The White Shadow 1: The Dancer

Chapter 16

Nia rushed through the doorway of Songs Hospital and sped through the halls, her coat flapping behind her. She dodged around a corner and skidded to a halt outside an operating room. The windows were shut and the door was locked, but Nia still banged on the door, "Song? Is Darryll in there?"
With no reply, Nia banged up on the door again, more urgently then before. Then, suddenly, the door began to open, and Nia breathed a sigh of relief. However, her relief began to fall away, leaving only fear when a Goliath in a respirator wearing a large white overcoat to on top of their usual clothes stood overhead in general doorway. They stated monotonously, "You are meant to be keeping Diane close."
Nia glared, "I am. I need to see Darryll for that. Is he awake?"
"Yes," The Doctor said, "But he's undergoing a procedure to reduce the inflammation upon his face. The inflammation you caused. Come, you may watch Professor Song work." They opened to door and gestured for Nia to enter. She walked into the operating room, and the door was conspicuously closed behind her. The Doctor continued, "This should take three more minutes."
The operating room was brightly lit, and in the centre was a spotless table, upon which lay Darryll, unmoving, hands by his sides, defenceless. Nia was seized with a powerful urge to beat the boy to death where he lay, but over him stool a tall and lean man, back to the Dancer, his hands working out of view upon Darryll's face, which was obscured by said man. He was hunched like a golem, and wore a surgical gown. Nia watched as his shoulders twitched like a bird's wings, and listened to the sounds of metal scraping and machinery wiring out of view. She began to walk around, slowly, to see Darryll's face. She placed down the length of the table from a distance, and as she turned the corner, the operators face became visible. Professor Song wore a mask, but a feverish concentration was present in his eyes as his nimble fingers handled the instruments with grace and precision. Nia continued her walk, spiraling closer to the bed, until she stopped, opposite Song, who acted as if Nia wasn't there, and above Darryll, who's eyelids were shut, but his eyes were moving, and his lips twitched like he was trying to speak. His face had become considerably less swollen, but was still incredibly red, and bore cuts, bruises, and dents all throughout. Suddenly, the sound of surgical tools working ceased, and prof Song looked up and Nia, who continued to stare at Darryll's face. He spoke, "He's missing three teeth, one of which being a molar, and another five are heavily chipped."
Nia looked up. "Ah."
"He's also got several internal cuts inside his face, and plenty of outside wounds as well. It's a miracle he's alive, considering you only punched him twice, even if you were wearing brass knuckles."
"I wasn't wearing Brass Knuckles." Nia chuckled nervously, "Though I did only hit him twice. What gave it away?"
Song gestured with his fingers to Darryll's face, "See here?" He pushed once upon one particularly splotchy bruise just under Darryll's eye, and again on another lower down his cheek, "there are two big bruises over here."
"I see," Nia noted, "Interesting. When will he wake up?"
"He should wake up in about half an hour minimum."
Nia wiped her forehead with her gloved palm, and turned away from the table. "Thank you professor," She said, her voice tremulous, "That'll be all. Good work."
"I know." Song replied, "Now, let's leave the Room. I'll get someone to move Darryll to a hospital bed."

Song Junior watched as two men carried a teenage boy with a mop of dark hair (not unlike his own, if not shorter) out of his dad's operating room, as the man himself left with two colleagues, a tall lady in a bespoke-looking suit, and a Goliath with a hat (indoors, rude) and overcoat, (again indoors, also rude). Song sighed, knowing full well what his dad would say if he wanted to watch him conduct whatever his illicit business was. Instead of dealing with that rant, the young Song turned to the unconscious boy on the stretcher, and, vaguely interested, followed him to the intensive care unit. Song watched as the boy was moved carefully by two professional nurses onto a long, soft baby blue hospital bed where he was attached to an IV tube and tucked in underneath some covers. As the nurses turned around and saw Song, watching, with his head tilted carelessly and his hands in his pockets, wearing little else than a shirt, a jacket, and some jeans, their eyes slanted above their masks. Song wasn't meant to be here, much less with no protective gear. But that didn't matter.