A/N: Thank you guys for the reviews! Much appreciated. I almost feel bad about what I'm going to do to poor, abused Walter in this chapter…almost.
Disclaimer: Put those damned court papers away, I don't own anything in this other then my own character.
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"Say hello to everything you've left behind. It's even more a part of your life now that you can't touch it." -A Perfect Circle, the Nurse Who Loved Me
"This is not really, this, a this, a this is not really happening. You bet your life it is!" -Tori Amos, Cornflake Girl
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Your probably wondering why I'm telling you all this. Well, I guess I just felt I should share it; get it off my chest, you know?
They say talking about your issues is therapeutic and since I didn't really talk much during that period of time that, considering that now it's all over, I'm suffering from a verbal diarrhea of sorts.
Can I really say the ordeal is over now? I mean, in a way, I'm still living it (if you can even call this living). That -this- isn't something that you can just up and one day stuff into a shoe box and shove high into the back of your closet praying it stays there. Life…it just does not work like that, at all.
Living, now that's a laugh. Living is when you can run in the surf's of crashing waves, basking in the sunshine of a hot summer day, or eating lunch with your coworkers or friends at that great little patio restaurant down town.
This isn't living, not even close; this is a prolonged existence long after the fire's brunt out.
The odd bit about this whole thing is that I really couldn't tell you whether or not I'm for the better; if this experience has made me a better person or something else. Do I call myself a monster or a hero? Sorry, heroin. I have killed and killed and killed, but with a valid reason; I wanted to go on existing.
So what would you classify me under? Go on, stick a tag on me; every little bit helps I suppose. Just be prepared to reevaluate your diagnosis in the end.
You sure you want me to keep going? This isn't the most heart warming of stories. No knight on a white horse charging down the alley ways to come to my rescue, no kiss the girl for the hero's trophy, no things going back to the way they were or even better afterwards; this isn't like that at all.
You're sure now? Good, let's begin then.
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I remember when they brought him in. By than I was already one of them, though I was never like them. Well, maybe Rip, she wasn't too bad really when you got to know her, just a bit crazy…okay maybe a lot but she really was a sweet girl.
We both had a love music and sang an awful lot. I think we drove the Doc crazy (even more then he already was) when we would both just start singing out of the blue, sometimes even together.
Besides, I needed someway to express myself after I went silent (up until I started singing they had figured I had gone mute from shock) and it helped to alleviate some…things; kept me calm and hopefully sane, you know?
But I'm getting off topic aren't I? Hmm, you may find I do that a lot. Anyways, I was going to tell you about that day weren't I?
They (the Captain and the Doctor) dragged in this beaten and bloody figure into the medical ward (why they had one I'll never know, it's not like they actually needed it), dropped him on the floor at my feet and told me to clean him up and prep him for the procedure, then curtly left.
I rubbed my hands on my nurses skirt (one of many nervous ticks I had back then) and kneeled down to inspect what they had dragged me this time. I gingerly rolled him on to his back and grimaced when he groaned painfully.
An old man? They want to turn him? I know they were getting desperate for recruits (they turned me didn't they?) but an old, barely breathing man? Not that breathing would matter soon anyways; a blessing of sorts that comes from not being among the living anymore. I wonder how my parents would take that, "Hey Mom and Dad! Guess what? I don't have to worry about running out of air when I'm swimming anymore! Isn't that great?". I can just imagine their expressions now; too bad I probably won't ever get to tell them.
Oh well, no use fretting about who they've grabbed now; might as well just do the best I can for him and hope he doesn't have to suffer too long.
I pick him as gently as the circumstances allow, walk over to the nearest gurney and just as gingerly lain him out. I knew I wasn't going to be able to properly assess the extent of his injuries with all that caked on blood so I grabbed some wipes and disinfectant solution from one of the many cupboards and set about to wiping it off.
But first, the clothes have to come off. I lost all sense of propriety long ago so if he wakes up let's hope he doesn't freak out too much about being naked and bloody with a vampiress hovering over him. It would seem equivalent to throwing chocolate covered women to lesbians. Ha, now that's an interesting thought.
I hum absently some random song (Cornflake Girl I believe) as I worked at his vest and shirt. I finally broke out into full blown singing at the line, "Rabbit! Where'd ya put the keys girl?", as I reached under and tugged his pants up and off. Pretty funny picture eh?
I figured at that point that I'll throw in some decency for once, seeing as he is my elder. I'll leave his undies on. Aren't I nice?
I scoured his skin for lacerations and big gaping wounds. He had a lot of bruising and a couple places where his skin split open from taking a pretty severe beating, a minor bullet wound in his right shoulder but it appeared to have gone completely through so it will only need a few stitches. I didn't see any broken bones but it will be hard to tell with out an x-ray which I sadly don't have access to. Obviously he had a cut on his head somewhere (I hate head wounds, their a bitch to clean and stitch up. They never stop gushing blood even if it's only something as small as a paper cut.) so I had better be getting to that first before he bleeds to death.
I took one of the wipes, pour some disinfectant onto it and began wiping at his blood cakes face. As I went along wiping, randomly smoothing his dark hair out of his face, I began to take notice of his appearance. He may have been only in his early sixties or late fifties judging by the shape he was in. But (judging by the wound patterns) when your fighting Captain Hans, it doesn't matter how good of a shape your in; you're still going to be beaten into a bloody pulp.
But besides that, he was a very dignified individual (despite the black eye and split lip), almost down right hansom you could say.
Oh would you look at that, I had counted my chicks before they hatched; he had a busted nose and a by the looks of it, he may also have a broken jaw. The Captain must have beaten him into submission and then unconsciousness. I wonder why, I mean, this guy couldn't have been crazy enough to pick a fight with him…could he?
Whether or not a person knows the Captain, they have enough sense to know that it's a bad idea to challenge him in a fight; that's just plain crazy. I mean, just look at him. I doubt I could even take him on with help and I'm…well, let's just say we're cut from different cloths and leave it at that for now. Yes yes, I'll explain it all in good time, don't be going ballistic on me now, alright?
It doesn't matter right now, what matters is that I do as I'm told with as little fuss as possible. You probably think this is cowardly but it's only cowardly if you're not trying to live to see them get what they deserve; after that, I couldn't care less about what happens to me. I just want to go down knowing that they went first and then I can smile, really truly smile again. I won't let anything or anyone take that from me, not just yet.
And what I was told to do was clean him up and get him (and, as always, the chip) ready for the procedure so I'll do just that and worry about the how's and why's at a later time.
By now I've finished cleaning off all the blood and am checking for internal bleed (which there probably is) which can be a tricky thing to do with my very limited medical tools in my possession; so most of the time I usually just poke and sniff around. If the patient makes a loud sudden pained sound when I jab a particular area, and there's no broken or fractured bone, then there's something else. Then I'll lean in close, take a big whiff and if there's a smell of either gun powder, a strong scent of freshly shed blood, or metal, then there's an internal wound. Weird, I know, but I never said I had medical training, just some basic first aid (kids can be smart little buggers. I swear, they know every way imaginable to get hurt). I rely mostly on my senses and intuition for these sorts of things.
Shit, I forgot about his head wound. I walked quickly back to the cabinets and grab the needle and twine, then back to the gurney. I set them down next to him, thread the needle and sewn the small gash just below his hair line closed with five stitches. I may not be the most certified of nurses but I can sow a mean stitch. Then I take care of the one above his right eye brow closed and go back to checking for the wounds that I can't see. I had smelled a bit of shed blood just below his ribs so I go into my next test: I smell inside the mouth.
I opened up his mouth, cleaned out any blood inside so it does not screw me up then take another whiff. Again, I received the same result. It was very faint so that means that what ever is bleeding was slowly clogging itself shut, that being a good thing because then I don't have to do an emergency surgery to try and stop him from bleeding to death internally.
With those out of the way, I stitched the gashes up on his legs, cleaned the debris and covered the scrapes and wounds on his body with gauze and antibiotic cream, and then drained some of the blood of the worst bruises with a pan and hot needle.
Now that he's clean and fixed up, I have to put the finishing touches on the Freak chip. Not worrying about blood illnesses (they can't harm me anymore), I prick my finger with the same needle I used on his bruises and let a drop drip into the proper compartment in the chip, twist a few screws, connect a few things, and close it up.
Time now for the programming part. I walk over to the computer and hook up the chip like the Doc' showed me to and follow his instructions with a few…minor alterations on my part. I punch in the chosen phrase and viola, we're done!
Just as I was disconnecting the chip and rolling the chair back from the desk when said Doctor walked in demanding to know if I were finished yet. With a nod of affirmation, he pushes the gurney with the groaning and waking man out of the room. I held open the door for the Doc' to go through unhindered. The strange old man lolled his head to the side and looked up at me blearily and seemed about to say something just as he went through the door.
That was the first, and last time, I ever saw Walter C. Dollneaz's grey eyes.
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A/N: Feed a starving artist, review today.