Chapter Text
Dr Ashen Clemency’s POV
Silence.
It’s eerily silent.
The kind of silence that usually grips you in a chokehold, keeps you in suspense, not letting you quite understand what is about to happen next.
My entire body feels like lead. Joints aching from sleep that does not feel at all natural. Sleep that isn’t restful but forced upon your body, slamming you down into a mattress without your consent. I feel like I am not in charge of my body at all. The first coherent thought I notice is I have no recollection of where I am.
The first coherent thought I notice is I have no recollection of where I am. I don’t even vaguely remember falling sleep. I don’t understand why I don’t remember anything. The present is the only thing bringing my senses to overwhelm. Just piercing silence and the possibility that I may have overslept my alarm.
Another thought that hits me hard is: I don’t understand why I feel so rough after a night’s sleep. That has never happened to me before.
“What – oo – lus - oo?” Mechanical speech utters in my ears. I hiss out a moan of pain at the sound hitting my eardrums. It’s striking how painful sound can be. Fragments of garbled noise invade my ears like its assaulting my sensitive brain on purpose. Other senses seem to understand they need to pick up the slack and start flooding my brain with vast amounts of information.
It’s overwhelmingly painful. And bloody irritating.
Lights that are too bright. The smell of something largely medicinal and similar to antiseptic. The uncomfortable feeling of wetness lining my skin and tubes coming out and into various areas of my body; it feels invasive and wholly undignified.
Forcibly I try to make my eyelids blink. But try and try as I might, to blink a fraction of movement into the small muscles, nothing happens. The energy and impulses to open them is non-existent. Everything aches, deeply and I feel a sense of dread kicking in.
All I know is I am somewhere I don’t understand and being given a cognitive assessment going by the vague consonants and vowels I heard. Was that garbled letters supposed to be a sentence?
“What – oo – lus - oo?” The metallic but oddly British voice states firmly. Why can I only hear certain letters?
My eyes blink, painstakingly and slowly, open and I take my first deep breath like I have been starved of oxygen. Everything is overbearingly white and bright, like someone had just shot my eyes into the face of the sun and politely asked if I was okay. Pain sears straight across my forehead alongside a grimace of discomfort. Everything is sore, and I am too tired for this.
It takes a lot more muscle function than I currently possess to move my lips, let alone form a word. “Huuah.” I release, but my effort is futile and only causes a gripping pain across my trachea. How long have I been asleep? And why can I not talk properly?
Using my senses I try and expose myself to my new environment and nothing makes any sense. My skin can feel typical scratchy medical fabric. The dry gown or robe clings to my skin, but I all feel is overwhelmingly drenched in sweat. I feel repulsive and disgusting. I know innately my body hates this feeling, even more so because I don’t understand why I feel like this. The water droplets cling in places and cervices that they shouldn’t be at all.
Within a split second of regaining a shred of consciousness, I feel something being pulled out of my trachea and notice my throat making an involuntary gagging noise. My eyes spot a long thick flexible tube getting dragged out of my throat, causing sprays of saliva to be ejected from my mouth. Not long before proceeding to throw up clear fluid, bile, from a very empty stomach from the pressure taken off my trachea. Reactively I throw my body to the side of the bed, retching whatever has just been pulled from my gullet.
“Ugh.” I inhale a sharp breath and regain my focus. The muscles in my throat feel like they have been scratched with blunt knives. It is only then that I notice what that large plastic tube was that is being pulled away from my limp form. The trail of slimy and slightly mucus imbedded deep into the plastic, that is the length of my forearm, is being handled by a pair of hands.
Everything about this situation screams something medical.
I look over at the object that was pulled out of me better. Tubing, likely silicone or plastic, originally situated in my trachea. Normally that would then direct a current of pure airflow to the lungs, breathing for the person through the form of ventilation.
A guided airway to support breathing for either an intensive care case or a comatose patient.
Tracheal ventilation tube, my mind swiftly replies. Almost as if it was second nature to understand intimate elements of hospital equipment.
Wait a second how the hell did I know all of that?
Better question why did I need a tracheal ventilation tube?
A vague silhouette of fingers come quickly into my blurry eyeline. Staring at them longer makes me realise they are covered in silicone and weirdly pinching the air in front of my face.
This is oddly unsettling. One major thing I don’t understand is how I am as calm as I am.
“What – oo – lus - oo?” the voice irritatingly asks from nowhere again.
My eyelids blink sporadically gaining more sight as time lengthens. It feels like a herculean effort regaining my basic function of sight. Everything I have, every shred and dust of energy has to wake up now. I have to push nothing into some form of energy. My cells’ mitochondria must be going insane with the amount of effort they are putting into converting essentially nothing into a useable form of ATP.
Wait, why do I know so much about how the body works and their cellular functions?
“Huh?” My garbled voice ejects.
Why was this voice of mine not making any sense? The muscles in my throat and mouth are just not coordinating, which seems deeply strange. Why couldn’t this weird robotic voice just ask me a proper question? Why on earth does it think I can talk eloquently, when I have clearly been intubated for an extreme length of time and will likely have throat trauma from that.
The latter is something I am going to have to sit down and question later, but now to the present situation at hand. The more important factor that is pertaining to my unbearably scratchy throat.
Who do I have to throw into the nearest gurney to get a drink of water round here?
Noises pitched in and out of frequencies, which made no more sense than being given a textbook in Greek and being told to recite it word for word. Now my vision was coming back, light wasn’t so assaulting anymore, but looking around the limited space did not help.
It made my brain worry a lot more. Because everything gave me a sense of dread.
The room is overbearingly painted brightly in a shade of white. And looking around there are various textures on the walls and floor; is this room padded? Why are the walls padded?
In a momentary lapse of distraction, those disturbing fingers move straight in front of my face. Alarmingly it turns out they were not fingers at all, but attachments to a long metal mechanical arm. And for some reason they start moving again.
I only notice now my eyesight is back to a form of normality, that those fingers are four metal protrusions covered in silicone and attached to a giant robotic arm. Wherever the noise was coming from, it wasn’t from the robot, or whatever this thing is that was trying to test my capacity. It was from a surround sound speaker system somewhere else in the room. The problem was though, from my limited and very vague recollection, I cannot hear a thing they are saying.
Which is slightly inconvenient. Translating that is going to be awkward given my current predicament.
I thread my soft hands through my hair as I slowly grapple with the environment I have woken up to. First, I need to make sense of reality first, then ask questions.
Remain calm, concentrate on breathing then execute the plan.
I slowly push myself up into a cross-legged position on the bed and grimace at the feeling of my muscles reactivating. The process is entirely alien to my body. However, something I do notice is instead of my body being skinny and taunt, like expected after an intense procedure; they’re insanely muscular. My biceps are toned and rounded showing sign of intense physical therapy. My calves are expertly sculpted and my torso is a complete shock to my eyes because I think I have abs?
I am taking all of that as a positive and will be feeding that back to my care team, because whatever they have done has worked insanely well thus far. I think I have gained more confidence in my body within the past two seconds than I have ever felt throughout my entire life.
First things first, what do I know? I’m in a room, which happens to house a weird robot who is acting like a doctor. Its body is overtly robotic, with a hinge connecting to two joints so it can rotate and move. It is suspended from the ceiling, but can clearly move wherever it wants as demonstrated previously. I notice its body is covered in a beige plastic with certain parts being welded to silver metal. The being is moving seamlessly around the room (must be on a rail), opening drawers and laying out equipment onto a sterile table. Wherever I am they must have good money for a robot who can now take over doctorial duties. I have only ever seen something like this in sci-fi films or at a conference where flashy doctors talk about how much funding they get.
Undeniably I have an innately irresistible urge to punch it, though I do not know why.
The room layout and architecture throws me off entirely. Everything is padded, so either I am on a spaceship (stupidly unlikely given I am deathly afraid of heights) or in a psychiatric unit. I do not like the sound of either of those odds.
Did I have a psychotic breakdown and end up being thrown into a coma in a weirdly intensive psychiatric unit? Sounds a bit far-fetched to me and my overwhelmed brain.
While I am still questioning my life crisis, the doctor robot’s weirdly silicone pinchers stop suddenly in front of my face. It causes me to lean backwards on my hands, as its arm tilts on an axis looking at me questioningly. If it had a face, I know it would be raising its eyebrow impatiently at me.
Like I would have done before to people in my life.
My eyes see a small little box protrude out of its arm with a black screen and a white blinking cursor. Internal confusion must have registered somehow with what appears to be a sentient robot, because the cursor blinks into action and starts typing.
What is two plus two? It states blankly.
I raise my eyebrow at the machine as if it can read my petulancy. Really, am I a toddler? What kind of a question is that? If anything, that question feels insulting to my intellect.
“f-f-f-u-r.” My voice croaks out striking an intense wave of pain through it. The alien feeling causes me to hoarsely cough into my inner elbow.
Incorrect.
What is two plus two? The screen reiterates.
We’re still starting with basic maths? This is insane. I am still continuing to hold onto my passive aggression because I am nothing if not petty.
With every ounce of concentration I have in my capacity I try to utter the words it wants me to hear. “F-f-o-o-r-r.”
Correct
Thank fuck.
What is the cube root of 8? It types.
Cube root? What the hell is a cube root? It doesn’t even sound real. Where’s the easier questions for that matter?
After ransacking my brain, I realise that they mean square root. The square root of a number! They are asking me what the square root of eight is. Why didn’t they ask that instead of using the word cube.
“Two.” I mutter hoarsely.
Correct. It finishes. Thank God, finally I can get further with this android being.
It then types a new sentence: What is your name?
Well bugger me.
My hands cover my face, muffling my cries. Surely that should be the easiest question I know? So why doesn’t the answer come to me immediately? Why do I not remember my own name?
The robot must hear my muttering and panicked confusion and continues typing.
You have been in an induced coma…
Wait what? Why was I in a coma? Cries escape my mouth while the screen continues blinking and typing more words.
It is imperative to remain calm.
I think calm went out of the window when I woke up from this fucked up nonsense. I stop watching the blinking cursor typing reems of words I don’t care about. Instead, I try and will my body to move off this weirdly oval shaped bed. Except there is one major problem with that idea.
I forgot in light of the recent discovery, that while my comatose muscles look physically appealing, they do not work immediately after you wake up. So, while my body is more toned than an average gym goer, the ability to hold themselves upright is virtually non-existent.
So, I immediately fall off the bed and onto the floor with a resounding thud.
Gravity can be a total bitch.
In hindsight at least the padding was included on the floor. I take back every previous insult I thought about it. This is actually more comfortable than the bed I was on.
Any speck of energy I had before, has completely vanished. Exhaustion floods through my body and sinks into my veins, causing my eyelids to flutter shut.
My eyes blink open, sluggishly, again which is where I notice I have been transported back onto the hospital egg bed again. So much for floor time…
The doctor robot arms come into my eyeline with its handy little text monitor and irritatingly blinking cursor and asks:
Are you in pain?
I cannot tell whether that is genuine or sarcastic. What a loaded question to ask after my freefall earlier. I shake my head and turn sharply away from it, which only seems to spur it on to whizz itself into my sight and passively force the monitor into my face again.
“No.” My throat grumbles painfully. “Sleep?” I ask hopelessly. Clearly my brain connection to my mouth is still lacking, which means my speech has not fully regained function yet. The monitor wipes the previous sentence and starts blinking letters again.
12 hours 15 minutes 17 seconds
Now that shocks me because I may not have all of my memory function but I know I do not sleep that well at the best of times. Who knew having an induced coma could do that to you?
After a while of being observed by doctor robot I slowly sit up on the bed and flip my legs over the side of the frame. I know for a fact that I have less tubes and wires attached to my body than I did earlier, so I can only assume that is a good thing. I can actually experience the return of feeling recovering into areas of my body that have been poked and prodded needlessly. Which is a relief, more than I ever thought could be possible.
However, I am still not accustomed to gravity, just yet, but somehow the arm of the robot anticipates this and leans into support my body as I right myself. My left-hand clasps around its rubber pinchers for support as I stand up for the first time. Which is weirdly easier than I predicted. It is only when I am up-right I notice how extremely toned my body is.
“Shit.” I gasp in shock.
How on earth have I been in a coma and managed to maintain a jacked body? I know of studies giving patients light physiotherapy who are in comas to aid muscle function and prevent atrophy, but I have never seen anything of this kind before. This is incredible. Whoever is my doctor they need a raise and a great big kiss on the forehead for all their hard work.
Slowly guided by the doctor robot across the small padded room, I notice a ladder trailing upwards towards a sealed door. Now that piques my interest.
Immediately I want to climb that.
I immediately let go of the robot and swing for the ladder, grasping onto the cold rails at the last second. I am so climbing up this thing even if it kills me, regardless of why I am in a weirdly secure hospital unit.
Rung by rung I pull myself upwards, only noticing how tall this room really is. Surely most hospitals don’t have rooms this tall? No hospital I know of would have a readily accessible ladder in a ward room. The risk assessments alone on that would give anyone working in health and safety a migraine.
Again, that thought makes me stop in my tracks because that seems oddly specific. That feels like a memory not just something that is common knowledge.
As I force energy from my brain into my hands to climb up, I notice something in my peripheral vision. Large oversized trays protrude the walls holding covered lumps. The longer I look the quicker I realise they aren’t lumps, but bodies.
Wait there are people here? I let out a squeal of delight. Finally, someone who might understand what is going on here.
I swing to the first person eager to wake up my next bunk buddy and understand what the hell is going on. My hands reach over and pull the blanket off their head.
That is when I notice their incredibly ill body.
My face drops, any potential excitement draining from me, and I instantly switch into observation mode. In front of me is an older male, he has a greying military buzz-cut, most likely mid-forties or early fifties, short stature and dehydrated. No not dehydrated, everything is sunken. Almost mummified. The skin that used to live and cushion their body has slowly ebbed away, leaving a tissue-paper thin layer on their bones. Darkening in colour due to lack of blood and oxygen circulation. There is no ventilation tubing device, no cannulas, no life support system. He is completely still. Muscles confined and flooded with the tell-tale rigor mortis stiffness. Blue skin under the finger nails, pale lips and blotches of skin present a condition long before I even consider feeling for a pulse.
Dead.
Long dead.
I move my hand over to their wrist and feel for a radial pulse, something that comes instinctively. Though I am not sure why.
Realistically I know this person is dead. The evidence stood in front of my eyes is compelling but I need to know. I need to make sure this is something that I cannot fix. The lack of a simple fluttering pulse is enough to prove that. My hand moves and grabs their blanket and pulls it up to cover their face.
“M’ sorry.” I mutter in apology to them, before climbing upwards.
Another bunk bed, presents another potential corpse. I grab the blanket and lift it off their face. This time it’s a young woman.
She has long black hair and a unique blotchy skin pattern that makes me take a shuddering breath. Early thirties at the least, but who knows at this rate. No oxygen mask, no subtle murmur of a ventilation system, no intravenous lines or observable medical devices. Even observing her I can see her skin is becoming dehydrated. She needs intravenous liquids, oxygen and medication fast.
Her muscles are observably relaxed, but there are elements of her body that are becoming stiff. I lean my hand to her left wrist and press my fingers gently on her radial vein, waiting for something to pulse. Something to trigger a reaction to my gentle touch.
Nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
My head knocks into the metal rung of the ladder and I can’t help but let out a wail of grief. Her skin is not tight around her bones like the previous guy’s was, which makes this situation worse to me.
Time is a conniving beast.
Because if I had woken up earlier, I might have been able to prevent her death. This could have been avoided. I carefully look over to where my hand is clasping her wrist and look at her bony hand. Delicate and fragile, all the while I am so scared I will break them in half.
Realistically I know I could not have fixed this situation, but I have no hope if she is the last person in this place.
Reality is crashing down on my brain right now and all I know is that I am terrified for whatever will greet me upstairs.
I pull up her bedsheet to cover her face, gently tucking her into bed for the final time in her short life. She looked kind, like I could have known her. It hurts that I don’t know who these people are, they have no easily identifiable names. Just startling faces, I don’t recognise.
“Sorry.” I practically whimper to her and continue further up the ladder. Now my stamina is being tested and it is getting harder to push through the fatigue but I have to know if I am alone. There is one last bunk that is near to the top of the ceiling and I stop before looking over.
Do I really want to know if I am trapped with three corpses? The dread fills my stomach with bile and makes its presence very startling to me.
No. I don’t want to know. But clearly, I have to.
My head turns slowly and I look over to another man, when confusion passes my mind. There is a lack of blanket covering his face. Which is unlike how these observations started with the previous two corpses. It hits me weirdly because nothing about him is alerting my brain like it did before.
He looks nothing like the other two people I came across. His skin is tinged and flushed with a healthy shade of pink, body lying still and stable which is slightly reassuring. He has a tracheal ventilation tube in, which is more than the other two had and numerous intravenous tubes poking out of his arms. My hand gently stretches out to his wrist and lightly pushes down on his radial vein, where I let out a shuddering sigh of relief.
A pulse.
A strong pulse.
Thank the stars he alive.
Thank God I am not alone.
My sigh turns into shuddering laughter of disbelief. I am not alone. There is someone else here with me, alive, in this odd and weirdly specific psychiatric/space themed room. This means we can figure out what is going on together.
I continue my fierce hold onto the ladder with both hands and look at his face in more detail where something obscure crosses my mind.
He looks familiar.
Those eyebrows. Those creases on his forehead. The sharp angular jaw even with the added facial hair length.
He is really familiar it is quite startling.
No.
There is something deep inside my brain, a memory being tugged and pulled to the forefront of my mind. He doesn’t just look familiar at all, deep down I know this guy. Even with the overgrown hair and scraggly long beard that are disguising him. Slightly making him look like a Caucasian Jesus.
The longer I look at him the quicker my reality hits that I know exactly who this man is.
Ryland Grace.