Airborne

01. The Clinic

Levi

Clinium Clinic, Mary Street
Greenfield, Year 2023
Thirteen years before present

It's amazing how something so small can create the biggest impact.

Six little legs scuttle their way toward the dormant roost, stealthing it's way to the peak of the structure. The second nestles between the hefty slices of luncheon meat and cheese.

The door opening catches my attention, allowing me the time to set the paper bag in its correct place.

"I'll help clean it up in a minute, let me have my break and I'll meet you there," Deric—the paranoid moron who likes to position his lunch bag at the same angel in front of the fruit, facing the sink every day for the past five years—calls over his shoulder. It's strained, unlike the casual, easy-going character that works from nine to five.

"But—"

"Get off my back!" The door shuts, and he sighs heavily before his leafy gaze land on me. "Oh, Levi . . . I didn't see you there, sorry about that."

"Rough day?" I ask while inspecting his appearance.

Running his fingers through his unnaturally matted hair, he nods. "You could say that."

Deric's a man for decency. That means bright brown slicked back locks, stern green eyes, and slender form upright and pristine; not baggy with fatigue, scuffed up with a slouch and dimming locks.

Grabbing a packet of Ibuprofen from the recent batch from my bag, his heavy eyes light up in relief. "Thanks man, I didn't have a chance to take them this morning."

"You've been sick for two days now, shouldn't you be off work?" I offer, watching as his jaw tick.

"Fucking Bill, he has no respect for the workers, especially the ones that cover for the slackers. One of these days, he's going to wind up in the shit for this."

The staff room fills with rough pants after his outburst, the lab coat choking in the vice like grip he has on it, eyes bloodshot, and his skin, hairline, and moustache glisten with perspiration.

"Can I have the tablets, please?" he grits out, clearing his throat as he fumbles for one of the glasses on the counter.

The sloshing of water keeps me paused, and when it's over, I say, "Here," and drop them in his palm before walking out of the room. Five paces into the reception, and there's not a single person in sight. Who could blame them for scurrying out of the one comfortable place, with thick chairs to support an aching back, or the pristine glass tables to rest a well-deserved coffee on with Bill storming around in a foul mood today.

A loud slam and crash sound behind me, and as much as it makes me jump, it's not uncommon for things to be dropped around here. Reaching for my back pocket, a tired groan leaves me. Pivoting on my heels and making my way back to the staff room, the door's slightly ajar, and the place looks like the police have raided it. The table turned over, glass shards scattered in a mini radius, chairs shoved far from the centre of the room, and the tap's still running.

Note, anger's a side effect.

Swiping my phone from the counter and side stepping the mess, I head for the labs. Making sure the correct P.P.A is on, my eyes swing left and right before proceeding with the task at hand.

Pulling off the latex gloves with a slap at the end, I'm swift to dispose of them in the waste bin and hang my lab coat by the collar on one of the higher hooks before fixing the cuffs on my sweater.