2012-07-25 A Bird in the Hand

Afternoon in the clinic is, as it is at any other time, busy. The waiting room is nearly full, some people with appointments, plenty without. It's a flurry of activity, yet, as always, there is a steady undercurrent of order. Medical assistants bustle about, calling names from checklists, the women at the front desk calling people to the front or greeting new arrivals, and above all there's a sense of efficiency and purpose. This is one of the few places in the Kitchen that does its best to help people. That makes it important /to/ the people, so the staff are constantly at work to fulfill that duty.

It doesn't take long for Annetta to locate the NY County Clinic. She'd never have guessed that growing up in Hell's Kitchen would have its perks, but as she shoves open the front doors, half-carrying, half-dragging the body of a young man she found on the street, she can't help but breathe an immense sigh of relief. "Help!" she calls out, struggling to get the body into the building. "Someone's been injured!"

The world is a blur of colors and sounds. Wren's head is pounding as he vaguely recalls the sensations of being lifted and dragged. Somehow, he has ended up here, in this place, in this random girl's arms - had he fallen? He remembers falling. He remembers a man in dark clothing and quite possibly a gun or a knife - had they asked for his wallet? He's not entirely sure anymore, not really about anything. All he is sure about is the pain.

And the reaction is nearly instantaneous. One of the medical assistants literally drops her clipboard as she races around the front desk, taking the stethoscope from around her neck. One of the receptionists calls an emergency code over the telephone while the medical assistant goes to take the young man from the young woman and lay him on the ground, She's joined by another, and together they take his pulse, shine a light in his eyes to test pupil responsiveness, the works. "What happened?" asks one of the women as she puts her fingers to the young man's wrist and counts the seconds on her watch.

"I don't know!" Annetta admits helplessly as he sits back to catch her breath. Her hands are shaking violently and sweat from exertion has plastered her hair to her forehead. "I found him a couple of blocks away," she gestures out the door, "and he wouldn't get up or walk on his own." Scooting to one side to give the assistants more room, she continues, "I tried to ask him his name, but he never answered me, either."

There are voices gurgling above him. Wren tries to sit up, but something holds him down. Hands? Multiple hands? He isn't sure. A girl is speaking: the girl who helped him? He's not sure about that either. He doesn't let his mind consider the possibility that somebody /actually/ stopped to help him, people aren't /like/ that. He mentally curses, not for the first time, whatever Power above had deemed him a healer of everything in the world but himself, and with more effort than it might take to lift boulders, chokes out, "My name is Wren," hoping it sounds like real English words and not pain-induced gibberish.

The double doors open and a medical assistant emerges, bringing an old-fashioned gurney with him (( http://issprops.com/images/props/ISS.02737.jpg )). "I think he said his name was Aaron," one of the female assistants says, then, on the count of three, hoist him onto the gurney. It's lifted and rolled right toward the double doors. "You'll be alright Aaron," says the assistant, as the other looks over her shoulder at Annetta. "Do you know what happened to him before you found him? Could you see anyone else there with him?  How far away was it?" All of these questions given rapid-fire as they head to and through the double-doors. Beyond, at the nurses' station, there's a glimpse of grey wings unfolding to tuck behind a back, a grey head and a pair of horns.

"A couple blocks down the street," the girl repeats herself, shakily rising to her feet to follow the nurses. She watches as they lift the young man onto the gurney, meanwhile trying to sort through the sudden barrage of questions. "I didn't see anybody else around, but there was some blood..." She shivers and pales as she recalls the scene. "Didn't look like much of a fight, though."

Wren's eyes begin to focus a bit more as he is wheeled along on the medical gurney. He /thinks/ someone has just called him Aaron...? But he doesn't bother to correct them. It's not like they've given him any official paperwork or anything. He listens as the girl who helped him earlier recounts her version of events, the pounding in his head still going strong. /Of course it wasn't much of a fight,/ he thinks, slightly annoyed, /I never saw the guy coming./ He tries to sit up again, groaning with pain and effort.

The young man is taken into the nearest examination room, strong but gentle hands on his shoulders to keep him down. It's times like this that really drive home the point that they need a real, official operating room. This is the fourth time this year someone has come in off the streets, needing immediate attention. But, no. The county clinic is always the last to get funding, and the first to turn to for budget cuts. And yet one wouldn't necessarily know it from the staff, as hard-working and dedicated as they are. The young man is loaded onto the examination bed, the gargoyle-esque doctor heading to the sink to wash his hands, the medical assistants leaving the room as others enter with trays of tools and other medical paraphernalia, and there's always someone nearby to reassure "Aaron" as they hold him down. "The worst wound, it is his stomach," says the man, Indian accent carefully modulated to make him understandable. "Cut the shirt and coat from him, please." The door is left open, the assistant beyond talking to the young woman as the assistants still in the room start to do just that. "You did the right thing bringing him here," she tells the woman, though with a lack of a smile given the situation. "Did you get a chance to call Nine-One-One?" She has to ask, even if the answer is obvious.

Annetta shakes her head reluctantly. "There wasn't time. With all of the blood..." She gulps and takes another deep breath to steady herself, wringing her hands to keep from visibly trembling. "And I've been here before, many times," she adds hastily. "Doctor Bhattacharya has helped my mom and me before, so I know he's really good. He'll help Aaron." There's more certainty in her tone than she expected. "Should I go ahead and call nine-one-one...?" she asks after a moment's pause, uncertain.

Wren blinks several times as he gazes blearily up at the form towering over him. "Awake, arise, or be forever fall'n," he quotes Milton, his voice coming out a bit clearer this time. "Am I in hell?" He blurts, taking in the doctor's monstrous figure. He wouldn't be surprised if hell looked a lot like New York City. Or Earth in general, for that matter. He wonders for a second or two if he has head trauma. He wouldn't be surprised at that, either.

The medical assistant shakes her head. "No, we'll take care of that. For now, let's go to the front desk, and we'll write down what you can remember." She goes to lead the young woman to the front desk, to do just that. Meanwhile, the assistants in the examination room start cutting at the young man's clothes, to get the blood-soaked garments off. The gargoyle-like mutant smiles down at the young man as he pulls on a pair of gloves. "No, this is not hell, but it is Hell's Kitchen. I am Doctor Prabha, and you are safe now." When the clothes are cut away, the wound is immediately cleaned, with cleaning pads soaked in rubbing alcohol. They'll sting like the dickens, but on the other hand, he just got stabbed. So hopefully he won't notice--or it'll just be insult added to injury.

The adrenaline rush and the trembling in her hands have begun to subside, so Annetta follows the assistant back to the front desk after throwing one last glance into the examination room. She waits for the assistant to ready a pen and clipboard before launching into the details once more. "I was passing through when I found him lying on the ground, two blocks down the street," she explains with more clarity than she had in her earlier panicked state. She opts not to share the details of -how- she found him; after all, no one needs to know. "I didn't see anyone else around, and it didn't look like there'd been a lot of fighting. I knew that this clinic was nearby, so I got him here as fast as I could."

Wren winces as the rubbing alcohol merges with his open wound. "Hell's Kitchen," he murmurs. "Close enough." He closes his eyes, letting the pain wash over him, taking a deep breath. "I'm Wren," he says, simply. Then, finally ready, he explains, all at once, "I was just passing through the area, afternoon, trying to find this one used bookstore, turned down the wrong street, guy comes up, all dressed in black, should have known, wants my wallet, knife, all happens in a matter of seconds." He feels beads of sweat slide down the back of his neck. He realizes suddenly that he's very thirsty. "Did that make sense?" He pauses, and then adds, somewhat absently, "I can't fix myself."

The medical assistant with Annette nods as she heads around the desk, motioning for the young woman to wait for her there. A few forms are brought out, a pen retrieved from a Mason jar on the desk, then she starts scribbling notes. The basics are filled in, then notes based on what Annette tells her. "No one else around, right? Where exactly did you find him?  An alley, the sidewalk, or...? In the examination room, Prabhakar lightly puts his hand on Wren's shoulder.  "It made sense, young man," he says gently and reassuringly.  "Do not try to talk for now. Try to relax. It will be over before you know it." By now the wound has been thoroughly cleaned, and it's not as bad as it could be.  Thankfully, all it needs are some stitches.  "We will apply a local anesthetic, and you will not feel a thing," he says, just as a young assistant approaches the table with a needle.  In a moment, his side should start going numb.

"Um, a side alley, yes," the girl recalls upon hearing the assistant's words. She nods once, affirmatively. "I don't know if he was dragged there or if he was passing through, but it was clear enough of trash that I saw him easily." She absently pulls at the cuff of her sleeve. "He's going to be okay? It's not too bad, is it?"

"I guess I need stitches..." Wren mutters, watching the assistant ready the needle. He winces only slightly at the pinprick, but soon sighs in relief as the area surrounding his wound begins to go numb. "All this procedural stuff...and I'll likely get a scar. My way's a lot better." He gives a bitter laugh, devoid of any real humor. "I suppose I ought to consider myself lucky, that he hand't had a gun or something." Looking around for the first time (/really/ looking, not just staring blearily around in a pain-induced confusion), Wren notices that the girl who had dragged him into the clinic to begin with is no longer in the room. He considers letting the matter drop, but a small voice in the back of his head urges him to ask about her. /You know you ought to thank her,/ the voice says. /This is life and death, after all./ He rolls his eyes at that uncharacteristically noble thought, but does ask the mutant doctor, "Where did the girl go? The one who brought me in here?"

"I'm sure he'll be fine," says the medical assistant to Annetta. "He was lucky you were close by. You did a good job." She smiles at the young woman, putting a few final scribbles on the forms. A flick through them to make sure she got everything, then she smiles again. "Looks like we got everything. Will you be staying?  It shouldn't be too long." Prabhakar arches a hairless brow and turns his head to glance at the door. Looking back to Wren, he says, "I do not know. It is likely she is filling out information at the front desk." The aide quietly alerts him that the anesthetic had been delivered, then she retrieves the tray with the sutures and instruments. "Alright," says Prabhakar, "this won't be but another few moments, alright?" That's said with a smile, then he hunches over, peering closer at the wound.

Wren tries to see out the door of the examination room, but the angle doesn't allow him to get a very good look, so he sighs and gives it up - if the girl cares, she'll come back in and check on him. He knows she won't, though. People never do more than they have to. At least she had done as much as she had. "Just tell her I'm glad she was there, ok?" He says to the doctor. Exhaustion washes over him in waves, so Wren sits back and simply waits as the doctor works on him, sewing him up like a stuffed doll. The concentration on the doctor's face is clear, and Wren watches him go about his business, clearly experienced and precise in his actions. "I always did sort of wonder what it was like to perform real surgery," he says, to no one in particular. "Seems...detailed."

The sutures shouldn't be felt any more than a slight tug on the skin; not much more than mildly unpleasant, really. "It can be, especially at first," says the mutant, keeping his attention on the procedure. The stitches are applied one by one, skin pulled together before each is tied off. "It is detailed, but it is necessary. The body must be healed." If only the mind could be healed so easily--psychological sutures to close the wounds of the soul. He's glad he doesn't see the blood; this young man was quite obviously attacked, which makes it difficult to give him a smile, though the doctor does his best. The last comment finally dawns on him, so he says, "Performing a real surgery--should not be necessary as often as it is. People should not be hurt so much, I think."

Wren snorts. "People /certainly/ shouldn't be hurt so much. But people make a lot of stupid decisions. A lot of stupid, violent decisions." He yawns, thinking about the doctor's words in more detail. /The body must be healed/, he muses. He briefly considers telling the doctor about his...talent. /What will he do, try to recruit me?/ Of course he will. Anyone would, if they knew. Which is why nobody /will/ know. Wren closes his eyes, trying to relax, wishing more than anything for a tall glass of iced water, and lets the doctor do his work.

It won't be much longer, thankfully, since the wound isn't so terrible. If it were much worse he'd have had to go to the hospital. Eventually he finishes up, ending with a large bandage to keep it dry. "Now, you will have to keep it clean, and the women at the from desk will set you up with an appointment to come back and have the stitches removed." No, they don't have those nifty ones that are absorbed into the body. This isn't Manhattan General or the like. The young man will be allowed to rest for a bit, then be prescribed antibiotics by another doctor. Eventually he'll get out, even if it won't be for a while.

((Fade Out))