09-25-2018, 02:14 AM
(This post was last modified: 09-28-2018, 01:17 AM by Nika Raskov.)
Alastair Quinn was jealous, he had to admit. He had a good life in London; he was well-off, he had excitement, challenge, and true meaning to his life. He was well-respected, well-liked, and well-compensated. And, yet, he was not the series track doctor of MotoGP.
That mouth-watering title was held by one Francesco Costa. Everyone called him Frank, but Quinn simply would not. The man was a general. A field admiral in the trenches of mobile medicinal warfare. "... don't get down to the city often," Costa was saying, his dulcet baritone supremely confident in even the simplest of statements. He was filling out some claim forms, probably for one of the rider's insurance agents. Busy work. There was plenty of that for any doctor, apparently. "Marta bought us tickets to Wicked this weekend, though. You seen it yet?" He glanced up from his clipboard, held just slightly akimbo in long, lean fingers Quinn imagined had seen their fair share of traumas. For a man of his fifties, Francesco's eyes held a fire that belied the gray wings at his temples and the deepening ravines gracefully outlining his mouth, brow and those eyes. Quinn gently rolled his shoulders and moved his head. He didn't generally frequent the theater, unless one of the boys dragged him along, but he wasn't surprised that Marta was piqued. Witch.
"How is Marta?" Quinn asked mildly, his eyes leaving the emperor of this sterile meta palace as one of the field medics ventured in long enough to click on one of the overhead monitors. She muttered something, but left before the screen warmed up enough for her to have seen anything useful. She was met outside by a volley of muffled voices. That seemed odd.
"Oh, she's good," Costa smiled, his newlywed-hood abundantly clear in his as yet enamored view of his darling trophy wife. He went back to his forms, but Quinn's attention was caught on the muted monitor over the older doctor's shoulder. Something wasn't right. "She's very ... energetic," Quinn did glance at him, askance, for that. Was the man discussing their sex life? He'd heard talk of Costa's first wife, some bon-bon eating tragedy, but all rumors were pointing to the newest Mrs. Costa being quite the little socialite. Far more so than her husband, despite his adventuresome choice of vocation. He wondered how well Francesco maintained in the sack-- "What is it?" Quinn blinked. Had he been staring? Costa looked past him and Quinn stepped back and to one side as the same woman rushed by to turn up the volume on the video Quinn had been glazing over. Only, now there was a wreck on the screen, and a wagon was already pulling off as the clean-up crew started gathering the remains of what looked like conjoined motorbikes. The woman rambled off something about one of the turns and a handful of names Quinn didn't recognize, but one word he was all too familiar with. Accident.
Francesco rushed outside and Quinn and the medic followed quickly after, just as the same wagon that was on the screen pulled off the track and stopped just shy of the Clinic trailer. A pair of EMTs poured out and the asphalt clearing was suddenly awhirl in activity. Quinn spared no time in joining the fray.
One stretcher was pulled from the first truck, while a cart was approaching at an unhurried pace beyond. Quinn recognized immediately the shaved head of the Italian girl (or was it Russian?) Raskov, and what looked to be at the very least a fracture or two. The lead medic from the wagon looked hard at Quinn, once, but when Francesco didn't tell the obvious stranger to leave, fell straight to the particulars ending with the dreaded…’unresponsive.’ “She got the worst of it. The other guy, Hargrave ..." their voices faded as Costa lead the stretcher handlers into the main trailer, one of the medics peeling off to return the truck to its slot down the track. The Clinic was quickly attracting spectators, mostly mechanics, a few curious riders, and, of course, the media. Quinn never noticed his lips were pursed at the sight of that all-too-familiar camera equipment and drones, but then the second cart pulled up and a slightly rumpled and dusty, but otherwise conscious male rider stepped off, the driver not even bothering to come over, already engaged in conversation with some silver-liveried mechanic; Quinn wished he knew more about these people. He hated jumping into things unawares. "Come on inside," Quinn said, guiding the roughened rider toward the main trailer, consciously ignoring a few garbled questions from some of those already milling about the Clinic. "What happened?"
James Hargrave stared at the guy, not recognizing him. Of course the Mobile Clinic had somewhere around forty people working for it so that was understandable. Man, he was starting to come down from the adrenaline rush of the crash. And he has feeling a bit loopy. Jesus. That's why he didn't process the man's question. Hargrave nodded at the guy and he too ignored the cameras. Those bastards were already gonna give him so much grief for this. Couldn’t they see it should be him on top of the standings? That was his bike! Up the stairs he went and was immediately directed into one of the side rooms. An accidental glance toward the back revealed a small red set of heavily scuffed leathers half hanging out of a bin. Matching boots half the size of his were laying discarded on the floor as well. It was obvious the leathers had been cut off instead of simply taken off. That meant nothing good for the woman who'd been wearing them. What did he expect after that crash though. He could hear the clicking of the MRI machine in the back and turned away, already assigning fault anywhere but on himself. Of course the little bitch deserved it for taking his ride. The only thing he was sorry about was the fact that he'd destroyed his own bike in the process. He'd only meant to nip her on the inside of the corner and scare her into crashing alone. So see? It had been just an accident after all.
((My original story ported from long-dead site but tweaked for FA. I'm fairly certain our own Number 2 guest-penned Quinn. Didn't want him to come back and think I was taking credit for his brilliance...I'm only skeptical it wasn't all mine because I don't think I could come up with 'bon-bon eating tragedy.' ...although it does remind me a lot of me ex. Who knows.))
That mouth-watering title was held by one Francesco Costa. Everyone called him Frank, but Quinn simply would not. The man was a general. A field admiral in the trenches of mobile medicinal warfare. "... don't get down to the city often," Costa was saying, his dulcet baritone supremely confident in even the simplest of statements. He was filling out some claim forms, probably for one of the rider's insurance agents. Busy work. There was plenty of that for any doctor, apparently. "Marta bought us tickets to Wicked this weekend, though. You seen it yet?" He glanced up from his clipboard, held just slightly akimbo in long, lean fingers Quinn imagined had seen their fair share of traumas. For a man of his fifties, Francesco's eyes held a fire that belied the gray wings at his temples and the deepening ravines gracefully outlining his mouth, brow and those eyes. Quinn gently rolled his shoulders and moved his head. He didn't generally frequent the theater, unless one of the boys dragged him along, but he wasn't surprised that Marta was piqued. Witch.
"How is Marta?" Quinn asked mildly, his eyes leaving the emperor of this sterile meta palace as one of the field medics ventured in long enough to click on one of the overhead monitors. She muttered something, but left before the screen warmed up enough for her to have seen anything useful. She was met outside by a volley of muffled voices. That seemed odd.
"Oh, she's good," Costa smiled, his newlywed-hood abundantly clear in his as yet enamored view of his darling trophy wife. He went back to his forms, but Quinn's attention was caught on the muted monitor over the older doctor's shoulder. Something wasn't right. "She's very ... energetic," Quinn did glance at him, askance, for that. Was the man discussing their sex life? He'd heard talk of Costa's first wife, some bon-bon eating tragedy, but all rumors were pointing to the newest Mrs. Costa being quite the little socialite. Far more so than her husband, despite his adventuresome choice of vocation. He wondered how well Francesco maintained in the sack-- "What is it?" Quinn blinked. Had he been staring? Costa looked past him and Quinn stepped back and to one side as the same woman rushed by to turn up the volume on the video Quinn had been glazing over. Only, now there was a wreck on the screen, and a wagon was already pulling off as the clean-up crew started gathering the remains of what looked like conjoined motorbikes. The woman rambled off something about one of the turns and a handful of names Quinn didn't recognize, but one word he was all too familiar with. Accident.
Francesco rushed outside and Quinn and the medic followed quickly after, just as the same wagon that was on the screen pulled off the track and stopped just shy of the Clinic trailer. A pair of EMTs poured out and the asphalt clearing was suddenly awhirl in activity. Quinn spared no time in joining the fray.
One stretcher was pulled from the first truck, while a cart was approaching at an unhurried pace beyond. Quinn recognized immediately the shaved head of the Italian girl (or was it Russian?) Raskov, and what looked to be at the very least a fracture or two. The lead medic from the wagon looked hard at Quinn, once, but when Francesco didn't tell the obvious stranger to leave, fell straight to the particulars ending with the dreaded…’unresponsive.’ “She got the worst of it. The other guy, Hargrave ..." their voices faded as Costa lead the stretcher handlers into the main trailer, one of the medics peeling off to return the truck to its slot down the track. The Clinic was quickly attracting spectators, mostly mechanics, a few curious riders, and, of course, the media. Quinn never noticed his lips were pursed at the sight of that all-too-familiar camera equipment and drones, but then the second cart pulled up and a slightly rumpled and dusty, but otherwise conscious male rider stepped off, the driver not even bothering to come over, already engaged in conversation with some silver-liveried mechanic; Quinn wished he knew more about these people. He hated jumping into things unawares. "Come on inside," Quinn said, guiding the roughened rider toward the main trailer, consciously ignoring a few garbled questions from some of those already milling about the Clinic. "What happened?"
James Hargrave stared at the guy, not recognizing him. Of course the Mobile Clinic had somewhere around forty people working for it so that was understandable. Man, he was starting to come down from the adrenaline rush of the crash. And he has feeling a bit loopy. Jesus. That's why he didn't process the man's question. Hargrave nodded at the guy and he too ignored the cameras. Those bastards were already gonna give him so much grief for this. Couldn’t they see it should be him on top of the standings? That was his bike! Up the stairs he went and was immediately directed into one of the side rooms. An accidental glance toward the back revealed a small red set of heavily scuffed leathers half hanging out of a bin. Matching boots half the size of his were laying discarded on the floor as well. It was obvious the leathers had been cut off instead of simply taken off. That meant nothing good for the woman who'd been wearing them. What did he expect after that crash though. He could hear the clicking of the MRI machine in the back and turned away, already assigning fault anywhere but on himself. Of course the little bitch deserved it for taking his ride. The only thing he was sorry about was the fact that he'd destroyed his own bike in the process. He'd only meant to nip her on the inside of the corner and scare her into crashing alone. So see? It had been just an accident after all.
((My original story ported from long-dead site but tweaked for FA. I'm fairly certain our own Number 2 guest-penned Quinn. Didn't want him to come back and think I was taking credit for his brilliance...I'm only skeptical it wasn't all mine because I don't think I could come up with 'bon-bon eating tragedy.' ...although it does remind me a lot of me ex. Who knows.))