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Isaiah woke, and his nightstand moved. His bed felt too hard, his sheets lacked the smell of Gain, and the ambience of the outdoors lacked the car horns sounding ad nauseam. Confusion reigned, however, when pain stopped all critical thinking. With consciousness came the same familiar throbbing of his face, his arm. His body froze, petrified that the specter of further agonies would find it if he twitched, or blinked, or breathed too great a breath. His body seized where it should have screamed - and so the elusive nightstand fell out of mind.

Isaiah opened eyes to an unfamiliar room, his memory giving little information about where he was. Looking around assured him of no immediate threats, and he quickly deduced that he lacked the power that would attract other adversaries. A bell sat on the nightstand, on the wrong side of the bed, and he remembered.

Qui parcit virgae suae odit filium suum qui autem diligit illum instanter erudit. Spare the Rod.

He started, and regretted it immediately. A thin, muffled whine eked out from behind a wall of gauze. He reached for the wrong nightstand, for the bell that sat coyly on its surface. Only three fingers strayed into his vision. His throat wrung itself into knots.

You'll even give me a hand with your rehabilitation.

Frantically, stiffly, his index finger tapped the top of the bell, and it rang out its clarion call to the rest of the bedroom. The minuscule device sounded so benign to his urgency. It proved little more than a bicycle beep when he needed a siren wail. There was little else to do; screaming would disturb his gums. Screaming would alert the specter.

Researching the finer points of a high Fowler's position, the sound of the bell and shiftings not belonging to a large cat body cut through the silent flat and Quenton’s concentration. It took less than a breath to stand, few strides to cross to hall then bedspace. He started with a low murmer, before approaching the bedside—a gravelly note of announcement and hopefully calming intent, which morphed into an exhale and then a drawn word, “Ease.”

“Ease, Isaiah, you’re safe here. At the Catfe. “ He held out a hand slowly, from bedside crouch, like offering it to a new cat to inspect and decide if touching was alright. “Breath. Slow nod to me when you feel you can answer questions. So I can try to help as best you need. “

Touching right out could cause more alarm and damage. Loss of a limb and enemies and all his mouth...the very center of self in the skull violated and amputated. This is gentle work. It might have been dreams? Pain? The nerve block will have lasted maybe 12-14 hours. It’s been that. “Quenton, you remember. Your barista.”

“ Your friend Knight brought you here for safety and care. We got a doctor here, Shangri La, to help you. You’re clean, I hope yoga pants are alright. They had a drawstring. The bed is clean. “ Before questions, bring his mind to the here, the present. Away from the terror. Grounding, so that he can ease out of the panic and his mind trying to cope with the loss. Also just quiet talking, rhythm, even, like ASMR-whispers. I don’t even know if I have a decent voice for that. And reassure that I recognize his mind still functions. He can still be talked to and given information, and make decisions if he feels up for it.

The figure at the door was blonde like her, tall like her, severe like her. He forced himself to shut eyes and listen. Not Schörl. Not Cinnabar. The low gravel assured him of the impossibility. He pushed the specters further toward dreams, half-truths. Lucid nightmares need not come - not here.

Isaiah methodically double-checked Quenton's statements as he went on. He reached beneath the bedding to touch the yoga pants, to touch the drawstring and see whether they've been tied or left loose. He mentioned clean bedding and a palm against the sheets confirmed it. He refrained from taking Quenton's hand, however. Instead, he sat up unsteadily and leaned against what support he could find. His head swam, details vanished in a sea of lurid color before they focused into reality once again. Isaiah felt sick, but he could say nothing of it.

Right. Gwen. She's not here - I'd know by now. Shangri-La… Doctors don't stick around. This is a cat cafe. No one is going to look for me in a cat cafe.

When his heart rate slowed and the room stopped swimming, he nodded as best he could. It sent the world atilt, however, and he hoped Quenton would settle for 'one for yes, two for no' on the fingers he had left.

Clear and specific movement of fingers on the top of the coverlet from searching-for-ground to a pointer-finger extension like a one with the nod. Quenton focussed on it a long moment, flame tracing edges and gap and bandages, to show his attention. Communication would have to be patient through pain and relearning things. “You’ll need to be careful of your upper right arm. There’s a catheter there for administering a nerve block. I can give you one more dose only—I suggest you wait until next time you try to get a long sleep in. But if you want it now, I can administer it. It would be better to use OTCs if you can bear it while waking. “

The motion of the hand was so specific and singular. Which meaning, of possible outcomes, to ascribe? Clarification required at least one more use of the previous method, maybe two or three. “Do you want to use your fingers instead of nodding or shaking your head? “

It wasn’t a bad thing by any means, since it focussed Isaiah’s mind on deliberate use and response of the hand that he was left with. The hand he didn’t use in reaching for things, initially. It was the maimed arm with the stump that twitched and moved first. “With how much you’re going to need to sleep the first few days, you’re going to need a nasogastric intubation to prevent your body from dehydration and to get enough nutrition during healing. Your mouth needs the days to heal so that you don’t get dry socket- you can’t use a straw. Is that alright?”

But if you want it now, I can administer it.

Isaiah shook his head against the sway of the world and worked two fingers against the sheets in tandem. He hoped Quenton caught onto the idea by now; Isaiah knew not how long he could keep this up without retching against all the gauze. Remembering to breathe against the pain was hard enough; he didn't want to puke stomach acid into healing sockets and ruin his own progress. Not for this.

Luckily he asked about fingers, and Isaiah mustered enough energy to raise a thumbs-up in response. Initial impulse in gesturing yielded no results. He raised a shaky arm, pointed it to his own temple, and swirled his index finger about to mimick the spiraling dizziness he felt when moving his head. Doing so awakened a terrible soreness in his wrist; he wondered if losing a finger had some impact on the collection of tendons. Maybe it did. Everything in the body was connected, he was learning through the process of recovery. Everything was connected, therefore everything hurt. With the loss of his arm and teeth came the loss of hope - hope that he might somehow live through this, that he might somehow recover some quality of life.

The mention of nasogastric tubing provoked a sharp snort. He endured that treatment once already, and doing so led to his current state of fatness. Swaths of fat hung off his bones in response to the thousands of calories they pumped into him at the hospital, and he blamed the treatment for the long rehabilitation process that his body faced. Intubation proved a nightmare, and Quenton expected it of him again.

Isaiah forced two fingers to stand upright. He could not explain to the barista why he could not endure such a treatment a second time - he could not voice how barbaric it was, how it jammed up his careful plans for his body, or how he hated the feeding schedule in its privately domineering fashion. He could not explain how he would rather die of his own volition than eat without, or how he saw little reason to continue trying to preserve his body now. He looked horrible, and he needed no mirror to confirm it.

But denying it wasted time and resources with the advent of his death. But accepting the feeding tube meant that his questionable future might lead to the benefit of the Negaverse and the loss of others. Too many factors intertwined; he couldn't think. Closing his eyes, he pressed a cool, clammy palm to his forehead.

After a moment, he mustered three fingers for I don't know.

Index, middle finger and thumb- neither yes or no. Was it meant to be ‘maybe’, or some other answer? The effect is the same. Neither yes nor no. Either indecision, or inability to process, despair, confusion, just not ready….many other outcomes. But not ready yet.

“There’s time.”
Dehydration was the larger threat, and the IV takes care of that. A stomach may be sour for a day or two post surgery. Clear liquids, soft solids, then actual food. What if he despairs? I’m no sort of grief counsellor. Non compliant of care? Turning him out on an ultimatum is cold harbor… ill choices. But the most important will be his own. This is no hospital, sworn to Hippocratic Oath or to act with beneficence.

“The right to self-determination is critical in refugee medicine. The care plan outlined initially was to keep you stable so that you could make decisions of care. I’ll do what I can to keep you informed when I have to act something to continue that. Is that alright? Checking vitals, grooming, administering OTCs and fluids with the IV. “ He waited the answer by fingers patiently before shifting to possibly lighter affairs. Ones of immediate stimulation and distraction, the white noise of media for healing and rest.

“You have found the bell already.” There was gentle amuse in the even cadence of the words. There were classist touches of history to using such a thing. Inflection sobered away again, finding no place for mirth further, “First waking and days are …rough and restless after major surgery. The mind wanders, trying and refusing focus. Unlike a hospital, though, I can bring a laptop over you can use. Movies, music, a few games, and books. And there are cats, which if we are careful with dressings, should be no problem to hang out with you. These are all good for waking or sleeping.”

“ If there are needs from where you live, they can be retrieved. If you want for something...I suppose show four fingers. And I will ask each of the categories. My shifts are covered for the whole of the next two days, to be immediately available to your needs. After that, I will have some shifts during the mornings. Company-wise, I can stay or go from this room at your comfort.”

At the mention of time, Isaiah relaxed somewhat. He didn't want to face eating yet. He didn't have much of a face to face anything. Schörl wrenched his teeth from his skull, and Quenton bound his jaw shut after he filled the holes with gauze. He felt like a mummy, like he should be buried beneath shifting sands. What use was eating for a mummy?

Quenton did offer to him more personal control than he thought he would receive in a hospital. There, intubation was less a question of if he was willing and more a question of if he would cooperate. Forcing the matter only protracted it. Forcing the matter meant more misery later on - misery that Quenton offered to circumvent altogether. He thought back to Hy-Brasil's initial inquiry, if he was sure he didn't want a hospital, and he considered the decision already justified. The simple ask alone proved it. So, in answer, he offered a thumbs-up in affirmation. OTCs, fluids and vitals hardly bothered him regardless.

The topics Quenton explained further were ones Isaiah experienced himself; the hospitals hardly allowed him his cell phone to continue managing his business while his burns were cared for. They permitted only certain books and magazines while barring others - namely the ones that required critical thinking, and therefore the ones Isaiah sought to distract himself from boredom. The promise of a laptop meant staving off some of the incessant restlessness, but Isaiah knew his own needs. He would most certainly want to get up and go after a few hours, entertainment be damned. But what good was he in trying to manage a business on pain medication? He already learned the answer to that.

He liked the offer of cats though, and pondered how to communicate this. Making a four-legged creature with one hand wasn't such a terrible chore with five fingers, but the best Isaiah could manage now was a hobbled feline. If nothing else, the laptop would provide a notepad for such requests.

Of all the uncertainties swirling about his position - whether he would recover, whether he could live without an arm, whether his survival had any meaning to it - he understood perfectly that he wanted company right now. He wanted distractions from Schörl's insidious words, her requests, her actions. He wanted a break from replaying the moments ad nauseam. Quenton could - did - provide that. Quenton and a laptop offered basic conversation, even if the brunt of it revolved around cats.

Predictably, some things were easier to answer than others. It was the nature of trauma, and communication when wounds were maiming. The best successive step was undoubtedly the computer. There was a bed tray, the sort with space enough for a cat under it, and canted cooling pad with an older but very serviceable PC laptop that he retrieved at a moment. The 15 inch was a Dell, gotten especially for school and browsing during one of their special off-to-college sales. Since he’d already planned to offer it for use, hours past Quenton had made guest login with proper securities and no password to get in the way of bringing it up from hibernation. “The WiFi here upstairs is already logged in. As a matter of security and low profile for everything attached to store, please refrain from anything illegal or questionably so- most of the dark web, torrents, even bitcoining sorts. “

And while I don’t approve of illegalities, he’s not here to be judged on them if he choses to do so on his own time and in his own holdings. Neither of us need attention drawn here, or follow ups trying to track him down. No more specifically than if anyone has noticed him a regular on certain days. That is easily deflected is saying ‘He’s not been in.’ It isn’t even a lie, technically, as long as he’s up here and not downstairs. Technicalities. Unpleasant bendings. A wireless mouse was set up in a breath and offered onto the coverlet next to the remaining hand.


“I’m not sure what that symbol was-” It was wobbly and used the whole hand. Quenton left it up to Isaiah if he felt like accustoming himself to the computer set up, and if he wanted to try wordpad or some other processor to communicate more specifically. In the meantime, Quenton gathered the medical tray over for ease of access. Isaiah was over the 50 kg limits for the children's dosing by a good margin, even if he was willowy for a grown man. For someone who wore so high-end, brand, painted on pants, it wasn't surprising. The important part for healing was that it made dosing the Ofirmev much easier than if Quenton had been trying to give it to his Saarlander. The dose had no particulate or discoloration on observation, clearing it for use. The IV 100 mL setup had an administration spike port just for such necessities. "This is Ofirmev, which is intravenous acetaminophen. The 4 hour regimen of 650 mg seems the better choice to try to manage? It is a 15 minute push to safely administer."

So what is appropriate small, but distracting talk? Harder when one party can't and shouldn't talk physically. Quenton glance to the screen to see if there was any further explanations or questions from Isaiah's court before chasing down rabbit holes.

Quenton's stipulations on laptop use did not surprise him - nor did they prove difficult to follow. Isaiah's typical laptop usage normally revolved around work tasks and leads, Facebooking, porn, Tinder and Grindr. He knew of torrenting, but its methodology escaped him. Most illegal trade in which he involved himself shut down with the close of the original Silk Road; and even if he thought to continue, a bolstered record of sobriety dissuaded the pursuit. Irrevocable injury and disfigurement encouraged at the same or greater pace, however. Isaiah consented to the terms of use with a shaky thumbs-up. 'Okay' felt slightly different than 'yes' and deserved its own hand gesture.

Quenton confessed to a lack of recognition for the cat, so Isaiah committed some time in the seconds after to search out the Windows version of TextEdit. Its white frame with a semi-translucent window header appeared, and Isaiah clicked into the document. Normally Isaiah typed from home row, and when he tried with the word cats, the severed base of his ring finger twitched on the last letter and caused a wince. He added the remaining s with his index and reminded himself to hunt and peck.

Isaiah grew weary beneath conversation and the inevitable weight of injury. Quenton compensated for as much as he could, and Isaiah thanked him for that - in no hospital could he receive a cell phone or laptop in the case of suspected abuse - and while he tried to answer and ask questions, the task proved draining. Frustrations abound with his own injuries formed great barriers to communication. No longer could he speak, gesture effectively, or type in an efficient manner. He could not write but for shaky, juvenile letters. He could no longer draw with the same technical skill. He would never know the simple joys brought by natural teeth again. The depression of it all felt just as exhausting.

When spoken to concerning acetaminophen, Isaiah offered another thumbs-up. He knew little about non-narcotic drugs, of which acetaminophen was included; he hardly remembered the drug's nature from buying leagues of tylenol in his detox program. That was the acetaminophen one, right? Or was that ibuprofen, or the one that started with an N… I can't remember. It doesn't matter. I don't know of any allergies and if he pumps drugs into my arm that blow me up like a blimp then we'll know what I can't take. A double space from the lowercase mention of cats, and Isaiah started a small list.



A glance at the screen provided what was wanted. A visit from some Puff & Stuff, then. Much it will succor the initial exhaustion, and without the further tax that human interaction draws from eustress. Which would do well? Rigatoni and Lasagna are young, and too rambunctious for the wounds and dressings. A few days and they’d do well, and him with some practice with offhand feather teaser play. Quaker is older and loves to spread, a very quiet purr, though. Well...why not. The quiet of it will require close attention, which means less mind for brooding.

“There’s a tuxedo medium hair we just cycled in from the shelter, named Quaker. He’s about seven, and thirteen pounds, so a pleasant heft. He has a towel that he adores- one with ducks on it. I expect he’ll want to ooze the length of your legs- he’s large and long in a Wedgie sort of way, but just from serendipity of street breeding. Like my Imperial Lord Ouija.” Minutes passed and the push medication completed. Going downstairs to snag Quaker meant needing to be more presentable than pajamas. Isaiah was in the bedroom, which was where all the clothes were- given the history of subtle and obvious passes the man had made on stocking days it presented the choice of changing there and giving a show or taking his clothes to another room.

Another distraction.

Closet opened, jeans and a tattered, fitted heather button-down pulled out, Quenton set to stripping down to black bikinis and redressing. There was no shame in it, and no reason to hide anything, but attention paid to making the process aesthetically done—complete indifference could send a message of disdain or of unworthiness that would play poorly with, or play up to, ailing injuries and the mindset most of humanity had about being lesser sexually as an amputee. Abandoned pajamas were set over the back of a reading chair hard by.

A return to the bedside while attending with slow circumstance to each of the shirt buttons, “Sound like a puff you’d like to meet?”

Most pain medications, even when administered intravenously, diminished his pain level so subtly that Isaiah did not consciously recognize it. With the acetaminophen, his muscles slowly relaxed over the course of the treatment while Isaiah displayed no signs of recognizing its effects. He spent the moment thinking of cats - specifically the one that Quenton mentioned. Imperial Lord Ouija? Was that the cat from earlier? The talking one?

Quenton stood, and tired hazel followed him across the room. A door shifted open, clothes hung from hangers. Quenton picked through them and Isaiah lowered the screen of the laptop for a better view. The blonde never displayed any kind of body shyness that Isaiah ever perceived - his dress in the Catfe downstairs often precluded any thoughts of modesty - and Isaiah similarly fostered no compunctions on staring. Boners remained far outside the question between pain and recuperation, but he could still enjoy the show; Quenton could have retreated to a bathroom, after all. Look at that fine a**. The thought pained him as he realized he no longer possessed two hands with which to assess the booty.

Isaiah knew no chance existed for him to get handsy with Quenton, regardless; no matter his advances, the blonde found a way to turn them down without explicit reason. Isaiah doubted he would ever fully give up on the matter.

Onscreen, Isaiah typed out a slow compliment. you have a nice a**.

For the cat, he offered a thumbs-up. Warmth and softness sounded a decent antithesis to his current condition. Beneath his compliment, he hadded another phrase: you can stay too. If nothing else, the long hours of pain would put him under before he got around to boring Quenton with inanities and shallow compliments. Plus, conversation heralded the opportunity to pick the young business owner's brain - how he reacted to the war, to living in Destiny City, to the sudden development that took place in his own apartment. Tiredness threatened to thwart him, however.

The complement, typed, spoke well for not all of Isaiah’s spirit being crushed. The man had not missed the opportunity for watching, even if not everything could rally for their tradition of téte-â-téte. “Thank you. I am glad you noted. “

“It will take a moment to lasso the puff.” And would give the man a short breath to rally some energy again, but not so long yet to circular brood, hopefully. Quenton dipped his head once in a wordless, space and personal acknowledgement, and went out from the bedside. In an efficient, exacting five minutes he returned with a brrrrt-ing arm decoration to deposit on the bed next to the patient. “Your attaché, reporting for service.”

“ I'm afraid Quaker has no words per minute to speak of. And doesn't take dictation. But does have a quickstart motor-” A light chin skritch, by example, started a thrumming, baritone in the four-legged nurse. Quaker, deciding the one on the bed with the blanket over his lap was very likely not going anywhere, and so was good digs for a sofa.

Humans with lap blankets were always superior sofas to non-blanketed ones.

Isaiah wanted to laugh, but the swelling and soreness in his gums warned him against the idea. Quenton always proved a curious sort for his tepid responses to Ice's advances - and his lack of reasoning for denying him. Clearly flirting never perturbed him so; Ice made passes at many a man who took offense and proclaimed so loudly. Here, Quenton hardly seemed to take them seriously. Did he think Ice was joking?

Isaiah found little time to ponder over it, however, as Quenton soon returned with the named feline in hand. The cat appeared undisturbed by the handling, unlike TastyKake and her staunch disapproval for being carried, and soon the weight aligned with his legs. The cat soon claimed its spot and the familiar rumbling resumed through the blankets. Briefly it brought him back to ancient memories of warm fogs spent on the couch, with no more than a ratty-looking cat for company, and the pair spent hours curled together. He knew better than to speak of it, however.

Typing his next question demanded concentration, and the process went painstakingly slowly. Isaiah grew frustrated with it, his patience already thin from the withered condition of his body and the substituent mental toll. you dont accept my flirting. You dont reject it. why?

It was, he felt, an entirely pertinent question. Inquiring minds wanted to know.

If nothing else, he figured his shitty circumstances might earn him enough sympathy for a straight answer. If not, then he supposed Quenton would just walk out. Isaiah found himself much too weak to pursue for a proper answer, and the tether to the intravenous acetaminophen helped little.

Personal reasons for anything in Quenton’s life were rarely asked by others. When they were, it had accompanied tense moments where things, relationships with other people, fell apart. On one hand, the adage behind the one consistent thing in all the faulted stars was himself and maybe he should consider he was in the wrong. On the other, the base motivation for anything he chose to do or not do was, in each case, as alien to the social norm as to be a taboo—what he sought to do with himself for the sake of standing as a soldier in a war that the greater public and other senshi chose to ignore, to treat lightly, or knew too little about and couldn’t be arsed to educate themselves despite the available mentors and resources.

Will this be the last time I see Isaiah, answer this mystery? It is usually part of the draw and charm to a customer. That gone, combined with my association to this maiming by time period, could be enough for a person to try to emotionally distance themselves. It is something that can distract him for a while, these conversations and thoughts. It can tie in, as well, to his self esteem and understanding at some later point of sexual desirability. Is he consciously, or unconsciously, trying to reassure himself of his standing that way, in asking.

“You’ve been forward, but not insistent beyond decorum into the realms of toxic entitlement to me. Your attention felt...nice. It is...natural to most people to feel flattered when another politely admires them. Maybe that is over-human of me,...over-emotional of a tie that still lingers, to play at offering you back the same enjoyment of company, flattery and attention to details about your preferences of taste. “ Quenton drew a large volume from a near shelf to bring over. “Diogenes, Cleanthes, Zeno, Seneca, Marcus Aurelius. I intend to follow something like the Stoic path. I divest myself of base and emotional Needs so that I can correctly make Choices rationally. This is why I do not take you up on your offers. You’ve plainly had skill with others to commend your abilities as a lover, and attended to physical modifications to enhance experiences for yourself and others. I do not seek a lover. “

Exhaustion stopped him from delving into the meat of matters. Quenton waxed eloquent over his own reasoning, and Isaiah only half-listened through the lull of recuperation. He gleaned the gist of it - Quenton had a plan about him that required no lover - but that mattered little to Isaiah overall. If nothing else, Quenton was quite young, and youth was prone to whimsy. Perhaps one day he would give up this Stoicism stint, choose to reclaim the debauchery he lost to it, and Isaiah would be the first to meet his needs. Even if he kept to course through all that time, it never hurt Ice to stick to 'look but don't touch'.

ok, he wrote at first, uncertain how else to explain his indifference over the matter. His head felt trapped in a fog; how was he supposed to express that Stoicism never affected the appeal of Quenton's a**? That the mention of Diogenes did nothing to change the shapeliness of his legs? Or that Zeno and Seneca and Marcus Aurelius were all very thoroughly dead, and therefore unimportant to him? The blonde may as well have said he was straight.

That never bothered him before. Why would it bother him now?

He thought for a while, turned the words over in his mind. Again the hand raised to the keyboard, hesitated for a moment, and double-returned down to write anew. still stocking tuesday?

Isaiah was looking glassy, but there was nothing inherently offensive, given the man’s condition. Quenton was fairly certain that he could be lecturing the man on the finer points of the rules of stratigraphy (or law of superposition), and how it benefitted archeologists to ‘brush up’ their soft hand brushes with some geological studies. Focus was, as he’d already observed, always going to be interrupted by the pain and healing. Glassy was the usual state of any listener, even healthy ones, when he talked longer than single sentences. It had happened to plenty at the Black Watch meeting, it happened in lectures, why not here. If it offers at least part of a distraction and stimulation through trying to focus and listen, and have a conversation.

The eventual response was not an expected retreat or lukewarm ‘whatever’. Or ‘please stop.’

The scarred part of his mouth twitched once, but didn’t make the mistake of moving further into a half smile. “Yes. I have some Fur the Win Thigh Highs in grey with cat faces, for use with a garter belt, that have been waiting in their packaging for your approval. This Tuesday will be a fine time for their debut. “