In this chapter, we're going to be looking into what exactly is the extent of QuackerJack's injury, such as how his information processing is a bit altered now. I intended this chapter to be more light than the last one, but honestly, my writing process is to just set the scene and see where the flow takes us.
That said, this was a fun one to visualize.
Darkwing didn't exactly expect to lose track of QuackerJack, but for some reason, Darkwing did in fact lose track of QuackerJack.
What made this more concerning is that QuackerJack was not in his assigned room, nor did he seem to be anywhere on that hospital floor.
Somehow, Darkwing managed to lose track of a recovering brain trauma patient who was easily a head taller than him, had a minor limp in his stride, and was known to have the attention span of kid hopped up on caffeine and sugar.
If he was lucky, Darkwing might be able to locate him before Claire arrived for her daily visit in the evening, and be spared the embarrassing task of explaining to her how he managed to keep his attention off QuackerJack long enough for him to disappear from sight in a well regulated place of healing.
Darkwing refrained from alerting too many people about this snag in today's events, as he did not want the entire hospital to be placed on lockdown and likely end up as evening local news, which would of course be blown out of proportion.
He could just see the headlines now: "Local Clown Lunatic Disappears; Causes Lockdown of Dispensary (Darkwing Declines for Comment)"
After the initial annoyance wore off, it occurred to Darkwing that perhaps QuackerJack wandering off while still in his recovering state might be more cause for alarm than he considered at first. Darkwing wasn't quite sure to what degree certain things were either debilitating or physically detrimental to a head injury victim, but he couldn't help be have the troubling mental image of a confused and disoriented QuackerJack wandering off the hospital property into possible dangers, and then Darkwing would have to explain to Claire how he had inadvertently allowed that to happen via in attentiveness. He already had to deal with the occasional sleepwalking episode from his kid, and was well aware how St. Canard wasn't a good place to be ambling about in without any coherent thought.
I only looked away for maybe a minute or two, how could he have gotten so far that quickly, he's got a limp, for crying out loud...
He quickly inspected the current floor he was on, glimpsing into waiting room lobbies, and asking the occasional orderly if they'd seen a scrawny, lanky, buck toothed Duck wandering around the halls. Not much luck, as most leads (if any) seemed to be just a few minutes too late.
Then Darkwing stopped where he was and smacked a hand to head forehead.
Of course, where's the one place a guy obsessed with toys is going to be at in a hospital..?
The Pediatrics waiting room lobby.
Sure enough, there was QuackerJack, sitting in a chair and at a table far too small for his gangly stature. It was almost comical, the way he looked, sitting like that.
He was stacking wooden blocks with the children in the waiting room, and it seemed like the children were enjoying having someone there who was tall enough to put the highest blocks on the tallest part of the stack. In fact, it seemed like QuackerJack himself was enjoying the interaction and attention.
Odd as it seemed, Darkwing found himself paused in the entry point of the lobby and staring at the sight, blinking as QuackerJack laughed along with the kids as the block tower tumbled over from poor weight distribution, and they simply started again, albeit with a different style of foundation. QuackerJack did not notice Darkwing as he suggested to the kids how to make a more stable structure by adding blocks as lower supports.
"But, we won't have enough to make it really tall!" One of kids chimed in among the chatter.
"Well, yeah, but trust me, it'll fall over too easily if you don't stabilize it." QuackerJack said, pushing a few blocks along the table to set them against the foundation. "I've had that happen plenty before. It was a big mess. Fell right down on me."
No doubt he was referring to that massive block castle he'd constructed in his abandoned underground factory that Darkwing "tripped" into and brought the whole thing down on them in a far-from-whimsical avalanche of playthings. QuackerJack had ended up in near hysterics once his beautiful "toy kingdom" had been toppled like a house of cards, and the only logical thing to do, in his perspective, was to blow the rest of them via an exploding clown airbag.
Not that any of the children understood that remark, of course.
Darkwing was starting to wonder if he should say something to catch QuackerJack's attention, when QuackerJack spotted him out of the corner of his eye and almost quicker than a blink, he ducked as best as he could under the short table, which was an impressive feat for one suffering from a couple neurological difficulties at the moment.
Now, of course, because he wasn't child sized, this amounted to sticking his head under the table and his rump in the air, and it was probably about as effective as the concept of a dragon trying to hide itself under a throw rug.
"... You know I can still see you, right?"
"I'm not leaving yet, it's fun here."
"It's almost time for your scheduled check up, you can't be wasting time here."
"I beg to differ. It's not a waste of time; I'm stacking blocks, so that should be a good visual display of my retained and recovering motor functions." QuackerJack peered out cautiously from under the table. "I'm socializing, and employing problem solving skills by altering the manner of stacking blocks. I'd say that it should be considered a good thing for me to be over here."
"I don't make the rules. You have an exam scheduled, and it's of the utmost importance for you to keep up with these so that any sign of deviance in your physical recovery can be caught and countered before it becomes a legitimate concern." Darkwing reasoned in a level tone, having very little patience with QuackerJack and his shannangins right now.
"... I feel fine, can't we just postpone it?" QuackerJack whined in a petulant tone.
"I said I don't make the rules. You need to be there for the exam, it doesn't get done unless you're there." Darkwing stepped around the children staring at him to stand behind the table, hands on his hips.
"I don't much feel like getting a light flashed in my eyes or my mouth probed with a fat popsicle stick today." QuackerJack stuck his tongue out defiantly. "I said I'm fine."
"And I said it's almost time for your scheduled check up."
QuackerJack attempted to crawl out from the opposite end of the table, but he felt a hand grab his ankle, so he grabbed a leg of the table while he was tugged back. The table scooted with him.
"... Not gonna lie, I thought this was bolted to floor." QuackerJack mumbled as the stacked blocks fell over. He let go of the table leg as Darkwing let go of his. "Oh, now look what you did, we gotta rebuild the whole thing now, thanks Darkwing."
"Can't you act your age!"
"You don't even know how old I am, so how would you know that I'm not?"
"Because I'm pretty sure you're not a kid."
"Kid at heart!"
"No, you're being immature. There's a difference."
"Oh, you're no fun!" QuackerJack continued to whine, sitting up, folding his arms and pouting.
It was at this point that Darkwing was aware of the stares he was getting from the children and their parents (who were sitting in the chairs along the walls of the waiting room). QuackerJack took this opportunity to quietly crawl his way out of the waiting room as Darkwing quickly and unnecessarily tried to explain the situation to those present, then once he was out of sight, he stood up and ducked behind a corner, snickering to himself. Admittedly, avoiding Darkwing was a bit fun, not unlike the odd little games of "chase" he used to make the Masked Mallard partake in during capers.
It wasn't long until he heard Darkwing exclaim in frustration when he realized QuackerJack had disappeared yet again, and the toy maker watched Darkwing rush past him through the adjoining hallway, having not seen him as he didn't look to the right. QuackerJack grinned to himself, but stifled the laugh that was trying escape him, as he didn't want to give away his position so easily.
This was fun.
And of course, Darkwing, not wanting to let it be known that he wasn't capable of keeping track of QuackerJack, wouldn't easily alert the hospital staff that the buck toothed duck was evading him with such ease, unless he planned to make a scene. Knowing Darkwing, his pride would win out and he'd insist that he'd do this on his own so he could lay claim to handling the situation gloriously once it was defused.
Simply put, Darkwing was going to play the game with him, whether he wanted to or not. QuackerJack had waited far too long for this opportunity.
The rules were very simple. QuackerJack had decided that he was going to remain on the same floor, just that he was going to venture from waiting room to waiting room until Darkwing managed to finally get him back to his room, or if QuackerJack simply got bored of the game, whichever came first.
He did not tell Darkwing the rules, because it was just so amusing to hear the elevator doors chime and look out into the courtyard below to see his favorite playmate running around out there trying to find him.
This was as it should be, QuackerJack felt. Their own personal game of hide-and-seek.
He glanced at one of the papers hung up on the wall that was slipped into a plastic protector. It was a map of the floor plan, with fire escape paths marked clearly in lines of dotted red ink, but it also gave him a good mental image of the layout of the floor, from the hallways to adjoining corridors to exactly where his room was in correlation to his current position. These maps were posted at nearly every corner and intersection of the wing, and QuackerJack had to wonder if Darkwing had even bothered to use them to his advantage like he was.
Honestly, he liked the look and feel of the Pediatrics wing better than where he was staying, as there was a much more inviting choice in wall decor and colors, as well as the obligatory activity stations to amuse the children and stave off boredom while they waited for their names to be called. The only thing worth noting even remotely amusing on his end of things was the large cylindrical aquarium located in the corner of nearest waiting room from his assigned room, and while he didn't have any real objection to being mesmerized by the many small colorful saltwater fishies and other aquatic specimens in the tank, he preferred to be entertained by something more interactive.
That said, while you'd probably assume his favorite fish to watch in the tank was a clownfish, that would be incorrect. It was a long nose butterflyfish.
QuackerJack decided to venture to the fish tank once the inticing idea of watching the cute little water critters dart in and out of the display coral sounded like fun, and maybe he'd consider ending the game there.
Of course, he wasn't looking forward to the check up he had scheduled, but he had to admit that postponing it wasn't doing anything for him but just postponing it.
He was carefully tracing a finger along the curved surface of the tank, watching the fish seemingly follow along, by the time Darkwing found him again.
"I saw you go into the courtyard, by the way." QuackerJack said once he noticed the reflection in the glass. "Just so you know, I never left the floor, I've been on this level the whole time."
He bit back a grin as he heard Darkwing start to sputter in frustration before he shouted: "WHAT KIND OF GAME DO YOU THINK YOU'RE PLAYING?"
"... I've been hiding around, what do you think I'm playing?" QuackerJack looked at him with a glance over the shoulder before returning to sliding his fingers across the glass of the tank to follow the fish. "And don't yell so much, this is a place of healing, people like the quiet."
"Need I remind you that you are recovering from head trauma and the last thing you should be doing is wandering off somewhere someone can't find you or get to you if you have a relapse or a medical issue." Darkwing's tone of voice indicated his patience was wearing thin, and QuackerJack found some amusement in pushing that button ever so carefully.
"It's not wandering if I know what I'm doing."
"You're missing the point."
"You can't tell me that wasn't even a little bit fun, come on."
"Did you even hear what I said?"
"Yeah, yeah, something about not wandering off when I'm still recovering from head trauma, 'cause people can't find me, I know, I know." QuackerJack finally looked at him properly, and the amusement in his face had faded to reveal annoyance. "Is there anything else you want me to do besides stagnating in my room? Or should I just let my brain atrophy from lack of stimulation?"
"Alright, maybe I need to word this in a way that you get it." Darkwing didn't seemed fazed by the comment. "Who's going to explain to Claire that you, against better judgment, wandered off somewhere and no one knows where or what state you'd be in."
"Calisota."
"What?"
"The state. It's Calisota."
"You know very well what I mean!"
"Oh, don't get your feathers all ruffled, you're too serious." QuackerJack stuck his tongue between his teeth before looking back at the fish. "I knew exactly what I was doing, I wouldn't be foolish enough to purposely endanger myself."
"And you're starting to get irritable." Darkwing sounded matter-of-factly, but QuackerJack really didn't care right now. "You really need to go to that check up, the sooner it's done, the sooner you can get back to doing what you want to do."
There was silence as QuackerJack slowly pulled his hand away from the fish tank, letting his arm drop to his side limply. He darted his eyes from side to side as he stared at the reflection in the glass before he shifted his tired gaze back at Darkwing.
"... I want to go home." He mumbled in an uncharacteristically quiet voice before looking down. There was a sharp inhale, and he wheezed as he continued. "... I want my life back..."
Darkwing had seen QuackerJack break down plenty before, and almost always in such a loud and hysterical manner, almost disproportionate to the situation at hand as he stomped around and wailed about how unfair things were.
This time, however, QuackerJack just mutely sank to the floor in a sitting, trembling ball, and buried his face in his hands. It was such a startling contrast to what had come to be expected, and in that moment it was very clear how helpless QuackerJack really felt.
Maybe Darkwing gone about this all wrong. Maybe he had been a little snippy with QuackerJack, and maybe he was being a bit too serious about this.
Of course, he didn't really know QuackerJack as well as he thought he had, and perhaps he really should remember that QuackerJack was recovering from a brain injury and likely wouldn't be "himself" for a long time, if at all. That particular thought made Darkwing cringe as each of QuackerJack breaths were deep and wheezy, as if trying to force himself to keep his composure.
Darkwing sat down beside him awkwardly and waited a good minute before speaking.
"... Hey, Um... You... You doing alright there..?" He asked before adding after a pause: "... Jacky?"
QuackerJack lifted his head just enough to look at him timidly, then hid his face again with a tired groan.
"... No." He mumbled truthfully, shaking his head. "... No, I'm not."
"Okay, so maybe I was a little hard on you there." Darkwing said, looking upwards at the high-rise ceiling with a grimace. "But, you should know why it's a bad idea to disappear like that, considering you're-"
"Recovering from a brain injury, I know." QuackerJack snapped back wearily. "I know that. I know what I shouldn't be doing and what I can be doing. I just thought it'd be a little harmless fun to break the monotony. It's not like I set the place on fire or anything, I wasn't even running around."
"There's restrictions put in place for a reason."
"And is that reason to ensure my well-being and safety, or is that so they can make sure I don't 'escape' again?"
Somehow, QuackerJack managed to say that with the most deadpan delivery possible, yet still managed to give such a bitter edge to it. He lifted his head again and looked at Darkwing, who didn't respond to that statement, perhaps because it had caught him off guard.
"... I don't even remember any of that anyway. Not even a single second, nothing." The clownish duck shook his head slowly. "And not for lack of trying, mind you."
"... Well, I read that it's probably likely that you'll either not remember it for a long time, if at all."
"... That doesn't make me feel any better, Darkwing, just stop."
"I'm not good at this, can you tell?"
This made QuackerJack snort a little, perhaps more than it should have. He smiled feebly, a stark contrast to his well known Cheshire grin.
"... Very." He seemed to relax a little, and he wiped at his eyes with the back of his hand. "... It's not so much the possibility of never remembering anything about that bothers me. It's that I don't know what I'm supposed to do if I do." His fingers buried in the downy fluff on his head and bunched them up as if unconsciously grabbing the fuzzy feathers as a self comforting action. "... What happens then? Would I go back to being like crazy that, or will it be like some distant memory, a bad dream? Does everything I'm doing right now just... goes away? No more 'Jacky', just 'QuackerJack'?"
"... I'm not sure I follow exactly."
"I don't mean like it's two different people, I mean that..." QuackerJack paused and looked as though finding the words was difficult. "... Look, Darkwing, I'm just... tired. This is a lot to have to deal with, and I just wanted to do something fun. And to be fair, you've been gone a long time."
"And to be fair, I've been back for a while now."
"... I know..." QuackerJack dropped his head again. "... I guess we should just go to that exam now, then..."
He stared at the curious little craft project supplies in his hands. As part of his recovery process and a test of sorts to gauge his retained dexterity and whatever else they said (he honestly didn't pay much attention to the explanation, if he was going to be honest), he was given the opportunity to create something.
Under normal circumstances, he would have been ecstatic to be asked to design and build a playful little critter from scratch, but found his given tools to be a bit lacking.
Air drying modeling compound and pipe cleaners. Not that he hadn't worked with those before, but it seemed to be almost primitive for his usual style. He understood that he was being limited on resources likely to prevent any temptation to create one of his more "intriguing" ideas, as several people on this floor was aware of the activity had expressed concerns about it. As if he could somehow bring clay and pipe cleaners to life by pure will, what a silly thought.
The musky sweet smell of the modeling compound filled the air as he popped the lids off all the containers to get good look at all the colors, and he laid all the pipe cleaners on table in graduating order according to colors of the rainbow (which took longer than he'd like to admit, as he was having difficulty in remembering what color to start with).
The pipe cleaners were bendy, and he could easily twist them and curl them into shapes that he might need for any ideas he might have.
He held a hand above the cup of green clay, and hesitated.
"... You haven't told me what I'm supposed to make." He said bluntly, realizing there was already an obstacle and he hadn't so much as touched the soft surface of any of the clays yet.
"This is an activity meant for you to have control over, make what you want."
Jacky grimaced. He didn't know if it was a bad case of the nerves getting to him, but his mind felt blank when it came to trying to visualize something to bring out and give form.
"... I... I don't know." He muttered, trying to hide his embarrassment. "... I haven't made anything for a while, I think I need to just mess around with this stuff until I start getting an idea..."
"Have at it, then, go nuts."
He hadn't expected such a simple response. He blinked and looked back at the uncapped cups before cracking a smile as he grabbed each one of them, one after the other, flipped them over and dumped the balls of colorful dough onto the table. Even if he didn't have any ideas at the moment, he was still going to take advantage of the opportunity to stick his fingers into the soft clay until his digits were faintly stained with so many colors and smelled of salty musty wheat as he squeezed the dough in his hands.
He made it into snaky shapes, rolled it into balls, squished them flat and pressed pieces together to fuse them. Then he pushed a hand down on them to squash it into flat mound as he imagined a SPLAT noise accompanying the actions, as if smacking a bug.
Yet, he couldn't think of an idea to shape all this clay and pipe cleaners into.
He froze as if someone or something had flipped a switch off in his movements.
It hadn't occurred to him until now that his head injury might impair his ability to create his curious little crafts. He racked his brain for ideas, for something, maybe even a little spark of ingenuity, and he was horrified to be greeted with absolutely nothing.
... It's just clay and pipe cleaners, it's not like I've got all these components to use, that's not a big deal, I just haven't used such a simple concept in years, that's all...
He tried to assure himself that. He wanted to believe that he was just trying to approach something simple with a complex state of mind, and he just had to clear his mind and tap into that childlike sense of imagination and creativity in order to come up with a project to make with modeling compound and pipe cleaners.
I built two time machines, I can sure as heck make something with this stuff
He found himself looking around the room, darting his eyes across all the framed prints on the walls. Scenery, nothing but scenery in each of those; he was hoping to find an animal in the images to give him some inspiration. He wanted to make a friendly little critter, but he had no idea what kind.
"Mr. QuackerJack?"
He looked back at the person sitting across the table. The one who was in charge of taking notes and recording all his nuances to determine how well he was healing and if anything was cause for concern.
"... I, uh... I'm having a little trouble with sorting out an idea." Jacky admitted sheepishly, and felt his heart sink as he watched the pen scratch across the paper to take note of that. Darn it. "... It's been a while since I've been able to really make anything, so I think I'm a bit out of my groove."
"You don't have to impress us, the point of this exercise is so we can assess how your dexterity is doing in lieu of the injury and your treatments. Make whatever makes you feel comfortable, you don't even have to use all the materials."
"... I'm a toy maker. I've made more complicated things before."
"Yes, but with your injuries, you may experience some impairment and it's important to catch and assess that so we help with your therapy and recovery."
"... That doesn't make me feel any better, you know that, right?" Jacky growled. "Being an artist and not being able to create anything is the absolute worst..."
"Just play around with the stuff then, we're just going to be taking notes on how your fingers are responding to your actions."
After some more back and forth banter, Jacky eventually settled back down and peeled the flattened dough off the table, turning it around in his hands as he stared at it. He frowned again.
"... I... can't think of anything..." He mumbled, fighting back a sniffle. It was frustrating to the point of tears. "... I don't like this..."
"It's alright, it doesn't have to be an animal, you could just shape a box or a flower if you want."
"That's so uninspired!" Jacky shouted, slamming his hands on the table and standing up. "You can't just tell me to be simple about this, I used to be the greatest toy maker in the world, for gosh sakes! Now I can't even make a stupid... little... whatever that is! I hate this!" He heard more scribbling on the paper. "And I hate that you're taking notes!"
"I assure you, it's not for judging you." He was told. "We also need to document your emotional state during this activity, because that also ties in with our assessment. You've suffered a brain injury, so we not only are monitoring your brain activity, but your emotional responses and your physical recovery as well."
"... I know about all that brain stuff, I studied it before..." Jacky lowered his voice and sat back down as a shade of pink spread across his face. "... Alright, so how am I doing, then? Would you say that I'm recovering just fine or am I being difficult..?"
"Thats confidential."
"It's my files! I should be allowed to know! And you're smiling! Are you teasing me!"
"Mr. QuackerJack, if you are starting to be upset about this activity, we'll more than happily give you a break so you can get your bearings."
"I am not a child, I can do this!" He snapped back, grabbing a fistful of colored clay in either hand and slapping them together. "I can do this, I just can't do what I really want to with it!" He threw the combined glob on the table and rolled it under his palms. "I'll make something, but I'm not going to guarantee any quality to it!"
It seemed that spite was a good motivator, as he pinched the clay together and shoved pipe cleaners into it at reckless abandon, bending the wires into simple shape. Before long, he had, well... something.
"That's a nice little snail."
"... I could have sworn this was supposed to be a hermit crab." Jacky frowned once more, puffed his cheeks, then exhaled wearily. "... A snail is fine too, I guess... It's something at least." He pushed it across the table. "I guess you want the pieces back, hmm?"
"Oh, that's fine, you can keep him if you want."
He hadn't expected that.
"... How do you know it's not a girl snail?" He said, cupping a hand over the little craft project and pulling it back to him. "Is it because I used a lot of blue? Girls can like blue."
"Sounds like you already have a plan for this one, hmm?"
"I didn't say that. I asked how do you know that this is a boy snail."
There was a small, amused laugh given as a response.
"Well, then, why don't you tell us about your snail?"
"... I just made 'em, I haven't thought of a backstory yet." Jacky scooped up the clay mollusk and covered it carefully with the other hand as if shielding it. "Maybe it's not a snail but a slug lugging a spotted shell around pretending to be a snail because it's trying to fit in. I don't know, I'm not making assumptions."
"Is there a name for your little snail?"
"... Lumpy." Jacky said with hesitation, as if not entirely committed to the choice. "... You know, because I couldn't get the clay to smooth out very well."
"I'd say you did pretty good, Lumpy looks like a friendly snail."
"... Whatever." He muttered, looking at the little clay figure in his hands. "... Was supposed to be a hermit crab..."
Jacky blinked. He couldn't explain why, but it seemed like he was having some mild difficulty in processing what he was being told. For what felt like the fifth time already in this conversation, he asked to have the last part repeated, face darkening a shade of red from embarrassment.
"Circle the item in each group that are not like the rest."
"... What kind of groups are we looking at? If they're put together, doesn't that mean they do belong?"
"Just circle the ones that don't fit in your opinion."
Jacky wasn't sure how they managed to stay so patient with him, as he himself was getting very frustrated at not being able to grasp this simple task.
"... I'm sorry... I'm just... this doesn't make sense, is there another way you can explain it to me?" He fidgeted the pen between his fingers nervously. "... I mean, you've got a picture of a brick, a cup and a van here. Are we looking for the one that's not boxy looking, the one that's a vehicle, or the one that doesn't have only three letters in the name? Or maybe the one that's not for transferring stuff from one place to another? Or maybe the one that can't be thrown through a window?"
"There's no wrong answer, you can pick whatever you'd like."
He hesitated before he drew an X through the brick.
"You can't carry an egg in this one." He said before it suddenly occurred to him that he should have circled it instead. "Oh, dang it!" He hastily scribbled a circle around it over and over until he could smell ballpoint pen ink in the air and he was confident that the circle was more noticeable than the X. "I don't know why I didn't circle it right away! This is fine, right? You can see that it's a circle, can't you?"
"Yes, Mr. QuackerJa-"
"It's a circle! I circled it, I did what I was supposed to!" Jacky held up the paper and jabbed the pen at the now messy scribbles that had started to compromise the integrity of the page. "Why would you give me a pen to use, anyway? I can't erase it if I mess up like this!"
"There's no wrong answer, Mr. QuackerJack. It's not a quiz."
"Then what was the point of me doing this thing if this isn't a test?" Jacky scowled, slamming his hand down on the table in agitation. "What a waste of paper!"
"You misunderstood. It's not a quiz; this is a test, but it's to test your cognitive skills and auditory processing."
"... And I suppose I just failed, didn't I?"
"There is no win or lose with this test, Mr. QuackerJack. It's an assessment."
Despite the calm and patient tone, Jacky could begin to sense a smidge of exasperation in the voice. He looked at the examiner apologetically.
"... I'm sorry, but I just... I don't know why I'm having such trouble with figuring this out, I mean, it looks so easy in theory and I just can't seem to get it." He glanced sidewise at the paper, which was curling slightly where he'd scratched all the ink into it. "... You can carry an egg in a cup and in a van, but you can't carry it in a brick."
"A very interesting approach, I'll be honest."
"You can't open a brick." Jacky said as if that was obvious. "All a brick would do is smash the egg. The van could smash the egg too, but it can also carry it. You can smash the egg with a cup, I guess, but it's easier to carry it instead. I-It just makes sense." He insisted.
He heard the scratching of a pen on paper affixed to a clipboard. He flinched instinctively.
"It makes sense!" He tried to justify as if the noise had been an accusing challenge of contradiction. "Can you move an egg on a brick? Maybe not very well, but the point is that I'm supposed to mark the one that doesn't belong in the group in my opinion! I say it's the brick!"
"No one is saying that it's not a good answer."
"Then why does it sound like you're patronizing me!"
"Mr. QuackerJack, I'm sorry if this is upsetting you. Would you like if we save this for another day when you're feeling up to it?"
Jacky had been totally ready with a sharp response, but for some reason he found that it had died before it reached his tongue, leaving him with a half hearted mumble of uncertainty. He swallowed and dropped his gaze to the floor, staring at the odd patterns and shapes in the short pile fibers of the carpet, which looked like the flooring choice hadn't been changed out since the 1970s.
Truthfully, he was starting to feel fatigued from this whole activity, but he wasn't sure if it was because he had been working his poor healing brain too much on the assignment, or if it was because he was anxious from all these confusing tests he had to do.
"... That'd be nice." He said quietly, not looking up. "... Th-Thanks…"
He insisted that he could find his own way back to his room, mostly to preserve his dignity, but he quickly realized that he might have been mistaken. He found himself staring at the floorplan map and repeatedly tracing his finger along the path to the elevators. He had already come back to this map twice now, as he completely forgot his decided path once he turned the corner.
What is going on? I can't believe I'm having trouble finding my room
He decided that maybe it would be less disorienting to just use the stairs, as there usually was directional arrows to the separate wards. He tried his best to ignore the obvious stares he was getting, as he was absolutely certain that he must have appeared to be rather confused and perhaps a bit distressed to outside eyes.
He read the directory again as the noise of chatter and air conditioning units filled his ears. The sound of a pair of shoes squeaking across the floors and echoing down the halls jarred his attention away from his task and he felt almost defeated as he had to slide his finger along the listed names of the locations of the nearest wards.
His room number was not listed there.
He walked back into the stairwell and looked upwards with apprehension, seeing how many floors were above him. As far as he could recall, his room was on the third floor, or maybe the fourth.
He swallowed again and inhaled sharply. The stress of this whole thing was making his knees weak and his head dizzy. He stepped back into the lobby and sat down on the bench beside the directory and buried his face in his hands with a weary sigh.
... Maybe if I wait long enough, they'll notice I'm lost and someone can find me and take me back to my room…
"Jacky, is that you?" He heard a familiar voice say incredulously. This voice was neither Claire nor Darkwing.
He lifted his head from his hands and stared. Unless he was mistaken, he was looking at a very familiar weasel who seemed just as surprised as he was.
"Ms. Mustela!" He gasped. "What are you doing here? I thought your office was in a different part of town!"
"QuackWerks disbanded, I had to relocate my practice to here." The weasel said, shifting the armload of binders to reach out a hand to place on his arm in an automatic gesture of familiarity, almost as if to confirm that she was indeed seeing him. "Jacky, oh my goodness, you disappeared and no one heard from you for ages, are you alright, where have you been!"
Jacky continued to stare at her like a deer caught in the headlights. While he was of course relieved to see a familiar and comforting face, he was still upset at being lost and seemingly incapable of navigating what should have been a simple pathway.
"... I don't know, Ms. Mustela…" He said truthfully. "... I… I fell out of a window and hit my head, I don't remember anything about when I went missing…" His voice cracked as it really just hit him now that it had been worded that way. "... Oh gosh, I was missing… I don't remember any of it, but I was still missing for months…"
Before he knew it, Ms. Mustela was already sitting beside him on the bench, and it didn't take long for her to begin tending to him as if this was one of their sessions from long ago as if it was second nature for her.
"You've hit your head? Jacky …" Ms. Mustela gave him a look that hurt him, but simply because she looked as though the thought had hurt her as well. "Are you alright? Does anyone know you're here?"
"... I've been here for about a month now, Ms. Mustela. Darkwing brought me in after I got hurt, but I still don't remember the exact details." Jacky carefully pushed her hand away from his head, as she was actively separating the fluff to look at the stitches like a concerned parent. "I've lost my memory of the four months of I was doing whatever I was doing. Apparently I landed hard, it was like a three story drop. Didn't anyone tell you anything about it?"
"Unfortunately, no, I have not been able to get in contact with anyone since QuackWerks disbanded, and most concerning is that your files were wiped from the systems in some peculiar glitch." Ms. Mustela frowned, still staring at him as if he'd just come back from the dead. "After you disappeared, all my attempts to find any hint as to what may have been the trigger was blocked, as if your files were suddenly made private. I didn't have a password, and it was like someone was covering something up." She blinked and made a small gasp. "What do you mean you fell out of a third story window!"
"I don't know, no one has explained everything leading to it, not even Claire, they just say that I fell but I feel like something doesn't add up about it." Jacky shrugged. "But everyone's being careful of talking about it, because they don't want to compromise any memories I actually kept, if any." He gave a small frown. "... You didn't see the news coverage on any of that? It was kind of a big deal, but they stopped letting me watch it because I kept freaking out. Apparently I had done something at the Whiffle Boy Entertainment office, but I don't directly remember what I did."
"... I… Jacky, I was hoping that that wasn't you." Ms. Mustela gave him a look that wasn't so much as disappointment, but rather disquieting sadness. "... I mean, of course it was, but… You said you don't have any memories of the incident at all?"
"No, Ms. Mustela. I fell and hit my head on the pavement, right here, right on this side." He gestured awkwardly at the side of his face in question. "I don't really remember anything between going back to work, and waking up here. I guess I snapped and I…" Jacky inhaled sharply and slumped backwards against the wall, rubbing at his eyes with the heels of his hands, shaking his head. "I really don't remember anything, and it's just terrible! I want something, anything I could say that would help explain any of this, but I don't know! I don't know what happened or why, and I'm so sorry!"
He sniffled loudly and gasped and tried his hardest to not lose his composure, not here, not in front of her, in front of everyone on this floor stealing a glance or two this way.
He felt her hand touch his shoulder in that familiar comforting gesture. He pulled his hands away from his eyes and looked at her shamefully before dropping his gaze to the floor.
"... Jacky, if it helps any, please know that I am so relieved that you're back with us. I was afraid that we'd lost you." Ms. Mustela said in a serious and level tone. "How are you doing despite all that? A head injury isn't something to shrug off, especially if it caused amnesia."
"... I don't have seizures, if that's what you mean." Jacky blinked, making a face as he thought about the question as well as he could. He wiped his wet eyes on the back of his hand roughly. "... I'm walking better than I did last month, and there's no nerve damage. I just… I'm having trouble with creating things, and I can't make Mr. Banana Brain talk right now."
"... Mr. Banana Brain?" Ms. Mustela seemed mildly confused, as she was fully aware of the demise of the beloved doll and Jacky's inability to completely replicate a new one.
"Oh! Of course, you wouldn't know yet!" There was a sudden change in Jacky's tone of voice, as though this particular thought was so amusing to him. "Someone found all the pieces and put him back together, and Claire got him for me! I just got him back this month! He's got all these obvious stitches and he's not as good as he used to look, but he's back." Jacky grinned widely before the smile faltered. "... The only problem is that I just can't do his voice anymore, so I guess he lost his voice now."
"... Well, Jacky, I'm happy to hear that you've found your old friend."
"It's nice to have a familiar face at night when Claire can't be here after hours…" Jacky said, looking towards one of the large wall sized windows, noting to himself that it looked to be about half past noon now. He scratched his head. "... Actually, speaking of 'familiar', I, um… this is a little embarrassing, but I'm kinda lost and I can't remember how to find my room right now."
"You're recovering from head trauma, it's possible that could be part of the reason why you're disoriented." Ms. Mustela said, frowning ever so slightly. "How come no one was accompanying you?"
"... I may have insisted that I could do this myself, and I've been trying to find my floor for at least twenty minutes." Jacky's face was a bit red from embarrassment. "... It's not so much that I can't read the directory, it's that I can't visualize it after I step away from one."
"Do you know which part of your head you hit, Jacky?"
He tapped a finger on the side of his face with stitching and gauze taped over it.
"I think they said something about 'temporal lobe', so yeah, this part here." Jacky said, shrugging slightly.
"No wonder you're having trouble with figuring out which way to go, that's where your memory and processing information happens, Jacky." Ms. Mustela said in a calm and sympathetic voice. "It's a common symptom, actually. What might help is if you find something that you can identify as maybe a landmark or figure out a path that you can follow every time that's easier to remember." She offered as an attempt for advice. "Maybe you can find a helpful phrase to run through to sort it better."
"... Is your office on this floor?"
"Yes, actually. This floor is where the psychiatrists work."
"'Ms. Mustela is on the yellow floor.'" Jacky said with a bit of rhythm to his speech. "Because all the floor levels have different color schemes. This one is yellow, and your name kind of matches that."
The weasel cracked a smile at that.
"That works, definitely." She said. "Do you remember anything about what room you're looking for?"
"... The number starts with three."
"Of course, you're staying in the neuro ward, that would make sense." Ms. Mustela said, carefully taking Jacky's hand and gently gesturing for him to stand. "Here, I'll take you to your floor, it's just above us."
"... Oh, dang, I was so close, then?" Jacky wasn't sure whether to laugh or snort in frustration. He stood from the bench awkwardly, still feeling a little disoriented, but not as anxious as he had been before this encounter. "... Thanks, Ms. Mustela."
"Just promise me next time that you'll be more careful, Jacky." She noticed that he seemed to be unconsciously favoring his good side, which became obvious why once they started walking. "... You're limping."
"It's not as bad as it was last month." Jacky said in an attempt to be reassuring. "... Really."
"Would you rather we take the elevator instead of the stairs? Would that be easier for you?"
"... I guess." Jacky said, before he looked to be thinking it over. "... The stairs made my head dizzy, so it's probably better to do it your way."
Whatever sour and defensive mood he had been in at the beginning of the afternoon during his examination seemed to have dissipated by now, and he was certain that it probably had something to do with Ms. Mustela. He liked her, in the sense that he liked how she was so patient with him and that he just felt safe speaking with her without judgment. In fact, he almost found it amusing how her first reaction to seeing him here was to reach for him as if to confirm that he wasn't an illusion. Just genuine raw concern.
They finally reached his floor and it took him a good long moment to process that Claire was there and was currently responding to the fact that Jacky had technically been MIA from the neuro ward floor for a good hour now. He blinked and it occurred to him that Claire had her arms around him and he was honestly getting frustrated with himself for not being able to keep up with what was happening fast enough.
"Jacky, where have you been! We've been trying to find you for an hour, you can't just disappear like that!"
"... I got lost." Jacky mumbled, feeling his face heat up with embarrassment. He avoided her gaze and looked at the floor. "... I could read the directory, but I couldn't figure out how to find my way once I stepped away from it…"
He could tell that Claire was giving a concerned look, but he hadn't looked up to confirm that.
"... Jacky, are you alright? You've been gone for an hour." Claire asked, then took a moment to call out down the hall: "It's okay, we found him!"
"If you're concerned about his sense of direction, it's actually a common issue after a head injury like his." Ms. Mustela said. "Jacky told me about the injury to his temporal lobe, so he likely got disoriented on his way back to his room."
"Oh, Ms. Mustela! I didn't know you were here!"
"My office had to be relocated, but I'm stationed on the floor below this one." The weasel explained brightly. "I just happened to be coming back from lunch break when I found Jacky sitting on the beach beside the directory on that floor. You can imagine my surprise, as no one had really kept me up to date with what happened, but I'm so relieved to see him for myself."
"Jacky, how come you didn't ask for anyone to help you find your room? Are you alright?"
"... I thought it was easy enough for me to do it myself." Jacky said in a quiet voice, feeling his eyes start to burn as they began tearing up ever so slightly. "... I'm sorry…"
"I understand, but you have a brain injury, you can't be wandering around without some way for us to keep track of you."
"I know that! I just-! I wanted to do that by myself, I thought I could handle it, but I get it, I was wrong and I'm sorry!" Jacky didn't mean to snap like that at her, but he was just so frustrated that he just couldn't do something as simple as go from Point A to Point B.
It seemed like she certainly understood that in the underlying tone of his voice, as he felt her shift her grip on him to reach a hand to gently hold the side of his head in a comforting gesture. He let very few people touch his head, especially when his hat was absent from it, and Claire was one of those lucky few. He inhaled sharply and leaned into her as an unconscious reaction to the contact, which eased the heavy feeling in his chest away considerably.
"All that's important right now is that you're okay." Claire told him. "... Maybe next time, we can agree on some place for you to wait if you get lost like that again, so we can find you easier?"
He liked how she didn't make this whole thing seem like it was such a poor decision and mistake on his part. Her wording was almost never condescending.
"... When I gave up on trying to find my room, I just sat on the bench by a directory map, so maybe that could work? That's easy to remember."
"Okay then, from now on, if you get lost, just find the directory on that floor and wait there."
"I can do that." Jacky said quietly, before he gave a small smile, which grew into a bright grin. "I want to go get Mr. Banana Brain so Ms. Mustela can meet him."
And we close yet another chapter.
And look at that! Ms. Mustela returns! I've honestly been waiting for a reason to put her in, and I felt that Jacky needed that encounter.
A thing to note, by the way: When QuackerJack is alone with Darkwing, the narrative shifts a bit to reflect that, hence why he's still referred to as QuackerJack during interactions with Darkwing, otherwise he's simply called Jacky. Darkwing simply hasn't adopted calling him that yet, because stubborn.
Also, when I was a kid, I spent quite a bit of time in waiting rooms and medical places for one reason or another (both physical reasons and mental), so Jacky's observations of things like fish tanks and ambient sounds are a bit inspired by that.
His spatial reasoning problem also are something that occasionally happens to me, as I have difficulty in processing information (both instructions and maps) from time to time, and it's very easy for me to misunderstand or forget how to do something that should be simple in theory. Heck, I used to carry a map of my high school in my binder with all my classes marked and numbered with the schedules because I'd forget them after the weekend. Thank goodness for GPS on phones now, huh?