|Damian is son & (heir) wrote in repose,|
@ 2017-02-06 01:40:00
|Entry tags:||*narrative, *news, damian wainright, jonathan heron|
Quiet Home: News & Narrative
Who: Damian Wainright & Jonathan Heron
What: a compromise/narrative + news post
Where: the Quiet Home
When: a few days after Misha's ECT treatment
Warnings/Rating: threats, 'involuntary treatment,' and mentions of death
It was all over Repose by evening. An aggressive team of corporate lawyers invaded the Quiet Home early in the day, just after visiting hours closed, and threatened legal action, malpractice suits, litigation. Or, no, they were not threats. They were facts. The lawyers, in immaculate, sharp-edged suits, delivered their message on behalf of Wainright Enterprises: cease and desist or spend all of your available resources just keeping your doors propped open. In the end, the results would be the same, whether they came now, without a fight, or later, with one. They expected a prompt response, and left exactly as they had come, climbing back into the shining cars parked curbside and returned to the Capital.
But, the story, though it ended there on lips and the impression of myriad, bedraggled consciouses, continued, unknown to all but the players involved.
The brute force of the legal appeal was a battering ram; it was meant to do the most damage with a single, trenchant blow. The shadow that lit effortlessly through once-locked window later that night was a surgical scalpel; it was exacting. It came with precision and it came with ruthlessness, and it knew where to notch artery to make exsanguination appear a sad, fatal mistake. Life, the ruination of blood would say, was cruel, but such was the way of it.—The shadow's entrance was silent, skilled, and undetected. So too his approach. And by the time the al-Gol assassin arrived at Dr. Heron's bedside, draped in the quiet oil-stick of the night, and, by the time he pressed the blade of his kyoketsu-shoge to corpse-white throat with meticulous weight, he wanted to be known. Yes, know me, it said, and fear me. It would not take no for an answer.
Two certificates and a pen. Sign, was the order, no words spoken. And the doctor, meek and passive under another's thrall, a sadist turned obsequious, signed. There came no gratitude from the assassin. That he was not killing this man outright was more generosity than this doctor deserved. The precision instrument struck once more: a single hypodermic needle, beveled and thin, in the neck. It was placed with enough care and skill, so as to leave no marking behind. Dr. Heron was given a taste of his own medicine literally—that unusual concoction of haloperidol, Salvia divinorum, and 3-Quinuclidinyl benzilate, dosed quite high, along with a dose of succinylcholine to keep the man from what would amount to tattling (and to disallow him any chance to antidote himself). He would simply have to ride out the effects of his self-made terror until morning. By then, the assassin was long gone, no traces left behind, not a print, not a pen, nothing but the residual medicine in Heron's veins, that could have very well been self-administered.
The papers were filed the next day at the courthouse by a lawyer hired by a man with a name that, if looked into, held up, but did not truly exist. To the knowledge of the Quiet Home, its administration and leadership, Dr. Heron had been impressed by the patient's improvement and discharged him, all in good order.