Proofreader: Kira Kyuu
Chapter 14: Bet Your B-Cups on It
"Okay, have a seat. You can start taking off your armor," said Doc, a bow-chick-a-wow-wow echoing somewhere far away.
Both men looked around for a moment as if hearing something, but then shrugged it off.
"Anyway, as I was saying, strip your armor," said Doc, far too cheery.
Grif just stared at him for a moment. The staring commenced for about a good minute or maybe ten, the clock in the corner is just a painting anyway, before Grif snorted, "Are you serious? I was just going to nap on the exam bed."
Doc stared at him for a moment before taking out what looked like a writing pad, his psycho-babble tone coming back to the surface. "And have you been tired a lot? Do you feel you sleep to … ignore your problems? Your feelings? What are your feelings, Grif? What are your feels about say … Simmons?"
A moment of awkward silence filled the exam room before Grif growled and moved to take his helmet off, grumbling the whole time. "Medical exam it is. Creepy psycho-babble shit. Punch you in the face if my arms weren't so tired. This is all Simmons fault. I'll kill him when I get the chance. He is soooo dead."
Said exam, of course, lasted a whole five minutes.
"Well, generally your leg is supposed to kick out when I hit it and your blood … is it always Oreo colored?"
"Pff, I don't fucking know. Do I look like a vampire? At least it isn't a yellow color anymore," groused Grif, getting more and more irritated that he wasn't currently sleeping. "Are we done yet? All that reflex crap has left me exhausted and other sissy crap."
Doc, still bemused over the blood samples he had collected, chirped, "But what about your pelvic and breast exam? You should have had one a decade ago."
Grif, about to lay down, stalled and looked down at his chest. He only had a wife beater on, but he thought it was fairly obvious that he lacked breast. Looking at Doc with a raised brow, he grumbled, "Are you serious, Doc? I don't even have boobs. There's nothing there to check."
Shaking his head, making mental notes about body self esteem issues, Doc sighed, "Now, Grif, I know some girls feel inadequate if they don't have C-cups or D-cups, but there is nothing wrong with being a healthy B-cup."
Drawing back, flabbergasted, Grif choked, "Did you just say I have B-cup moobs? I'm not a chick! Alright! I don't even have on a bra."
"Confining brassiers grow more and more out of fashion, especially in the military. Women's rights have moved far, Dexter. Can I call you, Dexter?" said Doc as he started to put on a pair of gloves.
Grif glared for a moment before he flopped down and rolled over, closing his eyes, "You know what, fuck it. I'm taking a nap."
Gloves snapping, Doc merely nodded and wrote something else down in his note pad.
…
The sound of a moving elevator drew Doc's head up about an hour later.
He had been writing down in a medical file that was now on strangely decorative stationary. He couldn't help but tilted his head though as Lopez stepped inside the exam room without even knocking, a cooler under his arm. Then, as if a diabolical shadow or something equally sinister, Sarge followed after chuckling softly to himself. Strangely, both had aprons on and surgical face masks … over their armor. Sarge's apron, actually, was technically a cooking apron more so than a surgical apron. Kiss my shotgun boldly printed on the front.
Also, why Lopez need a surgical mask was beyond anyone. It wasn't like he could actually breathe.
"Why hi, guys. Don't you look nice. Do you need the room or something? Grif is still sleeping. He was just plum tuckered out … though I haven't even finished the entire examination. His blood pressure was on par with a credit score and I think his veins were actually pumping Oreos instead of actual blood, but at least Simmons' organs still seem to be functioning fine. Study to say for sure."
Sarge, coming forward, merely chuckled, "Good to hear. Good to hear. Now you damn dirty half-Blue … how do you feel about being a nurse for a little while? Heheh."
Doc almost dropped the medical report in excitement. "Oh do I ever! I even have the nurses uniform in my medical bag."
No one wisely questioned that. Trust me, you don't want to think about it or the mental image might scar you. So, instead, all eyes turned to Grif, Sarge stating, "Well then nurse. How about getting the patient prepped for surgery by tying him down to the bed. Lopez will get the anesthesia ready."
Starting, nurse hat already on on top of his armored helm, Doc couldn't hep but ask, "We have anethesia?"
"Hehehe," chuckled Sarge as Lopez stepped forward, pulling his fist back. "Who said we need actually anethesia."
Grif didn't even get to wake up before he was knocked out cold again.
...
Elsewhere, far from a half Red half Blue medic, a surgeon that was more of a mechanic, and a sadistically smiling –if Lopez had the ability to smile- robot, was a man and his coffee. It was a lovely roast. Brew to the perfect temperature that tricks you into drinking it because it seems cool enough, but actually burns the top of your mouth in horrible delicious agony only to make you want to poop and hour or two later during an important meeting.
Said man wasn't much different from his coffee though one was food and the other alive. He could fool people into thinking him something pleasant and then shoot you if the knee if need be. Don't let that upbeat Texan accent fool you. He could literally scare the shit out of you if he needed to, but I won't go into that.
Regardless, said man was one Lieutenant Commander Badrock of the UNSC and he was trying to clear up the Director's … mess.
Sitting at his desk, staring at the report in a dull manner as his coffee sat losing that perfect burn-your-mouth-temperature at his side, the man slammed the folder shut unable to read another word. How had no one noticed these maniacs running around sooner?
He knew the answer: because they had had bigger problems.
The Commander sighed and threw the report on his desk. That was it. He couldn't look at another word or another report on an experiment gone wrong or how unethical it was to begin with.
Putting his feet up onto his desk, sighing, he reached for his almost-no-longer-burn-your-mouth coffee in its Charon Industries mug. He still had no idea what poor bastard he stole that mug from, but he had been thirsty at the time and the poor underling was walking by with two mugs. So one was bound to go missing.
It was his favorite mug now.
His precious.
He petted the mug thoughtful for a second feeling that it was still warm. He then was about to take the first bitterly blessed sip when there was a knock on the door … causing him to almost spill.
He immediately sighed and stared at the file that now had a single drop of coffee on it. A file labeled Fillis?Shelia. He hadn't started reading it yet, but how could a file have a question mark right in the title? He doubted he would ever know. Could they not decide what to name it? That seemed so unlike the Director. He always knew what everything and everyone was … even if they didn't know themselves.
"Come in," said the man behind the desk, its usual chirpiness not present. "Better be something worth coffee stains."
There was some whispering on the other side of the door and then a small battle-banter of no-you-go-in-first occurred. He could even hear the shoving match until, unsurprisingly, a form in white was all but forced into his room, another white form shutting the door behind them both.
McKay somehow resisted the urge to claw at the door like a caged animal when his superior grumbled, "Report."
"Yes, sir," said McKay as he did a quick salute. "Ah … sorry to bother you before morning coffee. It's just that we got a report from Valhalla and we thought you would like to know."
Badrock resisted the urge to sigh and waved his hand. He kind of didn't want to know what was going on with that motley crew. He had enough files to shift through and try to piece together. He didn't need something catastrophic to be reported to him before morning coffee. And calamity just seemed to follow those Sim soldiers. Just going over the reports written about their retired armor was bad enough. It was a wonder it was still functioning honestly.
"Well, Medical Officer … Um, Super Private First Class Frank DuFresne sent in a report this morning," said McKay, ready to continue as he tried to dissect a real report out of the lackadaisical and floral language DuFresne used in his reports. He was half surprised that it hadn't come on decorative stationary honestly.
Then again, it might have. This was an emailed copy.
Badrock put up a hand, already past his stupidity limit for that morning, "That … can't be his real title. It just can't. There isn't even a Super class."
"Well … it's officially on his file. As well as a few hundred or so letters for the request," said McKay. "He used some very nice decorative stationary I might add."
Badrock groaned at this, cover his eyes with a hand, before he took a deep breath and mumbled, "Just … continue."
"Well, the medic reported back. He is glad that they actually have water at this site instead of only ketchup and mustard packets," said McKay, starting off with the report.
"What do you mean he's glad for water?" groused the man. They had a well system in Blood Gulch. Right?
"No idea," said McKay. "He then goes into how peaceful and beautiful the waterfall is. He even has a short poem which I can read. He-hum:
Water is blue,
Blood is red.
If they mix together,
They get light red instead-
"Stop," moaned Badrock, ready to drown himself in his morning coffee, "Just get on with the report. For fucks sake, I already feel stupider."
McKay, trying not to sound disappointed at the miss opportunity to practice reading poetry to a superior, continued in rapid succession, "Well, apparently one sim soldier is already on suicide watch; another is trying to murder the other; they may have fully functional cyborg in the valley now building equipment; there are apparently one and a half Blues now in Blue base; one of the Red's might be converting due to said lover's spat; and another one is getting a boob job … or something."
Badrock actually dropped his pen.
"What … in Sam-hell? Its been what? Maybe a day and a half? Three days? What the hell is going on? And what do you mean by boob job and Blues?" said Badrock, three seconds from frothing at the mouth. He really did need his morning coffee to have a semblance of function as a human being.
Folding his hands behind his back, trying to stand up straighter, McKay looked to the floor, embarrassed, "I have no idea, sir. That's the most we could gather from the report … given it was all written in poetry verses."
Badrock moaned and turned around in his chair. Sim soldiers. Why did it have to be Sim soldiers?
"What would you like us to do, sir?" interrupted Sumner, glad she had won that round of rock-paper-sissors. Just watching McKay semi-read that report had been painful … and hilarious. Yes, she was planning on laughing her ass off the moment they were out of hearing range.
Waving his hand in the air, unable to turn around, Badrock grumbled, "Just … let them kill each other for now. It would be to lucky if any of the actually succeeded anyway. We have bigger problems ... Like finding the Director. We need to find him before he gets away with everything. I still don't know how those fools let him escape! We were this close!"
Nodding, both the soldier's in white couldn't help but agree.
XXX
Paw07: It's alive! Sorry, it's been so long. I couldn't decide how to end this fic. I finally got an epiphany and I have decided how to end this bad boy. Its only been what … a year? I regret nothing. Regardless, I made Doc somewhat competent in this. There is no way they would all still be alive if he didn't actually know some of his medical training.