Your thoracic cavity has suffered a spontaneous steam rupture. Las-guns work by sending pulses of heat energy directly into flesh and tissue, causing it to expand rapidly and explode in a burst of superheated steam. This explosion causes a crater to form from the rapid expansion of gas, rupturing flesh and bone. The 'caliber' that struck you was designed with the intention of shooting down hover-crafts, made to 'tunnel' through metal with violent results. The crater is roughly a foot across, penetrating roughly three inches into your chest. Your lungs, stomach, diaphragm, and have all suffered many avulsions, which, in places, give way to lacerations through the sensitive tissues. A majority of your rib bones have been turned into fragments by the same blast. The ones that survived the expansion have been roughly dislocated from the thoracic vertebrae, spreading outward pass where they should be.
Somebody, you assume Silas, has done his best with the technology available. Staples along with fine stitches hold together frayed organs -- and your will provides a thin membrane to allow them to function at a survivable level. Tubes drain blood to prevent further strain on the system. A crude ventilator system gently pumps an oxygen mixture into your lungs through your nose. A feeding tube snakes it's way down your throat, into your stomach, filled with something greasy and grey looking. You assume nutrient cubes, with enough liquid to make it easily digestible. A saline solution and a bag of blood drip into your veins, attempting to offset the blood loss from such a grievous injury. Padding -- gauze and bandages, fill your insides, damp with disinfectant and healing salve. Another attempt to prevent you from losing too much blood.
Somebody enters, a thin, gaunt young man in a lab coat -- Silas. He looks down at you with mild confusion when your eyes find him. He blinks slowly, then takes a note, despite your twitching fingers. "You're awake. That's...probably not good." Reaching into a nearby drawer in the dull, grey room, he pulls out a syringe. "A blend of painkillers and sedatives designed for you. It's better that you sleep through your healing process." Leaning down, quietly, "For Emma's sake too, darling. I told her that I will only let her see you when you wake up."
"Shake your head no if you do not wish to be put under, Lady Pheonix."
You cannot move.
"Wonderful. Always good to have your informed consent for my medical practices."
[20] You dream in the throes of chemical sleep.
You dream of familiar wills coiling near you. One, a mirror of you, icey blue, cold as the mountains beneath the dying stars in the distant expanses of space-time. The other, old, withered, but strong like a great oak tree, strong in the face of many storms.
The two clash. The oak burns away to nothing, but the roots remain, reaching into the depths of the ground.
You awaken again sometime later, slipping free of your chemical bonds to painful consciousness. You sit in the silence with your pain, probing at your chest -- its healed some by now. They've removed some of the gauze and your organs feel...stronger. Somebody approaches again, and you prepare yourself for another week of fitful, drug-induced sleep. Its a woman, a Crusader Medic. She hovers over you for a moment, noting your focused eyes.
"[Pheonix of Sol. You're awake.]"
You can say nothing, the tubes shoved down your mouth preventing coherent speech -- your lungs probably couldn't bear it.
"[Right. I've brought something for this...]" Cephelia removes a gold and black glove from her white coat, slipping it over your wrist.
[Good Morning Pheobe. You're healing well.]
Transmit my thoughts to speech.
[Affirmative.] Horrible screeching echoes through the room from your wrist -- Cephelia collapses back, startled.
Not those.
Lucille stops transcribing your agony.
"[Cephelia. You've returned.]" Lucille offers weakly, cold and precise.
"[Its been a month since you've sent me out. But I come back to find you all weak and vulnerable. How easy it would be to control you now...were it not for Emma and William...]" Cephelia trails off, looking thoughtful. With a mock sigh, she sits on your bed, brushing your greasy red hair from your eyes with tenderness. "[If only the Empyre could see the scourge of the stars now. How they would laugh, how they would mock.]"
You say nothing.
"[I have an offer for you Pheobe. I will mend your flesh. I will make you whole again until you can knit yourself together again.]"
"[And what can I offer the Ascended with everything?]"
"[Many things Pheobe. But the thing I want most -- your trust. Your friendship. Maybe eventually your affection.]"
"[I have Emma.]"
"[You have an Oracle and a Tin Man. Neither are true Ascended. Neither can do what we do. Neither can speak the language of the Universe and have it jump to their bidding like a loyal pet. The first two are fine for now, however. Do we have a bond?]" Her words dip into the tongue of the High Empyreal, archaic and older than the Endless Empire. The language of bonds, of law -- the language she swore her subservience to you with. It is not a true bond, not a true oath, but she shows that it is not to be taken lightly, the word you give.
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Topic: McCreary's Planet -- (FINISHED) (Read 259064 times)