Part 12
As Grace slept that night, she dreamt of the city again. But this time it was different. The city wasn't destroyed yet. It was the buzzing center of industry that it had been before. She was walking down Main Street, people bustling about all around her, and the lights and sounds were as welcoming as ever. She smiled as she approached Times Square.
In the center of the intersection of Times Square, there was some kind of… machine. It was slightly orb-like, and it's surface looked like a gutted computer mixed with watch pieces. She tilted her head to the side as she approached it, curious of why the people all around her didn't seem to notice it.
Standing in front of it was a figure; she couldn't make out if it was male or female, because whoever it was was facing the machine. She walked closer, reaching for the person. Whoever it was slowly lifted a hand, pressing it against the machine.
The giant mechanism hummed and clicked like a lock, and the person half turned their head toward her, but she still couldn't make out any facial features. They said something, but it was muted like a television. She tried to move closer, but it was as if something were holding her back.
The person repeated what they'd said, but she still didn't hear. She craned her head to try to hear, only to realize that the orb was glowing blue. She reached out for the person, finally touching their shoulder. As she did, the blue essance expanded, dismembering her just as it had done in her many other dreams.
She sat straight up in her bed, panting and sweating. She pushed her long brunette tendrils out of her face, and slid sideways on her bed so that her legs were dangling off the side. That machine… it looked familiar. Like, she'd seen it before, somewhere. She sighed, and shuffled out of the guest room, flipping on a few lights as she went into the kitchen.
She grabbed a glass from a cabinet, filled it with water from the tap, and chugged. Where had she seen that machine? There was nothing in the world like it, so it should have been rather easy to place it in her memory. Then a memory-picture revealed itself.
It was a photograph. Veidt was on the left, smiling that smile that he rarely used anymore. On the left was Dr. Manhattan, wearing the suit he always wore in photographs and press releases. His face was stoic and emotionless, but then again, it always was. Between and behind them was this machine. It lingered over them, creating shadows on Veidt's elegantly chiseled face. But where had she seen that photo?
Grace walked into the living room, where she set her glass on the coffee table and dropped to her knees to look through the books. Soon, she found her prey. There were countless magazines on the bottom shelf, and she pulled all of them out, causing the books that had been gathered around them to fall inwards.
They were all magazines featuring an article about Adrian. Time, Forbes, People; basically all the reputable magazines, and a couple non-reputable ones. She flipped through endless articles on how he gave away his inheritance to charity when his parents passed, and forged his empire from nothing. How he proved that the rags-to-riches stories can become reality. She lingered on a Fitness magazine, admiring the pictures for longer than she should have.
She finally found the picture. It was a recent issue of Time, and it was dedicated entirely to the issue of Veidt's work with Dr. Manhattan on creating new energy resources. In the middle of the article, there was the picture, and there was that machine. But why on Earth had she dreamed about it? She had only seen it a couple of times.
She sighed in disappointment, tossing the magazine back onto the shelf and leaning against the coffee table. She went to grab her glass from the table, when she heard something from Veidt's room. It sounded like he was… talking to someone.
She stood and scurried to his door, pushing it open quietly. Turned out, he was talking… in his sleep. But he'd taken Atavan… he shouldn't have been dreaming, which meant he shouldn't have been talking.
She stepped quietly in, walking to the side of his bed with the intention of waking him, but then she reconsidered. She could possibly get some answers from this.
It hurt her to stand there while it was obvious he was having a nightmare, but she tried her hardest to be objective.
"I'm sorry," he murmured, panting and gripping the sheets. She noticed a thin film of sweat covering him, and had to grasp her hands together to avoid waking him. "I'm sorry, Dan," he gasped, turning his head violently from side to side. His German accent was stronger as he spoke, and she barely understood him. "It had to be done. They would have killed each other. It had to be done."
He began repeating that statement over and over, and it was clear that his dream was becoming more violent. When he started thrashing and kicking, she decided it was time to wake him. She grasped his bare shoulders, and shook him lightly. "Adrian," she said loudly, and when he continued to thrash and repeat that phrase, she tried again.
"Adrian!" she said louder, shaking him again.
"No!" he practically screamed, throwing her off, and bolting upright. She stumbled backwards, noticing that he'd hit her in the face when he threw her off and given her a bloody nose. She wiped it away the best she could, only then noticing that he'd gone completely silent. She squinted against the darkness, and noticed that his eyes were wide open, and he was gasping for breath.
"Adrian," she said again, and he yelped and jumped away from her, nearly falling off the other side of the bed. "Adrian, it's okay, it's me. You were dreaming. I thought you weren't supposed to dream on Atavan?"
He panted for a moment, then flicked on the light and looked at her. His eyes widened more, if possible.
"Oh, God, I hit you," he said, and flipped his legs sideways and pulled her closer. "I'm sorry. I was… I was dreaming. I didn't… I would never…"
"It's fine Adrian," she said, finally thankful that he was actually talking to her.
"No, it's not," he said, wiping blood from her face with a tissue from his bedside table.
"I bleed easily," she said, taking the tissue and wiping at her own face. "I thought you werent supposed to dream?" she repeated.
He thought for a moment before looking back at her. "I'm not."
She stared back, puzzled. "Are you okay now?" she asked, noticing that he was still struggling for breath.
"I don't know," he said, and he looked a bit confused. "I feel… strange. It's not a panic attack, but…" he swallowed, and gasped for another breath. "I can't breathe."
When she studied him closer, she noticed that his pupils were horribly dilated, and his skin was a strange yellow color. He continued to gasp for air, clutching at his lungs.
She held her pointer and middle finger to his neck, trying to feel his pulse, when she noticed that his skin was hot… more than just warmth. This was fever-worthy. And when she checked his pulse, it didn't help. She had a hard time counting it was racing so fast. She held the back of her hand against his forehead, and it proved her fever theory.
"Adrian, you're burning up," she said, and he looked at her like he didn't understand a word she said. "Adrian, can you understand me?"
If possible, his pupils were getting smaller. And now it sounded like his airways were almost completely obstructed. He stared at the floor as he tried harder to breathe.
"Adrian, you need to relax," she said, trying to push him back to lie on his bed. He did, but he was disoriented, like he had forgotten she was there.
"Shit," she said to herself, and reached for the phone. She dialed Dr. Schiaca, nervously tapping the phone and repeating "pick up, pick up, pick up."
"Hello?" he answered groggily.
"Hi, it's Grace Turner. Sorry to wake you at such an early hour, but I have a problem," she said.
"What is it?" he asked, obviously still sleepy.
"Adrian… um, Mr. Veidt just woke up with a nightmare, and now he's… I don't know, it's not a panic attack. But he can't breathe, and his pupils are dilated, and he's confused," she said, watching him closely. He had begun trembling and looking around like he didn't know where he was.
"I'll be there in half an hour," he said.
"Uh, doc," she said, watching Adrian. "I don't think he'll make it half an hour."
Dr. Schiaca was obviously speechless.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"I'm staying with some relatives in Richmond," he said, and it was obvious he was making an effort to wake up.
"Is there anywhere near there that a helicopter can land?"
"Uhhh," the doctor stammered. "Yes, yes there is a helipad at the hospital near here."
"Can you get there easily?" she asked, her voice becoming frantic as Adrian began to panic from lack of air.
"Yeah, I suppose," Schiaca said.
"Good, get there ASAP," she said, and hung up.
She was dying to try to calm Adrian, but she dialed another number.
"Hello?" came another sleepy voice.
"Mr. Hargreeve?" she asked, hoping the pilot was in a good mood.
"Mm-hmm," he said sleepily.
"I have an emergency. I need you to be on the helipad at the Richmond Hospital as soon as possible to pick up a man named William Schiaca. Can you do that?" she asked.
The man didn't even question her. "Yes. Ms. Turner," he said, and she hung up.
Adrian was choking now, grasping at his neck and chest.
"Adrian," she whispered, kneeling on the bed next to him and wrapping an arm around him. "Shhh. Please try to calm down."
"Can't…" he gasped, trying to gulp air but only choking. "Breathe."
"I know. I called Dr. Schiaca, he's on his way," she said, stroking his sweaty blonde hair.
His hand reached out for hers, and when she took it, it was shaking and so weak that it barely wrapped around hers.
"Oh God, hurry up Hargreeve," she whispered, rocking Adrian and trying to calm him.
She stayed with him until the pilot called and said he had picked up Dr. Schiaca and they were on their way. She pulled back and studied Adrian, who was still struggling to breathe.
"I have to go put some pants on, will you be okay for a second?" she asked, figuring that being in a skimpy shirt and no pants wasn't exactly presentable.
He coughed, and didn't even attempt to answer. She groaned in pity, and dashed to her room and threw on some black sweats she bought.
She ran back to him and sat with him until Dr. Schiaca arrived, the elevator alerting her that he had entered the apartment. She silently thanked God that you didn't need a key to get from the helipad to Veidt's apartment, just from the other floors.
Dr. Schiaca ran into Veidt's bedroom, falling to his knees next to the bed.
"Please, step back Ms. Turner," he said, and she quickly obliged.
He took Adrian's vitals, checking his pupils, pulse, etc. He didn't look happy with the results.
"He's got a 126 degree fever," he said, shaking his head and pulling a syringe and bottle from his bag and quickly filling the syringe.
He neatly injected the liquid into Adrian's arm, and the change was instantaneous. His muscles slowly relaxed, and his breathing began to slow.
"What the hell happened?" she asked.
Dr. Schiaca turned around, still crouched on his knees. "Psychological shock. I've never seen it happen with nightmares before. Never."
"How the hell did that happen?" she asked. "He isnt supposed to dream on the Atavan."
"Well, it was probably wearing off, but not completely, so he started dreaming. You see, when the body experiences a nightmare, it usually wakes itself up. You know those times where you're falling from a building, and you wake up when you hit bottom?" he asked.
"Yeah," she replied, rubbing her arms for warmth.
"Well, he was probably having one of those moments, and the drug stopped him from waking. Psychological shock happens with prolonged experiences of terror," Dr. Schiaca said, rising to his feet and closing his bag.
"God almighty," she said under her breath, looking over the doctor's shoulder at Adrian. His eyes were closed, and he appeared to be sleeping peacefully.
"So what did you give him?" she asked.
"Pentothal. It's a much more powerful sedative than Lorazepam. It'll help return his nervous system to regulatory working order and let him rest," Schiaca said, studying Adrian.
They stood watching him for a long time, both lost in thought.
"What happened to him?" she said eventually, more to herself than Dr. Schiaca.
"What indeed," he replied.