Chapter 1: Baggage

Have you ever been to Africa?

Y'know, that big mass of land where man first got his start? That disgustingly hot, sun-charred hunk of rock where disease and poverty and genocide flourish?

Oh c'mon, AIDS has been gone for years. You've got nothing to worry about.

Except for land mines and gun-toting children and angry wildlife. And that whole 'zoonoses' thing. Yeah, Acquired Immune Deficiency Syndrome might be a thing of the past, but that doesn't mean any of us walking meat-bags are any safer. 'Cause people will never stop fucking animals.

Oh yeah, I went there. It was a joke. And it's probably the only one you'll get out of me, so you'd better fucking appreciate it.

In all seriousness though, Africa's still pretty bad- might even be worse now. That's why we're here.

And by 'here', I mean on an eight-passenger bizjet. Don't know what model; aviation was never exactly my strong point. Flying was never a hobby of mine, period, until I became a doctor.

You get good at your job, they wanna send you fucking everywhere.

Maybe things would be different if I'd just stayed at Hope Hospital. I mean, Caduceus is in a league of its own compared to that place; it's got its hooks in shitholes all over the world. It should be expected that the company's top surgeons get out there and travel a bit. I should be thrilled just to have the opportunity. Really.

Then again, I really don't wanna get shot. Or mauled. Or eaten.

It's gotten to the point where I don't even wanna read the in-flight magazine for this place. All I know is that we're going to some dump called 'Costigar'- a Camp Zakara specifically, I think- and that's really all I need to know. I'm sure if we arrive there with all these preconceptions in our little heads, we'll be sorely disappointed.

I glance over and see Angie intently reading one of the things, her green eyes glued onto a caption describing some horrifically mangled child and his dead sister.

Of course she'd be reading it. She's the type of young shit that thinks filling her head with obscure details makes her smart somehow. It's called 'trivia' for a reason. Because it's trivial. Get it?

God.

Now let me follow that up with a 'damnit'.

I say goddamnit because, besides secretly being a total fucking potty-mouth, I can't get that surgery from last week out of my mind. Y'know, the one with that kid, and his appendicitis. The whole thing just keeps nagging at me. I still remember the way that my guts shrunk when he was first wheeled in, and I remember vowing stupidly to save him. I remember the gloves, the scalpel. The cold table and skin.

I remember that sigh from Angie as I called the time of death. I remember being gracious enough not to acknowledge it, just like all the other times; because part of me's used to it by now, and part of me thinks that she's honesty trying to hide her disappointment when she does that. And she is disappointed every time that I don't miraculously save someone. Apparently, since her doctor has the Healing Touch, heart failure's not allowed to happen. Bleed-outs. Infection. I mean, with a gift that extraordinary, appendectomies start to seem routine. Safe.

But it isn't safe. It's never safe.

If you think we forget the patients that die on our operating tables for one minute, no matter how stupid they might've been to get there, you'd be wrong.

So please, if you're ever wheeled into my OR, don't die.

Because I can't stop thinking about that stupid kid-- how he should've been diagnosed sooner. How he should've never been brought to me in the first place. Caduceus is a place to treat and research new diseases, not slice up your run-of-the-mill jackasses with swollen viscera.

Hoffman would have a shit-fit (literally, mind you, he's getting old) if he heard me talking like that. After all, we're still doctors here, and our ER is open for business just like any other hospital. Our patients can't decide where or when they get fucked over.

I think I'm experiencing what psychologists call "burnout".

I could get all technical on you, make your head fucking spin with my ridiculously extensive medical jargon. But I'm really not in the mood. Obviously. So suffice to say, it's when you don't give a damn anymore. It's when you start resenting your patients. Your needy, sick-ass patients with their vomit and blood and liquid shit.

You're getting burnout just from hearing about it, aren't you? Well, no, what you're feeling right now is your garden variety disgust. This shit sitting in the bottom of my stomach's way past disgust. It's a fucking disease.

Don't worry, you won't catch it unless you've spent a solid eight years slicing up bodies. I'm not contagious.

And in case you're scratching your head now, I never said I was racked by guilt over the kid. I just said that I can't stop thinking about him.

Still, not being able to get something out of your head does take its toll, regardless if you're giving it conscious attention or not. So this plane ride's killing me. Understandably.

I pop a Xanax, and I see Angie give me a look out of the corner of my eye. Like I'm suddenly lower for trying to medicate myself. Like maybe she expects me to finish off the rest of the bottle right in front of her.

'Understandable' rarely applies with this girl.

Ten minutes later I'm saying fuck it and heading to the little bathroom in the back. Clearly, I need to get my endorphins going some other way. That, or I'm gonna have to bash my fucking head against something until I pass out.

Being a reasonable guy, I opt to try the less demanding of those activities first.

Did I say 'less demanding'?

Y'know those studies that show people tend to get aroused more during times of stress? Yeah, well, unless you're seeking an affirmation of life with some other dickhead, it only works to a certain extent.

It's hard enough jerking off when you're a doctor. Don't get me wrong, I've got nothing against rubbing one out in a hospital- fuck, I think the first time I did was in the janitor's closet- but a guy can only see so many tumors and abscesses and patches of rotten flesh before it starts getting to him.

So sometimes, when I sit down and stick a hand down my pants, it takes a while to get a reaction. And it really never helps a guy's state of mind when, after a solid five minutes of chafing his own junk, he can't even cum.

This is one of those times.

I dunno if it's the boy I couldn't save, or Angie's relentlessly annoying behavior, or the fact that, even after all the miles I've racked up, I still haven't gotten used to flying-- but less than a minute after I figure out that I'm too frustrated to orgasm, the gods decide that this situation just isn't awful enough already and suddenly I'm throwing up my complimentary turkey sandwich all over the goddamn wall.

My name is Derek Stiles, and I fucking hate this job.