f*ck the plague ( open )

[intoningly]

Who: Zero and you!
Where: Everywhere
When: All throughout the sickness event
Rating PG for now?
What: Sick, dying, and angry.


WEEK I. KITCHENS

[ Zero has left no pot, pan, loaf of bread unturned. The kitchen looks as if a storm hast just whipped through it– someone has very clearly been searching for something, and that someone clearly doesn't care about the fact that this is a communal space.

Zero cross-legged on a counter, a bowl of what looks to be an odd assortment of sticky foods and substances next to her. She's slathered it onto the hand of her prosthetic, and seems to be rather aggressively trying to glue large, sharp shards; pieces that have broken off the fingers, back onto it.

She'll look up from her mess when she hears footsteps approach.]

What–

[ Her question is cut short by a rather aggressive sneeze (she doesn't cover her mouth, thanks). She sniffs rather aggressively afterwards, too occupied with her shitty repair job to wipe her nose proper. ]

What? You need something? Kitchen's closed.

[ Or rather, the kitchen has been commandeered. ]

WEEK II. FOREST

[ It's irony at its finest, that this would be the thing she'd be forced to relive after being dead twice over.

The quiet rustle of foliage makes the grip on her sword grow tighter. Just like last time, she can barely stand, can't think straight; every part of her is unbelievably and insufferably warm, face flushed with a fever. Just like last time, she refuses to go out this way.

Zero strikes the moment her company is in clear view– movements sloppy and powered solely by a desperate need to survive. ]

Why the fuck do you look so surprised? You think I didn't see this coming?

[ She says to you, but it's pretty clear it's not you she sees when she swings her sword.

Basically:

]

WEEK II. BATH HOUSES

[ Can't keep a plague-having bitch down!

Zero has rather laboriously dragged herself to the bathhouse despite how clearly sick and barely capable of movement she seems to be. She seems to be overcome with an almost maddening sense of purpose.

You'll find her, crouched near the water, with a wash cloth and one of those magical balloon dogs in hand.

Her skin is sallow, and her eyes are unfocused. She looks like she may be on the verge of falling over.

She speaks quietly, to the balloon dog as she wipes it down. ]

Don't bitch– you fucking stink.

WILDCARD

[ I'm down for whatever and more than willing to write custom starters. Likewise feel free to throw whatever you want at me! My plurk is valroyeaux if you want to plot! ]