Daughter of Torchwood

Recovery

It was the early hours of the morning before Starla finally drifted back to consciousness. The Hub was silent, save for the low hum of the Rift monitors and the rhythmic dripping of the water tower. Jack and Owen had both succumbed to exhaustion, dozing in chairs near the autopsy bay.

To her horror, Starla woke to a terrifying void. She tried to shift her weight, but she couldn't feel her arms or legs. She tried to call out for her father, but her throat felt fused shut, producing nothing but a dry, raspy wheeze. Panic flared. On the medical monitor, her heart rate spiked, the rapid beeping jolting the men awake.

Jack was at her side in an instant, his hand firm on her shoulder, "Starla, look at me." He caught her frantic gaze, "Can you hear me? Can you say anything?"

She shook her head, a grunt of pure frustration escaping her. "Owen, what's happening?" Jack demanded.

"Star, sweetheart, you need to breathe. Just relax," Owen said, moving into her line of sight. He checked the readouts, "She was shot through the brain, Jack. Even with her healing, that kind of trauma is going to scramble the neural pathways for a bit. It's temporary."

Once her heart rate slowed, Owen began a neurological assessment: "Can you hear me?" A nod. "Good. Can you speak?" A frustrated shake of the head. "Any feeling in your limbs?" Another shake.

"Okay," Owen picked up a small diagnostic needle, "I'm going to test your sensory perception. I'll move up from your feet. Let me know when you feel the prick."

He worked methodically, noting the lack of response until he reached her upper torso, "Basic motor functions are offline for now. Given your track record, you'll be back on your feet in no time. But for the next day or two, you're on bed rest. We'll be at your beck and call until you're functional again. Understood?"

She nodded, the fear subsiding into a dull, heavy resentment of her own body. To make her more comfortable, Jack carried her over to the sofa in the main hub area. After sending a weary Owen home, Jack retired to his bunker underneath the office.

An hour later, a sharp smash echoed through the Hub. Jack was out of bed and up the ladder like a shot.

A few minutes prior, Starla had woken with a desperate, mounting urge to use the bathroom. It was a humiliating predicament; she couldn't shout for help, and her legs were still useless weights. Feeling had returned to her arms, however. With no other choice, she used her elbows to hitch herself toward the edge of the sofa. She rolled off, hitting the floor with a dull thud that knocked the wind out of her. As she dragged herself forward, her shoulder clipped the coffee table. A glass slid off the edge, shattering across the floor.

She didn't stop. Using her arms to haul her dead weight across the cold stone, she didn't even feel the shards of glass slicing into her left leg and foot. By the time she reached the stairs leading up to the conference room, she was exhausted. She looked up at the steps, realising she had no way to climb them. She growled in frustration, hitting the floor with a fist in silent fury.

"Starla?" Jack burst into the main workstation area. He saw the shattered glass and a grim trail of blood leading away from it. He found her crumpled by the stairs, "What happened? Are you alright? Was someone in here?"

He rolled her over, holding her close. She shook her head urgently, patting her lower abdomen. Jack just frowned, his mind still on security, "What? What is it?"

Tears of pure frustration spilt as Starla realised it was too late. She hit his chest with her fist. "Hey," Jack said softly, catching her hand, "Look at me. Use your eyes. Tell me what you need."

She directed her gaze downward. Jack followed her eyes, finally noticing the damp patch on her nightshirt. The realisation hit him, followed quickly by a wave of guilt.