Cutscene: Pinion
IC Details

Warren's wings are removed to save his life(?).

IC Date: September 20, 2019
IC Location: New York Presbyterian Hospital
OOC Notes & Details
Posted: 19 Sep 2019 23:28
Rating & Warnings:
Associated Plots


It is the evening after Warren's third surgery, and Cameron Hodge sits quietly by his friend's bedside. The phone is off, the tablet is off, and all of his work as Worthington Industries' CEO has been left at the door. Tonight, if only for these few hours, his attention is on Warren, and Warren completely.

Hope has been a fragile thing over the past few days, steadily withering like a plant left out, waterless, in the sun. Warren's self-healing capabilities have done a great deal to repair the comparatively minor injuries his body sustained, but they have seemed all but powerless in the face of the massive trauma done to his wings.

His wings are rotting from his body. Warren refuses to acknowledge what is happening to them, but the smell of death comes off what little is left.

"From everything we understand about him," said the frustrated doctors to Cameron about an hour ago, "and that's very little, mind — his wings should have begun healing along with everything else, especially with all the measures we have taken. Instead, they have gangrened. Our best guess — barring forces out of our control — is so much trauma was done to them that they just couldn't get enough circulation for his self-healing during that initial critical period. Without the self-healing, there is nothing we can do to ensure they are ever usable again. The damage is too severe."

"Too severe," Cameron echoed, mostly to himself, looking at his friend's wings — what was left of them. The remains only hinted at the shapes of wings. The things held open to either side of Warren, in traction, were mangled masses of crushed feathers, blackened flesh, and bone, which could not be called wings by any creative stretch of the imagination.

He couldn't look for long. His brown eyes turned back to the doctors. "Nothing? 'Nothing we can do,' that's — that's not a statement that's good enough — "

"This is medicine, Mr. Hodge," the lead surgeon said carefully. "Not a business, where demanding better performance will get you what you want. We don't even understand why he is not healing as we expect, to begin with — we don't even have that much information on how his healing is supposed to work. We requisitioned data from the state — they've been studying his blood — but they've only been doing it a few months, and they don't know much more than we do."

That had been about when Cameron walked away.

He's been by Warren's bedside ever since, waiting patiently. There is another vial in his jacket pocket, but from what he has heard, he does not think he will need to use it.

One o'clock.

"Cecilia," Cameron says, over the phone. "Your nephew is dying. You should probably make an appearance."

"In time." The cultured tones which respond have the gentle cadence of a rocking cradle. Here is a woman who can wait with a mother's patience. "Warren never did want to give any of us power of attorney. I suppose we never endeared ourselves enough to him for him to trust us with it. His own family…"

There is a long moment of dead air.

"I have it," says Cameron. "And the healthcare proxy."

"Ah," says Cecilia. "Then we will come in to the city, soon."


"You know, Warren," Cameron finally says into the silence, to his friend who is not conscious to hear. "I still remember the first time I ever saw you. You were coming across the quad with half the freshman class following at your heels, but you were looking at me."

He places a small ring on Warren's chest. He leaves it there, about five seconds.

"You were always looking at me," Cameron says, and takes the ring back.

Three o'clock.

Cameron sits in the hall, outside Warren's operating room. At one thirty-five, Warren crashed suddenly — the rot of his wings spiking suddenly into septic shock — and he had to be rushed into surgery to save his life.

It has been over an hour since. It is plainly not going well.

Presently, the exhausted surgeon comes out of the operating room to speak with him. They are losing him, they say; they will lose him if the wings do not come off. Warren clearly no longer has the capacity to make any decisons rght now.

Cameron has to make the call to amputate.

"I'd rather he live without them," Cameron eventually says, "than die with them."

He looks towards the closed operating room door. "It doesn't matter if he forgives me or not."

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