Chapter 2: Hand of Doom / Purple Heart

Fuck, in big block letters, was mostly how Ian could sum up his thoughts.

He had not seen Russ agitated like that before. Though he had not said it aloud, it was like he was angry at Ian, for the whole cabin trip and drinking session. If it had been the trigger. Jo's rambling during the drive to the hospital had been frightening too, further amplifying the atmosphere of overreaching doom.

"They'll find traces of nanobots in my head. And then we'll get arrested again. They're not supposed to exist."

"Jo. Our names were cleared. Nothing like that can happen again. Just try to calm down. No time and you'll be in hands of people who know their shit," Ian had replied, trying to stay as calm as possible.

"But they could be in on it too. SCEPTRE. Or THRONE. Or if not that -"

There was no real arguing with this feverish line of thinking, so Ian quit trying.

That they had taken her in to the ward, and were taking their time, instead of just sending her away with a bottle of painkillers or antibiotics in hand, was certainly a further cause of concern.

As he sat in the corridor, under the glare of much too bright lights, Ian found his thinking going into unpleasant, but unavoidable directions. Extrapolating to the worst possible outcome.

What was best in life? A guitarist battle couple. And what was the worst? When only half of it remained, the one who remained playing out his sorrow. That would be a lifetime of doom metal inspiration, but in a way Ian never wanted to experience.

At first he had thought of something else. Something not at all worst. The possibility of an accidental junior guitarist on its way. But the symptoms had been so sudden and extreme, that it was unlikely.

He remembered something deeply messed up, something from way back, the treatment rooms in SCEPTRE's undersea Erehwon facility, and thinking of Jo in a hospital attire, going through them. It was almost as if that was happening now. Quadruple fuck.

With nothing else to do right now, Ian realized that Erik should need to know too, and took out his cell phone.

…

Salvageable Bodyparts, Jo thought in between the waves of nausea, and the beeps of the medical equipment, as she was lying on the bed with its upper part inclined. That had been René's lyric about the nightmarish recycling of cybernetic soldiers' body parts in a never-ending war.

The ridiculous thought was, that the universe had given her some temporary replacement, but now it was being reclaimed, or salvaged, leaving her to die. Like karma catching up to her at last, even though the MSA had cleared her of actual criminal charges.

She tried to think in rational terms … the doctor had said they'd do a CT scan, which sounded serious. And expensive. Russ would pay that from his insurance? That didn't seem right. They'd certainly need to compensate him from the remaining Agency funds.

Jo also knew she should just worry about getting better, instead of worrying of money at all, but she just couldn't help it.

…

At the cabin the atmosphere had changed from beer-fueled pretend doom to proper doom, Kim thought, as Erik had relayed Ian's short message. Kim couldn't easily tell what she was feeling, if anything. Maybe a sense of coldness. Kim knew her imagination was morbid, so it was absolutely natural for her to immediately think of the possibility that their four-piece doom band could become three-piece. Or most likely, it would be back to two in that case.

It was possibly a mental protection mechanism, to immediately think of the worst outcome. Then surprises could only be positive. But probably anything she would or could say now would be unwanted information. So she kept quiet.

Moments like these were the most uncomfortable to Kim. When she was possibly being asked to behave like a normal human being. Erik had known Jo for years, so what could Kim contribute now? Except to confirm her own misanthropy and inhumanity.

"Fuck. Was it the absinthe?" Erik broke the silence at last.

"She was fine in the morning. Just hung over," Kim replied.

"It could be nothing. Just a scare."

"Or then not."

Kim's last reply was out faster than her mind had processed consciously. But it couldn't be taken back. It was like the atmosphere of doom had thickened.

Erik nodded and said nothing.

"Fuck. Maybe I shouldn't have said that. But I'm fucking defective and you know that," Kim spat out. Like digging the hole underneath you deeper.

But Erik just let out a low laugh.

"Who isn't? 'We all are mentally unstable, and that gives us our sound.' I no longer remember who said that, and the quote may not be exact. Could have been the guitarist of Deicide. Or Morbid Angel."

Kim had feared something else, like Erik getting angry, or even unnecessarily sugary (though that was rare) so this was an unexpected positive surprise.

"I should tell you about defective," he went on. "You know, or actually you don't - because I haven't told this to anyone I've played with. I once had a twin. Henrik. We always tried to outdo the other, and he played drums too. Until he got to his head that he wanted to serve his country. Went to Afghanistan and did not return. And you know what I thought?"

Kim had no fucking clue, so she kept silent.

"Because he died, he wasn't a true over-man. And sometimes, I guess I feel guilty of that. So I keep pushing myself."

"That's screwed up."

"Right. But now you know."

Kim thought she felt better knowing this, though she couldn't even properly explain why. Maybe it was the knowledge that if Erik was capable of similar incorrect thinking, he wouldn't judge her. Well, to tell the truth, he hadn't ever judged her in any negative way. He was just Erik. Strong on his mountain. Or drum stool. Whatever.

…

As he sat, still waiting in the hospital corridor, Ian became aware of something changing. Like a sensation of warmth, that was spreading and slowly gaining in intensity. Until it was no longer warmth, but almost burning.

The sensation reached his heart, and he felt it jolt unpleasantly, beating now in an erratic pace and leaving him short of breath.

It was odd how the mind could change gears abruptly. He had been thinking of the famous Swedish glam / hard rock band, how a guitarist battle couple (though in separate bands) had been broken by a brain tumor, which could be in the worst case be repeating here with Jo. But suddenly Ian was thinking of wholly another Swedish hero. Someone he had actually had dreams about before.

Quorthon.

Why had the guy even composed a song named like that, Hammerheart? Did he know he was going to die early, and precisely from heart failure? And why was everyone Ian was thinking of now Swedish?

But in all seriousness, Ian was very much concerned with his own mortality now. He recalled Jo's full words –

"Or if not that, some twist of karma -"

In her delirium, she had actually vocalized the very same thought Ian considered now. Their time here being up due to the balance of the universe evening out the weight of their kills at last.

Though, to think of karma was probably going too far. Instead, it could be their wholly mortal enemies exacting vengeance. If not SCEPTRE, then those squatting fuckers, who had served the REX at their pyramid. So… Poisoning?

It was possibly just imagination, but Ian thought his vision was going dim.

Fuck. Now it was certainly not just imagination.

"I don't think I'm all right either -" he groaned to Russ sitting next to him. The aged studio owner did not seem to react first, until he snapped to alertness.

By that point Ian did not have full control of his body any more, so before Russ could catch him, he was sliding down from the bench toward the welcoming floor.