Bouffant

Max lay motionless on the hospital bed.

Pale.

Bloated.

His eyelids drooped at half-mast, hanging low over eyes that seemed . . . cloudy, unfocused, almost vacant. It was impossible to tell whether he was awake or lost somewhere beneath the murk.

Perhaps Max didn’t know either.

Dry, cracked lips framed the oxygen tubing running down his throat. His chest . . . patched with sticky electrodes . . . rose and fell in slow, mechanical rhythm. An IV line snaked from the back of his hand up to a bag swaying faintly beside him. His torso was wrapped tight in bandages, holding him together, hiding the butchery stitched beneath.

The room was suffocatingly quiet.

Nothing but the low hum of the air filtration system and the steady, artificial breath of the ventilator.

Psshh . . . kuff . . . psshh . . . kuff . . .

It was almost… tranquil. A kind of mechanical lullaby, the rhythm of white noise lapping against the walls like distant ocean waves.

The glass door slid open with the hush of a blade leaving its sheath.

Thomas stepped inside, bundled in more layers than a paranoid tortoise . . . face shield, bouffant cap, disposable gown, gloves, shoe covers. He turned toward the door, gripping the metal frame as he eased it shut behind him.

Outside, the clipboard woman stood watching through the glass. Her expression . . . tight, unmoved. She raised her hand, fingers spread wide, mouthing “Five minutes” before tapping an imaginary watch on the back of her wrist.

Thomas gave her a casual little salute, followed by a cheeky wink.

Then turned back to face Max.

He froze.

This… this wasn’t what he’d expected.

Max Orpheus, a man who’d spent his life hammering the world into shape . . . now looked like something broken.

Deflated.

Vacant.

A body without a spark.

Thomas lingered by the door for a moment longer, smoothing his gloved hands awkwardly down the front of his gown, before taking a half-step forward and forcing a breathy, conversational tone.

“Oh… ah… no, no, please, er… don’t get up on my account, old chap,” he whispered, voice light and breathless, as though the very idea had caught him off guard.

“It’s just me… Thomas. In case you didn’t, er, recognise me under all this… charming protective apparel.”

He gave a little flourish of his gloved hands, as though modelling the outfit for a charity calendar.

Max didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Psshh . . . kuff . . . psshh . . . kuff . . .

Thomas cleared his throat quietly, then shuffled toward the visitor’s chair beside the bed. He dropped into it with an exaggerated sigh, smoothing out the creases in his gown as though he had all the time in the world.

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, voice soft but trying for cheer.

“Right. Well… I understand you’re a bit, ah, beyond conversation at the moment. So if you don’t mind terribly, I’ll, er, do the talking.”

He glanced toward the glass again. The clipboard woman hadn’t budged. Still watching. Still unimpressed.

Thomas smiled thinly.

“I’ve, ah, had the distinct pleasure of speaking with your… what do they call them… patient liaison? Although… strictly between us… I’m fairly certain she’s actually the hospital’s corporate damage control officer. You know… ‘The Handler.’ Sounds rather ominous, doesn’t it?”

He gave her a little wave, flashing a toothy grin through the glass.

She didn’t blink.

Thomas sighed, turning back to Max.

“And… er… between you and me, I think she’s, ah… well… fallen for me. Whole thing’s a bit of a disaster, really. Star-crossed, you might say. I’m a Leo. She’s a Pisces. Absolute non-starter.”

He pressed a gloved hand to his chest, mock solemn.

“Of course, I’ll let her down gently. I’m not a monster, Max. Perhaps over dinner. Something Thai, maybe… bottle of wine old enough to have dust in its label.”

He leaned back slightly, rubbing the back of his neck.

“She… er… mentioned you’ve had a bit of a restless night.”

He raised his hand to pat Max on the shoulder . . . but stopped himself just short, glancing down at the gloves.

“Infection,” he muttered under his breath. “Yes… probably best not.”

He let his hand drop back to his lap.

“To be fair, old boy… I don’t blame you. You’ve… you’ve been through more than anyone has any right to endure.”

Still, Max didn’t move.

“Now, strictly speaking, I’ve been… er… advised not to ask questions.”

He rubbed his palms together nervously.

“However… it’s the board.”

He watched Max’s face, searching for a flicker.

Anything.

Nothing.

“They, ah… they think you’re not fit to complete the Argos mission.”

He took a moment, absorbing Max’s empty husk. Hoping for the smallest flicker of life.

“Exactly Sir, utter madness! There’s… there’s talk of a vote. A hostile takeover, if you can believe that. They’re circling Hermes, Sir. They want to crack open the hood and take him apart.”

Still nothing.

Thomas swallowed.

“Sir… can they even do that? I mean… Hermes only listens to you, doesn’t he?”

He leaned in, willing Max to blink, twitch, anything.

And then . . . 

A hand shot out from the bed.

Fingers grasping.

Reaching.

Clawing for something, anything.

Thomas lurched forward, catching the hand in his own.

“Whoa… steady, Sir… please, don’t… don’t get excited… ”

But Max’s grip tightened like a vice, yanking Thomas forward until the face shield was mere inches from Max’s face.

And there they were.

The eyes.

Sharp.

Fierce.

Alive.

The fire hadn’t gone out. It had just sunk lower, waiting for the right moment to burn.

The door hissed open behind them. The handler leaned in, voice cold.

“I think that’s more than enough time, Mr… Thomas. You’re not doing Mr. Orpheus any favours by agitating him.”

Thomas didn’t turn.

He leaned closer, voice low but firm, locked onto Max’s eyes.

“I’ll tell those rascals you’re still in command, Sir. I’ll schedule the conference. Two weeks from now. A video call… from here I suspect. Leave it with me.”

He nodded, slow and sure.

“You just… get your game face ready. Make them believe you’re still holding the wheel.”

Max released his grip.

Thomas straightened, exhaling through his nose, smoothing the creases from his gown like he was buttoning up his composure.

He turned toward the door, but paused in the threshold.

“One last thing, old chap,” he added, his voice light but shaking at the edges of a smirk.

“Er… seems the, ah… sex change operation was an unmitigated disaster. Couldn’t have gone any more sideways. They’ve… they’ve gone and given you someone else’s heart instead.”

For a moment… nothing.

Then . . . 

slowly . . . 

Max raised his hand slightly off of the bed sheet.

One finger.

Extended.

Shaking with stubborn effort.

Thomas grinned.

“My thoughts exactly, Sir.”

He gave a little nod, the kind that said more than words ever could.

“Be seeing you in a fortnight.”

The glass door hissed shut behind him.

Max lay there, motionless…

But there was fire in his eyes again.

A flicker.

A spark.

His hand slowly curled into a tight, trembling fist.

He had two weeks . . . He had to see this through!