What Time Is It, What Day Is It, What Fandom Is It? pt 2 by Diane Echelbarger & Spifff, unaffiliated Nigel Wetmore used with Lana Soward's permission. Thursday, 8/8 5:11pm (continuous w/pt 1) "Ms. Etchelburger?" the older woman ventured in her best professional- soothing-a-wacko-patient voice. "Eck-ul-bar-grr," Diane enunciated carefully. She had long since become resigned to the fact that people would always mangle her name. "And you people had *better* have my real clothes around here somewhere, or you are in *big* trouble." She knew the nurses weren't really at fault, of course. The NatPack, taken together, probably owned enough scrubs and lab coats to outfit the entire ward, so sneaking themselves, and her, into the hospital would have been easy. But she wasn't about to let them go another second thinking that this was *her* idea of proper clothing. "I'm sure they're right here," the head nurse assured her quickly and opened the closet. It was empty. The head nurse smiled a sickly smile and turned to the older nurse. "Maxine, our patient's things don't seem to have been transferred yet. Why don't you run down to the gift shop and pick her up one of those nice t-shirt style nightgowns they have there-- on us, of course." Maxine, who knew a delaying tactic when she heard one, nodded and hurried out the door, closing it behind her. Before Diane could do more than mentally vow retribution on the 'Pack, the nurses started to help her to her feet, and her head spun again. (She didn't know it, but this convinced the head nurse that Diane couldn't possibly have gotten into that ridiculous outfit by herself.) As they eased her onto the bed and pulled the sheet up over that absurd costume, several facts she had overlooked in her first rage occurred to her. The nursing staff knew her name. They expected her to be there. And the small calendar on the bedside table said AUGUST on the uppermost page. "How long have I been here?" she asked. "You were transferred in this morning," Annie, the nervous one, replied. "You've been in the HBTC until now." "HBTC?" "HyperBaric Treatment Chamber," the older explained. "Ah, here's Maxine." The nightshirt-- a pale grey oversized T with "Property of Toronto General Hospital" stenciled on it in royal blue-- fit fairly well, and was *much* more comfortable than the scratchy red fake fur. As Diane settled once more onto the pillows, the door opened again. "I understand you awoke a bit earlier than anticipated," an oddly familiar voice said from the doorway. Diane thought as the man in the white lab coat smiled at her and strolled toward the windows. The man reached the windows and turned to look at her-- standing in the full glare of the late-afternoon sun. "I hope you're feeling well? Not too dizzy?" the rational part of her mind insisted. Her mind babbled helplessly on, arguing with itself, as the eerily familiar figure approached the bed and took her pulse. The doctor's hand was tanned. Very tanned. This fact reassured her enough that she was able to answer him semi-coherently. "Who are you?" "My name is Dr. Nigel Wetmore," he told her smoothly. "I've been treating you since you were admitted." He smiled. It was a professional smile, intended to reassure the patient. "You gave us quite a scare, you know." "I did?" Diane tried to remember anything she could have done or been planning to do that could give her the bends-- because why else would they have put her in a hyperbaric chamber?-- and gave up. "What happened?" "You were attacked by a dog," he explained. "Lost quite a lot of blood. You've been unconscious for some time." "I have?" She frowned, and a vague memory resurfaced, of herself standing in the shadow of a tree, and people digging... and glowing yellow eyes. She put her hand up to her neck. There was a small bandage on the right- hand side. She spent a moment trying to figure out why she was still alive, then gave up. "What day is it?" "Thursday." "Oh." She thought about that. "I've been unconscious for five days?" He smiled. "Twelve, actually." "*Twelve* days?!" More mental math followed. "You mean it's August 8th?" "That's right." "Great," Diane snarled. "That means I missed the Brabant opening at the ROM. And the convention I was here for. *And*," she added, "my birthday." Dr. Wetmore and the nurses made professionallly-sympathetic noises. He took a her blood pressure (still rather high, for her, at 122/86), dictating the readings to the nurse, told her she would be released Saturday morning if she didn't over-exert herself, and left. Maxine (the head nurse had long since vanished, taking Annie with her) offered to fetch her something to drink and mentioned that dinner would be served at six. Diane requested cranberry juice, and as soon as the nurse was out of sight, she reached, carefully this time, for the phone. It was picked up on the first ring. "Hello, Bizza Pizza, may I take your order? Today we'er offering a two- for-one special and a free 6-pack of diet softdrink." Spiff was unusually jovial on the other end of the line." "Spifff? Is AJ there?" Doing her finest answering machine imitation, Spifff answered, "I'm sorry, AJ's not currently available. After the tone you may leave a message. Beeep!!" "That's OK, you'll do fine," Diane said eagerly. "Listen, this is Diane, can you--" "Diane, you're awake! You're OK, that's terrific! How are you feeling? Wait a minute, it's really you, isn't it? This isn't some sort of post-mezcal hallucination or weird aspirin and coffee trip? Man, I gotta cut down," Spifff began, somewhat incoherently. Diane waited for her excitable friend to stop babbling, then answered. "Yes, I'm awake. I'm fine, just a little weak on my feet. Listen, you guys know there's a War on, right?" "Yah." Spifff started into a detailed explanation of their activities at full speed. "We sent some photographs to the Vaqs then-- oh, wait, you don't know about that. Like we had some pictures taken down at the river, right where you..." "Cut!" Diane interrupted. "Look, you can fill me in when you get here. Right now I need your help with a counter-attack." "But of course, I serve to obey. Your every wish is my command," Spifff responded. "Great. Now listen carefully. Somewhere in the apartment there should be a blue box, about a foot square and three inches deep. It's got a white plastic carry-handle and says "Hershey's Candy Shoppe" all over it." Spifff looked around and noticed a large black feline sitting posessively on Diane's box. "It's right underneath Comet-cat." "Good. Bring it to the hospital. I'm in room 417. Oh, and bring my teal bag, will you? I need something to wear. And Spiff? Hurry." "Like, on my way, faster than a speeding bullet." Spiff hung up the phone. Diane replaced the receiver in its cradle, took a long sip from her cranberry juice, and smiled. she thought.