clothing

had found him an outfit to replace his torn, smoke-stained clothes.
Harris looked dubiously at the black leather shoes, long-sleeved white shirt, silk boxer shorts, and gray two-piece suit with a lace-edged handkerchief in the breast pocket. The clothing was dated, with the jacket’s wide lapels and trousers’ high waistline, but not too garish, if you overlooked the two-tone red-and-green suspenders and matching tie.
In the attached bathroom, Harris shucked the baggy brown pants they’d given him minutes ago, then stooped to pull on the new pair. He moved carefully; it wouldn’t do to make his injury any worse.
Wait a second. He’d kicked the guts out of the man with the submachine gun and hadn’t even felt the wound pull. Adrenaline and painkillers could only mask so much; he’d have felt additional injury after he started to wind down. Curious, he unwrapped Alastair’s bandage from his thigh.
His wound was gone.
Where Adonis’ claws had torn open his flesh, angry red marks remained, like scars left from an injury that had been healing for days. They hurt when he pressed hard on them, but gave him no trouble otherwise.
He sighed. It really was no use getting upset over strange things anymore, so he pulled on his new underwear and trousers. “Alastair?”
The doctor called through the door, “Yes?”
“What exactly did you do to me?”
Alastair’s chuckle was faint but unmistakable. “Thatched