The starched feel of clean underneath. Crisp white lights assailing pupils. Hand reached over on one side, shock as it receives a burst of cold metal.

Pulsing, steady throb in the back of the skull. Disconnected voices filtering in through the aching dirge.

“…Horrible thing…”

“…Total…loss of…”

“…He’s awake! Bring in the…”

Blurred bouts of vision interrupted the peaceful darkness as white figures spilled into the room. Hands running along me, fingers at his wrist, arms, legs, chest. Eyes flickering across flashing screens, agitation.

“Stable.”

“Seizures, brain damage…?”

“Stable.“

“All right, all right. Give him a shot.”

Prick. A weird feeling of foreign plasma coursing with plasma, interweaving and spreading through veins and arteries. Sluggishness, slower than even before, what was – happening, what
was

happening.. .... eyeli
ds.

closing…