save yourself. [kay/dars]

[hesper hart 🐺 d9f]

HERA

I don't like it when I am necessary. Believe me. But the terrible, awful thing about me is that my pride demands the best of me. I do everything I do with tact, precision, and success. I do not fail. My teams do not fail. That is why in times like these, when force becomes inevitable, I am called. My team. To be clear, the shit had already hit the fan when I got there. Parking lots littered with tents, streets rampant with the sickly and the terrified. People were boarding up their doors and windows, children's feverish sobs heard through the cheaply-constructed walls. They've sectioned off a portion of Six's residential quarters, and now- stupidly- several of the residents gather at the guarded gates in protest, spreading the virus in the process and making our real job here that much more difficult. So, priority one was to dispel the gathering crowds- a few bullet sprays into the sky and my no nonsense voice was enough to finally help them get the picture that they aren't the ones in control here. Further into the rose garden I go. The second priority is getting to as many of the sick as quickly as possible so that they could all weed out the rebels from the regular civilians who have been- and will only continue to be stuck in the crossfire. Again, I do not like it when I am necessary. Though my team has, (on my order,) I've not yet drawn my weapon as I enter yet another home-turned-hospital. Every house I've seen here has had low ceilings and smelled like wood smoke, though the carpet in this one is a nice relief on my feet from the cobblestoned everything outside. Five cots have been placed strategically throughout the house's first and only floor. In the far left, a woman with streaks of gray in her hair is strapped to a table and flailing in attempt to escape her bonds. Two boys, both lanky and tall, both with long, willowy limbs, both with heads of dark curls take up two of the other beds. I'd guess from the looks of them that they've caught theirs relatively quickly in its development- early stage two at worst. They likely won't even get to the delirium if they start receiving treatment soon, lucky things. I cannot see the fifth patient from the entrance, but the fourth looks to be in his early to mid twenties, too handsome to be attractive, and by the looks of it, there are three nurses who seem to be trying- and failing- to keep him seated in his bed. "Please, Sir, just-" "What seems to be the problem, here?" I ask, my team fanning out to question other patients. One of the nurses scoffs, her hands rising up to rest on her hips as she squints at the man with indignance. "We are trying to finish his intake, but-" I hold up a single finger to quiet her, my eyes never looking away from the patient. "Name." A beat. My eyes narrow with impatience. "Speak."

[d10f ekta ram // [earthling]]

NOAH BLOW

I want your ugly, I want your disease...

So went some ancient cursed lyrics, or so he'd been told. Actually, so he'd been sung, during one absolutely unforgiveable night of underground karaoke. He'd dabbled in pretty much every other black market venture but banned songs. And in the moment, immersed in the rhythm and the incomprehensible lyrics and the throbbing bass, he'd liked it well enough. But later? He'd wondered why he'd bothered to take the risk.

Quite like attending the Science Fair, which had so spectacularly exploded in his face. He'd compeleted all of his events -- none spectacularly, none completely failing. But he'd intended to use the event to drive business, and in that aspect he had failed spectacularly.

Having found the ugly, he could only help but find the disease.

It started off innocuously. He felt off. A little shaky. Maybe a bit hot, but given the amount of drugs in his system at any given time, was that so very odd? When the rumors of a disease reached his ears, Noah retreated. He had a business to protect, to say nothing of his exceptional physical specimen.

But for the first time in many years, he wasn't quick enough. The next time he came around he was in a ward or a tent or something far scarier -- a quarantine.

To be contained was bad. To be restrained was deadly. Noah surged to his feet, bickering with the orderly and drawing undue attention. The staff offered him platitudes. He palmed his opposite forearm, scratching at hives that never appeared.

"Name."

The voice hefted with such weight he almost fell sidelong onto the hospital cot. It would be easy to succumb to such authority. He almost did, and then he considered: what had more weight than anchor?

He shuffled a step forward, tried to meet her gaze, failed. He shut his eyes tightly against the blaring lights and spoke plainly on her cue: "Noah Blow, District Six. Ma'am. I don't belong here."

He stretched his hands out, forcing each knuckle straight, and dropped his arms to his sides. Other than his pursed eyes he looked... normal. "I know your time is important and I don't want to waste any of it, trust me. I've got a business to run and people who depend on me, and while I appreciate the, uhm, precautions implemented here, I've no need of them. I'm healthy as can be, as you can see."

He arched his spine. Lowered his chin. Prepared for assessment.

[hesper hart 🐺 d9f]

HERA

Though I'm not certain where it comes from, I find the patience to allow him his full explanation. Which, as I'd feared from the start, turns out to be, essentially, that his being here is a bit of an inconvenience for him. I purse my bottom lip as if apologetic as he speaks, my hands neatly tucked behind me now. I nod in understanding- a man with a business to run, he claims. Though, not a businessman- he's claiming to have dependents. A family man? I reassess him and he seems to raise his chin into the air for me a bit as I do so. After a beat I tut, expressionless and unreadable. "Noah, was it?" My voice is quiet, my tone calm if a bit patronizing. My gaze, unflinching, stays pointed directly upon him. "Noah, let me ask you a question: do you want to die? Because unless you sit down and allow us to finish protocol, that is what will happen to you." Despite the seriousness of the situation, I do my best to keep my tone... friendly, as it were. I'm always getting notes that I can, perhaps, come off a bit unlikeable. He is apparently into explanations, so though I d not owe him one, I feel that giving him one might make things go easier. "If you try to leave, we will stop you. Do you understand? By whatever means necessary. But, let's say there's a universe in which- somehow- you managed to get past us. Then what? You go home, let the virus kill you within a couple days anyway. And I know-" I raise my hand in conjunction with my voice here so that he knows not to interrupt- "I know you don't think you're sick. But you're here. And so are we. Now, don't you think it would be a better use of all our time if you were to simply have a seat?" A couple moments after I am finished speaking, I unclip the top of the holster at my hip. In my experience, people always seem to find me much more likeable once they're reminded that I'm the one with the gun. I smile courteously, my gaze still unwavering.