remenants of medicine in them. The weather took its time getting cold for winter at Westbrook, but the first winter illness wasn't as kind.

It had started last night for Nurse Jenkins when Marcus Troutman came into her office complaining of nausua. A quick examination proved his eyes to be glossy, his temperature raising at a steady rate. And it didn't take long for vomiting to follow.

Her diagnosis : The flu.

Soon enough, other student began reporting into the infirmary. Some of them took their medicine and went back to their room. Some of them who were accustomed to the full attention of parents during times of sickness lingered -- whined.

Nurse Jenkins took a breath as Tamra Hoolinger did such right then. The girl with the hair of ripe strawberries let out anothe groan, rolling over onto her side to hide the infirmary pillow.

"My tummy," she whined, eyes clenching shut.

"Shuddup Tam-trum," someone yelled from the corner. Either Danial Tomplin or Reeves Donaldson. Nurse Jenkins didn't have time to figure out which so she just shushed in their general direction.

"Ashley?" A familar voice called from the doorway. She turned around, blowing a strand of hair out of her hair and found Mister Herrera standing there, his clothing seeming as if he had grabbed the first thing he found as he rolled out of bed.

"Thank god," she began as she moved to the next patiant and draining the cup of medicine down their throat before they had time to whine about it. "I think we have a bug going through the school, Joseph."
__________________________________________________________________________________
[Ru-row. A flu bug is going through Westbrook! Take care of your friends, get sick yourself, or lock yourself away in an isolation tank (<eyes Syd>) for the next week! Just one thing ... no one is dying from the flu. The last thing we need is someone rping nigh death. This is for fun! Enjoy your flu, Westbrook! Also, remember, the flu -can- knock you out for an entire week. However, it can go away after a day. Play this as you wish.]

[Roach Copeland]

Roach hated the sick.

And that statement wasn't enough to truly convey his disdain for the hacking and sniffling and vomiting that came with the process of being sick. He hated the way minds would just concentrate on the body's plight. And the way people would revert back to an almost childlike state whenever they caught a bug.

'My tummy hurt'

'I need to take a nappy'

'Can you just rub my backy?'

The hell!? Grow some balls...

Roach wrinkled his nose in disdain as he laid in his bed, feeling all these thoughts. People were wanting their moms and dads or some miracle cure. They pissed and moaned over shit they couldn't help -- and did so like they were baby talkin' the shit out of someone. And it was a pain in the membrane!

Roach grumbled. He tossed and turned, trying his best to focus on his own thoughts.

Finally, around midnight, he sat up and threw a pillow against the side of the wall. Really, at no one in particular. However, the small action was enough to relax him some. He let out a breath, rubbed at his face, and then flopped back into his bed.

After a second, he sat back up.

Oh crap ...

And with that, he ran to the side of his desk and proceeded to throw up the contents of his dinner into the trash. Yes, it wasn't his finest moment, nor his silentest, and by the time he was finished, he sort of just collapsed hugging the trash bin in his arms.

My tummy hurts...

God damn'it.

[Aglakti Hale]

"My tummy hurts." Yep. Very cool Ag. How five years old of you.

He rolled over on Ar's bed, too weak to climb the ladder he'd whined. Also Ar had neat shaped pillows. Both arms wrapped around his stomach. It was just that fish from yesterday. He knew it was suspect. Somebody from math class had advised him against the "trout surprise." This was a stupid surprise.

He slid over, outstretched hand reaching toward the bottle of Tylenol he'd left on his desk rather than opting to take one as if he could now "use the force" to bring it to himself. Grunting, the boy finally stood and headed over to the desk only to catch a glimpse of himself in the dorm room's giant mirror (biggest one in the dorms don'tcha know). Ag looked horrible, like death warmed over and covered with a fine cold sweat.

"Eww.." he muttered, downing two Tylenol before flicking his phone open for a quick text.

"Ar, plz get Theraflu. Ty <3"

[Juan Alacran]

He thought he was going to die.

He truly meant it, believed it. He ran to the infirmary as fast as his beleaguered body would take him. Sure, the experts his parents’ university contacts had been able to conjure, both back in Miami and here in Paragon, had been of the opinion his genetic alteration had reached a plateau stage, but it wasn’t like anyone could be sure. His entire existence was an unknown quantity, theorems and conjectures, and tomorrow he might grow a tail, lose his powers, or keel over dead from a harmful metamorphosis in the tissues that had become his venom glands.

But it was more than just that. Nausea, headache, body aches, all were known symptoms of exposure to the very kind of neurotoxin that his venom consisted of, that scorpion venom consisted of. And he remembered, vividly, the feeling of those symptoms. That, and the numbness which followed, creeping into the muscles of his limbs, the organs of his body, paralyzing him, slowly killing him…

“Flu,” the nurse decreed, after a peremptory examination of his condition and his vitals.

What? “Que?”

“You’ve got the flu. It’s a nasty one, starting to go around.” She waved vaguely at the crowded infirmary.

Flu? The stupid flu?! But he had scorp-heal! “No way!”

The nurse sighed. “Yes way. Wait here, I’ll get you something to help make you feel better.”

He was just about to protest, explain how totally and obviously impossible that was, when something caught his attention out of the corner of his eye. A girl, surprise surprise. But she was waving at him, thermometer in her mouth, wiping at her nose with a tissue.

Delly.

“Oooooh.”


He’d been frustrated, mostly by girls. He’d been grousing, mostly about his girl situation. He’d been not a little homesick, particularly for the beach with its seemingly endless supply of girls in swimsuits wanting a good time, impressed by he and his crew’s mastery of the beach, and totally convinced that it “didn’t count” while away on a trip to Miami Beach…

So he finally just gave in and went to Roach for the info he was looking for. Who else? Roach knew the people around him, whether he wanted to or not, generally speaking. And he was clearly no goody two-shoes. “Where be the girls like gabetes?” Juan asked.

Roach had scoffed. Thrown in his trademark snide remarks. Juan didn’t care. He wasn’t in the mood to care. Fact was, he’d been spoiled back home for female attention, attention his boys back home were clearly still enjoying judging by the last phone conversation he’d had with them. He was playing it off with his friends, for multiple reasons. Besides, despite the frustration, he actually was enjoying getting to know all the startlingly different yet pretty amazing girls around him now. And he consoled himself with the knowledge that he actually wasn’t striking out despite his new habitat; quite the contrary. But it was definitely not like back home.

So he endured Roach being Roach, got the info he was looking for, and went on the prowl near the art room. Roach hadn’t been wrong, and she wasn’t that hard to run across. Delilah. Peasant blouse, long billowing skirt, Birkenstocks, shell necklace. Maybe a little horse-faced. Or a lot horse-faced. And her hair looked either like she’d been sleeping on a straw mat, or like it was a straw mat. But an easy, relaxed smile and bright, laughing eyes set off by a flower in her hair it turned out was still alive; plants were her meta thing. Hippie girl, ahoy.

Juan struck up a conversation; he’d never had any trouble there. She’d been lukewarm at first, but he’d managed to pry a few smiles before long, and not a few amused eye-rolls. And then, offhandedly, he’d hit the bullseye. The motherload. Jackpot. “Yeah, yo, that was like right before my moms and pops took us up the Amazon lookin’ for some dragonflies and junk.”

Her eyes had lit up like the Fourth of July. Yes, he replied, he’d been to the rainforest. The real, honest to goodness Amazon Rain Forest. Oh, and the Congo. Yucatan. Philippines. Hawaii. El Yunque, in Puerto Rico, which got double points in his book ‘cause that was “his” island. Jungle trees and palms and mangroves and ferns, orchids, vines and underbrush everywhere, animals of all types absolutely ubiquitous (though pops, of course, had eyes only for the bugs).

Her great big hippy heart had melted as he’d thrown out stories and descriptions, and pretty soon the rest of her had melted against him, and she’d turned out quite the free spirit. All in all, things had worked out even better than he’d hoped with him and Delly. She’d been real chill afterwards, too, prying a promise of “more stories from the heart of Mother Earth”, before slipping away with a wink like she’d taken advantage of him. It made him feel a little weird. Or maybe that was guilt?

Nah, that would be dumb. What did he have to feel guilty about? Fun for its own sake, that was the point.



In any case, now here he was, waiting for some meds, walking over to where Delilah half-lay on one of the nurse’s cots looking worse than he had felt when he’d thought he was dying. Oh well, maybe the scorp-heal would at least let him kick the flu quick. “Uh, hey, chica. How you feelin’?”

She made a pained face and moaned. “My tummy hurts.”

[Diya Behari]

Walking through the halls, Diya cringed every time she heard a cough or a sniffle.

She hated being sick. She hated sick people in general. No way was she catching this.

She gave the infirmary a wide berth, giving the windows a cursory glance to see if any of her friends were in there. So far, so good.

As she turned the corner to Brook’s tank Diya started to ask Brook if she’d seen Roach around, but was startled to see the drone clumsily packing a picnic basket. Bottled water. Orange juice. Flu medicine.

“Oh no,” Diya muttered.

The drone registered Diya’s voice and Brook directed it to look over at her. “Diya! You’re just in time to help me deliver this.”

“Don’t tell me it’s being delivered to Roach.”

The drone cocked it’s head. “Are you two fighting again?” The drone looked disapproving.

“No!” Diya said quickly. “But why did he have to get sick? I hate being around sick people.”

The drone lifted the picnic basket. A bag of throat lozenges fell out. Diya stooped to pick it up and settled it back in the basket. “Come on. It won’t be that bad,” Brook said lightly. The drone led the way to Roach’s dorm.

***

It was that bad.

Diya only glanced in Roach’s room. The curtains were drawn. It smelled like puke. Roach was curled on the bed complaining about his tummy. Diya stood aside to let the drone enter with its goodie basket, then quickly closed the door behind her.

Diya waited a few minutes in the hallway. Just when she was sure Brook wasn’t ever coming back out, the door opened and the drone re-emerged into the hallway. “Roach wants to talk to you.”

“Nope,” Diya said.

“He knew you’d say that,” Brook said, making the drone imitate the moves of a sigh. “He sent this.” The drone held a folded scrap of paper in its hand.

Diya pried the paper loose, a corner getting torn in the process - Brook really needed to have the servo-thingies looked at on that thing, it was dangerous - and unfolded it to reveal a note written in Roach’s blocky hand writing.

Bitch. Get ur ass in here. I suffered for you.

Diya rolled her eyes. “He send you back out here with a pen?” The drone shook its head. Diya dug in her bag for a second before pulling out half of a broken pencil. She held the note up to the wall and scrawled back:

Flattered. Not a chance. Man up.

Diya handed the scrap back to Brook’s drone. It rolled its eyes and went back into the room.

A minute later it was back in the hall.

Trayter. I’m weak and ur abandoning me in my time of need. If I die you don’t get to keep Brook.

Diya gave Brook’s drone a look “Is he going to die?”

The drone shook its head. “But his poor lil’ tummy hurts,” Brook said, doing what Diya assumed was her best impression of Roach’s sickbed voice.

Who says you have Brook now? We’re bonding out here and you’ll never know.

Hand the note to the drone. Brook has it shuffle into Roach’s room. Wait for his return note. Lather, rinse, repeat.

I will replace ur jacket with flanel.

Flannel and chrome look real nice together.

I’m gonna cut off a pigtail. Just one

Have to catch me first. Hard to do that when you’re dying

I am dying! It’s not a laghing matter.

Man cold

Thunder thighs

You’re lucky you’re already a dead man

A longer pause after the delivery of that note. When Brook brought the drone back into the hall, its hands were empty. “He’s asleep. Finally. Hasn’t been able to all day.”

“You telling me my wit puts people to sleep?”

The drone shrugged. “Maybe it’s just keeping up with you that’s tiring?”

Diya nodded. “Acceptable.”

The pair turned to leave the boys’ dorm. Diya split off to head back to her room, fingers crossed that Amy hadn’t come down with this thing yet.

If that happened, she was moving in with Brook.

[Arthur Rawlings]

His tummy hurts.

Ar moved through the drug store efficiently, pulling products into the basket as he passed without slowing down. Theraflu, because he asked for it. A couple different fever reducers. Saltines. Ginger ale. Orange, apple, and grape juice. Ar thought for a moment about grabbing the latex gloves, but left them on the shelf. No need to make a big deal out of nothing, after all.

The check-out girl smiled when he laid out his purchases and even opened her mouth to spout something she probably thought was clever, but decided to keep it to herself when Ar made eye contact. There was enough on the agenda for the day without matching wits with someone who was regularly defeated by a cash register.



"You have twelve more hours of wallowing, max, before you will be dragged bodily into the shower and left to drown. Nibble on a few of these if you think they'll stay down," Ar said back on campus as he tossed a tube of crackers onto the bed beside his roommate. He moved around the room with the same quick steps he'd used in the store, no motion wasted. The collection of pills and bottles clinked into place on his desk in moments and then he was seated on the edge of his bed, pulling pillows and blankets into place and smoothing back matted hair. "You look like hell. Make that six hours to shower and I'll throw in fresh sheets. What'd you take already, how much, and when?"

[Milo Black]

Milo woke up.

Milo went on patrol.

Then Milo had to eat.

Then Milo had to go to class.

Then Milo had to eat.

Then Milo had to go to class.

Then Milo went on patrol.

Then Milo threw up. That was unusual.

Then Milo had to eat.

Then Milo had to be with people.

Then Milo went on patrol.

Then Milo had to eat.

Then Milo went on patrol.

Then Milo had to go to bed.

[Twitchcraft]

On her third stumbling trip to the restroom, Abigail Blackburn finally allowed that she might have a touch of the flu.

After her latest offering to the great porcelain god, she remained crouched for a long moment, unwilling to trust her balance. Then she forced herself up and to the sink and rinsed her mouth with handfuls of tepid water. A glimpse at her reflection revealed sunken eyes and skin the color of old newspaper.

Okay, so she was sick.

Didn't matter. Too much to do.

She staggered back toward the library. The campus was mostly empty this early, and those few people she did see gave her a wide berth. Whether that was because of the flu or just her usual disposition, she neither knew nor cared.

When she reached the reading area, she let herself drop heavily back into her chair. Books and papers were scattered across the table. She frowned at them, befuddled.

There'd surely been a method to her madness earlier, but damned if she knew what it was now. She spent several minutes she didn't have trying to rearrange the stuff in some useful fashion.

The paper ought to have been simple -- a thousand words on Peter Pan. Even she could do that. Hell, she had to do it -- if she started the new term by blowing off another English assignment, that would be the ballgame. End of the line at Westbrook.

"Coach" Kline had taken her low grade last time around as a personal affront. He'd hang her from the nearest yardarm if she didn't come through.

So she hunched over the pile of research and set to it. She scribbled until her fingers cramped, and she read until the words began performing little dances across the page.

She made it three-quarters of the way through the paper before she decided to rest her head. Just for a moment.

Just for a moment.

Then she slept, and dreamed of crocodiles and ticking clocks and hopes undone.

[Wyatt Wyborn]

The flu was taking its toll on the city, and seemed to be hitting Westbrook particularly hard. The combined fragrance of vomit and ammonia wafted throughout the dorms – incense so evil that Wyatt was sure that demons must be involved. Even if he was immune to disease, the odors associated with the flu were still pretty repugnant, on par with patrolling in the sewers. Wyatt was glad Mr. D had asked him to make a run to Hundley’s store to pick up more mop heads and cleaner, if for no other reason than to just get some fresh air.

It had been a tumultuous first year at Westbrook. Back home, Wyatt had never encountered another meta-powered being or a mega-level threat, but such things were normal here in Paragon City. Other than the Psychic Evolved attack, the terrible event that had caused him and many of his friends to lose or switch their powers, and getting messed up with Heidi, it hadn’t been a bad year for Wyatt. He was comfortable using his powers and had learned how to fight and respond to emergencies. It gave him a sense of purpose he had previously never had.

And he had fallen in love. Twice.

And that was what was on his mind as he carried his box of cleaning supplies out of the store and headed for the train to go back to school. Girls had always confused him, and while Mia occupied his thoughts almost all the time and he knew that she was the one for him, what that had happened between him and Lauren still seemed unfinished. He had loved Lauren as strongly as he now loved Mia and he just didn’t understand how he had gone from one to the other. Was there really something wrong with him? Or was it this way for everyone, where you had to always fight your mind and emotions – and your body – to do what you know is right?

At least Heidi was out of the picture now.

“Wy!” a voice shouted from above.

Wyatt knew who it was before he looked up.

“I need you,” Heidi said as she hovered just a few feet above him. “Or more accurately, I need your powers – it’s an emergency!”

Before he could protest, she did her thing. She stole his powers and flew away, her jetpack leaving a white contrail that vanished into the Skyway City skyline.

“Dangit,” Wyatt said to himself. “I hate when she does that.” Then he continued on to the train.

The box was heavy now. He had to stop to rest as he walked to the train. For a moment he considered hailing a taxi, but he was within sight of his destination now, and his powers would return by the time he’d have to carry the box off of the train and into the school. He hefted the load with a grunt and carried it the last stretch to the station. There was a crowd waiting there – some in spandex and body armor, others in business suits, and still others, like him, in jeans and jackets.

Because it simply had never been a problem for him, Wyatt didn’t take note of how many people he boarded the train with seemed to be hacking and wheezing.

[Flicker]

Peyton had never been happier she'd gone and gotten a flu shot back in October. "An ounce of prevention, a pound of cure" her old coach used to say, especially back during the horrible flu of 09 that took down half the squad a month before competition. Kel had gotten it - the dreaded H1N1, so there were strains that could get through, and rumors were flying about it being the wrath of Eric Alpaith. Shot or not, she wasn't taking any chances.

She canceled cheer practice, and made sure to zip through the halls rather than lingering to talk with anyone who might be a carrier, and she carried hand sanitizer with her at all times. Plus it gave her an excuse to wear that super cute polar bear hat-imal she got for Christmas. It had a scarf attached with two paw pockets at the end to slip your hands into to keep warm, or to prevent you from touching door knobs and such.

She zipped to the convenience store to pick up some OJ anyway - again, no sense in taking chances, and near ran into Wyatt carrying a really big box. She'd been meaning to talk to him about the 'date' he prearranged last month with his friend in exchange for information, but that'd have to wait. For now, she wanted to get her orange juice and hole up in her room until the Westbrook flu of 1-2 passed by.