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Who: Chane Laforet

fidele, and open to anybody involved with her/in the Newcomer Hunt being treated in the hospital!
When: Afternoon of Tuesday 31st through to Thursday 2nd. Tag in with day/time in the subject line.
Where: Skye Medical Centre in Sector 4.
Summary: A little reconnaissance with the people she wanted to help, and helped her.
Warnings: Discussion of the Newcomer Hunt?

Even if every part of her aches down to the bone as she rests, she doesn't want for much more. The surroundings are different to when she was first dragged into this place the day before, but then, all of Chane's recollections are snippets lost in short bouts of painful movement and exhaustion. She doesn't remember the window at her bedside.

Somebody must have wanted to free up a bed and moved her, even lending pillows for her to sit propped up on. Or, more likely, a certain someone moved her to where the light could fall across the sheets. Not that she's complaining. It's good to see the city again and hear the traffic and everyday bustle on the streets below.

Nothing can erase the memories of those past few days, however. She remembers the other newcomers imprisoned on the hunting-grounds-- the ones who gave her their name, especially. They wanted to matter to her, regardless of whether she could provide them protection, and despite her self-preservation, her refusal to cooperate, her panic and nerves... their lives matter. The uncertainy of each one's survival lingers like a fluctuating undercurrent of the intruding sensation of the IV drip, the pain that's slowly leaving her system. Knowing that those others are safe-- Kaiji, Yosuke, Bolin, Conner-- would ease her. But seeing them, she awaits with trepidation and a strange, light emotion she doesn't quite recognise as simple second-hand relief. Her NV is bent and damaged, and using her telepathy only brings back echoing memories of pain; all she has to communicate with is her notepad and pen against any visitors' voices breaking through the silence that's fallen on her corner of the wing.

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Dr. Yumeno may just end up staying in residency forever, at this rate.

Despite all warnings by his supervisors, cautions that he'll never be promoted back to attending physician if he doesn't toe the line and keep to his own patients, his limited line of powers-geared treatments. But Daedalus has a bad habit of holding his biases for preferential patient care... because dammit, if he doesn't advocate for the newcomers at this hospital, and stay on top of making sure their needs are met no one will.

So when it finally reaches his ear that a few newcomers in terrible condition were admitted yesterday, Daedalus makes an immediate point to check into their records, make sure the bedsheets aren't being neglected, that the nurses aren't conveniently avoiding them. He frowns at their charts-

So the rumors around the network were true, by the looks of some of these injuries. These should go immediately into the mounting case file. He could scan and forward them to Diego Armando right now, with helpful notes to translate doctors' chicken scratch.

But first, to release that legally, he needs patient consent.

So the young doctor approaches the bed of one he recognizes as Claire Stanfield's fiance, frowning in sympathetic concern. He takes a look at the dry erase by the end of her bed, which orderlies to have a word with.

And then he pulls up a chair at her side, speaking to her gently.

"Chane, isn't it? If I can just explain something to you for one moment- I need your signature on something, so we can look into taking the next step."

In the long, hazy minutes that follow awaking in a lightly-furnished room with an unfamiliar bed, Chane reacquaints herself with her surroundings, the sounds that are natural to this place. Claire's left her for a moment and the sudden absence of speech above a whisper in the wing is, for a time, unusual. Almost lonely. He provides some of the only colour in the place, too.

Seeing Dr. Yumeno approach is somewhat of a relief (that emotion is just about reconciliating itself with her reasoning; when she's lonely, it's good to see another person she recognises, and that feels positive enough), although still surprising. She wasn't expecting a visit from him so early on... or from him at all, perhaps, since she'd met a different doctor before. His motions are gently reassuring, drawing a small nod from her almost immediately to his question. Reaching across carefully, she picks up her notepad and pen from the side-table, settling them in her lap in preparation to sign, talk, answer.

Edited 2012-08-01 19:50 (UTC)

"How are you feeling?"

He gives her a wane smile, eyes looking over the charts briefly, raking over her treated injuries and the IV drip, checking, double-checking to be sure that everything seems to be in order. It's difficult to toe that balance between sticking to professionalism and offering personal consolation. But his eyes show fair bed manners and a darkened look of grim disgust.

There's no reason any of this should have happened a second time. Atrocious. Higher administration ought have been involved. This time, he's got to make sure they follow due process, and fight from the place he is able.

"I don't presume to know what really happened to you, and I'm not going to pressure you to talk about it now, unless you want to." Dr. Yumeno explained calmly, keeping his voice even. "I suspect the police will want to take a formal statement, when you're ready. But I do want to make sure that at the very least, your medical records are kept detailed and accurate on file."

He leans in closer, handing her a clipboard once she seems ready and able.

"I think is is wise for all newcomers involved seeking power of joint attorney- which is why I'd like to recommend Mr. Armando to you, and allow him access to look at your medical records. For that, I'll need your written consent."

Unable to quickly and concisely decide on a truthful statement for a doctor, not just a friend who wants reassurance, she flips her notepad open, taking a long moment to delicately write her answer on a line. Her hands feel strained just holding the pen, then tearing out the page with neat tugs on the perforations to hand it to Daedalus.

Better. I've slept.

She can't stop watching him bemusedly despite his calm air and, as he speaks, her expression loses the honest curiosity and gains a completely blank undertone. Half of this sounds like it's from a different universe. The world of consistent contact with the authorities, statements, attorneys-- trust, in other words, in forces outside a small circle of dubious affiliations and moral grey areas. It doesn't offer her a sense of comfort as anyone else might have felt. It's puzzling-- it shows in a slightly furrowed brow as she lowers the notepad and takes the clipboard in hand, scanning the paper.

An attorney? For her? Even outside her homeworld, the concept of confronting the law with her past is dangerous. Surely it was nothing short of a miracle that the first people to find her back then weren't law-abiders themselves; here, in a hospital running with regulations and higher control and everything on paper, she wouldn't have such luck.

Somewhat regretfully, Chane sets the clipboard down and stacks the notepad atop it to write out another note for Daedalus, hoping he has the patience with her that his voice seems to carry.

I don't understand what you want to do.

"Yes." He nods, glancing at her first passed-along note with a softer mutter of understanding. "Little doubt it's been exhausting."

And Daedalus is patient, aware that the ordeal is a harrowing one.

"I want to make sure that there is little doubt who hurt you, when and what they've done to you, and that it is connected to what's happened with others. To see that they are brought to maximum accountability for it. As newcomers, we need to defend each other's basic rights to health and safety."

"For that, we need to submit evidence. The records of your examination with Skye can only be released to the court of law with your permission."

"However, I think this should be done as soon as possible, so that there can be no tampering with your records, so that no one can try to lessen the severity of what's happened to you on paper."

Watching him, her shoulders relax a little. Such communication between the different authorities isn't any less complex as it had first come across, but it sounds more accessible now. If this incident counts as a record, or as evidence, surely her identity doesn't count any further than the label of Newcomer.

At least, she hopes it wasn't her identity that led to the abduction in the first place. And Daedalus seems more concerned with doing something about the aftermath than finding the reasons for it. She hesitates to write again, wondering when she thought understanding her attackers was so important, before tilting her head down to reply.

The medical records are the evidence?

"Yes, a part of it." He nods in reply, his tone still serious. Paperwork plays an important part, being about to back claims of injury with the appropriate proofs.

...As a doctor, that's really the most he's able to do, beyond the healing process itself.

"My part, for little what it's worth," Daedalus smiles wanely "but I want to see it done so that this never happens again."

"Has...Mr. Stanfeild been in to see you?" (Still a touchy subject, since, well... he did lead a chase right through their apartment several months ago.)

She still stays unsure, torn between his gentle reassurance and the technical side of this conversation that she can't let go of. Doubt in her ability to do what Daedalus is asking of her, mistrust of anybody holding her details, unwillingness to make this a case rather than a run-in with some unkind people... They all keep her from opening up to him entirely.

It's a moment before she brings herself to adapt to his topic change, back slouching slightly as if in defeat. Occasionally she wonders if it should ever be a question whether he has been to see her lately: even when she doesn't require assistance he's practically always by her side. The nurses have noticed, at least, the way they shoo him out after visiting hours have ended.

Many times.

And Dr. Yumeno gives her a genial smile, a knowing nod, glad that at least someone has been making sure her needs are seen to- it's harder for nurses to ignore a patient's visitors, particularly if they're vocal about what needs to be done.

"He must have been worried sick." He sighs, sitting back in the chair. It's...been a difficult week for Daedalus, evidenced by the darker circles under his eyes and a strange, heavier melancholy in the way he holds himself "....Anyway, has anyone given you a time frame for how long they intend to keep you for observation?"

After getting the word from Claire, Tonegawa debated long and hard over flowers.

Whether or not to send a bouquet with a note attached as he might have done back in Tokyo, when he had the influence to get away with concern by proxy. Whether to bring said flowers in person. Or, to take a third option, whether flowers would be too much. And then there was the question of whether she particularly wanted him to acknowledge her presence in hospital, regardless of what common courtesy demanded of him.

In the end, he's decided to come as he is, without sentimental fanfare: he could just as easily be on his way to work as the hospital. Better to be seen as cold than overly-familiar. Still, his stride is cool and purposeful as he makes his way into the ward, all the way down to the window bed where the nurse told him he could find Chane Laforet- information relinquished only when informed, with a wounded look, that he was in fact her uncle. As if they'd let her boss in.

She's sitting up when he finds her, which is one thing less to worry about. The last thing he wanted was to sit by her bed while she lay prone, too sickly to communicate anything; he's here for professional reasons.

Clearing his throat to catch her attention, he comes to a halt at the foot of her bed. No need for a chair- he doesn't plan on staying long. "Laforet-kun. I'm glad to see that you're... conscious."

Gaze immovable from out the window, plaster-smothered fingers in plasters framing the small notepad in her lap, her expression is perhaps more peaceful than she'd ever intentionally show her boss. Now is a good time as ever to let her thoughts simply calm themselves and her body to act slowly in recovery.

As such that doesn't prepare her one bit for the sudden presence in the room she had registered but not noticed and with a flicker of her eyes to him, she seems to freeze in time. Only for a second, however-- it's no deeper than the shock at being seen in pyjamas, bandages littering her arms and plasters on her cheeks, before not only a figure of authority but one she avoids contact with below an entirely professional level.

The moment passes, and her hands shift slightly, pulling the notepad back towards herself. Should she indicate a seat for him? There's the appearance of sympathy in his tone but she doubts it would extend far enough to share each others' company for longer than necessary when one of them isn't receiving a paycheck for it. Thankfully, the calm that this wing has allowed to settle in her helps a short, acknowledging nod, her eyes fixed curiously on him.

It's strange to realise that the brief but sudden movement of Laforet's eyes is surprise; he hasn't ever managed to sneak up on her before. And the more Tonegawa thinks about it, the more their roles seemed to have reversed in some capacity, with Laforet seated and him standing, her at a physical disadvantage for once.

She could easily send him away if she felt like it, too, given that he's not even supposed to be here, but she gives him a nod of assent and he stays put. As awkward as he feels, he's standing casually: head up, expression faintly bored, obviously twitching for a smoke. Doubtless, she's curious as to why he's here- whether it's purely a business trip, or whether he's going to be doing any more of that difficult prying he's proved to be so good at.

"Stanfield told me what happened," he says simply. "Frankly, I'm amazed that you're even still alive." There's a hint of admiration in his tone that he doesn't try to hide, and perhaps an undertone of pride. Of course he's impressed that she made it out alive- who wouldn't be, if she worked for them?

He's displaying all his usual signs of forced casualness, and each one is highlighted against the wing's pale tones rather than the musky decor of a bar or his office. He could light up out the window if he wanted; Chane isn't fussy about keeping to rules even in a strictly-surveyed clinic. But that suggestion dies before it even reaches the point of theory-- the air between them is still empty, still bare of anything that could resemble true courtesy and comfort.

Her eyes don't so much as flicker at the mention of Claire's name-- practiced as she is in hearing it from this man, now-- but she's undecided about the latter remark. That's right... Not everybody survived. An honest, straightforward civilian had been killed, from what she'd heard. Reasoning for her own survival doesn't have a place, here. She had to live to protect herself, to defend her father and those close to her. There was no other reason.

She lifts her head slightly in the beginning of a challenge, of course I am, but loses the will halfway. This isn't the time to rebutt what at least sounds like an honest compliment, and she doesn't have the energy to do more than listen to what he has to say. Her fingers, ungloved, scratch at the edges of the notepad pages in her lap.

Tonegawa, perhaps in a continuation of their rose reversal, says nothing for the moment; he's busy watching and deciding. It's hard to describe what feels so different about Laforet in any short, sweet way, but it certainly demands a different approach. She's softer around the edges, perhaps with fatigue, and somehow quieter even if she's never been anything but quiet around him. She's certainly not giving him any of that casual attitude she's so fond of. Part of him wonders if it's just that she looks so much younger out of her usual striking black and placed against such a bright, clinical backdrop.

The way she's twitching with her notepad is distracting. It's rather more difficult to formulate a response when he has nothing to respond to but the slightest of gestures.

More difficult, but not impossible. To business, then. "He also brought up the subject of leave," he continues, as if uninterrupted. "How many weeks do you think you'll need?" He could ask the nurses, of course- even the most suspicious of them could be convinced with a little focus to turn a lie into the truth, but he's giving her the privilege of answering for herself, after a fashion.

[ You wouldn't think it looking at him, but Claire's running on about 3 hours sleep from earlier that day, caught in the chair by Chane's bedside. His last night's sleep had been before she'd gone missing. The night after that had been spent looking for her. His hard-earned Ford was now missing most of its windows and 50% of its headlamps, lost to attacks from the darkness. The night of the 30th had started the same, before he got a call from Kaiji in the hospital. Relief at finding both of them were okay had been short-lived as they'd been bundled into private rooms for tests, and a huge matron with mind control powers had shooed him away into a corridor to let the patients sleep. After a night of pacing and reading dog-eared National Geographics visiting hours came around and he was finally let in to sit with Chane, and once the furniture was rearranged to her hypothetical satisfaction he finally relaxed enough to doze. He'd woken up when his stomach reminded him he hadn't eaten during that time either, and had prised himself away to find the cafeteria and consume three days' worth of mac and cheese.

Logically that meant she'd feel just as hungry as him when she woke up. So on his return he winds his way around nurses and old men and their IV drips wandering the halls with a tray in each hand, one of every item on the menu balanced in a precarious cornucopia.

Opening the door to the ward with a foot is easy, keeping his heart from climbing too far up his throat when he sees her is not. ] Chane. [ The trays thankfully stop him hugging her instinctively and pulling her stitches. He sets one down with a clatter without taking his eyes off her - but there's only room for one on the bedside table, for obvious practical reasons. He tries to balance the other on top before finally crouching, tucking it under the bed and standing again, all in the space of about a second and a half. There's too much to say and take in, he realizes, as his hands seek out hers in the folds of her sheets. It doesn't stop him trying, though. ] How long since you woke up? I'da stuck around longer if I'd known you were gonna -- How're you feeling? [ The last question is soberer than the initial relieved outburst. The panic might be over but worry is still there, and the anger only gets stronger seeing her awake. The stab he'd felt when she called out to him is still vivid. ]

[ Having had her stay arranged by her fiancé (if his distinctive voice threading in and out of last night's memories were any indication), his absence is a little strange. There is an empty chair by her bed that hasn't accommodated many so far, a doctor or a nurse at times making observations in the lighter layers of sleep. Somebody has always occupied that spot even if she wasn't awake to see them.

It hadn't occurred to her how much her heart had been set on seeing him again until her hopes soar, glancing to the source of sound at the jerk of the ward door. In an instant they are confirmed and settling warmly, comfortably, heart leaping as Claire approaches, her eyes following him steadily over to her bedside.

She doesn't have a name for this feeling-- this flushed relief and happiness-- but it's nearly overwhelming. Gathering all of Claire's quick movements and words and touch are mostly distracting enough to cancel out the ghost of a smile, eyes darting between his hands to his worried expression. It's all a little fast, and she isn't going anywhere. Rather than address his question immediately in the echo of surprise at him rushing in loaded with hospital food and managing a balancing act, she drags a thumb over his knuckles, indicating the seat behind him with a tilt of her head. He can stick around now. ]

[ He ducks his head sheepishly, grin a little weaker than usual but no less genuine. ] You're right.

[ Moving at a less frenetic pace he keeps clinging to her with one hand - mindful to be gentle on her bandages - and reaches his other back behind him to pull up the chair. When his knees hit the metal frame of the bed he sits.

Prevented from shooting a dozen questions at her and simply sitting in silence together almost eye-to-eye, the overwhelmingness of it all sinks in more. He takes her hand between both of his, holding the edges and the back of it and only cupping the scarred palm. Her fingers curl just over his knuckles; he lifts them to his face to rest them against his cheek while he looks over the bandage wrapped around her arm above her IV drip. While she'd slept he’d watched a nurse change the dressing and reveal the long, singed stripe of a bullet graze. It's not unlike the one on her shoulder – except that one healed over months before, and the sniper who gave it to her was dealt with long since. He'd had time that morning to take in the scrapes and patches and stitches visible on her body and to wonder where the people who inflicted them are, whether they were even still alive. But it's different seeing her awake and almost-smiling through them. There's a sting in the top of his nose that he wills away while pressing her knuckles to his cheekbone, beaming at her over the top of their joined hands. ]

[ His unhesitating compliance is something she'd expect as a reaction to a gentle request for silence, not a gesture to calm him slightly. There's something different about the way he's watching her, cheek framed by the white stripes of linen over her palm he was so quick to rest against his skin.

Even if his words don't always filter through to her so logically or coherently, she can understand his tone, but with nothing but his slightly distant, slightly focused expression she can't gather anything from him for a moment. In that span of time he looks... regretful, hurt in that blaming manner she's come to recognise and distance from herself. But she can't read him further. Briefly, envy sparks gently in her at his ability to read just about anything from her look when the opposite is impossible-- but then, he hardly ever refrains from speaking his thoughts aloud to her. It isn't incidential, and he is honest with her.

So what did she just see before he covered up sadness and a sting with his usual smile? Perhaps, she thinks, it's the opposite of his outburst just seconds earlier-- slightly hushed, he's retreated into being too careful. Her mouth quirks reflexively, mirroring Claire's smile, almost, watching the solidity of that expression before she turns her hand a little beneath his to lower and align her thumb with his jaw, fingers curled just underneath. The more she can see of his look, the better. As soon as she is convinced of the strength of the atmosphere between them she tilts her head in question. You were here before I woke up? -It isn't open-ended at all, rather a desire for a reiteration of her suspicions. How else would it seem so right to have him sitting there, as though he'd come to own the spot overnight? ]

[ He expels a short huff of relieved breath on the edge of laughter as her fingers curl under his jaw. It's more than he dared hope for: after the days and nights of not knowing where she was, to see the certainty of her smiling right there in front of him, so honest and clear. The warmth of her hand, accepting his gesture, even encouraging it, stokes a matching heat in his cheeks. Overbright with emotion his eyes remain fixed on hers, so his expression is opened up like her can see she's requesting. Even in the stark, medicinal confines of the hospital and her bandages she can still smile like they're at home together or walking arm in arm. The relief of it is almost surreal.

Almost on autopilot he replies and the bandages shift slightly against his throat. ] You got it. I was sitting here all morning. [ His head turns slightly into her hand without breaking their gaze; his look has a solemn edge to it now. ] They didn't let me overnight, but I was in the hall the whole time. As soon as I found out they brought you here I came over. [ He wouldn't have let anything happen to her; she was protected here. His look says that he needs her to understand that. ]

For a fellow Newcomer, it was the least she could do. Especially one who had been through so much. After coercing a list of names of those involved out of somebody, she had gone on to make appropriate floral arrangements. Azaleas, edelweiss leaves, Poinsettas, and a dash of palm leaves spiraling around the bottom of the clear vase. A unique combination to indicate for her to get better, with the palm leaves indicating the success she had in surviving the Hunt.

Ino walked in after being guided in by a nurse, a kind smile on her face. She wasn't in her usual outfit - she was still trying to clean out some of the blood stains from her impromptu patients when they had all mobbed the grounds - instead in a simple pair of white capris and tank top.

"Hello, Ms. Laforet." She placed the vase on the table next to the hospital bed. "I'm Ino Yamanaka. You don't know me, but I wanted to give you some flowers after your...ordeal, courtesy of the Yamanaka Flower Shop."

It had been enough of a surprise to receive visits from those she saw daily. Naturally she wasn't expecting anybody other than perhaps her assigned doctor. Chane glanced up to the new visitor brought in by the nurse further down the ward only to return to slowly flipping through previously scrawled-upon pages in her notepad. Many of them were such generic answers they could have been catalogued and pre-written for presumed occasions where she might have to encounter unknown questions-- unlike that time she had prepared herself for such an event, these were true involvements in a conversation. There had been no need to repeat herself like an interrogation.

Lost in these thoughts, the tap of the vase being set on the table brought her to full attention with a jolt, eyes wide to the young woman now at her bedside, expression unassuming. For a moment she could only blink at the gesture, one of kindness, the introduction-- so she was bringing something for Chane herself...? Not passing something on impersonally like a note, as she might have imagined. Another gift from a stranger... She didn't give herself time to dwell on it much further, not when Ino had come all this way for somebody she surely had only known by name. Eyes flitting from the elegant flower arrangement to rest on her guest, Chane hesitated a moment before finding a blank page of her notebook to write on, and pass the pad across.

You can call me Chane.

A trivial request, perhaps, but it didn't feel quite right being called 'Ms.' by somebody who didn't look much younger than her, after all. A second later, her gaze wandered to the seat at the bedside, unsure of how forward she should be in offering it, whether Ino had time to spare.

Edited (html borked) 2012-08-06 22:42 (UTC)

Another mute, or was this a direct result from the Hunt? She decided to leave it be. She nodded at Chane and passed the notebook back, taking a seat at the bedside she glanced at. She didn't have long, but she could spare a few moments for a brief visit.

"How are you feeling?" A generic question Chane was probably asked numerous times, of course.

With Ino taking a seat at her vague suggestion, Chane was put a little more at ease. This was company-- a new face. Between every moment between looking down at her notepad to write and passing over a torn page her eyes couldn't help but flicker towards her guest curiously, slightly in admiration of how neat, tidy and pretty she seemed in this place. All she had seen for the most part of her stay were immaculately-dressed nurses.

Fine. Thank you.

But she had to wonder about the connection... Hastily, she wrote up a second note, tore it out and offered it as well.

How did you find me?

"I was there the night all of you were released. I wasn't fighting, only serving as a medic for anybody injured on our side." She smiled, eyes closing slightly. "I asked around for the names of the newcomers caught up in the mess, and I was directed here."

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Morning, August 1st

Re: Morning, August 1st

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Early Tuesday afternoon

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c: Wednesday early morning/afternoon?

sorry for lateness ;;

its ok!

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