Viral Love

Now, I felt really worried.

I watched Valentine’s digital image, marking off fifteen minutes since he’d laboriously entered the tub. He didn’t move, just sat there with his arms wrapped around his bent knees, barely blinking though the water ran into his eyes. He shivered and trembled like an overwrought racing chocobo. Hair plastered to his head and back, he looked about to drown.

The clone’s girlfriend interrupted Valentine’s state of near catatonia by calling through the door. He snapped out of his thoughts and slowly managed to climb out, shutting the sprayer off on his way. His painful dignity cut me. A man shouldn’t look so noble struggling into hospital scrubs while wet.

He flicked the water from his gauntlet and staggered out. I hit cam five’s button to watch him drag himself back to the living room area. He dropped onto a couch and went still.

I shut off the video feeds, sat back and lit a cigarette. Valentine needed something, but what? He had friends who cared about him. They weren’t enough, obviously. He had talent and beauty, too, but did those things help his state of mind? Seemingly, no.

Why did I care? I just intended to use him for blood samples and the like. His state of mind didn’t concern me. It had to be the basic respect of predator to predator. Valentine had my admiration for many aspects of his personality, really. He displayed a cool, calculating intellect, determination, drive and dedication. He could and did kill. He was a hunter, but had many more dimensions.

And, he was quite captivating. I truly did understand Lucrecia’s interest.

I looked at the clock while stubbing out my smoke. Six-thirty in the morning. I had to be at work soon. Laughing to myself, I stretched out on my own couch. Robert would wake me before Renee took her turn watching my office. An hour of sleep would surely perk me right up.


Sleep didn’t perk me up. It made me cranky and depressed and quite obnoxious. I snapped at everyone I encountered, once I managed to drag myself from my office. At the break room coffee maker, I sloshed creamer everywhere and simply lost my grip. Barely aware of what I did, I threw the Mr. Java to the floor and smashed it to bits with my boot heel. Broken glass went everywhere. It refreshed my soul to hear it grind to gritty powder between hard rubber and ceramic tile. Dimly aware of people scattering, I left and stomped down the stairs toward Medical Lab Research Nine.

I never made it. While on route, several scrub techs surrounded me. Their chattering made no sense, just filled my already bewildered head with gibberish.

“Shut up, all of you,” I shouted at top voice, bringing blessed, instantaneous silence. “You,” I said, pointing to a familiar tech. “What’s going on?”

“Accident on the field, sir,” he said. “Several SOLDIERs are on their way here for patch jobs, two are critical, four are nearly gone.”

“Get the O.R. ready, call Leanne, call Alvey, Burton and Ellen,” I instructed, turning in the proper direction. “Get them here in ten minutes or less. Who’s doing the triage?”

“John Rhodes and Simon Stewart are already there and waiting,” someone said. No one began chattering.

In minutes I had a nurse prepping me. I didn’t recognize him, but that didn’t seem odd. I had hundreds of staff members and I couldn’t be bothered to remember them all. Still, he pissed me off almost immediately when he violated procedure and tried to dry my arms and hands in the opposite direction. Snarling, I shoved him away with my hip and washed all over again. “You don’t wipe above an unwashed area and drag the germs down,” I lectured.

“Sorry, professor,” the man said, and he didn’t sound sorry at all.

I finished, thrust my hands under an air dryer and concentrated on my temper. In the reflection of the dryer nozzle, I saw the nurse picking up a scalpel. Not just a violation of operating protocol, but germ management. Incensed anew, I watched him get a good grip on it, turn and come toward me.

Ah. No wonder he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. His nursing credentials ended and began with a forged piece of plastic at best.

When would people ever learn they cast reflections and shadows? As long as I could face something shiny, no one would sneak up on me.

I grabbed the portable autoclave at my elbow, hit the lid release latch, and swung. Superheated, pressurized steam and medical instruments covered my treacherous, so-called nurse. He didn’t avoid a bit of my impromptu barrage, and fell screaming in mortal agony both burning and skewered. Irritated, I washed my hands a third time while he writhed and shrieked.

Scarlet and Heideggar knew better than this. I’d survived more assassination attempts than anyone in living history, I felt sure, and some piss-ant little amateur had about as much chance of killing me as a paper cut.

“Stop making that horrible noise,” I told the hired killer as Leanne entered. She said nothing but put my gloves on for me. As soon as she finished, she began her own prep, eyes downcast. I realized she had no way of knowing this wasn’t a real nurse I’d effectively maimed.

Soon I was in the O.R. and working. At least things made a little more sense here. Someone turned on a stereo and filled the room with a violin concerto. Soothed, I patched up men and supervised my staff’s attempts at the same. We worked more than two hours. Finished, our patients in the holding ward, we went to clean up.

The fake nurse lay close to the opposite door, straining to reach the highly positioned door latch. He’d left a puddle and a wide, bloody smear in the effort of dragging himself. “Why didn’t someone come and get this idiot?” I asked no one in particular, kicking him from the door. Looking at him, I smiled. “Which one hired you, I wonder? Scarlet? Heideggar?”

He said nothing. I didn’t expect he would. Either of the two that could have hired him would have made sure he wouldn’t tell me anything. He probably had one of my patented digger bombs in a vital area. The minute he said something incriminating, he’d explode. I really regretted the theft of those bombs. By my count I had two still floating around at an enemy’s discretion.

The poor creature needed put out of his misery. I’d taken the skin off his face and neck, and he still had scissors, scalpels and probes imbedded in raw, blistering areas. Well, he’d suffered enough for his stupidity. I reached down and broke his neck.

“Nearly breakfast, doctor,” Leanne said as we washed our hands. “I don’t suppose you’ll go to the cafeteria.”

“No, being poisoned once was enough.” Poison couldn’t kill me, either, but it hadn’t put me in a good mood to roll in agony while I purged.

Leanne nodded. “I brought enough for two if you trust me.”

Touched, I made eye contact with her. “You might upset your husband.”

She shook her head to the negative. “Arthur isn’t a jealous man.”

“All right, Leanne,” I said, finally free of operating gear. “My office?”

She nodded again. In less than twenty minutes we were eating in peaceful silence. She’d made a clear display of dividing our portions from one dish, showing me she’d be eating poison if I did.

Leanne never just chatted. Quiet, patient, she didn’t stress a man with unnecessary social interaction. Any time she shared my space, she tended to her own business. I liked her. She never complained and she continued her aggressive course of schooling despite her already high credentials.

Feeling generous, I asked her what paperwork occupied her attention. She gave me a small smile. “Psychology. I’m thinking of switching fields a few years down the road.”

“I’ll hate to lose you.” I gave her a bottle of water from my dorm size refrigerator. “Do you have any mentors you think of highly?”

“Two, but only one of which I would recommend,” she answered. She searched her pockets, brought out her wallet and found a card. “Doctor Charles Hawthorn.” Giving me the card, she opened her water. “He specializes in Soldier’s Heart.”

“Post-traumatic Stress Disorder?” I asked for clarification.

“Yes. He’s an independent psychiatrist and psychologist from Wutai. I can imagine he had no end of specialty cases there.” Leanne finished her breakfast and kicked back with a cigarette, knowing I wouldn’t care if she smoked in here. “He’s very good. I’m learning more by talking to him on the phone at night than I am by taking courses.”

“I always learned better that way myself,” I admitted, sliding the card into my pocket. “I hope you go far, Leanne. You can do better than Shin-Ra.”

She gave me a sweet, lopsided grin. “Thank you, doctor. I hope you get out of here, too.”