This is a what if fic. What if Nicol didn't die? What if he was knocked out when he ejected from the Blitz Gundam? What if he was a little brain damaged and was sent to an orphanage (as he is still a minor) because everyone thinks he's a native of Scandinavia that was caught in a MS battle? What if the Scandinavian Kingdom built several Mobile Suits and a new battleship in secret like ZAFT and the Alliance did? A weird idea based on a very strange dream I had after consuming entirely too much, very good Scotch. I mean very good Scotch. So here it is! Maybe someone will read it. And review! Reviews are very good! Even better than Scotch!
Chapter I
Alone
The search and rescue operation had been going on since shortly after the last shot had been fired. From the destroyed lunar base to the wreckage of GENESIS there were very few survivors. The vast majority of these people had been destroyed by the powerful gamma ray laser that ZAFT had employed as it's last resort. Elsewhere they had better luck. The majority of the MS's and MA's that had done battle with what was being called the Three Ship Alliance were mostly intact many missing only their weapons or propulsion systems. Almost all of them were recoverable. Elsewhere things were somewhat grimmer. Most of the rest of the fighters hadn't been looking out for their opponent's lives, but occasionally a pilot would manage to eject before his ship blew, or a suit would only be missing its arms or head.
In one isolated corner of the battlefield, a pilot received a call from a civilian distress beacon. Double checking to make sure of the coordinates he came in slowly on his thrusters before finding her. He reached out and, as gently as a Mobile Suit can, picked her up in his left hand. It was amazing that she had survived. There was no way a standard civilian, or even most military suits could have taken so much damage and retained any life support abilities whatsoever. This one had obviously been expensive. Though over half the unit's telltales glowed the amber of damage, but only three of them were the red of total failure. If he could get her back to one of the ship's infirmaries there was a damn good chance she'd pull through. Only one thing bothered him, what had a civilian been doing that close to the battlefield?
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The medics onboard the Icarus had labored for almost seven hours putting this girl back together. A ruptured spleen, abraded kidneys, three herniated discs, an diaphragmatic hernia, seven major bones broken with at least a dozen more minor breaks, and a severe subdural hematoma. She was damned lucky to be alive.
"So," one of the docs began, "have they figured out who she is or where she's from yet?" The military attaché outside the door shakes his head in negation.
"There were several civilian ships near the destruction, and a total of four are missing and presumed lost, but three of the four belonged to the Scandinavian Kingdom. She'll probably be sent there unit someone claims her."
The doctor nodded in understanding, "All right, but don't move her just yet. Her condition is stable, but it's still very serious. We don't know how much damage the bleeding in her brain will cause, and I do not want her moved," he orders his staff before starting in on the next casualty. Poor thing! She can't be more than fifteen or sixteen years old. She's lost her entire family, and she may yet lose her own life despite everything modern medicine can do for her.
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(Two months later)
The doctor walked down the halls of the medical ward at Central Research Hospital in Stockholm in the Scandinavian Kingdom for the fifth time that day, making his rounds. The next room on his schedule was room 517. He really hated that one. It housed Jane Doe 3581. She had been in a coma ever since she was found after the battle of Jachin Due. In that time no one had ever visited her, or even shown interest in her. And now she was dying. He walks into the room yet again and the EEG shows what he expects. "Anything new?" he asks the other neurologist.
"No, cell death is proceeding at the same rate," the other replies. "Nothing we've done can stop it, and there's no observable reason for it, but sections of her brain are just withering away to nothing."
The first doctor nods, and then frowns. "Is it possible that she's a newtype?" he asks after a moment.
The second blinks in confusion. "Why do you think that? In any case, what meaning could it have anyway?"
"It's just that . . . we still don't know what makes newtypes tic! She could have some nutritional requirement that we can't even assess much less fulfill! We could be killing her out of ignorance," the first says, his irritation breaking the surface.
"Even if she is, how are we going to help her?" the first asks, accepting the other's interpretation, if only provisionally.
"I've got a friend in R and D in ORB, maybe there's something they can do to help."
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"It's possible, but the treatment is experimental. It could just as easily kill her as make her better," a man in a dark blue suit says to the doctor.
The doctor considers this, but only for a moment, "She's dead already. This is her only chance. We don't know who her parents are. They're probably dead up in space. They were caught in a war that they had no part of. We owe it to her to do whatever we can."
The ORB scientist looks at him and nods. "I understand, and I agree. The drug isn't really ready for a human trial yet, but I think I can convince my supervisors, and if I can't then I know that I can convince Lady Cagalli," he says with certainty before getting down to details. "Alright, we engineered the retrovirus to work like the original fetal development process. That is, after all, the only way to regenerate neurons. The concern is, however, that the regenerating neurons will overload the brain's capacity. If that happens she'll die. If it doesn't, well we really don't know what will happen, but she should recover. Of course her memory will be more or less useless, because it'll have more holes in it than a wheel of swiss cheese. Now we'll need to give her a series of injections . . ."
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PainpainpainpainPAIN! OhGodithurts! Whydoesithurt? Whydoesithurt? Her eyes opened and then closed again, the light was too much for eyes that had been unseeing for months. Dimly she can hear . . . something. People talking? But what language was it in? Not English . . . Swedish? Do I know Swedish? Wait, who am I? Where am I? She tries to sit up, but she can't. This immediately causes more panic. Luckily one of the Doctors hovering over her leans down and speaks to her.
"We've got you on a drug to paralyze you, don't worry, it will wear off soon, but you've been through a lot you need to rest while your body copes with what's happened. We're going to give you a tranquilizer to help you sleep. Do you understand?"
She nods in affirmation, "Pain," she manages to get out through her dry throat and clenched teeth.
The doctor nods, "Alright," he turns to his assistants. "Forget the tranq'. Get me two milligrams of Dilaudid. That'll put her out like a light."
She stays awake long enough to feel the prick of the needle, apparently magnified a couple hundred fold. She was never sure after if it was the pain or the painkiller that knocked her out.
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So wadda ya think? Interested? So review! And stuff . . . I'm gonna go drink more Scotch. I'll try to update something soon. I'm working on exactly five fics now! I am so nuts!
Dilaudid: A very powerful painkiller. Like the most powerful we have.
Diaphragmatic hernia: The intestines are living upstairs with the lungs. Nuff said.
Subdural hematoma: bleeding in the brain. Not good. Nuff said.