(no subject)

[wrist-magnum.livejournal.com]

Floyd's never been a praying man. Not when he was a kid, and the folks would drag him to the occasional church fundraiser dinner, and not now, after having fought guys who claimed to be Gods. Kneeling at the side of his bed wasn't for praying. It was for digging out the vocal scrambler in the shoebox under there.

The hospitals had been too full. There was a 2 and a half hour wait for an ambulance, and even then, no guarantee that it would get Zoe any bedspace, or a look from a doctor. He could always go out, find a doc, and bring him back at gunpoint, but if he put the guns on now, while his kid was coughing up half of Lake Michigan into her lungs, he wasn't sure that the guns would ever come off again.

Only one place left to turn, really.

He screwed the vocal scrambled into the mouthpeice of the phone, and dialed the relay number. The clicks came as the line bounced off satellites and through relays.

It always took too long for Noah to answer him phone.

"C'mon, Calculator," he grumbled under his breath, "You're all I got left."