ataraxion | [voice] I feel like a voodoo doll. It's grim, it's gross. [backdated a few days]

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[voice] I feel like a voodoo doll. It's grim, it's gross. [backdated a few days]

[There’s a soft, muffled expletive, then a few seconds of near-silence during which the transmission’s sender is obviously fumbling with his communicator.

When he speaks, Ryuuzaki’s English-accented voice sounds weak, rough, and exasperated: he’s been throwing up for the past few minutes.]

I could use some help with something.

[A beat of hesitation--]

It’s urgent, but you’ll need a strong stomach.

[He knows his condition isn’t too serious, but while he’s in this state, he’d rather not start by broadcasting his location to the entire network if he doesn’t have to. Never mind the fact that someone could probably find him by the reek... it’s as likely to keep people away as it is to cause them to investigate. He's considered just leaving the can in the kitchen, getting himself to medbay or at least a different kitchen for fluids, and allowing the entire situation to be someone else's problem, but that would only work if it couldn't be traced back to him. Just now, it probably could be.]

[OOC: L has fallen victim to a locker horror with an appalling stench: an unlabeled can of surströmming. He might need medical assistance (see this video, this video, or this video for what I mean, but be aware that it’s a lot of people vomiting). His current empathy link isn't helping matters.

However, he’s also looking for help with/advice on disposing of the fish, preferably without carrying it through the ship. It’s technically edible, if you’re interested in having your character feed it to a pet, or if your character wouldn’t waste food, no matter how disgusting; it could probably also be buried as fertilizer in the Oxygen Gardens, but it'll stink up the route between points A and B for a while. A character who eats the surströmming wins a more edible prize! Further details will emerge in tags.]

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[Look who's helpful!]

You sound ill. Are you in need of a doctor?

I am, but whether or not I need a doctor remains to be seen. I need help disposing of something.

[That actually sounds quite concerning.]

I will come to you, only tell me where to go.

Kitchen, tenth floor. Thank you.

[He pauses to put the communicator at arm's length while he controls a retch.]

Follow the smell. I'm in the corridor.

[Indeed, he's slumped against the wall near the kitchen. He can't go far from it, but he's far enough away that it shouldn't be making him so sick anymore... maybe his stomach is more sensitive than he's aware of.]

[OOC: Connor is going to be either relieved or irritated that it's only Sweden's worst cuisine and not a body. Anyway, L is thin, wiry, about 5'10.5" tall.]

Edited 2013-10-30 07:14 (UTC)

[Honestly, he'd half been expecting a body, especially once he was told to "follow the smell," but good god. That is not the smell of a dead body. It's about a hundred times worse.

What is wrong with Sweden?

Connor coughs, nose wrinkling, and covers his face with his sleeve as he approaches. No question about it, he's found L, along with the source of the smell. It's vile. He coughs again and gags a little; if he didn't have so much experience with slaughtering animals and dead bodies, he'd probably throw up himself and even with that experience, this is bad.]

Are you well?

["Ryuuzaki" is tentatively glad to see Connor, who clearly isn't very glad to be smelling the open can of fish that's a room away on the counter in the kitchen. But L's gladness on a good day tends to be rather flat... today, he only brightens a little before returning to looking ill and overwhelmed. He notes that Connor is large, taller than him and quite a bit bulkier, but, at a guess, around the same age.]

No. I will be when I get out of here.

[Maybe. It still seems to him that he's been a little bit more nauseated on the whole than he should be. Then again, it's been a long time since he's gone to a crime scene on his own--years before he came here and all the time that has passed. After a certain point, he had chosen to focus on reports and photographs and physical evidence; technicians know their business and his own blood spatter analysis is unlikely to be any better. It's spared him the smell of what bodies are made of and what they can become.]

It's some kind of fermented fish. Lutefisk? Surströmming? I don't know. It's wretched. [The words are low and fervent, and he pauses here to swallow back a retch.] Wasn't expecting it.

[Connor gives himself a bit of a shake in a futile attempt to ignore the stench and crouches near L. The sleeves of his standard-issue jumpsuit pull up a bit, revealing a flash of leather underneath he doesn't bother to cover. It's a terrible smell, but at least it isn't leaving him half so incapacitated as it's left L, which means it's obvious which of the two of them should take care of the fish.]

I will clean up the fish, but first, can you stand? If you cannot, I will help you.

[On assessment, possibly not, considering it looks like he's been throwing up quite a bit, but it's always polite to ask before unceremoniously picking someone up.

First: remove L from the area, else he get sicker.
Then: return and dispose of the offending fish, else it make others equally sick.

...With a smell like that, he wouldn't be surprised if the fish is poisonous. Shame he won't be able to make use of that, add it to his meager aresenal. He wouldn't be much of an assassin if people could smell him coming. Oh well.]

[L notices the leather, but has no visible reaction to it. As the smell spreads, it grows a little less strong, and he feels slightly less prone to retching... or at least, to retching as frequently.]

I think I can.

[He tries to stand, but the wall is smooth, and crawling his way up seems more difficult than necessary. He'll take an offered hand.]

There's a picture and a tin of jam in the kitchen, too. Please don't discard them.

I don't think the dishwasher can handle the fish, but taking it to the Oxygen Garden to bury it would require a closed container. I haven't had the chance to find one. I don't have any other ideas. It's not easy to get access to an airlock here.

[In the kitchen, on the counter, Connor will eventually find several small tins. One is still closed, its contents a mystery. One has strawberry jam in it, but there are small white lumps throughout the jam. One is clean, as if it was never used, but there's a small, scratched photograph beside it, a dark-haired woman whose face has been obliterated. The last is the source of the potent stench: preserved fish with some liquid spilled around it.

He'd opened the first tin over a month ago. When it had proven to be full of warm tar, and when he'd started to experience insomnia that was severe enough to make him doubt his ability to handle any unpleasant surprises, he had set the other tins aside: he'd open them later, when and if the situation improved. If it didn't improve, bizarre items from his locker would be the least of his worries.

The whole ship was bizarre in a way that often defied logical analysis, except that the weirdness was so consistent that "bizarre" was probably the salient point. Apparently random, often unpleasant, no real way to force the other passengers to reveal everything in a way that could expose any patterns. He would have preferred dismembered limbs to the can of fish, except for the damage they might have done to his limited wardrobe.

He should have opened the tins in a lab, he realizes now, but he doesn't have easy access to one. The tin with the photo had appeared to hold nothing else, but what if it had contained a pathogen of some kind?

What's done is done.]

[Connor keeps close while L rises; he doesn't grab hold right away, god knows Connor doesn't like to touch people he doesn't know if it's avoidable, but when it's clear L is still struggling, he offers a hand and tucks his free arm around L's waist for additional support. He's not so much taller that it's awkward for either of them.

He listens quietly to what L says--"dishwasher" is a foreign word, but easy enough to figure out.]

Wait here. I will take care of it.

[He ducks back into the kitchen and god. The smell is infinitely worse in here. He coughs, but that's the end of it.

The jam looks half rotten with the lumps in it and Connor is tempted to discard it anyway, but if L wants to poison himself on old jam, that's his business. He leaves it where it is along with the closed tin and the photograph and hunts for something he can use to cover the rotting fish. Unfortunately, there's no easy way to clean this up; anything used on the spill will no doubt absorb the smell. Well. No way around it.

There are a number of towels around the kitchen so he commandeers a handful and uses them to wipe up the spill. They'll need to be disposed of along with the fish, most likely. Leaving the juice on the counter, however, wasn't an option. Finding a closed container that will fit tin and towels is a more difficult proposition and frankly, he leaves the area a bit of a mess in the course of his search. In the end, he uses a smooth, plastic bowl and wraps it liberally with sheets of thin plastic he finds in a drawer. It isn't exactly closed, but as thoroughly covered in plastic as the bowl is now, it's as airtight as Connor can make it.

There.

He retrieves the other cans, gingerly stacking the open jam tin atop the still closed one, and the photograph, leaving the mummified bowl on the counter for the moment. The items in his hands he takes to L.]

I believe these are yours.

[He stands against the wall while Connor is in the kitchen. It doesn't make sense... nothing should smell bad enough to make him feel as terrible as this. It's not long before he wants to sit down again, so he moves a little further away down the hall and does so.

The nausea is still present, but it continues to recede, bit by bit. His abdomen aches and will probably be worse tomorrow, and he feels too tired to get himself down to medbay alone. He could go to his room, that's not far, but he'd still need fluids and rest... aside from that, being shut away doesn't seem like the best idea right now.

Connor makes his reappearance soon enough, and L gets to his feet again, accepting the small stack of items given to him. The sight and smell of the jam hadn't bothered him when he'd initially opened it, but now, it pressed at the edges of his nausea.]

Thank you. These were in my locker last month, but it didn't seem like a good idea to open it then. [He doesn't say why.] I was going to take the jam to be analyzed... those are teeth in it.

[He's basically the epitome of helpful, to be quite honest, so he'll frown, concerned.]

Are you sick?

Yes. No, I--something's made me sick. It smells like rotting fish.

[The words come out in a miserable rush; he wants to finish the statement before he begins to retch again. He only vaguely recognizes Armin's face. This situation is probably going to require explanation.]

O-Oh. [Fish? In space? That's almost as absurd as...well, as a ship in space, to be quite honest. But Armin isn't one to question -- that's a lie; of course he is, but not when someone sounds like they're in so much misery.]

All right, where are you? And is the fish...alive?

No, the fish was tinned. I think it's meant to be eaten. [The contents of some of the other tins made that point hard to determine.] Although why anyone would want--excuse me.

[A few beats of silence while he swallows, then edges a little bit further from the kitchen down the hall, sliding on the floor.]

You were only abducted recently, yes?

[The network number makes it obvious, but he has a point to make. He holds off on answering the question about his location.]

Edited 2013-10-31 14:23 (UTC)

Ahhhh, tinned fish. I see. [Armin is respectfully quiet during the silence, biting at his lower lip in concern. However, the sudden question catches him thoroughly off-guard.]

I-- yes, I was, though you're the first to refer to it as an abduction.

I thought it was a consensus opinion. Maybe it's more of an incidental abduction than an intentional one. That remains to be seen.

[His breathing is a little bit ragged, but otherwise, there's a slight improvement in the way he sounds.]

What was in your locker when you woke up after the jump, aside from the uniform and the communicator?

The terminology has always been more benign. "Taken" or "arrived here", things that don't necessarily imply a malevolent force in control.

[He still looks a little baffled as to what this has to do with the evil tinned fish, but he'll play along for the moment:] Three of my books.

The truth is that we don't know whether or not anything is--excuse me--[another pause]--in control. It seems that someone or something may be, but that doesn't mean that it controls how we wind up here, or how we leave.

As to your books... that's normal. What kind of books are they?

A strong stomach?

Yes.

[A pause, while he swallows.]

It's very unfortunate. It's a can of fish, but--

Oh. I take it that's why you don't sound too good?

You got it in one.

[he says, weakly.]

An unpleasant surprise.

Yeah it'd have to be if it had that sort of affect.

You've been here a little longer than I have... has anything unpleasant ever turned up in your locker?

In my locker?

Not particularly. I've gotten a couple of personal items but that's about it.

It was the same for me. Clothes, shoes, and so on. Food, sometimes, always safe to eat.

But last month I received five small sealed tins without labels.

And you found they had fish in it?

You know, I think it seems more like a recent thing. I've only heard of people getting unpleasant things over the last couple of months or so.

Edited 2013-10-31 19:54 (UTC)

Stark and the... feet, they were feet, weren't they?

[The words come out in a rush. He would usually remember, but at the moment, it's hard to focus. His stomach is roiling, still revolting against the smell.]

The tins didn't all have fish. The first one I opened was full of warm tar. Don't ask me how it was staying warm.

A shin bone— but yeah whatever he got might have the time it started. [jay hadn't talked with him but he did remember that network post]

I guess that just goes along with the weirdness of it even showing up in your locker. Were they all different then?

Yes, a shin bone.

Four of them are different. One was only a small picture of a woman. Her face was scratched out.

I'd show it to you, but it's with the fish.

Edited 2013-10-31 20:10 (UTC)

Huh, that's defitely an odd assortment of things to show up.

Did you still need help with that?

No, someone is coming. If he's detained, I'll ask again.

[Or squirm further down the corridor. One of those things. He misses Watari immensely, at the moment.]

Another of the tins was strawberry jam with what appears to be human teeth in it.

[And that feels weirdly personal, but to explain why would be to reveal a little bit too much, when he's already felt so exposed lately.]

Well that's good to hear at least.

[he pauses for a moment surprised by the comment] It has teeth inside it?

I think so.

[Most definitely, and almost assuredly human, although he still plans to make sure that they're analyzed.]

It looks like teeth. The jam looks fine--smells fine--you'll understand that I'm not tempted to eat it.

I have one tin left to open, but I'm not tempted to do that, either.

Yeah, I definitely don't blame you for that considering the contents of the others.

I think the fish may technically be edible--Scandinavian food--but given the state of the jam, it's hard to say. It isn't something I would eat, in any case.

Yeah maybe, though any food items that come from the locker, should be questionable on default anyway.

[Tony hasn't felt this bad in a while now. He hasn't been taking his meds, but it sure does feel like it. Text because he's curled up miserably right now.]

is this you?

If you know why this is making me sicker than I should be.

Medbay?

possibly

I'll do my best to head there once you get rid of whatever it is

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[voice] I feel like a voodoo doll. It's grim, it's gross. [backdated a few days]

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