He's used to dealing with murderers, and he's fast enough to dodge some punches. He's just not always fast enough. If he were, he'd have pushed Greta aside - but she was quicker, and now she's the one who's hurt.
The Balladeer clenches his fists in sudden fury, rounding on his double. "What did you do that for? She doesn't have anything to do with this, you - "
Then the world lurches sideways again, and he's standing in a bright hallway glaring down no one at all. He rocks back on his heels, carefully uncurling his fingers. "...Greta?" No Greta at his side. No one behind him either; just a few people down the hall, and a jumble of clacking wheels and confused shouts in the distance. The Balladeer takes off towards the sounds, anger draining away into cold fear.
It's only a dream, of course. But he knows it still hurts.
There's a tight crowd of people surrounding the gurney, and at first he can't even see who's in it. But upon hearing his name called, the Balladeer puts his sharp elbows to use. "I'm here!" He shoves through and grabs the edge of the gurney, both to keep pace and to try and keep from being separated. "Oh god, I'm so sorry!"
Around him, doctors and nurses are running and barking orders. He's vaguely aware that he's wearing scrubs too; the persistent goatee probably makes him look like some kind of evil dentist, but at least he's blending in. "Nurse!" calls the woman leading the charge. "I need 20 ccs of anaprovaline, stat!"
It takes the Balladeer a second to realize he's being addressed. "Uh, what?"
"20 ccs of anaprovaline, STAT!" the doctor repeats impatiently, glaring at him over the gurney.
"No, I don't - " He glances about wildly, and his gaze falls on the wound in Greta's side. Being covered by someone's disgusting hand. His blood runs cold, and though this all looks very modern, he suddenly flashes back to other doctors, other wounds, other ill-advised operations and the slow lingering deaths that resulted. Guiteau shot the president, he liked to say sometimes, but it was the doctors that killed him. "Go wash your hands!" the Balladeer yelps, swatting at the doctor.
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The Balladeer clenches his fists in sudden fury, rounding on his double. "What did you do that for? She doesn't have anything to do with this, you - "
Then the world lurches sideways again, and he's standing in a bright hallway glaring down no one at all. He rocks back on his heels, carefully uncurling his fingers. "...Greta?" No Greta at his side. No one behind him either; just a few people down the hall, and a jumble of clacking wheels and confused shouts in the distance. The Balladeer takes off towards the sounds, anger draining away into cold fear.
It's only a dream, of course. But he knows it still hurts.
There's a tight crowd of people surrounding the gurney, and at first he can't even see who's in it. But upon hearing his name called, the Balladeer puts his sharp elbows to use. "I'm here!" He shoves through and grabs the edge of the gurney, both to keep pace and to try and keep from being separated. "Oh god, I'm so sorry!"
Around him, doctors and nurses are running and barking orders. He's vaguely aware that he's wearing scrubs too; the persistent goatee probably makes him look like some kind of evil dentist, but at least he's blending in. "Nurse!" calls the woman leading the charge. "I need 20 ccs of anaprovaline, stat!"
It takes the Balladeer a second to realize he's being addressed. "Uh, what?"
"20 ccs of anaprovaline, STAT!" the doctor repeats impatiently, glaring at him over the gurney.
"No, I don't - " He glances about wildly, and his gaze falls on the wound in Greta's side. Being covered by someone's disgusting hand. His blood runs cold, and though this all looks very modern, he suddenly flashes back to other doctors, other wounds, other ill-advised operations and the slow lingering deaths that resulted. Guiteau shot the president, he liked to say sometimes, but it was the doctors that killed him. "Go wash your hands!" the Balladeer yelps, swatting at the doctor.