Obama and the battle for the Obamaprism: The Rise of Reagan

A bright light assaults Mickey, piercing through even his eyelids. He groans, shielding his face with his hands and trying to sit up. However, the moment he attempts to move pain rushes through his stomach. Falling backwards, Mickey feels the soft embrace of a cushion instead of the hard, cold grain of asphalt that he expects.

Where am I?

Shaking his head to dispel the wave of nausea that clings to his skull, Mickey rolls onto his side and forces his eyes open. The sudden rush of light temporarily blinds him, but Mickey's eyes slowly adjust to the space around him.

A hospital?

There's no mistaking the pristine white walls, the freshly cleaned floors, and the grey sheets of the bed he lies in. Blue-tinted curtains lie on Mickey's right, along with a plastic table sitting between his bed and the wall, a small bell resting upon it.

Mickey turns to his left, prepared to see the same thing as his right. However, as soon as he places pressure on his shoulder, a pain similar to that he feels in his side courses through it. Mickey quickly turns over, rolling onto his back. Annoyed, Mickey attempts to sit up again. This time, he's ready for the pain, gritting his teeth as a movement as simple as sitting up becomes a strenuous effort.

After Mickey settles, the pain in his side fades to a tolerable level. He glances down at the origin of his suffering, spotting a blood-soaked bandage wrapped around his torso, and winces as he remembers the fight. Did I seriously just collapse in an active battlefield!? What kind of soldier am I? Turning his head to the side, Mickey notices his shoulder in a very similar situation - a large bandage completely covers it, stained with a large amount of blood.

Turning his gaze upwards, Mickey notices a tall pole with many bags hanging off of it. From each of those bags a thin wire extends, carrying the bags' contents into Mickey's arm which the wires have pierced.

Life support... I really overdid it, huh?

Reflexively, Mickey places his hand on his neck, noticing the texture of a bandage wrapping around that wound, as well.

If they've managed to get me to a hospital, then Ernie and Obama have probably succeeded, or at least escaped, right? Or... maybe they failed, and some random person's brought me here?

Mickey, his head full of questions, reaches over and rings the bell resting on the flimsy table beside him. After a few seconds, a woman rounds the corner, wearing a nurse's uniform.

"Hey, you! You're finally awake. You were trying to cross the--"

"How long have I been unconscious?"

"Around half a day. It's surprising you've managed to heal enough to sit up already."

"Really? Were my wounds that bad?"

"When you were brought in you were riddled with bullet wounds. Fortunately, the person who brought you in had managed to stop the bleeding somewhat, which is most likely the only reason you're still alive."

"Ah. Who... who brought me in?"

"I didn't catch his name, but he was a short fellow with orange skin. Would you know him?"

Mickey sighs in relief, knowing that his friends are most likely at least safe. "Yeah, he's a friend. If he ever comes by, could you let him see me?"

"Sure."

"How long am I going to be stuck here?" Mickey winces, the pain in his side suddenly increasing as he shifts his weight.

"I'd say you'll take two or three days until you can live normally, but you should wait six weeks before you risk any strenuous exercise. You'll take around a year to heal completely."