a/n: Hope and Quincy enjoy the best medical care NLA has to offer [sarcastic].

Coughing, medical administration (yes that's a cw), no editing because wind.

All the good things belong to Monolithsoft.

It was good, actually, that Hope followed Quincy into the Maintenance Center. It didn't feel that way on a deep emotional level. Passing through the glass doors and into the sparsely decorated lobby, Hope felt just as awful about the upcoming treatment as she had outside on the steps, and Quincy didn't look any happier either. Her presence by his side was of no comfort whatsoever, she realized, but then again she hadn't really had much expectation of being that.

But it was good. There was trouble with the paperwork, the usual hindrance due to complexity of overlapping bureaucracies, and a more fundamental conflict over the timing of the appointment. The center usually did petalose treatments in the evening, when the bustle of returning teams had slowed, finishing just in time for patients to go home for a good night's sleep and a fresh start in the morning. That wouldn't do for Quincy. Even Hope, probably the most respected Mediator in New Los Angeles, had trouble conveying the emergency nature of Quincy's condition to the staff. Twice they had to start the admission process all over again, right down to the intake forms. Once they had been shown into an examination room, only to have a nurse pull them out because the medical record system insisted that Quincy's appointment wasn't for another week.

It probably wouldn't have been this hard, thought Hope, if we had been on the Canadian evacuation ship, ECP Northwest Passage, before crashing onto Mira.

Hope was apologetic and flustered. Mediators had some influence within the Mimeosome Center, and here was her friend being ignored and maltreated because of a scheduling error. How much worse would Quincy have been treated if he had gone in alone? She decided to bring up access and intake at the next division meeting, not just as an anecdote, but to motivate the division to really work towards improving things.

Quincy kept his cool throughout. Hope had finally asked, in the nicest possible way, if the technician on duty couldn't double check to see if a treatment room was available. She hadn't raised her voice, but she hadn't smiled either. She turned to Quincy with another apology and then frowned. He seemed to be already retreating into an emotionless shell.

"It's fine," he said quickly. "I could use the distraction. I appreciate the chance to be angry one last time, and about something different, that's a bonus."

Hope almost choked on a sad sigh, unable to mirror Quincy's slight grin. She let her anger flicker a little instead, muttering to him about how it was not fine, how reduced access contributed to poorly served BLADEs and left problems unaddressed. In between trotting after distracted intake personnel, she warmed to the topic, expanding on the dangers of vulnerable and injured soldiers trying to solve their problems alone. Quincy tagged along, listening and nodding and wearing a flicker of a smile.

They might still have been arguing over forms in an unattractive hallway, painted a dusty peach and spotted with printed advice posters encouraging pre-mission stretching and regular sleep habits, if Quincy hadn't started coughing loudly. It wasn't the dry cough that had marked the majority of their away mission, nor the harder cough that had pulled them back early. It was a massive attack, shocking and terrifying. Up until that point, he'd been barely so much as clearing his throat, although on reflection she realized he'd been barely breathing. Mims could do that, if necessary, and he'd used air only for speaking, less and less as he'd let her do the talking.

But as she was trying to sort out the correct numbers for the correct forms, BLADE id and division qualifier and rank, he had started a fresh round of coughing. First a small burst, then he was forced to bend to cough deeper, then it was clear he couldn't stop, couldn't breathe at all. His torso seemed to shrink inside the shell of his armor, then swell to struggle against whatever was growing in his lungs. The technician shoved his notepad into Hope's hands, all interest in forms lost, and dragged Quincy into a treatment room.

Hope waited outside the door, clutching the abandoned tablet, trying to discern what was happening by the muffled sounds that reached her. Two more technicians arrived in turn and scurried into the room, and she heard the lead tech assigning duties in the seconds before the door slid shut. "Get his head up." "Another boost, same amount." A terrible wheezing and gurgling sound also slipped out. Even the soundproofing wasn't sure against that noise, although maybe Hope was only hearing it in her mind.

She waited, patiently and undisturbed, until the original technician waved her inside, retrieving his tablet in the process. Quincy was propped up on a standard gurney inside the treatment room, wearing a paper examination robe that was playing tag with his knees as he struggled to take regular breaths. Hope was used to the shock of seeing familiar BLADEs like this, injured and exposed, so much smaller when they'd been stripped of their armor and weapons. She was expecting that, but she didn't feel it. Quincy still seemed right, her good friend lying there, relaxed and smiling a little sheepishly when the gown crinkled to match a soft cough.

"Would you like a blanket? For your legs?" Hope didn't look at the remaining technician for permission, turning instead to the cabinet that she knew held such things.

"Sure," Quincy said. He wiggled his toes with amusement as she unfolded the blanket, and the paper on the gurney snapped cheerfully. She took her time tucking the blanket around him firmly, giving one toe that wiggled too distinctly a friendly tweak. She was rewarded by a chuckle in reply. She looked up at Quincy in time to catch his wink. She relaxed a little. Whatever they'd given him for his cough must also have eased his anxiety. He was still coughing but he wasn't fighting a tidal wave of worry anymore. Maybe the procedure wouldn't erase all the good bits about him, Hope thought quickly, knowing she was wrong.

"Keep him calm a sec," said the lone technician before leaving the room.

She tucked the blanket a little more, needig something to do, and in the process the ill-fitting examination gown slipped off his shoulders. Hope spotted lines drawn on his skin, below the edge of his clavicles and disappearing down along the breastbone. Sketchy blue traces and thicker red dashes, marking where best to access the control structures for emotion and impulse. Mims really did think with their guts, feel with their hearts. With so little understanding of why, WHY, they could still think and remember, the mim technicians were left with adjusting the areas that expressed emotions. Besides, they'd need to do something about the damage to his lungs.

Hope stared with horrified fascination at the hopscotch marks on Quincy's tan skin. They looked ugly and inhuman and graceless. Another wave of anger blazed in her brain. She didn't want this, not at all. It was selfish, but Quincy was her friend and Hope was sick to death of losing friends. She was being selfish, but the angry bit of her brain was being honest. It just felt entirely wrong that she was losing a friend because some clever engineer on Earth, or worse, some bureaucrat from a decade prior, decided that crew and passengers couldn't be trusted with emotions. She was steaming. Part of her was steaming. A small part of her. She returned to herself. What she was or wasn't feeling wasn't important now. She couldn't be selfish like that. She mentally turned away from the little blaze of anger, intriguing as it might be. She held Quincy's hand instead.

She squeezed his hand, a thumb pressing along the soft pad just below his fingers. It was a way of providing comfort to a patient, doing all the work in the hand holding, so that they didn't have to expend energy to feel the pressure that signaled contact, presence, witnessing. Quincy stayed relaxed, but he did turn his head to smile at her, right before squeezing back briefly. Hope almost frowned in reply. She didn't need the comfort. It was distracting to be reminded of what she was about to lose. She started talking about medical access again, the only thing she could think of, reeling out plans and needs, outreach and training. Maybe they should do surveys first? Study the shortcomings? No, they needed to start trying improvements. The city had delayed it too long as it was.

It was the only topic she could think of, but it must have been effective. Quincy was very calm, and if you didn't know him well, you'd say he looked happy. His smile was medically enhanced and possibly goofy, but it was real. His eyes drooped closed.

That's when Hope suddenly asked about the trip home, and whether he'd been looking at her. There Quincy was, smiling, with his hand warm in hers and squeezing back softly. The imp of anger that had unexpectedly taken residence in her head had whispered, "He's dreaming. Of her. He's holding her hand in his dreams. Not yours. Hers." The way the imp says "her" wasn't nice at all, adding a snide mocking hiss to it. Hope was so shocked that she blurted out the question.

"You were looking at me when you were telling us about her, right?"

Quincy sat up very straight, someone entirely different from the dozing patient a second earlier. "I knew exactly who I was talking to." The robe slid even lower, flapping now.

Hope really didn't like how the marks on his shoulders and chest stood out against his skin. They reminded her of the careless scrapes of paint left on sidewalks, telling construction workers where it was safe to dig. It didn't suit Quincy at all. If you mark where someone's soul was, it should be as beautiful as what you were about to remove.

Quincy settled back, coughing. "We shouldn't talk," said Hope.

The room was silent. Hope couldn't think of a new topic for a soothing monologue, so she held her peace. The calm was external only. She could keep herself from talking but in her mind she was babbling. She sorted through memories of the fun they'd had, with half-answered questions about mission plans tossed in, as well as snippets of a piece the NLA choir had been practicing

She clamped her lips together to prevent a hysterical laugh. Can you catch petalose syndrome?

Nonsense. Who would she even get it for? For whom, she corrected herself. She breathed slowly, deeply. She was very quiet about it, because Quincy was almost asleep and also she didn't want him to think she was showing off. Look at me, look at how deep I can breathe, aren't I lucky to have working lungs and an untouched heart. The hysterical laugh was getting louder in her head. Really, this wouldn't do.

The door to the room opened. Hope turned and saw no one. Just an empty door frame. No one was there.

"Oh, that's all right then," Hope said quietly. "I'm just losing my mind. Good to know."

a/n: Do the linoleum floors squeak in NLA?

Next up: The arrival of the first OC, Dr. Pelias of the Ma-non ship.