(no subject)

[parkinglotangel]

Who: Michael, Robin, Riku, and Rin
Broadcast: No
Action: Aboard the Bloodsport
When: Today -> until the plague is cured?

[After centuries of existence, having seen atrocities and having battled devils, including Satan himself, Michael has never felt anything quite like this.

Namely, being totally, utterly, helplessly sick. And much like many of the not-entirely mortal on the fleet, the angel has absolutely no idea how to deal with this admittedly novel experience. As the plague worsened, he's given up his usual cheerful attitude and any pretense of functioning.

Probably much to the chagrin of his healthier crewmates.

For now the miserable angel can be found slumped facedown over the arm of his couch, moaning dramatically into the upholstery. He'll be sure to moan extra loud if someone not sick happens to pass by.]

Comments

[parkinglotangel]

[Michael lifts his head up from where he'd had it pillowed on the arm of the couch, looking at Riku with a bleary-eyed kind of expression]

That's the stuff that comes in cans, isn't it?

[So maybe his perceptions of Earth are somewhat colored by commercials. Or he's also being a smartass. That's kind of what it smells like, even according to his congested sinuses. Mostly salt. Not his favorite thing in the world.

He'll probably be right on board for that upgrade if anyone brings it up. At least he'll have sugar. Maybe.]

[limitstorm]

[ flatly; ]

The good kind doesn't come in cans.

[ excuse you he slaved over a hot stove for this! well, hot microwave, really, but you'd be surprised how macgyver riku can get when stuff isn't around. ]

You have to eat something if you wanna get better.

[parkinglotangel]

[He tries to scowl but scrunching up his face only makes it hurt, and he puts a hand against his forehead]

It's never been an issue before.