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"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 7. "I'm a coward!" Startled from his own reflections, Barton looked up to find the source of this soto voce moan. It came from the end of the corridor. There stood a skinny man of medium height and coloration. It was his slightly pyramidal shape that spoke of someone born on Earth. To Trowa's trained eye, those who had spent their adolescence in fractional gravity had a more linear appearance, their pelvis, thighs and calves less sturdy looking than the ground-bounders'. The man ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Turned away from the cul de sac and perceived he was not alone. Instantly, almost meekly apologetic. "Did I wake you up? Sorry." "I was already up," Barton shook his head and shrugged easily. "Trouble sleeping? Me, too," the man smiled his relief. Stuck out his hand. "Berssar." "Barton." Trowa took the somewhat clammy hand and shook it. "Not looking forward to surgery?" That was a safe bet. "What are you in for?" Argh. That trite, trite phrase, again and again. "Appendectomy." "Oh well, if it needs to be done," Barton shrugged. "But that's the point, isn't it? I'm perfectly healthy. I mean, if there was something wrong with me, maybe I'd be more enthusiastic about getting cut open. I know its a safe procedure. Trivial. Laparoscopic. Minimal pain and blood. Still," Berssar shuddered visibly. Now Trowa stared openly at the man. No way in hell this guy had a combat assignment. Long term hardship tour, at his age? Highly unlikely. "So, if you don't want it done, turn it down." "Can't," the fellow groaned pitifully. "I want the money. My wife's pregnant. We need the extra cash." Barton's heart suddenly pounded. His eyes widened, hiding under the shock of his hair. This was it. The moment he'd been waiting for all this time. Revelation. An important piece of this ridiculous puzzle, resting just beyond his reach. Tantalizingly near. "Don't blow it," Trowa's cock hissed at him. "Play it cool. Easy now." "Huh?" Barton laughed somewhat skeptically. "You're getting paid to have an appendectomy? What will they think of next?" "Its called 'field-readiness'. The commander of our battalion is big on 'field-readiness'. He wants one hundred percent 'field-readiness' in his men. So I guess they offer bonus pay to nudge us all that way. Getting your appendix out is part of 'field-readiness.' See?" "What do you do at work?" "Administrative Assistant." Paper pushing. Sounded about right. "What's your wife got to say about all this?" "She didn't want me to go. Said it was a stupid risk to take." "Maybe she's right." "Yes. Perhaps. Probably. But having come this far. How do I back out of it now? I mean if I wanted to." Berssar glowed red with embarrassment. "How do I explain it to my boss? Without just looking like a complete lily-livered wimp?" "Oh. That's easy. When the surgeon comes to talk
to you. And get you to sign the release forms. Its called getting
'informed consent' from the patient. Ask him specifically about the
risks versus benefits of the appendectomy procedure. Use that phrase
exactly, if you want to be sure. Emphasize it. 'Risks versus benefits.'
Tell the doctor your age and that you have a desk job. He'll Berssar suddenly brightened considerably. "Do you know what? I think I'll do just that." "Congratulations on impending cigar time. Good luck with that." They shook hands. The man stepped eagerly back toward the Elective Surgery corridor. Barton turned away, shaking his head. Misguided gung-ho-ness? Or was he at last onto the scent of something? He would just go look up Berssar's chain of command. Either someone high up had a screw loose. Or else there was a piece of the scam within Barton's grasp. He could smell dirt. Just smell it. Pure wickedness. And the detection of it delighted him.
Without looking up, Heero addressed him. "There's something you need to see," he declared sternly. Barton could tell he was angry. Really, truly, thoroughly pissed. That look boded no good for Yuy's target. Barton grinned as he took over the comp seat. The grin faded rapidly away to a snarl. "What is this?" he demanded. "Online auction site." Barton read aloud. "For sale by owner. Human appendix, available for stem cell harvesting immediately. Fresh or newly flash frozen surgical specimen, handling as specified by purchaser. Subject is famous wartime pilot and hero, now wishing to make his contribution to the frontiers of medical science. This youthful warrior lived unscathed through the L2 Plague and two wars without the benefits of modern medical intervention. You be the one to investigate the genetics of the ultimate survivor. BSA CR 1 million. What's that mean, at the end there?" "Bidding starts at one million credits," Yuy intoned coldly. "The 'subject' sounds like Duo Maxwell." "Yes. It does." "You don't suppose he's decided to make a profit out of his surgery, do you? I mean, one million credits. That's a hell of a temptation for a former homeless street rat." "That's just the starting bid. I can't hack past the front of this site yet. Still cracking away at it. Its heavily guarded. Who knows what the current bid is by now?" Yuy snapped. "Its not illegal, is it?" Barton commented thoughtfully. "Illegal? No. Incredibly stupid and dangerous? Probably. That is supposing Duo even knows about this." "Oh, fuck." Trowa let the full implications of Heero's comment sink into his brain. "We'd better confront him immediately." "Yes." The affirmative sounded like a viper's hiss as it exited Yuy's lips. ~ * ~ |
