A Hand basket to Hell

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuckfuck, fuck, fuck, fuuuuuck. Tethys was sick, he heard that Mortis was sick, so far he could determine that symptoms were fever, convulsions, hallucinations, and vomiting. Fuck. He needed to make sure all the patients were hydrated. He paced the clinic, Wilder was out there helping to gather the stragglers, including his father. What was it he needed to do again? Talk to whats-her-face, she had experience with outbreaks. Fuck.

The white wolf was pacing pacing pacing.
"Vesper!" He called out, trying not to let the panic rise in his throat. He needed someone to go grab the samples they were collecting. He needed to be more stoic, he needed to be more like Bas! He needed to be strong, and- When he saw the dark face of his Songbird before him he looked from one of her sassy blue eyes to the other. She had already been through so much, and he had made the worst kind of mistake with her. His father's words hung heavy on him.

He shook his head and looked away for a moment. Was there anyone else he could send?
"Are you up to speed? Did you hear from Ignita?" He asked, he had heard Ignita call through the Col but he was busy tending to Tethys at the time.

"Speech"