The Hand that Feeds.

JOHN DOE.

Heart monitor beeps permeated John's restless sleep. Each beep, slow and steady, tugged him away from the darkness behind his eyelids until he realized he was asleep. Conversation snippets echoed through his mind, warping and distorting until the man could barely understand what was being said.

Dropped off hours ago...

...no signs of identification...

... where is that MRI...?

The heart monitor's pace quickened as he stirred awake, his eyelids struggling to open through facial swelling. It took a moment tosee the room he was in; sterile white walls blinded him briefly, as did the antiseptic smell of a hospital room. Everything in him ached so badly that John was half convinced he had been hit by a train. Just moving his head weakly enough from the pillow to get a better look around the room took enormous effort. His neck hurt, but his face and jaw hurt worse.

John inhaled slowly. The tube in his nose that forced in cold oxygen made it easier. However, it was obvious from the stabbing pain with that breath that he had quite a few ribs broken on his right. He struggled to sit up, each movement unsteady and uncertain. He tossed his legs over the bedside after working through the pain. John's gaze swept around the room, to the curtained walls and to the lone chair diagonally from where he was sitting. His trench coat, pants, and shoes were neatly left there as if he had been properly undressed. He let his eyes drift to his hands. Purple bruises lined his wrists- ligature marks from his restraints. On one wrist was an IV line, dripping saline, and what he could guess was something to kill the pain.

Limp fingers pulled the needle from his vein and blood slowly seeped from the needle prick. John didn't bother holding the wound- he was too tired, too sore, to care. He kept the oxygen line in as he removed the medical bracelet.

JOHN DOE, MALE, age UNKNOWN.

METRO-GENERAL HOSPITAL.

He stared at the lettering for a while.

"John Doe," he muttered aloud, his voice raspy. John could smell old blood's rancid sourness on his breath. "No identification." He remembered hearing a woman's voice saying that in his dream, distorted and distant. He pulled the tubing from his nose and let it fall onto the hospital bed. If they didn't find his wallet in his pocket, whoever ambushed him yesterday must have grabbed it. John stumbled to his feet as he reached for the chair to grab his clothes. He pulled off the hospital gown and got dressed quickly. No shirt. They must've cut it off.

Once dressed, John stood fully upright for the first time in hours. He tried to move his arms, to alleviate some soreness, but found the neck pain too much. John pulled the curtain separating his bed from the rest of the hospital wing. He caught a glimpse of his face in the mirror as he stepped through and towards the exit.

Jesus Christ, John. You look like absolute shit.

Yeah, I know, but there are other things to worry about now.

Finding out who was the hero that ambushed him was the top priority. John could guesswhy he was targeted. Therewere a lot of perfectly valid reasons to be, though his enemies were rarely humans. Where he was attacked was where John had the most questions. A secure meeting spot, as directed by an agreement set between him and those he was meeting. No one else knew. From how the vigilante worked, John doubted his associates had set him up. They had a peculiar interest in employing ninjas- those punches felt more boxer-like than graceful.

It was a lot to think about. He'd be better off heading back home for now.