Luna woke with a gasp. Sitting up, she clutched her head, groaning as it pounded.
"What the fuck happened in there?" she groaned out, the words stumbling and tripping over each other. She looked up accusingly at the lead scientist, but the light shining down blinded her. Why were hospitals all so fucking plain? What sort of logic was it to make people feel unsafe in a hospital? She wanted to strangle the person that had invented this sterile white-blue color. She didn't know if it had a name. She didn't even know if it had a use, aside from being the hospital color.
It had been two days since her accident. The doctors had resolved to put her into the Stationary Transparent Activation Subterranean Integration Shell, which apparently meant that she was some sort of glorified lab rat.
She had been unable to walk for thirteen years. She had first been admitted to the hospital a decade before that. After ten years of treatment for her terminal disease, that no one had yet found a cure to other than to let the victim's body deal with it, one of the operations had been disastrous. Her sister had finally gathered enough money to hire an important physician, an intercontinental sensation who was said to never lose a patient.
Luna had soon found out where he got that reputation from.
And unlike advertised, it wasn't his own skill. Far from it. Although admittedly he was highly talented, he didn't put it to good use. He had been fucking drunk. His hands had been shaky. the only reason she had been able to discern his talent was because his hands were precise enough to perform most of the operation without messing anything up while he was drunk.
But the problem was that "most". Because when the procedure was nearing its ending, he had made a simple, clean cut somewhere he shouldn't have. Although it was a mistake, it was smooth and precise, and Luna hated him all the more for it.
Every day Luna thanked the gods that the alcohol hadn't made his hand shaky at that moment, or else she would have died. And she cursed them that he had drank any at all. Every cent of her sister's hard-worked money had gone to pay for a lunatic who didn't even care about his patients. His head nurse was the only competent part of his entourage, and she was, Luna was convinced, solely responsible for his spotless record. Luna had no doubt the rest of them were picked for their appearances only, though it wasn't hard to tell that if you looked, so she didn't feel good about discovering that particular piece of information, especially since she had figured it out while the intoxicated physician's hands were inside her body.
The cut hadn't been on her spine, as it was supposed to have been. It had been straight through her spinal cord.
After cleanly severing her connection to her entire lower body about midway down her abdomen, he had stood, pronounced that there was nothing more he could do and that the injuries necessary for the surgery were too much for her body to handle, and then had left the room.
After that, the head nurse had struggled to repair the tissue around it enough to get it back into position, and had handily sewed the muscle, then the skin, giving her a mild stimulant and insisting she not lie on her back or try to move her legs at all.
Luna knew now that the nurse had been trying to alleviate her suffering by breaking the news to her in a more gentle way, but Luna's sedative-addled mind had quickly jumped to the conclusion that she was trying to hide something, and so she had immediately discovered the loss of over half of her motor functions.
Luna groaned, rolled onto her stomach, and then pushed herself up onto her hands and knees. The good thing about this underground hospital was that she had space to move, and if only she could...
Luna froze.
Hands and knees.
She was healed.
Her unfixable injury was cured within forty-eight hours. Well, more like fifty, actually, based on the clock, but Luna didn't care right now.
How the fuck...?
Was the last though she had before the needle entered her neck.