(For the purposes of this story, Ethan Rayne isn't British.)
"You said my name was what?" The man pivoted to study the doctor as he unwound the last of the bandages from his face. He was too afraid of what he might see when the last one fell away.
Dr. Rayne peered over his silver reading glasses, worry creasing his brow. "Spike."
"Spike? What kind of poncy name is that?"
"Well, that's just a nickname. Your real name is James Courtland. You're a psychiatrist. You've just signed on at the Sunnydale Research Park in Sunnydale. You are—"
"Yeah, yeah. You bloody told me. Thirty-five, single, a workaholic." Frustration clawed at him. "So, why can't I remember a bleeding thing?"
"Because you suffered severe head trauma in the car accident. Your memory should return in bits and pieces. Hopefully you haven't lost that scientific mind."
Spike remained stoic as the doctor laughed at his own joke. Nothing these few past weeks had been funny.
He strained for the memories again, for any snippet of his past life. Spike Courtland. A psychiatrist. During all those painful hours of lying in the hospital he hadn't imagined himself to be a doctor of any kind.
Well, until a few days ago, he'd been in too much pain to give a rat's ass about his past. He'd been struggling through every minute. The fear of being paralyzed; of looking like a monster.
"Now, see what modern medicine can do." Dr. Rayne spun the stool around so that Spike faced the mirror, placed his hands on Spike's shoulders and directed him to look. "It may not be quite the same as your old face, but it's not so bad. There's a little swelling and bruising, but it'll fade.
Spike stared at the stranger in the mirror, cold terror running through him. Not only did he not remember his name, but also he didn't recognize the face staring back at him in the mirror.
"You said my name was what?" The man pivoted to study the doctor as he unwound the last of the bandages from his face. He was too afraid of what he might see when the last one fell away.
Dr. Rayne peered over his silver reading glasses, worry creasing his brow. "Spike."
"Spike? What kind of poncy name is that?"
"Well, that's just a nickname. Your real name is James Courtland. You're a psychiatrist. You've just signed on at the Sunnydale Research Park in Sunnydale. You are—"
"Yeah, yeah. You bloody told me. Thirty-five, single, a workaholic." Frustration clawed at him. "So, why can't I remember a bleeding thing?"
"Because you suffered severe head trauma in the car accident. Your memory should return in bits and pieces. Hopefully you haven't lost that scientific mind."
Spike remained stoic as the doctor laughed at his own joke. Nothing these few past weeks had been funny.
He strained for the memories again, for any snippet of his past life. Spike Courtland. A psychiatrist. During all those painful hours of lying in the hospital he hadn't imagined himself to be a doctor of any kind.
Well, until a few days ago, he'd been in too much pain to give a rat's ass about his past. He'd been struggling through every minute. The fear of being paralyzed; of looking like a monster.
"Now, see what modern medicine can do." Dr. Rayne spun the stool around so that Spike faced the mirror, placed his hands on Spike's shoulders and directed him to look. "It may not be quite the same as your old face, but it's not so bad. There's a little swelling and bruising, but it'll fade.
Spike stared at the stranger in the mirror, cold terror running through him. Not only did he not remember his name, but also he didn't recognize the face staring back at him in the mirror.