Futuristic The Shattered Sun

[kevintheradioguy]

Kremnef || year 1032 AR

There was pulsing all around, feeling almost like inside the belly of some huge beast - its heartbeat forcing blood through its veins, making them swell, and warm muscle contract around, and let go the next moment. It was the feeling of safety, sometime weirdly primal, almost like the mother's womb: painful, yet, home. Something forced her to open her eyes. There was an old clock, its hands pointing 6:12, or maybe 1:30. It was hard to tell. The vision, weirdly blurred and sharpened, made things fly in and out of focus, creating swirling motions, making her sick, forcing her to close her eyes, and fade into the sweet embrace of oblivion, and dissolve, and disappear in it. If this is what afterlife felt like - there should be no fear of dying.

Another hour later - or maybe a day - or maybe a year, the swaying motions continued. She felt being on a large ship - even if she never was - bobbing up and down on giant waves. She imagined herself waves, crashing into the sides of a large, metal ark, and the sound became real. It grew louder, and louder, almost bursting her eardrums, but it stopped just as it was becoming unbearable, now sounding like echoes in her head. The sea. It was a bliss. So much so, she had to take a full inhale, to taste it around her, and as she did, a hot knot rose from her chest, sticking in her throat. She felt like she was just about to throw up, force her entire insides out of her mouth - hot and needling with pain. In a reflex, she held her breath, trying to force the feeling away, swallow this knot, but the heat bubbled inside, looking for a way out, crawled around her body, until it dug out from beneath her skin, blood heating, cooking in her pores, oozing out, covering her skin in slippery, metal-smelling liquid. It oozed, and oozed, filling up the space around her, leaving her body dry like a piece of old paper, and yet - it didn't stop. Feverish, and crumbling, no more than a body of dust and sand, she found herself under a thick layer of foul, hot liquid. Her lungs ached, demanding oxygen, but she knew better than to take a breath. Her chest ached I need for sustenance, and it became smaller, and smaller, ribs crumbling, bones falling into each other, the sucking under them so hard, her entire being crashed into that small spot, overwhelming it, and trembling like a scared animal, before it forced itself into one aching dot, and exploded in myriads of stars and dust, like the universe millennia ago. She was cold, and naked, and absolutely free, floating in the dark skies, not needing to breathe, not feeling hunger or thirst. She was happy. She'd open her eyes, she thought, and see the entire universe. Her eyelids fluttered up with ease. There was an old clock, hands pointing at 6:12.

The waves crashed in a freezing storm, washing her body onto the shore. She coughed, body cramped, spewing out sand a seaweed. She took a long, shaky breath, air tasting of salt, filth, and rot. She ached as she tried to move, and ached as she tried to lie still. Soft crunching over the sounds of the wind was reaching from the right - unmasked, bold steps of someone who had nothing to fear. Her ears almost bled as she listened closer, discerning four legs. An animal, coming down to the shore to scavenge for food. She had to run, but her legs wouldn't respond. It got closer. Small steps, she realized, trying to move her fingers. They cracked like icicles, shards and pieces of frozen flesh crumbling and falling off, leaving just enough on her bones to make a movement. Her wrist burst into small pieces, forearm exploding in pain, shoulder crackling and losing most of the muscle, as she pushed herself up. Roll over, she thought, crawl away. Don't let it eat you. A large, strong paw like that of a lion lay on her soaking wet chest, its weight pushing her down. No, no, she'll break, she'll crumble into thousands little pieces, each hurting, each shivering, each cold. It growled, hot drool falling onto her face, leaving scorch marks and boils on her icy body. She opened her eyes to be met with a black, hideous face of a mangled rat, body bloated in hard bubbles from hunger. The sand was grey. The land taken by famine. The creature bore its large, human-like teeth in a growing growl. Its solid black eyes reflected a distorted circle of a clock, hands pointing at 6:12. It leaned closer, opening its mouth, and its weight broke her chest, paw falling down, through her, and into the soil. Large body crashed on top of her, shattering her into pieces - freezing, screaming, falling through with a roaring creature into the nothingness.

She fell, crashing on the floor, her elbows emitting a disgusting crack. The pavement was rough, and wet, rain drumming over her back, and a metallic smell in her nose. She tried to breathe in, but coughed loudly. There were cars behind, people walking, talking, neon ads crawling into her eyes through the closed lids, an overly friendly and too sweet of a voice of some AI - probably with a fake smile - talking to her through the dynamics, tempting her to buy their new drink - three times the caffeine than before. It was just there, just behind her, few steps away. No car stopped, no person gave her a hand - no one cared to even look at her. Nothing out of the ordinary. She could crawl out, under the light, roll over on the sidewalk, force the security drones to see her, talk to her, threated an arrest. At least in the camera she'd be warm, and fed, and maybe given a doctor. But she crawled away from the noise, far from the light, into the darkest hole in front of her, towards something that clicked and clacked, like grandfather's clock. Click, click, click - was heard closer. She didn't know why she needed to crawl towards it, but she felt she had to. CLICK, CLICK - echoed in her head so loud she wanted to cream, but her voice failed her, mouth open wide, vocal cords strained, and yet just a long, thin peep, like a dog's whistle pierced the air. Almost right on cue, a dog barked, its drooling mouth opening and closing, emitting a slurping clash between the loud woofs, as it jumped at something metallic just right at her. A loud male voice yelled to shut the bitch the fuck up - obviously not referring to the dog. And clicking changed, and now turned into the steps behind, accompanied with another one, of a gun being loaded. Something pinned her down to the ground, and the back of her head ached as her entire being knew what was pointed at it. The click, click stopped for a moment, devouring all the sounds, before it rang, loudly, like a siren going off, finishing its countdown with a blast. She was no longer in the alleyway - she was eating dirt, her suit now turning into a ragged old sack, and wrists pulsing as they bled from always wearing a pair of handcuffs. Someone spit something out in a language she didn't know, and she heard the familiar click of a trigger being pulled - moments before the bullet escaped it.

It felt warm and soft. Her head didn't hurt. Having her brain blown out was so much better. It felt like lying on the softest pillow, eyes travelling lazily across the room. Grey walls, grey ceiling, grey behind the windows. Hell looked much better than they described. She turned her head to be met with another grey wall, so close to her face, she almost felt like being in coffin. The corners blurred, and smudged across the picture, slowly crawling to their intended places, like some sort of actors that weren't directed to well. It was very funny, actually. So much so, she wanted to laugh at the stupid little lines, rolling her eyes, drawing shapes with these smudges, and looking at these colours hurrying to catch up with her. As she waited, she heard her heartbeat. It was so loud, so slow, it scared her. It felt like something beating this loud would crush her ribs, but it didn't. And over the beating of her heart, there was a booming sound of some faraway bell, slowed to an extreme. One bell per two heartbeats, she realized when the coloured dots almost reached their destination, forming into an image of an old, grey wall. What were those bells, she thought, trying her hardest to collect however much consciousness and mind she had left, and speed the sounds up in her head, before realizing it was the ticking of the forming out of greys and blacks clock, hanging from the wall.

And then all of a sudden, the sounds were sucked out of the air into that one single spot in the centre of an old clock. She anticipated a sudden explosion, like before, like when she was the universe, but it didn't come. Nothing came. She was in the room, her hair - wet, her pillow - hot. Draft ran across her bare skin, crawling under the thin sheets, as far away, barely audible sounds of the traffic reached her ears. Somewhere in this room there was creaking, and someone's melodic breathing, as if some person tried to hum a melody, but at the same time - keep quiet. Grey wall on the left, grey cloth on the right, grey clock in front of her, showing 6:12 on its face. Only her head felt big and bloated, the squeezing feeling around it - a warning: if you move, I'll ache so hard, you won't ever forget it. And nausea bubbling at her throat, and the taste of iron and salt in her mouth, and cold, and no other feeling in her body at all, like if she was made of wax. She was... somewhere. She was someone. But it all was a blur. It all didn't feel quite real.

 

[PixelSymphony]

Are these visions great truths being told to me? Or the whisper of a demon in the night?

Reflex told her to rise up, to look around and begin to figure out the mystery of what twist of fate had led her to this backalley clinic, the gray of its environs speaking much to its indeterminate legitimacy. But the only thing that was greater than her desire to wipe away some of this murky fog that surrounded her being was the pounding headache that rang through her head. Even as minor a motion as repositioning her head in an effort to pull away from the pooled dampness created crushing pain that radiated around and into her brain. No... bad idea. Take it slower. Rather than attempt to sit up a second time, she instead concentrated on moving her fingers, needed as they would be in the future. The rhythmic drumming that made its way to her ears indicated that her attempts were not in vain, but no sensation transmitted up her arm. It was as if a foreign entity was instead attached, one that while accepting of commands, was unwilling to reciprocate in its duties. Still, at least it meant that she still possessed all of her digits, which was a slight relief.

Not so relieving was the terrible taste that had taken up shop in her mouth, and the accompanying nausea that threatened to expulse what little remained in her stomach at this point. She fought to keep the feeling from overwhelming her, less out of concern for the integrity of the flooring of this ad-hoc recovery room, and more not wishing to repeat the explosion of pain she'd receive from the associated head movement. Minutes passed in agonizing discomfort as her gastrointestinal system threatened rebellion against her overall being, but slowly, it weakened and passed, leaving her again adrift in the indeterminate sounds of the environment. She was now sweating profusely, unable to do much other than simply lie in place now.

As she listened helplessly to the surrounding din of the room around her, the lingering effects of... whatever it was that had caused the series of hallucinations driving her mind began to wander anew. Cars... endlessly transporting the lifeblood of the city. And just like when blood leaves a system in the body, where cars cease to go, the city dies... what causes these changes to occur? Nobody chooses to suddenly denote an area as unfavorable, and yet, within the span of a few years, what was once a lively district can become a slum... Her mental efforts earned her the beginnings of another headache, and so just as spontaneously, her thoughts ceased. As the pain subsided, she finally noticed the faint humming that seemed to be coming from somewhere off to her right. Frustrated that she couldn't roll over to determine the identity of her observer, she resorted to announcing herself to the room at large. "To whomever has chosen the onerous duty of monitoring my condition, I am electing to alert you to my consciousness."

 

[kevintheradioguy]

On the first sound of "to" coming from the woman's mouth, the room responded with a sharp creak. She obviously startled someone - probably sitting on a chair or an old sofa - and this reflexive jerk made the furniture moan in painful displeasure. Everything here hurt, it seemed. Everything was old, and shattered, and dying. Paint flaking off the walls, revealing cheap thick plastic underneath of a disgusting greyed yellowish colour, like the teeth of a chain smoker. They looked unhealthy. Everything here did. From herself, to the walls, to the standing curtain - Chinese they called it - to her right - just a metal frame with some old-looking synthetics stretched across the frame. She couldn't look at it, but caught the top of the curtain, seeing the tortured grey cloth starting to rip and form oval holes where tiny metal hooks held it together. She was not exactly observed. Not at this moment, at least. Squeezed between this cloth, two walls, and the back of the bed, she had her own private room. Or cell. Or coffin.

A sarcastic snort came from the right. It didn't echo, neither was heard dull. The room wasn't big, it seemed. Probably with not much metal. "I've been insid'ja. Pretty sure you're no'ch a feken' droid.", a voice was heard. Male, on a higher side, hoarse, and slightly nasal. A voice of a smoker. "Ya can use human language." He slurred the last word a little, forming it into a weird mix of 'language' and 'laundry', a sort of 'londwedge' - maybe a drinker. Maybe a recent drinker. Or maybe, a Scotsman.

There was a sigh, and a tap, as if someone turned something off. No wonder - if she was lying here alone, then whoever was on the other side would need to entertain themselves with something. Music, reality shows, or whatever people watched on their phones. She heard cloth shifting, joints cracking and a quiet groan. But no one was hurrying to approach. "Can'ja move yer toos?", the voice sounded again, asking whether about toes or tooth... it was safe to assume the former. Whoever was looking after her, he seemingly cared not for the Hippocratic Oath they took, and was not in a rush to help.

 

[PixelSymphony]

Ancient furniture and decaying paint. I certainly have chosen excellent accommodations for contracting and subsequently dying from a nosocomial infection. The sounds of movement made her attempt to glance over in the direction of their origin, but no movement came from the curtain; the visual identity of her "companion" would remain hidden for just a little bit longer, even as he spoke through the thin plastic barrier.

"I've been insid'ja. Pretty sure you're no'ch a feken' droid."

Her head swam momentarily as she tried to parse his accent. "Yes, you are correct, I am not a droid," she retorted in a grumble, "but I understand the importance of proper communication." And not going to even give your comment on being inside me the time of day.

"Ya can use human language." She continued to hold her tongue, knowing full any response was pointless. "Can'ja move yer toos?"

This time a frown made its way across her face, at the sheer ambiguity of what exactly the man had said. Only one of the answers made any sense, but that didn't make it any quicker to parse through this absurd imitation of dialogue. "Yes, I can move my toes," she replied with a glower, the emphasis very clear upon the last word as she moved the phalanges of her foot around. "I cannot claim any feeling in them, but I can move them. Right now I'd focus more on the fact that my head feels like it's about one good squeeze away from detonating like a bomb if I were you."

 

[kevintheradioguy]

A chuckle mixed with a sarcastic snort was heard. "If ye understand proper commoonication, why don'cha try doin' that?" The irony was whether lost on the man, or he lived for it.

He sighed, and a dull CLANK spread through the room. Look like his chair was standing on the back legs, and now landed on all fours. A squeak, and then a mixture of soft, rubbery steps and light dinging, as if this was some youth all covered in metal chains, crossed the room somewhere to the back of the place. They sounded relatively light, but not in a rush. "What's wrong with'ya people...", he grumbled, directing his words to no one in particular. "Comin' to my place all entitl'ment an' show-off like a herd of fekin' bogans, an' can't even go 'oh, it's fecken' cold, can I get'cha blanket?'.", he spoke the last phrase in a pretentious, sweet voice to convey some point. "Would'ja tongue fall off to ask?" Judging from the squeaks and pitiful moans of old furniture, he was looking for the said blanket, but wasn't as good with it, mumbling something about some Leslie that's not around when he needs something. Maybe a colleague, maybe a nurse.

"As fo' the other thing, aye, congratu-feken-lations, yer finally clean. Can begin a new life, ge'ch education, sta'ch a family, or whatever yer people say ye'd do if only ye'll get off the needle.", he snorted, quite obvious in his disbelief of addicts doing exactly that. "Or if yer asken' for morphine, tough time, girl, you took out me entire stock. Hope'ja have enough moneh to cover that - ye sucked me dry, and not in a good way too. Had to do some favours not to get thrown out." A soft rustle was heard as he got some heavy cloth from the further part of the room. "Can offer ya not so clean watah. Or much cleaner beer. As a medicine man, I shouldn't offer the latter, but'cha not nine, ya can destroy yer liver if ya wanta."

 

[PixelSymphony]

The continued destruction of the language he spoke tore at the girl's ears like nails on a chalkboard, each new mangled syllable another affront to idea that sounds could transfer information. "Perhaps it would, so perhaps better not to try," she grumbled anew as her still-unknown companion rustled about for a blanket. "I've been castigated for far less." These words set off a slight spark in her mind, a memory trying to pass through the haze of confusion that swirled about her, but alas, it too became mired in the fog, another ship lost in the sea of her current mind. Her ears perked up at his mention of another person and the less than kind regards she had for her. I suspect Leslie would agree with me...

She listened to his less-than-congratulatory explanation of the outcome of whatever procedure she went through, and furrowed her brows. Something's not adding up here... I can't remember why I came to this place, but... I know I wasn't some burnt-out Psychostim junkie, so what else was I trying to do? "Wonderful. I suppose I will simply just contend with this earth-shattering headache for the next few years. Won't be any different than normal some days..." She could feel some small amount of sensation returning to her limbs, so she chanced raising her head, knowing that unless this back-alley doc was going to give her a sippy-cup of alcohol, she was going to have to sit up to consume the offered drink. "I'll take the beer. I know the water around this place; pretty sure it'd kill me faster than the suds."

 

[kevintheradioguy]

"Yep, jus' as I thought. 'Nother entitled brat thinkin' she too damn important to say 'please' or 'thank ye'. Very bold directed a'ch someone who could've plummeted ye into oblivion instead of saving yer skinny arse." While the words were harsh - albeit not untrue - the tone was more dismissive than anything. Judging from the previous mentions of ungrateful little chavs coming in with fingers formed into horn symbols, littering around with age-old slang and fake gangsterish accent, and demanding respect for the mere fact they exist. He must've placed her in the same category already.

"I'd give it a few hours." She could almost feel a matter-of-factly shrug coming from the man, as he walked back to where he sat before. He was surprisingly dismissive to his patient's idea of knowing better how long something would last or what he should or should not worry about. As many of the street people, he seemed to be more centred about a certain code of respect rather than professional prowess; hospital doctors would mose certainly keep a smile to reflect someone's rudeness and remark their skill ad degree when a patient thinks they know what they need.... this one was the opposite of that, it seemed. "Ha, bold o' ye to assume I use tap watah." There was recognisable clacking of a bottle being taken out of a six-pack somewhere on the floor. He sighed, the side of the room he was at emitting soft rustling and then - cracking of bones, before he walked back to where the woman was. White, bony fingers caught the further part of the curtain, moving it to the side with a surprising lack of sound, right before a thick, old blanket - grey as pretty much everything else in the room - softly fell over her feet and legs, slowly pushing them down. It would take some time for her own body temperature to heat it up, and then in turn - warm her, but it'll do the trick eventually. Moments later, she was given a bottle of some light, and surprisingly not that cheap beer with a pull-off bottle cap that was easy to open. "Gonna check the strength in yer fingers 's well. I can get'cha a straw, but I'll judge ye.", the man said - he wasn't very tall, and was extremely gaunt, pale, and sickly-looking, like a teenager during his first hangover or coming down from some drug. Bruises and scratches almost healed all around his skin - face, hands, neck - easily noticeable over the waxy skin. But there was something extremely disconcerting in him, something... scary, even. Uncanny. Like he wasn't a real person at all. As he looked around, and leaned over, spreading a surprisingly sweet, sugary aroma around, finding the mechanism to lift the back of the bed up, and allow the woman to sit while leaning on it, for a moment he looked up at her, and the reason for this small sparks of terror every time he looked at someone became clearer: his eyes - so light grey they almost looked white - not only were blurred and empty as if he didn't see anything in front of him and looked through people and objects, but one of his pupils was thin and narrow like a tip of a needle, while the other - dilated and dark. This didn't look natural, inhumane, broken, and for some reason - dangerous, as if he was absolutely unhinged. "If I knew that the only thing to get'cha outta 'ere would be t' stop giving you morphine, I'd do'et long ago.", he mumbled, though his hoarse, high voice still was heard perfectly. "Ha t' deny a few clients which would'a brought me a small for'ch'n, an' I really doubt'cha have enough behind'ja back t' compensate. Though I am easily surprised." The last two words were said in a slightly challenging tone, as if he dared her to do just that.

 

[PixelSymphony]

The woman's attempt to lift her head was met with pain to the degree of debilitation, such that even though her will was strong even to bear through it, her musculature refused to comply out of self-preservation. With a grunt of defeat, she ceased her efforts, her head falling back onto the stained pillow behind her with a dull thud. Though her initial inclination was to snap back as her begrudging benefactor continued to harp on her, leaving little question as to his true thoughts on her manners so far, she bit her tongue not so much out of contrition as simply due to the fact that words were rapidly failing her as her brain attempted to expand in size beyond her skull.

Just then, the curtain slid open in a burst of movement. The blanket that was suddenly tossed onto her was a welcome, if unexpected relief; as more and more sensation returned to her she was beginning to feel the clamminess of the room seep into her bones. I can't imagine this guy turned up the A/C for my benefit; chances are it's lack of heat more than anything. Speaking of the man, this was the first chance she got to lay eyes upon the man who was apparently treating her, and for a few moments she truly wondered what pre-existing situation had lead her to this absolute wraith of a man. The sensation of the bed rising up was at first nauseating but far more successful at raising her head up than her earlier actions. As the street doc passed over the small brown bottle, a very clearly forced "thanks" emerged from her lips. She slowly raised up her free arm to the cap, at first having some slight difficulty getting her fingers to bend the proper amount to engage the pull ring, but given enough time, was able to successfully yank the top free without spilling too much of the contents. "I'd cheers you but you'll forgive me if I don't exactly trust it would go well."

She took a lengthy pull from the beer bottle and nearly gagged, her finer motor functions still somewhat delayed in her recovery. Eventually the drink went down, hitting her stomach in a much appreciated but questionably healthy bolus of booze. Another memory began to rise to the forefront of her mind, this one more recent, and as such more solid; this was a familiar flavor, the mix of flowery notes, bitter hopps, wheat grains, and of course the alcohol. "Well, I don't know how good of a doc you are, but you've got a good eye for hooch." As she took a second, more measured drink, she took the opportunity to look over who she was talking to. Those eyes are something else. I'd say I wouldn't want to meet him in a dark alley, but I'm not sure where I'm at right now is much better. "Anyway, as I told you, the deal was half the money up front, half of it afterwards. If I'd brought the money with me, anyone with half a brain would have taken it and left me to rot on the table. You'll get your payment as soon as I can reasonably emulate a human being." She punctuated her ultimate with yet another swig of the bottle.

 

[kevintheradioguy]

The man arched his brow at the comment, still not quite satisfied with hos his patient was talking. He dragged her all the way into the living world, and all she could do is make snappy comments? "Yanno, girl, I start'a understand why people try'ta shoot yer brains out.", he responded, shedding some light on the whole situation. Still, he looked quite satisfied with the fact that she not only could open the bottle - usually doctor asked to squeeze their fingers for that, but his looked like they might just break - but unconventional means were quite in line with an unconventional situation. He sighed, waving his hand at her as he turned around, like someone telling this was a lost cause, when she spoke of the money, and he stopped. His back was shaking as a low, quiet, woofing laugh came from him. "Oh, that's a feken' lousy attempt at trickery, girl.", he threw over his shoulder. "You didn't give me shit but grovels and promises to pay for saving yer arse." His speech, and this sentence in particular, were packed with these rolling 'r's, making him sound like a large, mangy dog. "I don't even know why I took yer in, seeing the edgy teen attitude yer givin' me. You probably were a much more pleasant person bleedin' and cofin' out yer own lungs at me doorstep, an' I got feken sentimental." This, admittedly, didn't sound like like a good decision, but thus far the man wasn't proving himself as a reasonable person, so it made sense. Not to mention that there was a chance that a streetrat like him was drunk, high, or both at the time, and it just so happened to align perfectly with the woman's needs at the time.

 

[PixelSymphony]

Shit. The woman's slight attempt at fast-talking backfired, and for a moment she worried that she was about to be deposited straight out on the asphalt to fend for herself in her debilitated state. Still, the man didn't seem to move to immediately evict her, though at this point he was clearly getting a little peeved at her. That being said though, even in his irritated state, he had just mentioned a few interesting tidbits that answered a few of her questions... and raised a great many more. So I dragged myself in here, convinced this berk to treat me, and ended up without any memories. Oh and apparently people want me dead. AND this back-alley doc is my only chance to even get a lead on why i'm here. Great. How's that old saying go about knowing when to hold 'em?

She took a final pull of the beer bottle, setting it down nearby with only a modicum of difficulty, then turned to size up the gaunt fellow eye to eye. "All right. You got me doc. Maybe I am being a bit of a bitch at the moment. But I'm only being a bitch because whatever the hell you gave me fried my brain like a soycake on a nuclear reactor." She took a deep breath, then looked away. "So fine. I'm sorry I'm yelling at you, and I'm grateful that you didn't leave me in a heap on your doorstep. Is that better?" The words were sincere, if still tinged with a bit of incredulity. "Look... if I said I was going to pay, I'll pay. But I can't pay until I figure out how I'm going to pay, and I can't figure that out until I remember who the hell I even am." She raised a hand to her head in an attempt to stave off another oncoming headache, playing a careful balancing game of not pressing too hard lest she trigger the other head related malady she currently possessed. "Got any hints, doc?"

 

[kevintheradioguy]

"As I said before, I ain't given you shit besides morphine.", this time, he did walk away, throwing the phrase over his shoulder. "Ya ain't payin' attention, are ya?" He seemed not to care she was suffering from a headache, and probably couldn't hold all the details in her head, but at the moment he could afford to do that. After all, he was the one standing and in... however good health someone like him could be. All and all, the man didn't look too healthy himself.

"Slightly.", his response was. Probably, the apology would've sounded good without the last comment, but he didn't seem to notice all too much. He listened to her words, which made sense, of course, but still made him emit a low woofing chuckle. "Well, that's bleedin' convenient. But not a feken clue." Judging from the metal squeak, he nested back on his chair. "People in your condition don'ch usually start tellin' me their life stories all'o'a'sudden. Hell, people who come 'ere barely ever introduce themselves. Not that I'd remember anyway." He sniffed. Paused. "I'd suggest followin' yer own bloody trail out, bu' given how much time had passed that ain' happenin'. I can only give my own medical observations, but seein' how it's my only trump card, I don' know if it's a good idea to give it away before you cover your debt. I mean, look at that thing!", a shuffling sounded in the room, he probably pointed somewhere the woman couldn't see. "I've got noo analgesics left. Ya sucked 'em all out. And dis is the only thing I need at all times to werk! I can't give a man a new liver when he's conscious! I mean, I can, bu' I don' think he'll survive!" He indeed did give out some information about her circumstances for free, but seemed to catch on really fast on the fact that she could walk off and never be seen again. He needed some way to ensure payment. Offering information was probably the only real thing he could barter with.