It was foolish of him, not paying attention as he walked through the convention. Fan swarms weren't supposed to form that large, but he found himself in the middle of a crowd using their pigment nanites to show off their favorite streamer's custom emotes. He didn't clue in until he saw the absurd small images cascading off the bare chests of people blinded by their own hype. He panicked and tried to make it out of the mass of people but in the frenzy one of them bit him. Bit him! Convention security was alerted but by the time they showed up most everyone had put their shirts back on and blended into the normal attendees. The on-site nurse disinfected the wound and told him to watch for infection symptoms.
The cosmetic nanite treatments were controversial but not illegal, occupying a legal gray area with little regulation. Apparently each batch had to be tuned to their host, and were supposed to deactivate if they wound up in the wrong person. But when he woke up the next day, his mind was groggy and his body covered in rashes. Not thinking clearly, he tried to wash up and down an energy drink to feel better, but it only seemed to make the itching worse. Thoughts slithered across his brain about how the rash pattern almost looked like a repeating shape, a familiar shape. It took him a few moments to make the connection. The person who bit him must have accidentally transmitted some of his own nanites. At least he hoped it was by accident. He struggled with to remember half-ignored PSAs about adverse nanite infection, and could remember something about the metabolism booster injections all first aid kits had. He scrambled to the kit under his sink and found the syringe, quickly tearing off the cap and jamming it into his arm.
Relief found him only briefly, as when the panic subsided he took a closer look at the syringe's label. Do Not Use To Treat Nanite-Based Illness! The lowering tide of panic suddenly became a tsunami. He desperately scratched at the injection site as if that could pry out the cheap medical constructs he'd just injected, watching in terror as his full-body rash seemed to begin to slowly writhe and take on greater detail. Skin blistered and broke in precise lines to render an iconic face in repeating multitudes all over him, the pain was unbearable and he couldn't think . . .
couldn't . . .
think . . .
Outside the apartment, the landlord knocked on the door to ask about a noise complaint that came from a lower floor last week. She could hear movement inside as she announced herself, but no one answered. Politely, she waited a minute before letting herself in. She recognized him in the far corner of the room, huddled and turned away from her. She saw the blood on the floor and quickly approached, fearing a fresh wound that had put him in shock. It was a moment too late for her to realize how dangerous the situation was, so she wasn't able to pull her hand away fast enough when he turned around to bite her. Holding her bleeding hand and backing to the far end of the room, she could clearly see that same dissonant expression etched into her tormented tenant's skin. Despite her own screams she could still hear his ragged whisper.
"Pog . . . ch-ch-champ."
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