Hanging Onto Hope
Part: 1
John's existence could be summed up in one word. Pain. Grinding, deep shattering pain that radiated from his hair to his toenails. The realization that there wasn't a part of his body that didn't hurt seemed to wrap his discomfort in a tidy package. A package that he couldn't, wouldn't give away. Even slightly turning his head caused a white starburst of torture roaring through his brain. He would scream, but his throat muscles wouldn't obey his command. Maybe that was a good thing, he thought as he struggled through the sheer weight of agony. Screaming would only make it worst if that was possible. He fought for air, fought to open his eyes against the encroaching blackness.
He did his best to hold it off, but dench by anguishing dench; he was finally forced to give in. He welcomed oblivion.
Several Arns Later:
Voices. Quiet, murmuring as if they stood over a dead man. He didn't think he was dead.
"You used too much..."
"I used the amount I was instructed to use."
"Well, it proved to be too much."
A fragmented thought formed in his dull mind as he struggled to clasp what was being said. Too much? What was?
"It's not my fault if his revival is sluggish. They knew he wasn't Sebacean."
"That is beside the point. It has been over a solar day..."
Day? That was bad. But why?
John's agonizing brain was trying to remember how to function. Think, you idiot. Something was wrong here. What?
Aeryn. D'Argo. Yes, that's it. It wasn't his friend voices. Then whose?
The deeper voice stood over him. "You know they will demand some of the credits back because he is damaged."
"They can't blame us for their misjudgment," the whiny voice said.
Blame who? Why wasn't his brain working? But the answer refused to come.
Just when he was about to give in to the darkness once more, a light cut through his aching head. Someone tugged at his eyelids, and shined a frelling light. A new voice joined the others.
"The Umon's progressing adequately, given the overdose of xolanaqui you administered."
John flinched as a whiny voice started screeching loudly. "It's...not...my...fault!"
A hand smoothed his brow with infinity care of a revengeful PK Barbie from Scorpius' school of torture. It felt as if millions of needles where prinking everywhere the hand touched. He tried to move away from it, but his muscles refuse to operate. Growing angry, he struggled to open his eyes, to beg his tormenter to stop. Through slit-eyes, a fuzzy vision of an orange-seaweed-hair creature swam before him. He could not make out her features. What hell was he into now?
"Good, the Umon is awake." His tormenter's voice was throaty. A sickly nasal sound to it. "I will inform the Collector that his prize will recover. "
"I told you I wasn't..." whiny voice started again.
"Don't touch him," his tormenter snapped, as she started to leave. "If you wish to be paid just guard him."
"I told you we would get paid," deep voice gloated from across the room.
It became too much, John let his eyelids close in relief. Frell, he was in trouble again and he couldn't remember how it happened. It was becoming too much for his fogged mind to handle so he once more gave into the blessed darkness.
Part: 1
John's existence could be summed up in one word. Pain. Grinding, deep shattering pain that radiated from his hair to his toenails. The realization that there wasn't a part of his body that didn't hurt seemed to wrap his discomfort in a tidy package. A package that he couldn't, wouldn't give away. Even slightly turning his head caused a white starburst of torture roaring through his brain. He would scream, but his throat muscles wouldn't obey his command. Maybe that was a good thing, he thought as he struggled through the sheer weight of agony. Screaming would only make it worst if that was possible. He fought for air, fought to open his eyes against the encroaching blackness.
He did his best to hold it off, but dench by anguishing dench; he was finally forced to give in. He welcomed oblivion.
Several Arns Later:
Voices. Quiet, murmuring as if they stood over a dead man. He didn't think he was dead.
"You used too much..."
"I used the amount I was instructed to use."
"Well, it proved to be too much."
A fragmented thought formed in his dull mind as he struggled to clasp what was being said. Too much? What was?
"It's not my fault if his revival is sluggish. They knew he wasn't Sebacean."
"That is beside the point. It has been over a solar day..."
Day? That was bad. But why?
John's agonizing brain was trying to remember how to function. Think, you idiot. Something was wrong here. What?
Aeryn. D'Argo. Yes, that's it. It wasn't his friend voices. Then whose?
The deeper voice stood over him. "You know they will demand some of the credits back because he is damaged."
"They can't blame us for their misjudgment," the whiny voice said.
Blame who? Why wasn't his brain working? But the answer refused to come.
Just when he was about to give in to the darkness once more, a light cut through his aching head. Someone tugged at his eyelids, and shined a frelling light. A new voice joined the others.
"The Umon's progressing adequately, given the overdose of xolanaqui you administered."
John flinched as a whiny voice started screeching loudly. "It's...not...my...fault!"
A hand smoothed his brow with infinity care of a revengeful PK Barbie from Scorpius' school of torture. It felt as if millions of needles where prinking everywhere the hand touched. He tried to move away from it, but his muscles refuse to operate. Growing angry, he struggled to open his eyes, to beg his tormenter to stop. Through slit-eyes, a fuzzy vision of an orange-seaweed-hair creature swam before him. He could not make out her features. What hell was he into now?
"Good, the Umon is awake." His tormenter's voice was throaty. A sickly nasal sound to it. "I will inform the Collector that his prize will recover. "
"I told you I wasn't..." whiny voice started again.
"Don't touch him," his tormenter snapped, as she started to leave. "If you wish to be paid just guard him."
"I told you we would get paid," deep voice gloated from across the room.
It became too much, John let his eyelids close in relief. Frell, he was in trouble again and he couldn't remember how it happened. It was becoming too much for his fogged mind to handle so he once more gave into the blessed darkness.
