lifeaftr | January Undercurrent: Growing Pains

January Undercurrent: Growing Pains

JANUARY UNDERCURRENT

Who: Everyone!
What: Hey bud, how's it growing?
When: January 3rd to January 20th
Where: Everywhere!
Warnings: This event has a potential for body horror and character death; please mark anything as it comes up!

A Notion Growing Inside Me

Those of you who weren't with us the last time Umui entered the archipelago didn't have to contend with the lethal illness known as the Overgrowth personally, but anyone who remembers it probably doesn't remember it fondly. Fortunately, this isn't quite the same strain of the illness that you had to contend with the last time. It's not unrelentingly and uncompromisingly fatal, for one! That's always nice.

For those that need a primer on the Overgrowth, it is best described as a sickness that overcomes you with floral growth both inside and outside your body that can only be cured by expressions of emotional honesty. Expressions of truths, affections, and admissions of things that you have hidden from yourselves or from others were critical in dispensing of the illness. These could be as simple as admissions of past sins or the revealing of secrets, or as grandiose and overt as confessions of guilt or love. That general idea will remain more or less the key means of curing this strain as well, though the stakes fortunately aren't as high this go around! Which is to say, if you fail to have any grand emotional epiphanies by the time this event ends, you aren't doomed to suffer a character death; symptoms will simply dissipate come January 20th.

So what's this sickness going to be like in this particular instance, then? We're so glad you asked!

You can go the standard route, of course. Adventurers' first brush with the illness saw the following afflicted upon them:

[ ♆ ] Stage One: Germination. Initial symptoms involve fever, coughing fits, numbness to nerves and extremities, and general joint stiffness. Difficulty breathing or performing other basic functions will often occur. Fatigue, difficulty sleeping, and intense weakness or dizzy spells are also liable to occur as the flowers begin to harvest nutrients from the body. This will also generate extreme thirst and periods of intense nausea. Tremors and the sensation of something "itching" from inside are also common. The end of Stage One is usually marked by the act of vomiting or coughing up flower petals or spores, along with a not-insignificant amount of blood.

[ ♆ ] Stage Two: Budding. The floral growths spread more completely inside the body, and begin to grow on the skin or exterior. Difficulty performing basic functions will increase as, for example, airways become obstructed and flowers grow around joints and pinch them still. The site of affliction also yields rashes, blisters, and blood sores as the flowers sprout from the skin. The rate of vomiting or coughing up floral growths will increase dramatically. Flowers often bloom quickly, and very painfully. Numbness in affected areas will increase, oftentimes rendering parts of the body completely inert - a pair of legs claimed completely by blooms, for example, will no longer work.

This was followed by Stage Three: Bloom, which resulted in character death. However, this strain will not advance to this style of Stage Three. All symptoms will disperse by the time Umui resurfaces.

This strain is also rather more erratic, which can make emotional repression more of an inconvenience than a horrifying circumstance. For those who would rather not play around with intense sickness (or who have already endured this once before), you have the option to go that route if you like! With this variant of the Overgrowth, one can become, for example, so embarrassed that they hiccup up a flower. A vicious denial of their feelings may cause them to spontaneously erupt into a rash of dandelion puffballs, seemingly immediately. You might end up walking around with a bouquet for an arm for a few hours. Perhaps mortifying, but certainly not fatal! Isn't that nice?

Unless, of course, you want it to be...

I Can't Fight It Much Longer

Now, while the Bloom Stage isn't present in this strain, it has mutated its progression into a rather nasty end stage. Those of you who succumb a little too readily to this illness, who don't fight off the emotional repression quickly, who don't admit those difficult truths to yourself or confess to whatever you're bottling up, you'll be faced with a potentially horrifying transformation. Potentially, because it is your choice whether or not you see fit to commit your character to that fate - as stated above, this option might simply skip over your character entirely, and the worst they'll have to deal with are cartoonishly over-the-top effects that disperse in due time.

But maybe not all of you will be so lucky. Some of you might discover for yourselves how this particular variant of the Overgrowth has mutated.

We call this mutation Stage Three: Outbreak.

In this final Stage, those beautiful blooms wither and harden into a fungus-like carapace as the illness grows into the victim's brain and shuts down virtually all higher functions. This can sometimes render them almost wholly recognizable, but not always - oftentimes, it's very obvious who this person once was. The victim is reduced to a carrier of the virus, which causes them to act the way you'd expect most viruses to act: becoming intent on spreading. Advanced brain functions such as speech, rational thought, and so on tend to shut off and become wholly inaccessible.

Now that the victim's body is no longer fighting the Overgrowth, the illness lends them increased speed, strength, and durability, making them dangerous foes indeed. They will usually seek to infect others by whatever means necessary - usually via biting or exuding breathable spores - but in some cases, they will simply reduce to base instincts, and just outright attempt to attack and kill whoever is closest.

Unfortunately, at this point, there is no hope of a cure; it's hard to make someone be emotionally honest when they're capable of little more than blunt, animal instinct. At this point, you can either wait for the Stage Three symptoms to disperse come Umui's return, or take manners into your own hands. You can probably guess what that might entail.

If you decide to put your Overgrown friends out of their misery, this will count as a character death. If it comes to that, be sure to let us know on the Deaths page! Death penalties, however, will not be reduced for this event.

Try to Get Through It

Of course, there's a lot going on in the background as well. You're free to use this log as a catch-all for the duration of January's Undercurrent Event, as well as any of the other minor events listed on our Monthly Rundown post. And, of course, you are always free to create your own individual logs and posts as needed.

If you have any questions, please feel free to ask them over on the Questions header on our Rundown post!

January Timeline

[ ♆ ] January 1st: "This Sucks" begins and lasts until January 10th
[ ♆ ] January 3rd: "Growing Pains" begins and lasts until January 20th
[ ♆ ] January 11th: "No Water is Safe" begins and lasts until January 19th
[ ♆ ] January 20th: Umui returns to the archipelago
[ ♆ ] January 21st: "Impawsible Geometries" begins and lasts until January 31st

LOGS ● OOC ● STORIES ● MAIN NAVIGATION

( CODED BY BOOTYCALL )

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[ Well, so much for not thinking about death.

The look the angel gives Crowley is a bit startled, not by any new concepts, but about how direct he demon is right then. Not that he can really come up with an adequate response; he does try, but the words fail him a couple of times before he gives up and looks down at his hands instead, now resting on his lap.

He feels so tired. He feels so sore. He's exhausted and weak in ways he's never felt before, and it's terrifying to feel like he can't simply fight it away. And he sees the stress this is bringing to the demon, even if he may not know the full story on that side.

Another muffled cough breaks the silence, and it makes the angel's whole corporation shake for a moment. He brings the back of his hand up again to cover it, furrowing his brow and taking a couple of deep breaths through his nose to fight back the itch, the pain, the burning in his throat.

He lowers his hands again. Fusses them slightly, slowly. Another deep breath, through his nose, and he doesn't try to face the demon when he speaks again. ]

...I'm not. It's- [ He hesitates, closes his eyes for a moment. He should be honest. More honest. His life literally depends on it. ] ...it's like nothing I've ever felt.

But I can't simply have you running yourself ragged trying to make me feel better when you yourself are sick, Crowley.

[Crowley shakes his head, of course he understands, but Crowley isn't feeling as bad as the angel. Crowley can still move without too many aches.]

Of course, angel, but I know the cure. You just have to talk to me.

[Crowley eyes glow with desperation, his hands seeking out the angel's in both an attempt to comfort him and plead.]

I'm... Angel, I'm going to be okay. I'm worried about you. I can't sleep seeing you like this.

[ Aziraphale looks down at their hands for a moment, right then all too aware of the itching beneath the skin on his arms. And he looks at Crowley, pleading with him for angel's own sake.

He hesitates. There is guilt and there is worry in his eyes, and words fail him a couple of times, so he looks down at their hands again. ]

I- [ And he hesitates again, and his voice gets quieter. ] ...I don't know what else there is to say.

[ Many things, really. But what constitutes a secret? One that actually helps? Certainly hasn't helped him to be honest about superficial gripes, so how deep should he reach for what to say? ]

I don't-- This whole- thing is utterly... [ He sighs and shakes his head. But at this point, he really just has to accept it's happening. ]

[Crowley briefly remembers the petal pops in his bag. If he can't get the angel to talk on his own, could he force one of those down his throat? Would it even work? How ethical is that, really? Enough so, he supposes, if it's saving Aziraphale's life.]

Bewildering? Frightening? Stressful? All of the above, yeah. I don't know what there is left to say either, angel. I'm not in your head. Just talk to me. Tell me how you're feeling. How you're really feeling.

[He pauses, trying to think up other tactics.] What would you want me to tell you, if I were in your position?

[ Crowley is welcome to try, in regards to the petal pops strategy, but he may not be pleased with the effects on their relationship that that may have, even if it does save the angel.

The demon speaks before Aziraphale can finish his sentence, although he can't really be blamed blamed. In the frustration and helplessness, he wants to try to heal himself again, something he did in a desperate moment when he was alone. As to be expected, nothing happened, but there has to be something he can do.

He raises his eyes to meet Crowley's when the demon poses that last question. He's so tired. He's in pain. After all the moments of learned helplessness through his long, long life, he's finding himself in the most physical manifestation of such a feeling, and it's...both humiliating and terrifying. ]

I would...

[ A pause. ]

I would want you to tell me how it felt. [ The irony is instantaneous. He moves his gaze away again, but his hands stay in place. ] And, I suppose...what I could do to help.

[ He sighs. ]

Crowley, I... [ He purses his lips and shakes his head slightly, before facing him again. ] I don't know what will happen. If this-- thing, this- disease progresses any further, I don't know if I'll...

[ He falters, swallows against a lump in his throat that has equal chances of being or not being flowers creeping up from his lungs again. ]

I want you to know that I'm...thankful for everything you've done for me.

[Crowley can feel himself on the brink of tears, but swallows it all up and replaces it with anger. Classic move.]

Angel, you are not writing a suicide note right now. I am not going to let you die. Stop being a stubborn prick.

[He takes a breath, pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.]

I'm sorry. Tell me how it feels. Tell me how I can help.

[ Suicide note?, he thinks to ask, with how much he absolutely does not want to die. To think that there's an increasingly better chance that he might, from all he's heard about this condition, over something so--frustratingly placating in every manner-

He thinks about the times when he's almost found himself discorporated. He thinks about the moment he was set to be destroyed (not that he was there, mind you). He thinks about all of that, and the flowers taking over his insides. He looks at their hands, and feels the itch beneath his skin.

That's where his gaze still is, when he speaks quietly again. ]

I don't want to die, Crowley. [ So much should be obvious, but saying it outloud has other implications. Plus a healthy dose of dramatics, that may be entirely justified, considering how he feels. ] After everything we've been through, this can't just be what it all comes down to.

[ A breath through his nose, another muffled cough, but one that builds up enough that he has to pull his hands away and cover his mouth. He feels them coming back up again, from wherever they're sprouting without his consent. He feels them ripping at something, for as much as flowers can do such a thing.

He takes a couple of deep breaths, hunched over himself, hand on his chest. When he speaks, his voice is more strained than before, and quite a lot more frustrated. ]

This blasted place has been nothing but one thing after another, all-- monsters and gods and rogue magic. But all accounts, it shouldn't even exist.

[Crowley thinks he understands now what Aziraphale feared when he asked for holy water. He can't help but feeling a bit hypocritical, even though those were too very different situations. He tries to calm himself, taking deep breaths and watching Aziraphale carefully.]

I'm... look, good, I can't-- I don't think I can do this without you. [He winces at his own words, shakes it off.]

Yes, I know, angel. Tell me about it. Vent, if you have to. Get it all out. I'm listening.

[He has faith that would work, somehow. Enough people have told him it would. Honesty, confessions of feeling, it causes the overgrowth to dry up and recede somehow. It has to.]

[ Aziraphale had heard the same thing, from humans and non-human alike. But part of him hadn't really believed that he'd be infected, even when he had been explicitly told the disease took no prisoners, and was not picky. Guess some part of him hoped it wouldn't happen. Some part of him thought he'd be stronger than that.]

That's enough, Crowley. [ The words come sharp and frustrated, raspy.

But there's a few seconds, and he shakes his head. Moves to sit up straighter l.]

I'm... Sorry, I- [He hesitates.]

You must understand, I'm trying, I just--I don't know what else to do, Crowley. I don't know what else is there to be said. I don't...

I don't want to die. Not now. Not like this.

[ Not ever, preferably.]

[Crowley stiffens up as the angel bites back, glaring at him frustratingly.]

I don't want you to, either, Aziraphale, but I'm trying to help you and you're not working with me.

[He sighs, giving up. He knows from past arguments that the angel typically requires him to try twice anyway, but Crowley's about fed up. He needs some air... just a little break. He pushes himself up from his seat and paces a bit in front of Aziraphale before committing to leaving him.]

I'm-- er, Why don't you take a minute. I'm going to go see what I can find out from the others. Get some air.

[He heads to the door, turning slightly back over his shoulder to glance once more at Aziraphale.]

Try and rest.

[ The angel watches him pace, concerned the moment Crowley stands. For a second, he thinks that might be all he does, but then Crowley's ready to leave. ]

Wait, Crowley- [ He doesn't want him to go. He could tell him that. There's nothing else to learn about the disease, as far as the both of them know, so he's not really fooled by any of that.

He really was trying, just then. Too far gone to notice how his lungs feel just a tad bit lighter. But there needs to be more. ]

I...

[ He hesitates. And he sighs. ]

Right.

[ He should really just tell him he's scared. ]

[Crowley isn't gone for longer than an hour, having stopped by Denny and ran into Kravitz on his way home. He certainly got some insight, visibly saw the difference it made in the reaper, and returned with a newfound confidence that he could get Aziraphale cured of this thing once and for all.

He was quiet as he entered, just in case the angel had been sleeping, but noticing he hadn't, offers him an apologetic look.]

I'm sorry... I shouldn't have left you alone.

[ Funny how time feels entirely different depending on how you yourself feel. A hour could be next to nothing, but Aziraphale could swear it'd been much longer than that.

Aziraphale thinks about leaving, too, but he's still far too sore and stiff to walk all the way to the mana pool and through Enso. Wishes he had brought more books from the library, but he wouldn't have been able to keep his mind on the words anyway. Tries to move, fuss about, but pacing takes more effort than it should. In the end, he opts to just lay down on the hay bed and try to get some rest.

He swears he can feel the flowers growing, as he lies there for whatever time Crowley's gone. Might be a trick of the mind, but, still.

He opens his eyes as soon as he hears the slightest sound, pushing himself up into sitting. There's a not-insignificant feeling of relief when he sees the demon's returned. Not that he'd really have anywhere to go... ]

It's... [ Is this lying? He doesn't feel like it is. There's a faint smile to him, a bit forced. ] It's alright.

[ With a bit of strain, he moves until he's sitting off the side of the bed. ]

I suppose things got a bit...heated, before.

Crowley moves forward, finding himself beside the angel on their little makeshift bed. "Yea, sorry about that... shouldn't have pried." he admits. Even though getting the angel to talk about his feelings might have given him much needed relief, no one wants to be interrogated.

The demon offers his arm to Aziraphale, Crowley acting as a bit of support. He wouldn't be offended if it wasn't taken, but he feels he should be helping.

"Maybe we should start over. How are you feeling? Is it alright of me to ask?"

To hear Crowley apologize just adds onto the guilt, really, as the angel is well aware of Crowley's worry and frustration. He doesn’t actually blame him. Whether he actually weighs how important he is to Crowley in any accurate manner may be debatable, but they’re both here, they have each other, and something threatening that again comes as a very justifiable concern.

Aziraphale shakes his head. “It’s alright. You were trying to help.” He knows he was, knew it then, too, but nerves got the better of him.

Looking up again, he notices the offered arm, hesitating for just a moment. But honesty is the name of the game, isn’t it? In that hour he was alone, he went through the things he was told right before and as he got sick. The ideas of honesty, the cure - 'confessions', as Kravitz called them; 'you don't want to confess', as Tim put it, even more specifically. He doesn’t want to be alone, and shouldn’t keep on acting like he doesn’t need help. It’s a bad lie, anyway. So he takes that offer.

Before any answer, there’s a sigh, gentle, defeated and tired. “Ghastly.” Which should come as no surprise. “No more flowers since earlier. But they’re...” He trails off, half raising a hand toward his chest, but he soon sets it back down.

“What about you?”

Edited 2020-02-03 22:09 (UTC)

The demon's arm snakes around Aziraphale to hold him up, keeping him supported against Crowley's side. It brings a flutter to his chest to be this close to the angel, but it's truly meant to be helpful, or bring comfort, nothing more. He takes a deep breath of his own, removes his glasses, tossing them to the side, and offers Aziraphale a sympathetic look. He felt helpless himself, but knew that if he didn't act strong for the angel they'd never get through this. He wondered if that would count against him in any way, cause him to cough up a garden of his own, and decided to get out ahead of it.

"I'm... worried. I think. Scared, maybe. That there's nothing I can do to help. All I want to do is help." he admits, biting back a grimace at how weak he's sure that makes him sound. It doesn't matter anymore, really.

Crowley blows a puff of air out, lips sputtering slightly in irritation. "I imagine you have more reason to be scared than I do, but..." he shrugs, not sure how to end that sentence.

Aziraphale feels like there he should feel a flutter to his own chest, he thinks it's there, but it's hard to tell when there seems to be something else in there that doesn't belong. But being this close - as novel and as...something as it might be, does bring him comfort. It's not...a sort of gesture he's really used to. This sort of closeness.

He looks up at Crowley as he demon confesses, several steps ahead in this race of honest confessions and forced vulnerability. They'd barely started being more honest, back then, back on Earth, when they found themselves free to do so. But ever since they've gotten here, it's been pushed out of them in the most unnatural means. He doesn't really know how to feel about that. He's never been quite good at going fast, but he hasn't really been given the choice here. Neither of them have.

He's quiet for a few seconds after Crowley trails off. He wants to be comforting, but he knows that there's only one way to fix this, as far as they know. And it's to push past any banalities and politeness and whatever else may keep him from being completely and utterly honest about how he feels. He's known this since the beginning. Maybe it's about time to actually do something about it.

" Aha..." It's almost a laugh, but not really. It lacks in any positive feeling behind it. So he settles back into a tired frown. "I'm...rather terrified, myself." He doesn't like saying it, but it doesn't hurt as much as he thought. "It's still rather difficult to believe it's happening. Flowers, of all things."

Crowley nods, trying to listen more than talk, but understands that maybe his own honesty may spark some from Aziraphale in return. He doesn't like the idea of the angel being terrified or hurt, but what can he really do outside of hopefully persuade him to open up.

"To some, our existence is difficult to believe." he replies, cautiously. "But there's no point contemplating how realistic it is, it's happening. Terrifying or not.

"You're right. It is." Is the quiet answer, no fussing or fighting over it. Crowley is also right to think that it's easier for the angel to follow along than to start. It's always been something similar to this, hasn't it? The angel rarely having to voice what he wants or even what he needs, not directly anyway. The demon providing those things, one way or another. Like a whole different way of communicating, one born of how long they've known each other. Probably something to do with demonic temptation, too, and the natural perception that comes with it.

"I really didn't think it'd be so hard, being honest. Funny how that goes. It sounds so simple, when you put it like that." Even though they've both spent their lives deceiving, one way or the other.

Crowley gives the angel a glance, curious at his response.

"You know..." he starts, picking his words very carefully, "There's nothing you could say that would make me think less of you." he continues, looking away.

He isn't sure that's what the angel is concerned about, but feels it's necessary to put that out there.

He watches the demon, looking vaguely surprised over that particular comment. In a moment of casual conversation, it could have led into something about the perceived differences between angels and demons. About good guys and --otherwise.

"I-...thank you." He settles on that, letting the quiet fall for a few seconds. "I'm sorry. About all of this mess. Not the-" He gestures vaguely. "Disease, I'd rather much not be dealing with it at all, but, everything else."

He looks up at Crowley, sitting a bit crooked. Can't really be bothered about posture when your body is too stiff to move properly. "I do appreciate all your help. It...means a lot, to me."

Crowley scoffs, turning back to Aziraphale quickly. "None of that's your fault, angel." he gestured around them with his free arm. "None of this is. Shouldn't blame yourself."

How does he respond to that, though. Does he admit how much Aziraphale means to him? Does not doing so risk him an infection? Crowley can't stand the idea of growing too weak to care for the angel, which is the only thing keeping him honest. He looks down, closing his eyes.

"You mean a lot to me."

You would think the conversation would feel a bit more predictable, all things considered. Some talk about emotions, trying to clear things up. That's what he thought would do it, talking about feeling awful, but those weren't confessions, were they? Actual confessions, not complaints. The things you don't want to say. Can't bring yourself to.

The meaning, it's different than simply saying you value someone's friendship. Their company. In whatever way they relate to you. To say they're appreciated by just being rings so very different.

He thinks about the Ritz then. About that last lunch before they ended up here.

"You... Mean a lot to me too, Crowley."

Crowley's chest hurts. It's not a hurt from overgrowth, but an ache one feels after hearing words he's been dreaming to hear for centuries. His arm pulls Aziraphale tight, an affectionate squeeze against him, his head resting against his.

"Well," he clears his throat, "Gonna need you to clear those plants, then. Or I'm miracling you one of those frou frou drinks made with weed-killer."

He can feel his cheeks flush as he's pulled closer, though he could probably excuse that on the fever. If he had to. There are questions and words that circle around in his head and thoughts about the significance of the moment. He thinks a lot about meanings. Of things that are said and gestures that made, and he wonders for a moment if he's just a little delirious.

They're still not saying it, not really. But almost. And the warmth he feels inside his chest and the butterflies he feels in his belly can't really be mistaken by the floral invaders.

The angel actually smile genuinely, for the first time that evening, and chuckles, still a bit raspy. "At this point, my dear boy, I'll take anything." He could swear his lungs feel a little bit lighter.

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