"So...how'm I doing?" Ozzy asked.
The voice came through partially clenched teeth, impervious knuckles rocking the hanging bag with rapid taps of stone-cracking force. Trickles of sweat and beads of intensity littered the landscape of his forehead, glinting of the fluorescent hum of the lights above.
"Pretty damn good for a man that's been in a coma for two months..." Huerta's voice carried around the punching bag. Only his fingertips showing from the other side, Jody braced against the bag with all of his average weight. His elbows would buckle occasionally, waves of momentum and strength riding the crest from his fingertips to his toes.
"...Nort'?" Ozzy asked, cutting his eyes slightly to the right.
Norton Bitmarr, physical therapy coordinator for the MRC, nodded with glance at his clipboard.
"I concur, Dr. Huerta." he said, the obvious Middle Eastern inflections clipping the edges of each word. "Oswald is showing absolutely no signs of muscular atrophy, or, even the slightest degradation in tissue."
"So, all systems go?" Ozzy replied, pausing to catch his breath from the boxing regiment he was currently putting himself through.
"Better, even." Bitmarr added. "Not only has your natural indestructibility remained steadfast, you're showing signs of increased stamina and strength."
"Meaning?"
"I'm not sure what it means, Oswald." he shrugged. "Is it a normal trait of your metagene? Is it some external element that your biological system has acquired? I can't be sure without running more tests..."
"Ooooh, no!" Ozzy interjected, holding up a single finger. "No more tests! I'm sick of all the damn tests. Tomorrow morning, my bags are packed, and I am out of here. Got it?"
Bitmarr rolled his eyes, as only a medical professional could when faced with the intolerant demands of a patient.
"IF you are so completely adamant about it..." he sighed. "...but, I would run this 'schedule' by Doctor McGregor first, if I were you..."
"Screw him. I want out..."
**************************************
"I want him out, Bill!"
Doctor William Paragon's natural smile remained fixed, as he sat fully back in the leather office chair.
"What are you worried about, Ian?" his smooth voice carried perfectly crisp over the video monitor.
Doctor Ian McGregor leaned forward, peering into the large LCD screen dominating his desktop.
"Let's see....the Yakuza, Interpol, and, quite frankly, Manchester's current record, to start..."
"They lost again?"
"Goddamn Hibbish..." Ian grumbled. "...that tart couldn't hit the broad side of the Thames..."
"Yes, they never should have let Jones retire..." Paragon nodded. "....but, football aside, are you really worried about something happening with Baxter?"
"He attracts danger, Bill...I hate that..."
"As much as I hate it when you call me 'Bill'?"
"The point is, Bill...", McGregor demanded with sly sneer, "...ah've fulfilled my end of the bargain. You wanted the rough-and-tough scrapper walking and talking again? I gave you that. Now get him the hell out of my hospital!"
***********************************
"I just want to get the hell out of this hospital!" Ozzy barked, slamming the bag with sharp jabs.
Huerta grunted, trying to brace the bag for him.
"Pushing yourself is only going to make things worse, Ozzy." he explained in his normal calm demeanor. "You have to trust these people to make the right decisions for you. They're medical professionals, who specialize in exactly patients like you."
"Patients like me? What, sweaty and pissed off?"
"Metahumans, Ozzy. This is the first facility in the world to recognize the need for a separate field of medical study and treatment. You could be in no better hands."
"I could think of other hands I would like to be in...." he replied, pausing long enough to glance across the room. The far wall bore a large, wide pane of glass. Tinted on the opposite side, Ozzy could see a physical therapy session in progress.
He walked away from the punching bag, Huerta peering around the side, watching him. Striding up to the window, he stopped, placing a flat palm against the cool glass. On the other side, he watched Nuriko strain to hold herself up on a set of parallel bars. Her legs, weak and trembling, echoed a frail vulnerability that he had never seen.
"It bothers you, doesn't it?" Huerta asked in a quiet voice, walking up next to him.
Ozzy continued to stare through the glass, watching her struggles.
"She's been spitting nails ever since I first met her..." he began. "...but...seeing her like this...I don't know. It reminds me...it convinces me...that....that..."
"...that, no one is really completely indestructible?"
Ozzy turned to look at him.
"Yeah....I guess..." he nodded.
Huerta gained a wry crook to his mouth, placing a calm hand on Ozzy's shoulder.
"Everyone can be hurt, Ozzy. Everyone." he said. "It just depends on how..."
*****************************
"...how you can possibly say that I don't have your best interest at heart, Ian." Paragon sighed. "Haven't I supplied your hospital with the finest and the best this Earth has to offer?"
"Oh, don't play your fucking innocent-'Virgin Mary'-routine with me, boyo!" Ian snarled. "You have ALWAYS had an agenda, Billy. Don't insult me by trying to act like some philanthropical benefactor. Ya' boys in that group of yours might buy it, but, I don't..."
"And don't try and fool me, Ian, by claiming you only want 'what's best for your hospital'." Paragon countered. "You're personally annoyed that you have to make time out of your schedule to deal with the patients I send you."
"No, not the patients! Not the patients!" Ian argued. "I live for the patients. The patients are all that matters to me. That's a bloody fact. It's the insane, life-threatening baggage that these guys bring with them."
"...Ian..." Paragon sighed.
"Don't 'Ian' me! I had two Interpol agents--TWO--pay me a visit a few weeks ago. And, let me tell you, it wasn't to discuss national healthcare, either!"
"I know, I know...you've told me..." Paragon nodded.
"Yeah, and when I did, what did you say, huh? You said 'Don't sweat it, Ian...'" McGregor's voice dropped into a mocking simulation of Paragon's deep, resonant voice. "'...I'll have someone look into it. You have nothing to worry about.' And, that was it! No follow-up, no 'Run for your life, Ian', not even a 'I paid off the entire Royal family, and you have nothing to worry about, Ian'!"
"I didn't want to worry you..." Paragon smiled, enjoying watching McGregor pop and spark in his oft-normal frenzy of anxiety.
"Worry me?!" he practically yelled. "What did you find out, William?! Dammit, if you're going to keep things from me, then, this deal is off!"
Paragon chuckled a bit, leaning in close over the monitor.
"You're not going to like it."
"I already HATE it! So, spill!"
"Weellllll.....after much checking, and rechecking with all of my UK sources, I have come to a serious conclusion...."
"...and..?!" Ian insisted.
William's voice dropped even a bit lower than normal.
"There are no Interpol agents named Gudheim and Moote'..."
McGregor stared at the screen.
"....what...?"
"Those two 'Interpol' agents that visited you? No records of any kind that they exist, let alone, are working for the agencies."
"And...that means..."
"That, more than likely, they're Yakuza agents."
Ian's face blanched a bit.
He suddenly vaulted to his feet, pointing his finger straight at the monitor...
"I WANT BAXTER OUT OF HERE NOW!"
