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After the procedure (he still doesn’t know what type of procedure it was) Amuro lies on his stomach on the same gurney bed the researchers wrestled him into beforehand. His legs and chest are strapped down, his wrists bound to the side rails. There’s an IV tube lodged under his skin in the crook of his left elbow. A blood pressure cuff periodically squeezes his right arm, and a clamp-shaped sensor pinches his index finger. All of that is familiar to him by now.
The pain in his back, like he’s been stabbed just to the left of the base of his spine—and Amuro knows what it feels like to be stabbed—is new.
He focuses on breathing deeply to keep from groaning aloud, but he can’t stop himself from whimpering as he exhales. Neither can he stop himself from squirming in his restraints. He knows that moving around too much might make things worse, but the way things already are is intolerable. He needs to find a position that hurts even just a little bit less. He can’t worry about the risk of aggravating his injury, or of messing up his IV.
His IV. The researchers have him on an IV drip.
Why the Hell aren’t they giving him pain meds through it?
“Hey! Hello?! Doctor?! It hurts! It really hurts!” Amuro tries shouting for help, but his breath runs out before anyone answers. Maybe there’s no one nearby. He stops trying to suppress his groans, hoping that someone walking past the door will hear him and realize their mistake. It has to be a mistake, doesn’t it?
It takes far too long, but eventually a woman enters the room. Amuro recognizes her, but he’s never learned her name. He doesn’t even know if she’s a nurse, a doctor, or a scientist without any training in treating people who actually need treatment.
“Hey, it hurts,” Amuro manages to tell her between panting and groaning.
“Try not squirming so much,” is all she says in response. She doesn’t even bother repeating herself when he fails to comply. She checks the bedside monitor and jots something down on a clipboard, then unhurriedly walks around to Amuro’s left and examines the IV.
She doesn’t add anything to it before turning to walk away.
“It really hurts,” Amuro says. “Even holding still. Medicine… I don’t think they put it in. For the pain.” He hopes he’s making enough sense to be understood.
The woman pauses and writes down something longer than her earlier notes. “You’re still in the EFF,” she says. “Insubordination will get you disciplined. You made things very difficult for everyone today.”
He remembers panicking when they told him to get on the gurney. He knew that today they had something in mind beyond the usual blood draws and drug tests. Nothing looked different, but he could sense it. He had to fight back, to struggle against them as hard as he could, because they were going to do something horrible to him, and maybe not just to him. He didn’t really believe that escape was possible, but he had to try.
“Sorry. I’m really sorry.” He isn’t. He just hurts too much to think twice about lying.
“I’m not your superior. Save the apologies for later.”
“Please. This isn’t like normal.” When the officers beat him for slacking or mouthing off, they let him ice his bruises immediately afterward. Usually, they outright order him to go do so.
“In the long run, getting hit in the face all the time is probably much worse for you.” She sighs. “Military intelligence.”
“Please! Hasn’t it gone on long enough?”
“Not my call, but I’ll see what I can do.”
Before Amuro can argue, she’s leaving the room and closing the door behind her. He tries to shout out after her, but he can’t muster his breath. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe yelling at her would just annoy her into not doing anything for him at all.
He waits, and waits, and no one comes, and there’s nothing he can do but keep lying prone on the gurney. The pain doesn’t go away on its own—of course it won’t, he’s pretty sure he’s basically been stabbed—and it doesn’t lessen no matter how much he squirms, only flares unpredictably. He tries to force his breathing slow and deep again, because that’s one thing he can control, and he stops squirming, and he tries to remember not to let himself start back up. He focuses on the pressure of the belts across his back and the bonds circling his wrists. He wraps his hands around the siderails and feels the solid, cold reality of the metal.
He’s learned his lesson. Next time, he won’t panic, and he won’t pointlessly struggle. It doesn’t matter how intolerable the pain gets, because he can’t make it better on his own, and it’s always possible that trying will make it worse. There are only a few things he can do without risking making it worse, so he does them, and he waits, and he hopes that someone else will come along and make it better.