milliways_bar | (no subject)

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baze malbus

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Mark is feeling unwell today.

Very unwell.

After making an arrangement with the Bar, Mark retreated upstairs to the privacy of a rented room to do something he never thought he'd have to do to himself. He'd been provided with the appropriate literature, detailing where to administer each dose, and the proper amount, and went at it.

At first, he felt fine. He'd gone back downstairs and had some dinner, and hung around a little more to toast some more marshmallows.

But this morning, he woke up feeling like absolute death. A cocktail of inactivated viruses for lycanthropy, vampirism, several strains of zombism, and more have turned his body into a warzone. He'd skipped over Marburg and a few others he didn't think he was likely to come into contact with, hoping to avoid the worst of it.

But here he is today, curled up with a blanket and a bucket by the fire, looking very pale and more out of it than usual.

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Baze, armorless, is seated at a nearby table, using a pneumatic graver to etch designs into the larger barrel--the one meant to shoot the metal quarrel--that he forged himself for his lightbow. A sweating pitcher of ice water rests near his left elbow along with two glasses, one of which is full.

He fills the other glass and brings that and his project over to Mark.

"You look terrible. May the Force of others be with you! Can you take water?"

Mark grumbles and takes the glass. He takes only the tiniest of sips from it. The cold water hurts his teeth and makes his stomach heave unexpectedly.

"I regret everything," he says, deciding that the cold glass feels better pressed against the side of his face.

"What do you regret? Be specific," Baze says with a laugh, very clearly teasing. He settles his unarmored bulk in a nearby armchair and etches a flourish into the soft metal of the barrel.

"Literally everything."

His stomach turns into a stone as soon as it realise Mark tried to drink something. He holds the blanket against his face, trying to hold back the urge to puke.

Baze settles his unarmored bulk into a plush armchair nearby and starts engraving a flourish into the soft metal of the barrel.

"Well, I'm sorry you're sick. Is there anything you can take for it? Bactade might help if you're sore."

"Mmm."

Mark shrugs. "I'm not really sick. I just feel like it."

He tries the water again. It doesn't help even a little bit.

"You're not really sick?" Baze says, raising his brows.

"You definitely look sick to me."

"Someone told me there were vaccines available here," Mark says, deciding that where he really needs a glass of cold water is pressed against his face. "Wanted to make sure they work before I took them home."

"So, these vaccines made you sick? I guess you can tell they're working by your reaction to them... Unless you're allergic? Are you gonna die?" Baze says, wrinkling his nose.

"That's what I'm trying to find out."

If he doesn't die, then the vaccines are probably safe. And then he can take them home to his friends.

"If you die, you'll probably come back here, so I wouldn't worry about it too much," Baze says, flashing a grin. He's clearly teasing... Or is he?

"But hopefully the vaccines work. What were you trying to vaccinate yourself against?"

If Mark were feeling better, he'd ask why people keep thinking he'd like being stuck here forever. But he's feeling pretty lousy, so he doesn't ask.

"Werewolves. Vampires. Zombies. Too bad the guy that brought them in doesn't have hellhounds and warlocks where he's from."

He's not sure if you can vaccinate against those, but it would be nice. Probably.

"I've only heard of those beings since coming here," Baze says, shaking his head. He etches a flourish into the soft metal of the barrel.

"Someone recently mentioned warlocks to me, but didn't explain what they are."

"They're like wizards, but evil. Their whole goal in life is to make you dead."

You probably can't vaccinate against that, now that Mark thinks about it.

"Oh. How would a vaccination help with them?" Baze asks, cocking his head to the side. He looks even more like a giant, lost puppy without his armor.

Mark doesn't answer immediately.

"I don't know," he says. "Magic?"

"There's vaccinations for that?" Baze asks. He looks dubious. Very dubious.

"I don't know."

He forgets that the cold thing he's holding against his face is full of water, and accidentally spills some down his back. It's uncomfortable, but he's too worn down to do anything about it.

"Until two days ago, I didn't even know there were vaccines for werewolves."

"How does a vaccine help against a werewolf?" Baze says, utterly confused.

Mark shrugs again. "I guess whatever they give you when they bite you is viral," he says.

He stops to breathe for a few seconds.

"That's how it spreads. If one bites someone, that person becomes a werewolf too. Unless the werewolf kills you. Then I don't know."

"Oh, so they are like vampires?" Baze says, blinking at him.

"Only vampires have to almost drain you dry, as far as I know. Maybe not all vampires have to, maybe it's just a specific world's."

"They're like something."

Mark can't think of what. He's too busy trying not to puke again.

"We try to stay away from them as much as possible."

"I would, too, considering how bitey they are," Baze says, wrinkling his nose.

"I'm sorry you have to deal with them."

Mark looks up, as well as he's able.

"You didn't put them there. Unless you did. Then I hate you."

Baze throws his head back and laughs.

"No, I didn't put them there. There's no reason for you to hate me, I'm just a concerned citizen of Milliways."