Roswell looked at himself in the mirror of the Phoenix Foundation's first floor restroom. The van's air bag had broken his nose, and that was not fun. The bleeding had stopped with considerable effort, but the swelling was now significant enough he was getting looks.
It was, however, working in his favor. They weren't seeing him as much as they were seeing a walking broken nose in a lab coat. Having made the decision of MacGyver's death over his own, he now had to follow through. It wouldn't be long before a re-draw would be sent, and a second "accident" wouldn't be easy to explain. And it would hurt. Overall a terrible plan.
But, fortunately, he'd had another one. It was 2017 and public buildings no longer allowed smoking. Federal buildings and most workplaces didn't even officially allow smoking on the properties, though most would turn a blind eye as long as you were reasonably outside and away from any obvious security cameras. And there were always hold outs who needed the cigarette at some point during their workday.
He'd watched one of the less conspicuous side entrances for an nearly an hour before a man roughly his hair and skin color slipped out of it. The man, now an unknowing target, propped the door, squinted in the sunlight for a moment before reaching into his pocket to get his pack of cigarettes. He immediately took a syringe dart to the thigh.
The man was no trained agent, that was for sure. Instead of ducking down and attempting to find cover or duck inside to call for help, he'd appeared stunned for a moment, then looked around to see where the dart had come from. In his moment of confusion, Roswell sprung forward, pushing the man into the bushes, where he easily handcuffed him and stuffed a wadded rag into his mouth. Then, covered by the landscaping, he'd mostly just sat on the man until he stopped struggling and his eyes drifted shut. At that point, Roswell'd pulled the rag out of the man's mouth and uncuffed him, then relieved him of his lab coat and security badge before rolling him into his side.
Then he'd slipped inside, brushing mulch from the coat.
He washed some of the dry blood off his face, gingerly holding a damp paper towel to the swelling. He let his eyes close, feeling an unpleasant pounding sensation behind them. Not the first time he'd had a broken nose, but this was shaping up to be the worst. If he got out of here without being caught, he'd want to get to an emergency room for an x-ray as soon as was feasible.
"You okay, buddy?" Someone had walked in without him noticing. His eyes snapped open, a little sheepishly.
"Yeah, tripped, if you can believe it." He lied casually. "Fortunately all I was carrying was a window box." He indicated a ground-in patch of dirt on the coat's sleeve. "But I'm good, no worries."
The intruder went about his business as Roswell tossed the paper towel into the garbage. If he could find some ice that would be better, but he had a job to do.
Murdoc had asked for a poison that killed over the course of 72 hours. Which, technically speaking, he had delivered. The poison's peak, the point when it was most effective, was close to that time frame. In all reality, though, depending on his activities since the injection, he would likely die much sooner than that.
There was a lot left to chance with this poison, which had been another one of Murdoc's stipulations. In hindsight, though, his actual choice of poison had been a poor one- and the reason MacGyver had to die if he wanted to live. While it would be deadly in a field situation, it was treatable in a hospital one. Should have gone with a 20g tylenol dart, he thought. That would have met the criteria and Mac would still die slowly but there'd be absolutely no way to save him if they figured it out late. A lot less stressful over all.
He had to stop beating himself up over it. Mac could still die, as long as he was in that field situation. The agent was stubborn enough to still be in the building. All Roswell had to do was get the building to lock down (not difficult in government-themed locations), and voila, no access to medical care- free wilderness in the heart of LA.
The hard part was behind him. He was in, he just needed to make an emergency.
1730, 25 hours post poisoning. HR 99, SPO2 98%, RR 26
A while ago, I talked about all the things humans can't do when they're unconscious. You want to know something we can usually manage? We can vomit. The body assumes if you're out of it, it's because of something you ate, so getting everything out of you becomes a top priority. One side-effect of this is that if you're really out of it, you can end up breathing it in. Which will probably kill you faster than whatever's in your stomach.
Fortunately, MacGyver woke up just in time to push himself to the edge of the bed and vomit over the side. Once he was sure he was done, he rolled back over onto his back, panting. Sweat was beading on his skin, making the cement room seem colder than than it should have been. An alarm was going off somewhere. From the other side of the room, he heard the creak of Gayle's office chair as she got off it and paced back to the cot.
"Hole in one." Gayle said in a mock-congratulatory tone. Mac opened his eyes to see her walking towards him. His mouth tasted like bitter pennies. He was still breathing hard and the alarm was still going off. "I mean, traditionally 'put the bucket by their head and hope for the best' isn't usually the most effective method of vomit management but you seem to have-" She stopped talking suddenly as she got to the bedside. Mac looked blearily up at her, trying to piece together why she had stopped talking. "Mac, I'm going to call the ambulance."
"What?" He asked. He felt he should get a pass on the vitals thing, at least until the burst of adrenalin that came with waking up with his stomach contents spilling out waned. He just needed a little more sleep, maybe some more water if he could keep it down. "Why?" He rolled over to look at the 5-gallon paint bucket Gayle had placed by his head while he'd slept. In the bucket was a semi solid, dark brown mass. A bout of dizziness came over him again and he made himself roll back onto his back, spots flitting in front of his eyes for a moment. The amount of vomit was interesting, he thought. He hadn't eaten anything he could remember...
"You saw that, right? That's what partially digested blood looks like. And unless you've recently converted to vampirism, you're bleeding pretty badly." Mac swallowed. "You can wash your mouth out, and then I need a set of vitals and for you to answer some questions the best you can for me, okay?" She lifted the head of the bed and seemed to consider him for a moment, then handed him a styrofoam cup with some water in it. "Swish that around and you can spit it in the bucket. For now I won't have you drink anything." She instructed.
Mac took the cup and shakily did as he was told. He didn't feel as nauseated anymore, just dizzy and weak and more tired than he ever had in his life. But now fear had cropped up into the picture too. Bleeding, she'd said. The blood presumably running into his stomach and getting digested there. So internal bleeding. He might not know a lot about clinical medicine, but he'd found himself in enough crappy situations to know that internal bleeding wasn't awesome. Especially at that volume.
Gayle returned with a wet washcloth and the dynamap. She gave him the cloth to wipe his face and attached him to the machine as the alarm stopped going off in the background. "Can you tell me your name?" She asked. Mac frowned.
"MacGyver."
"Where are we?"
"Phoenix Foundation."
"What day is it?"
"Friday." Gayle nodded, looking relieved. The dynamap dinged. Gayle frowned, then cycled the machine again. "Was that really necessary?"
"Yes. I learned a lot from it. Now focus- Any feeling like you can't catch your breath, chest pain, blurred vision, or feeling like you're going to pass out?"
Mac swallowed again. He was definitely breathing faster than usual, but not because he felt like he was suffocating. "Not much, just a little dizzy, and cold." Gayle nodded.
"I'll get a blanket, and if you're done with the water I'll lay your head a little flatter. I'm still keeping it slightly up in case you feel like you have to vomit again." He noted she had said "vomit" and not "puke" which made him uneasy in a way he couldn't explain. "And this will be easier to aim for." She said, handing him one of those blue vomit bags emergency departments seemed to specialize in.
1750: A+Ox3, BP 99/65, HR 119, RR 32, SPO2 98%
Gayle pulled a Phoenix-issue cell phone out of her scrub pocket and dialed 911 as she went to get the blanket. The call didn't connect. She tried again. The icon in the corner of the phone's screen read "no service". Even though she was in a basement office of a mostly-cement building, she'd never had trouble dialing out, so the loss of service was a little odd. Frowning, and making a mental note to get it checked with Phoenix Foundation's tech support guy, she went up to the front desk.
That was when she noticed something was wrong. The phone at her desk, the one hardwired into the wall with an actual cord attaching it to the handset, wasn't picking up a dial tone. "Mac?" She asked. "Is your phone getting any signal?"
Mac fumbled with his phone, the lock screen a mess of yellow-framed numbers, and squinted at the icon in the corner of the screen. No signal. Mac shook his head, then stopped, feeling like he was going to vomit again. "No." He managed. "'something wrong?"
"Yes. We have to get out of here right now, guys." A man's voice said urgently. Gayle looked up to see Jack standing in the clinic's doorway, Riley not far behind. No sooner had they entered the room, but there was a beep as the building's intercom came online.
"ANNOUNCEMENT: THE PHOENIX FOUNDATION MAIN BUILDING HAS INITIATED LOCKDOWN PROCEDURE 3.5. PLEASE GET TO YOUR DESIGNATED LOCATIONS AND SHELTER IN PLACE. ALL DOORS ARE RFID ACCESS ONLY. REPEAT. THE PHOENIX FOUNDATION MAIN BUILDING-"
The intercom cut off suddenly, just before the lights cut out as well. Riley forced her shoe under the door as the electromagnet holding it open automatically released, bracing it in place. Unfortunately, before she could do anything else, there was a loud click sound, then another as the fire doors at each end of the hallway automatically closed and locked, shutting them in.
