I try to lift a hand to feel what's strapped to my face, but it's as if all muscles have been removed from my limbs. They must've been taken from my face, too, because I can't open my eyes.
Soft beeping picks up its pace somewhere nearby. I can sense that my numb, annoyingly weak body rests on a firm bed. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that those vaguehallucinations circling inside my damaged head must've actually happened. This must be wherever Frost put me while I was under.
I try to open my heavy eyelids again. And again.
Seriously, were they cemented shut? Any fucking day now would be nice.
"He's regaining consciousness," an older man's voice whispers nearby.
My eyes don't get the telltale glow since they're shut, but I feel someone using magic beside me. I've been able to pick up on unique magical signatures ever since Koa decided to make me an atypical caster. It's a sixth sense that identifies magic, turning it into something like a flavor that my brain automatically codifies. Whoever this caster is, I could now track him by his magic alone, even if he were miles away.
"Mr. Douglas?" the caster checks gently, still using common magic. "My name is Doctor Stant. You've been under for quite some time."
"Coma," I try to say to show I get the gist of what's going on.
It comes out as something between a grunt and a dumbass-sounding croak.
"Yes, that's very good, Mr. Douglas," the doctor says, like he's praising a toddler who drew a picture to tape onto his fridge.
Motherfucker, don't patronize me.
If I can't form words or open my eyes, I'm a lot more fucked up than I realized.
"He's responsive!" a woman gasps nearby. "Doctor Stant, should I send a message to let Mr. Frost know he seems to be truly waking this time?"
"Yes, thank you. Now, Mr. Douglas, please grunt again if you understand me."
It feels a lot like barking on command, but I grunt anyway.
"Excellent. Well, Asher, I'm afraid you've been in a coma for nearly four months now, ever since the Battle of the Citadel was won. As a result, you've lost a fair amount of muscle mass, so it may take you a little bit of time and hard work to return to normal. Everett Frost has ensured you have the best of the best here to help you get up and going again, but…well, we're notyou.Healing's hard for some of us," he chuckles.
I let myself absorb all of that. That felt like a long-ass nap, not months passing me by. Nearly four months after shit went down with the Entity would put us at…what, late November? Damn.
Whatever. If it takes even longer to heal and rebuild my muscles and shit, I can handle it. At least I'm still alive.
Then my stomach plummets.
"Werrsmuhown?"I try to demand, slurring around the tube running down my throat.
The doctor is confused. "I'm not sure what you're?—"
I fight harder to open my eyes and sit up, my heart slamming inside my chest. The nearby beeping goes haywire. I manage to get one eye open and start to sit in bed before sudden weakness makes me slump back. Exhaustion turns my breathing ragged, dragging my eyelids shut again.
Pretty sure my lungs are giving out.
"Cathy? We may need oxygen in here again," Doctor Stant calls, alarmed. "Mr. Douglas, please try to relax. You're still very unwell, and you shouldn't be?—"
"Dev," I force out, wheezing through the panic and my weakened lungs."Where'smyhound?"
"Oh, your hellhound!" He pauses as if trying to pick his words carefully. The pain starts to choke me before he even gets it out. "I'm afraid he hasn't respawned from the Battle of the Citadel. One of your bounty hunter friends buried his fangs and promised to send updates if there were any, but so far…"
No.
No, he isn't gone for good.
Can't be. He'll be back.
Someone is moving whatever's on my face until much-needed oxygen suddenly flows into my lungs. I'm pretty sure I feel a needle slide into my arm. Vaguely, I hear the doctor apologizing, telling me I'm in a delicate state still and they're just trying to help by giving me anesthesia, blah, blah, blah.
