#Terminal

[lightrecon-blog]

Terminal. | Dulse & Marshal

Plotted Ahead! | @mixedmarshalarts

Something had felt wrong. Certainly, there had been quite the few many moments since his arrival on Earth that had felt... strange; but in a way, it was a mental strangeness — his brain alerting him, in foreign situations, to be wary. Such was the case for many encounters that he found himself in on Earth; it seemed every day and every waking hour was something strange and new that he had to approach with caution lest he injure himself, or put his faith too far into someone or something not worth trusting.

But this sense of wrong was much more immediate — and in that sense, strange. It was strange to him that his body was reacting so violently, and... over seemingly nothing. He would be idle, by his lonesome, with nobody and nothing around to threaten him or make him cautious, and still yet, he found his throat burning, his face burning, everything burning hot; he was fatigued; he was coughing and wheezing until his lungs were sore and dry.

He was... ill. He was very, very ill.

It frightened him, how much this foreign illness had affected him. Up until now, he had been bursting with his own sort of productive energy, eager to take on the next day and discover new things. Here now, when he was invited to meet up with Marshal for lunch, he... hardly wanted to move. It had been a few days since his symptoms arose — a heightened temperature; a cough; weakness; tire — but he appeared... to be getting worse still, to the point where he hardly recognized his actions, nor himself. He was preoccupied with his own sickness, and continually-developing symptoms continued to unease him. But he had... absolutely no idea what to do. He was hardly able to breathe anymore, with each breath seeming like a labor on his body, and his coughs so harsh he found himself gasping.

He concluded, simply, that it must come to pass, one way or another; it had to. It had to, and so, he pressed onward.

Dulse didn’t even want to imagine how he must have seemed when he finally arrived to their lunch date — seeing as how Marshal’s reaction was almost immediate. And he decided to state then, before his friend who was hardly visible then, “Marshal... I... I must admit... I feel very... very unwell...” He swallowed thickly, such a gesture then bringing about a host of harsh coughs that he had to quell, and the resulting sharpness in his chest caused him to grip it painfully. “I do not... know... what’s wrong... I’m sorry...”