After he had been found by the military recon team, the lifeless form of the teenager had been hastily rushed off to the nearest hospital. It had been a close run thing, but despite all odds being against him, he had made it through all the extensive surgeries that had followed. The best of experts were at work, and the doctors had been able to patch him up amazingly well. His face, though, had not been salvageable. The cuts had been glued and in some places sewn together, but for the scars they would undoubtedly leave behind, there was nothing that could be done. Some of the less enthusiastic staff dealing with the patient would even go as far as to claim death would have been kinder to the poor boy than life could, now. The rest ignored them, or shot them gazes of disdain, busying themselves with not looking at the partially – mostly – bandaged, unmoving face, and the broken body to come with it.

Seven weeks. For seven weeks, the boy had been lying in the hospital bed, unmoving, except for when nurses came to shift his position to prevent bedsores, or one doctor or the other came in to check on him, which happened less and less often, as he was stabilized, and the possibility of a permanent coma was voiced. After all, the trauma – both physical and mental – that the boy had been put through, was more than enough to push many a grown man off the edge. Most, in fact, would probably prefer death before enduring even half of it, and the mere thought of that was chilling. Even the men who rescued him, or, at least were the ones responsible for removing him from his tormentors and leaving him in the hospital's care, could not bring themselves to more than half a dozen visits between them. In fact, all his visits together totaled seven. And even though he showed no signs of waking up, Alex Rider was far from unaware of his surroundings.

It had taken a long time to make sense of all the strange noises, especially when the incessant pain coming from seemingly everywhere was a constant distraction. At first, it was all he could manage to notice that sometimes there were people around him, and sometimes there were not. Then, when the pain would sometimes subside to a manageable throbbing, though his face never really fit into that category of "manageable" - because it hurt, and how could nobody notice it was burning? - and he was able to focus on what he realized by now was voices – doctors' voices, if he knew anything – and sometimes he even learned something from one of the conversations. Like the fact that his face would never be the same again (then why did they not stop it from burning?), and that even if he woke up again, he would most likely not walk, or even sit upright for longer periods of time for at least a few months, if not years. Sometimes, the better option seemed to be not waking up at all, although that notion did not sit well with him at all, and he could not for the life of him remember why. After all, it was only when he was aware of his surroundings, to some extent; seemingly on the verge of waking up without ever quite managing to, that it hurt. When all senses of the world surrounding him slipped away, so did the pain, and he always welcomed it. Even when he – immobile though he were – started to get itchy with the need to move, to wake up, to do something!, all he seemed to achieve was to banish the blissful unawareness for longer periods at a time, and each minute the pains and aches seemed to intensify, until he thought himself unable to take it any longer.

"… It seems he has started to wake up lately. All monitoring basically shows the same results as before, but when people are present, like now, his brain activity peaks, and he seems to make a stretch for consciousness." A short pause, followed by a soft murmur of a different voice. "Yes, yes of course this is good news. He is fighting for it himself now, so he will almost definitely wake up." If only the doctor and the mumbling voice knew that waking up was the last thing Alex wanted, they might not sound so optimistic. He might unwillingly be dragging himself back to consciousness, but while he did so, and slowly started to remember, he only found himself wishing more and more for the blissful, numb blackness that he didn't know why he was fighting. Almost against his will, he found his attention drifting back towards the ongoing conversation. "… And will he have any.. Lasting damage?" the unfamiliar – familiar? – voice asked, only to have the doctor – he knew most of those by their voice by now – snort derisively, obviously finding the question preposterous. "Of course. Do you not think those wounds will even leave scars?" he asked, incredulous. "Oh, there will be lasting damage, all right. But whether most of it will be on his body or his soul… Well, we can't very well know that till he wakes up, now can we?" The question was very clearly not really a question, and the doctor just as clearly did not exactly hold the person he was speaking to in very high regard. Though there was some very grudging deference hidden in the heavy condescension somewhere, indicating a person of high rank, and questionable morale. A short cough was heard, then more words. "Well, apart from the scars, that we can do nothing about at the moment, there are several complicated fractures that will need a lot of time and no more movement than absolutely necessary to heal right, and I'd say right now he benefits most from staying where he is, although regarding the possibility of an eventual full recovery, we would much prefer him to be conscious, as opposed to not. In any case, the nearest year should not see him doing anything more strenuous than a short walk, if we're lucky and get him on his legs by that time. If he wakes within the nearest month, which I truly hope, any moving around he does will happen in a wheelchair if not the hospital bed, and will be restricted to the insides of the hospital." Again the other participant of the conversation spoke too softly to be heard, but the reply was clear enough. "That wasn't a suggestion. He stays here until the hospital discharges him, and that will happen no earlier than when he can walk again." After that, Alex could not keep his focus on the conversation any more, and felt like his brain had taken in more information than it could handle already. Slowly, he felt himself slip away again, and of course, by now, had learned to anticipate it, rather than fight. The pain he was fleeing from, though, did seem rather… Subdued. Duller, somehow.

Not wasting any more time on that thought, he let it slip away.