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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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[From the moment the video starts, Maxine has her finger over the button to reply. Whoever's sending it looks like hell, and she can't begin to imagine what exactly is wrong with him until he starts talking. And keeps talking. And after one zombie apocalypse, that's enough to have her responding promptly, worry furrowed around her eyes and between her brows.]

Are you telling us you brought a biohazard up into the mansion?

What the fuck did you do.

[He blinks down at the shifting images onscreen. Oh, had he...? That might be problematic. ]

P-potentially. It is my hope to keep this an isolated incident, however.

[Oh dear, the American. This is fairly high up his list of "Do Not Want".]

In the last few hours? Mostly coughing.

[Jowan mightn't know much about the Deep Roads or the darkspawn, but there's one thing that he'd have thought everyone knew about the darkspawn, which was don't let their blood get into you and generally be careful unless you wanted to catch the taint and die.

But apparently thinking everyone knew that was a bit of a mistake here, since by the look of it there was at least one person who hadn't gotten that message. Still now's probably not the time to point that out too much, since well... it's not like there's really any cure for the taint, right?]

You should find a healer. They won't be able to do anything but they could make the passing faster for you.

[HELPING.]

[He squints. He must have heard wrong. Probably the fever talking.]

The "passing"?

Well there's no cure for the Blight. Usually they just... make it faster, from what I've heard.

Sorry. I wish I could tell you something different.

[wait, there might be something he can offer...]

I do have a sharp knife though, and I know a little about that sort of thing. I could make it quick.

Rather cavalier about death, aren't you?

[Probably a side effect from being here too long.]

If there's no cure, then we'll just have to find one. Tell me what you know about the symptoms. How much worse is this going to get?

Well it happens anyway, doesn't it? I mean, I'd rather it didn't happen to people but that's not going to stop it. Especially not where the Blight's concerned.

[Jowan winces. Other people might like the man's optimism, he supposes, and it might be something worthwhile in other situations (although he doesn't really know himself, he's not particularly good at it) but this isn't that sort of situation. It'd be better if the man just gave up now in his mind.]

I don't think you can just find a cure to the Blight. People have studied it before and they haven't found anything to cure it. [He shrugs his shoulders, unfortunately not particularly knowledgeable about this.]

I don't know, I haven't seen it myself. But everyone knows there's no cure for the Blight. People just die from it slowly.

Well, unless you're a Grey Warden anyway.

A few thousand years ago, everyone knew the world was flat and that the sun revolved around the earth. Neither of those things are true. "Everyone knows" is just a way to... a -- way to stop thinking.

[The burn marks sear a bit further down his cheeks. It feels a bit like they've been literally set on fire.]

What's a grey warden? Some kind of genetic immunity could be used to work out a vaccene. [in theory, mostly. Medicine development is something he normally watches his partner do. He's already in over his head.]

-okay.

[Deep breath. In. Out. Time to take a trust fall into the arms of the closet-issue hazmat gear.]

If you haven't set up containment protocols yet, you're gonna need that next. Plus, you really look like you could use a doctor. Where are you now?

I've sealed away the matter retrieved from the tunnels. Ought to -- um. Chemical shower. That'll be a slower process -- experiencing some debilitating symptoms at the moment.

I'm at Doctor Foster's lab, on the fourth floor. But don't feel obliged to seek me out. I've not yet determined how this is transmitted. Not certain if it's infectious.

[Maxine does her best to minimize any shakycam-like rattling, but she is picking up her communicator right now and walking for the supply shelves of the clinic.]

Go ahead and tell me about the symptoms while I put this on. [A flash of yellow and a respirator mask, held up for the benefit of the camera before she puts it down to step into what amounts to an industrial-strength onesie. Much like the girl scout, she is prepared. Especially after their last round of madness.] I'm Doctor Maxine Myers, by the way. And don't worry. This isn't my first novel bioagent rodeo.

Leo Fitz. Apologies for the circumstances.

[Is that a hazmat suit? Oh, surely that's overkill...]

Right now, there's -- I suspect it's a high fever. Skin sensitivity. Blurred vision, difficulty... um. There's this noise. Hard to keep focus around it. Not quite ringing of the ears, but potentially something similar.

Got it.

[Suit on, she roams out of view of the camera entirely, though there is shuffling and the telltale sound of pill bottles rattling under her voice as she calls back.]

Do you have any allergies, Leo?

Just Fitz is fine.

["Leo" makes him feel like his mum is calling him for dinner.]

But -- no. No allergies that I know about. Allergic to interdimensional artifacts, perhaps.

[he's mostly out of frame, slowly sinking back in his chair. It won't be terrible if he closes his eyes for a bit, right? He can keep up conversation without outright looking at her.]

That's fine. I never managed to match into that fellowship in interdimensional artifact therapy, anyway.

[She has most of a to-go house call bag at the ready anyway, and the trouble and mercy of what he's describing to her is that she's not sure she has medicine that would help with much more than symptom management. She does grab some triage and diagnostic basics, though, keeping him talking while she finishes sifting through their stores.]

So what do you do, Fitz? It's not every day I hear about people around here running DNA analyses.

Research and development. I specialize in quantum engineering, but our work... I work closely with bio-chem. There's some crossover.

Now there's a combination. I'll be picking your brain about that when you're feeling better.

[If, she's used to being the correct answer, but it really is when here. She doesn't know whether that's more wonderful or terrifying.]

Fourth floor, you said?

Fourth floor. Right, it's ...

[He trails off, then restarts his thought entirely.]

Fourth floor. Room fifty-two.

Be right up.

[She posts an away note to her office door and trots out, small duffel of supplies slung over her shoulder. After what happened a few weeks ago, it's impossible not to feel on-edge, but she reminds herself this could be anything. This isn't even necessarily infectious. Who knows what he was exposed to in those samples he was testing. Those samples that . . . apparently had some sort of disastrous effect upon DNA.

Right. Picking up the pace.

It's just a few minutes until Maxine's tapping at the indicated door, cracking it open before waiting for an answer.]

Fitz?

...I'm here.

[The reply is terribly quiet, even despite his usual soft brogue. His throat feels too tight to manage much louder. He's still seated, though the dark red patches have claimed more of his face, spreading down into his neck. His eyes struggle open again, mostly out of politeness.]

[Okay. Mask on, hood up, time to rustle in violently yellow and loaded for biochemical bear. Maxine makes her way over and crouches at his side, setting her bag down and grabbing a blood pressure cuff.]

Hey again. I'm just going to check some vitals on you right now, if that's okay. While I do that, do you think you can walk me through what you were doing before all this started?

[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-?

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