Foggy stirred from his half sleep when the power flickered and the generators kicked in.
Something had to be going on. There wasn't anything happening in this ward, or even this wing of the hospital, but somewhere else, he was sure he could hear an alarm, or maybe that was just outside, in the depths of Hell's Kitchen.
The city was playing Matt's music. The music of his people. Sirens and screams and gunshots, the siren call to the Devil to come out and play.
Foggy pushed the button again, not sure if it would give him more drugs yet. Still, there was no loss in trying.
He had surgery in the morning. He'd been assured it wasn't serious surgery, except for the bit where all surgery was serious and ran risks of things like loss of function, loss of breathing, brain damage and death like symptoms, but they were all pretty minor.
The doctor said he would probably recover full motion. If the surgery went well. If he didn't have complications. If there was nothing nasty lurking beneath the surface.
He shifted in the bed, trying to get comfortable and looking to the door again, then the clock and back to the door.
Two in the morning.
Well into the Devil's hours.
Foggy looked at the ceiling again. It was still there.
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The Hospital CW: Prescribed drug use, gunshot injury
Date: 2019-01-09 11:57 am (UTC)Something had to be going on. There wasn't anything happening in this ward, or even this wing of the hospital, but somewhere else, he was sure he could hear an alarm, or maybe that was just outside, in the depths of Hell's Kitchen.
The city was playing Matt's music. The music of his people. Sirens and screams and gunshots, the siren call to the Devil to come out and play.
Foggy pushed the button again, not sure if it would give him more drugs yet. Still, there was no loss in trying.
He had surgery in the morning. He'd been assured it wasn't serious surgery, except for the bit where all surgery was serious and ran risks of things like loss of function, loss of breathing, brain damage and death like symptoms, but they were all pretty minor.
The doctor said he would probably recover full motion. If the surgery went well. If he didn't have complications. If there was nothing nasty lurking beneath the surface.
He shifted in the bed, trying to get comfortable and looking to the door again, then the clock and back to the door.
Two in the morning.
Well into the Devil's hours.
Foggy looked at the ceiling again. It was still there.
At least something was.