Mortal Spoil

The air reeked of oversprayed cleaning solution. Nurses and doctors wiped sweat off their faces as they scrambled to handle twice the patients they'd ever seen in one spot before. Every bed, cot, and gurney housed a body whose survival rate is less consistent than a coin flip. To preserve as many lives as possible, procedure and cordiality had long since been discarded amongst the caretakers, focusing only on saving people, one emergency at a time. After twelve hours of firing on all cylinders, the loud, turbulent halls stood as a testament to the fatigue and desperation that clutched the East City Memorial Hospital.

Their most recent patient had a room to himself. Flown in on the arms of an insectoid man clad in red, he suffered from the most uniquely egregious wounds the hospital had encountered that evening. Bullet wounds to the jaw, massive, draconic bite marks that tore across the chest, holes pierced straight through the palms of his hands, and enough broken bones to kill the average human before an ambulance would have ever arrived for them. After an immediate blood transfusion and several operating procedures, the unconscious Doragon managed to survive the hour. A dying patient elsewhere required the doctors' attention, so when Garon finally came to his senses, he was by himself– an oxygen mask tied to his face and half his body armored in a white cast.

Fifteen minutes had passed since then. His only company was the ticking clock on the opposite wall. Suddenly, a young man stumbled into the room, barely stopping himself from tripping over his own lab coat. He was human, and didn't look more than a year or two older than Garon himself. Despite his clean shave and short haircut, the dried blood on his coat told Garon everything he needed to know about what was happening outside the walls of his current prison.

"Hello! Hello, I'm um– Perrs," the doctor stuttered, pushing his glasses up with his knuckles. "I'm studying here. Under the hospital, I mean. I've been asked to check up on you, so, I'm going to do that. Everyone else is busy." He flips through papers on a clipboard in his hand, tracking the line he's reading with his free finger. "You're... Mr. Mithil, right? Right," Perrs confirms without waiting. Unable to speak, Garon's eyes stare at the man as if waiting for something. Perrs clears his throat.

"Let's... start with the good news. You're going to be fine. Is this your first time at the hospital?"

After a moment, Garon shakes his head.

"Right. How do I explain this then..." Perrs tapped his chin with his pointer finger a few times before snapping. "As I'm sure you're hopefully aware of, you are part Doragon. Biologically speaking, they aren't nearly as squishy and fragile as us Earthlings. You did not inherit this trait. But you did get something a little different." Garon's stare softens slightly. "Much like Namekians, Majins, and many other races, Doragons can, at times, possess a level of self-regenerative capabilities– much like lizards. From what my superiors can tell, your body's healing process seems to align closer to that of Doragons than humans. It's nothing that'll let you spawn arms from thin air, or anything, but it'll cut your stay here to about a sixth of what it would have been otherwise."

The orange sunlight from outside poured into the room, obscuring Perrs's eyes behind the lenses of his glasses. "Most people take years to recover from wounds like that, if they ever do. With physical therapy, we anticipate that you'll probably be out in five, maybe six months." Garon's head shifted, looking towards the ceiling.

"Also," Perrs continued, adjusting his shirt. "About an hour ago, we found another patient whose ID had the same last surname as yours. We think she's your mother." Garon nearly jumped out of his cast, threatening an attempt to stand up, but ultimately failing. Perrs stepped back. "Relax! Relax. She's upstairs. It took some real work, but the surgeons feel confident she's going to make it. But..."

Perrs looked at the ground, realizing he talked himself into a corner. With a heavy sigh and furrowed brows, he looks to the wall.

"...She won't walk. Her legs were crushed. Even if they regenerate, the nervous system won't form the bonds it needs to keep them working. That's all the information I'm allowed to give you right now. Sorry."

A dreadful silence filled the room. Whatever look Perrs saw on Garon's face, he couldn't tie to a single emotion. There was nothing to say, nothing that could be said. As the sun continued to set and the clock continued to tick, the two sat, bearing the painful quiet until Perrs looked Garon in the eyes.

"Can you keep a secret?" he asked. Garon looked his way. "Protocol says I'm not supposed to divulge information about injuries until we've confirmed the patient's safety. But I think that's horseshit. In this case, at least." Unsure of where this was going, Garon didn't give any motion for the man to stop talking.

"Your mother lost her legs to a piece of concrete that fell fifteen stories. That slab belonged to the office building we found her in. Before any heroes or firefighters or police could arrive on the scene, your mom helped evacuate just about every person out of that building she could reach. The only reason the authorities were able to find her was because one of our patients told them to go back for her." Garon's eyes widened. "She worked a miracle– nothing short of one. She saved dozens, maybe over a hundred lives. Isn't that incredible? I know those flying-fighting superheroes do that by the hour, but... it gives me faith that us little guys can still be just as useful, you know?"

The walkie-talkie on Perr's side suddenly barked out a list of immediate orders, uncaring for if the recipient picks up. "Ah, that's my call," Perrs said as he turned toward the exit. "Use the call button if you need me again. I'll be there when I'm done with... whatever's next, hopefully." Ready to leave, he put his hand on the door handle, but paused.

"I... know times like this can be tough," he said, unturning, as if talking to the reflection in the door. "Hell, this is my first week. Can you imagine? It's rough out here. But in times like this, you have to find whatever positives you have in life. Cling onto them, and never let go. Life's little victories, right?" Perrs turned back to Garon. They lock eyes.

"You should be proud. Your mom's a hero."

The assistant softly closed the door behind him, leaving Garon alone with his thoughts.