The Price Of Freedom

Participants:

eileen_icon.gif jack_icon.gif tavisha_icon.gif

Also featuring:

kazimir_icon.gif

Scene Title The Price Of Freedom
Synopsis It seems true that no man is an island. Not even a man who lives on one. Tavisha, Eileen, and a guest star all come to Jack's aid.
Date March 1, 2009

Filatov Clinic

The largest, most obvious feature of Dr. Filatov's clinic is that one wall, an entire wall has been almost completely with what appear to be tall hardwood china cabinets, or possibly some other form of storage furniture from a bar, or kitchen or apothecary that have been nailed to the wall and cobbled together into some kind of uniformity. The last one may be the most likely, because every row of shelves that no run the length of the wall are covered with jars and bottles containing all manner of drugs, medicines, tonics, ointments and tinctures. The drawers below the shelves doubtlessly contain more supplies necessary for the operation of the clinic, so perhaps it's best not to question exactly what can be found in them. Besides that, the room is dominated by two large examination tables, which are really just old, well-worn wooden dining tables, with some of the matching chairs resting against the wall opposite the medicines, the closest to a waiting room the clinic has. A simple wooden screen in one corner serves as a dressing area. The unadorned wood paneling and scuffed hardwood floor are not the doctor's doing; he freely admits that whoever occupied this place last had both a thing for wood, and poor taste. The only other seemingly permanent fixture of the clinic is Ranger, Dr. Filatov's absolutely ancient bulldog, who spends most of his days lounging by the dressing screen, or wherever the sunbeams happen to pass through the steel window shutters. Besides a short hallway leading to the rest of the building (most of the space of which is taken up by the enormous examination/emergency/operating room), an unobtrusive door with far too many latches takes up a portion of an inside wall. 'Employees only' couldn't be spelled any more clearly.


This won't be the first time Tavisha's arrived at the clinic with a dying man at the dead of night, and hopefully it will be the last. It's not so ridiculously late this time, at least, life carrying on in the Rookery as a truck pulls up at the front of the clinic. The truck itself doesn't get a lot of attention, some beat up old vehicle seen often enough around the docks to be familiar as a sailor's property, but where it stops is what turns heads. Nightlife roamers, hookers, drunkards will see the door open to soft candle light, the lanky figure of a man being hauled out by others much like him. For all intents and purposes, he might as well be dead, but there has to be some life in him if they're bothering going through a clinic instead straight out to the ditches in the Greenbelt.

The truck idles, and inside, Tavisha has Jack by the legs, not about to sling him over his shoulder like he did Teo. The fact he can't breathe, not really, calls for his. A burly sailor as Mr. Discreetly around the shoulders as they lift him up and onto an examination table, before he backs up, headed for the door when Tavisha nods his thanks. A moment later, once the third man is gone, the sound of the truck pulling away cuts through the clinic, and Tavisha runs a hand through his soaking wet hair from his dunk into the river, expression pale, drawn and fretful.

The sudden shift brings Jack awake with a gasp. "Shit," he groans, whistling air through his mouth and the hole in his chest simultaneously.

The ride in from the middle of the Hudson was rough. Though he was provided with basic first aid en route, he's hardly what one would call stabilized. His eyes are glassy and his breath comes is sharp, agonized hisses. "T-Tav?" he queries weakly, grasping at his friend's arm. "Where?"

Of all the nights to take a bullet to the lung, Jack picked one of the most inconvenient in recent memory. Despite the late hour and the thundering footsteps that boomed through the clinic when the truck first pulled up outside, the person who unlocks and throws open the door is a foot too short and about eighty pounds too light to be Dr. Filatov. Even after Eileen — half-dressed in her haphazardly-buttoned nightshirt and robe — has ushered her patient inside, no one else emerges from the shadows separating the front of the clinic from the back, not even to scold Tavisha for barging in unannounced without an appointment.

Eileen's eyes dart from Tavisha to the stranger sprawled out on the examination table, her gray-green gaze remarkably sharp and attentive for someone who just woke up. Her hair, on the other hand, is a tousled mess, and she spends several moments wrestling with several tangled curls as she struggles to push them away from her face. "What happened?"

It's only from reading Jack's lips, really, that Tavisha understands what he's saying. The audiokinetic policewoman and her howl did him no favours, white noise still ringing in his ears - lessened, a little bit, but the impairment is disorienting, dizzying. "You're at the clinic," Tavisha says, managing not to be too loud even if he can't hear himself as well as he should. One hand, cold still, grips Jack's arm. "It's okay now. Relax." That's easier said than done, even for him, and he's not breathing through a hole in his chest.

Brown eyes dart up when Eileen comes into range, her question easily discernible if only in he crease of her forehead from the expression on her face. He doesn't need to catch the words. "There was a firefight," he says, and now his voice is raised a little louder than it should be, instinctively doing so to hear himself speak. "He got shot in the chest, it's been— " Too long until medical attention, even if they really did rush to get him here. Tavisha trails off, however, guilt or anxiety or worry or something drawing him into silence.

Gurgle. Burble. Bubble. A sickening mixture of noises emit from Jack's bullet wound as fresh surges of blood soak the loose, dirty bandage across his chest. His hand slides down Tavisha's arm and comes to grip his hand with feverish strength. "Thanks," he huffs out. He's about to continue when a loose, rattling cough catches wetly in his throat.

It's several seconds before he can halt the spasms. The world spins crazily in the meantime, bringing lights, ceiling, and faces swimming in and out of vision. Clinic. That means one of the faces must belong to a doctor. "Lunnnnng," he grunts. "Lung. Hurts. Morphine?"

Now there's a cheerful thought. He even manages a smile.

The volume of Tavisha's voice gives Eileen visible pause, but pauses are only temporary and isn't long before her attention has slid back to Jack and the dark fluid leaking out from the hole in his chest. "Constantine isn't here," she says, reaching down to brush her knuckles across his brow before she rests the back of her hand against it as if testing his temperature. "He won't be back until tomorrow morning at the earliest, but I'll do what I can."

Eileen's tone, though soft, carries a somber note that undercuts whatever reassurance she might've been trying to provide. She moves away from the examination table and cuts a path through the clinic's shady interior to one of the shelving units closest to the window. Unlike Constantine, she appears to prefer working by candlelight and the warm, flickering glow provided by the clinic's wood-burning stove. It may be that the overhead lights are too harsh on her eyes. More likely, she's worried they'll be too harsh on Jack's. "If you had to guess," she says, mounting a stool in order to reach one of the higher shelves, "how long ago would you say?"

The tight grip on his hand causes a haunted look to pass across Tavisha's face, but he doesn't struggle out of it, just returns the grip in turn. Keeping himself in check. Injuries, skin-to-skin contact, the play of death and life on a knife's edge tends to bring out the worst in him, shivering beneath a coat that smells unpleasantly of the Hudson. No waters around New York City are very clean, frankly, and all of them are cold.

"Twenty minutes," he says, with the knowledge he's being generous. It's probably pushing half an hour. He doesn't look at Eileen, now, studying Jack's face as he speaks in that forcibly louder way he's adopted. "We hurried here as soon as we hit the shore."

It hurts. It really, really hurts.

"It really hurts," Jack reminds them both. The pain is giving him an edge over his injury, but it's a strictly temporary situation. The hand gripping Tav's squeezes down painfully tight. "Morphine," he requests again, more quietly this time. "Please?"

There's fear in his eyes. Impending doom brings about a certain brand of desperation that one can't find anywhere else. Jack ends up staring at the tattoo on his forearm without realizing it. The dagger taunts him. It's a reminder of a past that he might never remember.

Eileen isn't a trained medical professional. Even in spite of her stony exterior and purposefulness with which she moves, this is glaringly obvious — she has, however, spent enough time stitching other people up at Filatov's and during her time with the Vanguard to know when someone is beyond help. Without Constantine, there's nothing she can do to reverse a collapsed lung, and at the rate Jack is losing blood? the prognosis isn't good.

She returns to the examination table with a syringe of morphine, which she taps a few times to produce a dribble from its tip. "You should have taken him back to Manhattan," she tells Tavisha as she uses her fingers to find an appropriately-sized vein before injecting the drugs directly into Jack's bloodstream. The needle glides swiftly in with the smallest of pinches, causing his skin to momentarily dimple and then bulge. "The only thing I can do at this point is ease the pain, maybe induce a coma so he doesn't have to suffer any more than he already has."

"Couldn't go back to Manhattan," Tavisha says, volume down, voice coming out a harsh murmur. Docking anywhere but here would have meant— well. Perhaps Jack would be alive, with his wrist handcuffed to a hospital bed, everyone locked away, Tavisha too. What exactly is the price of freedom? It doesn't seem like it should be this.

And if it is, the deal needs to be reviewed. "I brought him here so you could save him," Tavisha says, now turning a harsh look towards Eileen, showing teeth between words as his mouth pulls into a grimacing sneer. Despite the sentiment, despite the desire to save a life of a friend, things so unique to Tavisha from his own pre-amnesia counterpart, the bristling demand is undoubtably Sylar. From the lower tone of his voice, rough with a deep sort of irritation, to the accusing, pointed looked Eileen gets across the table, all the way through to the irrationality of his expectations. Candlelight dances shadows over them both, and even in the warm tone of flame, Jack seems grey.

Faces. Jack sees more faces. His vision blurs and his eyes cross, turning two faces to four and then more. And more.

Logan. Bebe. Rocket. Abdikhani. The 'fugee boy who's probably still wearing his flak vest, wherever the hell he is.

The pirate's writhing becomes more desperate and pained despite the morphine. It helps, but even powerful pharmecuticals can't eliminate the whistling sensation he can hear and feel in his chest. He can actually hear himself dying. When he coughs wanly, he spits blood down across his chin and chest, obscuring some of his tattoos.

The guttural edge that enters Tavisha's voice cuts all the way to Eileen's core. Her expression, so carefully guarded until now, undergoes an abrupt change — her perfect mask of suppressed emotion splits right down the middle, filling her eyes with equal parts fervor and fury. "What do you expect me to do?" she asks, her own voice growing hoarse and rough, so throaty that it sounds like it shouldn't be coming from a woman of such small stature. "Breathe life into him? I'm not a healer, Sylar — that isn't the gift I was given."

She sets the now empty syringe aside and forces herself to look back down at the face of the man who beat her friend within an inch of his life. Jack is lucky that Eileen doesn't recognize him as John Logan's personal bodyguard — if she did, she'd never suggest what she does next. "You helped us save Teo," she says, somewhat stiltedly. "You can save him, too."

It's a stressful situation to be in, to be sure. It's no small surprise that while demanded of by Eileen, that certain facets of Tavisha's personality come to lend a helping hand in times of doubt. The hand, in particular, is the weathered hand of an old man laid on Tavisha's shoulder, squeezing firm and resolutely. "Listen to the girl," he grumbles, voice thick and rough, like sandpaper rubbing against gravel. "Give her what she wants." Those last few words are layered with thick emphasis, bitter and spiteful of the young girl standing before Tavisha.

The specter of his mind circles around behind him, looking down at Jack, before turning blue eyes up towards Tavisha's far darker ones. "She's always been this insistant, always been this self-righteous." Gray brows raise slowly, "Give her exactly what she's asking for," a faint, dishonest smile crawls across parched lips. "There's no harm in it."

The name 'Sylar' acts as a verbal slap, Tavisha not quite flinching, but the harsher edge of his expression is banished, glare breaking down until he's looking back at Jack, the spatter of new blood shining in candlelight on his chest, throat, chin. The hole in his chest is an ugly thing, gaping, sucking air out from the man's lungs before he can breathe it, and now Jack's grasp onto his hand is looser, colder.

Tavisha lets go of Jack's hand entirely, settling it now on his shoulder a few inches up from the dark wound of black and red, just as the more weathered hand of an old man grips his with all the firmness of something real. But isn't. He knows it isn't. Even though it might as well be. His own heart might stop beating before Jack's as his gaze raises up to look at the figment of his imagination, so real compared to the others.

Before Eileen can call attention to the fact he's staring into space, a firm look settles on her once more - determination, fear, anger - and his free hand extends, long fingers relaxed, not about to grab her. Palm up, an invitation for her to take his hand. "I just want to help him," he says. He's not talking to her.

Jack isn't holding on to anything. His grip has gone slack and his eyes gape vacantly toward the ceiling and beyond.

It's the worst possible time for a flashback. They always come at the worst possible time.

Get on your feet, Corporal!
But I'm hit, sir!
Everbody's hit! You know what they do to POWs here? Move. Your. Ass!

"Yessir," the pirate groans anemically. "Still in the fight, sir."

Even though she called him by his old moniker, Eileen is intensely aware of the fact that the man offering her his hand isn't the man she once knew. Still, she trusts him as if he was, and does not hesitate when it comes to placing her much smaller palm in his. Arrogant and self-absorbed, quick-tempered and conceited — of all the things she's ever accused him of being, weak of will was never one of them. If he doesn't intend to take too much from her, then she has faith — absolute faith — that he won't.

It doesn't hurt to remind him, however, and while Tavisha's words may not be meant for her, she has no way of knowing this. "I know," she murmurs. "Focus."

"Focus." Kazimir's voice echoes in the back of Tavisha's mind, a rough, urging command as that weathered hand squeezes down on his shoulder, "You know what has to happen. Take it," the old man leans in, brows lowering, breath cold against Tavisha's ear, "take it."

Tavisha's fingers wrap around her hand, not harshly, it doesn't need to be harsh. It comes first as pins and needles in her hands, invisible prickling dancing as far as her wrist, before the pain really begins. It starts bone deep, a hot spike with the sickly feeling of infection, almost. Decay. The skin of her hand, up her arm, becomes tight and even paler than before, greyish, weathering with the affectation of age and making veins stand against skin. The pain shoots up her arm, her mouth goes dry, her stomach churns in protest to this deeply wrong feeling being shot through her.

And Tavisha's mouth parts a little, brown eyes going almost black as he absorbs what he takes, breathing coming shallow. It's warmth, rejuvenation, it washes away the fatigue of the day, the chill of his skin and the start of the cold he was developing from his splashing about in icy water. The urge to take it all makes his heart skip.

Jack lies forgotten the table, death slowly claiming him.

And Tavisha can sense that too.

"No," he murmurs, in protest, shying away quite suddenly from the visage of the old man standing so close to him. Draw the current, move it, shift it flow in the way he needs it to. It's not so much unlike hydrokinesis, the shared power between he and his friend, and the thought makes it easier, to take what he was given, hand on Jack's shoulder clasping tighter. That radiating feeling of warmth bleeds into the prone pirate, from the inside out. It's the internal damage that it sealed, lung tissue knitting together the way it should, flesh above that beginning to close, warmth trickling beneath Jack's skin and inviting him back to consciousness.

"I'm sorry," Tavisha murmurs. Again unclear as to who he's talking to.

The transition from memory (dream?) to reality isn't a kind one. Jack wakes up screaming and clutching at his chest. "FuckohGodohFuckoh— Tav?"

The sight of his friend's face grounds him on this side of consciousness. Experimentally, he prods at his chest. Wince. It hurts. Somehow it hurts worse than it did before the healing process began. The deformed rifle slug that nearly took his life rolls and bounces to the floor as he attempts to sit upright.

When the light hits it, it becomes clear that the wound isn't healed. It's only been stabilized. Though it's no longer leaking blood and air, the hole is still a raw, gaping thing that exposes stripes of muscle and a half-crescent of rib. Jack slumps backward again and sighs out a breath that's far less ragged than his last handful.

"Christ," he mutters disjointedly. "Am I not dead?"

Pain lances through the delicate, bird-like bones of Eileen's fingers, bearable at first — but only at first. As it progresses up her arm, she catches her lower lip between her teeth and bites down to stifle the involuntary keen her body is trying to make. Although she recognizes the sound of her own voice rising as a whine in her throat, it's a disparate sensation, entirely foreign, almost as though she was listening to it happen to somebody else.

Nausea washes over her in waves, nearly sending her to her knees — her free hand reaches out, seizes Tavisha's arm by the elbow as she struggles to steady herself. By the time it occurs to Eileen that it's over, she's leaning against him with her eyes squeezed shut, the fabric of his shirt dark, hot and wet where her face is buried in his shoulder.

Tavisha's arms go around Eileen instinctively, gaze darting over her head to try and seak out the ghost-memory that had haunted him, turning his head— and nothing. It strikes him that it knew her, the girl currently clinging to him, and it just sounds like more and more he doesn't know.

But he's starting to get the gist. He looks startled when he looks at Jack again, eyes going down to the injury far less gory than it was before, the man far less dead than he was before, too, blood flowing as it should and stealing away that grey cast to his skin. "You're not dead," Tavisha confirms, and still he can't help but again check the shadows. Nothing. No pale blue eyes, aged features, the click of a cane—

"Don't move," he advises Jack, keeping an arm hooked around Eileen's shoulders as his other hand goes out to urge the man back down. "Just— hold on— " He steers Eileen back away from him even as he holds her upright, attention divided between the two as divided, or balanced, as the precarious juggling of life and death between them, and he studies her face, needing some confirmation that he didn't royally fuck up. Again. Why the hell does he need to fail so msierably at heroism?

Christ, Jack isn't dead. Considering tonight's events, that alone is a miracle. He touches the wound in his chest more tentatively. Exposed, but no longer a mortal danger. "Fuck me," he whispers, thoroughly bewildered.

There's a whole lot of stimuli heading his way. Pain. Drugs. Dim lights. Voices. It take a few seconds to sort it out. There's clearly another injured person here. Someone that probably requires attention more than he does. Very slowly, he lays himself back down. "'m fine," he gasps. "I heart painkillers. Look after the lady."

Eileen's lashes glisten with tears when they flutter — the eyes they shadow are bleary and unfocused, but they lack the glassy sheen that Jack's had begun to adopt when he was still bleeding out on the examination table. As clammy and bone-white as her face is, she's in no danger of dying. Emptying the contents of her stomach all over his shoes seems much more likely.

"No," she says to Tavisha in a husky whisper, releasing her grip on his arm and turning her head just enough to glimpse Jack in her peripheral vision. "He isn't fine. We still have to close him up. Do you think you can handle a needle and thread?"

"I can learn," Tavisha says, reluctant to let her go - she isn't grievously injured but she does look like her legs might buckle. Still, when she seems to have a grip on herself, Tavisha steps back, turning to look down at Jack, eyebrows lifting in a 'you better hope I can handle a needle and thread', almost a taunt but his face is too grim to really pull off the humour. But overall, the prospect doesn't intimidate him as much as it probably should. Whenever these ghosts make their appearances known, in however way they choose, something in him changes just a little.

One of Jack's hands snatches at Tavisha's shirt as he passes. "He can sew," the injured freebooter insists, his voice breathless and wheezy. "All girls can sew."

The jab costs him. Though the worst of his injuries have been healed at Eileen's expense, his torso is still filled with a sickly, internal sort of pain that culminates in exposed tissues and nerves. Every breeze of air or miniscule vibration sends shooting sparks of agony through his upper body and down into his abdomen.

"Mrrrrrrr," he groans. "Still hurts. More morphine? You can put it on my friend's tab."

Eileen sinks down to the floor before her legs have the chance to give out from under her. It's not the most comfortable place to sit, but it's the closest. She's too exhausted to consciously pick up on the subtle change in Tavisha's demeanor — instead, it's the link they share that establishes something inside of him has changed and ultimately causes her to relax when she senses Jack is in confident and capable hands.

Their patient's request rouses Eileen from her stupor long enough to lift both her eyebrows at him as she blows out a tired sigh through pursed lips. Swallowing the taste of bile from her mouth, she shakes her head. "No more morphine," she says, breathless. "You can't fool around with painkillers — too easy to overdose. Who's your friend?"

At the end of the day, you probably shouldn't drain the most capable set of hands in the room of her lifeforce when there isn't a real doctor in the house. A twinge of nervousness as Eileen sinks to the floor, leaves Jack to Tavisha, but he swallows it back, gently removes Jack's hand from his shirt and moves towards where Eileen's set out the necessary equipment. Needle. Thread. Swabs of gauze to clean the wound.

Sitting down beside Jack on a tall stool, it seems almost unusual to talk about him when he's lying right there, but— "Jack, this is Eileen," he says. "Eileen, this is Jack. He saved me after the bridge. Tell me what to do." Not about the bridge— about the shiningly clean medical tools in front of him.

Though Jack winces when he's denied more morphine, he takes it in stride and lifts a hand to wave weakly at Eileen. "Hi," he says, smiling crookedly. "Shit. Tav, you know a lot of pretty girls."

On to business. Though the chances of anyone asking him for direction are slim at best, he's more than happy to supply it anyway. "Just pinch the edges together and put some thread in there, kid. If you can shoot a machine gun, you can do this."

From where she's sitting, Eileen can't gauge how poor off Jack is. Bullet wounds are different than stab wounds, which is where she gets her expertise, and so she imparts the most basic pieces of knowledge she has. It helps that the man himself has given Tavisha the foundations to build off of. "You want to start sewing as far away from the wound as it is deep," she tells him. "Cut it off and tie a knot every one fourth of an inch."

Jack's remark about pretty girls either goes unheard or ignored — probably the latter if the haughty manner in which she chooses to direct her gaze elsewhere is any indication. Or maybe it has something to do with the fact she now has a name to attach to his face. "You wouldn't happen to own a boat called the Dirty Deeds, would you, Jack?"

Start sewing. Okay. Tavisha wipes his hands on the sides of his pants, first, before shifting closer. "Don't move," he warns, before his hands approach the wound at Jack's chest, keeping their advice in mind as he studies what's broken— making his head tilt a little, because it doesn't seem so messy, so complicated anymore. The principle of stitching is an easy enough one to grasp, the logic they've given him makes sense, and—

It's not exactly a trance as it is unbreakable concentration, eyes squinting a little - he'd probably do well to be using glasses, but we do what we can with what we have. Fingers pinch skin relentlessly but not unnecessarily, needle quick to push through, to trail thread. He says nothing of the Dirty Deeds and whether or not Jack owns it, or why this is being asked, barely even noticing that Eileen even spoke again.

There's something about Eileen's tone that makes Jack pause and consider his answer. The Deeds is inoperable, full of bullets, and branded as a pirate vessel. If he's smart, the first thing he'll do when he gets out of here is sink her.

"No," he answers honestly. "I don't own a boat called— ow!" There's the sharp sound of indrawn breath as he glances away from the woman and down at his chest. Not only is it covered in no less than three layers of semi-dried blood, there's a geek sewing on it.

That's right. He's being stitched up. He blinks foggily and peers up at Tav's face. "I'm sorry I tried to sleep with you," he apologizes.

Whether or not Eileen heard Jack right doesn't really matter — her eyes lid shut again and she leans back until she feels her shoulders touch the wall, upper body curling into a tired slouch. She could sleep now if it weren't for the fact Constantine might somehow find out she dozed off on the job with strange men in his clinic. In fact, now that she thinks about it, it would probably be better if he never found out about this visit at all.

"Tried?" she half-asks, half-mumbles. It doesn't hurt to clarify.

Unbreakable concentration is carelessly snapped in half as the conversation derails, his work on the stitching pausing and shoulders slumping a little as his eyes unfocus, then roll. This is why Gillian doesn't get to meet Jack, ever. Even the whine in his ears, like a miniature drill in his skull, doesn't completely steal away Eileen's murmured question.

"Yes, tried," Tavisha clarifies, and sharply snips the thread he was working on, rethreading the needle, resuming his task. With far less concentration and difficulty now, summarily distracted. "You should go rest, if I hurt you enough to help him." A glance to Jack, eyebrow raising. "And you can pass out anytime you want."

"I got drunk," Jack begins cheerfully, blithely breezing past Tavisha's hint to shut his mouth. "And I woke up and…"

Explaining this is starting to seem like an ill-conceived notion. He grimaces and glances up at Tav. When a man has a needle next to your open chest wound, it pays to be polite.

"And it was just like any other day," he finishes. "Whaddya mean, hurt her enough to help me?

There's no response from Eileen. Her breathing has settled into a different, deeper pattern in the time that elapsed between her question and Tavisha's answer. If she's asleep, she might not have even caught it. If she isn't, then his affirmation, coupled with Jack's, has put her further at ease. Her head lolls to one side, dark hair cascading in messy waves across one half of her face and the slim curve of her right shoulder peeking out from beneath the fabric of her nightshirt.

Rest. Yeah, she can do that.

When there's no response from Eileen, Tavisha glances up from his work to meet Jack's eyes. He sort of hopes the morphine/pain knife edge haze might make his friend a little less perceptive, because guilt is clear. And fear, too, but that is so, so much harder to explain. He shakes his head, dismissing any visible sign of these emotions as he reaches over, pulls a candle closer, needle shining silver in the flickery golden light.

"I'll tell you later," Tavisha lies, and resumes his work in the quite concentration he'd adopted before. It's a nice space to be, the world blotting out as he calmly fixes the mess in front of him, designed only to repair, to transform… feeling almost like he's barely himself.


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March 1st: ...Is A Dead Hero
Previously in this storyline…
...is a Dead Hero

Next in this storyline…
The Sharp End

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March 1st: The Sharp End
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