Everything is fuzzy. Foggy. There are voices here with him, somewhere, crackling and distorted like a conversation playing out on a blown out speaker. He reaches for them, but his hands are heavy. Leaden. Pain shoots through his whole left side when he moves, and for that moment everything comes into sharp focus.
An infirmary. He's in the school infirmary, by the looks of it. Crisp white sheets. The biting scent of medicinal potions and disinfectant. A softly glowing lamp and a vase of artificial flowers on the bedside table. Purple flowers. Fuck purple flowers.
But as soon as he catches it all, things start to blur once more.
“Is there any chance … the leg … still time to re…”
“No. He—he has it, and…” Snippets of conversation slice through the fog, and he clings to them, dragging his entire self upwards into consciousness.
“Where’s my—m’broom—” he mumbles. “’m—I’m thirsty?”
“Mein Gott, Wybie.” The unmistakable voice of Zelda Gunzenhauser reaches out, throws him a life preserver to keep him afloat. “You’re awake, you’re—” She takes his hand in hers and gives it a squeeze.
“I gotta—we gotta—” Wybie’s head bobs down, then back up, his focus flitting in and out. But he doesn’t stop. “The bugs—bug—where’s—”
“You can worry about all that later, Mr. Youngblood.” The firm voice of Healer Crockett cuts across his slurred speech, sending a bolt of determination down Wybie’s spine. “I honestly don’t even know how you’re awake with all the potions—”
“Where is the—”
“Wybie, please.” Z pushes him back but Wybie is already moving, throwing his body over the edge of the bed. One foot hits the ground, cold tile on his bare sole, and he pushes himself up—
And tips over. Arms windmilling, vision faltering, Wybie’s hand slams into the bedside table and sends its contents flying. The lamp and vase shatter on the floor, flowers and broken ceramic scattering across the floor and under the bed.
Wybie plops back down on the bed. As everything starts to blur and fuzz again, focus slipping until there’s two Zs, two Healer Crocketts, two bedside tables rocking back into place.
But when he looks down at his lap, there’s only one leg. His left thigh ends abruptly just before the knee.
“Z—did He—Z—” Wybie chokes, his breaths coming too fast. Not panicking—Wyborn Youngblood doesn’t panic. This is just a physical reaction to shock and wizmorphine.
“You’re not doing yourself any favors, Youngblood.” Healer Crockett is at his feet (foot) now, coaxing his leg (his only fucking leg) back onto the bed and under the covers. “There’s nothing to do but rest right now, which is what I need you to do.”
MEMORY: So Much Promise
[CRITERIA: Minimum 10 Replies]
[METAPLOT]
Everything is fuzzy. Foggy. There are voices here with him, somewhere, crackling and distorted like a conversation playing out on a blown out speaker. He reaches for them, but his hands are heavy. Leaden. Pain shoots through his whole left side when he moves, and for that moment everything comes into sharp focus.
An infirmary. He's in the school infirmary, by the looks of it. Crisp white sheets. The biting scent of medicinal potions and disinfectant. A softly glowing lamp and a vase of artificial flowers on the bedside table. Purple flowers. Fuck purple flowers.
But as soon as he catches it all, things start to blur once more.
“Is there any chance … the leg … still time to re…”
“No. He—he has it, and…” Snippets of conversation slice through the fog, and he clings to them, dragging his entire self upwards into consciousness.
“Where’s my—m’broom—” he mumbles. “’m—I’m thirsty?”
“Mein Gott, Wybie.” The unmistakable voice of Zelda Gunzenhauser reaches out, throws him a life preserver to keep him afloat. “You’re awake, you’re—” She takes his hand in hers and gives it a squeeze.
“I gotta—we gotta—” Wybie’s head bobs down, then back up, his focus flitting in and out. But he doesn’t stop. “The bugs—bug—where’s—”
“You can worry about all that later, Mr. Youngblood.” The firm voice of Healer Crockett cuts across his slurred speech, sending a bolt of determination down Wybie’s spine. “I honestly don’t even know how you’re awake with all the potions—”
“Where is the—”
“Wybie, please.” Z pushes him back but Wybie is already moving, throwing his body over the edge of the bed. One foot hits the ground, cold tile on his bare sole, and he pushes himself up—
And tips over. Arms windmilling, vision faltering, Wybie’s hand slams into the bedside table and sends its contents flying. The lamp and vase shatter on the floor, flowers and broken ceramic scattering across the floor and under the bed.
Wybie plops back down on the bed. As everything starts to blur and fuzz again, focus slipping until there’s two Zs, two Healer Crocketts, two bedside tables rocking back into place.
But when he looks down at his lap, there’s only one leg. His left thigh ends abruptly just before the knee.
“Z—did He—Z—” Wybie chokes, his breaths coming too fast. Not panicking—Wyborn Youngblood doesn’t panic. This is just a physical reaction to shock and wizmorphine.
“You’re not doing yourself any favors, Youngblood.” Healer Crockett is at his feet (foot) now, coaxing his leg (his only fucking leg) back onto the bed and under the covers. “There’s nothing to do but rest right now, which is what I need you to do.”