Hello again. This is a strange, little multi-fic that I have come up with. I'm not sure whether to continue it, so I have only written the one chapter as a sort of tester, if you will. There may be some mistakes in it because I wrote it around the pool, (I've been on holiday), and I have just written it straight up. I am aware that the ending part is rushed, but I really wanted to get it up for you all.

So, as always, enjoy and please review! :)


Monstrous suds mutilated her gnarled, slender hands as she allowed them to drive across her arms and onto her razor edged elbows; they plummeted vigorously to their deaths, their lives short and purpose unmet. Cleanliness perhaps they achieved, yet those mentally envisaged specks of blood that had stippled her extremities were still to be vanquished. The cornucopia of guilt, (it could be claimed), was erected from those red smears - the guilt for another's existence, how her patient was snatched from her clutches and not allowed to fester like the fine wine she no doubt would have loved to consume that night. The water smacked the sink and drowned her hands, before cultivating someplace else, moving hosts like a fattened parasite.

In the midst of her miasmic visor, she found her voice. "Close up, Mr Levy." The reality of defeat had deemed her tone barren, but the lack of authority did not hinder her colleagues' grimly willing compliance - after all, he understood, whereas there were some that could not. Her mental wasteland was just too unpleasant.

"Mr Levy?" This time a female buzzed in her ear. "What's with the formalities Jac? Is his supposed friendship too much for the psychopath?"

Her body forcefully snapped to attention with military likeness, a reflex action that bypassed her spinal cord; quick didn't begin to cover it - in mere seconds her mouth spat out a torrent of abuse, projecting her dander with misguided words.

"This is a hospital, not a social club, Maureen."

"But-"

"But nothing! I've not only had to deal with that skinny, Scottish nurse, but with your insane, twitterpated, doe-eyed, stolen glances towards Levy that made me want to search for the bloody sick bucket, for just over six hours. Six! So, shut it before Hitchcock takes you up on your words and decides to make a film about me." With an air of finality, her last point blasted out as she threw herself through the double doors, followed by her theatre team, continuing into the elongated corridor between destruction and her supposed oasis.

"Isn't Hitchcock dead?" The latter of that brisk remark, although donning the unspoilt innocence of a newborn, saw the consultant bristle.

"He's not the only one." It was a steely reminder of what had been lost, or rather taken - a feat that could not possibly be excused.

"Oh come on. So Jenkins was passed it?" The registrar twisted the ultimate door handle and slit her jacket. "It's not the end of the world."

The door clattered on its hinges, sealing them in.

The slow drawl of machines was the only vestige of what was once a fully functional ward; now they kneaded the silence with an eerie spattering of notes, telling of who they had lost.

But not what they had become.

The walls were sprayed with webbed handprints, reddened and sometimes smeared as people slid where they were slain. Flittered paperwork began its conquest of the space; it was a disarray, a twister of files, their chests bloated in an act to seem larger.

Darwin had been transformed, transfigured, tortured to the brink of ruin. It was nothing more than a derelict warzone, and they were no more than enemy soldiers who had happened to stumble upon forbidden territory.

And, suddenly, amongst the wasteland, was a lone figure.

Head twisted roughly to the side with the appearance of a snapped doll yet without the fragility of such a plaything, she stood. He neck pulsated with unexplained heart rhythms for her stomach frothed with a concoction of blood, bone and organ, and yet-

And yet she was moving.

Arms outstretched, she teetered on rotted legs, toenails protruding through crock holes, jaw hooked and rooted on some invisible meal. Her skin crispy, her eyes bulged as she sluggishly nudged them in their sockets towards the pack.

A low moan forced its way up her contracting oesophagus as she doused her chin with drooping saliva - she had lost control, she had lost her awareness, she had lost herself, in death.


Earlier that morning...

The lab was the epicentre of medicine. It housed potions that would scarcely be seen in movies - they were such odd, unconventional shapes, that they rang alarm bells when looked upon. They danced in a scintillating pallet of colours, propelled by silver spatulas, and, when observed by intellectual company, they would swing at the sides of their glass prison with limitless vigour.

Only one man was hailed as the ruler of this small kingdom. Ordinarily, this man's eyes were perpetually clouded with an unchanging state of concentration, yet now they were lit - a consequence of personal victory. He edged his creation into the light. It was exteriorly insignificant, with a colour and consistency similar to that of sugar, however, internally, he presumed, beautiful - a compact cure.

"Now that's what you call medical science," Luc murmured proudly.

He deposited it inside a russet paper bag, intent on keeping his findings latent until they could be further developed. Tucking it into the soft palm of his hand within the small groove, his fingers fitted a solid wall around the saviour substance; there was a dull ache where came his strength, yet he dared not flex in fear of damage. And with that same ritual, he was off, in need of something to quench his thirst.


Some time later that morning...

"Home made brownies, ladies?" Both nurses, the ginger and the blonde, needed no more persuasion than those simple words. Within minutes, some delicacies had been scooped into arm crooks, some devoured.

A witness to the slaughter sulked to his partner, jutting out his lips and folding his arms. "Aw man. We've missed the goodies now," Jonny whined sadly.

"Ah good, maybe now I'll start to look like the pregnant one," Jac quipped, allowing herself to smirk.

With a frown, the nurse imparted, "Hey, don't diss this miss or his sugar fix. I need it to cope with you, you moody cow." Off her glare, he collected himself. "Joking. It was a joke." He knew she couldn't remain fractious.

"Just shut it and buy me coffee."

With a salute, Jonny barked, "Yes Ma'am."

As one, the cheery couple slid into their personal space and across certain boundaries.

Mo threw up an eyebrow. "Ma'am? She packing you off to Afghanistan for parental preparation?"

Jonny whisked away her accusations with a swift hand gesture. "Nah, I'll need more than combat training to fend off our wee mite."

Jac interrupted, "Yes and I'll need a bomb disposal unit to stop the thing from crying."

After a glance towards Sacha, Mo countered, "I'm pretty sure it's not going to pop out splurging tentacles like you've shagged Dr Octopus."

Jac turned towards the man nursing a cup of hot chocolate. "I wasn't talking about the foetus."

The registrar's eyes began to slide towards the beverage, and, thus, Jonny offered up the drink, which Mo unenthusiastically declined.

The nurse frowned. "Fit club taking over ya?"

Sacha cursed his colleague's temptations. "Don't. The first rule of fit club is don't talk about fit club."

And then a shrill ringing punctured the sojourn of words that they had let linger as a sign that they were required.