Dr. Crawford yanks past Waylon, pulling him back toward the door. "Out! Give us room!"

Anger flares in Waylon's gut; the doctors did this. They could have taken better care of her, or something! He reaches a hand out to grab Crawford. Inches away from the doctor's white coat, meaty fingers wrap around Waylon's forearm. He traces down the wrist, past an elbow with more muscle than funny bone, and straight into a glaring nurse's face.

Not glaring actually: smiling.

A scary, patient, disarming smile that drains all of Waylon's fight.

This nurse towers over everyone in the room; he's at least three heads taller than Waylon. The walking stack of boulders lowers himself so they're face-to-face and he lays a hand on Waylon's shoulder. "We're only trying to help. If you wait outside, Dr. Crawford will come get you when we finish stabilizing her."

Cold settles throughout Waylon's spine. He leans to the side to get a good view of Gina past the nurse. Retching, the frail woman grinds a grip against a yelping Crawford's arm.

She'll be fine. Waylon lingers a moment longer under the mountainous nurse's odd, placating gaze.

The poor doctor yells, casting his head in every direction and attempting to pull his arm away. "Restraints! Get restraints!"

She will be fine.

Scrubs of every color surge onto the frail woman, prying at Gina's hand from every angle. Embers of anger float all around Waylon's chest, but they refuse take flame, winking out nearly as soon as they appear.

One ember struggles to ignite a thought. Help her!

Something cold, dark, and wet smothers it, turning the call-to-action into a sludge that clogs his mind with a singular urge: Don't. Just leave.

Right, he shouldn't get in the way. He backs into the hallway. Boulder man follows after step-by-step, never dropping that odd smile.

Waylon stares into the unblinking titan's teeth. Each tooth swirls with something mesmerizing, something magical. Sky blues, amethyst purples, a pulsing undertone of crimson.

He can't move; he doesn't want to move.

The nurse slides the windowless door along its tracks, shimmering teeth slipping behind the metal one after the other. The last one disappears and whatever sludge was in Waylon's mind drains away. What was that? He shakes his head and brings a palm up to cover one side of his face.

A metallic click rings out from the door's handle: a lock engaging. Waylon's mind catches up in a flurry of anger. That smile — that nurse's power did something to his head. He hammers a hand on the door. "I was leaving!"

No answer. Only cold, white walls and tile floors stretching in both directions as far as the eye can see. His teeth clench, his left temple throbs. He thumps on the door with another fist, weaker than last time. "I was leaving."

Letting his hands fall to the side, he stumbles back into the opposite wall and collapses to the floor. People pass. Not anyone Waylon cares about or that cares about Waylon — everyone's busy with someone else. It's a hospital.

With a sniff to bring his runny nose under control, he buries his face into a nest of arms and knees. "Please be okay."

There's no telling how much time passes with no windows in the hallway, but — after a while — the lock on the door clicks open. Pain stabs at Waylon's chest. Panic running loose through a tremor of his limbs and a skip of his heart. He yanks his head up.

Nurses file out by singles and doubles, clapping each other on the back. No boulder sized nurse or Crawford. Waylon climbs to his feet and hovers near the doorway just out of the way of the stream of nurses.

Over the shifting sea of heads, Crawford's shrew-like eyes pour over a clipboard. Just a little higher and Waylon can see Gina. He shifts his weight between tiptoes and cranes his neck, but he only gets as far as the top cushion of the angled hospital bed.

Another throb of pain behind his temples; unease trembles his fingers against the door frame. He needs to know she's okay. Lowering back down, he watches the flow of nurses and burrows into the room once the stream thins.

That mountain of a nurse slips out from his hiding space on the other side of the wall. Heart reeling into his throat from surprise, Waylon slams his eyes shut and crashes headfirst into what has to be a brick wall under the nurse's scrubs.

Massive hands close around Waylon's shoulders, each finger making contact like a falling leaf. "Whoa there, are you alright?"

Stars swim behind Waylon's eyelids; little pinpricks of light blink in and out at the edges of the dark space within. He pushes the nurses hands away and opens his eyes. "I'm fine. No thanks to —"

No smile. No otherworldly influence. Only genuine worry stares back from the hunching figure. The nurse straightens up, straining to keep a neutral face: straining to hide some other emotion. "Dr. Crawford will be out right after he finishes some notes, Mr. Ishii. Gina's okay, but she's going to be out for a while. Best for you to wait out here so she can rest."

Relief washes away the urgent beating of Waylon's heart. She's fine. He can afford to take a bit of time here then, so he crosses his arms at the hulking man. "No forcing me out? No weird hypnosis?"

The nurse dips his head — along with a drooping mop of curly hair — and he walks past Waylon, speaking in a whisper. "I hate doing that to people."

Waylon's left temple throbs, confusion scrambles his thoughts. Why work here then? Following that train of thought, he watches the man shrink into the distance.

Footsteps echo behind Waylon. He turns around. Crawford passes the threshold and slides Gina's door shut. "Sorry about the wait, Mr. Ishii. Are you doing alright?"

Finally. Waylon glares into Crawford's eyes. "I'm fine. What happened to her?"

Crawford tucks his clipboard under an arm and slides both hands into his white coat with a shrug of his shoulders. "Late stage Consumption. I should have told you that this type of flare up would happen. Once it gets this far, Consumption enters a state of starvation and these bouts are it forcing out whatever power she's got left. She's stable right now, but she's on her way out, son."

"So there's nothing you all can do?"

"Only a top tier healing power might do something and we don't have the budget to keep someone like that on staff. I'm afraid I'm going to have to insist this time, son: you should start the paperwork. It'll make the transition for you —"

Defiance flares into life as a flame of anger and fear in the center of Waylon's chest. "No."

"I must insist. Even if she pulls through, the paperwork will just get shredded. It's not like you're signing her death warrant by being prepared for the worst. Studies show that taking these steps beforehand reduces the length of adverse effects of losing a loved one by up to twenty percent. It can only help you."

Waylon's entire body clamors for anything that'd get him closer to her or that'd make the pervasive feeling of helplessness disappear. He wants to barge past: to slam the door open and hold Gina's hand. Maybe to punch the doctor's smug face while he's at it, but no. These people are doing what they can. They're not lying to him about her needing rest or whatever sick science is behind those numbers. "I don't care about your studies, I'm not signing anything yet."

Crawford sighs. "I swear, no one ever listens to reason around here. Could I at least convince you to sit with our administration staff for a few minutes and think about it?"

Waylon's thoughts go to the extra weight inside his right pants pocket. He shoves a hand in and runs his fingers across the glossy edges of the phone that Albert gave him. "Not happening. I can get one of those healers, I just need to get out of here."

The doctor sweeps his clipboard-free arm toward the long stretch of hallway. "If you insist. I'll walk you out."

With a grumble that echoes around the corridors, Waylon's gut shifts in unpredictable zigzags: maybe he'll get food at Sickbay first. He plods off with Crawford.