He does not, however, appear to be conscious now. He's breathing, but his body is deadweight, limbs rag-doll limp and floppy as Marian reaches him and rolls him onto his back. 

Marian spends a while trying to get a response from him and failing. 

That's weird? Sometimes patients on drugs do have sudden changes in mental status, but she's still confused. Also this makes it about a thousand times more awkward to try to get him out of his waterlogged coat and sodden bathrobe. She has to do it anyway but she really wishes she could do it not in front of Mister Creepy Security Guard's dubious frown. 

At least he eventually, sheepishly, lends her a jacket. It's not a very thick one, but she can roll unconscious homeless guy onto it, once she's wriggled him free of the coat and bathrobe, and then add her own much heavier winter coat as a blanket. Where she can quickly retrieve it once the ambulance gets here. She finds that she doesn't especially care if Security Creep gets his jacket back. 

The ambulance arrives, sirens screaming. Security Creep skulks nearby while the paramedics jump out and unfold the wheeled stretcher from the back. 

"...It's you?" one of them, a young man, says in disbelief. "It's -" he rubs his forehead, "- Mary, no? What are you doing here?" 

Making terrible life choices, Marian thinks but doesn't say.

"Guess he's lucky I happened to be around," she says, a lot more lightly than she feels.

"You know him?" 

"What? No, sorry. No clue who he is. I was, uh, walking home," and hope he doesn't ask why she was walking home at TWO O'CLOCK IN THE MORNING on a TUESDAY, "and I saw him sleeping on the bench, so I tried to, uh, help. He...was confused. Didn't know what city he was in. Think he's high or drunk, not sure what he's on. I should've called an ambulance but..."

Shrug. She waves a hand vaguely. "You know. Anyway. He...got freaked out when this guy," gesture at the security guard's car, "stopped to, uh, to see if we needed help. There was some - confusion - and he, uh, jumped over the bridge railing to try to get away. Fell through the ice. We called 911, I tried to help him get out of the water, he...got himself out but then passed out." 

There are raised eyebrows. 

"Also I have work in, uh, four hours. So can we hurry." 

This gets her a laugh and eyeroll from the second paramedic, a slightly overweight older woman. "Oh, to be twenty-one again. What's his GCS now? Bill, let's start getting him packaged up..." 

"Uhhhh...." Wow, doing this in her head at three am while not totally sober is embarrassingly hard. "Six or seven? Better than a few minutes ago, he was totally unresponsive at first but I was getting some movement and sounds in response to pain. Uh, some of his clothes are still wet, I think we'd better address that. He's not shivering and given everything else I don't think that's a good sign." 

Because Marian is a COWARD and a bad person and could not bring herself to remove a man's skirt in front of Security Creep. 

"I'll get him on the monitor if you pass it over?" she offers. "Bill knows me, I work in the ICU over at Montfort." 

The machine can't get a temperature reading at all, and the SpO2 probe waveform fades in and out - his hands are freezing - but when it does manage to get a reading, his sats are above 95%. His blood pressure and pulse are lowish but surprisingly tolerable. 

"Chop-chop, Bill," the older woman mutters. "Let's get this show on the road. We don't know what he took, he could start crashing fast."

"I couldn't get a temp," Marian adds, plaintively. "I think he's below...whatever your machine can measure." 

"Yikes. Thirty-two." (Degrees Celsius. This is Canada, after all.) "He's a popsicle." 

The jarring motion as the paramedics get him onto the stretcher, and then navigate it over the icy sidewalk and around to the back of the truck, eventually penetrates the blackness around him. 

Drifting through haze, Ma'ar can't remember where he is or how he got here. The war... He has a vague recollection that it was going, well. Badly. 

And now he seems to be tied down, too weak to fight the restraints, and his Gifts aren't working. 

This is not good, this is very not-good, but for some reason it's hard to summon the will to care. 

"Mary, you want a ride?" Bill asks Marian. "I don't feel great about you walking around this late at night." 

Usually Marian hates it with a passion when people say things like that. Right now, though, she's exhausted. And also Bill's partner seems to have stolen her winter coat to add to the (fairly pathetic) ambulance blankets. The thought of walking home without it is incredibly unappealing.

Also, Security Creep is STILL THERE and what if he follows her to try to ""help"". 

"Uh, sure, thanks." Maybe she can even grab a nap in the clean utility room behind the ICU, borrow some OR scrubs, and get away without trekking to and from her apartment at all. She could sleep until 6:45 am. Maybe 6:55 am. Right now that sounds like heaven. 

Bill offers her a hand up into the back of the ambulance, patting the bench next to him. 

"Selfish agenda is that I'd rather not be alone back here if he starts tanking on us." He grins. "You had a good night?" 

"Great up until the point that all this happened. How're your classes going? I haven't seen you in a while." 

Bill is a nursing student, in the community college program at Algonquin, working nights to cover tuition. He and Marian once transferred a trauma patient to the Civic hospital together. They're not friends exactly, but there's a certain kind of bonding unique to 4 am in a hospital. 

"Pharmacology's the worst." The monitor beeps. Bill whacks it. "Fucking sat probe." 

Marian feels vaguely offended on behalf of the poor machine, which is trying its best. "His hands are cold, that's all. You don't have the peds kind?" 

"Dunno. ...Oh, there we go. Ninety-three, we're fine." Bill's eyebrows rise, almost vanishing into his mop of hair. "What was the deal with that guy in the uniform? You were giving him the death glare." 

"I wasn't!" Marian can feel her cheeks flaming. "...Maybe I was a little. He's a bully, is all. I don't want to talk to about it. Bill, please focus on your patient." 

Marian has a suspicion that Bill is, perhaps, not one of the most conscientious or detail-oriented people in the world. Also not one of the brightest. He's told her before that he wants to work ICU as well, and she's never had the heart to tell him outright that she wouldn't want him as a coworker in a million years. 

"Chillax, girl. He's fine. And we're nearly there." 

Marian stretches out and hits the monitor for another blood pressure anyway. The guy's chest rises and falls slowly, but not that slowly. His heart rate is in the fifties, a little irregular Which isn't objectively worrying - her resting heart rate looks like that, fit healthy young adults tend to have sinus arrhythmia timed to their breathing - but somehow she doesn't like it. 

Blood pressure comes in at 92/49. Which is also technically acceptable - he's not a big guy, and he's drunk - but the systolic was in the 100s before. And she doesn't like his colour, which she can see a lot better under the bright ambulance lights. Under his golden-brown natural skin tone - what ethnicity is he, anyway - he's pale, with a hint of grey around his lips and eyes. And...are those beads of sweat around his hairline? He could just be wet from the river, she can't tell. 

Still, her instincts do not like it at ALL. 

"Bill, hey. Did you get a sugar on him?"