[centre][color=6ecff6][h1]Arthur Ragnarson[/h1][/color][/centre]

His eyes snapped open, fearing the bright light of the operating table would meet him again but terrified of the utter blackness that came in between.  He knew not which was worse, the being awake and feeling every bit of the physical torture or waking up to feel the new horrors inflicted upon him.  Now and then he caught bits of what the scientists were saying, their discussions the only moments of reprieve he had.  Usually they were arguing over whether to wait for him to be conscious or not before continuing.

This time, though, there was no bright white light blasting him full in the face.  The room around him was much better lit with no spotlight upon him.  The surface underneath him felt much more comfortable, supportive, and there were no constraints strapping him in place.  He started to sit up, to get a better idea of where he was but then flashes of pain from every part of his body racked him, threatening to send the young Brit back into darkness.

[color=6ecff6]"Fuuuuuu..."[/color] He whispered through gritted teeth, feeling the satisfaction of the rare swear mollify the pain; a little anyway.  After the pain dulled into a numbing throb he moved slowly into a sitting position and took stock.  By now it was clear that he was back in his room, lying on the bed.  His right leg was in a cast and it felt like most of his body was wrapped in bandages and dressings.  His left shoulder cried out in excruciating pain whenever he moved his arm and so, reluctantly, he made use of the sling that had been prepared.

It was difficult to get a proper assessment of his injuries through the swathe of bandages but from the pain alone he knew he had several minor fractures, his leg majorly so, and his shoulder had probably been dislocated.  His chest burned whenever he breathed, suggesting at least a few cracked ribs, and he could feel the sharp pain of cuts and gashes across his entire body including a few minor ones on his forehead, left cheek and a light one over his right eye which had mercifully not impeded his vision at all.

With great effort, and excruciatingly slow progress, Arthur perched on the edge of the bed and, using a crutch left leaning against the bedside table, managed to stand.  He took some time to adjust to the new balance, feeling distinctly unsteady on his unbroken but nevertheless injured leg, before making his slow way to the door.  That short journey, normally six or seven steps, was exhausting and seemed to take an eternity.

As he began to limp down the corridor, keeping close to the wall so that he could lean on it to take a break, he wondered what to tell the others.