Dragon Ball/Z/GT Fan Fiction ❯ Syndrome ❯ Mission Impossible ( Chapter 7 )

[A/N: PLEASE REREAD PREVIOUS CHAPTERS OF "SYNDROME"!!! I MADE SIGNIFICANT CHANGES!!! ESPECIALLY TO CHAPTERS 5 + 6!!!

That being said… School sucks. That's all I have to say. Plus, you know, I'm dealing with college crap and having to hobble around on these bloody crutches. Yeah. I know just how Veggie feels. Send me a get-well ecard. Or a get-well review. Both will work.

Oh yeah. Please tell me how you like the last part of this happy chapter. *grin*]

Syndrome: 7

In the waiting room, that first hour of, well, waiting, was longer than it should have been for Bulma, sitting on the bench by herself. The only other people present were either coughing so hard they were probably infecting everyone within a ten foot radius with whatever was ailing them, and/or were too busy filling out forms to spare a moment to chat with the blue-haired woman holding perfectly acceptable reading material. And it was a good book. Banned, too. Even better. But one can only read the same page over and over so many times before having it memorized well enough not to need to read it. Bulma knew how that was like.

Finally, that same nurse who'd been laughing on the inside while observing her and Vegeta's little spat earlier, stuck her head in the door and motioned her inside, "They're getting ready to take him into the operating room, so you can come in and say something quick to him if you like before he goes in."

Bulma stood slowly and in the same manner walked through the door; she didn't want to seem anxious or rushed. Because she wasn't. Not at all.

He was completely horizontal now, the IV tube taped to his hand and the blankets pulled further up his chest. Slightly drowsy, he was nevertheless alert enough to scowl when he noticed her approach.

"Don't even start with that, Vegeta, I only came to wish you luck, that's all, I'm not going to deride you or call you weak or take pictures of you in a hospital gown so just chill the hell out."

"It's cold enough in here," he muttered, rubbing his eyes with his free hand. "Keep talking so it will warm up."

"Ha. Ha. Point for you. Yay. When I catch up you're really going to get it, you know that?"

He continued rubbing his eyes and didn't respond. It was getting near the time for him to be moved to the operating room, an annoying prospect in itself. As if on cue, a young intern who might have been considered eye candy had Bulma not been looking at the smorgasbord on the bed, came forward and took hold of the end railing.

"Ready to go, Vegeta?" The nurse asked, much to her own chagrin. To her, simply observing the patients was more enjoyable than treating them. Not for the first time did she wish she'd gone into experimental psychology instead of the nursing profession.

"Vegeta? We're going to go down to the operating room now, okay?"

The patient in question did not respond, nor did he even seem to hear her as he stared up at the ceiling, memories flickering across his mind, more noticeable now thanks to the uninhibiting effects of the preliminary sedation. Bulma in turn looked at his face, wondering at his naturally indifferent expression but obvious lack of composure. A hand trembled; he clenched his fist. Eyebrows drawn, his eyes squeezed shut, and he took a deep breath, relaxing slightly as he released the air.

"Do prdele."

"I take it that's some sort of swear word?"

He opened his eyes and gave the blue one staring above him a quick glance and raised eyebrow. "You don't get points for guesses."

In turn, she smirked much like he was prone to, as she walked alongside the rolling bed. The double doors, through which she'd already been informed she was not permitted to foray, were opening just ahead of them. "Maybe not, but I must get some points for this."

She bent over and gave him a quick smack on the mouth, then stepped away, grinning cheekily. He brought his hand to his lips in surprise, and as the doors shut behind him, they cut off his yell of, "WHAT the FU--"

By the time he, the nurse, and the intern had reached their final destination, he was still grumbling quite loudly to himself. He barely noticed when the operating room staff transferred him from the bed to the table, placed four electrodes on his chest to monitor his heart and breathing, and injected the necessary anesthesia into his IV. When the oxygen mask was placed over his mouth, he got a vague impression that he'd worn one before, and immediately went to sleep, without once wondering where the evil white lizard with a scalpel was.

That was probably the point.