|
"Operation Operative Operation"Written By: Asymphototropic
Disclaimer: I don't own Gundam wing. Author: Asymphototropic (attracted toward the
light, but never quite arrives there) Email: asymphototropic@aol.com Rating: R Warnings: Language Summary: Someone wants to steal Duo's appendix. While its still in him? Pairings: 1 + 2 + 3
"Operation Operative Operation "
Part 2. He got no rest that night. After the third time he awoke in as many hours, Duo found his bare feet protruding and ice cold. His blanket was knotted like a garrote around his neck. Masses of his hair, so electrically charged by friction as to cling to his face, threw sparks into the darkness as he rose with a crackle from the bedding turmoil. He spent the remaining predawn hours studying his computer screen. It was astonishing to him how difficult it was to get simple information on appendicitis. This was a common enough medical complaint. And certainly there were plenty of articles on the subject. But his preliminary infonet search yielded so many items on stem cell regeneration that the more mundane articles were absolutely buried in an avalanche of research speculation. He shook his head at the trove of biotechnology he had inadvertently broached. It was worse than pornography. If he had used the phrase "big boobs" in his literature search, he might have expected this many useless sites in his survey results. Typing in the word "appendix" seemed more productive of lurid items than "humongous penis" would be. A few recently published articles suggested that the human appendix was a virtual fountain of youth. If you killed off the kit-positive cells (whatever those might be) in a particularly ruthless manner, and nurtured the surviving appendix cells in a very specific defined medium, (and if you were lucky and stood on the right foot and pursed your lips just so) you could culture null cells in a flask. Null cells that were so anonymous you could transplant them into any person, or even other animal species, without rejection of the graft. And these null cells were so responsive to molecular suggestion that they could turn into any specialty cell you needed. Mr Appendix Null Cell was the panacea to cure all ailments. Prolong life, maintain your youthful beauty and sexual stamina, improve your complexion and prevent bad breath indefinitely. Not. Any intelligent reader with a healthy skepticism, such as himself, could see that the legitimate research articles made no such claims. The venture capitalists were responsible for the current hysteria. And millions of credits were being spent on a daily basis, hand over fist, on ridiculously speculative tech development leading nowhere. The disease of the month club, at its garish worst. All of which suggested there were scam artists associated with the hype, getting filthy rich on a sudden spate of appendix cell research. None of which concerned Duo Maxwell. Or so he thought. Finally he found a reasonably cogent lay article on appendicitis, written by some nice calm family practice physician. He jotted a few notes into his pocket-sized sketch book. Then he washed, dressed, packed his overnight duffle bag and headed out the door.
Duo glanced ahead to the front of the line, trying to estimate his arrival time at the desk. There was a Preventers' medic signing-in personnel to be transported to L1. She was a petite girl, cute as a new shoe button. A sweet face. A short military spec haircut, gone chaotically to soft glossy curls. But she was all business. As Duo stood in line, waiting his turn, he admired her work style. Pleasant, efficient, sympathetic, competent. Exactly the kind of person you'd want looking after you in a hospital setting. He thought he'd never seen the Preventers' jumpsuit worn on a tidier figure. The big jerk who stood just ahead of Duo in the cue was a lot more open about his appreciation. This Neanderthal was ogling the girl, and when she stood to get some supplies, the idiot whistled and moaned. She ignored the insulting attention. Duo bristled silently on her behalf. Later, when the nasty anthropoid arrived at the sign-in desk, taking the indicated patient's chair, he angled it around until his knees knocked into the medic's. She rose with no haste, rearranged the supplies on the desk, then remained emphatically standing as she took the oaf's blood pressure measurement and pulse. "I'm going to get a temperature reading on you," she said coolly. As she placed the core-therm cone into his ear, he said "oh, baby, stick it in me. Yeah, do it to me." The medic ignored the idiot, jotting his temperature reading onto a chart. Duo leaned over the desk and tapped the big grub on his shoulder. "Hey, bub. Keep a civil tongue in yer head," he admonished with a low growl. "You better not be touching me," the jerk retorted. Suddenly the guy was up with a loud clatter of the metal folding chair. The brutish fellow charged around the desk. Stomped to a halt, standing over Duo, glaring down at the kid. Maxwell stood his ground, staring coldly up at his antagonist. The medic was next to them in an instant, her hand on Duo's biceps. "Break it up," she barked. "I'm about ten seconds away from alerting the MP station, so just break it up. You. Juloiskoe." She indicated the jerk. "Onboard the shuttle now. Take any vacant seat that has a green indicator light." Then she turned a stern look on Duo. "And you. Sit down at the desk. We've got a schedule to meet here. So move it." The bully glared defiantly, one look each for Duo and the medic, before he stormed angrily onto the aircraft. Duo retrieved the collapsed metal chair and sat in it. Blushing, he looked down at his hands on his thighs. Until he heard her voice, near him. "I can take care of myself." "Sure can," Duo agreed. "Doesn't mean you should have to, though." "You suffering from knight in shining armor syndrome, soldier?" she asked, studying his medical chart. He looked up just in time to catch the end of her fleeting grin. "I thought it was appendicitis," he protested with mock puzzlement. "Oh. So it is. What meds have you taken since midnight, Mr Maxwell?" she asked as she took his vitals. "The antibiotic." "That's fine," the medic said, marking the dose in his chart. "Don't take anything more of what you've got with you. We'll be dispensing your meds for the duration, understand?" "Got it." He almost sympathized with the Neanderthal blob. Almost, but not quite. When the girl went to take Duo's temperature, resting one hand on the curve of his cheek, tilting his head gently, inserting the plastic cone into his ear. The touch of her made his flesh quiver and then his heart pound. He opened his mouth ever so slightly, panting silently. "Its a long flight. Don't try to be a hero. You've got scripts for sedation, pain killers, anti-emetics as needed. You need, you ask. Okay?" she told him as she noted his vitals on the record. "Got it. How do I pronounce that? In case I have the sudden urge to holler it?" He nodded at the name embroidered on her flight suit. "Scharezik," she enunciated. "Seems like I used to know a guy with that same name." "Probably my brother. Dead in the first war." "Damn. Sorry." 'Yurp. Me too." She let her street accent take over briefly. Then grinned, longer this time. "There's an aisle seat with a red dummy light. With your name over it. Sit there." She nodded her head toward the shuttle, causing her curls to dance. Duo rose somewhat gingerly. "See you later." "Yes, indeedy," she agreed, gesturing already to the next patient.
The big jerk was occupying it, sprawled with one foot in the aisle. Without deigning to look at his adversary, Duo stepped over the black combat boot blocking his path. As he cleared it, he felt a rough contact against the back of his calf, resulting in a stumble. He caught his balance by grasping a chair back. The jarring motion tugged at his insides, extracting from him a gasp. He gripped his side reflexively. Then proceeded to sit in the nearest green-light seat. When Scharezik arrived for preflight batten-down, she stopped cold in front of the jerk. "Juloiskoe. I said sit in a green-light seat." "But babe. I need an aisle seat. I'm so big, I don't fit in those other chairs. After all, a man's got to breathe." "The red-lit seats are assigned by the flight surgeon, according to medical priority. The old man's up in the cockpit, if you want to gripe to him. I don't recommend it. He outranks you by several notches. Now out of the seat." "Aw," the troublemaker responded without budging. "Its not too late to call the MPs," the medic told him coldly. "And even after we takeoff, I can have them meet us when we set down. Bet that'll totally scotch your vol rehab, huh?" "You wouldn't do that to me, babe. After all, I'm a war veteran. I deserve compassion." "You deserve shit. If you're not out of the seat in five seconds, I call the MPs, and nothing you do after the five seconds will change my mind." "Damn bitch," Juloiskoe muttered, rising as slowly as he could and still exhibit movement. "Maxwell. Pronto," the medic said, looking at the watch read-out pinned over her breast, while gesturing at the aisle seat. Then studying her notes, she added in a lowered voice. "Run to the head. They want a urine specimen and a stool if you can manage that. If not, time and tide, man, time and tide." She shrugged. "The containers are in there with your name on them. Just shove them into the fridge and run back here. I gots to process them before g-force time." "Will-co," Duo said, trying not to goggle at all the mess and fuss. On his return, he noticed Juloiskoe was harnessed into a chair far from his own. He breathed a sigh of relief. But Duo couldn't find his own seatbelt. What the...? He groped the upholstery, then stood for a visual search. Scharezik arrived soon thereafter. "You ready to get secured?" "Why do I just know I'm not gonna like this?" "Sorry. Doc Speekes doesn't want to risk trauma from a canvas strap over your guts." "Shoulda cut the damn thing out of me with a swiss army knife, and be done," Duo muttered as he resumed the seat. "Eww," the medic shuddered dramatically. "Glad you didn't. Get into a comfortable position. This is your call button. And this is the emergency release here. Do not, I repeat, do not use the em-rel, except in the event of atmosphere failure, fire, enemy attack, and like that." Duo took a deep breath and held it before letting it escape. " 'Kay." Scharezik locked his chair in a semi-recline, spread
a metallic bubble wrap over him that secured with reinforced latches
on both sides from his shoulders to his knees. Then she inflated the
foot rest, engulfing his ankles. And finally a cushion that swelled
around his head. When she was through, Duo could still wriggle. But
that was about it. He tried not to panic at the feeling of Her hand brushed the portion of his cheek still exposed. "Maxwell. You okay?" "More or less," he tried to grin, then swallowed hard. "You want a sedative?" she asked, eyes wide. "Hell no." Packaged for shipping and mentally out of it? That would be the last straw. "That's the final countdown," she pointed to the display directly over him. Then inspiration struck her. "You wanna listen in to the cockpit chatter?" "That would be great." She gave him a glittering smile as she tuned his headrest speaker to the pilot's frequency. "I'll be back to check up on you as soon as feasible," she promised. "Thanks." Hearing the familiar patter of pre-take-off soothed him considerably. He concentrated on the voice exchange of pilot, copilot, flight control. Stared at the countdown display, hypnotically glowing at him. He almost felt comfortable. Then something came between him and the lighted monitor. Juloiskoe. Standing over him, his nasty feature's smirking wickedly down at Maxwell.
~ * ~ |
