At the nod, Sato slipped into the room and immediately headed for the right bed. She didn't let herself look too closely at its occupant, or think too dearly of the immediate moment, or of the night's eventual outcome. The god was right; this was better done fast, regardless of style or noise.
But first there was something she had to do. Quick as a snake, Sato stepped near and pressed two fingers to the man's temple.
--harbor lights--air smelling of dirt and candy, and roasted fish--stutter of children's laughter ghosting by--
"Figures," she muttered to the sleeping face. "Thirty years and you still taste tinned."
And then modern educated senses looked beyond nostalgia and Sato moved. Hands that suddenly looked a knuckle longer and a hell lot sharper, clamped on the IV, trying to shut the new infusion. "K'so--they changed his dosage! He's already sedated. Any more contrastimulant and he'll tip over into a bloody coma."
And thanks the Powers That Be (or Were) that Sato had enough gastronomic experience with modern disasters to recognize the aftertaste of pharmaceutically altered dreaming.
(OOC: And for more shit-that-does-not-go-to-plan, they'll be getting be getting a surprise visit in, oh, about two more posts. ^_~)