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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.]

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[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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Fine -- whatever -- just let me go.

[It's the least sincere deal he's ever made. It doesn't matter what she wants him to say, as long as he gets access to what he needs... Even if he doesn't know what those needs even are. He knows it hurts. He knows it feels like his body is trying to devour itself. Everything else is just an accessory.]

All right. I just need to grab something out of the closet. Then we're going down to the tunnels.

[She picks her way up and off of him, giving him enough leeway to struggle to his feet but not much more than that. The closet _{(B-52 please please just a B-52)} is close enough - if she can just tug him over, she only has to let go for a second to grab the _{(B-52 B-52 not a plane not anything by the band that's 5 of haldol and 2 of ativan)} thing she needs _{(ativan and haldol in a 10cc syringe with an 18 gauge needle and nothing else I do not need any monkey paw bullshit right now magic closet okay)} and even if he runs she should be able to catch him before he gets to the door and rips it free of the protective seal of duct tape.

She sidesteps as close as she can get him, awkward as it is.]

Wait here for a second.

[And she lets go.]

[It's a tense alliance, but much of the fight drains out of him when it appears that he'll be getting what he wants. The rashes and welts on his skin are worse than ever, and every brush against the fabric of his clothes is maddening.

He even tries to wait when she lets him go. It's just a second. It's a second keeping him away from where he needs to be, from the darkness and the taint and whatever's the source of that noise. He waits at least a minute, probably ten or twenty, dragging time that goes slower and slower. She's taking too long on purpose. It's a test, or a game to her.

In her perspective, she'll have thirty seconds before he breaks, scrambling to the door. He tries the knob first, not immediately connecting the seal with an exit hazard. The moment of disorientation will probably be plenty to give her time to catch up properly.]

[Maxine's not the best actress, but even she knows enough to not run to the door when he actually stays still. Several steps to the closet, open the door, find . . . a syringe and two vials.

No time for a sterile draw, and she's finished pulling from the second with faintly shaking hands when she hears the scramble of feet and wheels to see him bolting. She's quick after him, and rather than grab him again she runs right into him, pinning him against the door long enough to jab at his arm. Through the shirt and into the deltoid, a hard push, back out, and flung to the corner of the room within a second before she stumbles back.

The world's going unsteady at the edges, but that should do it. She hopes.]

[He ignores her when she throws herself at him this time. She's not important. It's the door -- it's -- it's something. She's pressing him into it, but that's finem because doesn't he need to be pushing it anyway? Is it a pull? He can't quite keep it straight.

She's already stepping backward before he notices she's injected him with anything in the first place. He glances over his shoulder, then sways dangerously, catching himself on the closest wall.]

You... did something.

I can't let you infect anyone else.

[She shakes her head minutely, still tense, watching him for signs of the injection taking hold or somehow failing.]

I'm sorry.

[Given his erratic reactions, it might be difficulty to tell when the sedatives take him, but it's not long at all before his knees buckle. He slides down the door until he's slumped against it, groaning his displeasure.]

...you don't understand. I'm not going to hurt anyone...

You have an infection. It's dangerous enough, if what's happening to you is anything to go by.

[She seems to have a minute - enough to pull over her bag and sit down on the ground opposite him. If he levels out, she might need to wrestle him again just to get him restrained and back on medication. But there's always a chance he'll pass out and save her the work.

In the meantime, the biohazard suit and mask are pointless, and she strips out of both and pushes them aside, seeing to cleaning and bandaging the bite to her arm. It's already an angry red, hot to the touch, and she hisses a soft expletive as she at gets it cleaned and covered.]

Why do you need to get back down to the tunnels, anyway? What's down there?

[For now, at least, the sedation is doing its job. The hard edges have smoothed out of the world, and his tortured body can't quite connect well enough to fight, at least for the time being.]

I don't know why. It's just... something I have to do. You wouldn't have gotten hurt if you didn't get in the way.

[He notes her injury, blinking in confusion.]

I'm just going to have to do worse to you if you don't let me go... I don't want to have to.

[Maxine looks up at that. Just her eyes, a sharp, dangerous flicker that focuses entirely on him as the rest of her goes still. Whatever guilty conscience she was feeling about manhandling someone she just met? Not a concern - even if her voice retains a chilly sort of civility.]

Well. I guess you're welcome to try.

[She stands and walks back toward him, stooping to pick up the roll of duct tape she'd discarded on the way back from the door. Unless he puts up a better fight than last time, she's getting his hands behind his back and ankles together before he can make good on that promise - and before she can do worse to him defending herself.]

It's not like I want to...

[He still fights against her restraint, but manages substantially less resistance than before. He doesn't have the strength to do much, and won't be able to summon his prior mania until he's finished metabolizing the injection.]

On the network, they said it was lethal. If we're both going to die anyway, we might as well go down where we belong first.

Where we belong is in a lab, figuring this thing out. I have a feeling that Leo Fitz, quantum engineering specialist who had the good sense to lock down his samples the second he got sick, would agree with me.

[He can stay right by the door. She finishes a very thorough job on his wrists and ankles and steps back, doggedly going back to her station by way of the closet.

Might as well start the antibiotics now. Maybe she can buy herself enough cogent, productive time to hack together a rough treatment plan.]

That isn't an option anymore.

[Though his hands are bound, he still digs at the skin on the back of his hand, deliberately attempting to draw blood.]

There's something living in my head and I can't say no to it. I have to help it spread. I might be dead before it takes you.

I -- I have to...

[He might not be making much sense anymore, but it's the only way he can think to vocalize what might very well be a side effect of extreme fever.]

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