The Surgeon

Monday, 29th of February, 198 A.C, 21:00

“That was ‘Beyond the Sprawl’ by Spark’s own Ben Bridges. Now listeners, I’ve been doing some thinking about Veils, and there’s something I can’t make heads or tails of. I wonder if any of you can help me figure this out. We all know about Veil dragging and the personality drift that comes with it, but there’s nothing public I can find as to the cause. Get digging, rubble rousers. I’ll keep you topped up on tunes while you work.” - Kel Carver, host of Rubble Radio

I had a crick in my neck.

It was the kind that showed up from time to time during long operations, when the bed was too low or too high. Even a few centimeters could make things unbearable by the six hour mark.

So it was not an excellent reflection of my current working conditions that, in only half that time, the familiar stiffness was setting in. At first it was just a tiny pinprick, right around my C1 vertebra, but as the rate of new patients climbed it spread its way out and down. Once it reached the base of my neck, it selfishly decided to expand to my shoulders as well.

Under normal circumstances I may have been more keen to ignore the pain. After all, the influx of patients would not stop just because I was in a little discomfort. My Veil was making me a bit testy though, so in the interest of maintaining my hippocratic oath I finished up with my current treatments and took a second to work the crick out.

Imagine my consternation, then, when, after not so much as a single neck rotation, a fresh wave of casualties came in. From what I could gather, the containment process was progressing well, but without the height advantage of the wall workplace safety was not exactly at an all time high.

I made an… unfortunate comment to one of the paramedics bringing in the patients. It was not his fault that so many people were getting hurt, of course, but I snapped at him all the same. My neck was just so stiff, and the prospect of going another hour without treating it was beyond horrible.

But there was nothing to be done about it. I took five hundred milligrams of naproxen orally, then began operations on three nearby patients.

I was up to… sixty eight completed treatments at this point? Or was it seventy? The possibility that I had lost count bothered me.

The patient on my left was low priority. They had several puncture wounds in their arm, surrounded by contact dermatitis. The former was almost certainly a bite wound from a lupus, meaning the latter would be a chemical burn from the creature’s acidic saliva. I began by conjuring up a countermeasure to the acid, which I applied while I surveyed the other two patients.

The rules of triage dictated that I ignore the patient that was in front of me. Their injuries were too numerous for me to quickly diagnose, likely the result of falling prey to a swarm. Already some other medics were rushing over to help. It was all I could do not to shout that they were wasting their time. The patient was dead within the minute.

The one on my right was a simpler matter. They had some superficial puncture wounds on their shoulder, the size and irregular pattern indicative of a corvus attack. The real trouble was the fractured arm and leg. They must have stumbled back in their panic and tumbled over the side of the wall.

Lucky them – they hadn’t landed on their head.

I set to work disinfecting the puncture wounds, then warned them that they might feel some pain in a few seconds. I applied some topical anesthesia with help from my Veil, then performed an open setting of the fractures. The patient was by no means happy about the procedure, but the anesthetic was working well enough. A few quick sutures and splints and they were ready to be moved off for cast fittings.

Back to patient number one. Disinfect, pack the wounds, then wrap in gauze and bandages. They might even be able to return to the fight, if we got desperate enough for able bodies.

That *damn* neck of mine was only getting worse.

I was only taking one case at a time now. That way I could do some stretches while I worked. It wasn’t *helping* per say, but the pain was not getting worse, at least.

A commotion broke out near the outskirts of the camp. A couple nurses were huddled around a familiar figure that was laying in a heap on the ground.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

I finished up with my current patient, then weaved through the sprawl of cots, crates, and medical personnel, heading towards the growing crowd.

About ten meters away, a man in a tattered courier’s uniform bumped into me. He had a light, squarish face, and his graying hair maintained a surprising amount of volume (with eyebrows to match). He had the same piercing blue eyes as his daughter, but while Rebecca's darted around with a curious glint, the way his were set in behind his brow ridge lent them a more accusatory tone.

The thought briefly entered my mind that, had he been ten or fifteen years younger (and not the father of one of my squadmates), I might have found him attractive.

It was my surprise at seeing Kuno Hartmann, I think, that kept the Veil-fueled spite at bay. I did not know how I had not noticed him earlier in the night.

Instead of retorting that he should watch where he was going, I stepped to the side and motioned that I would follow him. For his part, he let the transgression go with a click of the tongue and shuffled inside the circle that had formed.

I peaked in between the shoulders of two EMTs and, at first glance at the figure inside the circle, confirmed my suspicions as to her identity.

Externally, the Scrapper was not in horrible shape. She was covered in scrapes and bruises, with a few larger lesions on her forearms. It was hard to judge the exact size of the larger wounds, hidden as they were under a dress shirt and blazer, but judging by the blood stains they would have been no more than eight centimeters long.

No, the reason behind her collapse would be overexertion, heightened by her anemia. She was hyperventilating and her movements were labored, sluggish. I pushed past the crowd, asking them whether they had anything better to do than stand around gawking, and performed a quick physical examination.

As expected, her pulse was abnormally high, even for an activity as taxing as combat, and I picked up a clear arrhythmia while listening to her heart. Fortunately, the symptoms didn’t seem life threatening. No need for a transfusion, as long as her wounds were closed before blood loss exacerbated the situation.

As I began treatment, I glanced at the Scrapper’s Veil. She was looking past me, towards her dad. She made a gesture that was as close to a wave as she could manage, then spoke in a thin voice between gasps.

“I… took your… advice…” From my angle, the fox on her Veil seemed to be grinning. “Got… out… of there… before… things… got bad.”

Kuno’s expression was dark. “If this is ‘not bad’ I don’t want to see what is.”

The Scrapper let out a brittle laugh. “This is… nothing… just… ran… out of… juice.”

I was getting close to finishing the first aid. I asked her whether she would need a stretcher. I knew the answer already, but it was good bedside manners to check in with the patient.

“Yeah,” she replied. “Just… about… cleaned… the spill… by… the way.” She curled her hand into a thumbs-up. “But… I think… I’ll take… a rest… now.”

She went limp after that. I helped a paramedic load her onto the stretcher. They pushed her off to one of the tents while I turned to address Kuno.

“Mr…” I twirled my hand tightly to indicate my request.

“Hartmann.”

“If I understand correctly, Mr. Hartmann, you advised her to hold back?”

He crossed his arms. “And?”

I expected the hostility, but was taken aback by its intensity. “Oh, I do not mean that in a bad way. I wanted to thank you, actually. She’s a valuable member of impulse, but overzealousness and anemia do not make a good pair. I shudder to think of what would have happened had your words not carried her back here.”

Kuno maintained his hard exterior, but I noticed a slight lowering of his shoulders.

“Yeah, well,” he said, “I can’t stand to see kids get hurt like that. Don’t know why you’ve got one in your squad.”

I looked down at his knees. “Three, actually.”

Kuno’s eyes widened. “Three!?”

I put my hands up. “To be fair one of them turns eighteen in April. Although the Berserker was that age when we picked her up as well, so it was almost–” I shook my head. “That is beside the point. It was not my idea to recruit minors. If I had my way, they never would have joined. But I am, well, the Surgeon of the group after all. I can at the very least look after them.”

I took a second to collect my thoughts before continuing. “But it was you looking after her tonight, where I failed to. You have my gratitude.”

Kuno scratched his hair. “It’s not that big of a deal. I was just returning a favor. No need to be so melodramatic about it.”

“Maybe so,” I said, “but still. Thank you.”

I held out my arm for a handshake.

Kuno didn’t take it, but he did nod in my direction. “You’re welcome,” he said, and then left.

I was not sure what to make of the exchange, but before I could become too stuck in my thoughts, the shouting of paramedics bringing in a fresh load of patients arrested my attention. I would have time to process it tomorrow. For now, I would wash my hands and get back to work.

And do something about this goddamn crick in my neck. Would it kill the hospitals to make their gurneys a little higher?