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 )

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

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.

Crowley feels like he can breathe again when Aziraphale chuckles a bit, it's a sign he hasn't quite lost him yet. He's suddenly very thankful he walked out when he did, as his ability to return more level-headed has certainly done himself a favor.

"Anything?" Crowley questions with a small chuckle of his own, "Dangerous words, angel. How about I promise to get you proper drunk once you're feeling better?"

"I would like that very much." Getting completely and utterly smashed sounds an entirely alluring venture after all of this. If there is an 'after all of this'. He's beginning to feel like there might be, at least.

They've gone through worse, right?

He muffles a small cough, nothing quite as harsh or painful as before, which he takes note of. He's still rather sick, they both are, but at least the mood doesn't feel as oppressively terrible.

"You must know I appreciate all of your help. I know we've spoken about it before, but, I...I would have been quite lost without you here."

Crowley takes note of every cough, trying to measure their severity, see if any progress has been made. It seems the angel's opening up enough to get those flowers to back down, but that may be Crowley being hopeful.

Aziraphale's words bring him warmth, and his hand rubs idly at his shoulder. "You say that like me helping wasn't in any way a selfish act."

The hand on his shoulder might not have any healing properties, but it sure helps him feel better. Otherwise, he's doing a much better job at being sincere and honest this time around.

"Well, still. Thank you. For everything." He takes a deep breath through his nose - breathing doesn't feel entirely clear yet but it's a great deal better. He leans faintly against the demon's side. "I know I got a bit...morbid earlier."

"It's okay to be afraid, angel." Crowley replies, assuming a bit that fear was the major cause for such morbidity. "Just don't give up on me."

Crowley isn't sure where to go from here. He knows Aziraphale isn't ready to give up, that much is apparent, but he also knows that coming to terms with their own mortality is in itself terrifying, and Crowley counts his blessings that he hasn't had many swipes with death yet.

Maybe there's nowhere specific to go. Maybe the point of it all is to be here, to simply face things for what they are. They've faced death and destruction before - well, mostly other people's, but their own too. It was just never this imminent, and strangely humiliating.

But that's not the way to go, either. He's feeling a little better, so he must be doing something right.

"Wouldn't dream of it." He'd walked away before, but he's never quite given up. Just handled things his own way. It's silly to think that he'd gotten this low now, probably.

Half leaning on the demon, he quiets for a moment. Thinking, over and over, about those things he was told, about how the cure works. Things you wouldn't want to confess. How difficult it really was to do. And he searches, properly, for one of those things. Takes a bit more effort than he's comfortable with, but he supposes that's the twisted irony of this whole thing in the first place.

"I have read that people come back, here. If they die." A beat. "Most times."

He shifts, with a bit of a grunt, still quite sore. "Not quite--miraculous ressurection, from what I understood. And not always true."

He hesitates then, not really looking at the demon. " It...pained me to imagine that not only could I succumb to this affliction, through fault of my own, in such a degrading, miserable manner I wouldn't wish on anyone else, but also that..." Another pause. He falters.

"...also that I would have been abandoning you here. In this place."

He looks at the wooden floors, hoping that, in the very least, this counts for something. It was significantly more difficult tto say than before.

There's that pain in Crowley's chest again. He aches, his arm clutching Aziraphale tight, and there's a burning in his throat that he swalows back hard, or at least attempts to... it doesn't really go away.

"Aziraphale--" Crowley croaks, clearing his throat the best he can. He doesn't know what to say, everything sounds to cheesy in his head. "I-- hn... Thank you, but I don't think it'll come to that."

He exhales long and sharp, trying to sound reassuring. "If one of us did die, only this place would be to blame."

"But I won't let it come to that." he continued, trying to lighten the mood again, "Got way too big an ego to let this place take me."

He feels how tightly Crowley’s arm is wrapped around his shoulders. It’s grounding, a stark reminder of reality, but not necessarily in a bad manner. It keeps his thoughts from flying away too far - some of them, at least. But it also causes some others to swirl in his head, completely different in nature, perhaps still as difficult to find answers for, but...better. Far better.

He glances up at the demon, not quite facing him entirely, quiet as he listens to his response. He figures, perhaps, that that was a bit much. Quite necessary, he supposes, but for as much as The angel has always been quite sincere, such deeply personal confessions are very much not something he’s used to.

There’s that faint, tired smile again. He’s happy enough that he was able to get the words out, hopes that he’s correct in his assessment of the lightness in his body after he did so, although it’s hard to make the proper judgement just yet. There’s an ache in his chest, of a different kind. He feels rather embarrassed, really, having to bear his fears so openly.

“Of course. Wouldn’t expect anything less.” A pause, and he takes another deep breath. His body doesn’t ache as much anymore, neither do his lungs.

Crowley's throat still burns. Something isn't sitting right, his cheeks are still burning, it's all extremely embarrassing for him also, especially when he's concerned with looking cool and collected.

"Aziraphale." He takes a deep breath. "Thank you. For trusting me." Crowley turns finally to face the angel, his eyes looking just a little too wet for his liking. He then pulls the angel to his chest, both arms wrapping around him, and cradles him there, taking slow breaths as his heart pounds out of his chest.

The moment, barely a second, where they face each other, feels like it lasts far longer than conceavebly possible. There's a look in Crowley's eyes, a look that makes the angel stop and stare, and then he's pulled close.

Six thousand years. Remarkable, when you think about it. Six thousand years and a friendship that's gone through so much, and they never really allowed each other these gestures. These shows of... Appreciation? Maybe affection. Or maybe Aziraphale didn't. Hard to tell. It's really hard to condense everything in a way that makes sense.

He's quite frozen at first, finding himself unsure of how to proceed. But then, his arms are around the demon as well, and he swears he can feel his heartbeat. Or maybe that's his own. He can't tell.

"You're..." He falters, so quiet. "You're welcome."

Couldn't have been anyone else. They didn't have anyone else they could know and trust the way they do each other.

Crowley barely nods in response, he's in a conflicted state trying to determine if he should end their embrace as soon as possible or if he should take advantage of this moment and really bask in it. He's never been so close to the angel. Wanted to be a few times... well, more than a few, but appearances had to be kept. Aziraphale had often been afraid to even be seen together, let alone touch. Little by little.

"How are you feeling?" he finally croaks out, his hands rubbing gently down Aziraphale's back resting loosely around his waist. "You haven't coughed in a while..."

Little by little. Little by little since they stopped having to keep up appearances - for the most part, as there were still some roles to fill (as less than celestial, on Earth, and as more than that, to their former sides). Making up for time that was never really lost, but not fully available.

It’s...nice. This. Aziraphale feels himself quite unsure of what to do, how to proceed, how to feel. There’s so much. There’s too much. But he doesn’t pull away yet.

“Better. I think.” His voice is still quiet, soft. He swallows dryly and clears his throat, and it’s a roundabout relief to be doing so out of nerves instead of out of sickness. “I don’t ...feel them anymore.”

Aziraphale's response draws a relieved breath. It's not enough for Crowley to feel they're totally out of the woods yet, but a sense of impending doom that has loomed over him seems to be casting a much smaller shadow.

"Can I get you anything? Anything you'd like." he feels it's important to specify, the offer of course isn't just for things to aid in illness.

It should be noted he hasn't tried to move yet. His voice remains soft, and his arms are loose enough around the angel that he could pull apart easily without effort, but their bodies close like this feels so nice; a luxury not often afforded.

January Undercurrent: Growing Pains

Re: prime icon choices

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How dare you use that icon for that tag

f u you get it and you like it

RUDE

Re: RUDE

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