Dead Man's Party [CLOSED]
WHO: Ray Stantz, Peter Venkman
WHERE: Ray and Peter's quarters at the Xavier Institute.
WHEN: Early evening.
WARNINGS: Character death, bawwww o'clock, zombification and other whimsical surprises.
SUMMARY: When Venkman's condition begins to take an ominous turn, it becomes apparent to Ray that there's something more to this flu than meets the eye.
FORMAT: Paragraph to start, quicklog from there on out.
Peter was getting worse. One only needed to look at the dark purple splotches under his eyes and the white pallor his skin had taken on to see that, and although Ray was no physician nor did his knowledge of human biology extend further than the absolute basics, he was pretty sure that the other's fever was reaching its height. He'd be much better once it broke, right?
All logic pointed to yes, but something in him--a shred of common sense that he could've just as easily written off as pessimism--wasn't so sure. So far, Venkman hadn't responded positively to any methods of treatment; ice wasn't bringing his temperature down, and he threw up everything offered to him. The only thing that seemed effective was sleep, and it was something he had been doing for the entire day save for the occasional occurrences where he would sit up suddenly to shove his face into the very full wastebasket beside his bed. When Ray wasn't sitting in the next room penning new schematics for a potential upgrade for the packs (boson particles really did have a lot of untapped potential, he came to realize), he was changing the bag every so often and replacing the icepack under the other man's pillow, surprised at how quick the chill could die out from the feverish, sick heat radiating from Venkman's skull.
To say it worried him would have been an understatement. Surprisingly (or maybe not as he would eventually come to understand) and most bothersome was that he couldn't get a hold of a real doctor; hospitals around the city were filling up at an alarming rate with similar flu victims, and the news had advised that moving anyone sick could very well add to the compounding stress weighing down on their body. There wasn't even a nurse or doctor on duty at the Institute's infirmary today.
Probably called in sick, Ray thought glumly as he turned the flame on the burner down ever-so slightly. Ill or not, Peter would have to eat and soup seemed like the next best thing. He only hoped that he had inherited just a little bit of his mom's cooking skill, that the chicken concoction boiling in a pot on the stove wouldn't just make his friend even worse.
WHERE: Ray and Peter's quarters at the Xavier Institute.
WHEN: Early evening.
WARNINGS: Character death, bawwww o'clock, zombification and other whimsical surprises.
SUMMARY: When Venkman's condition begins to take an ominous turn, it becomes apparent to Ray that there's something more to this flu than meets the eye.
FORMAT: Paragraph to start, quicklog from there on out.
Peter was getting worse. One only needed to look at the dark purple splotches under his eyes and the white pallor his skin had taken on to see that, and although Ray was no physician nor did his knowledge of human biology extend further than the absolute basics, he was pretty sure that the other's fever was reaching its height. He'd be much better once it broke, right?
All logic pointed to yes, but something in him--a shred of common sense that he could've just as easily written off as pessimism--wasn't so sure. So far, Venkman hadn't responded positively to any methods of treatment; ice wasn't bringing his temperature down, and he threw up everything offered to him. The only thing that seemed effective was sleep, and it was something he had been doing for the entire day save for the occasional occurrences where he would sit up suddenly to shove his face into the very full wastebasket beside his bed. When Ray wasn't sitting in the next room penning new schematics for a potential upgrade for the packs (boson particles really did have a lot of untapped potential, he came to realize), he was changing the bag every so often and replacing the icepack under the other man's pillow, surprised at how quick the chill could die out from the feverish, sick heat radiating from Venkman's skull.
To say it worried him would have been an understatement. Surprisingly (or maybe not as he would eventually come to understand) and most bothersome was that he couldn't get a hold of a real doctor; hospitals around the city were filling up at an alarming rate with similar flu victims, and the news had advised that moving anyone sick could very well add to the compounding stress weighing down on their body. There wasn't even a nurse or doctor on duty at the Institute's infirmary today.
Probably called in sick, Ray thought glumly as he turned the flame on the burner down ever-so slightly. Ill or not, Peter would have to eat and soup seemed like the next best thing. He only hoped that he had inherited just a little bit of his mom's cooking skill, that the chicken concoction boiling in a pot on the stove wouldn't just make his friend even worse.