[Eithan's arrival on the Plane doesn't involve injury this time, at least... but he still doesn't look so great.]

Shit. This doesn't make any sense...

[His steps are slow, a little wobbly. He's dizzy, but he makes his way to the bar and all but collapses into a booth. He shivers, a little. And just to make sure he's not wrong (though dear Goddess, he wishes he were wrong) he presses two fingers against his wrist, concentrates just long enough to count... and yep, his pulse has been dulled.]

This. Should not. Be happenin' right now. I swear, just...

[He trails off, grumbling. He's only talking to himself, anyway.

But he's getting worse, practically by the minute, which is also strange because this never happens this quickly. And the next minute finds him curling in on himself a little, head in his arms on the table, trying to think through what has now become a fever - complete with cold chills! - in some attempt to solve this little problem of his. He's a vampire, yes, but he shouldn't need blood now, he's only a half-breed and he just took care of this not even a few days ago, and...

Shit. What should he do now...?]

((OoC: experiment start. Have fun. ♥))

[ if there's one person that has something of a habit of making grand entrances to the plane, it's this guy. first, it was hitting the ground running from an angry orange alien, and this time, he'll just be rolling in on a desk chair at a pretty high velocity, probably close to toppling ass over teacup the moment he loses any semblance of his balance, and it will be just one more instance of falling on his ass in this place that he can add to the list.

at least he's in his armor. that oughta soften the blow a little.

and anything is better than floating around in space after having nearly been blown the fuck up just because someone had neglected to tell him that the director had his own course of action should he not be able to take care of a little security bypass. that hadn't been giving him any trouble. at all. thank you, delta.

who is, of course, already bombarding him with questions in the back of his mind, and could somebody get york an aspirin, or something? he feels one hell of a headache coming on.

his chair slowly rolls to a stop, and he slumps over, elbows braced on his knees as he silently takes stock of himself. nothing hurts, his armor is intact, there's an annoying buzzing inside his head that is still finding ways to explain why it hadn't felt the need to let a certain somebody in on the fact that the director had a giant fucking laser pointed at his location for the entire duration of his mission … eh, par for the course. ]

Agent York, are you listening?

Tryin' not to, D … haven't quite worked on tunin' you out yet. Gimme a bit, and I'll have it down pat.

[ oi. ]

( ooc: this would be york's canon bump! which means he now has a certain cockbite of an ai with him, and we pre-emptively apologize for him. in entirety. )