08-10-2016, 02:09 AM
Jon gave his newfound awareness a fond welcome. The dim sounds of whirring beeps and clicks of a functional hospital room sank in. He reached out reflexively, even before he opened his eyes, probing for the power of the Great Spirit. It was there, thankfully, but he couldn't manage to hold onto it. It was like trying to pull a boulder with a spiderweb. He opened his eyes. An attendant with short brown hair and thick spectacles was on the other side of the room in white scrubs and a respiratory mask over her mouth and nose. She was looking at a screen. An armed guard in CCD uniform was at the door, also wearing a mask, and also with a very nasty looking black rifle. An inside guard, then. Jon had attracted some attention, it seemed. Jon had about eighteen different contraptions hooked up to him. He was a tangle of wires and tubes.
“How long have I been out?”
he called out to the attendant. He hoped it hadn't been long.
The woman gave no hint of surprise that Jon was awake. “About three hours,” she replied without looking up. “You were kept sedated until we could confirm you were healthy and there was no underlying cause of your loss of consciousness.”
Three hours. Not bad. Also with luck not long enough to attract enough attention for someone important to make a case to hold him. “In that case, I'd like to sign myself out of here...”
He eyed the guard. Would they try and hold him here now? “Please bring me my clothes. I assure you I am not a danger in my suit.”
A total lie, of course, on several levels. But he looked down at his flimsy hospital gown. Those things hadn't changed much in the past fifty years. Certainly not enough to warrant him wearing it out of here. If he had to make a break for it, best he be properly attired.
The attendant just shrugged and pointed at a closet. “I'll get you unhooked. Your personal items are in there.”
Well, then. That was easy. Why the guard, then? Best not to even ask.
Fifteen minutes later, Jon was unhooked and dressed. He'd gotten his Wallet back, and had already placed a call to Caroline letting her know he was in the clear and in need of an immediate plane ticket. “The first flight out of Moscow,”
he told her. “I mean the first flight. I don't care if it's on a mail carrier.”
Getting back to the United States had become even more urgent than Jon had thought. Time was running out for his people, and he had to get moving. The passage of the Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act had to get passed immediately whatever the cost, but that was only the start. Jon could hear his grandfather now. You must never get distracted by chasing phantoms, lest the demon get a strike in.
“The first flight,”
he repeated, striding out of the doors of the Guardian a free man.
This time though, he'd skip the train and take a cab.
“How long have I been out?”
he called out to the attendant. He hoped it hadn't been long.
The woman gave no hint of surprise that Jon was awake. “About three hours,” she replied without looking up. “You were kept sedated until we could confirm you were healthy and there was no underlying cause of your loss of consciousness.”
Three hours. Not bad. Also with luck not long enough to attract enough attention for someone important to make a case to hold him. “In that case, I'd like to sign myself out of here...”
He eyed the guard. Would they try and hold him here now? “Please bring me my clothes. I assure you I am not a danger in my suit.”
A total lie, of course, on several levels. But he looked down at his flimsy hospital gown. Those things hadn't changed much in the past fifty years. Certainly not enough to warrant him wearing it out of here. If he had to make a break for it, best he be properly attired.
The attendant just shrugged and pointed at a closet. “I'll get you unhooked. Your personal items are in there.”
Well, then. That was easy. Why the guard, then? Best not to even ask.
Fifteen minutes later, Jon was unhooked and dressed. He'd gotten his Wallet back, and had already placed a call to Caroline letting her know he was in the clear and in need of an immediate plane ticket. “The first flight out of Moscow,”
he told her. “I mean the first flight. I don't care if it's on a mail carrier.”
Getting back to the United States had become even more urgent than Jon had thought. Time was running out for his people, and he had to get moving. The passage of the Native American Medical Privacy Protection Act had to get passed immediately whatever the cost, but that was only the start. Jon could hear his grandfather now. You must never get distracted by chasing phantoms, lest the demon get a strike in.
“The first flight,”
he repeated, striding out of the doors of the Guardian a free man.
This time though, he'd skip the train and take a cab.