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There’s not much he can process, after the blunt plastic rams against his brain the first few times.
Acapulco can hear their footsteps as they run, the printer’s monotone jammed, jammed, jammed screeching in rhythm with the plate that’s forcing his head against the glass and keeping him in a vice. He feels his limbs, shaking and twitching, autonomous in their desperate attempts to pull his body away; and they tear deeper gashes up his scalp, palpably ramming the prong against bone. With his one good eye, he sees the room in flashes, shades of red, blood red, punctuated by black.
It seems like an eternity before he’s able to lift his arms, weak and heavy and trembling, enough to hold the extruder up and pull his head out. Acapulco stumbles backwards and, unable to steady himself, collapses on the hotel floor, his body splayed as though he’s been shot. His chest heaves with ragged breaths, his body wracked with adrenaline, his pounding heart pushing more blood down the back of his skull and gathering in pools on the hardwood floor.
He’d rather been shot, he thinks, as darkness engulfs his vision. At least then he’d have gone out with a bang, and not this fucking whimper.
--
When he drifts into consciousness, his vision is flooded with a bright, white light, and for a moment he thinks the big man upstairs got something wrong in his books.
“Looks like our Sleeping Beauty is finally awake.”
But if that’s the voice of God, he’s Saint fucking Peter.
Acapulco squints and blinks rapidly against the lights, his blurry eyes adjusting to room around him. The outline of his suite slowly comes into focus, that once heavenly glow emanating from a large screen hanging a few feet away from his hospital bed.
“Morning, sunshine,” Everest comes again, low and steady. He steps next to the bed, leaning down to meet Acapulco’s eyes. “Hey, you hear me?”
Acapulco’s lips part some time before the words are able to leave his mouth. “What happened?” He asks, the raspy quietness of his voice sounding foreign to his own ears.
“You suffered a penetrating brain injury,” Everest answers, standing up again. His hand moves to the cart next to him, popping the cap off of a small white canister. Before Acapulco can register what’s happening, he feels the needle stab into his bicep, his body arching at the pain.
“Fucking hell,” he breathes through clenched teeth. He settles back stiffly against the bed, his eyes falling shut as he takes another deliberate breath. “What’s that mean?”
“Means your temporal and frontal lobes got holes punched in them.”
Everest’s response is short as he moves across the room, picking up a small remote. The projector turns off and the screen is slowly lifted, revealing the Acapulco suite, just as he had left it hours ago. Or-- now that he thought about it-- how long had he been out?
“How long have I been out?” Acapulco asks, the question leaving his tongue with a peculiar ease.
“About two days,” Everest says. “You know, you’re lucky you already had nanites in your bloodstream. The brain damage could have been a lot worse.”
“...Lucky?” He echoes, flashing his teeth as his lip curls back. Acapulco grips the side of the mattress as he swings his legs over the side of the bed, his designer shoes hitting the tile with an angry thud.
“I get stabbed in the fucking head, when I’m supposed to be protected under your fucking rules, and that somehow makes me fucking lucky?!”
Acapulco is able to take a few steps towards Everest before he begins to stumble, his body falling sharply to the side. It’s as if his body’s on tilt, or he’s drunk, his head swimming as he’s left unable to stand. He feels one of Everest’s massive arms catch him suddenly, and is rendered silent as he’s dragged a short ways to one of the hotel chairs in the corner of the suite.
“Ataxia,” Everest mumbles, completely ignoring Acapulco’s outburst. “Stay here, I got something for that.”
Acapulco slouches in the chair as Everest leaves the room, trying to salvage some dignity after having to be carried across the room. He attempts to look unaffected, hazel eyes wandering the room as he scratches at the back of his head idly. When he pulls his hand back he sees old, crumbling blood caked under his nails, and it’s with stunning clarity he realizes he’s exactly as he was when he passed out. His hair is stiff and his Gucci suit is stained around the shoulders with his blood, now at least two days old, and he’d bet that whatever bits of bone got knocked out of him are still lying around the Niagara suite.
Premium membership, his ass.
Everest comes back into the room quietly, stopping in front of Acapulco to hold out some kind of rod to him. Acapulco gives him an icy stare before snatching it, looking over it’s polished black surface and finding it to be a cane. A surprisingly nice cane, with the front of the handle sculpted into the head of a wolf and-- judging by the way his skin doesn’t burn when he touches it-- made out of real gold. It instantly invokes the words Wolf King in his mind, and considering the man owned half of L.A., it wouldn’t be much of a stretch to assume he owned the Artemis, too; though, with the money he had, he could have stood to make the place less of a dump.
He’s ripped from his thoughts as he feels something heavy slam into his gut, making him double over in the chair. Acapulco looks down to find it’s his Louis Vuitton bag, dirty and scuffed from when he left it up on the roof.
“Get out.”
Acapulco lifts his head slowly, brows furrowed, almost wanting to believe he didn’t hear him correctly. “What?”
“Lot of people broke the rules last night, including you,” Everest says, gesturing to the bag in Acapulco’s lap. “Found your little card in the printer after I scraped you off the floor.”
Acapulco pauses for a moment before frantically opening his bag, peering inside. There’s new prescription bottles from the hotel, his phone, his wallet (when did he put his wallet in there?), and his chip card, scratched to shit and snapped in half.
“Shit--”
“Your membership’s been revoked. Get out.”
Acapulco’s eyes dart to his wrist, his blood burning at the sight of the once raised skin now flat and shiny with recent welding. With his bag in one hand and the cane in the other he pulls himself to his feet, glaring up at Everest.
“No, no fucking way!” He protests, his fist tightening around the handle of the cane. It comes a little high relative to his size, but he’s able to lean against it, bracing himself.
“Fucking look at me! I was supposed to be safe here, and those dirty fucking criminals you took in ruined everything! You didn’t-- you didn’t even fix anything, either! My eye’s still fucked up, and now I can’t fucking walk straight? I want my money back, or so help me God--”
It only takes Everest two steps before he’s standing uncomfortably close to Acapulco, his body mere inches from contact. He stands motionless, watching Acapulco shift restlessly in response but keep eye contact.
“Another rule of the Artemis,” Everest says slowly, calmly. “No refunds,” he continues, grabbing Acapulco’s arm, “And no insulting the staff.”
Acapulco panics as he feels himself being dragged again, his shoes scuffing against the tile while Everest continues his steady pace towards the door.
“Wait!” He yells, voice cracking. Everest stops, allowing Acapulco to stand on his feet, but keeps his hand around his arm.
“Th… The riots,” Acapulco stammers. “They’re right outside the place. You can’t throw me out there, there’s cops everywhere..!”
“The riots were dispersed yesterday morning. I think you’ll be alright.”
Acapulco continues to stare up at him, waiting to see if Everest will start dragging him again. When he doesn’t, he shrugs his hand off him roughly, shooting him another glare.
“...I’m keeping this,” he says, gesturing with the cane.
“That was always allowed.”
Another beat of silence passes before Acapulco finally turns, moving towards his suite door and out into the hall. He hears Everest’s heavy steps trail behind him as he makes his way down to the ‘check in’ area, noting all the dirt and debris still littering the place from the night before. The familiar entrance gate now sports a giant hole in the wall next to it, which he stares at while the lobby door opens up to him.
“You have a good day, Mr. Stone,” Everest urges from close behind.
--
The San Francisco sun is obstructed by another building as Manny steps out of the Artemis, the air still heavy with smoke from the riots. He digs through his bag until he grabs his phone, holding it to his lips as he slowly makes his way down the alley.
“I need you to fly my plane out here NOW. And it better not be the same pilot that was flying that helicopter, because he’s a dead son of a bitch.”