anson
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Faded off white plastic. Rubbing alcohol. Scratchy fabric. “Sergeant Anson?” a female voice crackled over the speaker, pulling him into reality. Fane woke to the inside of a scanning bed, his head strapped into a white cage.
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Blinking, the white room came into focus. His head throbbed, and the abnormally bright florescent lights were not making the black rings in his eyes better. He raised his hands to his head, pressing against his temples. “Where am I?” Fane asked the room. It was rather a useless question, the padded cell vacant except…
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Of the pair of automatic doors at the clinic entrance, one opened part way and the other twitched, stuck in it’s slide. Zephyr let out a sigh, shoulders sagging. “I swear, we need that funding soon.”
Chapel Orahamm 