[sub][h3]Doctor Quinn Howell[/h3][hr][/sub]
The tail end of a memory was swimming through Dr. Howell’s mind like an important piece of information he was about to lose and never recover, again, except as it slowly disappeared down the stream, it’s importance seemed to become less and less interesting and valuable.  His need for the memory turned into a want and then it turned into nothing more than a misunderstanding that shouldn’t have warranted his attention in the first place.  As the thought vanished, his eyelids were pried open by covered flesh that felt all too familiar like the movements of human fingers.  The chase of that distant memory had now completely vanished in the wake of a blinding light.

Fluorescent brightness riddled through his dazed pupils while his eyes tried desperately to focus and unfocus at the same time.  Remnants of confusion fostered questionably in his unbearably scattered mind.  He could feel his eyebrows knitting together as his face tensed in a failing attempt to ease the pain of bright exposure puncturing his sight as several words were spoken to him--something of appraisal or pleasant satisfaction coming from a masculine voice that seemingly hovered over him. Right as the voice silenced itself, the light clicked off, and Dr. Quinn’s mind visually fell into the  remembrance of a dark cave located inside the barrel of a gun staring at him straight in the face before a valve and a clicking sound administered some sort of shocking yet cliché-like fatal blow to his head. 

Dancing blind spots pressed against his vision, which kept him from over reacting physically to the disturbingly exciting jolt of recollection playing out in his mind. Death. Yes, death. He was supposed to be dead, a lifeless corpse.  His mouth opened; body reacting to some cheerfully spoken command as his mind began grasping for the tail end of that escaped memory he had just rendered useless and trivial before having his eyes forcefully opened. The feeling of a depressor touched gently down on his tongue before his  mouth closed itself to the sound of another spoken command by the same voice. His fingers wiggled, slight stiffness unfolding oddly and continuing into the nerves moving the muscles in his toes. He had just died. That elusive memory, it was death wasn’t it?

Or was it?

The dark patches in his vision faded into the churning sounds of valves muttering steam and gurgling machinery hissing. His dark eyes tightly shut, again, scraping back the sensitivity that had just been invaded. His right hand found its palm pressed against his face, feeling the facial features that tightened from the perplexity and a mechanical need to answer the voice’s question.  There were already too many of his own questions flooding his thoughts and trying to push inquiries, loud judgements, and hypothetical answers to stabilize the disarray of confusion overwhelming him. If only he could recapture that memory…

“Ah? Qu—Doctor Howell,” his hand drew away from his face and relaxed next to his nude body, still yet to be fully understood as completely exposed, “Doctor Quinn Howell,” the deepness of his voice sounded so distant to his memory as if he hadn’t heard himself speak in some time. Had he survived the gunshot by some rare chance and fallen into a coma? It seemed like the most plausible explanation as imperfect of a solution to his problem to understand the current situation as it was.

His eyes reopened, and vision registered the face above him.  Gadgeted goggles stared down at him.  They were not too foreign looking but very much futuristic in their own right. The machinery webbed above him and the man standing over him had its own age, rust, and the lingering stench of burning metal, copper maybe. Curiosity turned his head away from the pleased face and stared from the glass container around him. There were other pods—all identical in build and stature—assumed to be like the thing holding his own body. Several seconds of thoughts to alleviate the escalating pulse fluttering in his chest past through him before his attention came back to the sand haired man, “W-where are we?” 

In all his years of practicing, this set up was much too abnormal to be a hospital, unless his predictions of the future had escalated incorrectly during his coma. A heavy sinking feeling rested against his chest, imagining his family, friends, patients, time lost. How long had he been out? He couldn't have been out for too long; his motor skills, reasoning, and response times were far too advanced and nimble for a prolonged state of anything worse than a minimally conscious state. Unless, of course, technology had taken a giant leap, which was disturbingly frustrating instead of intriguing in his flustered mind.