savetheearth | [closed] oh shit son

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[closed] oh shit son

Who: Daniel & Reagan
When: April 8th, night
Where: The basement of an undisclosed location on the outskirts of Locke
What: Albero's mafia is imprisoning a reincarnate and unwittingly sends another reincarnate to look him over.
Warnings: tba

Upstairs, one of Vincent's capos is briefing Daniel on the prisoner held in the basement. Nervous does not even begin to describe his state -- Daniel's. Numbered. The person the mafia is imprisoning is a Numbered.

This is far too close for comfort. If he could turn away, he would.

He can't.

He fails to realize he's been rubbing his fingers together anxiously until the capo points it out. Heart rapidly beating, he explains it away as apprehension to be meeting one of those up close and personal. The capo doesn't deign him with a direct response, but rather directs him to the basement.

The guard stationed outside of it unlocks the door, then shuts it after Daniel steps in. If the capo were to have his way, the guard would accompany him, but Daniel had (passively) argued against it. Rather that he enter solo and avoid stressing the person out needlessly with someone they already consider an antagonist.

With his grip white-knuckled on his briefcase, Daniel descends the stairs. The lighting is poor; the center is illuminated by incandescent light, the likes of which fails to extend to the edges of the room. He hides the lower half of his face behind a bandanna -- not his first choice, but one heavily preferred over leaving himself bare for easy identification.

The best method of identity concealment would be that sorcery he's been practicing, but... ha ha ha. He's not going to risk it here.

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A pair of eyes snap up to the doorway, angry and glowing in a strange manner until they're abruptly an average shade of warm amber. There are dark, hallowed circles beneath his eyes. Understandably, their prisoner is pale after being confined to this room for so long. Reagan's best guess is that he's been down here for weeks, but there's nothing to indicate the passing of days except maybe another round of questions and the incessant ticking of his wristwatch that he's stopped hearing all together. Days and nights have blurred together.

He remembers fighting, but that was futile. He remembers the darkness of a black bag. The chair he's been seated in is bolted to the floor. He's tried rocking back and forth and it hasn't budged an inch. His arms are bound across him and strapped down, his ankles strapped down, a mask affixed across his mouth like a muzzle. His hair is greasier than it has ever been in his life. So many limbs have gone beyond numb, only waking during occasional moments when he's questioned.

They want to know about the giant war machines. Reagan wants to tell them to go fuck themselves. There's not much defiance in him anymore, though. It's clear this wasn't for ransom like he'd assumed weeks ago. Gradually, migraines have been getting progressively worse. He can feel things out there, hear snippets of voices, but he can't place them. They're getting louder. He's still questioning their validity, along with the system he seems to have somehow accessed.

Whatever he was doing before Daniel stepped into the room, he abruptly stops to stare. There's a huff of exhaustion from behind the mask, muffled by the solid material. He's got to be smart here. Maybe give them something to keep surviving.

Reagan leans his head back the short distance it can go until it hits the back of the chair, cracking his neck. It's the only relief he gets from this stiff position. When he does try to finally speak, it's a dry croak of his normal voice, muffled into indistinguishable words. More questions?

For a split second, the sole of his shoe freezes in a hovering position over the next step. Glowing eyes. No longer glowing.

Then he sees the mask covering Reagan's lower face. The sight triggers an Echo inside of him, the sensation of which, coupled with his trepidation, causes him to miss the edge of the step. He stumbles down the next, catching himself against the brick wall. For a moment, he simply keeps himself pressed against it as he tries to mentally reorient himself.

To see a person confined like a dangerous animal is not something he can simply accept and continue on without reaction. He's served the main branch in New York since graduating medical school and never has he seen someone treated like Reagan.

Vincent Albero is dangerous, Vincent Albero is bug-fuck nuts -- snippets of conversation he'd overheard before transferring. There was a reason why Vincent Albero was, in a word, exiled.

Suffice to say, none of what has just happened calms his nerves any.

Righting himself, Daniel steps foot onto the floor and stops a foot away from Reagan. He licks his lower lip and swallows. Still holding the handles of his briefcase tightly, he says in a low voice, "I'm a doctor. I'm here to assess your physical health."

At the same time, he wonders where the effect of the Echo he experienced is. Was this time different...?

Reagan is tired, honestly. He's spent every quiet moment sleeping and prodding at this strange sensation in his head. That doesn't keep his better judgement from functioning. If he ever survives this, he's been making mental notes to report to the police. The average door height is usually around 6'8". Many of his mother's models swept just under it. This man was 5-7" shy of the top door frame. Tall. It's too dark to see his hair or eye color clearly until he steps closer.

Reagan follows the stumble with his eyes. They narrow in response, confused. This person is not at all like the rest who've come in through the doors. Less of him is obscured, and no one else stumbled in the doorway as if they've never stepped foot down here before. As the man announces to be a doctor, there's a bit of hope in the rise of his eyebrows, but it's quickly squashed by an overwhelming sense of trepidation and mistrust. It's another bit of information he can report.

His head tilts back as he approaches. Hair color. Now that he's in the area with light. Reagan really loathes this light. Although it's not shining directly in his eyes, it makes the last month of migraines much worse. He's never had a problem with them before. He could use a doctor. Even if they won't let him out. He needs this pain to go away. He'd give anything right now for them to let him stand and walk around or sleep lying down. But apparently he's one of 'them', whatever that means.

Let me out. He doesn't seem to hear it when Reagan thinks it. Someone can, but they don't answer. A month has been plenty of time to experiment. He can't shift in the chair much, but his arms do jerk a centimeter or two in their confines. A muffled grunt behind the mask.

His chin dips, bobbing his head into a slow nod, not that permission has been needed for anything else. An exam would go a lot easier if the patient could answer him.

Edited 2014-04-09 13:29 (UTC)

He can feel the scrutiny like a slide beneath the lens of a microscope. He flexes each finger on the handles of his briefcase one at a time, considering.

Then he bends his knees and sets the case down on the floor. His eyes never stray from Reagan as he rises.

Taking a step forward, he says, "I'm going to remove your mask."

He lifts a hand to the mask, but hesitates. Confined like a dangerous animal. Will he bite like one, too?

No, no. What a horrid thought. No. He can't think like that.

Frowning, he spends a minute trying to figure out how to take off Reagan's mask before succeeding. He quickly withdraws from Reagan's personal space, hyper-focused on his immediate reaction.

Reagan frantically tries to remember even the smallest detail he's shown up close. Police usually ask for details. Once his head comes into view within the circle of light, he makes note of the color blonde and curly texture. Considering how little description he has for everyone else, it's something to go off of.

Just lowering and reaching up toward the mask disarms Reagan. Where his weight was tense in the chair, possibly ready to fight, it now settles onto the surface. Removing the mask is a luxury he has only gotten when being questioned before. He's either a very good actor or he doesn't know what he's doing to get the mask off. About forty seconds in, Reagan internally panicked that he might not be able to get the mask off. Once he succeeded, he exhaled the breath he was holding. Surprise! Behind it is just a very normal face. Nothing unusual to it at all.

Reagan's eyes narrow and he watches as the doctor quickly pulls away. A short dry cough and a hollow, bemused laugh precede his words. "You're afraid of me?" His head dips forward and he laughs incredulously for a few seconds until his migraine flares up. He has to grit his teeth and clench his eyes until they water before he's able to squint to look at the doctor again.

"I just want to go home." He stresses gently, words deliberately clear. He's forced to clear his throat to keep going, "Let me out of here. My parents will pay any ransom or reward."

This terrible sinking feeling in his stomach says he may not take that bait, even if it's the truth.

Just another average person.

With eyes that could glow.

Daniel presses his tongue against the inner side of his teeth. He takes in a breath, then lets it out, hoping to send some of his trepidation along with it.

"You are one of 'them'," he says, walking to the sink. Reagan may not be able to see him anymore, but he'll hear the faucet turn, water flow, and the clink of a glass as Daniel fills it. "Unfortunately, my position isn't so different from yours. Well."

Once more in front of Reagan, he holds the glass up, takes a sip from it, then holds it to Reagan's lips. His intent: to show Reagan that nothing dubious had been added to the water.

Reagan's head will only turn so far. He hadn't been aware there was a sink in this room at all, and the fact they'd forsaken the human option with him and stuck him in this chair pisses him off.

"Them?" Reagan questions, only to add with as his gaze settles on the far wall, "'Well', I don't see you strapped to a chair." Reagan finishes for him, following his movements as he appears in his line of sight again. "Are you one of 'Them'?"

He hesitates at the edge of the glass, but proceeds to gulp down large sips, thirstier than he ever remembers being in his life. He doesn't remember eating, and he's lost weight, but he'd be dead by now if there wasn't a medical reason he was dehydrated and had the nutrients to survive. He's not a doctor, but he knows that. It's not graceful in the least. It's desperate, and water leaks around the edge of the glass and down his chin. He's never felt so helpless before. His parents had money, power, and he had a certain level of immunity and freedom. That's been stripped from him completely.

"So," He starts with better clarity than his previous words, "You're not here to help me out of here, but you've been sent to make sure I'm not dying?" Reagan's eyes slide to the side, away from his only promising visitor.

"My head is killing me."

The gulps concern him, but only mildly. Reagan isn't going to die from this amount of water.

Kneeling down, he sets the glass on the floor and opens his briefcase. Rummaging inside of it, he says, "Your symptoms?"

He can answer Reagan's questions later.

Tch. Reagan would rather have gotten answers now. He'll get what help he can get, though, rather than risk the man leaving. "Sharp stabbing pain in my head. Tunnel vision? I can't feel my legs or my arms anymore."

".. It's hard to focus. I hear voices." He doesn't mention the paranoia of feeling like someone's presence is with him because it doesn't feel like it's in the room. Voices are bad enough, Reagan thinks. He'd rather not give them ammunition to keep him longer, and he holds back any his own questions, doubting the doctor can or will tell him anything about the machine.

His hand stills. Voices.

Mental illness or Echo?

"What are the voices saying?" he asks, maintaining a neutral tone. "Have you had any adverse reactions to ibuprofen before?"

"Shut up." He replies flatly, a little miffed in his tone. "Otherwise, it's muffled. It's like he or she isn't really talking to me." Reagan lets his body lean on the straps holding him in place. It's the only relief he gets on his spine.

"...I'm not crazy." He adds, unconvinced. He's never heard voices before having a black bag thrown over his head. Then again, he knows what he turned on the machines at LCU. Not following them would have been something like ignoring the Space Shuttle being paraded downtown, but he's regretting it now. He could be in a room with factory pieces ramming down onto solid steel for weeks the way his head feels compounded and pressed on.

"No, but I hope you have something stronger."

For a split second, Daniel's caught off guard, thinking the 'shut up' is meant for him. Reagan's next words dispels the mistake.

He taps the inside of his case lightly with a finger, then glances up at Reagan. "You think you need something stronger than 600 miligrams?"

"Yes." Reagan groans, jerking on the restraints. They haven't loosened in weeks. Still just as tight as ever. He slumps again. His head rolls to the left, then the right.

"It's like a machine is ripping apart my head piece by piece."

He glances down again. After a pause, he hesitantly says, "Vicodin? I don't have anything to treat migraines on me, but I can request it."

"You're the doctor. If that will get rid of the pain, then yeah.. that." Reagan's been staring at Daniel's shoes and bag for several moments now. After he looks away, Reagan's eyes begin glowing again, enough to slightly illuminate the jacket and chains he's strapped in with.

What might get his attention first is the droplets of blood hitting from a bleeding nose. Reagan sniffles as if his nose is running. He hasn't realized it's bleeding yet.

With the room otherwise silent, the light patter of blood hitting material catches Daniel's attention. He glances up again, though around the room first, thinking there might be a leak, before the sniffle draws his attention to Reagan.

His eyes widen. Bloody nose, glowing eyes again.

"What are you doing?" he asks sharply, voice no louder than a hiss.

Reagan's head raises, grimacing. So he can connect to Veda at will, but it hurts a lot more than trying to find that vague feeling and voice.

"There's no file with a description that matches yours." He answers honestly, leaning his head back as he winces in response to the light. "My nose.. is it...?" Reagan's arm flinches, hand instinctively trying to wipe it away, but he can't.

His brows pinch together in exasperated confusion fueled mostly by paranoia. "What?" he asks, but quickly glances away, closes his eyes, and presses the tips of his fingers and thumb against his temples. Reagan is desperate. He's detained in an awful situation. He's going to act strangely. He's going to view Daniel as an enemy.

Once Daniel reminds himself of this, he sighs and drops his hand.

"Your nose is bleeding, yes," he says, sounding more tired than anything else. "Whatever you did must have caused it." He glances at the section of his case that has gauze, then up at Reagan again, clearly considering something.

Finally, he says, "Look. I want to do a general exam on you. I want to help you as much as I can. I'd like to get you out of this chair, but I can't do that if I can't trust you not to do... whatever it was you did."

Being released, even for a few minutes, is a very strong incentive for Reagan to play nice. There's no file he can access that can give him any answers on these people. Asking for trust is a stretch, but Reagan has already resigned himself.

"Medicine." He reminds him, nodding dully to agree to his request. As far as he knows, it's not dangerous to anyone else. He can't control it very well, yet, but that was an intentional attempt to see if there was a file on any doctors he could access. If Veda is a computer, it could at least be helpful. It's just lucky he understands that much about it, even with his degrees, it's much too advanced for him to understand.

"I won't do it again. Will you answer my earlier questions?"

He sighs, this time with relief, and rises.

"I'm a different sort of hostage," he says, while his hands go to work unbuckling the straps first. He motions for Reagan to lean forward. "Pinch the soft part of your nose, too, and press inward."

Then he goes about releasing Reagan from his straight-jacket. "I don't work for these people because I enjoy it. They do not, however, strap me to a chair."

A nod to and acknowledgement of Reagan's previous comment.

Once Reagan's freed, Daniel straightens and holds his hand out for Reagan to steady himself with. His apparent courtesy is very weak; he'd snatch his hand away in an instant if Reagan so much as moves in what Daniel might perceive as a threatening way.

Reagan holds his breath as the straps begin to loosen. As ties are undone, he's able to flex his fingers and adjust his arms. An ache shoots up them like the vengeance of a thousand needles. Understandably, very little blood has flown through his body properly in the last few weeks. He's probably pinched some nerves. That doesn't bode well for his legs and running out of here — even if he hadn't heard the resounding lock of the door when it was closed or seen the shadows of people outside. Guards.

A last vestige of pride, but Reagan manages to control his arm enough to wave away the doctor's offer. He scoots forward to the edge of the chair, leaning in the same direction. A bloody nose is annoying, and his fingers twist back to his own face, pinching the bottom portion of his nose to put pressure on it.

At the same time, Reagan presses his against his feet while they're flat to the floor, and quickly discovers standing is probably out of the question until he stretches them out. His heart is racing, though. This is probably the most freedom he's had, and with a better view of the room, he looks around, trying to place where that sink was from before. If there are mirrors or windows.

Blackmail, then? A debt? Reagan assumes as the doctor explains, but he's not concerned enough about it to pry more. He's just told him that he's a hostage, someone who probably sympathizes with the situation. That's enough for him.

"These people?" Reagan repeats with a sigh, voice muffled with a slight pitch change from keeping his nose pinched. He's using his free hand to rub at his knees and legs. The quicker he can get out of this chair, the better, and like hell he's going back into it.

"You said I was one of 'them'?" His hand moves to his opposite knee. "Does that have something to do with the number in my head? Or the computer?" There are dozens of questions he could ask someone with enough time: questions about his family, about why the machines turned on, and why he knows he did that. Testing the waters, Reagan pulls his hand away from his nose, now freshly covered with blood. He doesn't feel that running sensation anymore, so he slowly bends for the last bit of the water that was set aside. He's moving at a snail's pace, beyond exhausted and in pain. Once he's got the water in his hand, balancing the glass onto his lap, he raises his hand again for the pills. Each movement is a little easier, even if it feels like he's raising lead weights.

He hands Reagan the pills and positions himself between Reagan and his briefcase. "I'm sorry," he says, "I don't follow. A computer?"

The capo had not seen fit to tell him that.

Meanwhile, he's internally willing that by ignoring the mention of numbers and focusing on the computer, Reagan will likewise ignore the topic of the Numbers.

Reagan waves outward with one hand, a dismissive brushing gesture. "A computer at the Compsci department at LCU." He lies smoothly.

First thing is first: take care of this migraine. He barely hesitates to take the pills and pop them into his mouth, followed by the last swig of water from the glass.

That's three times he's danced around that question after Reagan made sure he heard it. It's not a coincidence or misunderstanding anymore to say he might be avoiding the topic. He'll think on it more when his head isn't pounding.

Hastily, Reagan is pushing out of the chair. He has to hold onto it to stand. That's worrisome to him. He's not very athletic to begin with. He tries to stretch out his legs and his arms as he starts moving around the room. Now that Reagan can see the sink, he goes to try and clean his face up in it, wearily watching the doctor from the mirror.

He's concerned about the migraines and the bloody nose. He'll cooperate and let him do an examination without any fuss.

He's doubtful of the answer -- it sounds too mundane to be related to the Numbers, and it must be, if Reagan asked of both together -- but he doesn't press the matter. He'd like to avoid the specifics of the Network and Numbers if it at all possible. He hasn't much trust in himself to maintain plausible deniability.

Reagan appears to be cooperating, but Daniel continues to approach him like he's a feral cat, always ready to pull away should he notice any sudden movement. The exam is not unlike an annual -- heart, lungs, neurological, etc. There's nothing terribly surprising about the results and, luckily, nothing terribly concerning, either.

Physical exam complete, he withdraws from Reagan's personal space and says, "I'd like to start you on some fluids. How are you with needles?"

Starting him on fluids is enough to remind him that they don't intend to let him go, and whatever they're looking for is valuable enough to keep him alive. He's refrained from lashing out in fear that something is actually wrong with him. The talk of fluids is ambiguous at best. Reagan wouldn't be surprised if someone told him that he was dehydrated. He's not even sure how he's alive. He hasn't physically eaten a meal in the time he's been down here. Still, some of the pain is easing up, perhaps a little too much of it for the doctor's comfort.

He's not especially coordinated enough, but desperation to escape outranks intelligence right now. This is the one time he's been out of that chair. There's no bargaining with these people. Reagan might be able to take a hostage. The doctor must be valuable? It's not a very good plan. He knows nothing of what is beyond that door. These aren't risks he'd normally take with his own life.

Daniel has reason to be cautious. Although Reagan's never been in a fight in his life, he could probably try pinning him. Maybe using something in his briefcase to encourage cooperation or give him information on where he is. Maybe use the needle as a weapon.

He really hates this idea already, and more so hates the fact that it gives him a bit of hope. Reagan presents his arm. "I'm okay, I guess." He says, unable to keep his pulse from racing anxiously as he forms a plan. He'll try to grab his wrist, maybe get the needle before or afterward? Maybe after when he turns away. He can scramble for the needle, convince him to go to the door and ask for them to open it.

Dumbest idea ever.

"Ah, not yet," he says, noticing the arm. He zips up his briefcase and rises, taking it with him. "I'll be right back."

He needs to get the bag of normosol itself and the pole from which to hang it.

He turns to leave, hesitates, then glances at Reagan again. "Please don't try to escape. You needn't hinder your situation any more."

Reagan wonders if he even realizes how much he just squandered a possible plan for escape. He exhales, glancing to the door before he even turns back to him.

"That's a stupid request..." Reagan answers, "Wouldn't you try to escape if someone locked you up and didn't tell you why?" He slowly walks from one side of the room to the opposite side of the door. He could make a dash to it if his legs would cooperate. "What would 'hinder my situation more'?"

He resumes walking towards the stairs, but backwards, keeping Reagan in his sight.

"If they've already strapped you to a chair and muzzled you, who knows what else they'll do if you try to escape."

Probably break my legs, Reagan concludes in his own thoughts. His expression is otherwise unreadable for a few seconds before he sighs and gradually sinks into the corner with his knees bent in front of him, putting his back somewhere where no one can sneak up on him.

"My name is Reagan." It might be easier for him to treat him like a guinea pig while he doesn't know him, but if this is his only positive in hell, he'll take what he can get. "If you're leaving anyway, could you at least sneak in some sort of food? I'm starving."

The introduction comes as a surprise. He tilts his head just the bit in acknowledgement, but doesn't reciprocate. The last thing he needs is his name smeared on the Network.

Then he laughs. It is hollow and humorless. "Your mistake is thinking I can sneak anything here," he says, turning around to walk up the stairs. "That's what the fluids are for, but I'll see what I can do."

Upstairs, he explains the situation to the guard, and then again to the capo. He falls back to routine, but still can't shake the nervousness that comes with the very real possibility that he would be held in the same manner if the mafia knew he was a Numbered, too.

When he returns, it is with the pole, the fluids and IV line, and no one else. He looks for Reagan's position, then starts walking down the stairs. His hands are full, but this time, he makes it down to the bottom without any slip-ups.

"Do you like Reese's?" he asks, setting the pole down.

It seems like he hasn't moved from his spot in the corner, but he's gotten up at least once more to gulp down water from the faucet with his hands. He's splashed his hair with water in a vain effort to clean it. The zipper for the jacket over his oxford was too difficult to reach on his own. He could get part of it down, but couldn't reach it to get the damn thing off.

By the time the doctor returns, Reagan is back in his spot in the corner. The only thing that gives away that he moved is the fact his hair is damp still. Just stretching his legs out flat has been nice. For maybe ten or fifteen minutes he thinks he'd be able to sleep on the floor better. He's never slept on the floor in his life, but it seems inviting. Strange how things change. He's never really been admitted to the hospital, so this is his first experience with an IV. His expression lightens on the mention of some candy.

"Yeah. I like most candy."

He hangs the normosol on the pole and hooks the line so it isn't dragging on the floor. With his newly freed hand, he pulls out a wrapped chocolate and lightly tosses it towards Reagan.

It's a Reese's Easter bunny chocolate that one of the capo's men were willing to part with.

"This will be easier if you're sitting in the chair again."

Reagan reaches up and manages to catch the chocolate bunny in his hands. For a moment, he's stuck on the fact that it's a piece of Easter chocolate, but then he remembers how long before a holiday they put out that kind of candy.

At the mention of the chair, he doesn't look very comfortable. Reluctantly, he gets up while unwrapping the candy and starts taking a bite. He's thought a lot about the way food used to taste, and his stomach growls the moment he smells the chocolate.

He sits down and tries to get a better look at the doctor's face. "Am I dehydrated? I don't know why they'd send a doctor to keep me alive but refuse to give me food."

He follows Reagan's movements out of the corner of his eyes. His compliance mildly surprises Daniel; he'd expected a fuss about returning to the chair he's been strapped to for so long.

"Perhaps they wondered how long you'd last," he says blandly, not keen to consider the ways in which the mafia is treating Reagan simply because he's a Numbered. His discomfort stems not from noble ideals, but that he could easily be in Reagan's place.

"Lay your arm out, straight."

Reagan has seen enough survival shows on science channels to deduce that he should probably be dead, but it's scarier to think of whatever way they're keeping him alive, and worse than that to wonder how they do whatever it is without him knowing.

While he doesn't like returning to the chair, he's made a point of sitting on the straps so they can't be pulled over him. He even steps on the straps at the ankles. He's sized up the doctor. There's no way he'll accept the jacket to be locked into place, or the straps on the chair. If he's keeping an IV in his arm, he won't be able to lock the straight jacket anyway.

After he's rolled up the buckled sleeve and laid his arm out, he glances toward the bag and pole. Well, it looks like a saline solution. With his free hand, he gobbles down the rest of the chocolate bunny.

"I don't suppose the words 'don't do anything weird to me' apply anymore." One of his heels has been tapping the chair nonstop, nervously.

After laying out everything he needs on the floor, Daniel wraps his hand around Reagan's wrist and uses the other to clean the area he's going to place the catheter in with antiseptic wipes, the likes of which he simply drops for clean up afterwards.

"I'm not the one doing anything 'weird' to you," he says, reaching for the catheter. Holding it between his teeth, he twists the cap off and feels for a vein with his pinky finger. Speaking around the cap, he continues, "If you've never had a catheter placed before, this may feel uncomfortable. If you'd rather look away, now is the time to do it."

Reagan's anxiety gets the better of him and he glances away at the last moment, just in time to admit through his teeth as the pinching of skin causes him to flinch, "I lied. I'm terrible with needles."

For the better part of the next minute, Reagan is quiet again. The pain medication is working. His head no longer hurts, and if he draws this out too long, he might not be able to continue prodding at Veda to find out more information. He's watching the doctor like a hawk, determined not to let anyone get him back into these confines.

Unfortunately, the doctor does have orders to do something 'weird' to Reagan -- specifically, to the tune of sedating him. The capo had not been happy to hear that Daniel had released his prisoner without clearance.

To accomplish this, Daniel had injected the sedative into the rubbery part of the IV line prior to returning. Since the drug is clear, there's no indication that the line has been tampered with.

Keeping a lid on his trepidation that Reagan will later lash out against him in resentment, he inserts the catheter and secures it with medical tape, and then he inserts the syringe of the IV line into the catheter and secures that, too.

He stands and fiddles with the line to adjust the drip rate. The sedative loitering in the line itself flows into Reagan's blood stream, followed by the normosol. In a few minutes, Reagan will begin to feel sluggish.

Daniel hopes to be gone before then.

"That's it. This will provide what you're lacking," he says, voice betraying none of his concern. He tells Reagan when to stop the drip and shows him how to do so, then goes about cleaning up and putting his supplies away.

On his way up the stairs, he adds, "I'll talk to them about upgrading their hospitality."

Edited 2014-04-15 06:29 (UTC)

There's nothing to be suspicious of. The doctor has shown him how to deal with the medical equipment. As he leaves, there's a slight nod to acknowledge what he said about hospitality before the heavy door swings shut and the room is plunged into silence.

He doesn't like silence anymore. He's had enough of it, and it's hard to stay awake, or get restful sleep with nightmares when there's such a stale weight to the room. Reagan quickly scoots forward, to the edge of the chair, but he's sensitive about the IV. He's already exhausted, and it's even easier for the sedative to coerce him asleep. Once he's out, someone else situates him back in the chair. They secure his confines, and double check them. No, he's not going anywhere.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[closed] oh shit son

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