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"This place has become a goddamned graveyard."

Dr. Laurence Fitzpatrick was walking rapidpaced down the crowded corridors of Destiny City Memorial, his footsteps heralding his approach as much as his voice was. This was a fairly common sight, he was always impatient about getting things done and didn't discriminate when it came to who he was directing said impatience towards - this occasionally included his daughter Janice, who was keeping up his pace without complaint.

"All that's going on around here is people coming by and looking for their family or friends or whathaveyou, talking to people they know aren't going to be talking back anytime soon," he went on, stern-faced, looking straight ahead. Janice matched this look somewhat uncannily: she was always a bit of a carbon copy of her father, from eye shape and color to facial structure to basic mannerisms, to the point where sometimes people did a bit of a grating double-take when she was introduced as his daughter. They shared curt nods and muttered hellos with a couple other staff members they recognized, sitcomically simultaneous.

"There's so many beds filled up I'm surprised they haven't found some loophole in the health codes that'll let them stick them in the break room, and we can barely keep Rasmussen away from his son's bedside for long enough to keep his job, let alone get any sleep."

"That seems a bit harsh," quipped Janice, brow furrowing and jaw clenching a bit. She'd already visited Dylan a handful of times, and talked briefly with Allan for a couple of them. It soured her general resolve a little bit, to say the least, to have that opportunity to notice how -- wasted away he looked, something that had been impossible to ignore in that situation. They'd shared a couple of stories, in an odd moment of faux nostalgia. She'd left Dylan a card.

Laurence gave a small huff in reply -- then, out of his pocket, produced a cigarette out of a box he no-doubt had concealed there, and did the ritual fishing for a lighter until he found that as well. "I'm stepping out for a bit, get some fresh air before this madhouse drives me bonkers. Did you want to come with?"

Janice paused, her gaze flicking slightly downward for a second before creeping back up. "Not really."

And with that, there were the short see-you-laters, and he was gone through one of the hospital's exit doors. She stared at them for a moment, somewhat resigned-looking; she could still see the back of his head through the little wire-framed window: black-coffee hair, well-kept, with a single streak of gray. He was one of two people on staff who bore an amusing resemblance to Mr. Fantastic.

"You were supposed to quit," she muttered, eyes drifting downward again. She had two cups of coffee in a recycled-newspaper tray cradled in her hands, one meant for herself while the other -- well.

"No," answered Janice flatly, "I'm a demon in an elaborate disguise, here after the immortal souls of the graveyard crew. They will be served to my compatriots with fava beans and a nice chianti."

She looked up at Dr. Baskov, and his rumpled coat and his messed hair, and how he generally looked like he'd been yanked out of the dryer before the cycle had properly gone all the way through. That was how a lot of staff were looking -- but it particularly stood out for Gene, who was always one of those looked-good-enough-to-be-on-TV doctors. The only reason he'd ever willingly look like this, Janice imagined, was because he was planning to join one of those zombie walks DCU hosted sometimes.

That was, of course, before the whole coma epidemic hit them.

"You look terrible," she said conversationally. "Coffee?"

After the drink tray had been liberated of one of the coffees, Janice took a moment to turn her attention to the one that was left. She almost moved to dump a creamer or two into it, but after noticing something or other on the packaging and making a disapproving sneer at it she decided not to, instead opting to enjoy her coffee black. The other coffee: also black, unless Gene had put something in it while she wasn't looking. In the state he seemed to be in, though, he was likely in for it more for the caffeine than he was for the taste.

He really, obviously, was not thinking much about taste at this moment in time.

At all.

That hair.

"I suppose you could say that," she responded, looking more or less straight ahead -- or, more accurately, down the corridor that led to the ICU for a few seconds before settling her gaze more neutrally on the light trickle of human traffic in front of them. "I imagine that's what everyone else who isn't paid to be here is here for. And what about you, should I go ahead and call Guinness about their record of most hours spent awake at once?"