I find myself falling towards a hard metal floor. Luckily I manage to cushion the fall by landing face-first, shoulder-second, and ass-third. I’m not sure how I managed it, but that’s what my body is telling me. I lay there motionless for about ten seconds before I rise to my feet and take a look around. The octagonal platform is about ten meters across with some railings to prevent people from accidentally walking off of it. The world beyond that bare-bones safety measure is a sea of maddeningly tall skyscrapers with endless streams of flying cars zooming between them like confused fish. In more local news, there’s a giant ‘15’ sprayed on the floor beneath my feet, and a walkway with a small booth next to it to my right.
After confirming I’ve reached my destination, I send a signal to my anchor pin to bring my cargo through the breach. Within moments a bright blue Capture-Cube 6000™ materializes besides me, holding what appears to be a three-legged four-armed man made of stone in its stasis field. I walk off towards the booth. I swear I can feel the guy inside smirk at me even through his fucking helmet.
“Lookie what the cat dragged in!” he calls out as I approach. “And with a ten-point landing to boot! Truly the hallmark of-”
“I swear to god, Steve,” I interrupt him with a grumble, “if you don’t cut it out I’m gonna throw you and your shitty booth off this fucking platform.”
“Woah, who pissed in your helmet?”
“I’ve just had a long day. Can we get this over with?”
“Alright, you know the drill.”
I walk up to the booth and present my PDA to the scanning port built into its wall. A few seconds of beeping and flashing lights later and Steve is already flipping through my activity log on his screen.
“Jump, pickup, delivery, jump, pickup, delivery,” he starts listing them off. “Oh, here we go! Shots fired, impact event, more shots fired, multiple impact events, sustained arm fracture, Medi-Quick S™ applied, more impact events… Wait. You self-destructed your firearm? What the fuck, Seventeen?”
“Look man, you try subduing a hurian charger hopped up on jama juice without getting a bit creative,” I point to my ‘passenger.’ “It’s not like that peashooter actually did anything, anyway.”
To be fair, my explosive rounds seemed to be relatively effective, but I only had the one magazine.
“Uh-huh. And how, exactly, did you end up fighting a hurian charger hopped up on jama juice? Their home planet isn’t even in your district.”
“That’s what I want to know!” I scream at him. “I was just dropping off some kid that had fallen into a breach by accident when this fucker nearly landed on top of me!”
“So why didn’t you retreat and request for backup from a capture team?”
That would have been the proper textbook response to that situation. Our standard issue PDAs are capable of using a quantum something-or-other to instantly relay data back to headquarters. I’ve no fucking clue how it works, but I won’t deny that it’s one of the most reliable tools in the navigator’s kit. It’s also a one-way burst transmission, so I’d have no way of knowing how soon the capture team would be able to arrive. It would have taken them ten minutes at the least, and that was time I didn’t have.
“Because it was in an urban area,” I respond flatly. “There’s no telling how much damage the locals would’ve suffered if I didn’t stop it then and there.”
“Was it?” Steve checked the coordinates activity log again. “Oh, damn! Yeah, alright. Good work out there. I’ll get your ‘souvenir’ here taken care of, you go get that broken arm looked at. That Medi-Quick S™ won’t last for much longer.”
Though the drug can instantly treat certain injuries, like internal bleeding or gunshot wounds, bone fractures are another story. The best it can do with those is act like a splint on steroids that allows me to keep using the arm with only minimal pain and discomfort, but it needs proper medical care if it’s to heal properly. It isn’t like the Medi-Quick S™ is a magical cure-all. Well, those DO exist, but we can’t use them since we’re a tech-based outfit, and tech and magic simply do not mix.
I wave Steve goodbye and head towards the infirmary. It’s a bit of a walk to get off of the high-altitude landing platforms before I make into the agency’s headquarters. I navigate the polished floors and sterile walls, greeting the people I know on my way to the doctor’s office. I manage to make it to the door just as the drug wears off and my arm starts howling in pain again. I grit my teeth and head inside.
“Oh, hey Seventeen!”
I’m greeted by the nurse, a slightly portly young girl with black hair and brown eyes. Or at least, she used to be the nurse when I last saw her.
“Hey, Whitney,” I respond. “Did you get promoted while I was away?”
She’s wearing black-and-blue doctor’s scrubs rather than the black-and-white ones she normally does.
“No, silly!” she smiles. “I’m just temporarily filling in for Doctor Borisovich. He’s been dealing with a terrible case of diarrhea all day.”
“Again? Isn’t that the third time this month?”
“Yeah, I’m starting to worry if that might be chorinc,” she said pityingly. “Anyway, what seems to be the problem?”
This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.
“Broken arm.”
“Alright. Well, you know the drill.”
I nod and begin to remove my coat and shirt. The helmet stays on, though. Doctor’s office is a good place to catch diseases and foreign bacteria, and I don’t have purifying lung implants like the medical staff. A navigator with augments is both against regulation and a terrible idea. The faintest whiff of magic can make the sensitive tech the implants are based on go haywire. And if any of my equipment is going to break, I’d much rather it be outside my body than in it.
After stripping myself shirtless, and enduring a few playful whistles from the temp doctor, I park my butt on the medical table in the corner of the office. Whitney operates the console from her desk and six robotic arms descend from the ceiling to converge on my fractured limb. The machine gives me a fast-acting anesthetic to numb and immobilize my arm, then starts rapidly jabbing away at it. It doesn’t hurt in the slightest, though the sight of those long and thin needles puncturing my skin, meat and bones is a bit much for me.
“So, what was it this time?
I’m therefore grateful that the nurse likes to make smalltalk, because I have an excuse to look at her rather than the operation.
“Had a tussle with a hurian charger. It’s this big thing with literal stone for skin.”
“Ohhh, right, those things. Aren’t they super docile, though?”
“Normally, yeah, but this one was high off its rocker. Uh, no pun intended.”
She still snorted with mild amusement though.
“I’m surprised you actually knew about them,” I noted.
“Yeah, my anatomy and bioscience professor had a thesis on them he wouldn’t shut up about. It was honestly rather creepy how many times he said ‘rock hard.’ I think that’s why they had to go on ‘permanent unpaid leave’ in the middle of the semester.”
“Surprised he lasted that long, to be honest. I hear the medical sciences are pretty unforgiving when it comes to breach of ethics.”
“Yeah, tell me about it. On the upside, the guy that replaced him was absolutely fantastic. He’s the world’s foremost expert on boobology!”
“Wait, you studied under Professor Tiddy Mammarian?! The man’s a legend!”
“I know! His insight is the main reason why these puppies look so damn good,” she declared while proudly groping her own chest.
“Oh, wow. No wonder why they look like a work of art.”
Granted, those stuffy scrubs aren’t doing Whitney’s figure any favors, but I’ve seen her walk around in more casual clothes.
“Thanks,” she smiled broadly at me. “What about you? What was it like at the navigators’ academy?”
“Not sure what I can say about that,” I say evasively. “I mean, it’s not like-”
*BLEBLEBLEEEEP*
“Oh, sorry, Seventeen,” Whitney turned her attention towards her monitor. “Huh, got a message for you from your supervisor. He tried to reach you directly but your helmet’s receiver seems to be out of order.”
“Is it? And here I was wondering why nobody’s been yelling my ear yet,” I grumble sarcastically. “What does he want?”
“Says he has a priority assignment for you and to report to his office as soon as you’re done here.”
“Oh. Lovely.”
We spend a few more minutes chatting until the machine is done gluing and stitching my broken bones together. My arm is then given a spray of Medi-Quick V™ to close up the numerous punctures and prevent scarring. I’m then given an antidote for the anesthetic, allowing me to get back to it right away. I thank Whitney, get dressed and head off to see what that old coot wants. A brisk walk and a few elevator rides later, I’m standing in front of his office door.
“You’re late! Get in here!”
I barely even get a chance to announce my presence before I hear him yelling at me from the intercom in the wall, so I shrug and enter. I’m greeted with the sight of a heavy wooden desk - 100% organic mahogany, no less - positively swamped in dozens of dataslates and keyboards. Sitting behind it is none other than old man Jameson, the angriest man to ever work in an office. That flat-top haircut and toothbrush mustache make it clear he’s the no-nonsense type.
I also get the odd impression he’s always one muscle twitch away from demanding pictures of Spiderman.
“There you are, Seventeen! What the hell have you been doing out there?!”
He slams his fist into a relatively clean spot on his desk, making the wooden furniture produce a deep, satisfying thud.
“How many times are you going to lose a sidearm! Those don’t grow on trees!”
Well, they kinda do. Ammunition aside, the gun is made out of 90% plant-based polymers and plastics. I don’t say that out loud though, wouldn’t be any point.
“I had to improvise, sir.”
“Of course, you did! That’s because you know what the fuck you’re doing! But could you try to be slightly more mindful of company property?!”
Technically speaking my sorry hide is also considered ‘company property,’ so…
“I will make sure I do so, sir.”
“Good! How’s the arm? Nevermind, don’t care. I’m assigning you a partner.”
I feel my stomach sink when I hear that.
“Some big short from the other side,” he adds while rummaging through the chaos atop his desk. “One of them wand-twirling, bathrobe-wearing, twinkle-fingers. Says he’s figured out a way to to do his thing without making any of our equipment go haywire. We think it’s a load of crap, but we’re obligated to at least humor the guy.”
“Sir? He’s a civilian?” I interject.
“What of it?”
“With all due respect, sir, having someone without any combat training along is a liability.”
“Yes, and?”
“How am I supposed to babysit him while doing my job?! And what happens if my anchor or PDA break because of his shenanigans?”
“Don’t know, don’t care. You’ll figure it out. Do some of that improvisation you’re so good at.”
He tosses me one of the sheet-like dataslates, which I gingerly catch. Probably the guy’s dossier.
“He’s waiting for you at equipment bay twelve. Now, off you go.”
“But sir, my shift just ended.”
Broken arm notwithstanding, I’m so tired that I might just keel over on the spot.
“Aww… Hold on, let me get my violin.”
He then brings out an actual violin and fiddle from under his desk and proceeds to play a pitiably sad tune for my benefit. I sigh and mumble something along the lines of ‘On it, sir’ before I exit his office.
God, I hate it when he does that.