06-03-2014, 06:31 PM
Where Michael took her was strangely quiet. This part of the hospital was a GI ward, meant to provide procedures on an outpatient basis. It would typically be closed during nights and weekends, but it seemed what nurses staffed the desk had left in a hurry. Torri noted more than one GI chart locked in the air.
Michael chose to take her to what was otherwise a prep room, where a nurse would take preliminary genetic tests or place an i.v..
Torri was glad for the table. Glad to be out of Michael's arms. When he turned to close the door, and as such, seal them in, she shivered despite herself. The gaze that accompanied his questions frightened her.
She clenched her jaw, defiant of her own feelings, and pain immediately stabbed her face. Through the wince, she grumbled a crude answer. "No, I'll be fine."
But as she slid from the table, the floor wobbled. Just a headache. She put a hand to her head. Half her face was bruised. The swelling puffed around one eye.
She gestured at one of the cabinets while she took herself to a sink and mirror. "Can you check and see if there's a Diagnostic BioReader in there?"
She grabbed a pair of gloves and started poking around at the inside of her mouth. "And a coagulant-kit."
She had no guess whether or not Michael knew what she was talking about, but he was a smart lad, he'd figure it out. And it kept him busy. She didn't like the way he was looking at her.
"GOD DAMN IT!"
She spit the curse on a hiss, then spit a real spray of red into the sink. With it clattered a molar.
She fumbled for gauze to stuff into the hole. With it came the bitter flavor of coagulation factor-laced cotton. A GI ward was hardly a dentists office, but some medical equipment was universal the world over. She otherwise waved her way through disorderly shit stocking the cabinet. Tongue depressors spilled out. Cotton and gauze rained. Tiny tools, syringes, swabs. Whatever she was searching for, she didn't find it.
Thankfully, Michael offered what would suffice as a Dx reader. Her Wallet had the technology integrated, but, "they took my wallet. Little good it'll do them."
She said, flat, but when she met Michael's gaze, she wished she'd stayed silent instead.
She popped a disk out of the side of the Reader and swirled her own saliva on what looked like a fine mesh screen. Seconds after it popped back inside, Torri was studying the results.
"I have a mild concussion,"
she said with a sigh and dropped the Reader on the table she was now leaning against. But rather than studying pages of positive biomarkers, she was studying Michael. The seconds passed. "You can't heal me, but you were dying the last I saw you."
But her gaze lifted to the door before he could answer. Someone was coming.
She tensed, but was ready to face whatever barged in.
Michael chose to take her to what was otherwise a prep room, where a nurse would take preliminary genetic tests or place an i.v..
Torri was glad for the table. Glad to be out of Michael's arms. When he turned to close the door, and as such, seal them in, she shivered despite herself. The gaze that accompanied his questions frightened her.
She clenched her jaw, defiant of her own feelings, and pain immediately stabbed her face. Through the wince, she grumbled a crude answer. "No, I'll be fine."
But as she slid from the table, the floor wobbled. Just a headache. She put a hand to her head. Half her face was bruised. The swelling puffed around one eye.
She gestured at one of the cabinets while she took herself to a sink and mirror. "Can you check and see if there's a Diagnostic BioReader in there?"
She grabbed a pair of gloves and started poking around at the inside of her mouth. "And a coagulant-kit."
She had no guess whether or not Michael knew what she was talking about, but he was a smart lad, he'd figure it out. And it kept him busy. She didn't like the way he was looking at her.
"GOD DAMN IT!"
She spit the curse on a hiss, then spit a real spray of red into the sink. With it clattered a molar.
She fumbled for gauze to stuff into the hole. With it came the bitter flavor of coagulation factor-laced cotton. A GI ward was hardly a dentists office, but some medical equipment was universal the world over. She otherwise waved her way through disorderly shit stocking the cabinet. Tongue depressors spilled out. Cotton and gauze rained. Tiny tools, syringes, swabs. Whatever she was searching for, she didn't find it.
Thankfully, Michael offered what would suffice as a Dx reader. Her Wallet had the technology integrated, but, "they took my wallet. Little good it'll do them."
She said, flat, but when she met Michael's gaze, she wished she'd stayed silent instead.
She popped a disk out of the side of the Reader and swirled her own saliva on what looked like a fine mesh screen. Seconds after it popped back inside, Torri was studying the results.
"I have a mild concussion,"
she said with a sigh and dropped the Reader on the table she was now leaning against. But rather than studying pages of positive biomarkers, she was studying Michael. The seconds passed. "You can't heal me, but you were dying the last I saw you."
But her gaze lifted to the door before he could answer. Someone was coming.
She tensed, but was ready to face whatever barged in.