Helloooooo, Lab Rats fans! :D I've noticed that there are a lot of fics out there that involve an angsty and/or physically tortured Chase, so I decided to jump on the bandwagon too - with a twist. So here's my take on the whole Chase-angst craze. XD

Mr. Davenport had a problem. A big problem. So big, in fact, that he had to cancel a massage appointment just so he could ponder his problem and, hopefully, find a conclusive solution. What was his problem?

He was losing money.

It was almost impossible to believe, but the multi-billionaire brilliant scientist inventor was losing money. However, once it was believed, it was easy to see the reason for this crisis.

Every time he visited the emergency room, (and, consequently, the hospital,) the doctors charged more and more money for their services, as well as making up expenses for activities that were really quite petty. The nurses at the hospital had even started demanding tips, the amounts of which were often in the triple or quadruple digits. They knew perfectly well that Donald Davenport could - and would - meet their demands; all they had to do was refuse to examine the patient until he promised to fork over the loot.

It wouldn't have been a problem at all if he had been able to turn out brilliant (if occasionally hazardous,) new inventions more often than he had to visit the hospital. Unfortunately, that just wasn't going to happen. Not as long as he was raising three bionic teenagers - or at least, sending said three bionic teenagers on dangerous missions.

Not that all three of them were responsible for his decreasing sense of security, oh no! Just one of them. Donald didn't know how it happened, but it seemed like every time he sent his adopted children on a mission, Chase came back severely injured. He never came back on his own two feet; Adam and Bree would be either supporting him, carrying him, or sometimes just dragging him. They would then proceed to relate to Donald harrowing tales of the mission, tales that involved Chase being broken, or concussed, or burned, or shot, or tortured, or half drowned, or electrocuted, or stabbed, or poisoned, or ravaged by a wild, ferocious animal, or, if it had been a really productive day, all of the above.

Sometimes he'd be fully conscious, sometimes he'd be half conscious, but usually he would be out like a light. Occasionally he would be in a coma.

One time they'd even brought him back dead.

(Fortunately, Mr. Davenport was able to restart his heart before they took him to the hospital.)

To summarize, it was a very serious situation, and Mr. Davenport was faced with two options, each as onerous to him as the other: He could stop sending his bionic children on missions and let the disasters occur and take their course, or he could bankrupt himself with hospital bills.

Donald felt trapped, almost panicky, and when he panicked, he couldn't seem to think for himself. Accordingly, he had asked his best friend for advice on the matter.

Unfortunately, his best friend happened to be a digital home security system who hated everyone but Donald and was well versed in the art of caustic sarcasm. Eddy's suggested solution was simple but singularly unhelpful: Let Chase die, get rid of "the other two", let the disasters occur, and eventually take over the world. (Maybe get rid of Leo and Tasha as a bonus to celebrate successful world domination.)

Of course, this didn't really help Donald's current situation. The idea of letting his adopted children die was about on par with the idea of shaving his head and gaining two hundred pounds - that is to say, unthinkable.

So then he turned to the next best person: His wife. Tasha's idea was simple, straightforward, and hopefully effective. Just get Chase on medical (and maybe life) insurance, and their problems would be solved.

Feeling as though a rhinoceros had climbed off his shoulders, Donald settled down at one of his multiple computers and started searching for a likely candidate.

His relief was short-lived, however, and the longer he searched, the more rapidly did his new found euphoria dissipate. All the likely medical insurance for which his family qualified had provisos, and exceptions, and limitations. Somewhere in all their policies were finely printed lists of conditions they would not cover: Poisonings of unusual type, (as in anything beyond food poisoning or spider bites? What good was that? Chase regularly came back from missions with all sorts of evil concoctions contaminating his blood stream,) injuries obtained from endangered species, (that was no good, he had already been mauled by a Tasmanian Devil, who was to say it wouldn't happen again?) injuries obtained during self-surgery, (it would be just his luck, if we went with this one, Chase would get shot and decide to try and take the bullet out himself to save on hospital expenses, and something would go horribly wrong,) goring by horned animals, (Mr. Davenport doubted that this was a common occurrence, but he didn't put it past Chase to start a new fad,) incineration, (wait what?) decapitation, (okay, now they were just being facetious,) or death. (Wait, death needed a separate disclaimer from "incineration" and "decapitation"? How did that even work?)

He finally decided to go with the one that had one obscure exception, (injuries inflicted by rabid humans - after all, even if Chase was attacked by a rabid human, he could hold his own against them. He was bionic, for the love of cheese!) Having made his decision and signed up his youngest nephew for the insurance, he settled down in his 'Room full of Me' and prepared to be happy. His bank account was saved, his adopted children were safely at school, and Chase's health would be insured the next time they went on a mission. Donald felt altogether secure.

A sense of security that was shortly destined to be shattered beyond repair.

Donald had just started to doze off, intending to catch up on his afternoon beauty sleep, when he was abruptly and inconsiderately aroused by the sound of the front door slamming, and Bree's panicked yells.

"Mr. Davenport! Mr. Davenport, come quick! I need your help!"

He bounced off his bed like a basketball and clattered down the stairs, trying to ignore all the dreadful scenarios that went charging through his head, before skidding to a halt at the bottom and gaping in horror at the three people right inside the door.

All three of them were covered in blood, but it was darkest and wettest on Chase, as if he were the one bleeding and it just rubbed off on the other two. (Knowing the youngest bionic, said theory could not, by the wildest imagination, be called unlikely.) Bree was supporting her brothers, both of whom were unconscious; Adam just looked a bit pale and peaked, but Chase looked like he'd just gotten back from being keelhauled on a pirate ship instead of a regular day at high school.

"Bree, what on earth happened?" Donald demanded, grabbing the oldest sibling from the exhausted girl and slinging him over his shoulder. Bree sank down beside the bloody, lacerated critter that was her younger brother, her strength completely spent.

"We had to stay behind at school because of a prank Adam pulled, so we missed the bus and had to walk home," she replied. "It was such a nice day, we decided I shouldn't super-speed us back, we would just walk and enjoy the weather. But then Adam got bitten by a mad stray dog, and after we'd gotten rid of it, he attacked Chase." Her voice caught slightly, and she scrubbed at her eyes with her free hand. "Chase managed to subdue Adam with the override app, but he'd already been hurt really badly." She shuddered, remembering the horrible scene. "Adam was snarling and scratching and foaming at the mouth like some wild animal...it was awful."

Davenport stared at her, feeling as if he'd just been clobbered with a bowling ball. No, actually, he knew what that felt like, (don't ask how, just take it for granted that it involved ten strikes in a row, an irate business partner who suspected him of cheating, and a misplaced wallaby,) and this felt worse. The insurance's one proviso danced tauntingly behind his vision: will not cover: injuries inflicted by rabid humans.

There was a long moment of silence that was broken by a dramatic whump! as Donald collapsed theatrically to the floor.