Vance - 1.1

Time seemed to decelerate as the fireball rapidly expanded away from the tracks, its intense heat radiating violently. Large chunks of the station ceiling began to collapse onto the platform, mercilessly trapping several men and women beneath their immense weight. As the fireball propelled me backward, the nerves in my arms screamed in excruciating pain.

I found myself slamming forcefully into a concrete pillar, the impact causing me to roll several times over the ground. Attempting to stand, I struggled as my shoes slid on the slick surface, wet with blood flowing freely from deep lacerations on my legs. My knees gave way, catching me abruptly as my head jolted back. Suddenly, a small concrete boulder with jagged rebar loomed large in my vision.

Instinctively, my hands moved to protect myself, acting before my mind fully processed the impending danger. In a desperate bid for survival, I reached out, only for the rebar to pierce deeply through my left palm. The heavy chunk of debris then pinned my arms against my chest, and I felt the full, crushing weight of the concrete as it descended onto my sternum. My ribs audibly cracked under the pressure, and my knees painfully dislocated.

As my hearing started to return, it was filled with the sounds of my own screams mingled with the agonized howls of other injured victims around me. The intense agony triggered a surge of pure, chemical adrenaline throughout my body. Somehow, I managed to slide the heavy boulder off my chest, but in doing so, the rebar tore further through the flesh of my hand.

I crawled toward a woman nearby, who was trapped under a large piece of the ceiling that had crushed her waist. With a grimace of pain and determination, I pressed my shoulder against the debris, attempting to lever it off her. Despite my efforts, the heavy concrete remained immovable. My vision began to blur as I exhausted myself in the attempt to free her.

In the background, a television broadcast reported, "11 dead and 24 hospitalized from the suicide bombing of Misconductor at a subway station at 2:00 p.m. yesterday. Tragically, Private Eye lost his life trying to bring Misconductor to justice. The city is organizing an eulogy shrine in front of Nally's Park to memorialize his service to our community and for anyone to pay their respects to Private Eye."

Just then, a nurse walked into the room and changed the channel. "Mister Vance, how are you feeling?" he inquired, his voice carrying a tone of professional concern.

My gaze slowly swept over the bandages wrapping both my feet and arms. Mentally, I inventoried my body's state: breathing was painful, my arms felt as though they were still engulfed in flames, and several areas on my legs stung sharply.

"Could I have some pain medication, please?" I requested softly.

"I can certainly increase the dosage," the nurse responded cheerfully. He approached my IV stand and administered another syringe into the bag. "Now we're up to 10 milligrams every 10 minutes. I hope that helps increase your comfort! Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"Do you think I will be discharged by the weekend?" I asked, hopeful yet uncertain.

"I'm not sure. Let me check with your lead physician," he replied before exiting the room to make the inquiry.

As the pain medication began to take effect, my consciousness faded. When I awoke, I found a doctor standing at the end of my bed, reviewing my medical chart. The familiar surge of pain greeted me as consciousness returned.

"... aged 26; AB+; Second-degree burns on the forearms; manubrium bruising; fractures on Rib L2, L3, and R3; severe damage to the left palm and metacarpals; slight lacerations to the lower extremities. You're lucky to be alive, Mister Vance," the doctor stated plainly.

He pulled one of the visitor chairs closer and sat down next to the bed. I noticed his ID tag which read 'Donald Walters.'

"How is the pain?" Doctor Walters inquired, adjusting his glasses as he prepared to address any additional discomfort.

"Well, the nurse increased the dosage before I fell asleep, but I still feel sore everywhere, and my arms are tingling," I explained, grimacing slightly.

"I'll increase the morphine slightly. Let's get that flowing," he suggested, making a note on his clipboard. "Are you suffering from any anxiety?"

"No, sir," I replied, trying to remain as calm as possible under the circumstances.

"Good. If you still feel uncomfortable in a few minutes, please page the nurse. I would like to conduct a vision and hearing assessment once we have the pain under control. For now, you need to get some rest, and do not worry about being here or not this weekend," he advised, his tone reassuring yet firm.

"But I have a new job starting Monday—" I protested.

"What is most important is your immediate recovery, this is a legally protected medical absence." He turned to leave but paused, "A man stopped by while you were unconscious and asked the front desk if you were going to recover. They gave him an uncertain response and he left. One of the nurses said he seemed frustrated while mumbling about HIPAA."

My mind grew hazy before I could ask who he was. I slipped unconscious once more.