No matter how much he stared, Gibson knew he could not rid his mind of the sight that lay in front of him. The mouth was sagging, pulled at an odd angle because of the breathing tubes that were snaking through the lifeless body that lay before him. The body, frail, it looked so much smaller Than Gibson remembered, the chest connected to so many tubes and wires in places it was hard to see the pale skin stretched over the ribs that were so prominent. Had he always been this thin? It was difficult to tell Gibson realised, having not seen him in this way before. The eyes were slack, meaning that at a certain angle they were slightly open, this unnerved Gibson to no end, he would much rather tape them shut, like he had to do when he operated, but felt this would make it look even more like a scene from a horror movie. Gibson slowly moved round to the other side of the bed, taking his time. From the right side, all looked as normal as was possible in these circumstances, but from the left, the side he'd been thrown on, the whole of his chest was covered in bruises of a sickly dark purple, as a result of numerous broken ribs, his face was much the same, a fracture in his cheekbone required surgery so there was an awful jagged scar running from beside his eyelid to the bridge of his nose.
The only sounds were of muffled gunfire from above, the war still continuing on the surface when Gibson's own personal hell was happening in the makeshift hospital below the city. When various distraught friends had bought Chiro to him, Gibson had been efficient, looking at the boy like a mechanic might look at a robot, seeing what parts needed to be reattached, what needed to be fixed, to be put back where it should be. But now they had gone back to join the fight, no doubt supplying him with more casualties later on, he was left to the silence, to his own thoughts, and to the company of a dying child. Grasping his chart tightly with both hands, Gibson concentrated on the never-ending list of numbers it displayed, trying to occupy his thoughts. His thoughts were soon interrupted however when one of the machines by the bed bleeped suddenly with a shrieking urgency. Gibson was by his side in seconds tapping at the machine, placing a stethoscope on the boys' chest, he listened to his heartbeat. It had quickened, not got stronger, it was still a dull thud, just quickened in pace. Gibson took off the stethoscope, nothing to worry about as of yet, a change this slight wasn't going to kill him any time soon. However Gibson felt a strange tug on his heartstrings looking at the monitor, at the racing, fragile heartbeat. Maybe sometimes he had to be a bit more than just a doctor. Approaching the bed, he curled his metal fingers round the boys own pale hand. 'It's Ok,' he said, giving it a gentle squeeze. 'Everything's ok'.