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Mike Tyson the Star Wars Story

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Chapter 1 - Chapter 1 The Awakening.

"God, I'm hot," Eleanor told the mirror—and then, because she was a grown woman and it had been a long night, she said it again.

Locker room, nearly midnight. Los Angeles County Medical. Her handbag's contents were spread across the bench like a crime scene: lip balm, badge reel, protein bar nubbin, tampons, a penlight, and zero car keys. She was down to lingerie—the good black silk set she wore when she wanted to feel like she hadn't made a mistake moving continents—and stockings that bit just above her thighs with a pleasure that would have made sense if she were leaving, not retracing her shift.

She posed, because panic likes ceremony. Big breasts meant straps cutting neat red parentheses into her shoulders; the scrubs never quite forgave her hips; and the bounce was something you learned to negotiate with. She leaned in, pouted at her own reflection, then frowned at the hollow between her breasts… and saw them.

"Of course," she said levelly, fishing her keys out of her cleavage. "Obviously."

The overhead chimed at the same instant: "Nurse Hartley to Room 617." A unit text followed—Belmore wants you on Tyson. Now.

"Brilliant," she murmured, which in her accent meant fate has chosen violence.

Two minutes later she was back in pink scrubs, wrestling a sports bra that lied about support. The top hugged her ribs, fought her chest, and lost three separate arguments on the way to the hallway. Her hips set the pace; her breasts did their miserable, practiced bounce; the elastic hummed with effort. Somewhere beyond the glass, helicopters orbited like impatient stars. Everyone who'd stayed up for Jake Paul vs. Mike Tyson was going home or passing out. Everyone except Eleanor.

She cut past the nurses' station where Dr. Arthur Belmore—white coat, wire glasses, years past graceful retirement—dozed upright in a chair, mumbling, "Cookies… we'll get you a cookie, champ… after your nap…" He blinked at her as she passed. "Nurse Nightingale," he whistled, voice like a paper bag, "617—our celebrity. Nice and cozy."

"On my way," she said, aiming for brisk and landing on bored.

Room 617 wore the slow blue of a monitor screen. Privacy blinds half-drawn. Reinforced bed. Mike Tyson under a tangle of wires: EKG leads, pulse-ox, one IV dripping saline and anti-nausea. No sedatives—neuro checks q2h. Soft restraints with two-finger slack. He looked like a toppled statue of a champion: older, certainly, but the kind of older that could still lift furniture.

He'd been "quiet" for hours, they said. Quiet except for the REM twitch under the lids—left, right, left—as if he were fighting a man only he could see.

Eleanor did the job first. She checked the board—HR in the 70s, good. Oxygen fine. Then the heart rate ticked to the high 80s, then the 90s, no alarm. His lips moved.

"Mr. Tyson," she said softly, smoothing the hem of her scrub top as if it might tame the room. "It's Nurse Hartley. I'm going to check your eyes."

Closer now: the smell of antiseptic and male sweat and the metallic tang of dried blood. He murmured something—words in pieces, like broken glass. "Light… angels… save 'em… demons…"

A prickle climbed the back of her neck. She took the penlight from her pocket, snapped a glove on, and set her thumb gently at his brow to lift the right lid.

The muscle clamped down.

She tried the left—

Both eyes blew open.

He sat up like a trap springing. The bedframe shrieked; restraints yanked taut; sticky leads popped off his chest and the monitor flipped from polite beeps to a screaming chorus of LEADS OFF. For a heartbeat his gaze wasn't on her at all—it was past her, past the ceiling, inside some bright place she couldn't reach.

"I… I ssaw the light," he rasped, the old lisp turning s into smoke. His pupils were huge. He turned, fixed on her. "You an angel?"

Eleanor blinked. "No," she said calmly. "Nurse."

He looked nearly disappointed. Then something in him hardened. "I ain't stayin'," he whispered. "I b—been chosen. I got ddemons to kill."

"Mr. Tyson—"

He exploded. "I AM THE MOTHERF— FIST OF CHRIST!" The stutter tripped his words; the menace didn't. He wrenched his right arm sideways—ping—and a cheap rail screw shot across the tile. His legs swung to the floor. The hospital gown, tied badly by someone else's hurry, gave up the ghost; it flapped open in back like a flag of indecency.

Eleanor's professional soul walked her to a linen shelf and back before panic had its say. She brought a sheet forward like a shield.

The door banged. Dr. Belmore shuffled in with a syringe prepped and a bedtime voice no one had asked for. "Now now, champ," he whistled, "let's make it cozy. Little sleepy medicine, in and out, like a cookie—"

Tyson turned his head with the slow disdain of a lion clocking a fly. "You tellin' me what to do?"

"Arms nice and still," Belmore cooed, stepping closer. "Dark outside means beddy-bye."

The slap was so clean it sounded edited. Belmore's glasses skated off; he pinwheeled and hit the floor next to Eleanor in a gnarl of elbows and dignity. She thumbed the wall button with the heel of her hand.

"Code Grey! Room six-one-seven! Patient out of restraints!"

Tyson tore the second cuff free on a film of sweat and sanitizer. He rolled his shoulders, breath coming in deep, deliberate swells. He looked, for a moment, like he'd remembered a younger body and tried it on.

Eleanor lifted the sheet between them, hips braced, voice dropping into the tone she used for dangerous dogs and egomaniac consultants. "Mr. Tyson, sit down. You've had a head injury."

He stepped close enough to paint her in shadow. Not touching—close. "Everyone got a plan," he murmured, lisping the s into a hiss, "till they get punched in the mouth." The words landed like déjà vu—the line he'd made famous back when the world belonged to him.

"Kindly don't punch the staff," she managed. "We're not on the schedule."

He slid his eyes toward the door as the overheads thumped to life and distant boots started moving. He lifted one hand and made a slow little wave, as if he'd seen it in a movie. "There's no need for security," he said, deepening his voice. "The person you lookin' for ain't here."

Nothing happened. The hall kept shouting. He squinted, tried again, and got the same result.

"Right," Eleanor said. "Jedi tricks. Very good."

He glanced back at her—sudden, sharp, hot with that old, feral charisma—and let a half-smile creep a notch. "I—I'm the bbest ever," he said, as if reminding the room. "You with me, or you in my way."

"Neither," she said crisply. "I'm on the chart."

From the corridor: "Security inbound!"; from the ceiling: "Code Grey." From Dr. Belmore on the floor, a small, wounded, "Mercy."

Tyson turned, shouldered through the doorway in a sweep of loose gown and wire, and stepped into the fluorescent river of the hall. Helicopters thudded the glass. Somewhere, a drone's red LED winked like an insect eye.

Eleanor let the sheet sag, felt every ounce of breasts and bra and bad decision, and said, very politely to no one at all, "Crazy Americans."

Then she grabbed the sheet back up—decency was still her job—and followed the bare-arsed messiah into the night.