tampered | Log; Ongoing

Log; Ongoing

When; Early evening of the 30th (Friday)
Rating; PG-13 perhaps?
Characters; Hotohori

koutei_heika and Takani Megumi

foxy_physician
Summary; Don't drink the water, T-virus ahoy. Megumi helps?
Log;

There were a lot of things he had never seen before in this strange city. Things that seemingly worked like magic, such as the wood-less fire.A fire of a different sort kept his mind occupied these days. For the moment he was safe at least…from the fire outside.

Sometime during the night Hotohori had gone from unbearably hot to freezing, and now he had no doubt that Megumi’s suggestion of fever was true. The thought frightened him, as did the visions of Miaka, floating in and out of his sight…he was now sure that she wasn’t here at all, but only in his mind.

It was just as the sun had set that he found himself huddled under a blanket on the bed, the wet cloth the lady doctor had suggested long forgotten. He mumbled frantic prayers to the beast god Suzaku to take him from this place, back home where palace doctors and servants would tend to him – or more recently, even Mitsukake, with his gift of healing.

But his prayers seemed liked they would be unanswered.

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Megumi’s body ached with weariness. She had almost forgotten the bone-crushing exhaustion that came after hours and even days of pushing her mind and her skills to their limits. Her entrance into the City had undoubtedly drastically altered her usual routine, and while she had sought employment in the City’s hospital, she was not the singular doctor there and was thus not as overworked as she had been back in Tokyo. However, the past days had ensured that her skills were needed, and she had found herself working tirelessly once again, driving herself forward through smoke and grime and debris, faced with the haunting image of charred and necrotic flesh.

I have seen worse, she told herself. And indeed, she had; the sight of a mangled body—whether it be by sword or by flame—was something that had long since seared itself into her consciousness. Nevertheless, her blood still ran cold, though her mind never allowed her a moment’s peace—she immersed herself in her work, only allowing herself to feel when it served her purposes as a physician.

Now, there was someone else ill—and she knew that he needed help.

She had no time to rest. Immediately after seeing off the last of the casualties to the hospital, she set out for her next patient.

She could not remember the last time she’d eaten, and her throat was parched—but such things did not matter when someone needed her to heal and to mend.

Trudging into the temple at the outskirts of the City, she took a moment to draw a deep breath, almost immediately coughing as the odor of burnt death flooded her senses. Shaking her head, she proceeded into Hotohori-san’s room, where he had a fever and she had to alleviate the symptoms and make a diagnosis.

Stepping into his quarters, her tired eyes sought for his form. "Hotohori-san?" she called out, her voice wavering despite herself.

At first he wasn’t sure if he had heard anything at all, in his state of confusion, but after a moment he recognized the voice, and remembered that Megumi had said she would come to him. He was still astonished that a woman had become a doctor, but he supposed all worlds were different…Miaka had often talked of her world, and it seemed so strange to him.

He got up from the bed, blanket still wrapped around him to fight off the chill, and took unsteady steps towards the door. Miaka was there again…or, at least the figure of her, smiling and speaking in words he couldn’t quite make out.

She’s not real. he told himself, pushing past the vision of her and going to the door. He opened it, leaning a bit heavily on the doorframe, pale and a bit sweaty. He had a fleeting thought that he must have looked a mess…perhaps he shouldn’t have permitted her to come, but the hazy thought of embarrassment was overridden by his desire to be well again. He would look better sooner, that way, after all.

“Hello, Miss Megumi…” he greeting, sounding rather strained. “…I apologize for my appearance.”

Megumi forgot all of her weariness momentarily upon seeing Hotohori. She was a doctor—raised as one, and trained as one. There would be time to rest later—for now, he was her priority.

Her initial assessment of his condition upon sight was not good—he was slumped against the doorframe, and it was probably because of a strong will that he was able to keep himself standing. His eyes were hazy and half-lidded with the fever, which had also flushed his skin.

She brushed off his apologies with a brisk wave of her hand and an apology of her own. “I’m so sorry I had to keep you waiting, Hotohori-san . . . I’m afraid I couldn’t leave the site earlier. Now, let’s get you back to bed.”

Pushing the past few days’ previous events behind her, she reached out to him, coaxing him to wrap an arm around her so that she could support his weight. Her clinical mind was alarmed upon the first contact of their skin—he was burning with the fever within, and his body was sweating profusely to try to release the heat.

“Lean on me, Hotohori-san,” she said in the gentlest yet most authoritative tone she could muster, using the remains of her strength to gather him close to her.

His first thought was that a woman should not ever be in a position to carry a man – it was impolite. He began to protest, but found his strength fading further, and before he could find the will to stand on his own again, the woman doctor had already placed his arm around her shoulders.

After a few moments, the young emperor was rather glad to be back in his bed – granted it was not his bed, but rather the one he was using at the moment. This was all too clear to him now that he was ill and missing home.

“Thank you,” his voice came out weaker than he had expected. “…I’m afraid I don’t quite know what to do with myself…”

He pulled the blanket tightly around himself, hoping it would comfort him some, but it didn’t help much. Remembering fondly the warmth created from the heated coals in iron pans placed under his bed, he longed for home.

Megumi favored him with one of her rare smiles, though shadows of lingering fatigue kept it from fully reaching her eyes. “Just rest, Hotohori-san. We will see what we can do for you now.”

Immediately methodical, she scanned his living quarters, quickly locating the washcloth that he had used earlier to bring down his temperature, as well as the basin which still retained some of its contents and the towel he’d used to dry himself afterwards. She immersed the soft cloth into the tepid water before wringing it out, ready for use.

She cautiously approached Hotohori once again, years of experience and training reminding her that she was not to startle him.

“Hotohori-san,” she said softly, reaching out to stroke his long hair away from his forehead, “I’m going to wash you again—please don’t feel embarrassed. For now, this is the first thing I can do to help.” Gazing at him, she realized then how young he really was—his vulnerability was etched upon his features, and her heart went out to him as it did to those whom she had a tendency to love and mother back at home. Home . . . he was probably dreaming of his home now, as do the sick, and she sighed, her heart aching for him and with him.

Allowing her touch to soothe him, she carefully drew the blankets away from his body. He was still clothed in the many layers of his garb, although he had thankfully already removed the outer layer. It was worse for the fever to be kept inside, and Megumi found herself shaking her head.

“We’ll have to remove all of this, Hotohori-san . . . Gomen nasai . . .”

As quickly as she could without jarring him excessively, she stripped each layer from him, nudging the cloth around his shoulders and head until he was naked save for his undergarments.

Drawing the sheets around him again, she fetched her moist cloth and began to work. She isolated each part of his body, drawing streaks with the damp washcloth and immediately drying the area before tucking it in back under the blankets.

Hotohori might have been blushing, or it could have been the fever. He had servants who helped undress him at times, but they were all male. In any case, he reminded himself, that it was of no consequence. She was a doctor of sorts, and a friend, who was trying to help him.

In his childhood, the palace physicians had done something similar during a particularly harsh winter. It must be common practice and serve some purpose…and he had to admit the cool water soothed him somewhat. Soon he found his eyelids heavy, and just as he was about to close them, he saw her again.

Miaka…

She was close behind Megumi, and his line of vision shifted from the healer’s face to just past her shoulder. In a slightly strained voice, he spoke her name. “Miaka…”

The vision smiled, and smiled wider…and wider…beyond human capacity and as it began to grow fangs, Hotohori knew that this was not Miaka at all, but a horrible beast, hovering down on him. His eyes widened as the monster peered down on him, inches from his face now and he could feel the hot foul breath on his skin. He lashed out at it, flailing his arms in terror, and giving a frightened shout…

Megumi watched with alarm as Hotohori grew restless, beginning to writhe and shiver beneath her hands. He had mentioned the name of a girl . . . Miaka . . . but Megumi knew acutely and upon retrospect that no one kept him company in his quarters. He must have been hallucinating with the fever, and that was not a good sign. She had had patients with febrile seizures, and she knew from experience that treating those cases required a lot of strength of will on her part. However, she was trained for such a life, and despite her current state, she immediately knew that he had to be treated more aggressively.

It frustrated her that a diagnosis eluded her—he was febrile, yes, but Hotohori manifested no other signs and symptoms that would indicate what it was that was ailing him.

She approached him again slowly, knowing that she needed to reorient him to his time and surroundings. “Hotohori-san,” she called out calmly and gently, reaching out to take his hand and to stroke it.

He heard his name, a soothing and sincere voice. Was it Miaka again? The thought frightened him, but it was enough to cause him to calm down a bit and stop flailing about. Looking in front of him he saw the monster was gone. He saw Megumi, and for a moment didn’t recognize her, then he remembered where he was and the circumstances. He was ill. He was seeing things. Miaka hadn’t been there, so neither had the monster.

“…’m…sorry, Megumi…” he said, panting a bit between each word from the strain of high fever. “I…it wasn’t real…”

His stomach made itself known by a loud growl. If he were not so sick, the young emperor would have been more embarrassed.

“..s-seems I’m hungry…”

Hotohori gave a short dry laugh, a bit hysterical, then groaned as his body pained him again. It was a horrible ailment, whatever it was…his skin was starting to tingle a bit in places. He rubbed at his chest a bit, trying to get the sensation to stop.

Megumi had heard talk of a strange virus that was infecting the residents of the City, but her work at the site of the fire had prevented her from fully accessing the data she needed to be fully equipped with knowledge in handling cases of the said virus. However, as she watched Hotohori with growing horror, she realized that she was faced with no disease that she had ever encountered in her practice.

As the young emperor’s blankets fell away with his struggling, she saw that the area of his chest was beginning to manifest what looked like purpura. It was amazing how quickly the skin seemed to necrotize, and already she saw what appeared to be signs of impaired circulation. And hunger? Most patients experienced physiologic anorexia during illness, not the opposite.

A small feeling of powerlessness began to creep into her spine, but she ruthlessly shoved it down, banishing it with a sharp jerk of her head. She had no time to waste on useless emotions such as panic.

The first thing she needed was medicine. But where could she find the appropriate medicine to combat such an infection?

The hospital.

“Hotohori-san, we need to get you some medicine . . .” She reached out to him, gently touching his shoulder. “Please hold on . . .”

“…M..medicine?...” his thoughts were hazy and his vision was swimming again. “…where is…the palace doctor…?”

Was he sick? Maybe…yes…it was hard to remember and stay in the here and now. His head was spinning with sounds an images that weren’t actually there, causing him to become confused as to where he was.

But at least Miaka is here…

“Oh…Miaka…I…” he didn’t know what he wanted to say to that face, so close to him now. She was smiling, smiling like she never had for him…only Tamahome. And then, he saw it on her lips, the words I love you.

It was everything he had ever dreamed, and ill though he was, he had to smile just a little. I love you too, he tried to say, though the words came out as more of an incoherent mumble.

With a sudden surge of strength, he reached up to her, holding the back of her head affectionately and pulling her down for a kiss…

A strangled sound escaped her as he abruptly drew her down to him for a kiss, his mouth devouring hers with a hunger that must have been both physiological and emotional. He was strong—she couldn’t understand how he could manage such strength when he was ill; he needed her help to get back to bed earlier!—or perhaps it was because she was weak from her avoidance of food, water, and sleep. Either way, his grasp around the back of her head was strong enough to make her lose balance, and she fell against him, twisted awkwardly atop him as he refused to relinquish his hold on her.

His aggression reminded her too much and too strongly of certain things she had left behind in her past, and a broken wail escaped her despite herself, an image of Kanryu hovering behind her closed eyelids.

But this is not Kanryu, she reminded herself sharply, this is Hotohori-san, and he needs my help . . . He’s not himself . . .

She made to pull away, though his grip was firm; his hands effectively tangled into her hair, holding her down to him, and his tongue invaded her mouth—she could feel his saliva mixing with hers . . . Renewing her struggle, she tried to push at him—not too hard because she still did not want to hurt him, though she wanted to get away . . .

Finally he let go, strength fading once again, his arm flopping down onto the bed. He closed his eyes, a small smile still on his lips. That’s not…

“…You…You’re not Miaka…”

It was frustrating, not to be able to make sense of the world around you. And rage that seemed foreign and unnatural was creeping through his limbs. He wanted to shout, to stand up, to lash out at her…

But this is Megumi…I know Megumi…I have no reason to hurt her…

…yet something inside him was tugging at his consciousness, he was angry…so angry that Miaka was taken from him yet again.

With strength not befitting a man as ill as he, he sat up and flailed wildly at her face, the face that was not Miaka’s…the wrong face…the evil face that took her away. Blood was on his hands now, but he did not stop. He stood, a bit unsteadily from the fever that was still burning in him and tried to push her to the ground – he missed, landing on the hard floor instead with a thump.

Megumi let out a cry both of shock and of pain as Hotohori slashed at her with an open hand, wielding enough strength to cut through her flesh. She felt stinging pinpricks and a burning heat as his nails bit into her skin—some catching her along her cheek, most along the line of her jaw. It was enough to draw some blood, and she watched with horror as her patient’s fingers came covered with a faint sheen of crimson.

A particularly strong blow had her staggering backwards, skin and bone aching with the impact, and she watched with a sharp feeling of helplessness as he rose to his feet like a madman. He advanced towards her, but she shied back, and he collapsed, landing upon the floor with a dull sound.

Clearing her head, she knew that there was nothing she could do here anymore—he was overrun by the virus, and she needed help. He needed help. He needed that medicine, whatever it was that the hospital had to combat such a disease.

Ignoring her spinning mind, she bolted for the door, having enough presence of mind to find a kitchen chair. Dragging it out behind her, she lodged it against the doorknob, hoping that it would stall him for at least a few moments.

I need help . . . I can’t handle this on my own; I need someone to give him the medicine forcefully—I don’t have the strength . . . Please let me find help . . .

Only vaguely realizing that she was developing a pounding, pulsing headache, she ran from the temple, her lungs burning as she stumbled towards the hospital.

It was only when she fell to her knees and her world ran red that she realized that she was sick.

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Log; Ongoing

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