Kaden hasn't slept for three days. He might not have considered this weird, except it's barely been a week since his birthday. A week and a half. The past three days feel like a blur. The past month kind of feels like a blur, between his family and the Calling -- he held out too long. That must have been it; he held out until his birthday, after Christmas, and then he didn't let himself sleep it off. He didn't fix the sleep debt. Of course it's come back so soon.
He's waiting in a clean white room, one of the lower labs in Biosys. It's rare that he brings his personal projects to work with him, but he didn't want Iris to recognize the apartment. He didn't want her anywhere she would recognize. She's lying face down on a table, unconscious, a machine keeping track of her vitals next to the hospital bed she's strapped to. It's really more institutional than anything, but he needs her to be unable to fight, and so many people are able to fight through paralytics. He has no idea how her Wanderer body chemistry will react to them, anyway; she deals with weird chemicals on a daily basis.
Next to the bed is a metal table, rolled close but not too close; there's a body's worth of space between it and the bed. On it is his present from Santa, laid out neatly. The surgical tools shine in the fluorescent lights of the lab. His fingers are literally itching to use them.
Instead, he checks his watch. She should be coming to at any point now. The drug he slipped her wasn't a strong one, just enough to knock her out so he could take her here, put her in this setup. He's checked and double-checked it, and now there's nothing left to do but wait. He's wondering how long he can stand to wait before he has to
make her wake up; the Calling's already burning through his body, he's jittery and unable to keep still. His wings twitch and flare outward against the walls as he paces the room in his surgeon's mask, apron, his sleeves rolled up and his hair tied back. There's an accompanying surge of pins and needles down his arms to his hands, encased in black latex gloves; he grimaces, then walks over to play with the tools on the table.
His perception is tunneling, thinking only of Iris on the table, of what he's going to do, of the many things he can do before going for home, and how long he'll hold out before he can't stand the pain any longer, before he has to stop. He doesn't quite realize he's whispering softly, mostly to himself.
«Wake up. Wake up. Wake up.»