â€œIâ€™m on thâ€™ fuckinâ€™ bike! Didnâ€™ even bring me breakfasâ€™ this morninâ€™, anâ€™ Iâ€™m on yer stupid bike. Sâ€™ what thâ€™ fuck dâ€™ya want? Know what I want? Lunch, buâ€™chya ainâ€™ come to gimme thaâ€™.â€<br/><br/>The private was somewhat tolerant of the Doctorâ€™s foul mood; it was a regular disposition of his around the military. Especially military doctors, whose treatments and tests, to him, always seemed to involve fucking treadmills or exercise bikes.<br/><br/>â€œApologies Dr. Young.â€ Low drone through the headphones. â€œPulse and breathing normal.â€ Not to him, but into the earpiece. Then to him, â€œJust the blood draw and compound samples. Then maintenance injections; you can get off the bike now, sir,â€ was almost an afterthought.<br/><br/>John was a nearly reasonable patient through the rest of the steps, complaining only half as much as he was capable. He wanted to go back to work, but had instead been kept under observation for far too long, in his opinion. But ragged, unrefined scales from which samples were taken weeks earlier had the look of practice; a living suit of mail. Then they inevitably wanted to see the other; the organic crystal skin heâ€™d become just a little more adept at.<br/><br/>Enough blood before and after that he was lightheaded. Needles that replaced the blood they stole with poison.<br/><br/>The private laughed; Conns his name was. The doctor didnâ€™t; she was Martinez and a bitch most of the time. But it wasnâ€™t funny anyway. Prickling and fever and tearing pain; rush of disorienting painkillers and sedatives.<br/><br/>He almost tripped before reaching quarters again. â€œHey, ya never got me mâ€™lunchâ€¦â€ John shot one last complaint out the closing door. Safe, soft blackness followed, and the idea that at least he might get dinner.