Cold wind blows off the ocean, washing over you, but giving you no reprieve from the wounds. It seems like electric burns cannot be numbed with the autumn winds. You make a mental note to avoid such damages in the future. Ampere. Crazy wench. For a moment, your drug hazed mind wanders away from, lost in a void of mist and fog, twisting and turning, a maze of nothing. And for a moment you're laughing, because you think you're going to name this little orb Amp or Amber or Ampersand or something so close to Ampere that she can't help but hate you even more. But in the end its just the drugs, and you decide that maybe you're not going to name it at all, because you don't even want it. Whatever.

And even though it seems like eternity, eventually they come. The Phantom Seeker first. And for a while you don't even remember if you like her or not, if you want her here or want her gone. She spoke out against you after all, called you a liar in front of a new recruit (which you were, but still...). But then those lips. That voice. That sweet molasses that pours out to coat you. She could talk a starving tiger into befriending a wounded deer. But has she talked you into her sweet little game, her collection of loyal followers. Eris thinks she's the best thing since sliced bread, after all. Do you? If you didn't, you do now. She drops a wad of yours drugs at your face. “Phantom Seeker,” you choke out, brown eyes trying to catch her own. You almost add on a won't you be a dying warrior's last conquest? but you're not really ready for any humor right now. And besides, the words are just a conjuration of your drug riddled mind. They're not your actual feelings, are they?

Move, comes a new voice, an efficient voice, and your blurry vision finds something teal and white. A ghost? But no, she moves like she's living, even your hazy eyes can tell this. It's a good thing you were lying down already. The amount of drugs you've decided to ingest would certainly make you incapable of walking. All-in-all, you're just lucky the locoweed plants are not a respiratory depressant or you would suffocate lying here in the open air. Oxy, hurt, try not, Something, something. Is it the pain or your plants that are messing with your hearing? Maybe both.

And then she's touching them, the wounds that already burn like fire and you don't hesitate at all. You kick, but backwards at least instead of down. It's serendipitous really, you didn't do it on purpose, but unless Reizand has moved she should be safe. And you scream, a bellow so loud that somebody might think you're dying. It's a good thing she's the Doctor, or else the wolves from miles around would be here in minutes to finish you off. But then she's singing and you're.... you're hearing things aren't you? There's no way she's singing you better.

But slowly and surely your skin pulls back together, the burnt edges cool and are replaced with newer, more complete skin. You don't see any of it, of course, but you can feel it happening. It's the oddest thing. And yet when she finally stops her song you feel healed. When you look back you find the Doctor sweating, breathing heavily, and somewhere deep in the depths of your soul something akin to a thank you whispers out. But you don't say it aloud. Your heart has been too hurt by those that have mocked you for so much of your life, you think that maybe you see something similar to ridicule in her violet eyes, even if there is none. “No,” you say finally, taking a deep breath. You can move without searing pain. “You're a worthy doctor.” It's the closest she'll get to thanks from you, and perhaps the highest complement you can give, considering you've called almost everyone else in your little group useless at one point or another.

In a moment your head falls back to the ground, locoweed making it too heavy to hold up. You're alive. You have the orb.

we all look for ways to make the pain go away