CHAPTER SIXTEEN: Transfer
PART ONE…New Wounds …Tears rolling down his face, Knives sat in his vast greenhouses. He rubbed a moist leaf with his fingers, pressed it into his flesh, growled with pain, and reached over for another. Pressing this one more slowly, he paused and sighed. He sniffled twice, and pressed this one alongside the first, along the knuckles of his right hand.
The blood stopped hours ago, not long after he punched the wall of the plant compound, but upon arrival to his home, he felt the lazy need to prevent infection. Considering that the insects wouldn't eat these leaves - and evidenced further by the sting he felt - he knew that the toxins in this plant would be just sufficient for disinfection.
Knives disinfected the large wounds on his hand because of the plants. And he had gotten the wounds because of the plants.
Often, screaming and reciting angrily at the bulbs did not alleviate his frustration. Sometimes hitting, breaking, or slicing things helped. Since nothing cried out when he did, it gave little satisfaction, when compared to his tantrums and slaughters of the past. Without the smell of fresh blood, it just wasn't the same. And when there was blood, the smell was only his own; it was rather disappointing.
Vow as he might to calm down, emotions were still as strong in him as the day she left, and as the day the lot of them left, before. He was not really isolated, and therefore his pain could never numb. Though this existence was lonely, he was never alone.
A few of the stray cats dashed past him, frolicking in the garden. Out of boredom, he allowed them inside his compound, and most lived within it now, feasting on the mice he populated the place with, which in turn fed upon decaying plant life. The cats ate and slept, buried their excrement, and had kittens in the bushes. Once in a while a cat would rub against him. They entertained him by running and playing about the greenery.
Wounds covered by leaves, Knives rested. He watched the little group dash back and forth, tumbling and leaping upon things. Peeling fruit, he sat still and watched.
He laughed aloud as they played.
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Pacing angrily around her apartment, Tessla's imagination ran rampant with possibilities. So what if her father told her stories, about escaping danger with his life intact numerous times? So what if he always managed to defy death? What made him think that here, on Earth, his heroics would never cause his end? And even if he just got hurt, why was it okay to make more scars on his poor, tattered body?
"Daddy, you asshole," she growled. He knew she hated it when he risked his life. Countless times they had argued about this, when he was taking assignments in bad neighborhoods or was readying to confront a known psychopath or violent offender. That stubborn father of hers refused to carry any sort of protection more reliable than a small canister of pepper spray. How exactly was pepper spray supposed to protect against actual weapons? She shook her head, sighing aloud. And how was it going to protect from whatever or whoever he was out confronting this time?
As she finally gave in to urge and went into the bathroom, her father stepped in. A trickle of blood ran down his face, he smelled of smoke, and he was hugging his right arm protectively. "I'm back, baby bear," he called softly.
"Argh!" Forgetting her bladder, she raced into the main room. Standing still in front of him, she crossed her arms accusingly and waited.
He cleared his throat, blushing a little. "…I broke my arm," he finally murmured. He winced, knowing she would yell at him for his disregard of health.
"Get your ass in the 'craft," she commanded, ushering him out the door. "We're going to the hospital."
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They had to stand and wait, for several hours, until a nurse became available. Tessla argued softly with them to let her follow, but since she would surrender no relation to this man, they told her to wait in the lobby.
"I'll be fine," he called behind him as the nurse rushed him to the back. Once in an exam room, he took off his shirt, as asked, and sat on the cold table. The nurse was eyeing his skin questioningly, but on a day such as this, she had no time to ask. She did a quick body scan and rushed from the room, promising test results in an hour or two.
Cold and embarrassed, Vash hugged his arm gingerly. He glanced about the room, wondering what wood the desk was made from, and what color, exactly, one would call that blue shade of liquid in the cabinet. Sighing and smiling for a moment, he reflected that his daughter was taking this well.
Snapping his head to the left, he reacted to a muffled scream in the room beside his. He bolted to his feet, but thought deeply before sitting back on the table. People scream in hospitals; it doesn't mean they need his help. The nurses and doctors were helping that person – he should just sit and avoid being a nuisance.
Taking far longer than expected, the nurse rushed back into Vash's room with a mini-screen and a pale expression. "Mr. Saverem?" she repeated, voice hoarse. "This isn't just about your arm, sir. You have smoke inhalation, a blood clot on one knee, and four hairline fractures in your shoulder. There's more, but we just aren't sure yet. An airlift is on the way. Please remain calm and disrobe completely, we're going to need to get you on a gurney, insert an IV."
He gulped, nodding. "But I feel fine…"
"You'll be sedated and airlifted to a more specialized facility," she continued, ignoring his comment. She sounded as if reciting something memorized. This just didn't seem real. "You're due on the roof in 15, so please don't waste any time."
He nodded solemnly. There was nothing wrong with him, besides the injuries she noted and some minor cuts and bruises. This was not a good sign. Maybe they found out…
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Tessla dashed to her father's bedside and walked alongside him as they wheeled him into the elevator. "I can go, too, right?"
Vash nodded, still not smiling. "But you shouldn't."
"What are you-" Her heart sank. "Oh." If they were letting her go along in the airlift, something was wrong. They had to know something big, if that were true. There was no way anyone would think she was his daughter without knowing they were plants – they seemed, after all, the same age in appearance. Even with treatments and surgeries of the day, such a thing was impossible, and signs would show up in a simple health scan besides. And their official records listed them as having no relation, and having similar ages. If they were letting her accompany him, they had to know.
"Run," he murmured, without moving his lips.
She shook her head. "Too late now," she responded, smiling emptily as she followed the staff into the hover-lift.