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Enter John Doe, GSW victim.
Characters: Roy Miller, Martha Jones
Rating: PG-13 for hospital stuff
Trigger Warnings: Medical gore, possibly?
Location: Hospital
Day and Time: Wednesday, June 22nd, evening
Status: Complete
The hospital floor was quiet. It had only been a day since it existed, or since the people who had come here knew it existed. The hospital beds had been empty, the ward as still as the grave. And then, one moment later, one of the beds had a person in it. The light on the nightstand turned on, to cast an eerie glow over his handsome face. He seemed quiet, calm, asleep maybe? He was in a hospital gown, with the sheets up over his chest, his body relaxed. He had several machines attached to him, an IV drip stand, the machine that goes ping. The most expensive machine in the hospital wasn't there, but the machine that records his pulse and heart rate and vitals came to life, emitting soft flips and dings as it ran the length of his heartbeat.
He was fine. But then he wasn't, because the machine started to go haywire, emitting an alarm when his pulse lowered, and the man let out a groan of pain, his body contorting on the sheets in perfect counterpoint for the calm he had been in moments before. A blotch of red started to grow out of his shoulder, through the hospital gown. Blood.
Rating: PG-13 for hospital stuff
Trigger Warnings: Medical gore, possibly?
Location: Hospital
Day and Time: Wednesday, June 22nd, evening
Status: Complete
The hospital floor was quiet. It had only been a day since it existed, or since the people who had come here knew it existed. The hospital beds had been empty, the ward as still as the grave. And then, one moment later, one of the beds had a person in it. The light on the nightstand turned on, to cast an eerie glow over his handsome face. He seemed quiet, calm, asleep maybe? He was in a hospital gown, with the sheets up over his chest, his body relaxed. He had several machines attached to him, an IV drip stand, the machine that goes ping. The most expensive machine in the hospital wasn't there, but the machine that records his pulse and heart rate and vitals came to life, emitting soft flips and dings as it ran the length of his heartbeat.
He was fine. But then he wasn't, because the machine started to go haywire, emitting an alarm when his pulse lowered, and the man let out a groan of pain, his body contorting on the sheets in perfect counterpoint for the calm he had been in moments before. A blotch of red started to grow out of his shoulder, through the hospital gown. Blood.