Continuation from Chapter Twelve picking right up where it left off.

We were called to another medical emergency before we could even return to our firehouse. Well, we were dispatched because the FDE operates that if an ambulance is going to be 5 minutes or longer then they dispatch an Engine, Ladder, or Squad Company to go to stabilize the person for an ambulance.

“I’m holding my tongue,” I declared, firmly pressing my lips together. “I’m not tempting fate today.”

Our first call was a curious one—a person with what appeared to be a burn mark on their face. It was eerily reminiscent of a piece of paper caught in flames, edges curling, blackening. Then, our second call was supposed to be a routine welfare check. The dispatchers from Fire, Police, Medical—and even our local 911 equivalent, couldn’t get a response. But when we arrived, it turned out the guy was simply on a call. His phone automatically silences other incoming calls, leaving him oblivious until he hangs up. So there we were, ready for an emergency, and he’s just casually chatting away. It’s moments like these that remind me to expect the unexpected in this job.

The third call of the day was the one that really got to me. The victim’s face and part of his neck were in such a state that it took my breath away. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he looked like he’d been mauled by a shark right where the waves kiss the shore. But that’s impossible—we’re 24 miles inland. The wounds were a paradox, fresh yet ravaged by infection as if it had spread with the ferocity of a wildfire. We didn’t dare touch him, not with the “Rabivirus” outbreak sending shivers down our spines just yesterday. The building, the apartment door—none bore the mark of quarantine. It left us in a limbo of caution and concern, wondering if this man was another victim of the rabies-like virus stalking our city.

But the Lieutenant radioed in HAZMAT because our team is trained for HAZMAT Class A situations—we’re talking about handling explosive materials, flammable gasses, non-flammable gasses, poisonous gasses, flammable liquids, and even oxidizing agents and organic peroxides. But this… this was different. It fell under HAZMAT Class B, a category that’s beyond our scope. Specifically, it’s Class 6: Toxic and Infectious Substances we’re dealing with here. That’s when you call in the specialists, the ones who tackle the threats that can’t be seen but are no less deadly. We’re firefighters, yes, but we’re also professionals, and knowing when to step back for the safety of all—that’s part of the job too.

Amid this outbreak, I’m acutely aware of the boundaries of my role. As a Certified First Responder, my capabilities are clear-cut. I can provide the kind of first aid you’d expect from a parent tending to their child’s minor wounds—scrapes, cuts, and scratches. But when it comes to more serious injuries, like a broken leg or a heart attack, that’s beyond my purview. Thankfully, I’m not alone out here. The team I roll with are FF/EMT and FF/PM professionals, equipped to handle the more severe medical emergencies. Yet, even with their advanced skills, this third victim’s condition was beyond what we’re trained to manage. It’s a stark reminder that during times like these, sticking to our scope of practice isn’t just about protocol—it’s about ensuring the safety and proper care of everyone involved and not making the situation a lot worse than it actually was. As they say, better safe than sorry.

Sometimes, in the quiet moments between the chaos, I find myself thinking about the ‘what ifs.’ What if I had taken that two-month EMT course right after my CFR training? The opportunity was always there, like a door that’s never quite closed. It’s a constant in our unpredictable world—once one class wraps up, the next batch of hopefuls steps in. But then, this outbreak slammed that door shut, at least for now.

It’s not about the money; our bi-weekly paycheck of $120 is the same across the board, from the newest recruit to the Fire Commissioner. It’s about knowledge, the ability to do more, to be more. Yet, I can’t shake the feeling that this relentless pace, this unyielding pressure, might just push some of us to the brink. I’ve seen it happen—talented EMTs and Paramedics lured away by the promise of better hours, flexible schedules, and better pay from private companies, where they’re compensated by patient insurance.

Here I am, a probationary firefighter, standing firm in the face of what feels like an insurmountable tide. The Fire Department City of Empire Bureau of EMS is already handling 5000 calls daily, and with this outbreak, those numbers could skyrocket. It’s daunting, but it’s also a call to action—a reminder of why we do what we do. Maybe, once this storm passes, I’ll step through that open door and add ‘EMT’ to my list of ways I can serve this city.

The realism in our Certified First Responder (CFR) training is something else. We’ve got these lifelike mannequins, a whole family of them—from infants to elders. They talk, blink, and can even simulate breathing difficulties. It’s as close as you can get to the real deal without a pulse. Practicing on these dummies is crucial; after all, you can’t rehearse life-saving techniques on people who don’t need saving.

I remember pondering over whether to pursue my Emergency Driver’s License (EDL). In Little Bird, driving a fire apparatus without one is a no-go. The EDL holders had their own challenges, like navigating a simulated cityscape from the cab of a fire engine. Pedestrians darting across the street, cars cutting in—every urban obstacle you can imagine. I never took that vehicle training, but I’ve watched the pros make it look easy, even when it’s anything but. Weaving through cones in the drive and then reversing in a parking lot is one thing, but parallel parking a 47-ton fire truck or a 23-ton fire engine? That’s a whole different level of skill than parallel parking a 3 thousand-pound four-door sedan.

Dragging ourselves back to the firehouse, the clock struck 6:33 AM, and despite the early hour, my stomach was growling for a well-done steak and eggs. Just the thought of a nice, juicy steak was enough to make my mouth water.

As for why we’re here instead of cozy at home? Well, it’s simple. The guys I work with are a diverse bunch—some are embracing their bachelorhood, others might be Asexual or Aromantic. A few have had their hearts broken, clinging to memories of a love lost. They’ve found a different kind of commitment, one to this job and the lives we protect every day.

About that EMT training I passed up? I’m at peace with that decision. The modules evolve, becoming more complex, mirroring the escalating challenges of our work. It’s like leveling up in a video game, from Easy to Expert, except this isn’t a game. This is real life, where the stakes are high, and the rewards are measured in lives saved, not points scored. Maybe one day I’ll dive into that training, but for now, I’m focused on the role I play—a Firefighter Candidate/EMT.

It’s a quiet truth that many of the men I work with don’t have kids. If they did, they’d likely be at home, tucking them in instead of gearing up for the next call. But that’s how it goes in the Fire Department City of Empire (FDE)—those with families get the holidays, and the rest of us hold down the fort. It’s not about wanting to work on holidays; it’s about who needs to be where, and when.

Now, let me tell you about the fleet we have here at the FDE’s medical bureau—it’s impressive and diverse, each vehicle tailored for specific emergencies:

* Regular ambulances are the backbone, staffed for either Basic Life Support (BLS) or Advanced Life Support (ALS).

* Haz-Tac ambulances are our Hazardous Material Tactical Units, with 39 units staffed by EMTs or Paramedics trained to handle hazardous environments.

* Rescue ambulances are rare birds, only 11 in the city, staffed by Rescue Medics trained in high angle rescue, confined space medicine, and more. They’re the ones who can perform rapid sequence intubation or even assist in surgical procedures during prolonged rescues.

* The bariatric unit equipped with a winch and ramp to transport patients over 850 lbs.

* EMS conditions cars are the eyes in the sky, so to speak, for our lieutenants and captains, coordinating the response and arrival of ambulances and crews on the ground.

* EMS major emergency response vehicles (MERV) are our modified school buses, ready to treat multiple casualties with both ALS and BLS functions.

* EMS medical evacuation transportation units (METU) can transport a small crowd of patients, whether they’re seated, non-ambulatory, or in wheelchairs.

* EMS mobile respiratory treatment units (MRTU) are our breath of fresh air, treating patients for smoke inhalation and other respiratory issues.

* Haz-Tac officers are the elite, responding alongside Haz-Tac and rescue ambulances as part of the FDE Special Operations Command.

* Lastly, our EMS response physicians and EMS Supervisors—they’re the cavalry, trained for the most hazardous materials and technical rescues, ready to perform on-scene limb amputations if needed. They’re our Mary Car, named for the Blessed Virgin Mary, a beacon of hope and help. And to supervise as well

Each unit, each team member, plays a vital role in the intricate ballet that is emergency response. While I may not have kids of my own to rush home to, I’ve got a city full of people who depend on us daily. That’s family enough for me.

In Little Bird, the sight of a bariatric unit is as rare as a blue moon. Our community is a fit one, with most folks tipping the scales between 100-180 pounds. Seeing someone over 200 pounds is an exception, not the rule. It starkly contrasts the tourists who visit from abroad, where our ‘normal’ might be considered underweight.

It’s all about perspective, isn’t it? Here, fast food and junk food is marketed as a treat for road trips or the occasional indulgence—not a daily meal. It’s a cultural thing, a mindset that’s been ingrained in us. We value moderation and balance, and it shows—not just in our waistlines, but in the very fabric of our city. It’s a testament to the lifestyle we’ve cultivated here on Little Bird.

In the lulls between calls, we take a collective breath, letting the silence of the firehouse wash over us. We’re a superstitious bunch at the Fire Department City of Empire—nobody dares to comment on the quiet. It’s like an unspoken rule; utter a word about peace, and you’ll summon chaos. I’ve seen it happen—a casual remark about a slow day, and bam, the PA system blares to life, and we’re off to the races. The poor soul who jinxed us? They’ll never hear the end of it.

But it’s in these moments of calm that I cherish the stories from my girlfriend, Lusty. She’s got fourteen years on the job, a well of tales. Like this one time, before her first pregnancy—way before we met—she responded to a call involving a mail truck. A letter, destined for someone’s loved one, got stuck to her boot. She tried to get the post office to send it on its way, but bureaucracy is a stubborn beast.

So Lusty, being the determined soul she is, delivered it herself. Turns out, it was a final message from a woman’s husband who had been killed in action. The post office’s indifference stung, especially since the widow had received the death notification a month before Lusty could deliver her husband’s last words. That was back in 1999, eight years before our paths crossed. Stories like hers remind me why we do what we do—because sometimes, it’s not just about fighting fires; it’s about carrying the weight of those little human moments.

Lusty once confided in me about a choice she made, one that still weighs on her conscience. She had opened a letter, not meant for her eyes, from a soldier whose eloquence could rival the poets of old. It was wrong, she knew, but her intentions were pure. She wanted to ensure his final words reached his beloved. Employing an old military trick, she placed the letter under a fresh sheet of paper and gently shaded over it with a pencil, revealing the hidden address beneath the envelope’s fold.

With the address in hand, she consulted a map at the fire station, determined to deliver the message herself. It was during her shift, but Lieutenant Autumn, understanding the gravity of the situation, led the entire company to the soldier’s home. They moved as one, ensuring no one was left behind.

I never had the chance to meet Lt. Autumn or the previous members of Squad Company 141. They died in a warehouse fire, leaving Lusty as the sole survivor. In the field, amidst the ashes, she was promoted to Captain. It’s a bittersweet memory, a reminder of the sacrifices made and the lengths we go to honor the last wishes of those we’ve lost.

In the stillness of the firehouse, we all shared a silent agreement, savoring the calm before the inevitable storm of the next call. I won’t say it out loud, but in my heart, I’m bracing for another medical emergency. It’s been a pattern lately, though, interestingly, not many calls come from Eastside or Westside.

Those neighborhoods, they’re like tightly-knit families. They look out for one another, vigilant and caring. In times like these, with the “Rabivus” outbreak looming over us, their unity is their strength. They’re cautious and conscientious—not wanting to inadvertently spread the virus or put their neighbors at risk. It’s a community effort, staying safe, and venturing out only when absolutely necessary.

Back in the '90s, when the guys I’m with first joined the force, there was a lot of talk about budget cuts. The department brought in financial consultants to trim the fat, aiming to save about 5-10% of our budget. But their strategy backfired. On Little Bird, a fire company is typically seven strong, but these consultants cut so deep that some companies were left with just three or four members. It wasn’t just about numbers; it was about people—overworked and stretched thin, doing the job of seven.

Before 1989, the city’s leaders had grand visions of an idyllic life for its citizens—parks, marinas, a strong police presence—but the funds just weren’t there. The result? A budget deep in the red. It was a time of austerity, with cuts across the board—fire, police, medical, sanitation, public works, schools, libraries, transportation, utilities.

Lusty always said it straight, “The city was spending money it didn’t have.”

Contracts were handed out for civic projects that seemed more about keeping people on the payroll than serving any real purpose. Some folks were getting paid to stay home, doing nothing. Eventually, the city had to take out a loan from the Commonwealth of Mountain just to keep the lights on.

Then came 1990, and with it, Ms. Martinez as Mayor after an emergency election. She was a breath of fresh air, a whirlwind of change. She put people to work and axed the unnecessary. If it wasn’t making money or essential, it was gone. It was a tough time, but it shaped us into the resilient city we are today. It taught us the value of every dollar and the importance of every role within our department.

Between 1967 and 1989, there was a troubling trend in the City of Empire. Firehouses in poorer neighborhoods were “closed,” a term I use loosely because they weren’t shut down—they were relocated to wealthier districts. This decision was presented as logical management, but to those of us on the ground, it reeked of political maneuvering that made no practical sense.

In those days, City Hall was a fortress of power, seemingly indifferent to the plights of Eastside, Westside, and Anderson—areas that were particularly fire-prone. Firehouses 17, 33, and 47, which once responded to 12-15 calls daily, were moved. The result? Communities that needed fire protection the most were left vulnerable, with response times ballooning from 4-5 minutes to 12 or more.

It wasn’t until Ms. Martinez took office as Mayor that things began to change. She was a force to be reckoned with, challenging the status quo at City Hall. Her vision for a “Glass and Steel Utopia of Empire” was met with resistance, with city officials claiming a lack of funds. Yet, when they proposed their own projects, she mirrored their objections, highlighting the hypocrisy. Her tenacity and commitment to fiscal responsibility won the hearts of the citizens, making her a beloved figure who truly looked out for the best interests of the city.

When I spoke with the crew of Squad Co 769 about Ms. Martinez, their respect for her was clear. They remembered her not just as a former military logistical officer but as a leader who genuinely sought to learn and improve. Her nickname, “Ms. Waterson,” wasn’t just a play on her name; it was a nod to her approach. She didn’t just take advice from the then-president of Little Bird, Bill Waterson—she acknowledged it, giving credit where it was due, a rarity in politics.

Her tenure was marked by a revitalization of the city’s core sectors—agriculture, industry, and commerce—aligning with the city’s motto, “Garden by the sea.” Her impact was so profound that there was talk of her running for president, though she humbly declined, feeling that managing a city was challenging enough.

Ms. Martinez was hands-on, modernizing the city’s emergency services and advocating for the community’s well-being. She understood the critical nature of response times, whether it was a fire or a medical emergency. Her public city hall meetings were a testament to her transparency, inviting citizens to voice their concerns and participate in decision-making.

Perhaps most notably, she didn’t confine herself to the office. She was out in the field, riding along with fire, police, and EMS crews, gaining firsthand experience that informed her decisions. This connection with the working class only bolstered her popularity and led to practical changes, like merging city hospitals with the fire department to cut down EMS response times significantly. It’s leaders like her who leave a lasting legacy, not just in policy, but in the hearts of those they serve.

It’s heartening to know that Ms. Martinez valued the wisdom of my grand uncle, taking his advice to heart. It’s a testament to her character that she sought guidance from experienced individuals. However, it’s a bittersweet reality that only a fraction of her initiatives came to fruition. The successful merger of the Fire Department City of Empire with the City of Empire Hospitals was a significant achievement, leading to decreased EMS response times and modernizing public services. This strategic move also expanded the fire department's role, adapting to our city's changing needs.

As the years of her second term waned, the landscape of our emergencies evolved. The decrease in fire incidents is a double-edged sword—while it signifies safer structures and perhaps more awareness, it also means that our firefighters are increasingly called upon for medical emergencies. The fires we encounter now are more challenging, fueled by modern materials that burn more intensely. It requires us to be more vigilant, more adaptable, and ever ready to respond to the diverse emergencies that our city presents. Ms. Martinez legacy, though not fully realized, has undoubtedly laid the groundwork for a more responsive and versatile emergency service.

Ms. Martinez was indeed a visionary, her ideas far ahead of her time. She saw the potential in the City of Empire, a place that had once thrived but fell into hardship between 1968 and 1995. Her approach was hands-on; she didn’t just sit behind a desk. Instead, she immersed herself in the city’s services, riding along with the fire department and EMS, understanding the challenges firsthand.

Her investigations into the city’s fires revealed a disturbing trend of “arson for profit,” and she was critical of the way fires were too often dismissed as “Cause of Fire: Unknown.” She pushed for accountability, for thorough investigations that would get to the truth and prevent such crimes.

Ms. Martinez’s commitment went beyond politics. She didn’t seek votes through empty promises; she sought real change. Her vision for modern, up-to-code housing in Eastside, Anderson, and Westside was about safety and dignity, ensuring that fires, if they occurred, would be contained and not spread with deadly speed.

The ambulance system she advocated for was revolutionary, allowing Fire Department ambulances the flexibility to cross fixed zones that only hospital ambulances could only cross, ensuring the closest unit could respond to an emergency. This change was not just about efficiency; it was about saving lives, reducing response times in critical moments. Her legacy is one of action, compassion, and an unwavering dedication to the people of Empire.

As we navigated around the police barricade, the urban landscape unfolded before us—a shipping warehouse, office buildings, a fast food joint, and a gas station. It was a stark reminder of the world continuing on, even as we braced for the unknown.

Under my breath, I couldn’t help but voice the concern that shadowed every step we took.

“I hope this virus doesn’t keep shifting, defying all our expectations,” I whispered, the words barely escaping. “If it mutates every day, finding a cure might become impossible. And if it spreads through water… washing hands might not be enough.”

The virus, dubbed ‘Rabius’ for its rabies-like symptoms, was shrouded in mystery. The government’s downplay to a form of influenza didn’t sit right with us—we were the ones on the front lines, after all. We deserved the truth.

Around me, theories swirled. Some whispered of government conspiracies; others feared alien involvement or divine retribution. But I, grounded in the both divine retribution and reality of our daily struggle, pondered a more earthly origin—a scientist, perhaps, unknowingly infected, bringing the virus to our streets. It’s a thought that chills me to the bone, knowing that any one of us could unwittingly become a carrier of this unseen threat.

The situation with the Rabius virus is unlike anything we’ve encountered before. The typical symptoms of rabies—fever, hydrophobia, confusion, excessive salivation, hallucinations, disrupted sleep, paralysis, coma, hyperactivity, headache, nausea, vomiting, and anxiety—are well-documented. But this… this is different.

We’re seeing victims with injuries resembling burn marks, as if scorched by fire, or fresh wounds that become infected at an alarming rate in milliseconds. It’s not just the physical symptoms that are concerning; it’s the behavioral changes. Some victims become aggressive, posing a danger to themselves and to our first responders. We’ve had to sedate them, induce comas, for everyone’s safety.

We’re adapting, strapping down patients with additional restraints to prevent any violent outbursts should they awaken. It’s a precaution, a necessary one, to protect both the patient and our teams. This virus, it’s a cunning adversary, and we’re learning to fight it on the fly, armed with our wits and whatever tools we have at our disposal. It’s a testament to the resilience and ingenuity of our emergency services, constantly evolving to meet the challenges head-on.

The City of Empire’s dispatch system is a well-oiled machine, designed for efficiency and speed. With separate dispatches for Fire, Police, Medical, Technical services, and a centralized one for all four, it ensures that every emergency is handled by the right team without delay. It’s a system that reflects the city’s commitment to its citizens’ safety, teaching them to dial directly to the respective emergency numbers for a quicker response.

When we arrived at the warehouse and found several people unconscious, we didn’t waste a moment. Instead of taking the long route, we scaled up to the loading docks, where trucks are usually bustling with forklifts. It’s about thinking on your feet, finding the fastest way to reach those in need.

It’s a common assumption that many places would be shut down during an outbreak, but essential businesses, especially those involved in logistics and delivery, remain operational to keep the city’s lifelines intact. The company’s promise of “Guaranteed on time delivery. Every time all the time” is a testament to their commitment, even in the face of a crisis.

The proximity to the city waterworks might seem odd, but it could be strategic for operations—though that’s just speculation on my part. I’m somewhat right about the workforce; having fewer workers is a wise precaution. It minimizes the risk of spreading the virus and ensures that essential services can continue with reduced but focused staff. It’s all about adapting to the situation while maintaining the safety and well-being of the community and the workers.

In the critical moments of a cardiac arrest, every action counts. As a Firefighter/CFR, I know my role well. I was there, hands ready, performing CPR on the victim—pushing hard and fast on the chest, trying to keep the blood flowing, to keep life pumping through veins that had come to a sudden halt. My partner, the Firefighter/EMT, worked alongside me, prepping the defibrillator, a device I’ve heard can be the difference between life and death, capable of jolting a heart back into rhythm.

I didn’t watch him set it up; my focus was entirely on the chest compressions, the beat of survival under my hands. It’s not within my scope to use the defibrillator, but I understand its importance. When he removed any metal from the patient, including a necklace, and warned me of the impending shock. I knew to pull back, to give him space to work and not get shocked as well and it’s all too common for idiots who are told to clear and not to couch the body only to touch the body and get electrocuted from the defibrillator as well, well that’s according to Lusty that she has seen it happen because the human body conducts electricity.

As I got a backboard ready to assist in immobilizing possible spine-injured patients because of the floor being solid concrete about four and a half feet of thick solid concrete. Now, let’s talk about TV. You know, the kind that makes our job look like a symphony of heroic feats set to a dramatic soundtrack. But here’s the truth: real life isn’t television. It’s not scripted, and there are no retakes. When the call comes in, we don’t have time for dramatic pauses or perfectly timed revelations. We move, we assess, and we act.

My girlfriend taught me something valuable. “When in doubt, call the professionals.” It’s a mantra that echoes in my mind during those critical moments. Sometimes, trying to help without knowing what to do can cause more harm than good. It’s not about being a hero; it’s about being effective.

Take CPR, for instance. On TV, it’s all clean and safe—a few chest compressions, maybe a dramatic breath, and voilà! But in reality, it’s gritty. The crunch of ribs under your palms, the sweat trickling down your forehead, and the fear that this might be the one time it doesn’t work. Let’s not forget the risk of spreading oral diseases or the patient vomiting. Yeah, it’s messy, but it’s our best shot at keeping someone alive.

Defibrillators? They don’t magically restart hearts. They stop them—like hitting pause on a movie—but it’s up to us to hit play again. Trust me, there’s no dramatic countdown. Just adrenaline, teamwork, and the hope that we’re not too late.

Now, tracheostomies. TV loves to make it seem like a walk in the park. But in reality, it’s delicate, nerve-wracking. You’re standing there, scalpel in hand, knowing that one wrong move could change everything. My girlfriend—Lusty, we call her—she’d say, “Don’t even think about it unless you’ve got the training.” And she’s right. We’re not Grey’s Anatomy characters; we’re professionals with lives in our hands.

So, next time you watch a medical drama, remember this: behind the scenes, there’s a team of professionals—real people, real sweat, real lives hanging in the balance. We don’t need a dramatic soundtrack. We’ve got sirens, heartbeats, and each other. That’s our reality, and it’s damn beautiful.

I rummaged through the jump bag, its compartments crammed with vials and ampoules. The TV portrayal of instant sedation with a single injection? Utter nonsense. In reality, it’s a delicate dance—a symphony of precise knowledge, swift action, and a vein as your stage. Get it right, and you can safely subdue someone in seconds. Get it wrong, and you’re either staring at a corpse or waiting agonizing minutes for them to crumple.

Medicine isn’t a one-size-fits-all magic potion. It’s a nuanced art. The right drug, the right dose, the right route—it’s like composing a melody. Anesthesiologists, they’re the virtuosos. They wield syringes like maestros, plunging into veins with the precision of a surgeon’s scalpel. They’re the ones who can hush a raging storm inside a patient’s chest, coaxing them into a peaceful slumber.

Then there’s the “Raibus” virus. TV loves to crank up the drama, showing diseases as instant death sentences. But reality? It’s more like a slow-burning fuse. Incubation periods vary—some stealthy pathogens tiptoe in, while others kick down the door. You don’t wake up one morning with a full-blown infection. No, it brews quietly, like a storm gathering strength over the horizon.

That’s the danger—the silent spreaders. Victims who don’t even know they’re carriers. They mingle, they touch, they breathe, and the virus jumps from host to host. By the time symptoms rear their ugly heads, it’s too late—the damage is done. We scramble, tracing contacts, isolating, praying we’re not too late.

But today, it’s cardiac arrest that demands attention. My partner, a seasoned EMT, dives into action. Chest compressions, defibrillator pads, adrenaline shots—the whole symphony. I’m a CFR, a step below, watching, ready to assist. We’re a team, each note in harmony. And as the warehouse worker fights for his life, I know this: Medicine isn’t about instant miracles; it’s about the quiet battles fought in the shadows—the ones that save lives long before the curtain rises.

The crew I’m with have seen their fair share of critical incidents, but nothing compares to the urgency of a cardiac arrest call.

In the midst of the chaos, I’m reminded of the tales my girlfriend, a seasoned Firefighter Lieutenant and EMT, shares about the field. She’s encountered situations where well-meaning bystanders have made a critical error: removing an impaled object from a victim. It’s a natural instinct to want to help, but this action can often do more harm than good.

Here’s the hard truth, unless you’re in the controlled environment of a hospital, with a team of medical professionals at the ready, extracting a foreign object from a trauma patient is not advisable. My girlfriend and her crew are skilled and experienced, yet they know their limits. They wouldn’t attempt such a procedure without the presence of a higher-level medical professional. Instead, they focus on what they can do best – stabilizing the object to prevent further injury and preparing the patient for transport.

TV dramas often dramatize medical emergencies, and while they get some things right, like the necessity to act swiftly in life-threatening roadside situations, they sometimes overlook the complexities. The reality is, the risks of performing a procedure in an unsterile environment far outweigh the potential benefits. Our goal is to manage the patient’s condition as best as we can until we can get them to a hospital.

There are times, however, when immediate intervention is the lesser of two evils. If not acted upon, the patient might not survive the journey to the hospital. It’s a delicate balance, one that requires quick thinking, a steady hand, and an unwavering commitment to saving lives. That’s the essence of our duty as first responders – to make those tough calls and provide the best possible care under the most challenging circumstances.

The arrival of the first ambulance company, the Fire Department EMS, was swift. The EMT and Paramedic, clad in their crisp sky blue shirts with dark blue ties, stood out against the scene. Their uniforms, complete with the fire department EMS patch on both sleeves and dark navy blue pants, signified readiness and professionalism. The radio belt wrapped around their torsos was a lifeline to the rest of the team, ensuring constant communication.

As they took over, I shifted my focus to assist others, but found that the situation was well in hand. Another individual was experiencing breathing difficulties and had lost consciousness, hitting his head due to oxygen deprivation. Yet, the team didn’t require my help.

In these moments, my thoughts often drift to the dramatized world of movies and TV shows, where emergency services appear almost instantaneously at the scene of a disaster. It’s a stark contrast to reality, where response times can range from 5-10 minutes, and even upon arrival, immediate action isn’t always possible. The proximity of a call can change things; being en route to the station or making a quick stop can put us closer to the incident, allowing for a faster response.

I understand the need for dramatic effect in entertainment, where time is compressed for storytelling purposes. But in the real world, every second counts, and the work we do as first responders is governed by the reality of time, distance, and the unpredictability of emergencies.

Approaching the third individual, I could see the signs of distress – dizziness and rapid breathing – yet he was adamant about not going to the hospital. It’s a scenario we encounter more often than you’d think. As first responders, our priority is the patient’s well-being, but we also respect their right to make decisions about their own care.

I made my way back to our apparatus to retrieve the Refusal of Service Forms, commonly referred to as “Tickets” in our lingo. These forms are crucial; they serve as a legal acknowledgment that the patient has voluntarily declined further medical treatment or transportation. It’s a safeguard for both the patient and us, the Fire and EMS personnel, against any potential legal repercussions.

With a pen in hand, the individual marked his refusal for transport, consenting only to receive medical attention on the spot. It’s a delicate balance, respecting the patient’s wishes while ensuring they understand the potential risks. The moment the patient expressed his refusal to be transported to the hospital, we had to honor his decision. It’s a part of our duty that requires as much compassion as it does adherence to the law. After ensuring he understood the risks, we radioed in to cancel the incoming ambulance. It’s a fine line we walk – providing care without overstepping personal liberties. In this case, forcing him to go against his will would cross that line into coercion, something we’re careful to avoid.

With the situation under control, I returned to assist my EMT and Paramedic colleagues. Together, we maneuvered the stretcher out of the ambulance, ready to transport another patient who needed our help. We navigated through the warehouse, past the docks where trucks usually load and unload, and down a ramp. A routine part of our environment. Once the patient was securely on board, we closed the ambulance doors, signaling their departure.

As I watched them drive away, the sky storm clouds rolled up, and a light rain began to fall. The morning had been sweltering, and the rain felt like a small mercy, a brief respite from the tropical heat. It’s moments like these that remind me of the unpredictability of our job – not just in the emergencies we respond to, but also in the simple, unexpected pleasures like a sudden shower on a hot day.

As I approached Squad 769, I made sure to grab my turnout jacket. It’s essential to keep the station uniform dry, especially when the weather decides to turn on us. The turnout gear trousers, suspenders, and boots I was already wearing are part of the protective ensemble that defines our role and readiness.

My girlfriend, Lusty, often reminisces about the time when our department transitioned to the new modern bunker gear. It was a significant change, one that happened around the time I was entering high school. She mentioned how her previous girlfriend had some choice words about the color scheme of our gear – black with yellow and white reflective stripes. It’s funny how something as functional as the color of our gear can stir up opinions.

Lieutenant Marcus once explained that the department had four color options for our turnout gear: black, a brown-tan shade, yellow, and surprisingly, pink. The decision was put to a vote, and black won by a majority, with yellow and the brown-tan color splitting the remaining votes. Pink, well, it didn’t stand a chance.

I get it, though. The color of our gear carries weight beyond its function. It’s about perception, professionalism, and a bit of tradition. Wearing pink might work for some, but in the heat of the moment – quite literally – we need to be taken seriously.

Reflecting on the history of our turnout gear, it’s evident how much has changed. The transition from leather, canvas, and rubber to the modern materials we use today is a testament to the evolution of firefighting equipment. The black and yellow paint of the past has given way to the high-visibility stripes we see now, ensuring we’re seen amidst the smoke and chaos.

Today’s call was a prime example of the adaptability required in our line of work. Once the patient was stabilized and ready for transport, we faced a decision. If the ambulance delay had continued, we would have used the fire engine for transport – a last resort, but a possibility we’re always prepared for. Fortunately, the other ambulance arrived promptly, and we were able to hand off the patient for transport to the hospital.

Post-incident procedures are as critical as the response itself. We meticulously cleaned our medical gear and thoroughly washed our hands and arms. It’s a ritual that marks the end of one call and the readiness for the next.

Back at the quarters, the normalcy of daily life greeted us.

“I see the newspaper still runs,” I remarked, picking up the latest edition that had been delivered during our call. Flipping through the sports section, I overheard my colleagues discussing past emergencies. One story, in particular, caught my attention – a major medical emergency involving a parolee. The complexities of such situations are never lost on us. Despite a police officer’s attempt to involve the parole office, the urgency of medical care took precedence, and the parolee was transported with their ankle monitor intact. It’s a reminder that in emergencies, our priority is the patient’s immediate well-being, and legalities, while important, must sometimes take a back seat to life-saving actions.

As a firefighter and a person of faith, I often find myself at the intersection of duty and belief. It’s a delicate balance, navigating my religious principles while honoring the commitments of my profession and the diversity of the community I serve. I’ve pondered whether my faith would be at odds with entering a place of worship that’s not my own, whether for an emergency call or accompanying a friend. Yet, my experience has shown me that faith, at its core, is about understanding and respect.

The people I’ve met, many of whom hold their own religious convictions, have demonstrated a remarkable openness. They’ve welcomed others into their sacred spaces and have respected those who choose a different path. This tolerance is the very essence of the community spirit I cherish.

I recall a time when my father shared with my close knit circle that I was in a relationship with someone who identifies as agnostic and atheist. Despite the concerns voiced about our compatibility, Clairebear and I have thrived on mutual respect. She respects my devotion, and I, her autonomy of belief. Our relationship is a testament to the fact that love and respect transcend differing worldviews.

I’m not one to turn to prayer as a reflex to every situation. As the world grapples with crises, I stay grounded in realism, knowing that some challenges require action, not just words of faith. I’m a realist, a pragmatist, and a believer who understands that prayer has its place, but it’s our hands and hearts that truly make a difference in the world.

In my line of work as a firefighter and certified first responder, I’ve seen a spectrum of beliefs and reactions to pain and adversity. When I stub my toe, my first instinct isn’t to pray; it’s to reach for ice, wrap it in a bag, and apply it to dull the pain. It’s a practical response, much like how I approach my job.

I’ve encountered individuals who, at the slightest discomfort, turn to prayer. While I respect their devotion, I believe in taking tangible steps to alleviate suffering. I’ve also met those who hold their religious views so tightly that they make the IRS seem lenient by comparison. Yes, I’ve had conversations with people who speak of their faith as if the end times were upon us. To them, I extend the same courtesy I seek. “I respect your religious beliefs, but please respect mine.”

However, respect isn’t always reciprocated. I’ve been told my beliefs are wrong and theirs right. My response is firm. If you can’t respect my beliefs, don’t expect me to respect yours.

This clash of beliefs sometimes extends into my professional duties. There have been calls where a patient’s religious convictions prevent them from seeking medical treatment or hospitalization. Yet, these same convictions often lead to a refusal to sign the “Refusal Form,” which legally acknowledges their decision to decline aid or transport. We can’t leave the scene without a signature or ensuring they receive medical help. It’s a standoff that sometimes escalates to the point where law enforcement is called. But by law, we can’t leave without resolution. More often than not, the form gets signed, albeit out of annoyance.

As I sat there, newspaper in hand, I couldn’t help but chuckle at the thought of dashing to an electronics store for a new TV.

“No way,” I mumbled to myself, “those shops won’t be open now.” Sure, I could lend my cell phone for video entertainment, but explaining a smartphone here in Little Bird is akin to explaining quantum physics to a newborn. It’s a rare sight, reserved for the higher echelons and emergency medical personnel, and even then, it’s often just a flip phone.

I often reflect on the wisdom of the Oompa Loompas from the classic '72 film, cautioning against the mind-numbing effects of television. My dad, a man of foresight, encouraged me to read, instilling in me the value of books over screens. Books, after all, are free from the interruptions of commercials, inviting readers to paint their own worlds with imagination—a stark contrast to the passive consumption TV often promotes.

While my peers were glued to their sets, discussing the latest shows, my reality was different. Balancing school and a part-time job left little room for television. The precious free time I had was often spent immersed in the pages of the Bible or a good book, not because I didn’t enjoy TV, but because it was my mom’s domain. When I did tune in, it was practicality that guided me—to the Weather Channel, ensuring I was prepared for whatever the day might bring as I navigated high school from '97 to '01.

It’s funny how life shapes our habits and perspectives. For me, it’s always been about practicality, whether in my personal life or on the job. Just like firefighting, every second counts and every decision matters, I choose to fill my time with what’s meaningful and constructive, be it through service or the simple joy of a good book.

Reflecting on the past, it’s astonishing how perceptions of technology and privilege have shifted. Back in my high school days, owning a cellphone was a luxury that branded you as ‘spoiled.’ Fast forward to my last visit to the States, and it’s a rarity to spot a teenager without one. It’s a testament to how quickly norms evolve over just a decade.

I remember lobbying my dad for a phone in 10th grade. His response was a lesson in values, “Work for it.” So I did, juggling academics and a part-time job. In the spring of 2001, my efforts paid off—not with just any phone, but a flip phone, a reward that felt all the sweeter for the sweat that earned it. Unlike some of my peers who received their gadgets as lavish gifts, often with complaints about the color, I cherished mine for the love and recognition it represented from my father.

In the firehouse, I sense a disconnect between some of my colleagues and their families. My cousin Dave tells me it’s common in our line of work—firefighting runs through our veins, passed down through generations. Yet, not everyone is born into this tradition. Dave knows firefighters who’ve broken away from their expected career paths, choosing service over family tradition, sometimes at the cost of those familial ties.

But for me, my father’s pride is a beacon. His support has been unwavering, not just in my career choice but in every aspect of my life, including my relationship with Claire. It’s a bond that’s been my strength, as much as the sense of purpose I’ve found in serving others as a firefighter—a dream fueled by passion, not obligation.

From the time I was just four years old, my dad instilled in me a lesson that’s as timeless as the vintage cars I adore. “People you think are your friends will happily sell you out or abandon you if you get in the way of something they want. You’ll only find out who your real friends are when you’re down.” He advised me to keep my circle of friends tight, to cherish the true ones and ward off the opportunists.

I’ve carried that wisdom with me, even as I’ve navigated the complexities of adulthood. I’ve felt the sting of judgment from former friends over my choice of wheels—a classic '67 Charger. It’s a stark contrast to the modern '05 GT one of my old acquaintances flaunted back in Kansas City. But here, where I am now, vintage is the norm, not the exception. Cars from the '40s to the '60s line the streets, each with a story, each with character.

To me, it’s not about the year or the model—it’s about reliability and the journey. My Charger may not be the newest, but it roars to life with each turn of the key, taking me where I need to go. It’s a bit like life, isn’t it? It’s not the flashiness on the outside that counts, but the fire within—the drive to move forward, to serve, to live with purpose. That’s what I choose to value, in cars and in friendships.

My friends often remark, with a hint of jest, on the nature of my work in the heart of the city’s most challenged neighborhoods. They paint a picture of me as a beacon of hope in areas plagued by poverty, crime, and a litany of social issues. It’s easy to fall back on stereotypes when describing the inner city’s struggles with unemployment, addiction, illiteracy, and the scarcity of quality education and healthcare.

But the reality here in Eastside, and its counterparts Westside and Anderson, is not just a statistic or a headline—it’s about real people facing real challenges. It’s common for as many as eight out of ten young people to leave school early, taking on part-time jobs to support their families. For these children, higher education is often a distant dream, accessible only through a scholarship or military service—the latter being the more common path.

While some may view these neighborhoods through a lens of deficits, I see resilience and determination. The very fabric of these communities is woven with stories of sacrifice and hard work.

My friends can’t stand how I live because they’re used to conveniences and stereotypes where they’re used to places that are open 24/7.

Eastside ain't your typical gang-infested neighborhood. Sure, outsiders hear "gang" and imagine hoodlums with tattoos, dealing drugs, and causing chaos. But let me set the record straight. Our gang—the one that's been around since bell-bottoms were cool—has a different mission. They're like the neighborhood watch on steroids. These guys keep our streets clean, chasing off troublemakers, and doing what the police won't touch. It's delicate though. The EPD sideeyes them, and the citizens? Well, some of them have police scanners, and they know when the dispatcher sounds bored. But hey, it works for us.

Picture this: smaller supermarkets, simpler aisles, and no flashy displays. Here, it's all about the essentials. No endless choices—just what you need. The shoppers? Oh, they dress like they're attending a gala. No PJs or flip-flops; it's all about elegance. You'd think they're heading to a casual event, not picking up bread and milk. But hey, it adds a touch of class to grocery shopping.

Now, let's talk about closing time. When the sun dips below the skyline, the city shuts down. Shops lock up, and the streets echo with silence. Forget midnight snacks or last-minute errands. If you're out past 9 PM, you're out of luck. It's like Cinderella's curfew, minus the glass slipper. And Sundays? Well, Blue laws—religious reasons—keep everything closed. No retail therapy, my friend. But it forces us to be resourceful. We make lists, plan ahead, and adapt. Survival of the fittest, Empire-style.

Living in an apartment here? Brace yourself. Some buildings start in the lobby and only stop on the fourth floor or higher. Anything in between? Stairs. Lots of them. Carrying groceries up those flights feels like a workout. Forget elevators; we've got our own Stairmaster. But hey, it keeps us fit, and we've perfected the art of juggling bags while climbing.

My American friends? They shudder at our shopping hours. "No 24/7 stores?" they gasp. But you know what? It builds character. We're not spoiled by convenience. Saturdays or Fridays—our designated shopping days. And when those stores open at 9 AM, it's like Christmas morning. We appreciate every hour, every aisle. Walmart? That's a distant memory. Empire's rhythm is slower, deliberate. Honestly, I wouldn't trade it for all the 24/7 megastores in the world.

My friends back home are often baffled by the simplicity of life here in Empire. They can’t imagine a world without the ubiquity of McDonald’s or a Starbucks at every turn. Sure, I enjoy sinking my teeth into a juicy cheeseburger now and then, but around here, fast food is more of a novelty than a staple—something for road trips or rare treats, not daily sustenance.

Here, the aspirations are straightforward, stable jobs, good health, and a nurturing environment for raising a family. The luxuries many take for granted in the States, like personal vehicles and TVs, are seen through a different lens in Empire. Claire tells me that in Eastside, Westside, and Anderson, such items are considered extravagances. For many, a radio suffices, and the latest flat-screen TV or new car is a distant dream, not a necessity.

This perspective extends to financial habits as well. While some of my American friends struggle with credit card debt, chasing after the latest and greatest, folks here live within their means. They understand the reality of their earnings and don’t chase a middle-class lifestyle on a modest income. It’s a lesson in contentment and practicality—a stark contrast to the consumer-driven culture I’ve seen elsewhere.

It’s a different way of life, one that values the essentials over excess. While it might seem restrictive to some, it fosters a sense of resourcefulness and appreciation for what one has. It’s not about what you own, but about the life you lead and the community you build. That’s the heart of Empire, and it’s a heart that beats strong.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

The political landscape here in Little Bird is unique, with military service being a prerequisite for political office. It’s a policy that ensures our leaders have a shared experience of discipline and sacrifice. However, the fiscal management by some politicians has been less than exemplary. I’ve seen mayors come and go, each with grand visions of transforming Empire into a utopian cityscape, complete with parks and leisure spaces. Yet, these dreams often came at a steep cost, leading to budget cuts across essential services.

From the late '60s to the early '90s, the city was in turmoil, with the Fire Department’s budget slashed amidst increasing fires. The term ‘floaters’ became all too common, referring to firefighters waiting for a temporary spot to open up. Before 2007, we had only 34 fire companies, with just 23 actively battling blazes.

Claire, my girlfriend, shared that many city workers, upon receiving their government paychecks, would rush to check-cashing services, forfeiting 10-25% of their hard-earned money to avoid bounced checks and overdraft fees. This was a time when the city’s financial instability led to strikes and departures, as reliable paychecks became a rarity.

The turning point came in 1983 when the Bureau of Fire, affectionately known as the Fire Department Nation of Little Bird, stepped in to stabilize the situation. This intervention allowed firefighters to continue their work with the assurance of payment, even as other city services were temporarily outsourced.

It wasn’t until 1990 that a new mayor took the helm with a business-like approach, prioritizing the city’s income over expenses. Her efforts paid off, and for the first time in years, the city’s income exceeded its expenditures, allowing for the restoration and improvement of city services. It was a lesson in fiscal responsibility that reshaped the city’s future and restored faith in its governance.

The conversations I’ve had with my friends in the States about Empire’s past paint a vivid picture of a city grappling with its identity and safety. They often compare it to New York City during the same era, with the notable exception that here, services were sometimes outsourced to maintain order.

It’s hard for them to wrap their heads around the idea that gangs formed not out of a desire for power or criminal intent, but as a community response to inadequate policing. The humor they find in saying that “snails, slugs, and sloths moved faster than the cops” underscores the frustration felt by residents awaiting protection and justice.

To the middle class and the affluent, these gangs represented a dual threat and a paradox—a threat to their way of life, yet also a kind of grassroots militia born out of necessity. Many of the original members were Vietnam veterans who returned home to find their neighborhoods neglected and in disarray. They took it upon themselves to do what they believed the city had failed to—provide safety and security. They were seen as untrained, yet they were driven by a sense of duty that couldn’t be ignored.

These men, hardened by war and united by a common cause, stood watch over their communities. They were the unsung heroes who wouldn’t stand idly by as crime rates soared. Their actions were a statement, a declaration that they would fill the void left by the city’s empty promises of more police officers and safer streets. Instead of seeing the funds go towards practical needs, they witnessed the construction of parks that the city couldn’t afford to maintain.

The period between 1988 and 1990 was a tumultuous chapter in the history of Empire. The decision to disband the police force by the then Lieutenant-Mayor, who later became Mayor, was a controversial move that seemed to stem more from personal vendetta than fiscal responsibility. In place of the police, the Marines from the 3rd Marine Division and Paratroopers from the 21st Airborne Division were brought in to maintain order. However, their methods were far from conventional policing; they operated with a “shoot first, don’t ask questions later let the bullets answer the question” approach, which was more akin to military counterinsurgency than community law enforcement.

This heavy-handed approach had dire consequences for the city’s image and economy. Businesses fled, likened to birds migrating south for the winter, as the presence of military vehicles on the streets painted a picture of a city under siege rather than a safe place to invest and grow a business. The exodus of commerce exacerbated the city’s financial woes, further depleting an already strained budget.

It was only with the election of a new mayor in 1990 that a sense of stability began to return. She approached the city’s governance with a business mindset, focusing on balancing the budget by carefully weighing the city’s income against its expenses. This pragmatic approach allowed for a more sustainable management of the city’s resources, ensuring that essential services like the Fire Department, Police Department, Medical, Transportation, and Education Departments could continue to operate without compromising the city’s financial health.

The budget, though vast, required meticulous oversight to ensure that the city could meet its obligations without falling into the pitfalls of previous administrations. It was a lesson in fiscal prudence and strategic planning that helped steer Empire back on a path to recovery and growth.

My friends back in the States often chuckle at the idea of minimum wage workers here earning $1.25 an hour, which translates to about $108 a month if they work full-time. But then, they get a bit envious when they realize how far that money goes. They're struggling with $1000 rent on an $1800 monthly salary, often needing a second job just to make ends meet.

Here on Little Bird, it's like stepping into an old sitcom where a single breadwinner can support a stay-at-home parent and a few kids on one salary. It's a stark contrast to their reality, where many have to share living spaces with friends or roommates to split the bills.

I can't help but feel a bit fortunate. My medium-sized apartment costs just $71 a month, and on my firefighter salary of $240 a month, I can live comfortably. It's a different world, one where the cost of living aligns more closely with wages, allowing for a simpler, more sustainable lifestyle. While my friends back home are juggling multiple jobs and high expenses, I can enjoy a bit more peace of mind and financial stability.

I often find myself explaining to my colleagues here the myriad of bills we juggle back in the States—cellphone, energy, cable, internet, and various insurances like car and home. They’re baffled by the concept of a cable bill, having grown up in a place where you simply buy a TV, plug it in, and you’re set. No need to subscribe to basic cable or pay extra for additional channels. Here on Little Bird, it's straightforward: buy a TV, plug it in, and enjoy.

Insurance is another area that confuses them. On Little Bird, most people opt for Government Insurance, which is incredibly affordable—just $5 a month for car or house insurance, or $10 for both. While private insurance companies exist, the government option is more popular due to its affordability. Plus, Little Bird has universal healthcare, so no one worries about hospital bills. I’ve shared with them how many Americans avoid hospitals because of the exorbitant costs and interest on unpaid bills. Here, if you receive a hospital bill and make a $15 monthly payment, you’re not charged interest.Life here on Little Bird certainly simplifies things. My bills are pretty straightforward: an electric bill, insurance, and a monthly membership fee to the gun range. I also have a cell phone bill, but I’ve set it up for automatic deduction from my bank account on the first of every month.

I still use a landline phone, which is a bit different. It’s charged per call, based on distance and duration. Short-distance calls cost 10 cents per minute, while long distance calls are 75 cents per minute. At the start of each month, all the previous month’s calls are tallied up, with a 25-cent fee to keep the line active for incoming and outgoing calls.

Life’s choices and paths are as varied as the people who walk them. My friends back in the States might find the lifestyle here on Little Bird too quiet for their taste, especially with their frequent visits to the Golden Arches. They might even jest about my “nerdy” ways during my time at Arcane University, where I chose books over parties—a decision that set me on a different trajectory than many of them, who now face the consequences of their collegiate revelries.

They may tease me for my career choice, but I take pride in the unique schedule of the Fire Department City of Empire, which operates on a Modified California Roll. It’s a rhythm that allows for work-life balance, unlike the relentless 12-hour days they endure. It’s not just about the hours we work; it’s about the life we build around those hours.

Yes, while they’re not under the strain of a city lockdown like the one caused by the Rabius outbreak, I’m here, working tirelessly with Squad 769. Being childless, I’m called upon to serve, to keep pushing until we reach our limits.

The alarm rang, and I knew it was go-time again. But this call was a bit unusual—it wasn’t the adrenaline-pumping rush to a blazing inferno or a life-saving rescue. No, this time we were rolling out to assist Squad Co 525, not with flames, but with a stubborn door that refused to budge.

You see, in the midst of their haste to respond to an emergency, 525 found themselves ironically grounded by their own apparatus bay door. A mechanical hiccup, perhaps a neglected chain link, had seized up, halting their progress. It’s one of those mundane maintenance tasks that can easily slip through the cracks in a busy firehouse. They say you should check your garage door’s drive chain at least once or twice a year, especially when it’s cycled as frequently as ours are.

In a department that answers to over a million calls annually, with half of those needing the specialized tools of a Squad or Rescue Company, it’s no surprise that some things get overlooked. But as we pulled up to their firehouse, I couldn’t help but think about the irony of it all. Here we were, a team usually racing against time to save others, now on a mission to save one of our own from the clutches of a jammed door.

It’s moments like these that remind us of the importance of the little things, the routine checks and balances that keep our wheels turning and our doors opening. In the grand scheme of things, it’s not just about being ready for the big emergencies—it’s also about ensuring we can get out the door to face them.

When we arrived at the scene, the first thing we noticed was the door chain—stuck and clearly past its prime. It was one of those moments that remind you of the wear and tear the city endures. As I assessed the situation, my eyes caught a glimpse of Carter. He avoided my gaze, turning away as if on cue. Carter and I, we’re different breeds; he’s the kind who’d touch the electric fence just to see what happens.

You see, there are various ways to learn in life. Some folks absorb knowledge from books, others from observing the world, and a few from the school of hard knocks—like grabbing that proverbial electric fence. The human mind is wired to remember the sting of a burn or the shock of electricity, teaching us to steer clear next time. Edison once said, “I have not failed. I’ve just found 10,000 ways that won’t work.” That’s a lesson in persistence, but also in recognizing when a path leads nowhere.

Carter, the moron, seems to think that repeating the same mistake will yield different results. My dad, a man seasoned by the trials of rural America in the '70s, imparted a different wisdom, knowing when to learn, when to observe, and when to leap into action. It’s a balance that’s served me well, especially in this line of work.

Despite my reservations about Carter, he did attempt a solution—using grease to free the chain. I couldn’t help but shake my head; it was such a Carter move. Unorthodox, maybe even foolish, but it’s his way of navigating the world. In a city like Empire, where every neighborhood has its own rhythm and rules, sometimes the unconventional approach is what gets you through the day.

At the Empire Fire Academy, they hammer in a mantra that’s become my guiding principle: “Walk with purpose, don’t run.” It’s a creed that speaks volumes, especially in our line of work. It means to approach every situation with deliberation, not haste; to value analysis over impulsiveness; to choose calculated courage over reckless valor.

In my first few months on the job, I’ve seen plenty of action, and Carter’s been at my side through most of it. Honestly, I’m amazed he hasn’t found himself in a world of pain yet. His brand of bravery often blurs the line with recklessness. He’s got this fire in him that just doesn’t quit, but sometimes I wish he’d remember that “Pumping the brakes” isn’t a sign of weakness—it’s a sign of wisdom.

It’s about taking that extra moment to assess the risks, to look before leaping into the flames. Out here, in the thick of smoke and uncertainty, a split-second decision can mean the difference between life and death.

I mostly did the repairs on the garage door chain link where the men here know how to do metal work, leather craftsmanship, wood craftsmanship, electrician, work on bikes, and how to work on the internal combustion engine. Here on Little Bird that shop classes are required for men to take where in middle school shop class they learn about metal work, leather craftsmanship, wood craftsmanship, and clay crafting while high school moves on to advanced stuff like working on bicycles, working on the internal combustion engine, and working on electricity. Well according to my girlfriend, men must take the classes but optional for women but according to Claire a lot of women take said classes so they can have a general idea so they can either go and take the trade or so if they have to fix something then they won’t be scammed like handymen or mechanics.

But we were able to fix their garage door chain so they can be dispatched to any future call in the future. But to me, we just do what we’re trained to do even though how they couldn’t do it means something.

Carter I’ve heard him call me a “Wrench Wench” which is a badge of honor for women who do mechanical inclinations that traditionally have been the forte of men while the term means a girl who proves the former idea is wrong. Heck my dad said, “I would rather have my daughter change a flat tire, change the oil, and fix the car than take it to a guy I don’t know.” I kinda feel like Winry Rockbell from 2003’s Fullmetal Alchemist.

During my time at Arcane University, where I pursued fire science, I had the chance to shadow several firehouses. It was there I met some formidable women who not only fought fires but also served as the firehouse mechanics. These firehouses, marked by crime maps dotted with pins for suspected arson, were hives of activity and vigilance. The women I met were fiercely proud of their units’ response times, always striving to outdo the others. They were as sharp and capable as Lisa in “My Cousin Vinny,” and just as quick to prove their mettle.

Learning the ropes from these women, as well as from my father and grand uncles, has been invaluable. Now, as I serve in Empire, I’m grateful for the way people here see beyond stereotypes. When I share where I’m from, they don’t picture the caricatures often portrayed in the media—the corrupt officials or the hillbillies. Instead, they recognize the genuine, sensible people that make up my hometown.

Empire, nestled in the Southern part of Little Bird, is a testament to enduring Southern hospitality and manners. It’s a place where respect and decency are woven into the fabric of community life, and where the warmth of our greetings is matched only by the heat we face in the line of duty. Here, the spirit of the South is alive and well, and it’s an honor to be part of it.

Adjusting to city life was a culture shock, coming from a small town to the bustling streets of Empire. I remember my first visit in '04, seeing people scurrying about, seemingly busy yet aimless. At university orientation, they preached the gospel of Campus Security’s rapport with students, claiming it kept crime rates low. But a classmate of mine called their bluff. She argued that in the event of a crime, it’s better to involve the Empire Police Department (EPD) directly.

Her reasoning was simple. Campus Security doesn’t entirely document everything, potentially letting incidents slip through the cracks. She likened talking to them to “convincing a brick wall that it’s a door.” The EPD, on the other hand, is committed to the safety of citizens, visitors, and the city itself. They’ve pledged their service to Empire, the Commonwealth of Mountain, and Little Bird at large. Campus Security’s allegiance? Solely to the campus grounds. It’s a distinction that’s stuck with me, reinforcing the importance of seeking help where it’s most effective.

My classmate’s advice at Arcane University was clear-cut, when in doubt, go “outside.” She meant that instead of relying on Campus Security or campus counselors, it’s often wiser to seek assistance from the Empire Police Department or a private therapist. Her cautionary tales of friends being involuntarily committed after seeking help on campus were enough to make anyone wary—especially since such actions are only legal in Little Bird if someone poses a danger to themselves or others.

Our friendship solidified quickly, especially after I fixed her car without charging a dime. She was curious about my mechanical skills, and I shared with her the legacy of car knowledge in my family. It’s almost a rite of passage for the men in my family to be able to dismantle and reassemble a car with their eyes closed. My “uncles”—actually cousins—run an auto repair shop in North Carolina, and they, along with other family members, passed down their expertise to me. This hands-on education gave me an encyclopedic understanding of automobiles, starting with my first project, a '63 Tempest. It’s this blend of skill and community spirit that I’ve brought with me to Empire.

After fixing what’s broken and ensuring the door chain keeps working, I often reflect on the city’s transformation. My classmate’s stories painted a vivid picture of Empire’s past—a city that once teetered on the brink of collapse. Empire was a byword for urban decay from the late '60s to the early '90s. People fled, seeking refuge from the chaos, as the city became synonymous with crime, pollution, and despair.

The mayors of those times dreamed of a utopian city, lush with parks and free from worry. Yet, their visions often eclipsed reality, leading to financial turmoil. By '79, essential services were outsourced, and the city’s workers struggled to make ends meet. The mid-'80s saw Empire on the verge of bankruptcy, saved only by government money.

It was a time when the streets were riddled with slums and drug dens, and the city services were stretched thin. The drug crisis of the '80s only worsened the situation, with crime rates soaring. Televangelists likened the city of Empire to Hell, a comparison that stung but wasn’t entirely dismissed by those who called it home. In those days, self-defense became a priority, and gun ownership surged.

But the '90s ushered in a new era. Empire began to operate with the precision and accountability of a business. It’s cleaner now, safer—almost unrecognizable from the city of old. It’s a testament to resilience, to the belief that even the most troubled places can find their way back.

Heading back to the firehouse, the crew and I made a pit stop at an electronics store. They decided to pick up a new TV, and while part of me wanted to grumble about their lack of repair skills. I couldn’t fault them for wanting some entertainment. It’s a reminder that sometimes, it’s best to leave certain tasks to those who know them best.

Back in my girlfriend’s old neighborhood, the local lingo for city services brings a smile to my face. The police helicopter is affectionately dubbed a “black and white bird,” a nod to the colors of a patrol car. And the fire department? We’re the “Reds,” not for any political reasons but for the simple fact that our trucks are red—a name that came after the Red Scare of the '50s.

There’s a lighter side to life here, but there’s also a history that weighs on my heart. In the late '60s through the early '90s, securing fire insurance was a gamble. Those who had policies in '70 or '71 were often left stranded as insurance companies, overwhelmed by claims, canceled coverage. The city’s leadership pointed fingers, blaming the fires on the influx of rural families unfamiliar with urban living. But that was just a convenient way to shift responsibility.

Claire’s insights into the Eastside’s history are a stark reminder of how far we’ve come. The descendants of those early settlers have witnessed a city reborn from the ashes of its past. It’s a legacy that we carry forward, striving to build an Empire that’s not only stronger but safer for everyone.

The day wound down with the guys setting up the new TV, a small luxury in the life of a firefighter. Then, there was Claire’s surprise visit, bringing with her binders full of Fire Department lore—a gift of knowledge and a nod to our shared dedication.

Our conversation turned to the day’s work at Squad Co 525 and my encounter with Carter. I couldn’t help but share a bit of family lore—my dad’s half-joking theory about my “demonic” right hook, a punch so fierce it once sent him scrambling for cold water. It’s a story that harks back to my high school days, where standing up for myself meant out boxing a persistent troublemaker, much to his embarrassment.

Claire, ever the supportive partner, reassured me that Carter’s silence was a sign of respect, a recognition of boundaries he wouldn’t dare cross again. It’s these moments, these interactions, that weave the fabric of our lives here in Empire.

In Empire, reputation isn’t just a word; it’s currency, and it’s earned through deeds, not handed out like flyers. Claire’s breakdown of the social standings is spot-on. Being Neutral or a Smiling Troublemaker might keep you in everyone’s good graces, while being Idolized can open doors that were once walls. But on the flip side, fall to Infamy, and you’re looking at a world that turns its back on you, with every step harder than the last.

Claire’s reputation as Liked city-wide, and Idolized in Eastside, speaks volumes of her character and the respect she commands. It’s a delicate balance, maintaining a positive image without tipping into the zones where envy or animosity can fester. The perks of a good rep, like lower prices and friendly nods, are tangible, but they come with the risk of drawing ire from those who view kindness with suspicion.

In a city where your name is your shield and your actions your sword, staying Neutral might seem the safest bet. But for those who dare to stand out, who strive to be Liked or even Idolized, the rewards are more than just material—they’re the smiles of those you’ve helped, the quiet thanks of a city that feels a little safer because you’re in it. It’s a complex dance of give-and-take, where every action echoes through the alleys and avenues of Empire.

Claire’s quick visit was a brief respite in these lockdown days, a reminder of the world waiting outside. It’s a strange time in Empire, with streets quieter and the bustling life we’re used to on pause. Yet, life finds a way, doesn’t it? Even under lockdown, essential errands like stocking up for hearty meals are small acts of normalcy. Chili, spaghetti—these are more than just dishes; they’re comfort in a bowl, a taste of better days simmered with hope and resilience.

As she left, I couldn’t help but feel a sense of gratitude for these moments of connection, for the community that stands strong even when apart. And as a firefighter, it’s these very people, their safety and well-being.

Now, my cravings wander—a chili cheese dog, a well-done steak, spaghetti with meatballs—but it’s the chili that calls me. It’s practical, lasting a few nights, and it’s a taste of home. When dad was overseas, my extended family upheld the tradition. Tomato soup, chicken noodle, vegetable soup, and the baked beans and ham soup I savored in Upstate New York at my great-granddad’s place. Every couple of weeks, he and my cousin, who cared for him, would bake a fresh ham, slice it up, and toss it into a hearty soup with beans. It was their way of nurturing.

My great-granddad, a fireman during the Roaring Twenties and the Great Depression, once told me how fortunate I am to have such a variety of food at my fingertips. Back then, he, his wife, and their children survived on soup and bread—simple, yet sustaining. They never queued for a soup kitchen in Depression-era Manhattan, but their options were sparse. Soup and bread for dinner, a slice of bread for breakfast.

Leaning against the cool metal of the garage door, I watched the rain intensify, each drop a small reprieve from Empire sweltering tropical heat. Growing up, my dad would recount tales of his mountainous hometown, where the peaks acted as colossal guardians, trapping the clouds and blessing the land with abundant rainfall. Now, as a firefighter in Empire, I’ve come to appreciate the city’s unique dance with nature.

Here, the mountains still cradle the clouds, but the ocean breathes life into them, leading to our infamous June deluge. From the 1st to the 21st, the skies open up, a relentless cascade that nourishes the earth, quenches the parched fields, and douses the threat of wildfires. It’s a natural cleansing that revitalizes our city, washing away the stifling heat and grime.

Yet, with this gift comes a cautionary tale. The downpour brings the risk of landslides, floods, and the reckless abandon of drivers who challenge the storm’s fury on the interstate, turning roads into treacherous streams. It’s a double-edged sword, one that Claire, my partner, knows all too well. As first responders, we witness the aftermath of avoidable tragedies, especially on weekends when Arcane University’s students race against the curfew, their haste often leading to calls we dread.

The curfew itself, set at 9 PM for minors and 10 PM for teenagers and university attendees, is a rule I stand behind. It’s a safeguard, a community embrace ensuring our youth are shielded from the night’s uncertainties. Yet, it’s not just about being indoors; it’s about being responsible, about knowing that the thrill of a night out should never outweigh the value of a life. As the rain taps a steady rhythm on the roof, I’m reminded that in Empire, we’re all guardians of each other, and every drop of rain is a reminder of the delicate balance we maintain.

There's a certain charm to the rumble of an engine that's seen more seasons than most trees in Empire. As I sat on the bumper of Squad 769, the rain pelting down like a barrage of memories, I couldn't help but think of Dad's '83 LTD. The last time he gave me a lift, I nudged him about getting a newer model. His reply was a chuckle and the classic Waterson mantra, "Hey, if it ain't broke, don't fix it." That's the thing about us Watersons; we value the stories and miles over the shine and style.

Our vehicles are more than just metal; they're legacies on wheels. Some even wear "Historical" tags, a testament to their endurance, allowed to grace the roads on weekends or to bask in the admiration of enthusiasts at car shows. True to our family's spirit, my kin work those weekends with a vigor that borders on the superhuman—forty hours packed into two days. It's a grueling rhythm, but it affords them the rest of the week to recover.

As the rain shifted from a gentle whisper to a torrential symphony within an hour, I was reminded of the storms back home in Northwest Alabama—the hurricanes that swept through the South with a ferocity that reshaped lives. It's a familiar pattern, this sudden shift in weather, and it's one that I've come to respect. It's a reminder that, like the '83 LTD or the historical cars of my family, some things endure, adapt, and continue to serve their purpose, no matter how fiercely the rain falls or how many years pass by.

As I weighed the decision to invest my Navy salary into Empire’s businesses, it's not the allure of wealth that guides me, but a desire to honor my father’s legacy and bolster our community. My time at the university, though brief, imparted a crucial lesson: businesses falter not from lack of profit, but from a lack of prudent stewardship—be it in management, ownership, or the premature expenditure of funds.

I’ve seen the pulse of Little Bird, our neighborhood, quicken during the holidays and festivals. It’s a time when businesses can thrive, drawing enough patrons in a single day to offset two weeks’ worth of expenses. It’s a remarkable phenomenon, akin to a financial harvest, reaped from the jubilance of carnivals and the influx of visitors seeking respite in our local havens.

Empire owes its vibrancy to the film industry, a beacon that has long attracted stars and dreamers alike. The places they frequent, whether by chance or design, become part of the city’s lore, their popularity surging with each celebrity visit.

Yet, the decision to invest is a complex one. Each business has its own rhythm, its own financial heartbeat. Some may require a steady flow of capital to reach equilibrium, while others might need but a trickle. It’s a delicate balance, one that demands careful consideration and a deep understanding of the economic ebb and flow that defines our city.

When the world stills and the streets empty, there’s a clarity that comes with the lockdown’s quiet. It’s given me time to think, to plan. I’m ready to invest my Navy earnings into the heart of Empire City, to breathe new life into places that others might abandon. It’s not just about acquiring property; it’s about planting seeds of growth and watching them flourish.

Being a Waterson means recognizing potential where others see the end of the road. Like my relative in North Carolina, who turned a prize from a pink slip race—a dilapidated garage—into a thriving auto body shop. It’s that Waterson grit, the ability to see beyond the surface and find value in the overlooked, that sets us apart.

Then there’s Carter, who’d likely bungle a golden ticket if it came with instructions. Not everyone has the knack for turning situations around, but that’s where we Watersons excel. We’re the ones who take the unexpected opportunity, the underdog’s chance, and turn it into something remarkable.

As I sit here, watching the rain cascade down, I’m transported back to simpler times—before the internet’s buzz, before the digital age’s constant hum. Back when entertainment was as simple as watching raindrops race down the windowpane, while inside, my mom claimed the TV for MTV marathons and my dad waited for the classic movie channel to debut. Those were the days when the reruns of Andy Griffith and Gomer Pyle USMC filled our home, a stark contrast to the rock and pop icons of my mom’s viewing choice.

It’s funny how some things change, yet others remain steadfast. The rain, the memories, the Waterson way—they’re all part of who I am, and they guide me as I look to the future, ready to make my mark when the lockdown lifts and the world springs back to life.

In the echoing bay of the fire station, the PA system is a constant reminder of the disparities within our community. The calls often lead us to the manicured lawns of the middle class and rich, where entitlement can sometimes overshadow common decency. I recall an incident from 2003, a professor at Arcane University faced charges for discriminating against a student who was also a police officer. It was a stark violation of the principles I learned upon my arrival in Little Bird in '04, where the constitution enshrines the right to education for all, irrespective of one’s job or background.

My time at Arcane University was eye-opening, not just academically but socially. I encountered peers who mistook privilege for merit, who wielded their status like a blunt instrument. When their taunts turned my way, they quickly learned that a Waterson doesn’t back down—a lesson delivered by my right hook. They were the kind who expected rewards without effort, spending their parents’ earnings with abandon, yet shying away from the concept of earning their own keep.

Their naivety extended to business ventures as well. They equated “breaking even” with the freedom to spend, not understanding that it means balancing costs, expenses, and revenue. Their flawed approach often led to bankruptcy or shuttered businesses, a predictable end for those who valued expenditure over income. My father, though never a businessman himself, instilled in me the fundamentals of commerce, the necessity of generating sufficient revenue to cover expenses and the importance of having a surplus. It’s a lesson that resonates with me as I navigate my own path, seeking to invest not just in property, but in the prosperity and resilience of our community.

My father instilled in me the principles of financial responsibility from a young age. Whenever I borrowed money from him, I made it a point to return it with interest. This practice wasn’t just about repaying a debt; it was a lesson in understanding the value of money and the importance of honoring one’s commitments. For instance, borrowing $20 meant repaying $40—a steep interest rate that underscored the cost of borrowing.

In contrast, many of my peers seemed oblivious to these concepts. They scoffed at the idea of repayment, as if money were an ever-abundant resource. Yet, I witnessed the reality checks they faced when their parents reined in their spending sprees, revoking credit cards that had been maxed out under the guise of educational expenses. The ensuing tantrums and crocodile tears when told to find employment were both amusing and telling.

While attending university, I worked part-time at a local supermarket, handling deliveries and stocking shelves. It was honest work that kept me grounded. My grand uncle offered me a job at his bar, but I declined. The thought of classmates expecting free drinks on my account was unappealing; I sought employment that didn’t cater to entitlement.

In the district, Eastside, businesses operate with a lean mindset. Claire, my girlfriend, pointed out that many forgo traditional suppliers, opting instead to purchase directly from manufacturers. This approach reduces costs significantly. It’s a stark contrast to some former classmates who ventured into business with extensive product lines but lacked the revenue to sustain their operations.

In my ventures, I’ve observed a fascinating trend: bars and similar establishments often serve as check cashing facilities. This isn’t a result of a free market anomaly; it’s a strategic choice. These businesses cater to patrons who prefer immediate access to their funds. It’s a service born out of necessity for those who either lack traditional banking accounts or choose to avoid them due to fees and delayed check processing times.

Consider this: many workers are paid on Fridays, but the reality of banking procedures means their checks might not clear until the following Tuesday. That’s unless they’re willing to pay a fee—often around $10—for instant processing. It’s a steep price for immediacy, but one that some are willing to pay.

These establishments, by offering check cashing services, tap into a customer base that’s already there to spend. Yes, they take a percentage of the check, but it’s a trade-off many customers are willing to make for the convenience of immediate cash. It’s a system that works for both parties—the business earns from the service, and the customers walk away with cash in hand, ready to enjoy their weekend or pay the bills.

This dual-function model is something I’ve considered for my own properties. It’s about understanding the community’s needs and providing services that are not just profitable but also beneficial for my patrons. It’s a delicate balance, but one that aligns with my vision of creating businesses that serve and uplift the community.

The rain in Empire is like a symphony to my soul, a soothing backdrop to the rhythm of city life. It’s the rainstorms and the shroud of fog that cloak the early mornings and late nights, lending an air of mystery and tranquility to the bustling streets.

In the midst of this natural cadence, my duties often lead me to conduct welfare checks on the vulnerable, the high-risk, and the elderly—a reminder of the fragility and resilience of life. It’s during these moments. But when we got back to our quarters I reached for a history book from my locker, and I’m struck by the eclectic tastes of Empire’s citizens. An all-beef Angus hot dog smothered in macaroni and cheese with a drizzle of ketchup is a local delicacy, a testament to the city’s adventurous palate.

Back home, I know some people that their culinary quirks are just as unique—ketchup on ice cream is not unheard of. As for me, I indulge in a concoction of soda poured over ice cream, creating a fizzy, creamy mixture that’s both nostalgic and refreshing.

Here in Eastside, such inventive food pairings are commonplace among the eateries. It’s a culture of culinary experimentation, where traditional flavors are reimagined and new combinations are embraced. This spirit of innovation is something I carry into my own business ventures, always seeking to blend the familiar with the novel.

As I walked the familiar streets of Eastside, my eyes caught the ‘For Sale’ signs that dotted the landscape. With a pen and pocket notebook in hand, I meticulously noted down telephone numbers and street addresses. These aren’t just properties; they’re opportunities. When the lockdown lifts, I plan to reach out with an offer—a fair asking price coupled with a share of the weekly income. It’s not about expanding for profit; it’s about purpose, about breathing new life into these spaces.

These establishments, while welcoming to all, primarily serve the low-income residents of Eastside, Westside, and Anderson. The middle class and the affluent rarely venture into these neighborhoods, deterred by misconceptions of crime and neglect. Yet, those of us who call these streets home know the truth—the crime rate here is virtually nonexistent, a stark contrast to the stigma attached to our community.

The history of these districts is marred by attempts at erasure. In the '80s and again in 2005, there were efforts by the wealthy to demolish our neighborhoods, to replace our heritage with soulless luxury condos and amenities designed for the rich, at the expense of the working class. Mayor Martinez, in the '90s, pushed for gentrification, aiming to replace our century-old homes with modern residences. But these initiatives overlooked the economic realities many families face—earnings that barely cover the essentials, let alone allow for relocation.

My vision is different. I see the potential for revitalization without displacement, for growth that includes and empowers the community. I’m committed to preserving the character of these neighborhoods while introducing improvements that enhance the quality of life for its residents. It’s a delicate balance, but one I’m determined to achieve. By investing in these properties, I’m not just acquiring assets; I’m investing in the future of Eastside, Westside, and Anderson—a future where prosperity is shared and the dignity of every resident is upheld.

It’s an ironic twist of fate, the way the old tenements of Empire were razed to make way for modernity. The displaced, once neglected by the very entities that uprooted them, found themselves beneficiaries of new housing, courtesy of the city government and Echelon Enterprises. The city also a multibillion dollar corporation, once indifferent to the plight of the working class, were compelled by the Commonwealth of Mountain and the government of Little Bird to provide temporary housing and fund the construction of new apartments and businesses—under the watchful eye of federal oversight like a hawk to make sure they don’t cut corners.

The transformation was bittersweet. While it pained me to see neighbors lose their homes and livelihoods, there was a sense of poetic justice in witnessing the city and Echelon Enterprises being held accountable. My father’s words echo in my mind, “You make your bed, you sleep in it.” As a child, I grappled with its meaning, but now I understand—it’s about facing the repercussions of one’s actions.

He also spoke of karma. “What goes around comes around.” It’s a simple yet profound principle that guides my actions. Those who do harm will eventually face the consequences, just as those who contribute positively will be rewarded.

The hours slipped by today, marked by the steady drumming of rain against the windowpane, washing away the day’s heat. I’ve never been fond of the humidity that follows a downpour, but there’s something about the rain that feels cleansing, even if it’s just a prelude to stickier days. This lockdown caught us all off guard—life has a way of throwing the unexpected at you, no matter how well you plan for the future.

In these confined quarters, I found myself manning the kitchen, not because of my gender, but because of my expertise. My culinary skills were honed out of necessity and passion, from solitary living and formal education in both school and university. Cooking has been a part of my life since my teenage years, a skill cultivated while my mother lost herself to her vices and the television, and my father, buried in work, could only offer takeout during the week. The weekends were his domain, and from him, I learned the art of cooking.

I remember the early days, the mishaps with fried eggs clinging stubbornly to the pan, and now, I can craft a homemade quarter-pounder with cheese that rivals any McDonald’s. It’s a testament to the journey from novice to adept, from following recipes to creating them. Cooking is more than sustenance; it’s a craft, an expression of care, and during this lockdown, it’s become a source of comfort and a reminder of the resilience we all possess.

Reflecting on my days as a waitress in Alabama, I can’t help but smile at the memory of customers who would ask for my recommendations, only to choose something entirely different. It was a lesson in patience and humility, serving from 1998 to 2003, learning to navigate the waters of customer service.

The Watersons are known for their tenacity; we don’t back down from a fight or shy away from a challenge. Yet, in the face of rudeness, I learned the value of restraint. There were times when walking away was the only option to avoid escalating a situation. It wasn’t about fear or surrender—it was about choosing battles wisely and keeping my head cool. After all, a Waterson may relish a good brawl, but we also know the importance of fighting the right fights, and sometimes that means stepping back to keep the peace. It’s a balance I’ve carried with me, from the diner floors of Alabama to the bustling streets of Empire.

In my line of work, both past and present, I’ve encountered my fair share of rudeness. There were times when a customer’s aggression could have easily led to a physical altercation, and I was ready to stand my ground. But I’ve learned that not every provocation deserves a reaction. I never apologized for situations I didn’t escalate because maintaining professionalism is paramount.

Saying “Good morning” to someone only to be met with snappiness or outright hostility can test anyone’s patience. In those moments, it’s tempting to engage in their game, to give as good as you get. But I remind myself that self-control is a strength, not a weakness.

The Watersons are no strangers to self-defense; it runs in our blood. From boxing to professional wrestling, from karate to capoeira, and taekwondo to Brazilian jiu-jitsu, we’re well-versed in the art of combat. Yet, we also understand the power of words and the importance of de-escalation. We’re quick to suggest “taking it outside” not as a threat, but as a reality check for those who mistake verbosity for valor. Those who are all talk but back out easily when have to fight then they’re going to back out

In my family, we’ve always been about action over words. We’ve encountered plenty who can run their mouths at breakneck speed, but falter when it’s time to back up their claims. It’s one thing to talk about a big game, quite another to step up when the moment calls for it. The Watersons? We stand by our word, and we’ve seen firsthand how those who clamor for a fight often retreat when faced with someone ready to engage.

During my years as a waitress, I crossed paths with many who were all talk and no action. They’d boast loudly, but at the slightest hint of confrontation, their bravado would evaporate. It’s a common thread—people who speak more than they think, who promise more than they can deliver.

Reflecting on my days as a waitress in Alabama, I can’t say I miss it, despite the fact that I earned $10 more than what I make now as a Firefighter and Certified First Responder in Empire City. It’s not the wage gap that matters to me; it’s the value of the work I do and the impact it has.

Sure, there were moments when the rudeness of certain customers tested my limits, where I found myself fantasizing about dousing their arrogance with a pot of hot coffee. But I never let it come to that. I chose to step back, to maintain my professionalism, even when every fiber of my being was ready to confront the disrespect head-on.

I remember customers who would ask to keep the coffee pot at their table, oblivious to the policy that charged per refill. It was a small rule, but one that spoke to the broader discipline of the job. I couldn’t bend the rules, not even for the sake of convenience.

Then there were my extended family members, who would occasionally grace the diner with their presence. They treated me with kindness, not out of familial obligation, but out of respect for the challenges of waitstaff. They understood that the frustration directed at us was often misplaced, meant for the unseen hands in the kitchen. Their empathy made those long shifts a little lighter, a reminder that kindness can be just as impactful as any grand gesture.

Now, as I serve my community in a different capacity, I carry with me the lessons learned from those diner days—the importance of patience, the value of service, and the impact of treating others with respect, regardless of the circumstances even though some need to be knocked down a peg or two.

Dining out with my dad or girlfriend has its moments, especially when it comes to steak. We’re a ‘well-done’ kind of family, and anything less just won’t do. It’s not uncommon for us to send a steak back if it arrives medium rare or even medium well. And while the waitstaff often apologizes for the oversight, we’re quick to reassure them that the error isn’t on their shoulders.

The sight of a rare or medium rare steak might make me shiver, but I respect everyone’s tastes—even if they’re not to my preference. It’s these small interactions, these moments of understanding and patience, that remind me of the importance of empathy, both in my personal life and in my service to the community. Whether it’s ensuring a meal is cooked to satisfaction or responding to a call in the line of duty, it’s about meeting needs and respecting choices, always with a sense of professionalism and care.

The fire bell jolted me from my thoughts, its shrill clang echoing through the station. I glanced at my crewmates, their expressions a mix of anticipation and determination. This was it—the call we’d been waiting for. A fire.

But as I grabbed my turnout gear, I couldn’t shake the memory of the last medical emergency. The Rabius virus had left its mark on too many faces, and I’d seen the pain etched in their eyes. I’d rather face the flames than witness that agony again.

We moved with precision, each movement honed by countless drills. Fifty-four seconds—that’s all it took for us to gear up, the adrenaline coursing through our veins. The apparatus bay door creaked open, and we burst into the pouring rain, the engine roaring to life.

The adrenaline surged as we arrived at the high-rise fire. I snatched a Fire Ax. My crew might dismiss it as another false alarm or a glitchy automatic fire alarm—after all, Empire’s modern skyscrapers were practically fireproof. But I knew better.

Fires in these towering structures were rare, but not impossible. A stray cigarette, a faulty wire—any spark could ignite disaster. As I climbed the stairs, the weight of the hose grounding me, I focused on the task at hand.

I reached onto my right pocket, my gloved fingers tracing the stitching on my turnout jacket. It was a ritual, this double-checking. The kind of thing that could save your life when the world went up in flames.

“Macaroni,” Captain Harris barked, snapping me out of my thoughts. “You and Rodriguez, check the 22nd floor. Fire alarm directory says it’s a hot spot.”

I nodded, my heart already racing. The City of Empire had its share of towering skyscrapers, and each one held secrets—some whispered, some screamed in smoke and heat. But today, it was the thin abseiler rope stitched into my jacket that had my attention.

I ran my fingers over the patch. A lifeline, they called it. A way out when the stairwells turned into chimneys, when the flames licked at our heels. If the fire cut us off, we’d hook that rope to anything solid—a concrete floor, a window frame—and rappel down. It was without danger, a gamble against time.

Elevator shafts were the worst. Heat trapped in metal, swirling like a furnace. But sometimes, there was no choice. You’d inch your way down, praying the rope wouldn’t melt, your boots scraping against the walls. If you made it to the bottom, you’d emerge, soot-streaked and gasping, into chaos.

Windows weren’t much better. You’d lean out, eyes scanning for fire below. If it roared out of a lower floor, you’d have to backtrack, find another way. The wind—damn, the wind. It could whip you around like a rag doll, tangle the rope, make you curse the day you signed up for this job.

But that abseiler rope was more than just a last-ditch escape plan. It was hope stitched into nylon. When the flames roared and the world blurred, you’d grab hold and trust it. Trust that your training, your gear, would see you through.

So, Rodriguez and I headed for the 22nd floor. The hallway was thick with smoke, the alarm wailing. I glanced at him, saw the same determination in his eyes. We’d find the fire, fight it back, and maybe—just maybe—use that lifeline to get out.

As we pushed open the door, I thought about the rainstorms that swept through Empire. How they washed the streets clean, how they whispered secrets to those who listened. Maybe today, they’d wash away the smoke, too. Maybe today, Macaroni would cook dinner for her crew, and we’d all raise a toast to that damn abseiler rope.

Because in this city, where danger lurked behind every door, we held on tight and leaned into the storm. And sometimes, that was enough to keep us alive.

In the heat of the moment, every decision we make as firefighters can be the difference between life and death. During my training, I learned one critical rule: always check the door before you open it. Here’s why:

* If a door is hot, it’s a clear sign that flames are dancing on the other side, waiting to leap out the moment we give them a chance.

*

* If a door is cold, it usually means we’re in the clear, and there’s no immediate threat lurking behind it.

*

* If a door is hot but cooling down, that’s when we need to be extra cautious. It could indicate a fire that’s suffocating from a lack of oxygen, setting the stage for a backdraft.

A backdraft is a firefighter’s nightmare. It happens when a fire consumes all the oxygen in a room and smothers itself, only to violently explode back to life when fresh oxygen rushes in. It’s like the fire is holding its breath, waiting to exhale a devastating blast.

To prevent this, we’re trained to introduce oxygen slowly. We make small, strategic holes in doors or walls, allowing just enough air to seep in without triggering a backdraft. It’s a delicate balance, one that requires a steady hand and a cool head.

In our department, we have a team of Backdraft Specialists. While they don’t don the gear and rush into infernos like the rest of us, their role is no less critical. They are the sages of fire behavior, the ones who arm us with knowledge to face one of the most treacherous phenomena we encounter: the backdraft.

These specialists are educators at heart, but their classroom is unlike any other. They teach us to read the fire’s language—how dense, black smoke can shift to a grayish yellow, signaling danger. They show us that when flames are shy, hiding from view, it’s not a sign of safety but a warning of excessive heat and potential combustion waiting for a breath of air.

They train us to observe how smoke behaves—puffing out and greedily inhaling back in—as if the fire is breathing, biding its time. We learn that every door isn’t just an entry point; it’s a barrier that could be holding back a violent burst of energy.

When I approach a door in the smoky corridors of a high-rise, the weight of my responsibility presses down on me as heavily as my gear. I slip off my fireproof glove—a barrier between me and the crucial information I need. With the bare skin of my left hand, I feel the door, the doorknob—gauging their temperature. Hot means danger; cooling means a potential backdraft; cold is a temporary sigh of relief.

If the door is anything but cold, I ready my ax. We’re trained to create small holes, a technique that allows us to feed the fire just enough oxygen to prevent a backdraft without causing a flare-up. It’s a delicate operation, like performing surgery on a live, unpredictable patient.

In high-rises, the stakes are higher, the options fewer. We can’t vent through the roof as we would in a house fire. Instead, we may have to break windows on the fire-affected floor. It’s a calculated risk, a gamble with the wind and the fire’s insatiable hunger for oxygen. One wrong move, and we could fan the flames, turning a rescue operation into a disaster.

I opened cold doors easily but carefully but I thoroughly checked each room to make sure they were cleared. But if a door was hot or cooling down I would slightly vent by making small holes and move on. But since the city is on a lockdown I have a feeling this commercial high-rise is unoccupied.

To me I find some of my friends back home to be hypocritical where they rags on me for leaving a town to be with my girlfriend and working a job that allows me to be there for my girlfriend but not being there for them yet they left the same town to different cities across America for their work not being there for their friends. But I keep my mouth shut on it because of how hypocritical it is. They don’t keep in touch as they say they do.

The 22nd floor was a ghost town, shrouded in thick smoke that clung to every corner like a persistent shadow. With my ax in hand, I made the call to shatter the north-facing windows, sending the smoke billowing into the open sky. It was a relief to see it disperse, a visual cue that we were taking control, even if just a little. The building’s HVAC system hummed in the background, working overtime to contain the spread of smoke and fire. I couldn’t help but think of the energy-saving panel I’d seen in the lobby—technology designed for efficiency, now caught in a battle with an elemental force.

The Rabius outbreak had left the building eerily deserted, amplifying the sense of urgency as we moved. After ensuring the 22nd floor was clear, we ascended the Northwest stairwell, aiming to regroup with our company. But the fire was a cunning adversary, severing our path through the attack stairwell. We diverted to the evacuation route, only to find it too had been claimed by the flames.

Cornered, we considered rappelling down from the windows, but the fire’s tendrils were already lashing out from the openings, a clear sign that escape was not an option there. Our last resort lay within the elevator shaft. With precision, I used my ax to breach the drywall, creating an anchor point 18 inches from the door. The ax bit into the wall, half its length deep before striking a fire stop—a small victory in our precarious situation.

We secured our bailout ropes with carabiners, each of us taking a breath before descending. Captain Harris led the way, and I followed last, leaving the 33rd floor behind as we made our cautious descent to the relative safety of the 31st. It was a maneuver that spoke volumes of our training and trust in each other—a silent pact that we were in this together, come what may.

As we stepped onto the 31st floor, Captain Harris’s words, “Terra firma,” echoed in the smoky air. It was a moment of dark humor amidst the peril—a reminder that solid ground under our boots was preferable to dangling in an elevator shaft. But our relief was short-lived. The fire burned the bailout ropes we had just used. It was a stark reminder of the fire’s destructive power, how it could claim our lifelines in a heartbeat.

Yet, there was an unspoken gratitude among us that the ropes held just long enough. They waited, as if with bated breath, for my boots to touch the floor before succumbing to the flames and plummeting down to the building’s depths. I kept silent, a mix of superstition and respect for the situation holding my tongue. No need for words that could tempt fate or bring a jinx upon us. In firefighting, sometimes it’s the things left unsaid that carry the most weight.

In the unpredictable world of life, I’ve come to believe in the power of silence. It’s a lesson learned not just from the fires I’ve fought but from life itself. There’s a kind of magic in words, and sometimes, they can turn on you—like invoking a jinx when you least expect it.

I’ve seen it happen: the moment you comment on how smoothly things are going, the universe has a way of throwing a curveball, making you regret that thought of ease. It’s happened enough times to teach me that some thoughts are better left unvoiced, especially when lives are on the line.

The academy drills into us that no matter how seasoned we are, the next call could be the one that throws us a curveball. It’s a humbling reminder that confidence should never slip into complacency. We step into chaos, into situations where the rulebook is just a starting point, and the real test is adapting to the unpredictable.

Take water, for example. It’s not the universal solvent for firefighting that many think. Water can be ineffective or even dangerous against certain types of fires. It’s why we have classifications—A, B, C, D, and so on—each dictating a different strategy, a different approach.

My girlfriend, a Class D specialist, knows this all too well. She’s an expert in combating metallic fires, yet those are rare in her line of duty. Instead, she faces the more common residential blazes—Class A for ordinary combustibles, Class B for flammable liquids, and Class F for cooking oils. It’s a testament to the breadth of our training and the versatility required in our profession.

Here in Empire, as in the rest of Little Bird, we adhere to the US Fire Class system. It’s a language of its own because each one is different.

Rappelling down an elevator shaft wasn’t on my usual to-do list, but firefighting is full of surprises. As I descended, I couldn’t help but check my air pack meter. The needle was comfortably in the green zone, an assurance of ample oxygen. Had it veered into yellow, a shrill alarm would’ve pierced the air, a stark reminder to leave. Red, of course, would signal an empty tank—a firefighter’s cue to exit, stage left.

This blaze was a inferno, stretching on for hours. My adrenaline was still spiked, not just from the fire but from a recent thrill—skydiving with the 39th Airborne Regiment. That $180 leap ended with a less-than-graceful faceplant, but it was nothing compared to the dance with danger I’d just performed.

Overhaul and salvage followed—the grunt work of firefighting. It’s a meticulous search for hotspots, a task that demands both finesse and force. Armed with a Pikepole, I prodded the ceiling, coaxing down charred debris. Amidst the destruction, a rogue ember kissed my cheek, leaving behind the sting of a second-degree burn. Instinctively, I reached for my glove, smearing soot in a futile attempt to soothe the wound. It was a rookie move, one that did little but add a smear of grime to the injury.

Growing up, I was no stranger to the rough and tumble of the outdoors—playing in the dirt, mud, and rain, anything short of severe weather like a hurricane was fair game. That resilience has stuck with me; no injury, not even the heat of an ember leaving its mark on my skin, could sideline me. It’s a toughness instilled by my dad, a reminder to always get back up, no matter the scrape.

The ember that kissed my cheek, leaving a second-degree burn, was just another badge of honor. It didn’t faze me. I’ve felt worse, like the time hot grease from the stove jumped at me, searing my arm. That pain eclipsed the sting of any ember. I was 15, trying to prove my independence by cooking chicken without my dad’s watchful eye. It was a lesson learned the hard way. Of course it took me six hours to clean up the mess.

But those embers were cooling off when they fell onto my cheek.

The ground beneath Empire trembled, a subtle reminder that we’re perched on the edge of the Pacific Plate, part of the infamous Ring of Fire. I’ll admit, when I first heard the term, Johnny Cash’s iconic tune played in my head. It took a geography lesson to realize that this ‘Ring of Fire’ wasn’t a circus act but a seismic reality, a circle of tectonic activity encircling the Pacific Ocean.

Post- Salvage and overhaul are where we sift through the aftermath, ensuring the fire is truly vanquished. As other companies completed their tasks, I had my second-degree burn tended to by our EMS. It’s a stark contrast to the city’s obsession with perfection, where even the slightest blemish sends the rich to plastic surgeons, eager to erase any sign of imperfection.

But that’s not me. I’ve never been one to shy away from the marks life leaves on us. Each scar, each line, tells a story of survival and resilience. They’re emblems of a life lived fully, of risks taken and challenges met head-on. I wear them with pride, a visible narrative of my journey as a firefighter. In a city chasing eternal youth, I choose to honor the passage of time and the experiences it brings. It’s a personal badge of honor, one that I carry with unwavering pride.

As I navigate the labyrinth of smoke and embers, the City of Empire reveals itself to me—not just its hidden alleys and soaring skyscrapers, but its very soul. This city thrums with a fierce ambition, where the rhythm of the night rivals the day's, and the relentless hustle is our universal language. Yet, in this ceaseless race, there's a fixation that gnaws at me—the city's insatiable hunger for perpetual youth.

Here, in the heart of the film industry, not every path is paved with stardom, and not every visage needs to be frozen in time. Roaming the streets, I witness a parade of flawless faces, each a mirror reflecting the city's love affair with agelessness. They chase after an elusive spring, yearning to turn back time to their halcyon days. But the truth is, no surgeon's blade can pause the inexorable march of time. They may strut with the confidence of their youth, but behind those immaculate masks, time marches on, relentless and indifferent.

It's not the illusion of youth that counts; it's the vibrant pulse of life within. How I wish they could see—life isn't about capturing a moment in amber. I hold my tongue, observing as they pull others into a maelstrom of fleeting trends and philosophies, longing for 'the good old days' of yore. They throng to clinics, desperate to mold their flesh into eternal monuments, and they rear their offspring in a realm where 'no' is an alien concept, leading to outbursts when reality dares to intrude.

I'm from a small town in Alabama, where the demarcation between right and wrong was stark, and we learned to discern fair-weather friends from those who stand firm in adversity.

Before I set off for university, I bid farewell to the City of Empire in 2004, after a visit to Arcane University. I mused with my friends, "Envision a city where the quest for affluence, fame, and self-betterment is boundless. A place where you're either a luminary, on the brink of fame, or a forgotten echo. Where the climent is nearly as perfect year round as the populace aspires to be."

Indeed, Empire has become synonymous with the silver screen, luring creatives and stars from across the globe. But since my days at university, I've come to say, "Welcome to Empire—the city of celluloid, sand, and the pursuit of perfection. From the forgotten starlets of Highwood or Tallwood to the streetwise people in certain districts, to the inebriated wanderers of Empire Pier, it's time to delve into this mire of shattered dreams, substance-fueled fallacies, and desperate hopefuls that illuminate this grand city of lights."

Tallwood, though, stands apart—a sprawling, opulent district, renowned as the cradle of the entertainment world, with its grand theaters and vibrant nightclubs. It boasts lavish homes and stars among its denizens. Yet, Tallwood is more than that—a district of wealth and class, marked by its sprawling estates and the quiet luxury that whispers of success.