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[Fitz had intended to send this as a private message to Dr. Foster, but a sudden onset of dizziness and blurred vision meant a text message was out of the question. Video would have to do. He'd remembered to set the privacy settings, hadn't he? Probably.

He addresses the network with a bleary expression, glassy eyes rolling up into his head until he blinks to train them back into place. His skin is an unhealthy pallor, ghastly white with a rash of dark splotches tainting the deep bags under his eyes.]

Doctor Foster... I, ah... The samples from the tunnels? I've been performing analyses, and I've reason to suspect that they aren't quite safe... They react terribly to human DNA samples. It's... I'm not a strong enough biologist to reach a proper conclusion, but some sort of degeneration appears to be taking place.

I also think it might be in our best interests to quarantine off the remaining sediment. The dust has been... It's...

[He grimaces and clenches his jaw, bowing his head for a long moment. He doesn't finish his thought, jumping over to a different one instead.]

Would advise against further reconnaissance trips to the tunnels. At least until we've had more time to study.

[He clumsily gropes along the keyboard next. One of those button presses probably manages to post it. Probably.]

[Action]

[Those who thought the darkness was limited to the subterranean levels of Wonderland might be dismayed by a certain scientist's decision to bring a cursed object onto a higher level. Fitz, believing fully that "cursed objects" were silly superstitions, saw nothing wrong with the idea of bringing it topside for testing and discovery. That was before the illness struck. Now, there's just pain. Pain and... some kind of faint melody. It's too distant to make out yet, a soft buzzing at the edge of his thoughts.

After leaving his message, he abandons the lab entirely, with the intent to return to his room on the fourth floor and sleep until the illness breaks on its own. He's underestimated the frequent onsets of mystical pain, though. He'll most likely be a huddled lump of a person curled against a hallway wall, shivering despite a critically high fever.

He'll still argue any "taint" or "curse" talk, though. It's probably nothing that antibiotics can't cure.]

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[He nods slowly, and struggles to sit back up. He reaches over to roll up one of his sleeves, though the motions are stiff and slow. Moving isn't fun right now.]

I. There was a stone we'd recovered from the tunnels. I broke it down into chunks... wore gloves through the process, but it's possible that some debris made contact with me then. Didn't notice anything until working with the spectroanalysis later.

[his blood pressure is erratic, spiking between a dangerously low pulse to a rapid patter as his body struggles to compensate.]

[Oh, that . . . is not a reassuring rhythm. Or reading, for that matter, and the rest of the vitals are going to have to wait for her to start an IV. While she's in the bag, she double-checks that the defibrilator is in there, though if it comes to that-

-well. If it comes to that she'll cross that bridge in time. Right now she's calmly quick: looping a tourniquet around his arm once the cuff comes off, pulling on a second layer of gloves, swabbing the crook of his elbow with an alcohol wipe.]

Well, looks like whatever it was did a number on you. Sorry, but the needles have to come out now.

[The ease in her voice is half bravado, but at least her hands can move on autopilot through this part. A quick poke and she's threading the catheter in, taping and testing at a muscle-memory tempo before straightening to hang a bag of saline off the corner of his chair. (Cloth tape: it's not just for flesh wounds any more.)]

And when were you running those tests? Hours ago, days-?

Occupational hazard sometimes. It was my turn anyway.

[He and Simmons could think their way out of this. They've solved alien bioterrorism before. But Simmons isn't here now.

He's thoroughly permissive as she hooks him into a drip and fusses over his wellbeing. He imagines that this much fuss isn't because she's got good news.]

We brought the sample up here yesterday. Started working with it this morning.

. . . okay then.

[She takes and releases a deep breath, handing over the digital thermometer for him to put under his tongue. Small dignities, at least.]

Well, to be honest? Assuming this is an infection, you're looking pretty septic. Hopefully the fluids help your blood pressure, but if the onset from exposure was this quick, I don't want to wait for a full study on whatever this thing is before we try something to treat it. I can put you on broad-spectrum antibiotics for now while I look at that sample, and if your fever's dangerously high there's always paracetamol or ibuprofen. But that would be my starting point. Does that sound okay to you?

Wonderful. Sepsis is exactly what I'd been hoping to hear today.

[He accepts the thermometer into his mouth with a sigh, though he rolls it more than he should. He's not very good at being a patient, honestly.]

Meds are fine, but I'm not sure you ought to get involved with the sample just yet. We've not confirmed that skin contact is the trigger. If it's radiation-based, that suit won't do anything for you.

[She lets him say his piece, then waits for the thermometer to beep before holding out her hand to take it back and see just how high his temperature is.]

I'll dig a Geiger counter out of the closet and take my chances. But right now your symptoms aren't screaming radiation poising to me. [And . . . right. That is a high fever. She digs out a packet of ibuprofen and a bottle of water, cracking open the cap before passing both to him.]

If this is infectious? We need a doctor with the right kind of experience out ahead of the curve before more cases crop up. If it's not . . . ? I do what I can. Maybe whoever does cure this gets some use of me as a second case. [Her quirk of a smile is hidden behind her mask, but a hint of it reaches her eyes anyway.] We get a couple of deaths here. This is worth one of them, easy.

Edited 2016-05-09 20:58 (UTC)

At least you've got realistic expectations...

[He accepts the water and medicine, but pauses without taking them. Instead, he stares absently in a random direction.]

That radio's getting a bit loud, though. Would you mind turning it down?

[Tinnitus. Or something like it. Tinnitus and a high fever and a cardiovascular system she's doing her best to keep from slipping into shock. Maxine's voice goes softer and she reaches out to put a gloved hand on his arm, trying to pull his attention back.]

There's no radio playing, Fitz.

[She gives a little squeeze, an effort at encouragement she knows will only ring hollow in words.]

Take the ibuprofen, okay? I'm going to finish taking a look at you and recommend you get some sleep.

Sure there is. Someone's singing.

[He blinks slowly, glancing back to her when she touches him. The glassy look in his eyes hasn't gotten any better.]

Take the... [His stare shifts down again; he finally swallows the pills after a soft "oh."]

There you go.

[She pats his arm, and the rest of the exam passes in relative quiet, murmured instructions to breathe deep, look forward, say aaa punctuating the quiet of Maxine working. Her mind's already on overdrive, building a bloated differential that runs the gamut from toxin exposure through infectious causes to some sort of parasitic process. A handful of tubes of blood round out the data taken before she leaves him be just long enough to find the closet. She doesn't need much from it, just a narrow futon-esque mattress and some sheets, which she lays out on the floor near the chair.]

There we go. Not exactly the Hilton, but it's somewhere to sleep, anyway. [The IV's still going, but she unhooks it temporarily, just in the interest of him not pulling it loose while he moves.] How's that radio doing, Fitz?

[As she completes the exam, he grows progressively less responsive. The fluids are settling his heartrate, but the fever is still raging at full force. He sits in a limp slump, head lolling bonelessly to his right.

When she speaks to him directly, he doesn't respond at all. His chest still rises and falls with semi-regular breaths, but she might as well have spoken in Greek, for all the communication that was accomplished.]

Fitz? [Her fingers are on his wrist, but the reassurance of a palpable pulse isn't much, when she's watched him go from ill-but-conversant to unresponsive inside of an hour. She gives him a shake, knuckling into the bony point of his shoulder. Dirty trick, sure, but if he wakes up to yell at her she'll be just fine with that.] Leo Fitz, do you hear me?

[The words do nothing, but the pain sends him curling in on himself, hissing as he lets out a breath. It slowly transitions into a quiet whimper.]

It hurts...

[The "it" is unclear. That's probably because the pain is coming from absolutely everywhere.]

[Maxine releases a slow breath, nodding for the benefit of absolutely no one as she takes his arms and moves with the curl. It sort of just . . . rolls him onto the mattress with her easing him down, and she shushes, more of less letting him settle from there.]

Sorry I had to do that. [She pulls the chair around and takes up the end of the bag, hooking it up to his arm again with a practised twist.] What hurts?

[He doesn't resist being directed onto the mattress, but he maintains an increasingly fetal position. He claws at the rashlike blotches on his cheeks, moaning.]

All of it.

[It's far less self-aware than he'd been an hour ago, most likely giving her less of an actual answer.]

Hey, shhh. Calm down.

[She holds his hands as well as she can, swallowing down the instinctive fear that he's a cough and a rattle from sinking his teeth into her in a mindless hunger. This is different. She knows that's different. Posturing's all wrong for meningitis. Every diagnosis has something that doesn't fit and the hardest thing not to panic against is the slow, smothering certainty that she has no idea what's happening. Just like last time.]

I can give you something for the pain, but you need to stay calm. Okay? We're going to figure this out.

[He clutches at her hands as she offers them, but it's a frantic thing.]

You can't -- Jemma's the only one who can -- I can't build a vaccene without Jemma.

[Maxine has no idea who Jemma is. But for a second she could swear there's something in the way he says her name, something beyond illness and fear and pain, that makes the same ache in her own chest twinge in recognition.

She tries to soothe it anyway - even if there isn't enough morphine in the world to ease that thing she thinks she hears.]

Then let's just focus on getting you better. Can we do that?

[He swallows thickly, as his eyes struggle to stay focused on her face.]

I don't think we can. It's progressing too quickly. You're just trying to make me comfortable.

. . . I am. But that doesn't mean I'm not giving it my best shot.

[That's the closest she'll get to admitting how bad the picture for him looks, and she girls his hands around his tighter for a second before letting go. She still has her bag, and she pulls it up alongside herself, setting to hooking up one of the premixed bags of antibiotics and its battery-operated portable pump on the chair-turned-IV-stand. When she looks back at him, she brings with her one more thing - a little pulse-oxygen sensor she clips onto his finger. The one with the alarm that's loud.]

Okay, that should do it. Do you think you can get some rest while I man the microscope?

I don't know how anyone could possibly rest under these circumstances. [He says, as if he'd been fully alert this whole time.]

But at least the music is lovely, don't you think? It's just about the most beautiful thing I've ever heard...

[He settles back with a light sigh, abruptly at peace despite his complaints of pain. Maybe the painkillers all kicked in at once.]

[He's not in pain right now, Maxine tells herself, in the quiet that follows. He's pretty calm. He's about as content as can be expected. Don't push it.]

All right. Just listen to the music, then. Call me if you need anything.

[She stands slowly in a crinkle of unfolding hazmat suit, carefully weaving clear of the tubing before heading off into the lab.]

[The pain is still there, but the suffering is different. It's filtered and reprioritized. There's something leagues below crooning a siren's call, and it's important to receive it.

He lies still for some time after that, just long enough to let his doctor sink into her work. The squeal of the oxygen sensor betrays him when he moves next, tearing it off as well as unsettling his IV drip. Even though moving at all sends his muscles screeching in agony, he still needs to -- he's not sure what. But it requires getting out of bed.]

[The world goes cold-clear the second Maxine recognizes the alarm for what it is, and she's wheeling off of her stool at the bench and hurrying over, ready to find him gone too, too still.

It's almost a relief to see him staggering to his feet, though she hurries to his side anyway, hoping to keep him both where he is and from pitching headfirst back to the floor.]

Woah- Fitz. Okay. Where are you going?

Don't know.

[It's an honest answer, but not knowing his destination isn't going to stop him from moving anyway. He clasps a hand over the injection site to catch the minor blood splatter from his discarded IV.]

Not important. Go back to your research.

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