Whoever was holding him on his side is now distracted as well; they've let go. Good. 

Ma'ar fumbles at the ties holding his other wrist. It's soft cloth, somewhat to his surprise, and feels padded. He can't figure out how the knots work, especially given that he can still barely feel his fingers, but with some effort he manages to loosen it. Enough to pull his wrist free. 

...Right. That leaves the problem of the bars. He seems to be in some sort of cage? But it's a very odd cage. Normally it wouldn't challenge him at all; the walls are only about a foot high. Right now, though, he's still as weak and uncoordinated as a kitten - what did they do to him - and it's going to be a serious challenge. He needs to plan this out, before he gives himself away to the guards.

Ma'ar tries to breathe deeply, fighting against the gluey fog. If he grabs the bars with both hands, he's pretty sure he can pull himself into a sitting position, and then he can probably get his opposite leg over...

Unfortunately, escaping is going to mean leaving behind the warm blanket, he can't carry it. This is almost enough to tempt him to stay. But he might not have another chance. They drugged him before, he's pretty sure, that must be why he can't stay awake - it seems to be wearing off a little now but they'll do it again... 

On the count of three, two, one– 

- and he hauls himself into a sitting position, which works roughly as planned. Getting his foot over the bedrail goes less as planned; he's even weaker than he realized, and also for some reason the blanket has a hose attached and he manages to get himself tangled in it. And he seems to be tangled up in something else, as well, he can't tell what but one of the somethings is pulling painfully at his arm - 

- he gets his foot hooked over the railing and tries to vault himself over it and this does not work at all, because his limbs are about as strong as noodles and he's incidentally restrained by monitor wires and the blood pressure cuff. 

- and then hands are there, pushing him back into the cage, and he doesn't have the strength to resist. 

"Mister, listen - hey - just please calm down, I'm sorry we surprised you - we're not going to hurt you, you're in the hospital, you need to stay in your bed and rest -" 

...Well. He didn't really expect it to work. 

Panic does give him at least momentary strength to extend his Othersenses, and he doesn't need to reach far, the woman is touching him. Holding him firmly, rather. (He really wishes she wouldn't. Everything hurts.) 

He can't pick up all the concepts with her words, but he gets some of it - apology, they want him to hold still - she's claiming he's in a Healers' centre? It doesn't look much like one. They're claiming that they won't hurt him. 

He lets himself go limp, and doesn't even try to resist the woman's grip on his shoulders. 

"Pat! Shit, he just - I've got him for now - can you pull up some, uh, not Haldol, that knocked him out too much - let's try 1mg IV Ativan? Can you put in the verbal order and get it now I don't want to let go of him." 

...Ma'ar is vaguely following that. Confirmation that they want to keep him drugged and complacent. If they bring him something to drink, maybe he can pull off pretending to drink it - though now that he remembers the concept of drinking, he's noticing that he's very thirsty, his lips and throat parched...  

Patricia puts in the order, glancing worriedly over at heart attack guy in the bed over, and then heads for the Pyxis meds dispenser. 

"...Goddamnit. Ativan's out of stock. Can I just give him some midazolam?" 

That feels a little doomy, but the man can probably handle it, if he's with it enough to elbow a nurse in the face. (She feels so bad about that, even though it's not obvious how it could be her fault.) 

"Sure. Uh, start with point five though, we'll go carefully." 

Ma'ar does not have a chance to pretend to drink, since the drug is given through his IV and he doesn't even notice it. He does notice that he's suddenly a little dizzy, though. He grasps for the bars of the cage. 

"...Give him another point five and then let's hope he lets us restrain him again." 

The world is spinning and Ma'ar is no longer at all capable of holding onto Thoughtsensing. The hand gripping his wrist is unexpected, and despite knowing it's not strategic in the least to fight right now, he can't help it. He does not like having his hands tied down. And he might be seeing double right now and too weak to sit up unaided, but he can still lash out with his fingernails at the hands trying to bind him. 

"Jesus Christ, man, what the fuck is wrong with you!" Patricia jumps back. 

"- I'm starting to think he doesn't understand a word we're saying," Emmy says quietly from the other side of the gurney. "He's disoriented and scared, all right?" 

"If he doesn't calm the fuck down he's going to pull his IV out and then where will we be?" Patricia flings up both hands. "Can I give him another two mg." 

"- I don't want him over-sedated. You can give him another one mg. And again in five minutes if he's still antsy." 

...He's not. The additional dose is enough to leave Ma'ar floating. It's less a feeling of fog-and-spiderweb, this time; he just feels outside of his body, like nothing is real, it's just some child's doll whose limbs are being tied with padded wrist restraints. 

Emmy rests a hand on the patient's shoulder for a second. "I'm sorry, sir. I know you're scared and confused. And you probably don't understand this. But - we're trying to help, I promise. You're really sick and we can't risk losing your IV. But everything's going to be all right." 

Patricia gets another pack of restraints and ties his ankles too. He might kick her otherwise. 

And in five minutes, when Emmy is over assessing the heart attack patient and making the call on whether he needs an urgent transfer to the cardiac cath lab over at Ottawa General Hospital or can wait until morning, she gives the sleeping patient another milligram of midazolam, because she is incredibly over him fighting her and maybe this will keep him quiet until it's day shift's problem. 

Emmy glares at the printout for heart attack patient's 12-lead ECG and eventually admits, grumpily, that there's definitely an elevated ST segment on at least four of the leads and this calls for shipping him out. His vital signs are mostly stable but three doses of nitroglycerine plus supplementary oxygen and the usual meds on the protocol didn't fully resolve his chest pain. 

She calls Ottawa General and is almost immediately put on hold. 

"Pat?" she calls out while she waits, twirling the phone cord around her finger; her cell doesn't have the best signal in here. "Did you ever end up getting another temp on him?" 

     "...Right. I'll do that. Uh, okay if we skip the rectal probe for now? I can try to check more often, just..." 

Emmy sighs. "Yeah. Figure we'd best wait until we know for sure we can communicate with him. Day shift has access to that virtual interpreter service, no?" 

     Patricia just shrugs, and retrieves the low-temperature thermometer. 

Ma'ar floats a long way away, but manages to open his eyes - which feels oddly like opening curtains at arms' length - when he hears a voice and then feels them shove something in his mouth. Why do they keep doing that. It's not painful but it's uncomfortable. 

Patricia glares at the thermometer. "...Huh, he's only up to 30.6. I would've thought he'd warm up faster." 

Emmy scowls as well. "Shit. Well, he didn't get that warming blanket until...what, during the code earlier? And we only ever gave the one litre of fluids. He could probably do with a few more, his BP's still soft. And check it every thirty minutes, please -" 

The hold music changes to a man's gruff voice, and Emmy breaks off, lifting a hand apologetically, and ducks behind the desk to negotiate the patient transfer. 

This time her voice doesn't disturb Ma'ar at all. He's a long, long way away. 

Emmy haaaaates transfers. She always manages to forget quite how much she hates transfers. After calling the cath lab and arranging a spot, she has to wrangle a transport team and ambulance to pick up the patient, and find a nurse willing to accompany him, and fill out endless paperwork - literal, physical paper, like some kind of peasant, the Ottawa General doesn't share an electronic medical record system with Montfort. 

And then there's another unstable patient to assess, and forty-five minutes pass before she has a chance to do more than glance at their John Doe's monitor and check that he's calm. 

She checks the vital signs in the chart, and is a little miffed but not surprised that Patricia is hours behind on charting. It's been a hectic night. 

"Pat? What's our last temp?" 

     Patricia glances up from her computer. "Hmm? Oh. Thirty point eight. That was ten minutes ago or so." 

"Thanks." Emmy adds it to the chart herself, since she has it open right there, then checks the med record. That's...not as much improvement as she'd hoped for. "He got another litre of the saline-D5?" 

     "Yeah. Alicia hung it for me, I was grabbing a break." 

Emmy frowns, suddenly suspicious. "...Did she warm it?" 

     Patricia's head jerks up. "Christ. I'm - not sure. I think I mentioned it but she might not've." 

Emmy shakes her head. "At least it firmed up his BP a little. Look at that, systolic above 100 again." Then she frowns at the chart. "...You've only been getting BPs every half-hour?" 

     "He was a little restless when it was taking, before. Given, uh, earlier, I didn't want to push things." 

"Mmm." Understandable, but Emmy doesn't love it. "Hmm. Sats are... Not sure." 

     "Crap, right, he lost the probe again. Rude. I thought he was finally out and staying that way." Patricia stands up, with a grunt of reluctance, and heads over to remedy this situation. "He was satting fine last I checked, though." 

"Get another BP for me, too?" 

Ma'ar doesn't stir when Patricia replaces the O2 sat probe on his finger. (It's been off for a while.) His breathing is even, but shallow and slow. 

The reading comes up as 86% and the monitor pings in complaint.