R1 of RR Debate Tourney: USM vs MiG

I will not dawdle to start our story: *** Nathaniel was dead. Technically, he was still very much alive. He was breathing, although it was raspy; he had a heartbeat, although it was too fast, as indicated by the heart monitor beside the hospital cot which he was laying on. Nate DuBois was still among us, but everyone, from his family to the doctors, knew that he was going to take his final bows on the stage of life soon. And it wasn't going to be pretty. The novel disease had already done a fair amount of damage to the infected. It was a disease of the nervous system, and terrorized accordingly. Already, Nate's vision had been compromised to the point of blindness. Nate could see dark swaths of color: white one above and below him, a yellow one and a small white one in front of him, and a navy-blue one off to the right. This was his world, not the calm and peaceful hospital room that he actually resided in. Instead of vague yellow smears, there should have been bright, pleasant canary walls. In front of the cloud-white bed was a veritable garden of bouquets of various flowers, all bearing cards that bore some variant on the phrase, "get well soon," although all the senders of the flowers knew that their wishes are in vain. A TV blissfully shows a local game of baseball. Moonlight pours in from the window, making the room that much less like a cynical, sterile hospital room and more like a well-meaning but generic substitute for home. This is the room where nobody exits, and Nate knows it. To make matters all that much worse, a protectively-clad doctor strolled in. Her quick pace was peppered with false happiness. Her eyes were a merry Christmas green. Her stature reminded people of the quirky and spunky girl that they all hated in high school. Her blond hair was reminiscent of more innocent times, and thereby unlikeable. Her too-scarlet lips smiled a far less than satisfactory smile. Dr Sorenson was bravely putting up a facade that looked worse than the feeling that she was trying to cover up. She walked up to Nate's bedside. "Hello, Nathaniel. " Nobody called Nathaniel, Nathaniel. "How are you doing today? " Dr. Sorenson's voice reeked of acting, along with it's usual sharp tones of super-sweetness. Her patient looked up at her general direction and dawned a face that told her, "I'm going to die a terrible death soon. What do you expect? " In her mental notebook, Dr. Sorenson wrote down, "Good. " "Do you have anything that you need to tell us? " Dr. Sorenson kindly asked of Nate. "Ssst-t-top b-baawhtherrring mmmeee! " The slur was getting worse. That wasn't good. "We don't have a chance to get you better if you don't cooperate. We are doing the best that we can, we really are, but if you don't help us, then we can't help. " She had a sincere expression played across her face. For once. "Llllleeeevvvve meee aahllloone! " He had a sincerely angry expression on his face. Like always. Dr. Sorenson sighed. "Please understand that we are trying to help. There's no way you can stay alive if you prevent us aiding you in your struggle. " But she honored her patient's wishes. Nate turned his attention back to the baseball game that he couldn't see. Outside, Dr. Sorenson discussed Nate's condition. It doesn't look bleak, it's worse than that. All the doctors involved in the case are depressed, because there is nothing they can do to stop the disease from progressing. All they can do is try to make it as easy on Nate as comfortable as possible, which wasn't going to be a big difference. In his own room, Nate was bored. The baseball game wasn't a particularly exciting one, but Nate's routine with fumbling with the remote revealed to him that there was nothing better on. Frustrated, Nate turned off the TV and his bedside lamp, and promptly went to sleep. He quickly started to dream a dream that had haunted him for a while, and had quickly gotten old. Out of the blackness of unconsciousness, promenaded dark shades of color. At first, Nate could not tell what colors they were, but soon they brightened to the point or recognizability. Blue. Brown. White. The waltzed and foxtrotted until before Nate's soul before finally weaving together a picture of the outside world. When they were done, Nate found himself on a rocky outcropping above a snarling sea. He was sitting on a boulder that was for the most part dry, but occasionally was sprayed by mist from the ocean below. The water below him was a demin-blue maelstrom of waves that rabidly attacked Nate's rocky outcropping. Overhead was a stark blue-white sky that wasn't burdened by any cloud. A quaint lighthouse was in the distance. A fiercely and ravenously cold and damp wind tore into Nathaniel's warm and cozy jacket and made Nate shiver. This was the place. He had to wait here for something. He didn't know for whom, why, or how he could recognize what he was waiting for. But he knew that he was supposed to be here. Whatever it was he was waiting for, it was coming. He just had to patient. Very patient. Nate was filled with a longing that was more of an animal urge than anything else, for him to stay and wait for thing he was desiring to arrive. Tonight, like every other night, that thing didn't come. The next morning, Nate was filled with a cocktail mix of disappointment and quizzicallity. The next day, Nate was visited by several people. His parents visited, asked him about any progress. Everyone knew that they weren't referring about getting better, but how deep their son had gone. A few of his friends came by, and they talked. Nate's friends treated him like a radioactive object, which was something Nate couldn't fault them for. But mostly he was visited by doctors, and most of all Dr. Sorenson, who frequently checked up on him to see how well he was doing. He was given breakfast, lunch, and dinner, along with speech tests to see how badly he was slurring his words. Nate didn't particularly like Dr. Sorenson, but could stand her earnest diligence to get him better. It was a typical, monotonous day in the hospital. He wasn't allowed to go anywhere, so all he could do was watch TV, listen to the radio, and walk around. He had started to obtain a slight case of cabin fever. That night, he expected the same boring dream that he had for the last night and for the last couple of weeks. But it was somewhat different. That night, after he had flown off into dream-world, he found himself on the same outcropping as many a night before, with the unwelcoming sky above and the writhing sea below him and the wind blasting him. But, after a few minutes quietly expecting something to arrive, a proposition that his sane self would find ludicrous, he finally saw something. Nate's face lifted with excitement. This was it. Finally. "It" was a halcyon bird of the purest white. It was majestic, regal, godlike, awesome. It was as if it had been lifted out of a Greek myth or a Biblical passage. As it flew over the sea, it calmed the water below it and brightened the sky above it. It was absolutely magnificent, perfectly glorious. It came, which took a few seconds, and rested on Nate's shoulder. It whispered to Nate, gave him something. Commands. Instructions. It was now Nate's duty to carry them out. When Nate woke, he instantly knew that he needed to do. And if he needed reassure himself, all he had to do was look over his left shoulder. The bird would be there. *** I await my opponent's response.