[Consciousness comes all at once, and it isn't friendly about the visit. His eyes open wide at the sound of a door opening, and he scrambles to sit, wincing at the sudden, sharp pain the movement brings in his abdomen. Where is he? What's he doing here? Eyes lock on the...nurse? Entering the room. Can he remember his name, she asks, and that's when he realizes he can't remember anything else.. Ten Thousand, he tells her, and he doesn't get more than a single other syllable out of his mouth before she's explaining where he is and what's happened. He's been unconscious a few days, he was brought in after an accident--hunting accident, they say, to explain the ache in his abdomen, the ache in his head. He should lie still, he'd been shot in the stomach, unconscious for a few days now. Don't worry about the lack of memories, you had a concussion, you'll be fine. It'll all come back but it's better to not talk about it. Don't worry.
It takes all of five minutes after she bustles back out of the room for him to decide he isn't staying. There's someone he has to find, something important he was doing, and besides, being in a hospital is a bad idea. He vaguely remembers something his dad told him, the words 'big pharma,' but nothing else comes even as he strains. He keeps trying as he climbs out of bed, pulling the IV out of his arm and moving carefully. Nothing comes. Nothing except one thing, a name.
There's another person dressed like him ahead, another patient, he guesses, and that's as good a place as any to start. The nurses are too busy to force him back to his room right now, but that doesn't mean they won't if he starts asking questions and getting in their way. Pushing a hand through black hair already standing on all ends, he asks the other patient:]
Sorry--do you know anyone named Cassandra? I have to find her.
post-item reclamation
[Frankly, he hadn't even been sure what they handed him inside the Sheriff's office was his at all. The clothing looked like it had been through a war; worn boots, cargo pants dusty and worn at the knees, a vest with one arm ripped off, and was that....a license plate? Shoulder pad?? One thing's for sure, at least, he feels more himself once he's dressed (pants are a definite must, things have been a little too breezy under that hospital gown), and even better once he reclaims his slingshot, tucking it into the waistband of his pants where a little groove in his belt suggests he's carried it for a while. Not that he needs weapons in a place like this. There aren't any...Any what? Any dangers, maybe. He isn't sure how the rest of that sentence was supposed to go, only that he's sure that this isn't everything he had.
He's only more sure as he steps outside to take a better look at the town and one hand lifts to his shoulder to adjust a strap that isn't there. Didn't he carry something there? Maybe the rifle to go with the scope that's in his pocket? Someone else is standing not too far away, adjusting the rest of their belongings, and he ventures yet another question.]
Did they keep any of your stuff? Not give it back to you, I mean.
no subject
[Consciousness comes all at once, and it isn't friendly about the visit. His eyes open wide at the sound of a door opening, and he scrambles to sit, wincing at the sudden, sharp pain the movement brings in his abdomen. Where is he? What's he doing here? Eyes lock on the...nurse? Entering the room. Can he remember his name, she asks, and that's when he realizes he can't remember anything else.. Ten Thousand, he tells her, and he doesn't get more than a single other syllable out of his mouth before she's explaining where he is and what's happened. He's been unconscious a few days, he was brought in after an accident--hunting accident, they say, to explain the ache in his abdomen, the ache in his head. He should lie still, he'd been shot in the stomach, unconscious for a few days now. Don't worry about the lack of memories, you had a concussion, you'll be fine. It'll all come back but it's better to not talk about it. Don't worry.
It takes all of five minutes after she bustles back out of the room for him to decide he isn't staying. There's someone he has to find, something important he was doing, and besides, being in a hospital is a bad idea. He vaguely remembers something his dad told him, the words 'big pharma,' but nothing else comes even as he strains. He keeps trying as he climbs out of bed, pulling the IV out of his arm and moving carefully. Nothing comes. Nothing except one thing, a name.
There's another person dressed like him ahead, another patient, he guesses, and that's as good a place as any to start. The nurses are too busy to force him back to his room right now, but that doesn't mean they won't if he starts asking questions and getting in their way. Pushing a hand through black hair already standing on all ends, he asks the other patient:]
Sorry--do you know anyone named Cassandra? I have to find her.
post-item reclamation
[Frankly, he hadn't even been sure what they handed him inside the Sheriff's office was his at all. The clothing looked like it had been through a war; worn boots, cargo pants dusty and worn at the knees, a vest with one arm ripped off, and was that....a license plate? Shoulder pad?? One thing's for sure, at least, he feels more himself once he's dressed (pants are a definite must, things have been a little too breezy under that hospital gown), and even better once he reclaims his slingshot, tucking it into the waistband of his pants where a little groove in his belt suggests he's carried it for a while. Not that he needs weapons in a place like this. There aren't any...Any what? Any dangers, maybe. He isn't sure how the rest of that sentence was supposed to go, only that he's sure that this isn't everything he had.
He's only more sure as he steps outside to take a better look at the town and one hand lifts to his shoulder to adjust a strap that isn't there. Didn't he carry something there? Maybe the rifle to go with the scope that's in his pocket? Someone else is standing not too far away, adjusting the rest of their belongings, and he ventures yet another question.]
Did they keep any of your stuff? Not give it back to you, I mean.