Chevialier Memorial Hospital, Tallow, Tenburg
Jack couldn't remember the last time he didn't awake with a start of some sort. Usually, it was some noise, or just his eyes, banging open at some random time in the morning. But this time, it was slow. Easy. He felt relaxed.
Leaning his head to the right, he saw Myra, the sun shining into the window behind her like some divine signal, holding his right hand in both of hers.
"Hello, lovely," she said, a smile rolling across her face. Jack noticed how red her eyes were.
"Were you actually worried about me, Myra?"
She deflected with a chuckle. "I was worried about our payday." He phone vibrated on the small table next to his bed, and she glared at it for a moment before returning her gaze back to him. "How do you feel?"
Jack cocked his head. "Ironically relaxed."
A man in a sport coat strolled in from his left, clipboard in hand. "That, Mr. Kelly, is because we loaded you up with enough painkillers to take down an elephant." He had curly, salt-and-pepper hair, and a beard to match. "Doctor Lorrey, at your service," he threw in, seemingly as an afterthought.
"So how bad was it?" Jack asked.
"Well, let's see, you almost bled to death going to the local hospital, you almost bled to death on the flight back here when two of the wounds reopened, and then you almost bled to death on my table as I tried to get the pistons out of your liver. As it turns out, bits of car tearing through someone results in a lot of blood loss." He shrugged nonchalantly. "The more you know."
Jack pondered his mortality for a moment, paying little mind to what he assumed--and hoped--was an exaggeration in regard to the pistons; he needed his liver. "No so easy to stich up a engine piece as, say, a stab wound."
"Quite right. Blades, bayonets, gunshots, they have patterns, they're symmetrical. A piece of an engine, let alone five or six... totally different animal."
Jack nodded. "Can ye show me where they went through?"
"In fact, I can." He came around to the bed, flipping a page or two back through the contents of his clipboard to show a front and back image of a person's outline. "Most of the bits went through the middle of your back, although lucky enough, they missed your vital organs, save for a small ball bearing that nicked your left lung."
"Yikes."
"Indeed. But where the most damage was done was upon exit. Much like most bullets, they made bigger holes going out than they did going in. Now, the exception to this is the one that went into your right buttock and came out around your right knee."
His accelerating foot.
Shit.
"Thankfully no damage was done to either your ACL or you MCL, so you can still use your leg, but not for a little while."
"About that..."
"Well you're not getting out of here for at least a week. Most likely, you should be back to yourself within a month barring any major complications. So you'll miss two rounds of the series."
Could be a lot worse, he supposed. Although, "Shit," was still the only thing he said.
"Well, you could be dead. I mean that's your other option."
Myra looked up in shock at the doctor, but Jack cracked a smirk. He liked it; no bullshit.
"Can I have a beer at least?"
Lorrey chortled as he made his way out of the room.
Jack looked to Myra, whose shock had turned to chuckling. "I'll take that as a no. Any word on the team?"
"Well," she said, composing herself, "they're all pulling for you, of course, and looking into the situation. But it's caused quite a stir. Nexus is calling for alternative engine types to be introduced, ones that don't rely on explosions."
Jack shrugged. F10 ran a bunch of different engines; each had its own strictly enforced limits, of course, to keep competition tight. "Couldn't hurt, I suppose. Maybe Katara should look into it. I mean, I don't think it was an internal issue, but... well, what if it was?"
"Well, whatever it was, it's in the past now. Forget about the series and the team for a week. All you need to do is rest up."
