You died, mister Hargreaves.
Who: Cain, OPEN
What: Oh look no more coma
Where: The medical bay
When: Two days after that disaster Cat Planet
Warnings: Possible harem?
It was bright, brighter than he would have liked. His body felt overly heavy, like lying under a huge, thick quilt in winter, almost preventing him from even wanting to move anyway. Furthermore, his chest felt tight, and he could only breathe shallowly. Everything was uncomfortable. Where was he? What was going on?
His eyes were just slightly open, just enough to let in that uncomfortable bit of fluorescent light through. He shut them tightly again and struggled to raise his hand up to his forehead; it was then that he felt the dull burning ache in his chest begin. Oh, good.
He grimaced, pulling his heavy, dull hand up to where it burned, and felt (though somewhat dully) rows of stitches down the center of his chest. He remembered.
His sister re-entering the metal and glass coffin.
His despair and solitude.
Sheeana, Mirys, Victoria, Tess...
Riff.
He sat up with a start, and then immediately wished that he had made a different, more wise choice when everything simultaneously spun and hurt, and he sank back again, a pained look on his face. Damn! Riff had shot him! Several times, in fact!
Had he died? He was SURE he had died. How, then, was he still sitting in what he slowly recognised as the recovery bay of the medical station, with a chest full of stitches and a long plastic tube stuck to his elbow? He tried to speak, tried to call out, but his mouth was so dry, he just croaked dryly and pitifully.
He could not muster the strength to move, to slip out of the bed and search for Riff. That would be forced to wait.
What: Oh look no more coma
Where: The medical bay
When: Two days after that disaster Cat Planet
Warnings: Possible harem?
It was bright, brighter than he would have liked. His body felt overly heavy, like lying under a huge, thick quilt in winter, almost preventing him from even wanting to move anyway. Furthermore, his chest felt tight, and he could only breathe shallowly. Everything was uncomfortable. Where was he? What was going on?
His eyes were just slightly open, just enough to let in that uncomfortable bit of fluorescent light through. He shut them tightly again and struggled to raise his hand up to his forehead; it was then that he felt the dull burning ache in his chest begin. Oh, good.
He grimaced, pulling his heavy, dull hand up to where it burned, and felt (though somewhat dully) rows of stitches down the center of his chest. He remembered.
His sister re-entering the metal and glass coffin.
His despair and solitude.
Sheeana, Mirys, Victoria, Tess...
Riff.
He sat up with a start, and then immediately wished that he had made a different, more wise choice when everything simultaneously spun and hurt, and he sank back again, a pained look on his face. Damn! Riff had shot him! Several times, in fact!
Had he died? He was SURE he had died. How, then, was he still sitting in what he slowly recognised as the recovery bay of the medical station, with a chest full of stitches and a long plastic tube stuck to his elbow? He tried to speak, tried to call out, but his mouth was so dry, he just croaked dryly and pitifully.
He could not muster the strength to move, to slip out of the bed and search for Riff. That would be forced to wait.