As I was carried out of the room on a stretcher, I was mostly occupied with how much my body hurt. Every jolt was agony, sending shooting pain through my chest. This was completely miserable. Before getting transposed into Earth 616, I had never broken anything in my life. Sadly, the universe seemed determined not to let me keep that record.
As Washington and the other two men Reynolds had deputised to carry my stretcher bore me down the halls, I got a long look at the ceiling tiles of the building. Thankfully, we reached the elevator, and the constant jostling came to a brief and much-welcome halt.
Washington's co-workers talked, mostly grateful to be alive, for the whole ride. The man himself remained silent. He was impressively taciturn. I didn't pay much attention to the details of the conversation. Each breath was a reminder of my cracked ribs, and focusing on anything beyond the pain took more effort than I could muster.
The transition as we exited the building cut through my misery. Any change in sensation was a welcome distraction. The afternoon sun hit my face after the fluorescent gloom, warm enough that I noticed it even through the haze of pain. I squinted against it, which somehow made my ribs hurt more. Everythingmade my ribs hurt more.
From my prone position on the stretcher, I caught fragmented glimpses of the street. The early wave of the after-work crowd. Someone's briefcase passing overhead. The stretcher jolted as they navigated the curb and I hissed through my teeth, vision graying at the edges for a moment.
What felt like hours later, but was only three minutes, my stretcher was tilted and heaved up into a van. The men climbed in the back and slammed the doors. The van looked generic. Washington started the van, and shifted out of neutral. He pulled into the afternoon NYC traffic. The ride was stop and go. One of the men said something offhand about a traffic snarl caused by something with Spider-Man, I wasn't clear on what.
Eventually, after what felt like hours but was definitely less than that, we arrived at our destination. The van's tires hit cobblestones and I nearly screamed. Every jolt sent white-hot agony through my chest. Each crack and dip in the old street was a fresh torment. The ride mercifully didn't last long, but those thirty seconds felt eternal.
Looking around through watering eyes as the van slowed, I judged we were in Tribeca. Wide, empty streets lined with old warehouses, most looking abandoned or barely occupied. It would never stop being surreal to see NYC neighborhoods a decade and change before I was born. Tribeca was obviously pre-gentrification. The industrial buildings still looked industrial, not like the luxury lofts they'd become. I was pretty sure most of the gentrification had started post-'80s, but a spike of pain derailed my thoughts as the van pulled into what looked like a loading dock.
The men lifted my stretcher out and I bit back a groan. The loading dock led into a nondescript brick warehouse on what I glimpsed was Reade Street before they carried me inside.
On the interior of the nondescript warehouse, we came through the loading dock door beside the industrial scale portal.
Washington pressed the buzzer beside the door and leaned toward the intercom. "Afternoon, Dr. Simmons. Lawrence sends his regards."
A pause, then a woman's voice crackled through, warm and slightly amused. "Moses? Is that you? Haven't seen you in what, three months?"
"Four. I have a patient for you. He's banged up pretty good."
"How banged up are we talking? Scale of one to ten, where one is a paper cut and ten is 'call the morgue.'"
Washington glanced back at me on the stretcher, assessing. "Six. Cracked ribs, concussion. Took a hit from something strong."
"Lovely. Bring him up."
The lock buzzed and clicked open.
The men bore my stretcher inside. We arrived in a cavernous loading bay. The concrete floor was stained with decades of oil and grime, high ceilings with industrial lighting, the massive roll-up door to our right. Empty pallets were stacked against one wall. The space echoed with our footsteps as the men carried me across the bay toward the back.
A service corridor led to a freight elevator. Washington pressed the button for the second floor, and up we went. The elevator was surprisingly well-maintained for a warehouse freight lift, but the mechanical jerks and lurches still sent fresh spikes of pain through my already battered ribs.
After an interminable elevator ride, we finally arrived on the floor. Washington and his coworkers bore me down the hall and into the first door on the left. We entered into what looked like a standard clinical lobby. Tired office chairs sat around on linoleum flooring. Fluorescent lighting gave the waiting room a flat clinical air. I tuned out. I was so certain about the composition of the room,I almost glanced past the woman casually sitting in one of the waiting room chairs, one arm immobilized in a cast, reading a newspaper.
She was taller than average, about 6'2. The woman had the build of someone who'd done heavy labor, all thick muscle and broad shoulders. Looking more closely through my haze of pain, I noticed her skin had a faint greenish tint, and what I'd initially mistaken for a skin condition were actually scales. Fine ones across her cheekbones and jawline, catching the fluorescent light. Her eyes were unsettlingly reptilian when she glanced up. Most outstandingly she had gills across her lower jaw.
The women spoke, her accent thick. Pittsburgh, my pain-fogged brain supplied helpfully.
"He don't look like he tangled with nothin' special."
"Internal wounds," Washington replied.
She snorted, a sound somewhere between amusement and dismissal, and went back to her newspaper. The scales on her neck shifted as she turned her head.
Interesting. This doctor seemed to cater to a higher-end clientele than Dr.Forrest. If I guessed correctly, this was Anaconda. There were only so many 6'2 muscular blond women with reptilian features, even in 616 New York.
This was the first major league supervillain I had been in a room with. Even though Anaconda was a solid C-lister at best... I wracked my pain-addled brain, trying to remember the various other members of the Serpent Society. There had been Anaconda, Black Mamba, Death Adder and another one. Was the Serpent Society even a going concern at this point?
My train of thought was derailed by the opening of the door into the waiting room.
A woman emerged. Caucasian, average height, blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail. White coat over scrubs. Unremarkable in that aggressively suburban way, like she should be coaching soccer on weekends.
"Blanche, good news," she said brightly. "The tissue inflammation is already going down. You got lucky."
Anaconda stood, towering over the doctor, and flexed her good arm experimentally. "So I'm good?"
"Good-ish," the doctor corrected, still cheerful. "You took a pretty nasty hit. It's important to keep that arm in a neutral state for at least a week. No expanding, no crushing, no heavy lifting. Let the extra tissue fully recover."
"A week?" Anaconda's face twisted. "Doc Simmons -"
"A week, Blanche. You stress your arm too soon, you're looking at chronic inflammation, maybe permanent reduction in expansion capability. I've got Roland, Tanya, and Seth coming in for checkups later this week. I don't have time to fix you twice."
"Roland's still complainin' about his aches?" Anaconda snorted.
"Among other things. Now scoot."
The scaled woman grabbed her newspaper and headed for the door, skin catching the fluorescent light.
Dr. Simmons turned towards our group, smile unwavering.
"Well! Let's see what we've got here."
Washington nodded. "It's on Reynolds' tab. What can you do for his ribs?"
"Let's take a look first." She gestured toward an examination room. "Can you walk, or do we need the stretcher?"
I gritted my teeth. "I can walk."
It was a lie, but I wasn't about to be carried like a sack of potatoes if I could help it. Washington and one of his colleagues helped me to my feet. Every movement was agony.
The exam room was surprisingly well-equipped. There was a X-ray machine in the corner, proper surgical lights, and monitoring equipment that looked newer than I'd expected. Dr. Simmons had me sit on the examination table while she pulled on gloves.
"Shirt off," she said cheerfully. "Well, what's left of it."
Taking my shirt off involved a lot of hissing through my teeth.
She probed my ribs with practiced efficiency, her touch clinical despite the sunny demeanor. I quietly hissed.
"Five cracked ribs, probably. Maybe a sixth." She stepped back. "I'll need X-rays to be sure, but nothing feels displaced. That's good news! No punctured lung, which is even better. Now for the concussion..."
She shone a penlight in my eyes, asked me basic questions. Name, date, and location.
"Mild to moderate concussion," she concluded. "You'll need rest. Actual rest, not 'I'll take it easy' rest. And you should set an alarm every few hours tonight to make sure you're responsive."
"The ribs?" I asked.
"I should be able to speed up your healing a bit." She moved to a locked cabinet, pulling out several bottles.
"First, let's get you more comfortable." Dr. Simmons prepared an injection with practiced efficiency. "This is a strong painkiller. It'll numb you up for about eight hours. After that, you'll need the oral meds."
The injection hurt less than breathing did. Within moments, I felt the sharp edges of pain beginning to soften.
"Better?" She didn't wait for an answer, already reaching for another vial. She held up a small vial of clear liquid, examining it with professional interest. "Now for the interesting part. Bone knitting supplement. One of the few things from the mutagenics lab that actually translated well to baseline human physiology. We were trying to accelerate skeletal integration for cybernetic implants, but it works a treat for standard fractures too."
The cheerful way she said "mutagenics lab" made my skin crawl.
"Is it safe?" I managed.
"Oh, absolutely! Much safer than walking around with broken ribs." She prepared the second injection. "This regime cuts your healing time down to about five weeks for complete recovery. You'll still need to take it easy, but you won't be laid up for two months."
"Five weeks?"
"Give or take." She administered the injection smoothly. "You should see significant pain reduction within a week and a half, and you'll be mobile by week two. By week three you should be functional for light work." She smiled brightly as she disposed of the syringe.
"Now, for the oral medications..." She pulled out several more bottles from the cabinet. "This anti-inflammatory is excellent."
"The last doctor I went to gave me some Merck anti-inflammatory that weren't on the general market yet." I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "I assume this are more of the same.
"Yep." Simmons smiled brightly. "It's very good. Shame it never made it to market."
She paused, considering. "Rumor mill says there might be some progress on that front, but it's stop and go. Anyways, you know the drill. One twice a day with food, no alcohol."
She returned to the cabinet and retrieved one final tube with minimal labeling. "And here's... oh, wait." She paused, looking at the tube in her hand, then set it back in the cabinet. "That's a bit overkill for standard bruising on a baseline human."
The doctor selected a different container, this one with an Oscorp logo. "This will do the trick. BioRegenex-7. Apply to any external bruising, reduces discoloration, speeds cellular repair."
I recognized the name from my earlier appointment with Dr. Forrest. "The one that's stuck in legal limbo?"
"Oh, you know about that?" She smiled, holding up the tube. "Honestly, I prefer the Genetech formulation. Slightly better absorption, faster action."
She leaned in conspiratorially.
"Between you and me, I think Genetech absolutely stole it and then improved the formula."
She handed the tube to Washington. "For safety, I'm giving you the Oscorp version. More long-term testing data. Can't be too careful with baseline physiology." She added a small bag to his hands. "Ice packs. Twenty minutes on, twenty off."
"You'll need to come back in a week for a follow-up," she continued, bandaging my torso with practiced efficiency. "Make sure everything's healing right. If you experience sharp pain, difficulty breathing, or coughing up blood, you come back immediately. Understood?"
I nodded.
"Wonderful! Moses, make sure he gets somewhere he can rest properly. And tell Lawrence the usual rates apply. I'll send him an itemized bill."
She was already cleaning up, humming something that sounded like a show tune. Appointment over. Time to go.
Washington helped me to my feet. Every movement still hurt, but the painkiller was starting to work it's magic. The edges of the pain were getting fuzzy, wrapped in pharmaceutical cotton. One of the other men took my other arm, and together they guided me out of the exam room.
The walk back was a blur of movement and muted discomfort. Through the waiting room, into the freight elevator, down to the loading dock. Each step was manageable now, where minutes ago it would have been agony. By the time they helped me into the back of the van, the nerve block had turned the sharp edges of pain into something distant and manageable.
Washington turned to me. "Where to?"
"Hell's Kitchen, around 10th and 44th."
During the drive, the painkillers began to kick in. I had been gritting my teeth as we passed over the cobbled streets of Tribeca, but about 10 minutes after leaving Dr.Simmons's office, my pain became much less pressing. I felt a bit floaty. The pain was there, occasional twinges on the edge of my consciousness reminding me of my close encounter of the third kind, but it was bearable.
The stop and go traffic barely seemed to register anymore. My mind drifted away, thinking about the fight with the Wraiths. It seemed almost surreal, seeing aliens for the first time, especially when contrasted with the decidedly normal slices of New York City passing the van as we crawled our way north.
After an indeterminate amount of time we arrived in Hell's Kitchen. The van pulled to the curb near 10th Avenue. I tenderly climbed down out of the back of the van,taking my time, my ribs still twinging. Without the painkillers, I would have been doubled over in pain by now.
Washington nodded from the driver's side window and passed me the bag of medications.
"Good luck. Get well."
On that taciturn note, the nondescript van pulled away from the curb and merged back into the street.
The walk back to the warehouse was one of the more surreal walks I had taken in my life. Time felt almost elastic in the afternoon light of the NYC afternoon. I oriented myself for the one block walk west, still somewhat inside my own head. The painkillers made everything feel distant and dreamlike. By the time I reached the warehouse, I couldn't say how long it had taken. I was abstractly thankful that I had made this walk in the day. It would have been much less safe walking around in this state at night.
The warehouse appeared exactly how I'd left it. I made my way through the silent ground floor, past the oil-stained concrete, to the staging room that housed the cargo elevator.
The keypad took more concentration than it should have. Eventually, muscle memory won out over brainfog, and the elevator door opened.
After another boneshaking cargo elevator ride, I arrived back in the familiar environs of the bunker.
Walking through the right corridor and making my way past the various rooms, I passed through the central room, taking a cursory look at the planning table.
I really should clean that up at some point.
The thought drifted through my mind unbidden as I passed the planning table, its surface still covered in scattered papers. I added it to the list. Right after "figure out muscle for the Stane heist." The silver lining to my injury was that I'd have a lot of time to think.
Tenderly making my way towards the bunkroom, I flopped down bonelessly on a bed.
Unfortunately, I had one last stop to make. Slumping my way into the kitchen, I grabbed the egg timer from the counter. Not ideal, but I hadn't gotten around to buying an alarm clock yet.
After setting the timer, I finally laid down on the bed and let the waves of the medication push me towards a dreamless sleep.