The adrenaline has definitely worn off at this point. That, plus the combination of the blood loss is truly kicking my ass. I forget what I'm doing, and the next moment I wake up on the ground. My soaked clothes aren't doing me any favors staving off hypothermia. For a supposedly blasted wasteland, it actually kind of gets cold out here.

…or maybe that's just the blood loss too. Moving is hard enough, but it's even harder to get my thoughts in order. Things are starting to seem weird, and I don't know if it's me. Some of the buildings seem to have fresh coats of paint. I'd stop moving and catch my breath, but I swear I can hear people talking nearby. Not going to stop here. Especially from what I know about scavvers and slaggers. They'll kill me, take my crap, and steal my augs. Not necessarily in that order, either. Getting killed by the drones would be a more dignified death than that.

Though, it seems kind of weird. Some of the buildings that I catch a glimpse of seem to have lights on. It might be my vision failing me. Or my mind playing tricks on me. It's probably both. I've been told that this place is off the grid, and there's no way that these backward hicks could rig up anything that would generate power.

It only causes me to grip my Adjudicator even tighter. It's not a case of ‘if’ I run into someone, it's ‘when.’ Not that I expect my aim to be true in the state I'm in. My mouth is pretty fucking dry. I should probably change direction. My balance falters, and I hit the ground hard this time. It takes everything in my power to not yell, or shout out a series of cuss words.

The thing that's weird to me is I'm hearing conversations overlapping with each other now. It sounds something like the crowds at the Zhaponese open air market. Against better judgment, I clamber up to my feet and decide to investigate. Left foot. Right foot. It's getting hard to even focus on walking. I lose my balance again.

Thunk.

I can be thankful I didn't land on my face again, but instead I find myself braced up against a brightly painted wooden privacy fence.

The crowd seems to be getting louder with each lumbering step, to the point where it's almost shaking my entire being. And then I see it.

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Neon lit signs. Street lights. People making casual conversation with looks to be shopkeeps peddling their wares from street facing store fronts. I have so many questions, and nobody to answer them. My head screws itself back on for long enough to remind me to holster my pistol. I shouldn't make a scene.

Well, more of a scene than a security officer well out of his jurisdiction, who also happens to be covered in long since dried mud and his own blood. Everything that I've been told tells me to turn back around. Don't step out of this alleyway.

Maybe I'm going to thank my blood loss onset stupidity in the future if I survive this. I take a cautious step forward. A bit more worried about my own sense of balance than I am with the people around me, given that a better view of the crowd seems to indicate these are… regular people. Not the voltheads that I had to deal with on a frequent basis. None of them seem to be foaming at the mouth, or sputtering insanities while waving a gun around.

Said people seem to be doing their best to give me a wide berth. I don't blame them. A better view of the street does make it seem like it's some kind of market, though. Not the nicest kind, but some part of me feels surprisingly at ease. Not that I should be, given that I'm fucking dying.

My unsteady stumbling takes me in the direction of a stall. Everything's so blurry. I can't even tell what they're selling. I open my mouth to ask where the nearest hospital is. Or a doctor, even. But my mouth is so dry I can barely form words.

I guess the woman manning the stall at least understood my intent. Realistically, she noticed how much blood I was covered in. She raised her hand, pointing across the road before saying something in Zhaponese. I don't speak Zhaponese. The most I could understand was ‘Doctor.’ My eyes trail along to the direction she's pointing.

I wouldn't guess it's a clinic from what I'm seeing at first glance. Stairs downwards and into a basement. A blinking neon sign overhead that says The Hole. If I didn't know any better, I'd guess the place was home to a bar. Or an underground fighting ring. I like to imagine I said ‘thank you,’ but I know better. She probably got an earful of confused wheezing. If I've made it this far, I can make a few steps more. Just have to not let myself lose consciousness.

It takes a lot longer than I expected for my stumbling frame to reach those stairs.

Maybe if I just sit down at the top of the stairs and catch my breath, it won't do me any harm. I'll sit down and close my eyes. Just for a few minutes. Then I'll go down and get myself fixed up—