THE SWAMP by Elszy


Pt 1

John woke up with a burning sensation all through his upper body combined with the mother of all headaches and a distinct feeling of nausea. He couldn't remember the last time his head felt like this, and he was no stranger to headaches or hangovers, for that matter. But this was different, as if he had been gulping down lots and lots of the poor quality whiskey that the old guy at Freddie's bar sometimes tried to sell him. Out of habit his hand moved downwards and his fingers touched the sensitive stump where once a leg had been. Before he went back to work he used to have nightmares, practically every night. But since he rejoined the force, he slept better. The phantom pain in his leg was still there, and he was told it would never completely go away, but all in all he had to admit that the synthetic leg worked better than he had expected.

Speaking of which - what in God's name had he done? Why was he feeling so… so weak?

'Oi. Look who's awake,' said a female voice in an unmistakable Scottish accent.

Dorian? Was that accent one of the android's pranks? 'Nnggddd…' That didn't sound like his own voice, that was just a lot of hoarse cracking and grunting. His lips were dry as cork and he noticed how thirsty he was. He opened his eyes, felt a stab of pain from the light that shot through his optical nerves and realized - he wasn't in his own bed. Where the hell…

He tried to push himself up, but he fell back before he even got to a sitting position. A white-hot stab of pain in his chest and his back momentarily took his breath away. The bed swayed like the sea and even with his eyes closed, he could feel everything swirling around him.

He panted and he must have moaned, because the woman said: 'Stay down, stay down. You're in no condition to go anywhere. Not until you have that in your system.'

That? That what? Confused, he blinked his eyes to get the cloudiness away and after a while the face that matched the voice came in view. That appeared to be an IV of some kind. Dark. Blood?

'Hi,' said the woman. She was about 25 years old, with a mop of unkempt brown hair and brown eyes, and lots and lots of freckles.

'Hi,' John managed to say.

'Here, have a sip. You've been out for more than a day, I don't want you to get dehydrated.'

More than wha… a day? Things got more confusing by the minute.

'How…' It took him a lot of effort to speak, until she pushed a straw between his lips and he could drink. The water was cool and refreshing.

'Not too much, not too fast,' she warned and pulled the straw and the cup away. 'If you can keep that down without getting sick, you can have more. And I'll get you something with a little more substance. My name is Milla, by the way. Milla Redding.'

After this introduction John allowed himself to take in his surroundings. He wasn't in a bed, but on a couch in a living room. His leg was on the table, surrounded by equipment and wiring, and he thought he saw a charger. The room was plain, a bit messy, with lots of books, computer stuff and more electronic equipment. Books… John's father liked books made of paper, but he was one of the few. John hadn't met many people who still held on to the space consuming paper books. Why p-books when digital editions were easy to come buy and were always the latest version?

Because, his father would say, there's nothing like the real thing. A book. An object that you can hold in your hand, smell, leaf through and already feel what it will be like, even before you've read one chapter.

Perhaps his father had been right. There was a sense of importance and honesty about p-books. The books on the shelves in this small living room certainly understated that sentiment.

'How did I get here?' he asked after a while, his voice still unfamiliar to his own ears.

Milla sat down on the coffee table next to the couch and touched his forehead, checking his temperature. 'Oops, you're still pretty warm, John. Too warm, I can tell. It's the infection. What? How you got here? Easy. I brought you in, you're in my flat. How you got in the boot of my car, I don't know. I was hoping you could tell me.'

'… the boot… the trunk of… your car…?'

'Yeah.' She seemed to notice his bewilderment, because she smiled reassuringly and said: 'You're at a loss, I can tell. Here's what happened. I went out for groceries, came back and found you in the car. My first impulse was to call the police, but then I found your ID and I reckon that you hadn't hidden in my car for nothing, otherwise you would have called your colleagues, right?'

'… errr…'

'Anyways, there was a hole in your chest, and - luckily for me and for you - an exit wound in your back. Seemed like a good idea to take you in and get that cleaned up before you'd smear your blood all over my car. So, someone shot you. Who did you piss off to get stuck with this detail?'

Milla spoke very fast which sapped what little energy John had from him. He leaned back deeper into the pillows and closed his eyes. She chatted on about him being heavy and blood loss, synthetic energy disruption signals and a lot of other things he couldn't quite grasp. He tried to get his mind around it, but it was too difficult to focus right now. More than a day… he had been shot… he'd been in a car trunk…

'… where's… gun?'

'I don't know. There was no gun when I found you.'

'…'

'Ah, you poor soul. Look at you. I'm wearing you out, I can tell? Well, you get some sleep and when you're awake and feeling better, we'll talk some more. For now, don't you worry. I've got everything covered.'

John wanted to say something. Thank you did sound appropriate, yet the words didn't reach his lips. Dorian? What happened to Dorian? Where did he go? was the last thing John thought before he drifted off to sleep again.


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