"Get her out of here," Wilson had snapped at the guards. They hastily complied, leading the hysterical and no longer resistant Rose out of the room. Wilson pulled a stopwatch from his pocket and started it. Then he stepped over to the doorway.
The guard stood a little straighter. "Yes, sir?" he asked.
"Get a crash team in here ASAP," Wilson said. He thrust the weapon at the guard. "And take this."
Shooting Daisy Adair had been a spur of the moment decision. And it had been a brilliant stroke, if he did say so himself. It had destroyed Rose's will to resist and at the same time provided an opportunity study Daisy's fascinating metabolism.
Even as he turned away from the door, Wilson heard a gasp from behind the bed, followed by a wracking cough--and a cry of pain. "Ow, shit!" Wilson strode around to the end of the bed once more.
Daisy was moving again, feebly. Wilson glanced at the stopwatch. Remarkable! The door to the room was flung open and an emergency medical team burst through th doorway, one of them pushing a rolling cabinet full of supplies.
Wilson stepped back out of the way. One of the doctors glanced at the splash of blood on the wall, then down at Daisy, then at Wilson. His face paled a little, but he swallowed and then went to work. He began an initial exam, Wilson interrupted him. "Just get her up on the bed."
"But she could have serious--"
"Just do it," Wilson snapped. "Now."
The doctor frowned, but then gestured at one of his team. "Help me lift her, Alan." Alan climbed over the bed and stepped down into the narrow space by Daisy's head. Together the two men lifted her onto the bed. Wilson moved closer, ignoring the medics.
The bullet wound in Daisy's forehead was gone already. He wondered idly what happened--or what would happen--to the bullet itself. Would she absorb it somehow? Expel it? Carry it around indefinitely?
Wilson watched the doctors strip off her gown and examine her. The bullet wounds in her chest had nearly vanished--and so quickly! The medical team stopped what they were doing, pausing in mid-motion as they watched the bullet wounds between her breasts close up and vanish. "Keep working," Wilson snapped.
The medics went back to work. The exit wounds, when they turned Daisy over, were healing but nowhere near done. Wilson could see the splintered ends of vertebrae glitterly wetly in one. The medics swarmed around Daisy, hanging IV bags, putting an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, connecting her to electronic monitors.
When one of the medics shifted position, Wilson got another glimpse of the spinal wound. It looked less jagged. Wilson leaned closer. He couldn't actually see the bone knitting, but every time he looked away and then looked back, it was less raw.
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timeasmymeasure
[Wilson (aka Dr. Mengele] Collective Punishment (tag Daisy, et al)
Date: 2006-07-01 08:31 pm (UTC)The guard stood a little straighter. "Yes, sir?" he asked.
"Get a crash team in here ASAP," Wilson said. He thrust the weapon at the guard. "And take this."
Shooting Daisy Adair had been a spur of the moment decision. And it had been a brilliant stroke, if he did say so himself. It had destroyed Rose's will to resist and at the same time provided an opportunity study Daisy's fascinating metabolism.
Even as he turned away from the door, Wilson heard a gasp from behind the bed, followed by a wracking cough--and a cry of pain. "Ow, shit!" Wilson strode around to the end of the bed once more.
Daisy was moving again, feebly. Wilson glanced at the stopwatch. Remarkable! The door to the room was flung open and an emergency medical team burst through th doorway, one of them pushing a rolling cabinet full of supplies.
Wilson stepped back out of the way. One of the doctors glanced at the splash of blood on the wall, then down at Daisy, then at Wilson. His face paled a little, but he swallowed and then went to work. He began an initial exam, Wilson interrupted him. "Just get her up on the bed."
"But she could have serious--"
"Just do it," Wilson snapped. "Now."
The doctor frowned, but then gestured at one of his team. "Help me lift her, Alan." Alan climbed over the bed and stepped down into the narrow space by Daisy's head. Together the two men lifted her onto the bed. Wilson moved closer, ignoring the medics.
The bullet wound in Daisy's forehead was gone already. He wondered idly what happened--or what would happen--to the bullet itself. Would she absorb it somehow? Expel it? Carry it around indefinitely?
Wilson watched the doctors strip off her gown and examine her. The bullet wounds in her chest had nearly vanished--and so quickly! The medical team stopped what they were doing, pausing in mid-motion as they watched the bullet wounds between her breasts close up and vanish. "Keep working," Wilson snapped.
The medics went back to work. The exit wounds, when they turned Daisy over, were healing but nowhere near done. Wilson could see the splintered ends of vertebrae glitterly wetly in one. The medics swarmed around Daisy, hanging IV bags, putting an oxygen mask over her mouth and nose, connecting her to electronic monitors.
When one of the medics shifted position, Wilson got another glimpse of the spinal wound. It looked less jagged. Wilson leaned closer. He couldn't actually see the bone knitting, but every time he looked away and then looked back, it was less raw.
Fascinating.