Drake can’t remember the last time he was in this much pain, and as a former stuntman that’s saying something.
His body aches like a steamroller passed over it, backed up, and crushed him again. His head pounds with the very distinct pain of a head injury, which Drake is unfortunately all too familiar with. But it’s worse than any concussion he’s ever had. His skull is cracking down the middle like an egg, as if someone tapped his crown against the edge of a kitchen countertop. The splitting pain only worsens when he opens his eyes. It’s not especially bright—he assumes their filming one of the night scenes—but any stimulation is painful at this point.
When Drake manages a squint he makes out what looks like a lab setup. There are beakers and shiny metal tables and things bubbling and blinking, and looming over him is a tall, wicked looking device with a screen attached to its hinged, metal arm. When he tries to rub his eyes he realizes he’s been restrained, his wrists and ankles strapped to the examination table beneath him.
He doesn’t remember any scene calling for a hokey mad scientist’s lab, but maybe he missed something in the latest script revision.
Drake’s ears are ringing like someone’s hit him upside the head with an aluminum baseball bat but he still hears a voice, muffled like it’s coming from another room. It steadily grows louder, though the words are no more distinguishable, until a face fills his vision and a shock of red hair breaks up the gloom. The man, tall and barrel-chested, is still talking to him, eyes wide and terrified and so breathtakingly relieved that it feels like a punch to the gut. Drake is too weak to turn his head, but he feels the man undo the straps around his wrists, then his ankles. But even once he’s freed, Drake’s limbs weigh heavily on the table and he doesn’t have the energy to move.
He wonders what even happened to knock him out cold in the first place.
The man’s movements become more frantic. His hands are shaking, and Drake surmises he’s no paramedic. He squeezes Drake’s arm, cups the side of his face. His beak is still moving, but he can’t hear it over the ringing in his head. But something about the intimacy of the gesture shocks him out of his indolent state, and like a drowning man yanked back to the surface, the world rushes up to meet him.
“DW, can you hear me? Are you hurt?”
Movement behind the stranger briefly distracts Drake, and he looks past the man to see men and women in crisp, dark suits flooding into the room. Several of them are carrying guns, others large black cases.
“It’s—it’s just SHUSH. They helped me find you,” the man says, stuttering. Louder, he shouts, “Hey, I need a doctor over here or something!”
The room spins, and Drake drops his head back onto the frigid metal table.
“You’re gonna be fine,” the man is saying, “I promise, DW, you’re safe now.”
Exhaustion is crashing down around Drake’s ears, and he can barely keep his eyes open, much less turn to look back at the stranger. Dark spots pepper his vision and he feels more lightheaded than before.
“Drake,” the man says at last, voice breaking.
It’s a devastating sound, and Drake’s gaze snaps back to him almost of its own volition. The man looks like he’s on the verge of tears, and Drake’s chest aches like someone reached inside and gripped his heart in an iron fist. He doesn’t understand his immediate reaction to the stranger’s pain. But something compels him to reach up with an arm that feels as though it has a two-ton weight attached to it, and grip the hand that is stilled pressed to his cheek.
“You’re going to be okay,” the man says, his teary expression steely, his smile trembling. “I’m here, Drake.”
Drake finally musters the energy to reply, voice barely above a whisper.
The last thing he sees before he loses consciousness is the stranger drawing away, the confusion on his face giving way to dawning horror.
vaporwave
turnnoffyourmind
stormborns
pixelskylines
