"C'mon, wake up now. Sonata said I can't give you anymore
painkiller until you spend some time awake."
Blair dimly recognized that a voice was speaking to him, the words
were somewhat familiar. Another hospital stay. Terrific. Jim was going
to be pissed. He could hear him now. "If you have to jump into a fight,
Chief, pick on someone your own size, will you?"
Deciding that he was better off just facing the music, he opened his eyes...
and stared. He wasn't in a hospital room. And the person beside his bed
wasn't Jim. He had to be there somewhere.
"Jim?" he croaked, his voice hoarse from all the earlier yelling and someone
held a glass and straw to his lips. Blair sipped cautiously and tasted...nothing.
Cool water soothed the irritated tissues in his abused throat. After a few sips,
the glass moved and he lay back, becoming aware of a radiating pain in his side.
Experimentally, he probed the site, encountering a thick pad of bandage.
The woman beside him gently lifted his hand away.
"Don't mess with that right now, you might start it bleeding again, and
you've lost too much blood as it is. Would you like some more water?"
"Where's Jim?" he asked, confused, blinking up at her like a blue-eyed
owl. Some kind of soft lighting behind her lit her cap of curls into a fiery
halo as she sat on the edge of his bed.
"There isn't any Jim here. Is he a friend of yours? What's your name,
anyway?"
"Jim's my roommate. I'm Blair, Blair Sandburg."
"I'm Jazz. Do you remember the fight in the alley?" At his nod, she smiled.
"Good. Sonata said that she wasn't too worried about that bump on your
head, and as usual she was right. Doesn't look like it did much damage."
She had a sharp little cat's face, too thin for beauty, sun flushed on her
nose and cheeks. The loose knit sweater she wore over a t shirt was too
big and obviously second, maybe third, hand. Her loose sweat pants
had patches on the knees. Not a nurse.
"Where am I?" Blair winced at the question from a thousand melodramas
but Jazz took it in stride.
"You've probably guessed that you aren't in a hospital. You were
bleeding so badly, we were afraid to leave you for the cops to find.
They might not have done so in time. If we had gone for help," she
glanced down at her comfortable, worn clothing and around at the
dark shabby room. "We're street people, Blair. They'd have arrested
BeBop, or me, or both of us for stabbing you. We couldn't risk that,
we don't have any money, or anyone who could speak for us. So,
we brought you here, where we live. Our doctor is really good, and
I knew she could tell how badly you were hurt, could get you stabilized."
Blair took another look around, his eyes eager now. "Okay, so what is this
place then? Who is 'we'?" Even flat on his back, the idea of being among
a different culture got his interest going.
Jazz laughed. "Look at you! I was afraid you'd get all freaked out. We,
well, we're this little group of runaways. Throwaways, homeless. America's
Most Unwanted. Not all of us are illiterate, or crazy, or criminal, you know.
Some of the others and I got to talking and we decided that if no one else
wanted us, maybe we could take care of each other. You know, be like a
family. A really dysfunctional one.. but family. It's crazy, but it works. We've
got musicians, theater people, a doctor. A few people volunteer at Goodwill
and the Salvation Army, they get to bring home the stuff not good enough to
sell."
"And nobody notices this community within a city just existing here?"
"Of course they notice. We have to move when someone does, because we
aren't licensed and trained and taxed and regulated. The cops would kick
us out, or arrest us for something." The red-haired woman looked around
the room with a fond smile. "This is a pretty good place, though. We've
been here for months without a problem." Gray eyes, the colour of pewter in
the soft light, silently pleaded with Blair to understand the significance of what
he was being told. Pleaded for a promise of silence.
Before he could formulate an answer, a curtain moved and a large woman
entered.
"How's our patient?" The stranger asked in a rich voice. As she came closer,
Blair saw that her skin was a dark, dark brown, her eyes liquid ebony, and
her hair was a startling silver-blonde cloud around her face.
Jazz stepped back, saying "Blair, this is Sonata, our doctor. Sonata, you were
right, he remembered without a problem when he woke up."
The older woman nodded and smiled down at the anthropologist. Her soft
hands were deftly checking the bandage on his side, and suddenly he realized
that, although he was shirtless, he was comfortably warm.
"Are we subterranean?" he asked, peering around and Sonata raised a brow.
"Very good, young man." Her hands slipped up to his head, searching among
the soft dark hair for the bruising she'd examined earlier. "Your brain hasn't
suffered an injury from that hard knock, it would seem. Ah, that lump has
gone down nicely." Finished, she touched his cheek gently, and brushed a
few stray strands of hair off his forehead. "One of my boys had those
pretty curls, too." Sonata said softly, and Blair saw that she was older than
he had believed.
"Jazz, he needs to drink a lot of fluids, juice, herbal tea, water. Nothing
with caffeine. I want you to sleep, Blair. It will heal you faster than anything
I can do. We have some painkillers, but I'd prefer not to give you anything
stronger than aspirin, if you can sleep without it."
His ears had perked up at 'herbal teas'. "Do you have willowbark tea?
I'd just as soon have that as aspirin."
The doctor gazed at him thoughtfully, and, he thought, approvingly, for
a long minute. "We have willowbark available. I'll send you a cup of
it when it's ready. Are you an herbalist?"
"I'm an anthropologist, and a grad student at the U, and, oh MAN! How
long have I been here?" Blair tried to sit up in his panic and nearly passed
out. His face had gone chalk white as Jazz helped him ease back toward
the quilted pillows.
She looked over at Sonata, worried, but the older woman calmly redressed
the room and took his wrist in her strong fingers. She counted silently, and
nodded to herself, then smiled at Jazz. "He'll be fine. I'll get that tea." And
she left the room.
Jazz turned back to their guest. "Blair, what is it? Your family?"
He nodded. "My roommate. My partner. I'm a consultant for the
Cascade Police Department and my partner's gonna be frantic."
"A cop?" Jazz caught her lower lip in her teeth, thinking. "Maybe I
could call him for you. Let him know that you're okay. Would that
help?"
Blair sighed deeply, wincing as it hurt his side. "A little. He's still
going to freak, Jim has some major protective issues, but if you
give him a message he'll know is from me...His business card
is in my wallet, if you can give me my backpack."
end part two
painkiller until you spend some time awake."
Blair dimly recognized that a voice was speaking to him, the words
were somewhat familiar. Another hospital stay. Terrific. Jim was going
to be pissed. He could hear him now. "If you have to jump into a fight,
Chief, pick on someone your own size, will you?"
Deciding that he was better off just facing the music, he opened his eyes...
and stared. He wasn't in a hospital room. And the person beside his bed
wasn't Jim. He had to be there somewhere.
"Jim?" he croaked, his voice hoarse from all the earlier yelling and someone
held a glass and straw to his lips. Blair sipped cautiously and tasted...nothing.
Cool water soothed the irritated tissues in his abused throat. After a few sips,
the glass moved and he lay back, becoming aware of a radiating pain in his side.
Experimentally, he probed the site, encountering a thick pad of bandage.
The woman beside him gently lifted his hand away.
"Don't mess with that right now, you might start it bleeding again, and
you've lost too much blood as it is. Would you like some more water?"
"Where's Jim?" he asked, confused, blinking up at her like a blue-eyed
owl. Some kind of soft lighting behind her lit her cap of curls into a fiery
halo as she sat on the edge of his bed.
"There isn't any Jim here. Is he a friend of yours? What's your name,
anyway?"
"Jim's my roommate. I'm Blair, Blair Sandburg."
"I'm Jazz. Do you remember the fight in the alley?" At his nod, she smiled.
"Good. Sonata said that she wasn't too worried about that bump on your
head, and as usual she was right. Doesn't look like it did much damage."
She had a sharp little cat's face, too thin for beauty, sun flushed on her
nose and cheeks. The loose knit sweater she wore over a t shirt was too
big and obviously second, maybe third, hand. Her loose sweat pants
had patches on the knees. Not a nurse.
"Where am I?" Blair winced at the question from a thousand melodramas
but Jazz took it in stride.
"You've probably guessed that you aren't in a hospital. You were
bleeding so badly, we were afraid to leave you for the cops to find.
They might not have done so in time. If we had gone for help," she
glanced down at her comfortable, worn clothing and around at the
dark shabby room. "We're street people, Blair. They'd have arrested
BeBop, or me, or both of us for stabbing you. We couldn't risk that,
we don't have any money, or anyone who could speak for us. So,
we brought you here, where we live. Our doctor is really good, and
I knew she could tell how badly you were hurt, could get you stabilized."
Blair took another look around, his eyes eager now. "Okay, so what is this
place then? Who is 'we'?" Even flat on his back, the idea of being among
a different culture got his interest going.
Jazz laughed. "Look at you! I was afraid you'd get all freaked out. We,
well, we're this little group of runaways. Throwaways, homeless. America's
Most Unwanted. Not all of us are illiterate, or crazy, or criminal, you know.
Some of the others and I got to talking and we decided that if no one else
wanted us, maybe we could take care of each other. You know, be like a
family. A really dysfunctional one.. but family. It's crazy, but it works. We've
got musicians, theater people, a doctor. A few people volunteer at Goodwill
and the Salvation Army, they get to bring home the stuff not good enough to
sell."
"And nobody notices this community within a city just existing here?"
"Of course they notice. We have to move when someone does, because we
aren't licensed and trained and taxed and regulated. The cops would kick
us out, or arrest us for something." The red-haired woman looked around
the room with a fond smile. "This is a pretty good place, though. We've
been here for months without a problem." Gray eyes, the colour of pewter in
the soft light, silently pleaded with Blair to understand the significance of what
he was being told. Pleaded for a promise of silence.
Before he could formulate an answer, a curtain moved and a large woman
entered.
"How's our patient?" The stranger asked in a rich voice. As she came closer,
Blair saw that her skin was a dark, dark brown, her eyes liquid ebony, and
her hair was a startling silver-blonde cloud around her face.
Jazz stepped back, saying "Blair, this is Sonata, our doctor. Sonata, you were
right, he remembered without a problem when he woke up."
The older woman nodded and smiled down at the anthropologist. Her soft
hands were deftly checking the bandage on his side, and suddenly he realized
that, although he was shirtless, he was comfortably warm.
"Are we subterranean?" he asked, peering around and Sonata raised a brow.
"Very good, young man." Her hands slipped up to his head, searching among
the soft dark hair for the bruising she'd examined earlier. "Your brain hasn't
suffered an injury from that hard knock, it would seem. Ah, that lump has
gone down nicely." Finished, she touched his cheek gently, and brushed a
few stray strands of hair off his forehead. "One of my boys had those
pretty curls, too." Sonata said softly, and Blair saw that she was older than
he had believed.
"Jazz, he needs to drink a lot of fluids, juice, herbal tea, water. Nothing
with caffeine. I want you to sleep, Blair. It will heal you faster than anything
I can do. We have some painkillers, but I'd prefer not to give you anything
stronger than aspirin, if you can sleep without it."
His ears had perked up at 'herbal teas'. "Do you have willowbark tea?
I'd just as soon have that as aspirin."
The doctor gazed at him thoughtfully, and, he thought, approvingly, for
a long minute. "We have willowbark available. I'll send you a cup of
it when it's ready. Are you an herbalist?"
"I'm an anthropologist, and a grad student at the U, and, oh MAN! How
long have I been here?" Blair tried to sit up in his panic and nearly passed
out. His face had gone chalk white as Jazz helped him ease back toward
the quilted pillows.
She looked over at Sonata, worried, but the older woman calmly redressed
the room and took his wrist in her strong fingers. She counted silently, and
nodded to herself, then smiled at Jazz. "He'll be fine. I'll get that tea." And
she left the room.
Jazz turned back to their guest. "Blair, what is it? Your family?"
He nodded. "My roommate. My partner. I'm a consultant for the
Cascade Police Department and my partner's gonna be frantic."
"A cop?" Jazz caught her lower lip in her teeth, thinking. "Maybe I
could call him for you. Let him know that you're okay. Would that
help?"
Blair sighed deeply, wincing as it hurt his side. "A little. He's still
going to freak, Jim has some major protective issues, but if you
give him a message he'll know is from me...His business card
is in my wallet, if you can give me my backpack."
end part two