Chapter Text
The clatter of metal equipment and piercing electronic bleeps of monitors and such devices were enough to rouse Khashoggi from unconsciousness. His bleary eyes, only half-open and twitchy, came into focus as the uncomfortable ambience of a hospital ward assaulted his senses. The ceiling was a bland grey, with huge, glaring square lights every few metres that drenched the room in a cold white glow. Along the walls, holographic signs instructing the viewers to ‘wash your hands’ or ‘submit to GlobalSoft’s rule’ were peppered about the dull, pale-blue wall paint. Beds containing barely-conscious patients hooked up to IV drips or monitors and the like lined the ward, his being up against the furthest wall from the door. Khashoggi’s right hand was wrapped in bandages, a small metal disc protruding from the back of it. His left wrist bore a digital imprint, stating his user ID, birth date, and date of admittance - which appeared to have been the day prior. Along his neck and collarbone, surgical thread held the deep gashes together, and a thin hospital gown scraped at his skin - the lack of dignity in comparison to his previous prestigious uniform leaving him only to hope that he could sink into the polyester bed-sheets, never to be seen again.
If only the other patients knew that less than twenty-four hours ago, he was their superior. Now he was as lowly and defenceless as any other mindless Ga Ga zombie.
A flood of memories rushed into his train of thought as he continued to regain consciousness. These were the last memories he had before being struck into a coma by severe blood loss followed by a near-fatal electric shock, his injuries dealt personally by the Killer Queen herself. He had returned from the brain-draining chamber to relay the news that the majority of the bohemian army had been captured and dealt with. And while he was hoping that he would receive at least some form of praise for how very hard he had to work to get to the point that he had, he wasn’t surprised when he ended up writhing at his queen’s feet. He had let the Dreamer slip out of his hands once too many times - proving to GlobalSoft’s dictatoress that he was a failure. The longest-serving assistant to the Killer Queen, the most loyal, devoted, hard-working Commander Khashoggi, was a failure. And as the final melodic notes of Another One Bites the Dust rang out from between Killer Queen’s metal fangs, her magnificent maniacal laughter rattling the walls of the office room, every fiber of Khashoggi’s body seemed to freeze up. A sharp, surging, shattering pain, slithering from the titanium claws digging into his neck to each end of his extremities that overcame him like raging fire, smothering everything in its path.
The striking gaze of the Killer Queen pierced his soul like Cupid’s arrow, before he took what he presumed to be his final breath.
A GlobalSoft doctor’s appearance from the ward entrance brought Khashoggi back into the moment. In between her latex-clad hands was a holographic tablet, which she began to read off of as the two nurses, who had been following closely behind, began to examine and hook up all sorts of devices to Khashoggi’s body.
“Good evening, [email protected]/mkhashoggi, my name is [email protected]/cling-car-winter. I understand that waking up after 26 hours in a vegetative state may come as a shock to you, so me and the nurses will be here to help maintain a tolerable state of living for you during your time in intensive care.” Her monotone, almost robotic voice grated against Khashoggi’s eardrums like nails on a chalkboard.
The patient tried to form some kind of response, but his tongue was fumbling like a fish out of water. The only sound he could manage was a wince as a needle was inserted into the crook of his elbow.
The doctor continued: “You were admitted to GlobalSoft Central Interior Hospital at 15:07, 03/04/97, after being unconscious for around half an hour before. You were identified as primarily suffering from hypovolemic shock as well as cerebral hypoxia, and were rushed into surgery as soon as you were brought in to stitch up the cuts around your neck.”
She went on about procedures and medicines and other medical details but the longer she spoke, the more her words blurred together as the ex-Commander lay limp like a child’s doll in the hospital bed. The only sounds that escaped his mouth were grunts of pain as the two nurses continued to prod and poke at his damaged body - that was, until, he caught the name of his mistress along the stream of jumbled sentences, to which he strained himself to pay closer attention.
“...but as Her Digital Highness Chief Executive Officer Killer Queen has lost jurisdiction over the GlobalSoft Corporation, we shall continue to operate under-”
“Lost… jurisd- what?” Khashoggi breathed.
“Ah, my apologies, sir,” The doctor’s blank, monotone expression remained unchanged. “There had been a breach of the GlobalSoft Mainframe, with an unspeakable melody playing through a worldwide email. Her Digital Highness has been pixelated.”
Khashoggi’s face turned ghostly pale. Pixelated? Unspeakable melody? Had his termination as Commander General led to the Bohemians’ victory?
“W-what do you mean, unspeakable melody?” He just barely managed to choke out the words.
Her fixed expression sank a little. “...A rock ‘n’ roll song, sir. The Bohemians managed to broadcast a live rock song, meaning Her Highness… ‘Dissipated’, so to speak, back into the Internet.”
One of the nurses, repositioning the wire attached to Khashoggi’s wrist, cut in - “The Bohemians are not in control of the corporation, though. Until further notice, we are still operating under the same Terms and Conditions as before.”
Khashoggi’s mind was like a hurricane. He couldn’t care less if GlobalSoft was still in operation or not. His queen, the woman he had been so helplessly devoted to - so helplessly in love with - had been destroyed by the Bohemians. And as much as he enjoyed toying with the idea of once again having the freedom to do as he pleases - he couldn’t leave her behind. To him, that would be treason. He had been at her side for so long, ever since he had been appointed the title of Commander General - and admired her for longer. So what, if… She had been the cause of a few scars, a few concussions? Killer Queen was everything to him. His whole world. For as long as he had borne the GlobalSoft logo, he had been wrapped up in the glitzy, dreamy, digitised world of Killer Queen and the company. I mean… it certainly wasn’t all glitz and glam - of course, there was the initial brainwashing, the intensive training, the drag of conventions and ceremonies and the like; marching in squadrons, blah, blah… But in the company of the Chief Executive Officer herself, it was like a dream to him. Being so often in the company of someone so confident, so commanding, so downright gorgeous… was an honour. A privilege only he had. And the thought of her pixelating by the rock ‘n’ roll riffs of Bohemian filth - who had only just slipped out of his hands - made Khashoggi dig his nails deep into the thin mattress he lay on, wanting nothing more but to rip Galileo’s head clean off.
Hauling himself upright, he began to shuffle his legs towards the side of the bed, a dull, pulsing ache squeezing his entire body.
“Careful, sir!” The nurses lunged to steady their patient, frantically readjusting or removing the monitors from him. “You haven’t fully recovered. You’ve only just regained consciousness!”
Khashoggi winced through gritted teeth. “I know, I know - but I have to–” He shook his arm out of one of the nurses’ hands. “...J-Just let me get up!”
After shuffling out of the bed and stretching out like a cat, Khashoggi was then met with the full effect of having been motionless and horizontal for over a day’s worth of time. Thankfully the nurses were quick enough to make sure he didn’t hit the floor for a second time.
The doctor’s eyebrows furrowed, her voice becoming painfully condescending. “You haven’t… Fully… Recovered.” She grumbled. “Please sit back down, sir.”
Khashoggi begrudgingly placed himself back down on the bed, biting back the urge to use his likely now insignificant status against her.
“...Could I at least have my uniform back? Or something more dignified than… this? Please?”
Sighing, the doctor tapped her holographic tablet and within a few moments, another nurse appeared with a set of immaculately folded dark blue clothing and a pair of black Chelsea boots. The nurse dropped them both into Khashoggi’s lap upon the doctor’s order.
“I have downloaded you a set of standard GlobalSoft Central staff uniform. As I am not responsible for the whereabouts of your original uniform, you may have this for now.”
Khashoggi separated each article from each other, peeling them apart as if they were rotten. Upon examination, he had been given a navy turtleneck, navy trousers, a blue sleeveless vest jacket with the silver zipper on the right side and emblazoned with the GlobalSoft logo on the left, and the other relevant garments all in black. He was displeased with what he had been given - it was paltry in comparison to the flowing tail of his old jacket and the height his heeled knee-high boots gave him - but at least it was more dignified than a thin hospital gown.
Once dressed, the doctors permitted him to leave - after a final examination and an order to return for a checkup in a week’s time. But finally, Mr. M. A. Khashoggi was ready to wreak some vengeance on Galileo Figaro, even if he had to do it alone.
Even if he had to tear him apart with his bare hands.