[ He was pissed. He didn't go to the import clinic. The air here was different, or maybe that was just the way he thought it felt. Maybe it was all in his head, and it likely was, but the armada of different sounding machines was the first indication that something was wrong. The fact that they didn't sound like most hospitals, and he was intimately acquainted with real hospitals.

But he didn't want to be here, because he didn't need anyone else seeing him. He had doctors, and they gave him a clean bill of health. He had normal doctors, who looked for normal things, and ignored the gaping monstrosity on his face, his neck, his shoulders, arms, and sides. The obvious damage to a night that only he and Bradbury were privy to.

They ignored it, but an import might not, if they thought they could figure something out about it. The import mayor was not a normal person.

But while he was sour, it was mostly a silent sour now. He was still pissed with his bodyguard, and it showed. ]

I know how to fucking be nice, Bradbury. I'm a politician, not a six year old. You're just lucky I'm putting up with this bullshit. When this is over, you'll realize how fucking stupid this is.