Log Title: Just a Scratch
Summary: Winter pays a visit to a hospitalized Royal.
IC Date: Fri Mar 22 20:30, 2381
OOC Date: Fri Mar 22 20:30, 2019
Related Logs: Mask Off
royalwinter

 

 

"This is me we're talking about. Scars are not my aesthetic."

* OOC Time: Fri Mar 22 18:30:08 2019 *

* * *

  • * *

* * *

Royal > I've got a possible line on the DJ. I'm going to try and investigate with a member of the BCPD. I'll let you know what we discover.

* * *

Winter > Sounds good.

And then, about an hour and a half later:
Winter > Just saw the news. How are you?

* * *

Royal > * user is not connected to Optical Neural Interface *

* * *

Hmm. Well. He did say he was going to be on an investigation. So, Winter doesn't really think anything of it. At least, not until the following morning, when there still hasn't been a reply, nor any update on said investigation. They check through the local news stories, and when nothing obvious comes up, wait for another hour. When there's still no word, they start calling hospitals. Which is maybe excessive. Probably excessive. Really, most likely, very excessive. But, they still do it.

* * *

The hospitals of the kind that royalty would be brought to aren't the type to confirm or deny a patient. But there is a post on social media from a young socialite who posted a picture of someone being rolled into a room on a gurney with the tag, 'OMG in the hospital with that prince guy from the news!' The hospital is a high end one in the Uppers - a purely for-profit facility that caters to the nearly-meths and aspiring-to-be-nearly-meths.

* * *

But do they have visiting hours? A valid concern that high up. Maybe there's a visitor's fee. Winter checks again to see if Royal's ONI messaging has been activated with

Winter > You okay?

Then they head out of the office and after making a stop at a certain store halfway between the ground and the uppers, head to the hospital in question.

* * *

Royal > User is not available.

Which is better than 'user is not connected.' It means the wearer is alive, at least. Usually not available means the ONI has been temporarily disengaged or the wearer is asleep.

By the time Winter makes their way to the Roscoe Private Hospital, there's finally a message from the Duke.

Royal > Hello, doctor. I'm afraid I had a bit of a run-in with a Sunjet.

The hospital feels more like a posh, modern hotel than a place that heals sick people. Even the people at reception are pretty and dressed in neat black suits that contrast with the all-white surroundings.

* * *

Winter walks up to reception, looking put together and professional in a black suit with pink pinstripes. They ask for Dante Taylor's room with an air and tone that suggests not only have they been invited by the occupant, but they're actually a bit behind schedule. There's no immediate reply to the ONI message, though there is a soft breath of relief in getting it.

* * *

The woman behind the desk with slicked back hair eyes Winter suspiciously. She purses her lips, then taps a console with a delicate touch. She doesn't say anything, except, "One moment," murmured curtly.

A moment later, a message pops up.

Royal > Doctor, are you here? I hope so, otherwise there's paparazzi who looks quite a bit like you.

* * *

Winter > Is there a video feed in your room? I guess I shouldn't be surprised.

* * *

Royal > Ah, no. But I just got a message from the woman no doubt giving you the stink-eye right now, with a still image from the security feed.

* * *

Winter > Well? How's my hair?

* * *

The woman behind the counter looks almost irritated as she no doubt gets confirmation that Winter gets to come in. "Room 223, down the hall to the left."

The halls are wide and slightly curved, and as they move down the hallway, more medical people appear and it starts to feel more like a hospital. Royal's hospital room door does look more like a hotel suite, as does the space inside. One wall is taken up with a window that looks out on the cloud line and the skyscrapers peeking up below. The bed is a proper hospital bed, but it's draped with real linen. The bed is propped up, and the entire far wall shows a feed of the news, which he has muted. His arm is bandaged and in a sling, but other than that, he doesn't look too much the worse for wear.

* * *

Winter give their thanks for the directions (permission) and heads down the hallway and into Royal's large and private hospital room with a view of the clouds. They're carrying what looks to be a bouquet of a dozen roses, though each one is a different rich and vibrant color, and it's hard to tell from the doorway, but are a couple of them patterned? The doctor lingers in the entrance, and lovely as the imagery outside the windows may be (actual sunlight with an actual, visible sun), it's Royal that holds their thoughtful attention as they assess the duke, taking in his color, awareness, and general not-too-close-to-dead-ness. Then they start walking across the room towards the hospital bed. There's likely some pithy quip to offer, but all Winter asks is, "Are you all right?"

* * *

Royal's colour looks good. He seems in general good health, save for his wing. But then, this is a top of the line hospital - one step down from the Meths, who usually don't bother with medical care at all and just slide into a clone.

He has a bright smile for Winter, but it's clearly meant to try and reassure. "Well, my suit's ruined. And that's an utter, utter tragedy. How did you find out about what happened? Sorry I haven't messaged. I only just woke up after surgery about a half hour ago. They've got me on some fun drugs. Oh, flowers. That's very kind." They really do brighten up the room, which looks…well, not unlike his office and his flat. Sparse, slick, with hints of soft lighting.

* * *

"A little bird told me," Winter replies as they tug a chair over so they can sit down beside Royal's bed. The bouquet is passed over, which, on closer inspection, is revealed to be a dozen silk pocket squares, each one rolled to resemble a blooming rose and set on a green, plastic stem. Some are in colors that will complement suits Royal already has. Some are in shades and/or patterns that would require an entirely new outfit. "Surgery and fun drugs," they repeat. "What happened?"

* * *

There is a bit of a light in Royal's eyes as he realizes what the flowers actual are, and his smile is genuine and a bit dopey. "Well, I guess we don't have to put those in water, do we?" He looks away and at the ceiling. The fingers of his slinged arm flex. "It was stupid, really. We confronted the would-be DJ. She ran. Detective Perez was much more fleet of foot than I. And when I bumbled into the scene, our DJ had an itchy trigger finger and nailed me in the shoulder with a Sunjet blast. Which, by the way, does not tickle."

* * *

There's a sympathetic wince from Winter as they imagine (or remember?) getting shot by a Sunjet. "Ouch," they murmur. "Detective Naoko Perez?" they asks. "I gave my statement to her. Is she on the Longbow taskforce now? Did you apprehend this DJ who shot you in the shoulder? I suppose you'll at least get a rugged and heroic scar out of it. Or maybe not. This is a very fancy hospital. Scars might not be permissible."

* * *

"I don't want bloody scars, Doctor. This is me we're talking about. Scars are not my aesthetic." Royal grins and hits the button to sit up a little more. Most of his wooziness is not from his injury, but from whatever they've got him hopped up on. He blinks and looks like he's having a little trouble focusing. "She is, yes. And yes, she did. I don't know exactly what happened, but the young woman looked quite upset. Didn't seem much like a criminal mastermind if you ask me."

* * *

"Well, if you don't want bloody scars, and you want to continue in GPPI work and remain on this particular case… you may need to consider stepping rather significantly out of your comfort zone," Winter opines gently. They consider the DJ, resting a knuckle briefly against their lips. "If we truly believe that certain parties are responsible for this DJ's actions, then she wouldn't be, would she. More likely someone who was offered a generous amount of money to play the part."

* * *

Royal tries to sit up more fully, but a stab of pain through his shoulder has him dropping back against the big fluffy pillows. "That's my…running theory. But obviously I'm in no condition at the moment to go interrogating her. Though the doctor said it should only take a few days to heal up." The miracle of modern medicine. No doubt they've cloned some muscle fibres and tissues to replace the damaged parts. Fortunately there's no provisions in the royal protocol that prevents that. He's very pointedly stepping around the whole idea of comfort zones.

* * *

Winter doesn't press. Nobody shot Royal's ears, after all. "I expect Detective Perez will be the one doing the interrogating this time. Perhaps I'll try and see if she'll disclose what she learns." They hold up a hand though, as if to stop the GPPI from any further attempts at sitting up. "Easy there."

* * *

"Let me try and press her for any knowledge. No offense, but I believe she'd be more willing to share with me, because Tanaka has ordered her to cooperate. Not that you're not charming and disarming." Royal smiles again. He's doing that smile he does when he's trying to cover up discomfort.

* * *

"I'm not, really," Winter replies, their own lips quirking, "so I'll leave it to you." They consider Royal a beat longer before asking, once again rather plainly, "How are you?"

* * *

"Well, you've managed to get past my walls. And that's not a wall that's scaled lightly." Ah yes, the sex deflection that Royal falls back on when he's flat-footed. He clears his throat at the question. "Is it a cheat if I say as well as to be expected under the circumstances?" He reaches up with his good arm to finger one of the pocket square flowers.

* * *

"Not if you genuinely dislike the idea of talking about it," Winter allows. "But, it was something of a day, and I'll admit I'm… you just don't have to be alone with the weight of it, if you don't want to be."

* * *

Royal exhales heavily. "Well, in the grand scheme of things, it doesn't change my life overly much. Fifteenth and seventh is still quite far from the throne, practically speaking. Considering people ahead of me are still fertile and each baby they pop out drops me down a rung." Which may be true, but it does change the weight of expectation on him. "What's the news saying about it, anyway? They haven't come back round to it on…" he motions to the broadcast.

* * *

"Here, it was mostly just the one story explaining who's left the running, a little about them and that no one is entirely sure why," Winter replies. "There's considerably more discussion and speculation coming from the new outlets on your side of the pond."

* * *

"Mhmm, not surprising. Part of the reason I chose this city is that there isn't a great deal of interest in royal gossip." Royal exhales and bangs his head back against the pillow. "I suspect, in a few years' time, my dear cousin and his family will be meths in their own right."

* * *

"Oh," Winter muses, brows lifting. The idea of stepping down from their place in the monarchy to attain the other sort of means to wealth (and immortality) apparently hadn't occurred to the psychosurgeon. "I suppose that… well, makes perfect sense, really."

* * *

"It's happened before," says Royal, eyes on the ceiling. "Though not for a generation. Back when the monarchy was still negotiating its relevance, we had several defections to the meth side. You might know some of the names if I rattled them off, but darling, I don't kiss and tell," he drawls." It'd be a more effective deflection if he looked at Winter when he said that rather than the ceiling.

* * *

"Did you kiss them? Is that why they ran?" Winter teases. A bit more soberly they ask, "Have you ever been tempted? Endless life. The same sleeve. I can understand how it would be appealing."

* * *

"Mhmm, maybe when I was younger. But I rather enjoy being part of the human race." Royal's smile is a bit tired, a bit dopey. "I've never aspired to be above anyone. Even though the circumstances of my birth have given me quite a few privileges, and I'm proud of the good my ancestors have done. But they've also done some rather shit things as well." And then, a belated snort. "Far before my time. So I can't be blamed for anyone fleeing the family due to kissing cousins."

* * *

"We are rather fascinating creatures, aren't we," Winter replies for humans in general. "Though I think it's the capacity to change that keeps us that way."

* * *

"If there's one thing I've learned from history, is that no one should live forever. History is full of people with outsize influence, and they lived a normal human lifespan." Royal rolls his back against the bed and sighs. "I hate being bed-bound when I'm not having any fun in said bed." Mopey, that.

* * *

"Well, then. That'll teach you to get shot," Winter replies with a quirk of a brow. But, there's a small nod for the rest of Royal's words. "History is full of progress, too. Eras, ages, each one leading into the next rather than just stretching on and on. I try to imagine sometimes, what it must have felt like. For everyone in the world to be finite."

* * *

"Mhmm. Well, if you look at the march of human history both pre and post-stack technology, our march forward has slowed to a crawl." Royal eye-darts around, then looks back to Winter. "Why do I feel like my room is bugged and these are treasonous words?" He chuckles. "I'm sorry. I'm shitty company right now I'm afraid. I'm having trouble holding on to thoughts."

* * *

"That'll be the drugs," Winter supposes, "but, I agree with you. On both counts, so perhaps a conversation to continue later." In a room less likely to have some means of surveillance. "Should I let you rest?"

* * *

"I should be getting released on bail tomorrow," says Royal with a dopey sort of smile. He reaches out, it seems, to try and find Winter's hand. If he can catch it, he'll squeeze gently. "Thank you for coming by. I would appreciate you keeping this on the down-low. It's doubtful most people in this city would care too much about little old me, but I'd rather not risk trying to talk to a reporter when I'm high on painkillers."

* * *

Winter makes their hand easy to reach, smiling faintly as it's squeezed. "Well," they allow, "I was worried. Glad to see you're all in one piece. You know. More or less. And, don't worry. I don't kiss and tell, either."

* * *

Speaking of. Perhaps because he's high, but Royal tugs the hand up towards his mouth to kiss the back of Winter's hand. It's an archaic gesture, but it rather works with his brand. "Thank you for the flowers as well. I'm already thinking of suits to wear them with." Really, him being on drugs is probably the best thing for him right now.

* * *

Probably, considering the myriad of other things he could be thinking about instead. "Not that you really need an excuse to go shopping, but now you have…" Winter peers at the bouquet, squinting faintly, "… five of them, I think." There's a slow blink for the kiss to the back of their hand, but Royal is both charming and gorked and, really, such gestures suit his persona even when he isn't the latter. So, Winter doesn't allow themself to think on it overmuch. "Incentive to be on your best behavior and get home soon."

* * *

"Yes, and I must have a funeral for my poor suit, now stained irreparably. Don't get me wrong, I love a good deep rust red suit, but it doesn't quite work when it radiates out from the shoulder." Royal smiles toothily, then squeezes Winter's hand before releasing. "At least I wasn't wearing one of my more elaborate suits. Remind me, when I'm not high on the good drugs? I need to buy some fashionable shoes I can actually run in." The smile that is normally charming goes a bit goofy. He slumps back. The machine he's hooked up to might have just released a good dose.

* * *

Winter's expression is something between a smile and a wince for 'rust red suit radiating out from the shoulder'. "Too soon," they murmur, lifting their hand once Royal lets it go to press two fingertips to his forehead in an odd sort of benediction. Or ward? Or boop. They stand as Royal slumps back, collecting the bouquet of pocket squares to set them in a vase on the table by the bed (no water though).

* * *

"Hey, it's my shoulder. Don't I get to choose when I get to make inappropriate jokes?" Royal chuckles roughly. "Thank you again for coming by, Doctor. Please don't worry. I've literally got the best care money can buy, and will be home presently." And then he'll start worrying about how that incident could have brought about sleeve death.

* * *

"Of course I came by," Winter replies, "and I'm not worried, now. Still. It's comforting to see you… being you. On drugs. Enjoy them, because you're really going to start feeling that shoulder once they taper you off the IV tomorrow." Which probably won't be the only uncomfortable thing Royal has to live with sans heavy pain meds. "We'll talk soon."

* * *

"Mhmmm," says Royal. He'd say something more articulate, but the drugs really are working their way through his system. He closes his eyes and arches his back as the IV feeds the good stuff right in. "It'll take more than a Sunjet blast and some drugs to remove the me from me, Doctor."

* * *

"Well," Winter murmurs, their expression becoming a touch more anxious and a touch less serene once Royal's eyes close, "let's hope we never find the thing that does." They linger a little longer, until the duke is asleep, or at least seems to be. Once they've satisfied themself that the rise and fall of his chest stays steady, his breathing is easy and he continues to remain quite clearly and distinctly not about to die, they square their shoulders, shake their head at their own irrational and unfounded concern and quietly slip from the hospital room.