IMDb flu

[i_am_your_host]

Emcee comes downstairs, looking and feeling miserable. No makeup, floppy, mussed-up hair, and a hacking cough with the shivers. Also, why is his vision blurry? (It isn't, not really--he just thinks it is.)

In garbled Russian (is it even Russian he's speaking?) he orders a pair of specs from the bar and something to put on over his t-shirt. It just happens to be a shirt with a very bright, loud pattern, which, admittedly, he approves of. He then orders a bottle of vodka. Vodka helps with the flu, yes, of course it does.

Cradling the bottle in his arms he shuffles over to the couch by the fire to keep warm.

He's not feeling very invincible right now.


[OOC: Emcee thinks he's Boris Grishenko from GoldenEye. Enjoy.]

Comments

[childofrebellion]

Cassian hasn't seen Emcee since the party though he's been thinking about him. When he sees him, he almost doesn't recognize him in the loud shirt and comes over, "Emcee, what's wrong?"

[i_am_your_host]

Emcee is staring groggily into the fireplace, watching the dancing fish, and occasionally sipping straight from the bottle of vodka.

The voice snaps him out of his slight daze. He sniffles and coughs, giving the man a confused look over the rims of his wire spectacles.

"Какие?"

...Well, it came out Russian enough.

"Who is-- Eym-See?"

And now he's speaking English with a Russian accent tinted with German and muddled by a sore throat and a cold.

[childofrebellion]

That's worrying. Cassian sits down next to him, he knows Emcee drinks but usually not like this, "You are."

[i_am_your_host]

He scoffs a laugh. Which ends up in a straight-up cough.

"Nyet!" he says, waving him off. "You have got me confused with someone else. Who are you, that you think you know who I am, huh?" His tone is more amused than anything.

[childofrebellion]

"Cassian," The laugh into cough isn't good but this is Milliways.

Maybe there's something else going on and he doesn't want to try and explain too much. Since they're friends but the whys aren't simple, "Do you want some medicine for your cold? Drinking won't help that much."

[i_am_your_host]

"In Russia, this is medicine!" he insists, raising the bottle of vodka.

[childofrebellion]

"Where's Russia? How about having something else along with that medicine?"

A rat goes by and Cassian asks for soup to help Emcee feel better. If he's eating and drinking then he won't feel as bad.

[i_am_your_host]

"Fine, if you pay, then I am not saying no," he says with a shrug.

"You do not know where Russia is? Hah! And next thing you are telling me is that Soviet Union does not exist!"

[childofrebellion]

He raises his hands as the rat comes back with a bowl of chicken noodle soup,

"No, I'm not saying that. My galaxy doesn't have a Russia, that's all. I will. Here's some soup. It might help you feel better."

This might not even be Emcee, he remembers Barry mentioning people who were not exactly themselves. Now isn't the time for those thoughts, this man who looks like Emcee is sick and needs help.

[quick_clean_pure]

Sitting in another seat by the fire is a horned, red-skinned figure in a robe, idly thumbing through a heavy book. He glances up at Boris briefly when he sits, but says nothing, looking instead like he's reading him over wordlessly.

[i_am_your_host]

After a moment, he looks back with wide eyes at the horned figure, mutters something in semi-Russian/somewhat-German (the translation field makes it sound roughly like what the fucking hell is that), and then shifts to the far end of the couch to put some distance between them.

[quick_clean_pure]

Even without the translation field, the devil understands all, and hears Boris perfectly well.

With a casual wicked grin, he answers back in Russian, "I'm the one who deals with the guilty. I wonder if you might be one yourself?"

[i_am_your_host]

The languages and memories swirl inside his brain. For a moment, he feels that this sort of thing has happened before, but that sliver of clarity slips away as a coughing fit overtakes him.

"Is not everyone guilty of something?" he retorts indignantly as soon as the coughs pass.

[quick_clean_pure]

"Of course, but there's always degrees to it," he says, getting a read on Boris' soul while he looks at him. Oh, he's definitely the type to wind up at the Carnival.

[i_am_your_host]

But which soul? The one that cavorted in Berlin's darkest dens of carnality? Or the one conspiring with a criminal mastermind to use weaponized satellites to bring about the downfall of Great Britain?

Two very different souls.

Boris squints at him. Doubtful.

"And so what? It is no concern of mine what you do with 'the guilty.'" He uses air quotes on that because he's a brat.

[quick_clean_pure]

By this Lucifer's rules, probably both. But Emcee'd be hired as an entertainer instead of tortured.

Boris would just be fucked.

"Not yet," Lucifer says, smiling airily enough, because that's the joy of eternity. Everyone winds up dead if you wait long enough.

[thewidewideworld]

By now Sinric is feeling light-headed too. His Sight trying to fight off the seeing double that the illness causes him.

"That shirt suits you ill, my friend." He mutters, falling into one of the couches with a glass of tea.

[i_am_your_host]

Emcee has been lulled into a slight daze by the heat of the fire and the effect of the vodka. But at the sound of Sinric's voice, he abruptly looks up, pushing his (fake) glasses up the bridge of his nose.

"Кто ты?"

It's a language Emcee has never spoken before.

"I do not know you. And my shirt is perfectly fine."

His accent is quite Russian now, though tinted with German.

[thewidewideworld]

"At least you didn't wake up in my bed this time." He mutters, mostly to himself.

"You should drink something other than alcohol. The illness will make the hangover worse." He doesn't feel much better.

[i_am_your_host]

He gives the blond an incredulous look.

"This time? What do you mean, this time? There was never another time!" he insists, clutching the vodka bottle. "And for your information, I do not get hangovers." There's a bit of a bratty tone to that, as if sticking out his tongue without actually doing it.

[thewidewideworld]

"Long story." Sinric sighs tiredly. "And one I'm not sure I could make you understand, considering how much of that bottle you've drunk. But trust me when I say, you will have a hangover this time."

[i_am_your_host]

"It is only half," he says sulkily, before he sneezes into his shirt. It makes his head throb, and he groans with the pain.

[thewidewideworld]

"Just so." Sinric mutters, resting his own head against the pillows. "We need some of those little pills from Hannibal's time. The willowbark essence."

[i_am_your_host]

"What? Who is Hannibal? I don't understand anything you are talking about, I don't even know who you are," he gripes, curling up into his own corner of the couch.

[thewidewideworld]

"I'm called Sinric. At least I am at the moment. The illness makes you think you're someone else." he stifles a sneeze, sounding like a baby rabbit.