âYouâll never guess who I saw at a party last night, maâam.â Said a voice over the phone.
âI hope it wasnât another of your raves, dear, those are bad for your health.â Replied Ariana as she blew over the surface of a cup of fresh coffee. âBut it must be important if youâre calling me in the morning.â
There was a hesitation in the callerâs voice, like a child who was caught red handed. âErm⊠Well, yeah, but uh, I saw Proton there! Wouldnât have been a big deal, but he was getting dragged out by the police!â
âI see⊠So thatâs why youâre calling.â There was a pause as Ariana took a sip from the mug. âIt has been a while since I last saw him, I suppose I am overdue for a visit⊠Tell me what you know, and weâll see what we can do about getting him out.â
Ariana was both surprised and not surprised when she learned that Proton was spending his holding time in a hospital. How typical of him to get into a fight that turned into something beyond throwing a few punches.
She was stopped momentarily outside of his room when the guards exchanged information that they no longer had to watch over their charge. Curious glances were tossed Arianaâs way. Why would such a finely dressed woman come to bail out a ruffian like that guy? But it was none of their business, and at least it meant their job here was done.
Once the guards were gone, Ariana moved a chair over to the bed and sat down with her legs crossed. Good thing she brought a book to pass the time, she wasnât sure how long it was going to be until Proton woke up.
He had built up a resistance to anesthesia at this point. Anything that put him under, anything that numbed pain - it was nothing poetic, his body had just been dealt so much damage that the regular dose didnât work anymore.Â
Maybe it was poetic. But he sure wouldnât like anyone telling him so.
The hospital staff hadnât really bothered to give him the dose he actually required, maybe because they were understaffed and he was low priority, maybe because no one wanted to touch him with a 5 foot pole.Â
So, between the drugs and the concussion, heâd spent the last 24 hours or so walking the line between the here and the there, a fuzzy blend of consciousness.Â
He didnât normally dream - he usually only slept 4 hours a night, and that wasnât enough time to get into REM - but now he saw and heard people and things, and when he tried to focus on them they moved further away.Â
He felt tiny legs, like joltik, crawling down his limbs, he felt familiar hands on his chest, a womanâs hands, first gentle, then progressing to his neck and increasing pressure until he thought couldnât breathe and his eyes flew open - his green irises a stark contrast to the red of his eyes and the purple of the bruises developing on his face.Â
The bright lights above him felt like daggers through his skull, he could feel the blood moving through the veins in his brain, he could feel stale air settling into his sinuses. Â
One by one, his senses recalibrated: he began to make sense of the blinding light, of the buzzing in his ears, of the sharp scent of lemon mixed with ammonia from the cleaning products used in the building.Â
He relaxed for a moment and closed his eyes as he made sense of the situation at hand.Â
.....Iâm in a hospital.
Why, though? He remembered going out last night, but...
Suddenly a particular weight on his wrist became apparent. He looked down and saw that he was handcuffed to the bed.Â
He looked around the room, trying to figure out if there was any easy escape route - and he noticed a flash of red.
......Even fucking better.
âWha--â he was incredibly hoarse. He cleared his throat.
âFuck are you doinâ here?â he spat.