The staff scramble into action, hurrying to assess the stranger's condition and begin resuscitation efforts. One of the nurses spots the scorched material of his clothes and the angry red burns beneath, realizing with alarm that he must have been struck by lightning. They cut away the remains of his outfit to get a better look at the damage.

Defibrillator pads are applied, a breathing tube inserted, IV lines put in place. After a few agonizing minutes of CPR and emergency treatment, they finally get a rhythm back on the monitors and he begins to breathe, though remaining deeply unconscious. His burns are serious and will require intensive care, but the medical team is cautiously optimistic. They have seen far worse come through these doors and recover.

Satisfied the man's condition is stabilized for now, one of the doctors examines him more closely. Aside from the obvious electrical injury, he seems otherwise in good health, physically fit. But his clothes are strange, archaic, and there are a number of scars that look as though they might have come from bladed weapons. Who is this John Doe, and how did he come to be struck by lightning in the middle of a hospital? The questions outnumber the answers, and all they have to go on are the contents of his pockets - a few gold coins, a sigil that looks almost like a military insignia. Nothing to identify him.

Marian hears the code blue in the ER announced over the intercom, but she's busy setting up to transfer her current, recovering patient out of the trauma ICU to a telemetry ward, and the ER usually has enough staff on hand to handle a code without backup. 

She's not especially surprised, though, when a few minutes later the phone rings, and she hears the unit clerk explaining that their only available room is still being cleaned after a patient was transferred, but should be ready in twenty minutes. 

     "Marian?" the clerk calls to her. "If you're done with the transfer, could you head over to take report on an admit over in the ER?"

Marian frowns. "Was it the code? What's the story?" 

     Shrug. "Sounds like it. Unidentified man, fortyish, lightning strike, they just got his pulse back but who knows if he'll stay stable for long." 

Sigh. Marian hasn't actually finished her charting yet on the patient she transferred out, but she can catch up on her break later. "Yes, of course, I'll head over." 

She's at the ER a couple of minutes later, pausing only to grab the opportunity of a still-empty line at Starbucks and buy another coffee. Her guy is presumably the patient occupying Bed 1 of the trauma bay; she heads straight there, looking for the ER nurse who can give her a brief rundown on what's happened so far. 

The nurse, Mark, looks up in relief as Marian approaches. "Thanks for coming down. This guy gave us a real scare, but we've got him stabilized for now. Witnesses say he just appeared out of nowhere in the hallway and collapsed. Extensive electrical burns, wasn't breathing when we found him. We shocked him a couple times, intubated, started IV fluids. Blood pressure's low but holding, heart rate steady. We're running some tests to check for organ damage."
Marian nods, taking in the details. "No ID on him at all?"
Mark shakes his head. "Not a thing, just some weird old coins in his pockets. The cops may be able to track down more info once he's admitted."
"Any contacts or allergies listed with Jane Doe registry?" she asks, though already anticipating the answer.
"Checked, nothing there either." Mark shrugs apologetically.
Marian sighs, moving to the bedside to get her first look at the John Doe. His face is unburned but pale, eyes closed and tube still in place, a bad burn visible on one shoulder beneath layers of gauze and antibiotic ointment. Definitely the oddest case she's seen in a while.
"Well," she says, "guess we'll have to figure him out the old-fashioned way. Let me know if anything changes, I'll go check on that room for him. We'll want to get him admitted and up to the unit ASAP."
Mark nods. "Will do. Good luck with this one!"

After calling the ICU again and confirming that her room will be clean and ready to accept a new patient in ten minutes, Marian calls for a transport time and then spends the wait doing an assessment. She isn't surprised when the patient fails to respond to anything, up to and including a hard sternum rub; she'll start to worry if he's still this deeply comatose in a couple of hours, but he was in cardiac arrest five minutes ago, right now it's not surprising or very meaningful. At least his pupils are reacting to light, though sluggishly. 

His lungs sound clear, and he's oxygenating well on just 25% oxygen on the ventilator, that's not a problem. His heart rate is steady at 95 bpm, which is fine, but it looks like his second bolus of IV fluids is going in now, and despite that and the two doses of epinephrine he received during the code, his blood pressure is only at 100/65. He definitely looks like someone in shock, pale under a faint sheen of sweat, his extremities cold and faintly mottled.

Marian checks - oh, good, there's an order for a bedside echocardiogram as soon as he's settled in the ICU, to assess for any damage to his heart caused by the electrical injuries. A full panel of bloodwork was already sent, including an arterial blood gas and lactate, but none of it is back yet. 

There's a resident hovering nearby, looking up a different patient on one of the computers. Marian forges over. "Uh, hey. I need to move this guy to the ICU and the elevator's slow this week. Can I get an order for vasopressors just in case he needs them on the way? I'm worried about his hemodynamics." 

The resident looks up, nodding as Marian explains the situation. "Absolutely, good call. Let's start him on norepinephrine, start at 5 mcg/min and titrate to MAP of 65-70. I'll put the order in now." He turns back to the computer, typing quickly.
Marian is relieved. Having the ability to treat dropping blood pressure on the move will make transporting this patient much less nerve-wracking. She double-checks the IV pumps, ensures the vasopressor line is primed and ready to start infusing at the ordered rate as soon as they get moving.
A few minutes later, the transport team arrives with a gurney. Carefully, the stranger is transferred over with minimum disruption to his lines and monitors. Marian climbs onto the gurney as well to continue monitoring him during the ride up to the ICU. His blood pressure remains tenuous but holds steady for now without needing the vasopressors.
On the unit, her patient is swiftly settled into the available room. Marian stays at the bedside, getting him fully connected to the ICU monitors, titrating oxygen levels, and supervising as the respiratory therapist makes minor adjustments to the ventilator settings. She starts a new bag of IV fluids running wide open, hoping to improve his volume status now that he's admitted. An echocardiogram tech arrives shortly to perform the cardiac ultrasound, and his labs begin trickling into the computer system, though nothing alarming jumps out just yet.
At last, Marian takes a breath, feeling this stranger is as stable as they can make him for the moment. But there are still so many unanswered questions. She pulls up a chair, opens his chart, and begins documenting the lengthy admission note to summarize his mysterious arrival and the treatments so far, watching closely for any sign of change.

The patient remains unresponsive, though he's now spontaneously trying to breathe above the ventilator set rate of 12 breaths per minute. 

His initial hematology and electrolyte results are approximately normal, though Marian has an order for serial labs every 2 hours, since electrical injuries can be associated with electrolyte abnormalities from organ damage, and there are concerns about rhabdomyolysis and kidney damage in particular.

His initial lactate is, unsurprisingly, very high at almost 9 mmol/L, and his initial blood pH on the blood gas is dangerously low, below 7, from combined metabolic and respiratory acidosis; his CO2 level was initially quite high as well. It's probably already better; he was given an amp of bicarbonate in the ER, on the assumption that he probably had this exact problem, and both the lactic acidosis and CO2 retention should be improving now that his blood pressure and breathing are stabilized. Marian has an order to draw another blood gas and lactate 30 minutes after his arrival to the ICU, to make sure that it's improving as expected. A resident will come by to place an arterial line soon, since they want to very closely monitor the patient's hemodynamics and will also be able to use it for the frequent blood draws. 

The echocardiogram unsurprisingly shows some dysfunction, with an ejection fraction of 40%. 

A couple of minutes after Marian gets her brand-new art line, calibrates it on the monitor, and sends the repeat lactate and blood gas off to the lab, the patient's blood pressure does start dropping. Occasional ectopic beats are starting to appear on the monitor screen ECG tracing. 

Marian frowns, watching the monitors closely. His blood pressure is down to 90/50, and the ectopic beats while not frequent are worrisome. She titrates the norepinephrine up to 7 mcg/min, hoping to stabilize his pressure without dropping his heart rate. After a few minutes, it seems to be working - his BP crawls back up to 100/60, the irregular beats disappearing.
The repeat lactate and blood gas results come back markedly improved, reassuring her they are moving in the right direction. She makes a note in the chart of the dropping pressure and arrhythmias, titrating the vasopressors as needed to keep his MAP in the target range. His oxygen levels remain good on minimal support, but she'll have to keep a close eye on his respiratory status with that low EF.
A new bag of IV fluid runs in, and slowly his peripheral perfusion seems to improve, fingertips less mottled. But he remains deeply comatose, not reacting to any stimulus.
Over the next couple of hours, his labs remain stable, but Marian finds herself adjusting vasopressor rates up and down to combat fluctuations in his pressure and more runs of irregular heartbeats. He seems to stabilize for a while, then starts dropping off again. She's beginning to worry there may be something more serious going on, some complication from the lightning strike beyond the obvious.
When the attending physician stops in to check on the new admission, Marian fills him in on the first hours of their John Doe's course, conveying her concerns about his instability and lack of neurological response so far.

The resident frowns. "We really don't know what organ damage he might have in there. Did you send the repeat lytes and creatinine yet? The fluids seem to be helping him out, but his kidney function is a concern, and what with how his echo looked, I don't want to risk sending him into pulmonary edema." He sighs. "And I'd like to get a head CT soon, given the lack of response, but I don't want to send you to Radiology with him if you're not comfortable that he's stable enough for a field trip." 

Marian frowns back. "I sent the labs but that was, like, two minutes ago, it'll be a little bit. His lungs still seem fine, but I'm up to 12 mcg/minute on the norepi, his BP is really labile right now." She makes a face. "...He's doing some funky arrhythmias, too, so far he's come out of it on his own every time but I don't love it. If we're taking him to Radiology I would feel a lot more comfortable if you or the attending could come with me." 

The resident nods. "Absolutely, I don't blame you. Alright, keep a close eye on him, page me immediately if anything changes or those arrhythmias worsen. We'll plan to take him for a head CT once his next set of labs come back and we've had a chance to review - as long as his pressure is cooperating and lungs remain clear, we need to get a better sense of what's going on neurologically."
He claps a hand on Marian's shoulder. "You're doing great with him so far, given how unstable he was on arrival. Hopefully once we have some more data we can get a better treatment plan in place. For now, just keep him perfusing!" With that, he heads off to check on other patients.
Marian settles in for another period of close monitoring, adjusting medication doses to keep John Doe's blood pressure from fluctuating wildly and hopefully prevent any further runs of abnormal heartbeats. His oxygen levels remain good, and breath sounds stay clear, but his kidneys could be another story.
Roughly thirty minutes later, the labs are resulted. His electrolytes and kidney function tests come back reassuringly normal for now. Marian pages the resident, who agrees their mystery patient seems stable enough for a quick trip to radiology under close supervision.
Carefully, they get him transferred onto a stretcher, not disconnecting him from any lines or the ventilator, and take him down for a head CT. The test is completed without event, and they return to the ICU, eager to get the results which may hold clues to why he remains so deeply comatose hours after his resuscitation. Marian reconnects all his equipment, adjustments to the ventilator and IV pumps not seeming to have caused any setback, and hopes this yields some answers at last.

Marian looks at the raw imagery herself, of course, but she's not trained in radiology. It doesn't look grossly abnormal to her, no major intracranial bleeding or anything, but she wouldn't necessary recognize more subtle abnormalities. 

While she waits for the radiologist's official report to pop up in the chart, Marian assesses her patient again, checking the last hour's urine output in his catheter bag, and then doing another neuro assessment, pinging the patient's trapezius muscle hard and rubbing his sternum with her knuckles, watching intently for even the slightest response to the painful stimuli. 

There is no response at all. The John Doe remains deeply unconscious, showing no signs of stirring. Marian checks his pupil response again with a penlight, finding they are still sluggish but reactive. His urine output seems adequate over the last hour.
She sits back with a frustrated sigh, reviewing his chart notes and vitals closely for anything she may have missed. But despite some fluctuations, he seems to have remained relatively stable over the last couple of hours. His mysterious coma remains unexplained.
Finally, the radiologist's report pops into the system. Marian opens it eagerly, searching for anything that might provide answers. But the conclusion is frustratingly nonspecific:
CT head without contrast: No evidence of acute intracranial hemorrhage or mass effect. Mild cerebral edema may be present. Correlate clinically for further recommendation of MRI or angiography if warranted.
Marian scowls. Cerebral edema could be contributing to his unconscious state, but doesn't explain why he has shown no signs of waking. She pages the resident again to inform him of the unhelpful results.
When he calls back, she fills him in on the radiologist's vague and unhelpful report. "No major findings on the head CT. Edema is noted but that doesn't tell us much. I haven't been able to wake him at all, pupils still sluggish. I'm worried there may be something else neurological going on, but we have no way to tell what without further testing."
The resident sighs. "Alright, thanks for letting me know. At this point, we may need to consider transfer to a facility with neurocritical care expertise, since we seem to be limited in our ability to determine the cause of his condition. Let me discuss with the attending, and I'll be back to talk options depending on what he recommends. Just continue close monitoring for now."
Marian hangs up, shaking her head in frustration. Their mysterious John Doe remains an enigma, and time may be running out to solve it. She stays near his bedside, hoping some clue may yet emerge to point them in the right direction.

It takes Marian a while to think of it - it wasn't included on the initial panel of lab tests - but, frowning at the patient's pallor and clammy skin, she eventually thinks to check a blood sugar. 

It comes back at 56 mmol/L, which isn't low enough to explain a deep coma but is well below the cutoff for normal range. 

(Ma'ar is also suffering from severe backlash from overusing his mage-gift in the fight and then the frantic Gate out to safety, which would have been enough to drain him unconscious even if the other injuries weren't in the picture. Unfortunately, Marian has no idea that magic exists, and the hospital definitely has no way to directly test for this.) 

Marian curses under her breath. Hypoglycemia certainly won't help the situation. She promptly starts an IV dextrose infusion, hoping correcting his low blood sugar may at least provide some small improvement in his condition.
Waiting for the dextrose to run in and hopefully bring up his glucose levels, she sits down to update the resident again on this latest finding when he calls back regarding possible transfer.
"I just checked a blood sugar on our John Doe," she informs him, "and it came back quite low at 56. I have dextrose running now to correct it, though I don't know if that will resolve his coma."
The resident swears. "Good catch. Low blood sugar along with the cerebral edema likely isn't doing him any favors. Alright, continue the dextrose infusion, recheck glucose in 30 minutes and call me with an update. If his level comes up but there's no change neurologically, I agree transfer may be our best option for further management and diagnosis."
Marian acknowledges the plan, hanging up once more. She watches the dextrose winding its way into the venous access, hoping for any flicker of response. Thirty minutes pass with no visible change. His repeat blood glucose comes back improved at 120, but neuro assessment remains grim.
When she calls the resident to report the lack of progress, he sighs. "I was afraid of that. At this point transfer to a facility with neurocritical and possibly trauma expertise seems our best hope for determining what's causing his condition. I'll make the arrangements to have him transferred as soon as possible. Keep very close monitoring in the meantime for any changes."
Marian frowns as she ends the call. Their mysterious patient remains an enigma, clinging to life without any visible explanation why he will not wake. She hopes the transfer to a better-equipped facility will at last yield answers before it's too late. All they can do for now is continue vigilant watch at his bedside, through the final hours before he is sent away to an uncertain fate.

They receive a call back from the larger specialist hospital in Vegas within twenty minutes, during which the patient remains stable with no other changes, including any sign of waking up. 

The neurologist on the phone agrees that the degree of cerebral edema and other visible abnormalities on the patient's CT scan aren't enough to fully explain his complete lack of responsiveness. If there's anoxic brain damage from the cardiac arrest, or more direct damage from the electrical injury, it's likely to continue to get worse over the next hours and days. The recommendation is to administer a dose of mannitol and mildly hyperventilate the patient to help lower intracranial pressure, and to keep him stable while they arrange transport to Vegas by medevac plane. 

Marian acknowledges the recommendations, already moving to hang a new bag of mannitol and adjust the ventilator settings to a lower respiratory rate and tidal volume, hoping to achieve gradual hypocarbia to reduce intracranial pressure. She updates the resident on the phone consultation and plan for transfer.
Within the hour, a medical transport team arrives by helicopter to take over care of John Doe for the flight to Las Vegas. Marian provides them a detailed report of his course so far, unknown medical history, and the treatments given. They carefully transfer all equipment and lines to their own monitors before loading him into the helicopter and whisking him away.
She stands watching through the windows of the ICU as the helicopter lifts off the roof of the hospital, carrying their mystery patient off to an uncertain fate. Despite all their efforts over the last hours, he remains deeply comatose with no clear explanation why. She can only hope the specialists are able to determine the cause of his condition before it's too late - and that he may yet beat the odds and open his eyes again.
Turning away from the window, Marian begins the lengthy process of cleaning up the now-empty room, restocking supplies, and catching up on hours of missed charting. She makes a final note in the John Doe's chart summarizing his transfer of care before closing out of the record, unlikely to ever know if he survives or find the answers to how he came to them in such dire condition. The strange case will linger in her memory, a reminder of the mysteries of medicine and the lives that pass temporarily into their keeping.
Her shift continues, new patients to assess and treat, but in quiet moments her thoughts return to the unknown man who slipped away into the night sky, holding silent hopes for his survival against the odds. Some answers they may never have; at least they were able to give him a chance, however small, though they could not unravel the riddle of how he came to be.

Ma'ar drifts in darkness. There is no sensation, no thought, nothing at all. 

Eventually, the vibration of the helicopter, as it takes off for the brief flight to transfer him from the Vegas airport to the specialist neuro ICU, penetrates the blackness, and Ma'ar is briefly aware of agonizing pain in his head. 

He doesn't wake up, but as the transport team move the stretcher out of the helicopter onto receiving pad, he coughs, his body tensing before relaxing back into unconsciousness. 

The transport team immediately notes the cough and brief tension, relaying the subtle sign of potential responsiveness to the neuro ICU team awaiting their arrival. At least it provides a flicker of hope that, despite a seeming lack of response so far, higher brain function may yet remain intact. Carefully they move into the unit, providing a full report to the team of neurointensivists on duty before transferring their mysterious patient into a specialized neuro trauma room.
A new round of tests begins in hopes of determining what could be causing his condition and prognosis. Another CT reveals slight improvement in cerebral edema, but also confirms no major bleeds or injuries were missed in the initial scan. An MRI provides a glimpse of diffuse axonal injury and some mild swelling in the temporal and parietal lobes of the brain, but nothing deemed surgically emergent at this time.
EEG shows intermittent slowing and burst suppression, concerning for a comatose state but not definitively indicating irreversible damage. Brainstem reflexes remain intact. The neurologists debate the possible causes for his condition, deciding to begin moderate therapeutic hypothermia to potentially mitigate any secondary injury while further tests are run.
A lumbar puncture reveals mildly elevated intracranial pressure, and oligoclonal bands suggest a possible inflammatory or autoimmune component. Aggressive treatment begins with high-dose steroids and various neuroprotective agents. For now, the John Doe remains in grave yet stable condition, held in a state between waking and dying, as the specialists work urgently to determine his fate.
The subtle cough lingers at the front of their minds, a lone sign that within the still form fighting to cling to life, a spark yet remains. Time alone will tell if that spark is enough, if the treatments and expertise available here may fan it to flame once more - or if, despite all efforts, the darkness that surrounds him now may yet prove final. The specialists know well not to hope for more than his continued stability, one hour at a time, as the long process of diagnosis and management unfolds.

On the bright side, when the night shift nurse takes over and goes in to change the dressings on the patient's electrical burns, there's still no sign of infection. 

And the patient seems to be feeling it. He's still not responding to her voice or demonstrating any purposeful movements, but when she goes to clean the deeper burn across his shoulder, he tenses and coughs for a second time, his expression twisting into a brief grimace before going slack again. 

The nurse's eyes widen in surprise and hope at this second small sign of responsiveness. She hastily finishes cleaning and re-bandaging the burn, then checks his pupil response which remains unchanged, before paging the neuro resident on call to report her finding.
When the resident calls back, she relays the details of the patient's brief reaction to the painful stimulus and cough, followed by return to unresponsiveness. The resident's interest is piqued - two such responses, however subtle, suggest the patient may retain at least some level of intact neurological function, rather than being in a permanently vegetative state.
"Excellent monitoring, thank you for reporting this right away," the resident tells the nurse. "We'll want to closely follow for any other signs he may be waking, or reacting to external stimuli. I'll inform the day team neurologists, as this may impact their diagnostic and treatment approach if there is a possibility of recovery of consciousness. Please continue to closely monitor his pupil response, cough reflex, and physical responses to any noxious stimuli during your shift. Any changes at all, do not hesitate to page me right away."
The nurse agrees, hopeful this development may provide more optimism for their patient's prognosis. She checks on him frequently through the night, continuing to check pupil response and reaction to painful stimulation every hour. While he remains unresponsive for the most part, shortly before the end of her shift his blood pressure rises and heart rate quickens briefly in what seems an autonomic response to repositioning his head - providing another subtle sign the specialist team may be encouraged by.
By morning rounds, the neurologists have keen interest in any additional signs of responsiveness reported overnight. While prognosis remains uncertain, these small glimmers suggest their John Doe may continue to fight, gaining ground from the darkness that surrounds him toward waking once more, guided by the expert care now keeping his faint flame alight through each precarious hour.

The noon light is falling directly onto Ma'ar's face; his eyes are closed, but it shines right through his closed eyelids. Ma’ar’s head hurts a lot, and he isn’t quite awake enough to form the thought that he wishes the light would go away, but he spends a while muzzily trying and failing to turn his head away from the sunlight. 

The day nurse, doing hourly checks at the patient's bedside, notices his eyelids fluttering and brow furrowing slightly in what seems a reaction to the bright sunlight streaming through the windows. She quickly moves to dim the lights in his room, then checks his pupils which show slightly increased reactivity, though eye opening remains absent.
Heartened, she pages the neurologist team to report this additional sign of gradual waking and apparent awareness of environmental stimuli. When they call back, she describes the patient's eyelid movements and expression in response to the bright light, and improved pupil response, though still not fully reactive.
The neurologist hears this update with cautious optimism. "This is an excellent sign he continues to show improvement toward regaining consciousness, even if gradual. At this point, we will want to start limiting sedation and see if we can establish reliable eye opening and communication. Please have nursing hold any non-critical scheduled sedation or pain medication. Continue close monitoring and neurological checks every 30 minutes for signs of increased wakefulness. Report any additional changes or responses to stimuli right away."
The nurse acknowledges the plan, hopeful their patient may be emerging at last from the depths that have held him for so long. She updates the care team, stressing the need to avoid any unnecessary sedation, and they prepare for the possibility of him waking and becoming aware of his surroundings, or even oriented enough to begin communication, after days of unresponsiveness.
Through the afternoon, his eyelid movements increase and pupils show continued improvement, though eye opening remains brief and unreliable. No purposeful movements or responses can yet be elicited, but vitals signs show periods of increased wakefulness in between rest. The nurse speaks softly to him during assessments, hoping her voice may provide additional stimulation, but as yet there is no clear sign he comprehends or can respond.
Still, after the desperate hours through which he has been held to life, clinging at times by the barest thread, these fledgling signs raise the entire team's spirits. Their John Doe's flame, once so dim, has steadied to a flicker - and now, perhaps, stands ready to kindle once more.

The patient’s physical condition continues to improve. By that evening, the nurse has managed to wean him entirely off the norepinephrine infusion, and his blood pressure is holding steady. The followup echocardiogram confirms that his ejection fraction is returned to normal. With less pain medication on board, his heart rate and blood pressure are jumping up every time they turn him or otherwise disturb him, though his reactions to stimuli still aren't very purposeful. 

The next sign of growing awareness happens quite abruptly. The evening nurse is in the room for bedside shift report, and they're turning him to check the dressings on his burns. 

Ma'ar is abruptly in AGONIZING PAIN! He has no idea where he is or what's happening, but - he must be under attack -

He tries and fails to use magic, mostly just succeeds at sending a fresh bolt of searing pain through his head, and then, falling back on his unarmed combat training, tries to elbow the nurse behind him in the face. 

The nurses cry out in shock as their patient's eyes suddenly fly open and he strikes out wildly, nearly catching one nurse in the face before they are able to restrain him. His heart rate accelerates rapidly, monitors alarming, as his panicked eyes dart around the unfamiliar room.
"You're in the hospital, you're safe," the nurses say urgently, trying to break through his confusion. One hits the call button to summon help as the other keeps speaking in a calm, quiet voice. "You were badly injured and have been unconscious for some time. We are here to help you. Please try to remain calm."
His eyes seem unseeing at first, chest heaving with ragged breaths as he struggles weakly against their restraining hands. But gradually awareness dawns, the panic ebbing, recognition coming that these are not enemies seeking to do him harm. His struggles slow, then cease, though breath remains quick and body trembles. He closes his eyes once more, utterly spent.
By the time the resident and ICU team arrive, alerted by the call for assistance, their patient has calmed though remains agitated. Sedation is cautiously increased to spare further distress as the team crowds into the room, talking to him and explaining where he is and what has occurred, hoping their words are comprehending even if response remains beyond his capacity.
His awakening, while dramatic, provides hope of recovery even as it shows the long road still ahead. Explanations will wait for a time when he is stronger, but for today it is enough to know the light has come again to previously unseeing eyes, the first tenuous line cast between slumber and waking. The flame, sparked once more, is ready now to rise.”
The specialists confer on next steps to aid his transition to wakefulness in a controlled manner, preventing recurrence of panic while supporting his return to full awareness. At last, after days stretched thin, a future glimpsed beyond survival alone - a future holding uncertain prospects, yet one less fragile than before, strengthened by this first rush of life relit inside a body slow rousing from its long dormancy.

That is TOO MANY PEOPLE and he's always hated it when strangers touched him. 

Ma'ar cannot in fact understand any of what the people around him are saying, and still can't concentrate well enough to bring up Thoughtsensing. He can't make sense of his surroundings, either; when he finally gets his eyes to focus and manages to parse any of what he's seeing, he seems to be in a room surrounded by large glowing screens, he assumes some kind of artifice, but he doesn't know what any of it means. 

Once he eventually, very effortfully, manages to string a single coherent thought together, he can infer that he was badly injured - presumably in a battle that he doesn't remember - and the people around him are some kind of Healers. They don't seem to be hostile. He can't assume that he's safe here, but it's not the first time that he's been badly injured, and he knows that he needs to rest. 

By midnight, even with the light sedation and more pain medication, the breathing tube is clearly bothering him a lot. He keeps gagging on it, and instinctively trying to reach for the tube, tugging at his wrist restraints. 

The nurses note his distress with the endotracheal tube, increasing sedation slightly in hopes of providing relief until the morning rounds when the specialists can properly assess his breathing status and potential for extubation. They speak softly to him, explaining the wrist restraints are only to prevent pulling at tubes or lines until he is more fully awake and oriented, doing their best to provide reassurance despite uncertainty if he comprehends.
By morning, he remains agitated, coughing frequently around the tube and making repeated efforts to reach for his face and mouth. The neurologist examines him, encouraged to find pupil response normalizing and periods of eye opening with gaze tracking, despite sedation. His vital signs have remained stable overnight without issue.
"I think it is safe to attempt extubation at this point," the neurologist decides, "especially as the endotracheal tube seems to be causing significant distress. We will want respiratory therapy standing by in case reintubation becomes necessary, but as long as his oxygenation remains adequate after tube removal, it should aid in a smoother transition to less sedation and increased wakefulness."
The team prepares carefully, respiratory therapists on standby with intubation equipment close at hand should his breathing prove inadequate after the tube is removed. Sedation is lifted, and with some coughing he is successfully extubated, breathing on his own at an acceptable rate and oxygen level. He seems to relax in relief with the uncomfortable tube gone, slipping into natural sleep for a period as the effects of sedation wear off.
When next his eyes open, awareness appears clearer and calmer. The neurologist speaks to him, explaining where he is and what happened as far as they have been able to determine. He seems attentive, following the words and directions with less confusion, though response remains limited by exhaustion and lingering disorientation. Still, this removal of the endotracheal tube marks a major turning point - no longer teetering between intervention and decline, his breath and being are his own, anchoring now to purposeful wakefulness hour by hour.
The long process of diagnosis and recovery remains, answers slow in coming to fill gaps left still blank. But life pulses bold now, kindled to an eager flame, as their mysterious patient wakes wandering from the realm of dreams to claim, for good or ill, his future fate.