Downtown LA was not considered a safe neighborhood. It had not been for some time. It was home to the infamous "Skid Row", a dense colony of societal washouts. Homeless, drug addicts in tent cities populated the streets. Petty crime was common. People dying of overdoses was also an everyday occurrence, and stabbings were a leading cause of death. So no one noticed when bodies started piling up, except for paramedic Sadie Harper.
Emergency services, particularly ambulance crews, were always busy. They had their finger on the pulse of the city in a more intimate way than anyone else. And Sadie had noticed that that pulse was not flatlining, it was spiking. Over the past couple of days the number of calls had gone up, and their nature was different. She wasn't responding to as many drug overdoes, or heart attacks. Instead, she was responding to an obscenely large number of stabbings and shootings. Often involving gang members or those caught in the crossfire.
Sadie was familiar with the criminal underworld of the city. At first, it appeared to be a simple gang dispute. Such flare-ups were plentiful, but she noticed that the wounds endured were different. She could tell who was dying from which gang. The numbers were up for everybody, except the Inazumi-gumi. They were the cities Yakuza sect. They had a pension for Katanas and often had a worse bark than bite, preferring their underground racketeering and human trafficking schemes. They controlled the northern most side of town. Sadie was so familiar with stab wounds from her long career that she could often tell what kind of blade someone was cut by. More than a few of the latest victims had been to swords, or other long blades such as machetes.
Sadie looked out over the scene of a crime as the ambulance came to a stop. The junction of Olympic and 9th street was characterized by its large number of street vendors, latino businesses and colorful though poorly maintained buildings. The summer heat was sweltering. A long expanse of sidewalk was cordoned off with yellow police tape. Several police officers and cruisers lined the street. There were onlookers ogling the scene, but there weren't many and they weren't animated. Sadie thanked the Lord for the blessing. She had seen highly agitated crowds almost start riots over police shootings and cries of "They killed my boy!". It made it that much harder for her to get through and actually save someone.
The scene was comparatively muted when the ambulance pulled up, lights flashing. Her and her EMT, Sebastian "Seeb" Lark hopped out of the cab and rushed over. Every second mattered in a medical emergency. She saw the looks on the officers faces. They were calm and simply stared at her as they ran into the cordon. She knew the look. The cops knew it was already over. They weren't here to save anyone, they were here scrape somebody off the pavement.
"Out of my way." She commanded.
Sadie slid cleanly in next to an officer kneeling over a body laying on the ground, setting her medical bag next to her. The officer was covered in blood. He was young and clearly a rookie. He had been trying to save the victims life, but wasn't trying anymore. He already knew the man on the ground was gone, but that was not for him or Sadie to decide. She did not pronounce people dead. The hospital did. "Stretcher!" she shouted. She relieved the officer while Seeb quickly turned around and ran back to the ambulance to grab a stretcher, adjusting his thick rimmed glasses so they didn't fall off.
Sadie got a good look at the victim, realizing quickly that it wasn't a man, it was a boy, a teenager. He was probably no older than 16. He had a deep laceration on his neck. It was messy, clearly done by a clean swing of a blade. She placed her latex-gloved hand over the wound and applied gentle pressure while fishing a roll of gauze from her bag. The victim was unconscious. There was still blood pumping from the wound. She could feel his pulse. It was weak, but it filled her with hope. This kid might yet be saved. Seeb was swift with the stretcher. He laid it down and helped Sadie. The two had been a team for a long time and were able to communicate with few words. They gently moved his head so that she could tie gauze around his neck. As gently as possible, they shifted him onto the stretcher. The EMT placed a bag-valve mask on the patients face. On three, they lifted together and quickly loaded him into the ambulance.
Sadie took the back while Seeb drove and radioed the hospital.
"OIC, this is Paramedic 3, we are en route to your facility with a trauma patient. ETA is 10 minutes." He said.
"Go ahead, Paramedic three." dispatch replied.
"We have a 16-year-old male with a severe laceration to the neck caused by a blade. The injury is located on the right side of the neck, and there is significant bleeding. We have applied direct pressure and the patient is stabilized but remains critical. Patient is on a stretcher, and IV access has been established with normal saline running wide open. Please prepare the trauma team and alert the surgical team for potential intervention upon arrival. Over."
Dispatch confirmed, "Copy that, Paramedic 3. We are preparing the trauma room and alerting the surgical team. No further instructions at this time. ETA 10 minutes. OIC over and out."
The ambulance bounced as the team ran code 3 back to the hospital with lights and sirens activated. The victims pulse began to weaken further. Sadie could only watch. The kid was young, almost boyish. He was hispanic with long black hair. There wasn't anything else Sadie could do for him. She was about to watch this kid die in her ambulance, only minutes from help. It wasn't an unfamiliar sight; but one that never got easier.
Tentatively, she reached out a hand and began undoing the blood soaked bandages. She removed one of her latex gloves and placed her bare palm on the wound. Blood seeped out between her fingers. After a few seconds, it stopped. She took her hand away from the wound. Impossibly, some damage to the flesh was healed. It wasn't much. The blood had congealed and some of the blood vessels were repaired. But the wound was still open and the deep cut left plenty of exposed tissue. Sadie trembled, holding her bloody hand. Her mysterious ability frightened her ever since she had gotten it. She ran her tongue over her upper canines, feeling how sharp they had gotten. A little more each time she used it. She redirected her worry towards the patient.
The patients heartrate recovered. Slowly, his eyes began to open. He looked confused, and was likely still in shock. Sadie quickly pressed on his shoulder and prevented him from trying to sit up.
"Don't get up." She told him. "You're in an ambulance. We're taking you to the hospital. Can you tell me your name?"
The patient relaxed onto the gurney. He looked at her with glossy eyes. He was definitely in shock. "Uh, Hector. Hector Montoya."
"Do you remember what happened to you?" She asked him.
He stammered, having trouble remembering, but he answered, "I don'- uh... I was just running to the corner store for my mom- my mom! She'll be worried."
"We'll call her after you get to the hospital. How did you get stabbed?" She reassured him.
"Some puto. I cut a shortcut through the alley. Some desperados were there. There usually are. I just walked past them. But after I did, something jumped them."
"They jumped you?" She asked.
"No, something jumped them. It was fast. I just ran for it, it threw something at me, caught me in the neck." He paused for a long time. Sadie realized he likely couldn't remember anything after that due to the adrenaline rush. She made a mental note of what he told her so that she could inform LAPD. It was also good information for her. gangs carrying out hits in broad daylight was new, and exceptionally dangerous. And they were hurting bystanders. She wanted to pound her fist against the overhead locker in anger but restrained herself, not allowing herself to lose control in front of a patient.
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"Good evening everyone. I'm Inquisitor Stavros." The Inquisitor said as a holographic map of Los Angeles illuminated the briefing room. "Here's the mission: After Kotlin Island, we started narrowing our net. Instead of casting wide and losing sensor focus," Sensor being the catchall term for any source of intelligence. "we began hyper focusing on specific areas. Originally, this investigation started in Seattle, Washington, but our leads took us further and further south." His audience of Rifle's and officers listened intently. "We have narrowed down a list of individuals of interest." Several faces appeared on the hologram. "Of particular note is the Mayor of Los Angeles. These individuals are suspected of affiliation with vampires or outright being one. Standard operating procedure would be to deploy a kill team to execute them. However, we will be allowing these individuals to live." There were some groans of discontent. "This operation will instead be an attempt to pull on the strings and see how much we can dig up by applying selective pressure.
"I would like to remind everyone that this will be a high-risk high-reward op. We are not going to Africa, or South America or some shithole without a functioning government. The United States very much has a functioning command structure and a credible sensor network. Stealth is the word of the day. I'll now turn this briefing over to our lead ISR agent, Ghost.
Ghost was a short Swede. He took the podium and the hologram changed, showing a planned route and related details. All present began taking notes. "Units involved will be two squads of the Shark Eaters Freikorps, the ISR Special Infiltration team and Special Air Regiment 1 will provide two stealth Foxhounds and a refueling bird. There will be NO sky carrier support for this mission. If we park one off the coast we risk spooking the targets.
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"The plan for ingress, will be to launch from the Sky-Carrier Iron Heart over international waters while the carrier is transiting north. It will be a long flight, because the Foxhounds will fly in at wavetop level to avoid radar. We will arrive over L.A at night. Our base of operations will be in the Angeles National Forest. That's where we'll set up camp and land the birds. However, we will establish observation posts on top of yet to be determined towers within the heart of downtown itself. These will be manned by ISR agents and Freikorps 24/7 for the duration of the mission. ROE will be strict. The goal is achieve the mission with minimal exposure and the highest level of stealth. Suppressors will be mandatory on all firearms. Engage only if directly threatened. Deadly force is only authorized in self-defense or unless expressly authorized by the controlling agent, which is me. Radio silence will be maintained outside of emergencies. Laserlink will be used for all comms. American intelligence is a higher threat than vampires in this environment." he paused to let that settle in. "Any questions?"
While others asked questions, Perelli leaned in towards Walker. "How am I supposed to be of any use on the carrier is it's not there?" he asked quietly.
Walker gave him a guilty shrug. "You won't be on it. You'll be on the ground, but you won't be on the tac-team. I want you as an advisor. Forgive me if I don't trust ISR after Russia."
"You know I'm still on medical hold, right?" Perelli said.
"I know. I need someone who knows vampires, though."
"I can only tell you how best to kill them." Perelli cautioned.
"That's all I need."
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The stealthed Foxhound infiltrated the California coast. The VTOL flew scant feet off the wavetops. Raindrops pelted the canopy. The stealth variants were significantly modified. Armor was done away with and adaptive tiles put in their place, rendering the aircraft invisible to standard optics. The hull was swept back and angular, a far cry from the chunky and toad-like standards. Adjustable acoustic liners and flash shielding rendered the engines silent and their exhaust almost invisible, unless you were looking directly into the thruster. A rainstorm hid the aircraft as it encroached on American airspace.
"Entering American territorial waters in 3...2...1...Mark. We are past the line of demarcation. Welcome to California." The pilot reported to his passengers.
Lieutenant Walker looked across the compartment at the Inquisitor. The Greek sleuth had his nose buried in a datapad for the entire trip so far. None of the passengers had their helmets on. When the pilot announced their arrival, he contacted the pilot over the intercommunication system. "Pilot, any military contacts?" he asked.
"Negative. No military aircraft on my scope. Be advised, we are in EMCON Alpha, so I'll only pick them up if they're transmitting." the pilot answered.
Walker slouched, resting feet crossed against a cable run next to his seat. "I think dedicating two squads to this mission is excessive." Walker flatly told the Inquisitor.
Stavros looked up from the tablet, his focus broken. "And why is that?"
"Can ISR not take care of their own dirty work? You know if you ask me to assassinate someone we're gonna paint that room red, right?"
Stavros leaned back in his seat, raising one eyebrow as if to say the answer was obvious. "This is a major covert operation, if things go stravá I need muscle in my backpocket."
"If you do your job right, that won't be necessary." Walker countered.
Stavros was frustrated that the junior officer didn't understand. "Look, you are the pressure device, the 'big stick'. The point of this operation is to destabilize the enemy. I have cyber support who will hack their bank accounts, thugs who will vandalize their cars. The point is to apply soft pressure and make them slip up or deviate from their usual routines."
"Where do we come in?" Walker gestured to his team. Perelli and Kinger paid them no mind. They knew their officer was simply spinning up the Inquisitor for his own amusement.
Stavros rolled his eyes. This had been explained in the briefing and now he was losing his temper. "Because I may need to apply more extreme measures. Like you said, 'paint the room red'. When or if we need to send a clear message. The kind of message delivered by flash-banging the room and nailing the occupants to the wall with flechettes."
"That would be highly overt for a covert op." Walker was suppressing a smile.
Stavros glared at him and returned focus to his datapad.
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The Foxhound pitched up on final approach, flying over the chemical plants and cruise ship terminals and over the Los Angels skyline. The refueling bird proceed to their planned base of operations, while the other two diverted to downtown. The rain provided cover while the aircraft discharged their personnel and cargo onto the roofs of two skyscrapers; far apart but within sight of each other. The buildings were chosen because observation showed no occupants ever frequenting them and being covered in jabbed messes of machinery that provided a high degree of concealment. The Freikorpsman and ISR agents quickly set up reflective netting, transmitters, long-range listening devices and high-powered optics.
For this operation, the Rifle's had downgraded to RAT suits for their superior camouflaging ability. Perelli felt good being back in his old, less cumbersome, armor. Kinger had been an assault trooper before the Freikorps and she felt vulnerable in the thinner armor. She made her frustration known whenever she could.
Within an hour, the covert teams were entrenched and the ISR agents went to work. They didn't waste any time. Designated spies in plain clothes used lockpicks and sophisticated codebreakers to open the roof doors and infiltrate the building. The tower they were in wasn't of any interest. It was a simple office tower and plenty easy for unfamiliar faces to pass through. Once the agents were on the street, they'd split off towards their intended targets to gather information.
While the agents went about their espionage, the Rifle's were sidelined. Perelli entertained himself by looking at the city lights and nighttime traffic. Kinger sat next to him with her back against the thick concrete lip. She offered him a cigarette.
"Since when do you smoke?" He said, refusing the cancer stick.
"Since now." She remarked. "I swore I'd never set foot in this state if I could help it, and now here I am."
'Where are you from again?"
"Texas."
"That tracks." Perelli nodded. He observed a homeless encampment through his helmet optics. "When did this place become such a dump? Back in my day, we called it the golden state for a reason."
"A lot changes in a century." She said between puffs. Her ballistic faceplate was set in her lap.
Perelli felt a profound sense of deja vu, but also melancholy. "Really makes you think."
"About what?"
"The passage of time. I mean, I suppose for you it's not that bad."
"Not that bad? 1991 was a long time ago, Grandpa. I might not have crawled between trenches mercing Germans from 300 meters with a bolt-action, but the America I left to go kick shit in a sandbox is very different from this one."
"But you feel it right? That outsider-ness? Like we don't belong here?"
"You goin' all sappy, R1C?" She emphasized his new rank. "None of us belong here. That's the point. We fight the good fight and go back upstairs. Because without us, everyone out here gets fed on by vampires. Or that stupid fuckin' orb." She looked up at the sky.
Perelli gave a grim smile, still looking out at the city lights. "Yeah, I guess you're right. No room for sentimentality when you're up against bloodsucking horrors and cosmic anomalies."
"Exactly," she said, flicking the cigarette butt into the ballast gravel.
"Still, can't help but notice how much the world has changed."
Kinger changed the subject. "If you don't mind me askin', what got you?" Talking about their previous lives and deaths was not taboo amongst the Rifles, but it was a sensitive topic for some.
"Counter sniper." he sniffed.
"The sniper got sniped?"
"Yeah." he smiled sheepishly. "I got ambitious. We were pinned down in the Argonne. The German Fifth Army had surrounded the AEF and we were getting pounded by artillery. I was scouting westward, trying to find a break in Jerry's lines. It wasn't anything dramatic. I was crawling along one of our trench lines that we had abandoned after retreating. I thought I was well concealed. I got eyes on a good silhouette, alone, about 200 yards out. Easy pickings at that range. It was wearing an officer's cap. I slid out a little too far, trying to get an angle on him, and by that point he, the sniper, had me dead to rights." He placed a finger on the side of his head to highlight where the bullet hit. "In one side, out the other."
Kinger remained silent, nodding understanding.
"You?" Perelli asked.
Kinger talked animatedly, clearly much more displeased by the circumstances of her death than Perelli. "I was gunner on a LOGPAC moving through the middle of shitfuck nowhere desert in Iraq." She said. Perelli couldn't help but be amused by her vulgar language. "Our route was supposedly sanitized, but that turned out to be a fuckin' lie. The convoy got jumped by some hardcore Tawakalma division retards who were playing dead in a BMP. They took out my ammo truck with some old-shit Soviet missile system. Never saw it comin'." After a long pause, she remarked, "There are no glorious deaths in combat."
"War never changes."
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Sadie sat down on the old couch in her small apartment. The day had been busy, busier than normal, and she was tired. She could see her tired reflection in her TV screen. Being a paramedic was a stressful life. The relentless exposure to trauma, suffering, and the harsh fragility of life exacts a steep toll on the physical body, and seeps into the depths of one's psyche. It took up so much of her time, she never had time to focus on herself. She had sacrificed her love-life, hobbies and seeing her family on the alter of helping people. And what did she get? Pennies on the dollar, degrading mental health and a brief flirt with alcoholism. And the situation only ever got worse. Deep down, she still knew she wanted to help people, but it wasn't enough. It was never enough. Bodies in the streets, more and more desperate people pushing themselves and each other into extremis. What she needed was release. Release from this life, from this... mortally. She needed a miracle.
She hadn't realized she never thoroughly cleaned her hand after the days events. Dried blood clung to her skin. She clenched her hand into a fist. The dried blood began to revert to its liquid form. It's congealed mass slickened her hand and turned it bright red, abandoning its previous dark drown shade. Droplets fell to the floor. She could smell it. In all her years, she never actually been able to smell the blood, no matter how much spilled from her patients. But now, even this small amount filled her nose with an intoxicating scent. The smell of iron was heavy in her nostrils. It was tantalizing. Her mouth watered. She felt a strong urge to place a drop on her tongue.
She had never had such an urge do something so barbaric in her life. Not until her strange powers began to manifest. It had all started at the same time. Her mysterious healing power, the sharpening of her canines and the sudden odd fascination with blood. It was after an appreciation party at city hall put on by the mayor. It was during her alcoholism arc. It was a lackluster party, a half-assed attempt to show appreciation to the cities first responders. She had gotten blackout drunk and didn't remember the night. She woke up the next day with a fresh scar on her neck and missing her favorite heels.
She held up her bloody fist. Nervously, she stuck out her tongue. A single drop fell. It tasted good.