Part II: Waking up

Derreks’ eyes fluttered open, the throbbing, burning agony nothing but a dream. He tried to rub life into his sleepy eyes, but the feeling of resistance stopped his hand. He blinked until his blurry vision cleared and saw a tube sticking out of his left hand leading to an IV bag, and he became aware of a beeping in time with his heart beat. From around his thumb to past his elbow, the arm was wrapped in a cast, the joint jolting with pain as he tried to roll his wrist. He could still wiggle his fingers though, so that was a good sign. He looked at his right arm, and his heart nearly stopped.

The arm was encased in some kind of stabilizing cage, held out and up at a forty-five degree angle from his torso, suspended from the frame over his bed with three wires. The cage itself was made of various lengths of square metal tubing coated in white enamel, shaped to leave a six-inch buffer around the arm, six sets of evenly spaced stainless steel rods extended inward with cushioned feet where they met flesh at ninety-degree intervals around the circumference. It wasn't uncomfortable. In fact, he couldn't feel the arm at all.

He looked closer. There was something strange about the arm, aside from the obvious cage. The skin was smooth, the marks of the last few months washed away, only blemished by two faint pink rings, one around his wrist and the other around his elbow. His neck was sore and stiff, but he powered through to get a better view of his shoulder and found a third line running around the joint of his shoulder, engulfing his armpit and a section of his chest, halting an inch short of his nipple. Five of the six wounds Cassie had given him were gone as well, the one near his nipple still lingering, though it seemed a portion of it was also stripped away. He tried to move his fingers, but they just dangled there, not even a twitch. It didn't feel numb, it felt like it wasn't there at all. Like it wasn't his arm at all.

“He’s awake!”

Derrek blinked and the people sitting past the arm cage came partly into focus. A man and a woman, both of them jumping to their feet, casting off the blanket that had been draped over their knees; it seemed they were waking up from their own nap. They came around to his bandaged side, and his brain finally started to creep into gear as two of the most beloved faces in his life came into true focus.

“Will? Terra?” His voice was dry and scratchy, as if it was the first time he had ever spoken. He blinked a few times, and they were still there, their smiles oozing relief. “What happened?” He tried to remember, but everything was a blur after seeing the statue of liberty.

Terra grabbed his hand and squeezed; actually, it was more his fingers than anything else, because of the cast. There was something strange about her eyes, they were… glistening. Is she… crying? She was still smiling, wider than ever, in fact, wiping her eyes with her free hand and swallowing a lump in her throat. Shale stood next to her, and Derrek had never seen him look so tired. He hadn't shaved in days, his grey hair was mussed under a bandage wrapped around his forehead, his suit was wrinkled and creased, and his casted right arm was in a sling, his left hand resting on Derreks’ knee. Shale was showing every day of his sixty-two years, and for the first time Derrek could remember, he looked old. He wasn't crying, thankfully. I don't think I could handle seeing that.

“There was… an attack. Someone shot the limos’ engine with an explosive bullet, which flipped it upside-down and threw us around something fierce.” Shale had been avoiding Derreks’ eye, but he met it now, a deep sadness behind his gaze. “You were the only one to keep your wits, and you got Miguel and I out of there before I even knew what was happening. You went back for Deejay… and…” His fingers gripped with white knuckles around Derreks’ knee, mustering his courage. “You almost had him out, then there was another shot. It passed through your shoulder then blew up the limo. There was…” he swallowed, “extensive damage. Deejay took the brunt of the blast, but you were still hurt very badly.” He swallowed again, fighting for every word. “They said you were lucky to survive.”

It came back now, that mind-shattering pain he felt as he dreamt, and the cage shook as his arm jolted at the memory. He looked at it, swaying from the wires, and so did Terra and Shale, both their grips slackening. The arm felt funny, like it was asleep, but even more so. There was no numbness, no prickly feeling, but there was something. Not quite sensation, but something.

“Ah! You're awake.” The door had opened, and a soap-opera-handsome doctor clad in a white coat strode in, an easy smile on his lips as he grabbed a clipboard at the foot of Derreks’ bed and scanned the numerous machines hooked up to him. “Vitals are good. How long has he been awake?”

Before anyone could answer, a hand snaked around from behind the doctor and stole the clipboard from his unsuspecting hands. The beanie-clad thief strolled from behind the doctor as if he had been there the whole time, wearing an identical coat to the real doctor. “Yes, how long has he been awake?” Miguel asked, to the doctors’ annoyance.

“Only a couple minutes,” Terra said to Miguel, completely ignoring the doctor.

“Wonderful!” Miguel scanned the clipboard in a flash, then seemed to notice the cage was still swaying ever so slightly. He leaned in close, staring at Derreks fingers for some reason. “My my, some life in the limb already? Little more than random signals for now, I'm sure, but I've no doubt you'll regain full articulation in no time!” He produced a screwdriver from his coat pocket and deftly removed three screws from the bottom edge of the cage, roughly equidistant to the lines in Derreks’ flesh. The cage swung open from a hinge at the top, allowing the limb to thump down gently on the bed.

It was odd; Derrek couldn't feel the arm falling, but he did feel the cushioned impact. He looked up at Miguel, who was unhooking the cage and setting it aside. “What did you do to me?” He didn't mean to make it sound like an accusation, but it still came out that way. Miguel hardly noticed, speaking as he gingerly picked the hand up by the wrist.

“I believe the proper term is, ‘comprehensive reconstruction.’” Still holding the wrist, he traced the line at Derreks’ shoulder with his other hand, his fingertip shockingly cold. “Your arm was effectively blown off, but luckily, you just so happen to be the CEO of Frostbyte, and I took the liberty of commandeering and improving upon many of your products, utilizing them in tandem to reattach what I could, and rebuild what I could not.” That cold finger ran across his elbow, a chill running through the dead arm. “The arm itself received extensive burns, and sadly, there was very little salvageable skin.” He grabbed Derreks hand as if he were grabbing the head of a chicken, pointing the palm toward Derrek. He made a cold ‘X’ shape on the palm, and the fingers curled inward in reaction. The cold lines Miguel had drawn bore deep into his flesh, the frosty rings at his joints heating up, warmth and awareness prickling down his arm, the fingers creaking as he stretched them out. “All that could be saved was your inner hand, which, fortunately, is the most sensitive skin on the human body. Save for the forehead, of course.”

In seconds, the tingles faded, and he could feel the arm. There was a delay, the limb obeying him a second or so after he sent the command, and sluggishly at that, but it was there. He caught shale staring at his hand too, and the man looked like he was going to be sick. Before Derrek could think about what to say or who to say it to, the door slammed open, and Discord tottered in, a styrofoam tray full of paper coffee cups in his left hand and a tray of diabetes-inducing frozen coffee drinks in his left.

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“Alright, I got black, black, organic black, black, and four extra-mocha triple-espresso double-foam frappuccinos, triple whip and sprinkles for me.” He looked up from his delivery of caffeine and noticed the entire room staring at him, Derrek included. He flung the tray of hot coffee at the wall and tucked the cold into his coat, trotting up to the only spot left at the foot of the bed as the brown elixir of life dripped down the wall. The doctor was the only one to react, staring at the smirking Discord with incredulity, only to be ignored yet again. “Well, good morning, sunshine! How are you feeling, Havok?”

Despite the pain, despite the shock, despite everything, Derrek smiled. At least Discord was acting the same as ever. He lifted the arm and bent it toward himself as he clumsily worked his fingers, that delay narrowing, sensation and awareness growing, as if he had just slept on it wrong. “About as good as I could ask for, I guess.” A realization struck him, and for the first time, Derrek acknowledged the doctor, hearing the beeping of his heart rate rise slightly. “The driver, Deejay, how is he?”

All smiles faded, and the doctor stared at him for a moment before taking a deep breath and looking at Miguel begrudgingly. The savant nodded and pulled some papers from a satchel at his side, shuffling through them and attaching them to his stolen clipboard, reading off the damage in a detached, emotionless monotone.

“Mr. Jefferson suffered third-degree burns over approximately seventy-five percent of his body. His left arm had to be amputated above the elbow, his left leg above the knee, and his right leg below the knee. He is fully blind in both eyes and deaf on his right side, several meters of intestine had to be removed along with his stomach, and his right kidney failed and had to be removed.” He drummed his fingers on the clipboard as Derrek stared at him in horror, and Miguel finally met his eye, a ghost of his usual grin haunting the corners of his lips. “But he is stable, awake, lucid, and in good spirits. I haven't spoken with him yet, but I've heard he keeps joking about how glad he was that it happened on the job, and how he’ll never have to work again. He’s asked about you every day, saying he wanted to thank you in person.”

A wave of sickness washed over Derrek and he was thankful he was already lying down. Compared to what Deejay had endured, he may as well have been unscathed. He wants to thank me for that? He looked at his arm again, the fingers clenching and unclenching unconsciously in his restlessness. He felt it melt away all at once, replaced with the cold calm he usually felt, and he looked Miguel square in the eye.

“Can you fix him too?”

If it was possible, Deejay looked even worse than Derrek imagined. The bed was crowded with machines, each one seemingly just as vital as the next, tubes of all shapes and sizes snaking to connect to the man in some form or another. He sat up, and the odd shape of his mismatched-lengthed legs under the blanket was horrible in a way Derrek couldn't put to words, the bandaged stump of what remained of his upper left arm even more so. Like the rest of his visible skin, his head was wrapped in bandages, only leaving gaps for his mouth and nose, his blind eyes completely covered. Despite the state he was in, the man seemed to be smiling. There were a few teeth missing on the upper-left side, but he was still smiling. He held up his remaining hand in a ‘one second’ gesture as Derrek approached, leaning forward slightly.

“Hold on, don't say anything, let me guess.” Deejay hemmed and hawed, rubbing his bandaged chin in thought. His voice was just as full of life as it was when the man was whole, a fact more jarring than the injuries themselves. “Consuela? Is that you? I thought you had Thursday off!”

Derrek snorted and stepped forward. “Close, but no cigar.”

Deejay perked up, sitting straighter against the several pillows propping him up. “Oh shit, you're awake? Glad to hear it!” His smile took on a somber curl, but didn't fade. “I heard you got hurt pretty bad saving my ass, I'm sorry about that. I want you to know I'm damn grateful you came back for me. I owe you my life.” He barked with laughter, slapping his thigh. “What's left of it, leastways.”

Derrek winced, pain jolting down his casted left arm in its sling as his fists clenched. “I'm sorry.” He barely whispered it, staring down at the tiled floor, unable to even look at Deejay. The severely burned man burst out into raucous laughter, slapping his reduced leg in mirth.

“Don't go apologizing to me!” He mimed wiping a tear from under his bandaged eye, grinning in full force. “It's only because of you I'm alive to laugh about it! I won't take any sorries for that.” He leaned forward, holding his hand out and rubbing his index finger against his thumb, grinning wider than ever. “But if your conscience just won't let you sleep, feel free to slide a little monetary compensation my way. Insurance paid out a quarter-mil for the left arm and leg and one-fifty for the right, but I bet you could do a little better.”

Derrek couldn't help it, he laughed. To think of all this man lost and to find him joking about getting a good check out of it. It was inspiring, to say the least. “Actually, I think I can do even better than that.” He gestured and Miguel stepped closer, Deejays’ face snapping toward the source of his footsteps. “I know you can't see it, but my arm is good as new thanks to the genius to my right. Will gave consent for him to operate on me, but Mr. Estamos felt it would be pertinent to consult me directly before offering his services to you. I have greenlit any and all services he is capable of providing. In essence, your wish is his command.”

Deejay was quiet for a moment, his face working under his bandages, his mouth working as he mulled it over. “What's the catch?” He asked warily. Derrek looked to Miguel.

“The ‘catch,’ as you put it, is that I am not a licensed surgeon, have taken no Hippocratic oath, and have only performed one such surgery before you. But, to my credit,” Miguel gestured to Derrek as though Deejay could see him, “that one was a rousing success. Applying the principles I learned in operating on Mr. Snowe here, I believe I can restore your body to full functionality. It may take some time to perfect the visual receptors needed to restore your vision, but I've been toying with the notion for some time, so there is some groundwork to go on.”

Deejay seemed to stare at Miguel for a moment, then faced Derrek, pointing at the genius. “Who the fuck is this guy?”

Derrek smiled. That was the exact same thought he had when he first met the man. “This is Dr. Miguel Estamos, the most aggravatingly capable person I've ever had the pleasure of knowing. He can be a lot to handle, but if he says he can do something, he can do it. You need only say the word, and he’ll work day and night to get you back on two feet, all to whatever specs you desire.”

Deejay was quiet for a moment, then he broke out in a wide grin. “Of all the people I could've gotten in the way of an explosion of. I feel like I won the lottery!” He cackled, slapping his thigh again. “Let’s do it! Chop me up, doc, what have I got to lose?”

Miguel broke out in a grin of his own and clapped his hands. “Excellent! All I need is your measurements and I will be off to work on the first drafts!” He produced a measuring tape from his pocket and stepped forward, stretching it and measuring random lengths of Deejays’ body with no rhyme or reason Derrek could discern.

“I’ll leave you to it, then,” Derrek said, knowing he was out of time. He would have liked to stay longer, but there was other business to attend to. He made for the door.

“Derrek.” He looked back at Deejay, who was smiling warmly. “Thank you.”

Those two words sunk into Derreks’ heart like a pair of cold arrows. He didn't want thanks for this, he didn't deserve it. He wanted to scream, to cry out in frustration, to let out all he had been holding onto, but his grip was too strong. In the end, all he did was smirk and offer the barest platitude he could muster. “Any time.” And before the crippled pilot could say anything more, Derrek slipped out the door, leaving Deejay to Miguels’ mercy, taking a deep breath as the latch clicked behind him.

There was a tap at his shoulder, and he saw Discord casually leaning against the wall next to the door. “Sounds like he took it well. Strong willed, optimistic. You need more guys like that in your circle.”

Derrek cocked an eyebrow at him, far too exhausted to pry into what he meant by that. “You always say the strangest things. Who is it we have to talk to next? Some FBI agent?”

“That's right.” Discord smirked and pushed away from the wall, starting down the hall and calling over his shoulder at Derrek. “Come on, coffees getting cold.”