tushanshu_logs | [OPEN] Eshai Memorial Hospital May catch-all

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[OPEN] Eshai Memorial Hospital May catch-all

Characters: Hospital staff, volunteers, patients, visitors, and everyone else!
Date: All of May
Location: Eshai Memorial Hospital, Metal Sector
Situation: General Hospital a la Turtle-back
Warnings/Rating: It’s a hospital, there will probably injuries/blood/etc at some point.
OOC Note: Everyone, feel free to add your own thread headers for whatever you might need!

There are still signs of the damage taken in the bombings, but repairs are taking place and are obviously not keeping the hospital from its usual busy schedule. Some of the work seems to be plumbing related: with the city water contaminated, they are trying to get a back-up system in place easier to keep purified, and sometimes some of the staff and volunteers can be found doing just that. Everyone needs sanitary water.

Some of the rooms have been reassigned uses until the repairs are finished, usually in favor of keeping intensive care as flexible as possible. First aid training still takes place in the classroom on the third floor, along with classroom-friendly aspects of field training.

Upon request, the list of active field medics will be provided by the front desk, along with who is currently on-call.
Active Field Medics:
Septimus
Raine Sage
Frank Zhang
Zelgadis Graywords
NPC kedan healers

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[OOC: This thread is dated sometime after this one.]

His situation was going to get worse.

Skulduggery was still trying to track down the suit of black armour that murdered the white-haired boy during the bombings. He'd tried many different things by that point - locating the victim, who might even have been resurrected by that point; finding any other witnesses; keeping a general eye out. He was avoiding the consoles for how compromised they were, but Skulduggery hadn't hit a single lead any other way, and the frustration was starting to make his head hurt. Or rather, it was starting to make what was inside his head hurt.

That wasn't a very good state of mind for him to be in, which was part of the reason Skulduggery now spent at least an hour each day purifying the hospital's water supply. It was easier to think when he had something to concentrate on, something that could only be considered a good thing to do. The problem was when things broke that concentration. Things like memories, or drifting thoughts.

Things like Solomon Wreath.

In the split second after laying eyes on the necromancer, Skulduggery already knew what must have happened. Evandau wasn't going to give up without a fight, so of course, the technology for bringing other people here would have been salvaged. Of course the people brought would be powerful, useful, regardless of their moral compass. It all made a very brutal kind of sense.

His body didn't seem to be listening. Even as Skulduggery wondered whether the best idea wouldn't be to simply move on as though nothing happened, he was already walking over.

The sound of footsteps coming directly toward him made Solomon turn from trying to find a chair from which he could easily extricate himself. What he saw was a skeleton in a suit. He was, in fact, quite familiar with a skeleton in a suit. He was not, however, familiar with a skeleton in a suit whose bones were purple.

Solomon blinked and reconsidered the value of the idea that he was hallucinating, and then decided he was in altogether too much constant pain. A purple skeleton did not rate very high on his list of oddities; at least not enough to simply be dismissed as fantasy, and surely if he'd been rendered insane by mistakenly viewing a Faceless One the progression of current events won't have been quite so logical.

Instead he felt a touch exasperated. Of course, of course, wherever he was, Skulduggery had been there first.

"Skulduggery," Solomon said, rather mildly given that the last time he'd seen Skulduggery was while bleeding into the ground from a compound fracture and watching the skeleton be dragged into a special rip by a transdimensional Cthulu. "Hijacked en route to hell, I see. Lovely new fashion trend you're setting there. Is that in lieu of having hair to dye, or was it a favour?"

That was familiar. Not a meeting went by where Wreath hadn't felt the urge to deliver some sort of barbed comment. Most of those meetings, Skulduggery could ignore it in favour of whatever catastrophe had brought them together.

This time, he walked silently up without a pause and let his fist fly into Wreath's face.

He regretted it the moment it was over - for a given definition of 'regret.' It wasn't the punch Skulduggery regretted. It was not being able to wait until they weren't in public. He'd never seen anything particularly wrong with causing a necromancer pain, particularly now that he knew what their cult's ultimate goal was. And Wreath? He'd stopped caring about Wreath centuries before. The only thing Skulduggery was actually concerned about was the medley of panicked gasps that came from nearby. He looked intimidating enough without adding to the reputation.

Skulduggery, in his own way, was decently predictable--enough that Solomon could guess how their meetings would proceed and, nine times out of ten, be right. This time was that last, pesky one-out-of-ten.

The punch struck Solomon squarely on the chin and sent him flying back against the wall. The crutch slid out from under his arm and he instinctively tried to clutch it nearer, but then the grind of his broken bones registered and for a few moments there was nothing in his existence save agony.

He felt himself slide and managed to grip the wall behind him, but now his leg was shrieking and he could feel the warmth of seeping blood that indicated something had breached the skin again. Solomon gulped down air, and ordered his stomach to remain where it was, and his consciousness to remain firmly in control, and opted not to speak in favour of slumping against the wall and waiting for his body to shut up.

That, he thought dizzily, was not the sort of response he'd expected from a man who'd explicitly saved his life barely a minute before Solomon had arrived in another dimension.

Gene had, at least, in his own mind, been paying tribute to Bianca by helping get the hospital back together after the bombing. Every day he asked the ring if she was back, and every time he got the same cryptic message: Subject is out of ambit.

He was beginning to think she would never come back.

He'd been learning more than just incredibly basic first aid, rationalizing that it was something he ought to know anyway, and he was entering the lobby, he saw enough things that he didn't expect that he was beginning to wonder if he hadn't hit his head in the bombing after all.

First, there was that living skeleton - Skulduggery, wasn't it? - only now he was purple. Bright purple. It was amusing. Second, it became far less amusing when he noticed the purple skeleton coldcocking a man with an obviously broken leg. Hey, not like Gene was in any position to judge, given that he'd just apparently randomly straight-up murdered a guy a couple of weeks ago. Still, he figured he should at least say something - you know, for appearances' sake.

"Hey!" he said, walking towards the angry purple skeleton, sounding more confused than indignant. "What the hell is this all about?"

It took Wreath's scream for Skulduggery to realise that the man's leg was broken. In the heat of the moment, he couldn't say he particularly cared.

But the heat of the moment was a tricky thing, especially where Skulduggery was concerned. He'd made it a habit to check himself if things like this happened without an obvious, justifiable reason. And since Wreath hadn't hit him first, Skulduggery took a reluctant step back, giving Wreath the room he needed to recover while at the same time making it abundantly clear that he wasn't about to leave. In his head, tendrils of shadow started to uncoil; Skulduggery caught them before they went too far and took a single deep breath to keep them firmly where they belonged.

When he released that breath, it was a little easier to think. It was easier to look at Wreath, realise that Skulduggery had seen that precise broken leg before, and make the obvious connection from there. It was easier to hear Gene, walking up and demanding an explanation, even if Skulduggery didn't quite know how to give him one - or whether he should.

So he kept his eyes on Wreath instead. "Old acquaintance."

Slowly the pain, while not vanishing, at least grudgingly condescended to his control. Solomon took a deep breath, and then another, forcing his heart-rate to slow. He heard the stranger’s arrival, and felt an unexpected whisper of relief. Skulduggery, when he was unpredictable, was very unpredictable. As bitter as their relationship had become, Solomon wouldn’t have expected Skulduggery to strike a man with a broken leg.

Not unless that man was Serpine, anyway.

And then he felt irritated that he should feel grateful for protection from Skulduggery Pleasant.

Carefully Solomon raised his head, aware that he was pale and sweaty at once, and rather less dignified than he would have liked. Still, he managed to enforce some impassiveness into his expression as he looked back at Skulduggery’s faceless head.

“Was that for old time’s sake as well?” he asked, more bitterly than he meant. Something was off here. Solomon did know Skulduggery, better than the skeleton gave him credit for. Unless someone had wronged him in a fashion not even Solomon had done, Skulduggery wouldn’t cause additional physical harm to a man already injured.

Solomon just wasn’t sure what that ‘something’ was, and it was difficult to think clearly when his body was insisting it wanted to faint. He took another breath and rested his head back against the wall. There was death here, and plenty of it. That was the only reason he felt he was capable of reaching out a hand and tugging on the shadow cast up by a bench five feet along the wall. The shadow wrapped around the bench’s leg and dragged it grudgingly closer, enough that he could fumble for the side and lower himself carefully into it.

His leg shrieked and his vision darkened at the edges, but he was pleased when he managed to get himself seated without actually passing out.

"...oh." And Gene decided he wasn't going to push it. After all, there were people from home he'd like to give much the same sort of welcome to...or people from home who would probably like to give much the same sort of welcome to him.

"Though if you're going to have it out, I'd recommend maybe not doing it in the hospital. People will be opposed to that sort of thing on Hippocratic Oath grounds alone," he said, eyeing the newcomer as he dragged himself towards the bench.

And then his eyes went just a little bit wider when he saw that shadow manipulation that happened there. Interesting.

If Wreath's broken leg hadn't already told Skulduggery exactly where the discrepancy in their memories lay, Wreath's comment would have done it. Regret settled back in, and this time stayed, with Skulduggery's permission. It helped keep the more dangerous anger at bay.

It wasn't, however, enough, so Skulduggery ignored Wreath and took those few moments to build himself up to a point he could be a little more proud of. Once he'd reached it, his whole frame relaxed, and he turned to look at Gene. "It's alright," he said, his tone much more cheerful and upbeat than someone who'd just punched an old friend had any right to be. "I wasn't quite myself. I've been known to do questionable things when I'm not quite myself. Gene, this is Solomon Wreath." He deliberately chose not to add all that the introduction should probably have entailed. "Wreath, Gene Khan."

“If we’re to have it out,” said Solomon, “then I’m going to demand either healing or for some of Skulduggery’s bones to be broken in order to remove his advantage. I am, as always, quite happy to oblige in the latter.” His voice was weak, but the sarcasm was quite clear.

Skulduggery’s sudden change of demeanour was sudden, to say the least. Solomon forced his eyes open and looked at the skeleton, really looked. Aside from the suit and the purple, he looked just the same, and yet the feeling of wrongness was heightened. It was only now that Solomon could see the difference enough to tell how tense the skeleton had been beforehand. That made no sense; the last they’d spoken had been as allies on a battlefield. Where this new hostility had come from, Solomon had no idea.

The bright-purple wasn’t helping his lightheadedness, so Solomon glanced toward the youth instead. He hadn’t been too terribly opposed to the punch, in the end, which wasn’t exactly surprising. Solomon was used to people caring less than they liked to pretend. Most people wouldn’t have even bothered to intervene.

The former was particularly unsurprising given the youth was, apparently, already acquainted with Skulduggery. Of course.

“How long have you been here, then?” Solomon asked, returning his attention to Skulduggery and sounding more tired than he cared to admit. Dragging one’s broken leg across half a city with only carts as public transport wasn’t a walk in the park. After a moment he added, “And if one of you, preferably the one who isn’t liable to delight in my agony, would fetch a healer I’d be ever so grateful.”

Wreath's sarcastic riposte made Gene laugh a little, in a knowing sort of way. This guy seemed all right by him, even if Skul had just coldcocked him. It all seemed to be predicated on some misunderstanding or other.

And yet, Gene also knew when he wasn't wanted. Seeing an opportunity to temporarily exit the conversation, he said, "I've been volunteering here, I know a lot of the healers. I'll grab one to get you looked at."

There was something about Skul that made him really uneasy, and it wasn't just the fact that he was a skeleton. Or, you know, purple. The way his mood changed so quickly...it was a little bit frightening.

"A little over a month." Skulduggery had once looked over research which claimed that forcing a smile actually helped make a person happier. He wasn't sure how much of that he believed, or how much applied to him, but he couldn't deny that a lighter tone was really helping do the trick. "It isn't quite as bad as it seems. Or it wasn't, up until the bombs went off."

Especially with the palace now black and covered in spikes.

Gene's comment about volunteering around the healers made Skulduggery glance up. With his mood not quite as black as it had been, it was much easier to note that no, he did still have one lead; and that lead was the hospital. A suit of black armour had been seen during the bombings helping out at the hospital. And while Skulduggery couldn't quite fathom what the armour might have been trying to do, it certainly wasn't going to stop him from asking the questions that needed to be asked.

"Hang on," he said. "Before you go. Have you seen a suit of black armour around the hospital either during or after the explosions? Or, come to think of it, any time before. In fact, you might have dreamed of one. I certainly can't discount dreams."

Not with the 'realm of dreaming' as accessible as it apparently was.

“How fortunate for you,” said Solomon, “and utterly useless for me, given that I’m the one who woke up broken-legged in a bathtub in a post-Blitz-era turtle-city.”

He wasn’t usually quite so sarcastic, but on this occasion he felt he had the right to be. He was seriously considering holding a grudge. He didn’t often hold grudges, because they made one short-sighted, but on occasion where Pleasant was concerned he made exceptions, and this was the lowest of the low even for Pleasant.

In fact, Solomon was debating closing his eyes and ignoring the skeleton into going away until Gene got back with a healer when Skulduggery’s own question made his eyes snap open properly. He managed not to sit up, but the sudden thrill of adrenaline didn’t do any good for the state of his leg, and he spent a few seconds holding very, very still until the pain had died down before speaking.

“Black armour?” he asked sharply, and then paused to catch his breath and speak more calmly. “There’s been a suit of black armour wandering around? Oh, how lovely.”

Just what he always wanted; to be thrown back into the most terrifying days of the war, as lived by shapeshifters on turtleback. Insanity was really starting to sound like a good alternative.

Oh.

Fuck.

Only ten years' worth of being forced to manage his emotions around Zhang kept Gene's face from betraying his severe distress about being asked this. How much did Skulduggery know? He quickly ran through his head about what he'd logically be expected to know about the armor himself, and for a half-second, the sarcastic thought ran through his head: Yeah, I know a bit about that armor and its occupant. One, he's living in my suite. Two, he's wearing my clothes. Three, his name's Gene Khan...

Skul's offhand comment about dreaming of the armor disturbed him more than he cared to admit as well. He'd never told anyone that he'd repeatedly dreamed of the armor that was his birthright when he was but a child. A coincidence. It had to be. Right?

"I'm afraid I can't tell you much," Gene said, doing his best to sound properly apologetic while managing his heart rate. "Some of the kedan said it was helping in the search and rescue. I never saw it." Because I was wearing it!

All of the above was very technically true.

Skulduggery nodded grimly. "Wandering around and murdering people, yes. Well, one person. Perhaps not even an important person, but a person nonetheless."

Even now, Skulduggery could hardly believe the scene he'd stumbled on happened at all. Either his control was slipping to a very dangerous degree, or... well, the black armour was a hell of a coincidence.

It didn't matter, as Gene turned out not to know anything about the armour or where it was. Skulduggery hadn't seriously expected him to. But if the armour wasn't Lord Vile's, then whoever was inside had an interesting idea of a moral compass. One murder, then hours of search-and-rescue? What if the murder, in that case, was justified? It was certainly the only thing that made even the slightest bit of sense.

A moment later, and Skulduggery shook his head. Wishful thinking. There was still only one set of black armour on the turtle that he knew of which fit the bill.

Something else more immediate occurred to him, however. He turned to Gene. "Some of the kedan? Have you been asking questions about it yourself?"

There was something exceedingly strange happening here. It was obvious that Skulduggery was assuming, or at least suspected, that the black armour was Lord Vile. Yet it wasn't Lord Vile's style to murder one person--only one person? Let alone to then attend to the city's residents. As if he cared. Lord Vile was not a creature who cared.

Given those facts, why would Skulduggery assume Lord Vile was involved in the first place? If he had known Vile was here beforehand, he wouldn't need to investigate. Yet he knew that Vile had changed his tactics, enough to suspect it was Vile to begin with. Neither of which made any sense when put together.

Solomon rubbed his eyes in lieu of shaking his head. His leg still beat wildly with pain, but at least now he was calmer and seated, and focussed on something else. Compartmentalisation was a wonderful thing.

"Murdering a single person and then lending aid to civilians is hardly Lord Vile's style," he pointed out. Pleasant wasn't usually the type to be so subjective he would miss that. What did he know, that made him overlook that very pertinent fact? "It's far more likely to be someone else. We're in another dimension. What are the odds a man in a black suit of armour, not matching Vile's usual methodology, would be Vile himself?"

Something about his own words sounded strange. Something about the man in the armour ...

Skulduggery, Solomon realised suddenly, hadn't been talking about seeing a man in a suit of armour. He'd just been asking about a suit of armour, divested from the man. How very ... curious.

If only his mind could work properly past this blasted injury. Solomon had the very intense feeling there was something very important that had just slipped him by. Then again, that could just be the fact he had been flung into another dimension to ride turtle-back. Things, right now, were extremely strange in general. Very strange, and he was starting to feel lightheaded, and that coupled with the seeping warmth against the padding of the kedan's splint did not bode particularly well.

"Far be it for me to interrupt this fascinating conversation," he murmured, resting his head back, "but I'm still bleeding to death in this chair. Don't mind me, in the least. Please, do carry on investigating a murder while a man dies beside you."

"No?" Gene replied to Skulduggery's question. "Some of the kedan have been talking about it. I mean, it's not exactly a usual occurrence around here." Indeed, the most use Gene had been making of the armor was staking out the palace before Eshai's death, and he hadn't wanted to look even remotely responsible for that, so he'd toned it down.

Then when Solomon began to ask questions of his own, some of the tension in his chest eased. Lord Vile. They're looking for someone named Lord Vile. They're not looking for me. Not for the first time was he thankful that he'd opted to help with the search and rescue operations both in the armor and as his own self. Granted, he'd been seen helping less out of his armor, because the armor made him feel safer and imposed a sort of mental barrier between him and the horror surrounding him.

Still, it would behoove him to find out what this Lord Vile was like so Gene could deliberately act counter to what they would expect of him the next time he donned the armor. "Lord Vile?" he said, sounding puzzled.

Then he realized that Wreath was still in dire need of help. "Right. Sorry. I'll go get a healer." And he excused himself, hoping he could find one quickly so that he could go back to his gathering of intelligence on suspicious armored characters.

Suspicious armored characters who were now confirmed to not be him.

Skulduggery didn't answer either of them. Gene because he left soon after asking the question - which was fortunate, all things considered - and Wreath because he was Wreath.

Maintaining that policy, however, was going to make the next few minutes more awkward than Skulduggery really cared for, so a moment later he folded his arms and looked the necromancer in the eye. Or at least, he looked Wreath in the eye as far as it was possible to, given he didn't have any himself. "The last thing you remember is the fight at Aranmore Farm, isn't it? The Faceless Ones had just come through, your bone was piercing your leg, the entire world was on a tipping point."

It seemed like an eternity ago. Skulduggery had endured far too much since then. Everywhere he looked, it seemed like something was about to end the world, and it didn't seem like he could escape it even by jumping into another dimension.

He sighed. "That battle was almost four years ago for me, and it feels like much longer."

The silence after Gene left was neither surprising nor entirely unwanted. The only downside was that it left the hubbub of the hospital clear to Solomon's ears; the call for aid, the nurses speaking, the pained whines of the injured. War. He'd been glad when it was over. Sometimes he wondered why he couldn't let things be, as his colleagues had accused when he announced he was going to help fight the Diablerie.

It was rather a pity that there was no way he'd be able to sleep without the aid of drugs, or he could very well have dropped off then and there. In fact, he'd have preferred it. Unfortunately, his leg prevented it.

Skulduggery's voice made him reluctantly open his eyes to look at the skeleton. He considered that information. It made sense. It explained why the skeleton's reaction should be so incongruous to what he expected. It explained why Solomon felt as though there was an elephant in the room he couldn't see.

"I see," he said, and arched an eyebrow. "And your overwhelming imperative during those four years was to start a new and very purple fashion? Or was that one of the methods the Faceless Ones used to punish you?"

Skulduggery was altogether too lucid to have been with them all four years, but his sudden shifting moods could be an indicator of some variant of insanity. Which, really, was understandable given the circumstances. Still, none of that explained Pleasant's certainty that Vile was involved in spite of the fact the modus operandi didn't fit Vile's pattern.

Despite everything - or perhaps because of it - Skulduggery managed to laugh, and held a purple-boned hand up as if to reexamine the colour for himself. "This is a more recent addition," he explained. "A magical barrier's sprung up around the Palace of Landed Sky, and touching it has equal chances of knocking you out or turning you a very strange colour."

He hardly thought it fair some people got away with bright yellow hands that were easily concealed with gloves, while his whole skeleton was changed. But alas, it couldn't be helped. Not without buckets of white paint, and Skulduggery didn't quite feel like throwing his dignity under a bus just yet.

"We did win," he added belatedly, after reluctantly admitting to himself that some sort of explanation was probably in order. He did just punch a man with a broken leg, after all; he owed him something. "Drove them back. Got me back. And then Vandameer Craven found a Death Bringer, and let me tell you, that was veritable barrel-fuls of fun."

The Palace of the--ah, yes. Others had mentioned that: the location this dimension's version of Mevolent had secured. And secured well, apparently.

"For an evil madman I can't say I disapprove of his punishments," Solomon said dryly. "At least he has far more a sense of humour than Mevolent. Perhaps we ought to call him Junior. The new and improved." Summoning just by speaking a name wasn't something that had ever occurred in his universe, though he wasn't about to dismiss it; at least here they were aware of the power names held. Besides, there were many during the war who used to believe speaking Vile's name would make him reappear.

That had been a power beyond even Vile, obviously, but Solomon could understand the desire to make sure. Some had said the same of Mevolent.

He would have pointed out that he remembered winning, except that Skulduggery's final comment made him bark out surprised laughter. His leg twinged and he hissed through his teeth, and then laughed again. "Craven found a Death Bringer? Craven? From where, his dreams? Or perhaps the bottom of a barrel full of onions?"

A sense of humour. Of course. That would have been the driving motivation behind Malicant's bombing half of Keeliai. That would have been the irony underlying the murder of the former Emperor. That would be why Malicant seemed to delight in sowing seeds of fear wherever he went, poisoning a large turtle continent so that the people upon its back might starve, or commandeering a palace very likely by murdering half of the Guard and blackmailing or threatening the rest.

There came a point where even the sarcasm in Skulduggery's own mind started to get tiring, and so he stopped.

"An acolyte," he said flatly, "whom Craven drew routing sigils on to loop the power of her Surge near-continuously. She underwent extensive rehabilitation afterwards, as I recall."

Not before murdering most of the Temple, an entire manor full of people, and nearly murdering Valkyrie, of course. Skulduggery still held a grudge over all of that.

An acolyte. An acolyte on whom Craven had been experimenting ... It was actually somewhat frightening that Solomon couldn't immediately state a name. Craven enjoyed collecting acolytes--much in the same way some men, back in the day, thought owning slaves was evidence of their power and nobility.

Most of the time Craven simply used them as runners or cleaners in exchange for a few sanctimonious lessons from a respected high cleric. Some he let compete against one another for his favour, and yet never actually blessed any of them by taking one as an official apprentice. He just strung them along to prove he was a master and they were dirt under his shoes.

No, that wasn't surprising. What concerned Solomon a little more was the extreme cold note in Skulduggery's voice. The last time Solomon had heard a note that cold was in the middle of the war, not long before the Necromancers declared their neutrality. But that had been a very personal matter. This wasn't.

"It's not impossible," Solomon admitted, watching Skulduggery guardedly. "And very like him, to experiment upon acolytes. I presume she failed to live up to his claim."

She had to. Otherwise the Passage would have succeeded and rehabilitation wouldn't have been possible. Still, unease made Solomon's neck prickle. It wasn't impossible for Pleasant to know the term 'Death Bringer'. Acolytes were unwise, and a number of people were aware the Necromancers had a saviour. That Pleasant knew the term wasn't a surprise. And yet ...

"Of course she failed." It was a cheerier phrase than any of the last few had been, but Skulduggery didn't make any effort to add to that cheeriness himself. "She came very close to initiating the Passage, but thanks to yours truly, she did not. You were even a bit of help, at one stage."

Not much of one was a heavily implied silent addition, but Skulduggery generally made it a habit to give credit where credit was due.

"Would there be a point," he added belatedly, "in asking why you've never mentioned the Passage before?" They likely still had one minute before Gene reappeared with a healer, and it was a question Skulduggery hadn't had the chance to put to Wreath back in their own world. No time like the present, or so the saying went.

The implication was almost completely lost in the wake of the rest. Solomon stiffened and it made his leg spark pain, and between the two he took a moment to regain composure. Pleasant knew about the Passage. He must. His phrasing left no doubt of that. In light of that fact ...

In light of that fact, Solomon was surprised he was still alive--here, or in Pleasant's own dimension.

Yet, somehow, it was Skulduggery's final question that was the most confusing. The most ... incongruous. It was as though, in spite of how their relationship had soured, Skulduggery still possessed an element of faith in Solomon's desire to ask him, specifically, for help. Right now, it sounded almost tired, and Solomon had to stare.

"Why would I have?" he asked, bluntly but not accusing. If anything, bewildered. "Why would I have? If you know, I'm surprised I'm not dead." Skulduggery was not the type to show mercy to those doing what he saw as evil. Solomon frowned. "And I helped? Why would I do that?"

Why would he help prevent the Passage? Why would Skulduggery genuinely wonder why Solomon hadn't said anything about it? He still felt as if there were details he was missing, and his leg hurt too much to fully concentrate on the important parts.

[OPEN] Eshai Memorial Hospital May catch-all

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Consider him gone with this tag!

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