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kimishima-naomi · 3 years ago

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bullet chess

Bullet: a variant of blitz chess where each player has three minutes total to make their moves.

There aren’t many things to like about being the Director. The pay, of course, is good; but, with more than twenty years of experience, she would have been making quite enough as a surgeon. There are no vacations to speak of, the hours are terrible – there are weeks (months during the height of the Stigma pandemic) when she ends up living out of her office – and, even worse, it feels like most of her time is spent not on actual work, but on making connections and rubbing shoulders with politicians who would probably fail a high school biology test if you asked them.

Of course, there are plenty of things she can enjoy. Working with some of the finest doctors in America, getting to shake hands with the world’s best and brightest, that is a privilege. The times when she does get to operate. They may still worry about funding, but at least she doesn’t have to tell their patients that the hospital cannot take their insurance (and if such a situation does arise, there’s always a sponsor she could contact or a teaching hospital she could ask for a small favor). The fact that the Caduceus Special Disease Counteraction Team now officially includes a dog. The fact at least once a month said dog will spend a staff meeting resting under Doctor Blaylock’s chair, wagging so loudly that Irene can hear the tail wearing down the carpet in her office. (It’s for a legitimate enough reason – good for the morale).

And then, of course, there’s dispatch.

There’s nothing good about trauma, about mounting casualties, about having to leave people for dead in hopes of returning to them when the majority of patients have been evacuated. But, she’s seen far worse. For now – even in the worst days of 2028 – Caduceus East Coast has, she can proudly say, kept things under control.

She’s seen firsthand what happens when things aren’t under control.

It’s compartmentalization, pure and simple. The resolution of emergency response is always hollow – beneath the pride of a job well done, there is the feeling of her heart beating against nothing, cathecholamines pumping into nowhere; blood smears on the floor, gauze strewn, empty packaging discarded recklessly and ampoules clinking during the recount. Sometimes what was minutes ago a person is wheeled out under a sheet towards the basement elevator. Sometimes more than one.

But the beginning… the beginning, before the ETA ticks down and the patients become more than a number on the radio waves, is not unlike a game of blitz chess.

“Director, we have a METHANE report! Code 27-D-6-G, means uh-”

Gunshot wounds, multiple victims.

“Page it through!”

Laptop slammed shut, into the briefcase, strap thrown across her shoulders, and she’s rushing out of her office, prior conversation with an old friend forgotten at once, phone in one hand and pager in another, speed-reading through the transcript of the distress radio call.

[MAYDAY MAYDAY MAYDAY THIS IS MEDIC ALFA MIKE FIFE EIGHT REQUESTING BACKUP]

M Major incident DECLARED

E Exact location – GPS – numbers hastily punched into her phone. Baltimore, thirty miles away.

T Type… mass shooting, several gunmen.

H Hazards – the above.

A Access: unknown.

Baltimore’s police commissioner is on her speed dial for a good reason, and this is one of the few times she wants police presence before they can move in.

“Irene Quatro, Director of Caduceus. We’re sending help-”

He can guess just what for, of course. No, they were still securing the scene. The control room? Yes, they could set up a safe meeting point – just a block away, at (new location punched in).

N “Number of casualties?”

Above a dozen, that’s for sure – two officers down – they were trying to provide first aid, but there’s only so much they can do when…

“Keep me updated. Godspeed.”

E Emergency services present – two ambulances, more en route.

Emergency services required…

She never needs to think twice about the resources they have. Five mobile ORs are standing ready to depart (she’s sending two). Justin is former military, Navy Corps doc, exactly someone she needs today. Blaylock-Salazar-Vaughn are, simply, the best she has (unfair as it is to risk putting them in the line of fire, again). Newman is the nurse that works with Justin most often, and besides, she’s someone Irene can trust to skirt the rules if it’s for the sake of making the right call. Three surgeons and two nurses should hopefully be enough. Excluding herself, of course – but her role is admin, communication. She can do far more with a phone than with a scalpel.

Nearest level 1 trauma center – Johns Hopkins, no need to check. They can handle this, but they can’t deploy on the scene like Caduceus does. For good reasons – a surgeon is only as useful as their logistics.

So, the next call is to their emergency department.

“Quatro, from Caduceus, offering assistance. Patch me through.” That introduction suffices, of course. “We’re sending two mobile ORs, ETA thirty minutes, and we’re prepared to admit casualties. What can we do to help?”

She has the authority to take command here, and she knows very well that she shouldn’t. She listens. The incident is fifteen minutes from Johns Hopkins, traffic and chaos taken into account; Caduceus can handle the worst cases and let the others be transported.

Everett almost knocks them down running towards Loading Bay 1 – spits out a brisk apology, slows his pace to match hers. Newman, Vaughn, Salazar – already there; Blaylock will be, shortly. Good.

She forces herself through several deep breaths and begins the briefing.

(Justin growls through his teeth. Leslie swears a few times, but not openly. Elena’s horrified for a good minute before Irene sees her compose herself. Markus cracks a joke comparing Baltimore and Culuruma, but his expression doesn’t match his words. Valerie rushes in midway, trying not to gasp for breath while Irene speaks.)

“…Everett, you’re the ops commander for the duration. Decide who we should take in for surgery immediately. Otherwise, any non-first responders should speak to me. Questions?” None. “Take the rooks. I’ll try to arrive before you.”

Mobile Self-Contained Operating Theatre Unit. It’s an armored truck; “rook” is an apt designation, but 55 miles an hour is the fastest it can go (which is a miracle in itself). A helicopter would be much faster, but whether she can afford to deploy one…

“Chief. Can I help with anything?”

It’s not that she didn’t realize that Naomi followed her. It’s that she didn’t factor in her calculations.

Ten years ago – Irene turns to face her – Kimishima would have been her right hand in this, no questions. But… now?

“Your gift. Can you still-?”

“Doubt it. It’s been a while.”

Her hands aren’t the hands of a surgeon. Her fingers are thin and dexterous, but the nails are longer and the skin is soft, not dried out by constant hand-washing.

Still, surgeon or not, her mind is sharper than most, and Irene would be a fool to discard her.

“You can drive, then. How fast can you get me on the scene?”

“Thirty miles?” She thinks for a few seconds, and it takes plenty of willpower for Irene not to hurry her along. “Can you get us a clear route?”

“I can.”

“Twenty minutes. Fifteen if I push my luck.”

The highway speed limit is 70 mph. They’re going 100, up to 120 if the stretch of road before them is straight and visible. Then again, speed barely registers when she has her eyes on her laptop most of the time.

A call from the journalists – their paper is friendly to Caduceus, so Irene grits her teeth and responds. They are en route – she is en route to the incident. She trusts Johns Hopkins completely, and Caduceus is going to do everything we can to assist the local emergency services. For safety reasons, no more comments at this stage.

That call, at least, lets her glance at the road – they’re passing cars at a standstill – and then at Naomi. Her eyes look dark, pupils wide and posture tense, but her movements are smooth and restrained, hands relaxed on the wheel in a way that makes Irene nod to herself in approval – she can recognize professionalism when she sees it.

A dozen patients is a conservative estimate – more than twice that number is likely. The gunmen opened fire in a square, then took refuge in the closest building. There are casualties that the EMTs still can’t get to because they’re in the line of fire. SWAT units just showed up. No hostages so far.

The car slows down with a screech of tires when they hit the city limits, almost knocking her laptop out of her hands as she fumbles to put it back. Over the roar of the engine, she hears gunshots, then sirens, howling blocks away. The streets grow empty. They’ve arrived.

She slams the car door shut behind her, rushing over to the control room – a tent with a handful of plastic furniture, looks like it’s been scavenged from around the place.

“Doctor-”

Right, ten years. She’ll need direction. “You handle the police for now. Brief me later.”

The emergency services bring good news, for a change. Five more ambulances are at the scene. They’re setting up a collection point for the walking wounded – she takes note to let the cops redirect green tags there. Two ORs should mean Caduceus can treat patients that would be in no condition for transfer, and what supplies they could bring in Naomi’s car should help out for now. They can move in as soon as-

“SWAT is finishing up. Streets, first and second floor cleared.”

Timely interruption from Kimishima. There’s still the risk of being shot at from higher floors, though.

“Can you get us some cover? Shields, or-”

“We can.”

She nods. This isn’t her decision to make – it’s for the EMS captain standing in front of her. Nametag reads “Daniel O’Grady”.

“…We’ll send some people out to perform triage.”

With a moment’s hesitation, Naomi hands her car key over. Irene passes it to the paramedic.

[IN15MIN]

Five minutes slower than predicted.

“…-not going with them?”

Accusatory tone. She raises her head – the speaker’s one of the cops, young woman, uniform drenched in dark liquid but, it seems, unhurt.

“She’s a surgeon! What do you expect her to do?” Naomi snaps back before Irene can formulate a response. “Cut them open by the roadside? Calm down and let her do her job!”

Concise, but inflammatory. Irene leans over the map printout spread out on the table – nowhere near enough detail.

“Officer-” what’s her nametag? “Officer Kowalczyk! Do you know this area? We need a secure place to carry the victims to!”

“The, uh, this greasy spoon on the corner here…” The woman rushes over. The gunmetal smell of blood on her blues is apparent, and Irene can feel Naomi beside her recoil, turn away at what was, undoubtedly, a torrent of memories.

“Good. We’ll park right outside. Make sure the cordon lets us through.” Pager in hand, punching in the new coordinates and access route without needing to look at the screen. “Red tags needing immediate surgery out front-” Incoming call – she pauses to answer. “…Baltimore Shock Trauma on the line. They’re ready to accept casualties, as well. Do we have an exact number?”

Not yet – she can see that from O’Grady’s expression before he says it. Fine, either they find out in two minutes (13 minutes left) or she’ll see for herself-

“Doctor.” That’s the police chief. “About that cordon – there’s a crowd gathered by now…”

“And?”

“Someone should – you should go speak to them. Don’t want a panic or a riot on our hands.”

He has a point. She’s more likely to be trusted, the bystanders need to let the medics through and leave them alone, and if the journalists get on the scene-

“Kimishima, to the staging area. Help with the triage. We need the exact number of tags ASAP.”

She hears the curt “Will do.” behind her as she walks off to face the gathered people.

ETA – 12, 11, 10 minutes left; she keeps glancing at the watch ticking down on her wrist as she speaks – plain language, reassure them, we’re taking control of the situation, ten minutes left before we can start operating on people right here – sirens, two more ambulances arriving, and the gunshots have nearly died down…

The opening has almost concluded.

Vaughn and Blaylock work best as a team, but, unless it’s Stigma, (…this isn’t yet another bioterrorist attack, is it?) two surgeons with Healing Touch to one patient would be excessive. Irene herself can shadow one of them, but so can Newman; she’ll probably join Everett instead, they’ve worked together for years now-

What’s taking her? Where’s the casualty count?

Irene hastily concludes her speech and walks off, feeling her jaw clench almost to the pain.

The scene is what one would expect, the chaos of scattered possessions, abandoned as people fled the gunshots. Bodies strewn across the asphalt – some still moving but already as good as dead. She doesn’t bother counting.

Someone knocked out the diner’s window – cubes of safety glass avalanched down, glistening in the sunlight – and the paramedics step through to carry the casualties in.

Naomi is slumped back against the wall, hand over mouth – forcing herself not to hyperventilate, by the looks of it.

“Kimishima!” That works – the woman flinches, looks back at her. “Casualty report, do you-”

No – she stops herself – useless. Her mistake; can’t demand the impossible from people. Took her years to even go back to performing autopsies, so a major incident…

“Get back to the control room. I’ll handle this.”

“…Thirty-two living.” Ah. Very good. “Seven yellow, twelve green. Thirteen… six unlikely to survive transport. So, they’re our priority.”

<13R 7Y 12G AT LEAST>

The number of black tags is irrelevant, and, truth be told, it’s not something she wants to think about. She can guess the same about Naomi.

“You did well.” She can spare a moment of praise. “Head back. You’ve done all you could.”

“…Not all.”

“We’ll talk later.” Irene has no time for this. “Go. Direct the rooks here if need be.”

“Rooks, hm…?” She steels herself to walk away, though. “Wait-”

After a moment’s thought, Irene realizes what she’s looking at – a paramedic, kneeling by one of the bodies (a policeman, cap blown far from the body and a bloody pink smear of brain matter…)

A paramedic out of unif-

What a blunder she had made at the start.

If no gunmen got injured in the chaos – if one of them wouldn’t be fit to walk – if he hadn’t thrown away his weapon and left with the green tags – if he hadn’t come back – if he wasn’t picking up a dead officer’s pistol-

Naomi’s between her and the shooter. She shoves her down with herself as a gunshot cracks the air.

Skewer: a situation in chess where moving a piece exposes the one behind it.

The wind’s been knocked out of her. She’s landed on her briefcase, and the blow feels so severe that she can’t even think of moving.

Above her – screams, more gunfire, then deafening, ringing silence.

Then it burns, like a hot brand is pressed into her, and the sudden thought crosses her mind – I’ve been shot…?

She raises herself up on her elbow, and that movement is enough to make black blood spurt out on the asphalt, marring the white of her suit.

Shaky, she lowers herself on her side. Pressure… needs pressure on it. Her hand clenches her scarf, forgetting at once how to untie the loose knot.

It hurts, hurts way worse than just broken ribs, and there’s the wheezing sound of air rushing in and out of the entry wound with each breath.

This is fine, a chest wound is survivable, she needs to tape it shut – she can’t even move, every instinct in her body is screaming at her to huddle down, to keep still.

“Quatro!” Rush of movement – Naomi’s kneeling above her. “Are you-” and concern in her expression changes to horror when she notices the blood seeping through.

Gloves, Irene wants to remind her, but she clearly doesn’t care, hands hastily undoing the strap of the briefcase, tearing the scarf off, rolling her on her back – the move hurts, more of the same deep burning pain, and she’d cry out but she just ends up gasping in air.

“Breathe. Breathe, you’ll be fine, just – tell me what I… Pack-?”

“No,” she half-growls – thoracic wounds are not packed, it’s a mistake she’d eviscerate a resident for. “Seal…”

“…Right. I know. Move your hand.”

She hears that, but can’t manage to obey. A long moment of silence; then Naomi’s pupils narrow – there’s familiar blue steel in her gaze – she forces Irene’s hand away from the wound, presses the scarf down with all her weight and

The pain – she screams openly, vision blurring, tears coming to her eyes; this is nothing like she’d ever felt, nothing she could have-

“I need help here! Gunshot wound to chest, venous bleeding – someone, help me move her!”

GSW THORAX SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 90%

Someone does come. She feels herself hoisted up, carried over inside, lowered down, half-sitting, back against a wall. Fluorescent lights are blinding. She closes her eyes.

“Airway’s clear, she’s breathing at…”

“Twenty per minute.”

Cold fingers squeeze her hand – checking perfusion, no doubt – click her watch off, press into the pulse point.

“Capillary refill, half a second.” Plus one yellow tag. “Heart rate… one twenty, that’s-”

“Fine for someone who just got shot. You a doctor or something?”

“Of sorts. I’ll keep the pressure; get a chest seal.”

She’s a coroner, Irene’s tempted to say – if she could speak, that is.

“Quatro, can you hear me? Irene!” She opens her eyes. “Good, stay with me. …I need to see the injury.”

“Don’t-”

“Sorry.” Then her hands are on her – one still pressing into the now-soaked scarf, other tearing vest and blouse open, forcing her clothes off her body. “No exit wound.”

“Bad.” The word tastes of… no, it really is blood, rising in her throat. She swallows it down with disgust.

Bullets don’t just stop on their own volition. Either it’s embedded somewhere – spine?! she can feel her legs, but… – or it bounced off, and the trajectory… could be anywhere. Blood vessels, nerves, or, worse, peritoneal cavity… or her heart, but she wouldn’t still be conscious if that were the case.

SURVIVAL PROBABILITY: 80%

It burns, it hurts to breathe. She can feel the rough wall plaster scraping her shoulders; she tries to focus on that slight pain instead.

Her pager beeps. She reaches for it – fingertips numb; it ends up clattering against the tiled floor. Naomi catches it off-hand.

“ETA seven minutes. Keep still, you’ll be fine. Should I tell…?”

Irene shakes her head. No use in worrying her surgeons while they can’t do anything to help.

“We’re out of chest seals. I’ll prep a dressing, get ready to let go-”

It’s the paramedic – Irene realizes then that she can’t distinguish much about the woman aside from her general features. She blinks away tears, but her vision is still blurred.

“…two – three!”

For a second, the pressure stops. She gasps in air – immediately a cough wreaks her, nearly keels her over before pain seizes her chest (oh god it’s worse it’s somehow worse now-) and wet heat gushes down her side, as if something slithers out – then there’s cold and more pressure and she tries to writhe back from it but the wall stops her.

“Think we got it?”

“Looks sealed – come on, breathe-!”

Breathe! that’s what she’s trying to do against the razor wire binding her chest, breathing harder – hearing air bubbling out from under the plastic sticking to her ribs on each exhale.

Seal’s working, the calmer part of her mind informs her. She glances down. Her skin is awash in red smears; a puddle of blood is slowly spreading on the dirty grout between the black-and-white tiles, a thrombus glistening in it like a fat, gorged leech. A wave of nausea overtakes her at this sight. She has to look away.

“That makes it half a liter.” Naomi’s voice is tense, ringing like a steel cable about to snap. “We need to start an IV, begin crossmatching-”

“With what? We don’t carry blood products.”

“…Fluid replenishment, then. At this rate…” her eyes meet Irene’s. “No. You’re going to be okay.”

She’d like to think that. Fact is, she has four liters of blood in her body. Losing two liters means certain death. Half a liter is… twenty-five percent? That can’t be right…

No, focus – she clenches her hand, fingers digging deep into her thigh. Half a liter is a unit of blood, a standard donation. There are patients needing help before her, she has to stay calm.

“F-first gh…”

“First group? O blood?” She feels Naomi’s hand on her shoulder – heavy, bloodstained. “Plus or minus? The rhesus, is it plus or minus?”

“-plus.” Doesn’t need to be said – mass transfusion protocol, if it comes to that, will start with O+ anyway. But that could be a load off someone’s mind.

A needle bites into her arm; she’s too busy keeping still to acknowledge it. “I’ll get her on Ringer’s, but I got other patients. You know her, right?”

“…I do.” There’s more weight behind these two syllables than Irene could have thought possible.

“You stay with her, then. We got things covered elsewhere. Keep an eye on her vitals.”

“Right. Do we have blankets?”

“All out.”

“In-n-my…” It’s hard to breathe, let alone to speak.

“Your briefcase?” Irene nods. “Okay, I’ll – be right back.”

She reaches for Irene’s clothes first – they’re in a heap on the floor, half white half bloody – before thinking better of it and shrugging off her own jacket. It’s warm from the heat of her body when she covers her before rushing off. Irene feels the cloth – the sleeves are wet up to the elbow.

She focuses on her breathing while the paramedic sets up an IV and realizes that she’s hyperventilating. She tries to slow down, to breathe deeper, but the brain stem overrules the cerebrum – she’s panting for air like a wounded animal, which, at that moment, she is.

She claws at her thigh to try and keep control. How much time has elapsed – how long did it take her to lose half a liter? She can’t know; it feels like eternity. It’ll be all right, she reasons with herself. I’m fine, still firmly a yellow tag; Caduceus has salvaged cases way worse, and… I’m scared.

Well – fear is a reasonable emotion, given the situation. But no, this is different. She’s used to conquering fear in her line of work, but this – this is completely out of her control, an animalistic terror… a symptom?

SHOCK STAGE II ONSET

The paramedic fixes the IV bag to the nearby shelving and stands up to leave – Naomi’s back, thankfully, briefcase in hand. There’s blood on the leather and a bullet hole in the side. Good thing it went through her laptop. …Or not, considering the paperwork within.

“I checked the weapon.” She’s speaking under her breath, she doesn’t want Irene to overhear. “Forty caliber, hollow point. Make a note of it.”

Irene does not know much about guns, nor does she want to, but GSWs fall under her job description. Forty is a large caliber. Hollow point – designed to expand when they hit soft tissue.

Perfect against unarmored targets.

The irony makes her laugh despite the surge of pain that causes.

Briefcase contents clutter down onto the tiles. The blanket first (an old fleece throw to nap under); she feels it land on her. Then, the glove packaging being torn open. Her hands are a size above Naomi’s, but, that’ll do.

The paramedic lingers, for some reason. “Think it’s a vena cava?”

“What? No. Can’t be.” In Naomi’s hand, her watch catches sunlight. “One unit of blood in four minutes. If it was vena cava…”

She doesn’t finish the sentence, but Irene knows – she’d have been close to exsanguinating already.

“More than one. She’s pale, looks shocky. Capillary refill… two seconds.”

Has it only been four minutes? Feels like a lot more… but that does mean Caduceus is only five minutes away.

“What about blood pressure?”

“Give me a few min. We’re starting transport over there.”

This isn’t good. The dressing is on, the GSW isn’t hemorrhaging – much – but if a major vessel is hit, then it’s just bleeding into the thoracic cavity, and that means – and she’s still tasting blood at the back of her mouth.

“Irene?” The paramedic’s gone. Gloved hand holds hers. “Focus on me.”

She tries to reply. She can’t; squeezing Naomi’s hand is as much as she can manage. Breathing too fast. Hyperventilating.

Breathe. You’re not a black tag as long as you’re still breathing.

“…Why did you do that?” Naomi’s voice is unexpectedly gentle; it’s not a question she wants a real reply to. “Reckless of you… madame director. We’re down a surgeon now.”

Irene would force a smile, but that wouldn’t be a pretty sight. She clasps Naomi’s hand – it feels hot against hers – thumb tracing letters into her palm. ‘noidea’

“…Thought not. It’s okay, they’ve started transport. Four minutes until our doctors arrive. Stay strong.”

Breathing rate above thirty, capillary refill above two, that’s a threshold for… what? She should remember. She can’t. Fear is like cold mercury in her veins – an almost physical feeling.

‘scared’

“I know.” Naomi’s other hand is on her neck – taking pulse, checking for… something? “I’m scared too. But I think you’ll be okay. Hang in there.”

Feels like a hand is crushing her ribcage. No, not even that – she has no words, no pain she could compare this to. Leaning forward only relieves it slightly.

Something’s wrong. Something’s going wrong and she needs to figure out what. Naomi needs to figure out what. Tension… pneumothorax? No, not that… and she’s cold, profoundly

Bile’s at her throat. She vomits blood, barely feeling Naomi lunge to hold her up.

SHOCK STAGE III ONSET

“Hematemesis. No, that’s not it.” She hears tone more than words – how calmly the former doctor speaks is almost shocking. “No signs of abdominal trauma. Hemoptysis, ingested blood. Massive hemorrhage. Probable hemothorax.”

She’s talking to herself, reasoning out loud. Making assumptions. Probably right, though. She always had uncanny intuition.

“If the stomach’s shutting down, that means…” Irene feels her draw a shaky breath, and then (still calmly) she yells over the noise and the sirens and the screams of the injured: “She’s decompensating, I need a chest drain! Transport priority, if possible!”

SURVIVAL PROBABILITY 50%

She’s keeled over, panting. There’s an arm around her shoulders, holding her up. Blood drips from her mouth onto the chessboard tiles. Chess pieces don’t bleed when they get ran through… do they?

“Irene!” Naomi shakes her awake, and she cries out in pain from that jolt. “Irene, please…”

Against the white-hot pain, one thought crosses her mind, clear and stark: I don’t want to die.

That’s it. That means so much more now, when she feels death so close. Like cold black waters dragging her under. Scylla and Charybdis… she wants to pass out, but passing out is death.

The paramedic rushes up, footsteps shaking the ground. She whimpers.

“You sure about a chest tube?” Hands on her shoulder, jostling her, hurting her – blood pressure cuff? “Get the dressing off and…”

“Autotransfusion. We’ll be low on blood.”

“Yeah, but,” cuff squeezing her arm, “we don’t have the-”

“We do. Caduceus brought the supplies. Crate labeled – C&C, I think. Get the system here, I’ll show you how.”

They’re all labeled C&C, Irene thinks in a moment of sanity.

“Got it.” The pressure slacks. “BP 90 by 70, gotta make sure it don’t drop any more. Heart rate…”

“Ninety five.”

“Shock index at one. Yeessh. Be right back.”

That’s all the data they have. No H&H, no CVP, not even an EKG – chaos over there, by the looks of it. Nothing to help distinguish… what? A shock isn’t a shock isn’t a shock…

Light is blinding, but she’s desperately keeping her eyes open. She’s scared of the darkness.

Naomi’s rolled up her notebook in a tube (no stethoscope) and leans in to auscultate.

Eyes, ears, and fingers, as she often reiterates. That’s all you might have. Your eyes, your ears, and your fingers – and your brain.

“No breathing sounds… hard to hear, though, it’s all muted… dull to percussion. Tachypnea, tachycardia, hypotension, cyanosis… no tracheal deviation, jugular vein distention… This is textbook.”

It is. But something’s wrong.

“Irene.” A hand clasps hers – she can barely feel it. Fingers not obeying her enough to write. “Just a few minutes longer. Please.”

“Auto kit here!” Over the blood, the chemical stench of antibiotic gel – drenching entry site, gloves… “How do I-”

“No time! Hold her down, I’ll do it!”

Hands pinning her back by her shoulders. She couldn’t have moved anyway.

She doesn’t feel the incision, but she feels the tube. Snaking in. Slithering against her lung. She screams, chokes on blood, gasps for air again. There’s barely enough relief for one more breath.

“This ain’t that much blood. Is it clogged?”

“No. But then… Why-!” The surgeon’s angry with herself. Lost.

It doesn’t matter. Not anymore.

Pain’s fading out. She’s tired like she hasn’t slept for a week. She has to sleep.

A hand clenches hers. A blow snaps at her cheek, makes her open her eyes for a second – close them again.

“Come on! Damn it, Naomi, think! Hypovolemic shock, hemoptysis, hemothorax, jugular-”

Found the odd one out, Irene thinks with detached interest. Jugular veins distend with pneumothorax. Never with hemothorax. The distention is caused by something else.

“JVD… cardiac failure, but that’s-”

Something wrong with her heart. Something that will kill her before blood loss can.

“-pericardial tamponade!”

Correct. But too late.

“She needs immediate surgery, get her priority!”

Her hand slacks in Naomi’s. She sinks into the darkness.

SURVIVAL PROBABILITY 30%

Zeitnot: a situation in chess when a player does not have enough time left on the clock.

She’s dying.

Beck’s triad – muted heart sounds, jugular vein distention, low blood pressure; the diagnosis should have been obvious. Blood is pouring into the pericardium, that thin protective membrane, pouring in and compressing the heart… until it stops beating. In just a few more minutes, it will.

It’s a vicious cycle. They don’t have the tools to confirm the diagnosis, let alone treat her, and by the time Caduceus gets there, it might be too late.

Naomi’s hands are working faster than her mind; left hand finds the radial pulse as she leans in with the rolled-up notebook again, trying to hear Irene’s heartbeat over the chaos of the emergency. Tachycardia, muted heart sounds, and… pulsus paradoxus. Then, her intuition was right.

She’s dying, and you can’t do anything.

Naomi closes the valve on the IV line – the incoming fluid could be making the shock worse. They need to drain the blood stat, to place a high-gauge catheter into the pericardium, but… pericardiocentesis without an ultrasound? Her past self would think twice before attempting that. The risks are too great. She needs to wait for Caduceus backup.

Waiting, being helpless, truly is the worst part. Nine years ago… that brings up a memory too unpleasant to relive, and Naomi closes her eyes for a moment, grits her teeth, forcing the flashback away.

Other than draining the blood, there isn’t anything that can be done this instant. Diuretics contraindicated. They’d need to get her on antibiotics, of course, but that is completely useless now. Later, when… if she survives.

Has the heart been nicked? With no exit wound, she can’t determine the bullet trajectory. But, from the chest tube, blood is still draining – dark venous blood – and that implies major vessel damage.

Pulmonary artery, she understands suddenly. But that doesn’t account for the pericardial effusion. Which might mean the injury is from a bone fragment, or there’s an arterial tear from the shockwave… or the bullet has damaged the pericardium and-

No. All these guesses are useless now.

Quatro’s skin is white and cold like marble, cyanotic tint creeping up her fingers, and… Naomi realizes she can’t bring herself to look up at her face. Afraid of what she’d see.

She remembers shooting that electrician – the kick of gun recoil in her hand, gunshot echoing in the morgue, stench of burnt gunpowder and then blood. His wounded scream, choked and strangled and horrified.

But today she didn’t even have a gun with her. Bringing it across state lines isn’t worth the trouble.

“…do you hear me? Hey!”

It’s the paramedic, Naomi realizes slowly, looking up at her and away from Irene’s bloodstained form.

“A wagon is ready to go, are we transporting?”

Transport… Mechanically, she raises her hand to her chin – stops short, horrified, when she sees the blood-coated glove.

“She… won’t survive that.” Johns Hopkins is (she recalls Irene making that phone call) fifteen minutes away. “Caduceus will be here any minute.”

“…Yeah, alright.” The woman doesn’t seem to believe her, and Naomi starts doubting herself – the cavalry arriving seems too far-fetched to actually happen now. “You come with me. We need your help over there.”

For a moment, she wants to object – she’s not a doctor, she cannot help, she mustn’t leave Irene – but then she gets up and follows, acting on long-forgotten instincts.

Blood smears on the tiles – she’d changed into flats to drive, but she still slips minutely – blood on the mirror-sheen floor of the conference hall, Apollyon’s harvest of medicine’s best and brightest. Stiles and Thompson are ready to operate, but one doctor won’t be enough; she’ll have to step in, she realizes, steeling herself against the cold horror of knowing that she’s sure to be infected when she does-

“We can’t intubate, can you get an airway?”

She nods, and a scalpel is shoved at her – its plastic grip rests familiar in her hand, puts her at ease at once. This is simple butcher work to her, no thinking needed.

In her left hand, something’s in the way – Irene’s watch ticks down. She shoves it into her pocket. Wet gloves slip against fabric.

The patient’s mouth is a mass of tissue and shattered bone, mangled by a bullet. Explains why intubation isn’t possible. Find the thyroid cartilage, membrane below, incise… again… blood flows, she wipes it off – not deep enough. Another incision – air gurgles through (sound like a drinking straw running empty) and exhaled blood spurts out, hits her cheek as she turns away in the nick of time.

“Tube, now! And get me a mask!”

They do – a tube is in her hands, and someone hooks a mask on her while she’s busy putting it in. Not that a mask would help now. If anything, her blood could be more dangerous to the patients.

“All right, we can transport!”

She feels, not quite seeing (tunnel vision bad like a migraine) people working around her – hands securing the airway, moving the patient to a stretcher, carrying him out.

And by the entrance, there’s a rush of movement – EMTs crowd one of the victims; she can only see that it’s a woman and guess that she’s young.

“…unresponsive to colloids.”

“Who has O minus blood?”

“Stabilizer-?”

“We’re out. Administering epinephrine.”

Last resort, she thinks to herself. Another minute, maybe two; then she’ll flatline and they will have to cease treatment. Simple as that.

Her hands tense-

Her hands tense against thin air. Nothing, no resistance, no shiver down her spine, no energy in her fingers.

“I can’t get a vein; anyone-?”

“…Let me try.”

Someone moves aside, and Naomi kneels near the patient (in the lake of her blood; feels it soak through her jeans at once, but that is distant). No brachial pulse, veins collapsed from blood loss; unless she tries the subclavian – and risks tearing the artery…

Wait, where’s the peripheral line? Torn out in the chaos of it, obviously, blood and tape leftover on the woman’s arm.

“I’ll attempt venesection, prep the site.” They don’t understand – was that the wrong word? “Scalpel and disinfectant! Saphenous vein, right here!”

Easier said than done. The nerve, she remembers, runs close to the vein, and if she damages it… at least it’s just sensory, not motor.

“Heart rate 130, blood pressure 80/60 and tanking.”

“You, push epi intramuscular.”

“Administering-”

Enough hesitating. The access site is… here – she presses the scalpel into

“Hey, wait-”

“Clear the way!” There’s movement, and then (she recognizes at once, even in scrubs) Blaylock is here, eyes dark and resolute above the mask. “…Elena, prep for IO infusion!”

“Got it!”

Naomi keeps still, scalpel drawn back. This doesn’t feel real. Nothing does.

“Hey.” She knows at once it’s to her, specifically – Blaylock doesn’t know her name. “We got this.”

She can’t figure out what to do with the scalpel, reaches for Irene’s watch, instead (blood dried on the glass). Three minutes past ETA, but… they’re here. They’re finally here.

“This is Doctor Everett from Caduceus!” Justin’s command voice booms easily over the chaos. “We’re setting up two mobile ORs, we can deal with four patients at a time, so get the most urgent casualties over to the prep tent!”

Three patients, she thinks, now that Irene…

Blaylock’s gloved hands cross over the patient’s chest – “I’ll keep her stable, transport!” (“Shit, they laying on hands?” someone says). “On three – one, two-” a few EMTs hoist the woman up, and they rush outside where, she can see now, two armored-looking trucks are now parked and a white tent is being unfolded.

She tries to stand up – can’t. Her joints feel stiff and heavy and the world is hazy, sound muted, blood thudding in her ears.

Someone blocks the light. Everett. He’s big up close; a hand he offers palms hers completely. She throws the scalpel down to take it.

“You good?” She nods, unable to force out even a token ‘fine’. “…What happened? Where’s the Director?”

“How’d she get shot? How’d you let her get shot?”

Irene is still breathing – ragged shallow breaths – but her lips are black with hypoxia, pulse rapid and thready. Naomi forces her eyelids open; the pupils still react to light.

“How long has she been out for?”

“Two minutes.” It’s not quite a lie, just an underestimation. Anything to give Irene a better chance.

“Where’s the other chest tube?”

God damn it – she could hit herself for the mistake, if that would… “It’s not indicated. Beck’s triad-”

“Shit.” He detaches the IV, leaving the bag dripping onto the bloody tiles. “All right, bullet trajectory?”

“Unknown.”

“Hold the drain. Heave-!”

He hoists Quatro up in his arms with ease; Naomi can barely keep up as they run the few meters to the trucks parked up front and barge straight through the sterile drapes of the entryway tent and to the operating table.

“…oh god,” someone half-whispers, horrified. One of the nurses.

“Leslie, get me an ultrasound! …You cut her clothes off. Trauma scissors, over there.”

Plastic scissor handles dig into her palm as she forces through the trouser fabric. She focuses on that pain – anything to take her mind off the thought of Quatro dying before her eyes.

“I’m seeing massive effusion… prep for pericardiocentesis. Looks like you were right.” It takes Naomi a moment to register that Justin is speaking to her now. “You want to scrub in? We could use a pair of hands.”

“I’m not licensed-”

“Who cares? You can still help out.”

As far as she’s concerned, the logic is impeccable.

Bloodstained mask and gloves get tossed – they’re a source of infection now. New mask, hair cap, eyewear. There’s blood under her fingernails; she cleans it out meticulously before picking up the brush. One minute per hand, according to the packaging. The smell of antiseptic is familiar, almost calming.

She doesn’t need reminders on the scrub procedure – it’s been all but beaten into her during residency. It gives her time to look around. Vaughn and Blaylock are working on a patient each, with that nurse – Salazar, right? – between them (two doctors with the Healing Touch, at once? Unbelievable). Leslie is busy with prep – EKG, catheter, IV lines – and Justin is hunched over the patient; she knows he’s trying to relieve the tamponade, but she can’t see if he’s successful.

She breaks protocol by tying the gown straps herself, as best as she can, before snapping the gloves on and hurrying to their side.

“How-?”

“No good.”

She can see that. He got a needle into her chest, but blood isn’t coming through.

“Leslie, intubate and prep for a pericardial window.”

“Wait.” She speaks up without thinking – this isn’t her place to… “Single lung ventilation.”

“Sounds good,” Justin agrees after a moment’s thought. “Gonna be easier if-”

And that’s when the EKG howls out an alarm. V-fib.

SURVIVAL PROBABILITY 10%

Silence. Then chaos. Everett ratchets the table down in an instant, hands slamming into Irene’s body for CPR. Ribs crack. With each compression, blood spurts from her mouth.

Leslie grabs the defibrillator – her eyes meet Naomi’s over the table – she shoves the machine into her hands and rushes to intubate.

Model isn’t familiar, but those things are easy to use. Gel pads on chest – no, wipe the blood off first – voltage at 200, set to “Defib”.

“Charging… All clear!”

She forgot how quiet these things really are. The body shudders minutely at the delivered shock, and – nothing. The EKG flatlines for a moment, then spasms again.

“Epi one mil-” Everett growls out, resuming compressions immediately – Leslie already has the syringe in hands, drawing adrenaline from a vial.

“Doctor Blaylock-!”

“Elena, I can’t…!”

Of course, Naomi thinks to herself with sudden resigned cynicism. The patient is in Code Blue. Blaylock’s Healing Touch is useless now – what can she do, keep her dead?

“Vitals, please?” The worse the situation, the calmer Everett sounds.

“BP 76/60, oxygen 82, hematocrit 29.” Anemia, hypoxia, hypotension, narrow pulse pressure. Vital score in the tens, if she remembers correctly.

“Charge another shock. Can we get a crossmatch?”

“We do have twenty units artificial, but it’s Culurium-based and… fuck it.”

Before Everett can approve, Leslie’s already retrieved an IV bag. Naomi’s never seen artificial blood this close. It’s off-white in color.

“Charging two hundred, all clear!”

Again. Faint smell of ozone and burned skin.

The EKG flatlines – and stays dead.

SURVIVAL PROBABILITY N/A

Everett lunges back for CPR. Sweat is soaking his mask, dripping off his face. She reaches in with a towel, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Starting transfusion,” Leslie says almost mechanically. No wonder. If signs of life don’t return…

Quatro’s eyelids are half-open, pupils blown so wide her eyes look black. There’s no reaction to the glaring OR lights. She gently touches the cornea – no response.

“…Are we resorting to triage?”

That’s Vaughn. He’s right – they have patients waiting, they can’t waste time trying to salvage an asystole.

“Five more… minutes,” Everett gasps back – out of breath already; even for him, CPR is exhausting. “If we don’t get ROSC…”

They won’t. Not while the blood is still constricting her heart.

Emergency thoracotomy? A good surgeon could do it in three, two minutes – but that means stopping chest compressions. Even then… there’s no guarantee her heart will start beating again.

“I – I’ll finish up quick and…” Blaylock. Sounds unsettled. Might be her first time losing a patient – let alone a colleague…

No – no, there must be something. Two minutes… even two minutes without oxygen are devastating. She recalls the procedure: incision into the fifth – in this case, fourth – intercostal space, scissors, rib spreader, push away the lung, enter the pericardium – textbook pages, surgeries, stark and clear before her eyes, fingers tensing, trembling with memories…

“Are we… comfortable terminating?” Justin asks, quiet. Like he’s hoping they won’t hear. “Any suggestions?”

Silence. They can’t do anything-

But you can.

“Scalpel.” Her throat is dry; her voice is raspy and foreign to her. “SCALPEL, NOW!”

A moment’s delay – and then Salazar rushes across the OR, to her side, scalpel in outstretched hand.

The world fades out; she balances the scalpel in her fingers (blade 10, that’ll do) and the first incision cuts wide and deep, fat and muscle at once, pale with blood loss. Again – again – blade gripped between her fingers to avoid cutting too deep… if there’s anything she still remembers, it’s how to wield a scalpel.

“Retractors!”

Everett doesn’t bother – his hands clasp the sides of the incision; with sickening crunch of bone and cartilage, he forces the ribcage open, and – deflated lung already out of the way, the heart is revealed, eerily still, pericardium swollen with blood.

Glint of metal – scissors offered – no time for that; scalpel re-gripped, and the tip gently touches the pericardium, cutting through… almost… forceps? already in her hand before she can ask; the membrane parts-

Half-clotted blood gushes out, obscuring the field, but she doesn’t ask for a drain – tools thrown away already, she works by feel, hands grasping the heart, cradling it, and – compression, another, to the heartbeat rhythm of hundred beats per minute.

“Ninety seconds.” That’s Leslie speaking. Good time.

Come on. Come on, please-

Someone is working around her, draining the blood, examining the wound track – good effort, but she can barely see it; it’s like her senses are gone, focused in that moment into her fingertips, into the heart she’s holding in her hands, begging her to live-

“…We have a flutter! Charging…!”

“Doctor, clear-”

She doesn’t stop. If there’s any hope for the patient, she has to…

“Come on-!”

Her hands tense-

In her palms, Irene’s heart trembles – then beats, again, again.

SURVIVAL PROBABILITY 5%

“…We have ROSC!” Everett’s voice nearly breaks. “All right, anesthesia dosages…”

“I’m on it.”

So, that’s where the blood is coming from – the pulmonary trunk is hemorrhaging, blood seeping through the thin wall.

“This looks bad. You want me to…?”

“I’ll do it.”

The needle holder is in her hand before she can ask for it. She still checks – 6-0 sutures, atraumatic needle; perfect for blood vessel repair.

She should defer to others. She can’t. Not when her Healing Touch is keeping Irene alive.

“…It’s going to be okay, Doctor. I believe in you.”

Last thing she expected to hear was encouragement from the nurse. Well, it works.

Her fingers remember the motions before her mind does; a simple interrupted suture – gently, gently; if the arterial wall tears…

The knot tightens, and she immediately presses it down with one finger – waiting for hemostasis.

“Vitals?”

“HR 115, BP 89/62, oxygen 86, hematocrit… forty?”

“We transfused artificial, that’s not reliable.”

“Bullet’s lodged inside the lung. Bet we’ll get massive hemorrhage on reinflation.”

“Careful during extraction or you’re gonna damage the rifling.”

“Oh who cares-”

She moves her hand away. The bleeding has stopped.

Her own heart’s beating frantically. Can’t keep it up much longer…

“Doctor Kimishima, right?” Blaylock is standing next to her now, and her expression is somehow reassuring despite the mask. “I got this. Let go, I’ll take over.”

She doesn’t wonder how Valerie knows – she just assumes she does; a sixth sense for a fellow miracle worker. She lets go.

In an instant, it all rushes back – the noise, incessant beeping of machinery and hissing of oxygen, stench of blood, freezing cold of the operating room air – steam rising from the incision like meat freshly slaughtered – she jolts back, rips at her mask

Someone catches her as she falls, and that’s the last thing she’s aware of.

The air is burning with the pungent smell of disinfectants, and the walls are white canvas. Her eyes hurt and her head feels heavy, but in an instant, Naomi remembers.

She would have lunged up if she didn’t know better than that.

“Hey, don’t get up yet.” That’s Leslie speaking. “Take it easy.”

It takes a few seconds of reasoning before Naomi figures out she’s in the white tent currently serving as the airlock into the mobile OR. She’s in recovery position on her side, still in her scrubs, and Irene’s blood on her gloves is just starting to dry at the edges. That’s roughly… five to ten minutes of unconsciousness, she estimates.

“Wh…”

“The Director? Doctor Blaylock’s working on her. She’ll pull through.” Still not out of the woods, judging by the tension in Leslie’s voice.

“…Can I help-?” It’s a pointless question – there’s no way she can be allowed to assist after passing out – but she still asks.

“Wha- no, we got things covered.” She can guess as much, if they can have Leslie watching her. “I mean, not like you can give blood now.”

She would, if not for her prior infection. Chi-positive, as medical documents put it.

“You feeling okay enough? …Good. Just stay down for as long as you need.”

There’s no point in fighting it – she knows she’s in no shape to get up yet, and talking would just take up her colleagues’ time. She closes her eyes again.

Sunlight bears down. The weather is cool and bright, altogether too nice for this kind of day. But the air still reeks (she’s breathing through her mouth, but she can taste it) and the city feels deathly quiet, despite the scores of cops crowding the place. Even they are speaking in hushed voices for now.

She’s taken off the protective equipment, but her clothes are at once stiff and clammy with half-dried blood. She’s left her phone in her car (can’t deal with the dead now), but – right, that’s Irene’s watch. The glass is bloody, but the mechanism still ticks in her hand.

That simple fact is irrationally reassuring.

She feels Everett walk out and stop beside her. He takes out a pack of cigarettes; she reaches out for one (hand shaking, but still under control) and ends up coughing on the very first drag.

“…You don’t smoke for real, do you?”

She never did, but she needs this one. Anything is better than tasting blood on the air.

“What the hell were you thinking?” He sounds more astonished than angry. “You’d be down for murder one if she died.”

“Excuse me, that’s murder two. It’s not like I planned on cutting her open.”

He actually laughs at that, baring an impressive set of leonine teeth. “…We all owe you one. Especially the Director.”

“She-”

His expression darkens. “On the vent for now. We fixed up the damage, but… fingers crossed there aren’t any complications.”

Everett doesn’t have to outline it – her mind is already racing. Unconscious for a good ten minutes, five minutes without a pulse, severe hypoxia, no pupil reaction – anoxic injury is all too likely.

Chances are, she will never wake up again. Or, if she does, the brain damage might be so severe that…

Naomi almost clenches her fists before she realizes she’s still holding the cigarette. She has to stop going through possibilities, for her own sanity.

“…Where will you transport to? Caduceus, right?”

“Course. Imagine the PR nightmare we’ll have if we don’t. Caduceus, not able to treat our own Director? Quatro will rip my head off for that.”

Naomi forces a smile in response. She’d be extremely surprised if it were otherwise – of course the team won’t entrust one of their own to another hospital.

Everett flicks his cigarette away, and it sparks on the asphalt on impact. “You riding with us?”

Pain is white. The ceiling is soft blue. It’s warm, but she’s shivering. Her mouth tastes of red metal.

Death was cold black.

Her throat is raw, and each breath hurts like she’s inhaling ice shards. That’s as much as she can feel – her body is numb and too heavy to move.

Irene shifts her head, and nausea immediately hits her like an overused metaphor, mouth flooding with thick saliva. She chokes down a whimper.

“…Doctor!” Ah, that’s Elena. She sounds… relieved. “Hold on, let me just…”

A paper towel is brought to her lips. Her spit is flecked with dried blood – for a moment, she’s terrified that her lungs are still bleeding.

She has to look around to confirm she’s on a hospital bed. Familiar one, in fact.

Elena takes a seat in the nearby chair. Her expression is hard to understand – looks like worry and relief all in one.

“I’m so glad you’re… I’ll get Doctor Everett, he needs to run a neurological assessment and – …actually, can you… try to say something?”

Well… that’s an astute question. She really doesn’t feel like speaking, or doing literally anything that isn’t breathing. Still, she cares enough about Elena to-

She manages a broken rasp, and then the pain is too much – her hand tries to move to her throat but is immediately stopped short. What…?

“Please, be careful.” Elena leans in – she can feel her undoing the soft restraint on her wrist, gently holding her arm down just in case. “You had trouble waking up, and… well… you tore the tube out. The phrenic nerve isn’t damaged,” obviously not, or she wouldn’t be breathing, “but… Anyway, there’s probably no permanent injury – just some edema.”

That sounds like something she’s too tired to be concerned about.

She flexes her fingers – they seem to obey – and taps Elena’s wrist, asking her to let go.

The nurse finally smiles with relief. It’s nice to see.

Consciousness is a struggle. By the time Everett gets to the ward, she’s already half asleep, barely managing to respond to the poking and prodding of a neurological evaluation. Her limbs feel weak and too heavy.

She can’t speak – she indicates as much – so she’s handed a pencil. Her fingers drop it twice before she clenches it in her fist to write – stiff, shaky cursive – name, age, current date.

She’s missing a day.

She falls back into sleep as soon as Justin is gone.

The dreams are more solid than reality. Sometimes it’s a bright unsettling kaleidoscope of colors. Sometimes it’s a cold black ocean.

Her memories of that last day are pages torn out from different books and mixed together.

She remembers drowning.

The reality is worse than nightmares. When they finally hand her a mirror, she doesn’t recognize herself – her face is a death mask, skin ashen, eyes sunken and nose sharp. Facies Hyppocratica, her mind suggests.

They’ve made a clamshell incision – from one side to her ribcage to the other, like an unfinished autopsy. Bites of sutures close the wound and fix the drains to her skin.

Her ribs are broken, that much is obvious. Bones shift with each breath; she can feel the breaks if she runs her fingers over her ribcage. Bruising paints her chest – dark red over the fractures, and handprints on her shoulders where she was pinned down for the chest tube. Two faint burns mark the sites where defibrillator pads were applied.

Her left arm is still restrained – there’s a pulse ox on her finger, and there’s an IV line and an arterial line in, and the latter would cause massive bleeding if dislodged. Chest drains drip a pink mixture of her blood and culurium surrogate. EKG electrodes wire her body – the one on her right shoulder keeps coming loose, to the nurses’ alarm and then annoyance. There’s a catheter in, and an epidural line for the analgesia, and, well, maybe she should be glad she didn’t rip either out. Compared to all this, a nasal cannula is a minor annoyance (they tried a mask, but the claustrophobic feeling alone is enough for her to panic).

Rationally, she can conclude her case isn’t too bad – they’ve dragged far worse from the brink of death. She knows exactly what the doctors are doing and why. But reason yields to sheer horror. You revived a corpse, she wants to scream. She feels like her heart would stop beating if any of the endless tubes and wires were removed.

The swelling in her throat goes down in a day or so – not completely, but enough to try speaking.

“…what have you done to me?”

Elena doesn’t try to ask just what she means. She sits down nearby, holds her hand. Her touch is warm and sterile.

A corpse probably wouldn’t feel touch. In her current state, that thought is comforting.

Tea makes the world look better. Even if it’s hospital tea.

Sure, it’s lukewarm and too weak for her taste. Not to mention, mint-flavored. It’s supposed to be good for her throat (or nausea, or… something), but, to be honest, it smells far too much like toothpaste. It still manages to make her feel more alive.

There’s apparently no damage to her abdominal cavity – this should be good news. She’s able to eat, and she really should, but she can’t force herself to. Food tastes like it’s turned into the proverbial ashes in her mouth, and she lies that swallowing is still painful.

Being taken care of – by her coworkers, of all people – is an easier ordeal than she’d assumed. Medical career means she has few reservations, few expectations of privacy; but it also means that surrendering any of the control she’s accustomed to having is intolerable. Frightful, even.

She realizes she’s sinking into dissociation, that unfortunately familiar state of unawareness of her own body. For now, it’s protective, but she knows she’ll be paying for it later.

She’s fifty two, but she feels much older now.

That was never the case. She looks younger (and knows that); she takes care of herself not quite because of vanity – just making the finite resource that is her body last as long as it can. She’s in good shape – not just ‘for her age’, but in general.

A forty caliber bullet weighs about ten grams.

She almost faints the first time she tries sitting up with legs down off the bed.

Her mind is just as much of a mess. It’s bad enough that she can’t think well – thoughts flow like molasses, and she finds herself thinking in circles as if she hadn’t slept for days. But her emotions can overrule her reason now, which is… unnerving. Like she isn’t in control of herself.

She’s supposed to be starting rehab as soon as possible – small things, like deep breaths, which are crucial if she doesn’t want to end up with pneumonia – but she can’t bring herself to. Not consistently, not without the nurses’ reminders.

It isn’t even pain that stops her – just the thought of it, of that kind of soul-destroying agony she remembers from that day. The same feeling that stops her from properly checking the news for now – she doesn’t want to know, she can’t bring herself to know; not the number of casualties or the media response or whatever the hell the politicians are saying this time.

The right side of her chest is perfectly fine (small mercies) and there’s barely any drainage from the right tube, which is grounds for removal, which…

She braces, but god, god, this isn’t something she could prepare for – not the visceral pain and horror of feeling something ripped out of your chest. She braces and she still screams.

It doesn’t help her mental state, to put it mildly.

Justin is the first to visit – properly visit, rather than drop in under a medical pretext, which pretty much everyone (to her mixed feelings) has found time to do once she’s out of the ICU, into her own ward, and actually wearing some clothes.

He’s brought flowers – a nice subdued arrangement that (knowing Justin well by now) she presumes his wife has picked out – and a get well soon card. ‘P.S. Sorry I broke your ribs.’ That gets her to smile, for once.

“Would you mind telling me exactly what happened?”

He’s silent for a good fifteen seconds. That’s anything but reassuring.

“No need to start with ‘You got shot’, I remember as much.”

Everett clasps his hands across his knees. “…Well, that’d be accurate. You got shot at uh five to ten yards with a forty hollow point and… d’you want the gory details right now?”

“Of course.”

“Bullet went through your fourth rib – obliterated it, though good news is we saved the cartilage – and lodged in your lung. One of the bone shards must’ve lacerated the pericardium and the pulmonary trunk at the bifurcation. The entry wound’s outside of the cardiac box, as you see, so…” he shakes his head. “…It’s a real good thing that – by the way, who’s that lady you were with?”

“You mean, Kimishima? She’s a medical examiner.” Giving so little of the truth is a lie in itself.

“Right. You seriously owe the coroner your life. I don’t know how she managed it during that clust- chaos at the scene, but she had the diagnosis by the time we arrived. Heck, why haven’t you recruited her to Caduceus yet?”

If she hasn’t, it’s not for lack of trying. “I suppose you would’ve performed a thoracotomy anyway.”

“Of course, but…”

Irene nods – he doesn’t need to elaborate; she knows just how much time would’ve been saved by a correct diagnosis. “And the broken ribs? I went into V-fib, didn’t I?”

“…Asystole.”

This is hard to believe – not the flatline, but the fact that she’s still somehow alive.

“I almost wrote you off, to be real honest,” Everett continues quietly. She can see how much that is weighing on him – almost literally so, with his large figure hunched down, unusual and almost stone-like without the white gown she’s used to seeing him in. “If cardiac massage hadn’t worked promptly enough…”

“Was it you who performed the surgery?”

“No, that was… Blaylock did.”

“Why the hesitation, are you unsure?” Irene keeps her tone light; the why is perfectly understandable to her – she just doesn’t want him second-guessing his decisions now. The operation was a success, after all.

He laughs, briefly and humorlessly. “It’s just – I was still weighing it when the call was made. No vital signs. I didn’t think cracking the chest would help at that stage. At least, without the Healing Touch.”

Irene can reconstruct his reasoning, even if it takes her much more effort than normal. Asystole means that attempting a thoracotomy is most likely futile – unless the cause is reversible, like tamponade. Then her decision would depend on the time the patient has been without circulation. Still, the presence of additional damage, and the fact that there were other victims to consider… she briefly wonders whether anyone’s life ended up sacrificed for hers and immediately stops herself from thinking about that.

“Anyway,” Everett interrupts her thoughts, “I’ve got to hand this over.”

It’s a small metal badge – a shield with a caduceus. Navy Corpsman pin.

“Is this yours?”

“Naw. I told a buddy over a few beers about this whole… anyhow, civilians don’t get Purple Hearts. That’s from his old uniform. Seemed fitting.”

Her throat feels tight, and it isn’t the injury.

“It’s not… against the enemy.”

“Far as I’m concerned, anyone who shoots up a fucking – sorry, ma’am – is an enemy of the country. Take it; it’s not even a medal ribbon or anything.”

The metal is warm from Everett’s hand. She isn’t looking up at him.

“He uh offered a marksmanship badge, but I said that’s a bit much.”

She laughs, but the laugh is shaky. Thankfully, Everett can guess she needs space; she hears him walk out, closing the door quietly.

“…You wanted to see the charts?”

Markus is reserved (even awkward), as always. Irene doesn’t know his backstory, not completely, but the mistrust he has for authority is obvious, and she knows she can’t force goodwill.

“I did; thank you. I should be getting up to speed anyway.”

“Really? You’re already back to work?” Markus smiles – lopsided smirk, like he does when he’s trying to be funny on purpose. “Let me know if you need a vacation for a change. I’ll be happy to throw in a lung resection.”

“I’m afraid my insurance company is expecting both lungs as payment.”

It’s not just her own chart, of course – there are eight files in total, eight patients who ended up receiving emergency surgery at the scene. All eight survived.

Normally, Irene would be proud of her team – even by Caduceus standards, they’ve created a miracle. Now, though, she feels hollow, maybe even repulsed by something she can’t articulate. She can’t even manage to feel disappointed about missing out on a chance to personally scrub in and assist.

To be fair, she had a very good reason to miss out. Even Kanae, she thinks, would accept a GSW as an excuse to be off work.

Eight patients. Irene cannot fully visualize the cases, not yet, but she still reads through the charts, over and over. She wishes her own bullet would blend in with the rest, but the words are still all too crisp and stark on the laptop screen.

Massive pericardial effusion, hemothorax, blood loss – estimated two liters. Transfused three units of Q, supplemented with D5NS for volume.

She can’t help but think that her organ donor card is forfeit now. Q-heme may be completely excreted from the recipient’s body over four to six months, but the stigma remains long after the metal is gone.

Other charts – shredded bones, tendons, muscles; nerve and blood vessel damage. Too numb to process descriptions with surgical calmness, not numb enough to dissociate entirely.

Her own chart again. Failed pericardiocentesis, v-fib, asystole. Her mind is functioning slowly, so she thinks through each step in treatment like it was a medical school exam.

Everett, of course, didn’t immediately attempt the pericardial window – he knows his limits, wouldn’t take that risk. And that thoracotomy… she frowns as she reads on. Just another minute without oxygen and she would have ended up dead or, worse, brain damaged. (She might still be – the mind fog is concerning.)

“Doctor Vaughn-?” Her voice cracks – that’s almost startling. “Who made the call for thoracotomy?”

“Hm? Oh. That was Val, I think.”

“You… think?” Imprecision grates on her nerves, and, for once, Irene’s glad to be feeling annoyed – that feeling is, at least, normal. “You’re not sure?”

“…I was working on my own patient. Under Healing Touch, to be precise. I wouldn’t have known if a bomb went off.”

That’s wrong. Something’s wrong. Too many details for something she already knows.

Irene has known Vaughn long enough to have a baseline for his behavior, and… frankly, something’s on his mind. She’s tempted to confront him at once, but the only thing that’d accomplish is alienate him completely.

“I see. Can you leave the laptop…” a new thought crosses her mind for the first time now. “What happened to my things? The briefcase?” The suit’s a write-off, she guesses.

“Well…” Markus interlaces his fingers, as though bracing against himself, before replying. “Perfectly fine, aside from the bullet hole and all the blood. The IT guys took a look at your laptop. They say the hard drive seems fine, but the motherboard is…”

“Shot.”

“Exactly.”

“It hasn’t been taken into evidence?”

He smiles faintly. “You can thank Doctor Kimishima for that. I’m guessing she managed to sort it out with the cops.”

Right. She’d been too busy feeling sorry for herself to think about Naomi.

“Is she… Does Kimishima know I’m alive?”

“Yeah, of course.” Markus leans back, leaning the chair with him. “She’d called while you were still in the ICU. Thing is, you did put a note on your record about non-disclosure, even to relatives. I wouldn’t want to get on the bad side of HIPAA-”

“And?”

“I said you’d call back soon, when you were able to, and she said she’d visit when she was off work.” He smiles for a split second, like he wants to add something, before his face becomes serious again.

“I understand.” He’d sidestepped the catch-22 neatly enough – saying she’d call back implied that she’d be well enough for that. “Thank you.”

“No problem.” He lets his chair land on four legs again. “I’ll leave the charts with you. Was that all?”

Something is still bothering her – like a wrong note in an unknown melody.

“…Yes, that’s all.”

Several hours pass before Irene can finally get herself together to call Naomi. Her fingers shake as she dials the number, and she feels that her voice might, too.

The sixty seconds (ten rings) that it takes Naomi to pick up feel so much longer.

“Kimishima listening.”

“…It’s Quatro.”

A quiet gasp – and then incredulous, relieved laughter.

“I’m fine now. Out of the ICU.”

“…What took you so long?!”

The joke is obvious, yet Irene can’t bring herself to respond in kind. “Are you back in Maine?”

“I’m back at work. To be precise, I’m in the middle of an autopsy, and I wouldn’t have answered my phone if…” she hears Naomi sigh, take a deep breath. “…Anyway, how are you-?”

“Much better than I’d expect.” Physically, that is – her mental state isn’t something she can explain, let alone discuss. “And you? You aren’t taking a break?”

“I took a day off.” Perhaps she knows Naomi too well – she can imagine her shrugging off the idea. “Chief offered a vacation, but I’m not keen on that. Why, are you expecting me to drop in?”

“Please.” For once, she doesn’t hesitate. “I’d… greatly appreciate that.”

“Tomorrow evening, then.” Naomi doesn’t hesitate either, and that’s reassuring.

“Just don’t bring flowers. Every last bureaucrat has sent a bouquet already. Feels like a funeral.”

“…I can imagine. Journalists already buried you five or six times.”

From a certain point of view, that’s not all that inaccurate.

“I… should probably leave you to your work.”

“Hold on.” Naomi’s voice is noticeably softer now. “Is there anything I can do? Anything you need?”

“No, I’m fine. I had some questions,” ones she hasn’t even phrased yet, “but I’ll ask them in person.”

“All right.” She doesn’t seem surprised. “I look forward to that.”

Irene lets the call end without either of them bothering with goodbyes.

Staying in the ward wouldn’t be so intolerably boring if she had the strength to do anything. She can’t even catch up on reading – the lines start blurring together after a few minutes, and she doesn’t like mindlessly flipping through pages.

She doubts she’ll have energy for chess, either, but she still asked Elena to get the board from her office. It’d be nice to have something familiar, and out of all her possessions, her old Staunton set is more familiar to her than anything else.

Irene doesn’t bother setting up a position yet. For now, just holding the pieces or moving them aimlessly across the board is enough to anchor her to reality.

“You’re a lifesaver, you know.”

The nurse smiles in response. She has a lovely smile, bright enough to be visible even when she’s wearing a mask.

How does Elena even manage to find time to come over? Surgery nurses seldom if ever see patients. There is no reason for her to drop in, but she keeps doing that anyway (and Elena Salazar is the last person Irene would deem inappropriately ambitious).

“Can you tell Doctor Blaylock to stop by, please? Not right now – tomorrow morning is preferable.”

Elena nods very earnestly – Irene half-expected her to make a mark in her clipboard. “Yes, of course. Was there anything else?”

“…You’ve been coming in each day.” At least, that’s the best estimate Irene has – her sleep schedule has been chaotic. “I’m sure your work keeps you busy enough. Why visit?”

“…Oh.” Elena is solemn for a moment (enough to make Irene worry about offending her). Then: “Well… most patients have friends or family seeing them as soon as possible. Or calling, at least. Aside from work-related…”

Now Irene wonders if she should be offended. “Is this a charity case, Ms. Salazar?”

“Oh, no. I just know it’s hard to be stuck in a hospital.”

It’s extremely rare for Irene to be at an absolute loss for words. Right now, she is.

“Anyway, I should be getting back to work. Please, let me know if you need something, okay?” Elena smiles quickly – a “no hard feelings” kind of smile – and leaves the room before any more awkwardness can follow.

Hospital coffee is terrible but so familiar that it lets her feel alive again, notwithstanding having to negotiate with nurses for refills. Studying the charts with a cup in hand feels almost like a regular work day, if she ignores the feeling of her chest drain shifting with each breath.

Eight patients. She finds herself lining up the eight white pawns, if only for the sake of coincidence, and then sorting them in groups according to the timeline. Vaughn operated on three, so did Blaylock, that leaves Everett with two, and-

No. This isn’t right. The times aren’t adding up.

She double checks, triple checks, making sure her eyes or mind aren’t deceiving her. They took in three patients initially, herself included. Everett attempted pericardiocentesis – he couldn’t have been at it longer than five minutes. Then… then she went into V-fib. How long would they continue CPR for? Couldn’t be more than five minutes, either. Not during a mass casualty event. Besides, there is no point in continuing resuscitation without relieving the tamponade. So, Doctor Blaylock made the call.

But Valerie was already working on a patient. She couldn’t have finished a surgery in ten minutes. Perhaps Markus could.

However, Markus said he was busy with a patient, as well – so busy he didn’t hear the events clearly. That would leave Everett, and that would be the most obvious conclusion, except…

Except that he said he didn’t think thoracotomy would work. Not without the Healing Touch.

An awful possibility crosses her mind. Would Val abandon a patient- No. No, she wouldn’t.

Irene sweeps the board clear, sets her coffee away where it doesn’t endanger the laptop. This isn’t making sense.

She sets out the black pieces – rook, knight, bishop. The metaphor is more amusing to her than it’d normally be.

(Chess pieces don’t bleed and she doesn’t know where this thought came from but it makes her horrified and sickened at once)

She takes a drink of coffee to wash out the taste of bile coming up her throat.

It’s not the possibility that a lie might be involved – people lie all the time. It’s that she can’t see any reason for it.

Irene has to start thinking from the beginning. So, Valerie made the call – except she couldn’t have…

In chess, that’s called retrograde analysis. These puzzles are usually her favorite – seeing a position and trying to reason out what moves have led to it. What couldn’t have happened? What did happen?

Real life isn’t as black and white, of course. Still: she’s alive when she shouldn’t be (this isn’t a dramatic statement – merely her experience speaking) and, chances are, she owes that to-

…Blaylock’s Healing Touch wouldn’t have helped.

Another piece had been on the board.

Slowly, not yet understanding the conclusion she’s already reached, Irene picks up a black pawn and sets it down onto the first rank.

Brilliancy: a move, or a game, that is recognized as particularly ingenious or spectacular to behold.

“You wanted to see me, Madame Director?”

Blaylock really isn’t this hard to read – right now, she’s crossing her arms, the way she does when she’s nervous or trying to look confident. Irene wonders if she knows she does that.

“I did. Take a seat, please. I’d like to hear your account of… that day.”

“Course.” She’s noble enough not to question Irene’s euphemism. “Your surgery, or…?”

“The entire affair, please. It’s not as though I was able to witness any of it.”

“…Yeah, sure.” Valerie doesn’t smile. “Okay. We roll up, and… it’s looking like a real war zone out there. Though… well, you saw that.”

“…I did.”

“…Yeah. Anyway, the first patient I notice is a woman they can’t get a vein on, so I call for an IO and just – lay on hands – and that’s how we transport her to the OR.” She pauses for a sigh. “I mean, normally I’d want to access the situation first but that was on Everett and-”

“That’s all right; I’m not questioning your judgment. So, the patient…?”

“She uh took a round to her shoulder joint. Tore off one of those branches from the brachial artery, too, the… I think it was anterior circumflex? I couldn’t tell for certain. Anyway, she had a tourniquet on, which wasn’t doing jack, and she was in shock three or even four and decompensating. Best Elena and I could do was to get fluids in her and perform hemostasis ASAP. Two or three units of Q blood, too, if I remember correctly.” She laughs uneasily – no amusement in that, just a stress reaction. “Hope we aren’t getting sued for that.”

“If we do, I’ll handle it. Was that the extent of the procedure?”

“I guess? It wasn’t like we had time to attempt reconstruction or fixation. I had to…” Valerie hesitates, and it’s painfully obvious why. “I packed the incision after I was sure the bleeding was controlled and left her that way. Good thing that… you know people were lining up to give blood? EMTs, cops, bystanders…” She shakes her head and looks away, and her voice is soft and emotional when she speaks again. “It’d be a huge risk, of course, but some actually brought their donor cards, and, uh, we got emergency testing done and transfused a few pints.”

Irene immediately feels a tension headache coming on. “You, of course, took down their ID?”

“Course we did,” Val responds immediately. “Kept samples for proper testing, too – the lab ran them as soon as we were back. Everyone’s clean.”

“…All right. You were saying…”

“Yeah. Good thing we had donors. I did what I could to restore perfusion, Elena got another two units into this girl later on, and she was stable enough for transport into Johns Hopkins.” Valerie smiles quickly with obvious pride in her handiwork. “I followed up with them. Looks like she’ll keep her arm.”

Even if caring about each patient is not sustainable, Irene is still quite relieved to hear that.

“How long did this surgery take you, by the way?”

“The surgery…?” And it’s this question that stumps Blaylock, just as expected. “…I’m not sure, to be honest. Not very long.”

“You’re not sure?”

“Well, I was trying to finish ASAP.” Val is talking just a hair slower than usual, picking her words deliberately, and Irene can only hear that because she was listening for it. “…Your operation was next.”

“I hear you’re the one who saved my life.”

“…I guess.”

“What happened?”

Valerie isn’t looking at her – although, considering the subject matter, the body language isn’t inconsistent.

“…Okay. I barely got started with the procedure, and then Justin and Naomi carry you in. Kind of a shock, that – I hear Leslie gasp, and think to myself ‘crap, must be real bad’ so I raise my eyes and…” She laughs emptily. “S-Sorry. Anyway, I… I focused on my patient – it’s not like I-!”

“No, you – you did the right thing there.” This shouldn’t be affecting her, yet Irene feels her heart rate speed up, and she’s powerless to stop that. “And then…?”

“And then you flatlined…! Well, not exactly. Can I just…?”

“Take your time.”

She does – she sits in silence for a while, composing herself, before drawing a breath.

“…Right. After a few minutes, fibrillation occurred, which uh drew everyone’s attention, of course. I had a feeling I’d be needed, so I hurried up – I mean, not rushing, just…”

“I understand.”

“And resuscitation didn’t work. I heard two defib attempts, then asystole.” She takes another sharp, painful breath. “Fortunately, I was almost finished, and… I figured cracking the chest was the only thing we could do. So I went through with that, and we got a rhythm after open cardiac massage.”

“Shockable rhythm, you mean?”

“Normal rhythm. Well, relatively.”

“…Where’d the bullet end up?”

“Left lung, upper lobe. Must’ve ricocheted off the ribcage.” Valerie rolls her shoulders, as if she’s shrugging a heavy load off her back. Probably is. “I don’t know if I can call that ‘lucky’, but…”

“That’s fine.”

“I really think you got lucky. Intact diaphragm, intact esophagus, intact heart and basis cordis. Aside from the nick to pulmonary trunk, that is. I had to extend into clamshell to get better access – sorry about that – but your right side was perfectly fine. The only thing I needed to do was fix up your lung; thankfully, a resection wasn’t needed.”

She says it nonchalantly, like surgically repairing a lung is so easy it isn’t even a big deal.

Her chest is hurting – the same helpless, constricting ache that her body remembers from that day. A few more minutes, and she might have to cut the cross-examination short. Being on edge, watching Blaylock’s every microexpression, is exhausting her.

That’s enough, Irene thinks to herself. I’m going off on a hunch and I’m about to pick apart her words and risk making an enemy of the best team of surgeons that any hospital chief could wish for, just because – because – of a few contradictions that aren’t even concrete evidence. Just because I think I want the truth. Just because I’m hoping that…

“Why not do a clamshell to begin with?” That’s the safest line of inquiry.

“Well-” again Valerie pauses; again Irene’s intuition is in high gear. “I mean, a left thoracotomy is faster, right?”

“Not by much. What you gain in speed you lose in access. Were you that sure where the problem was?”

“Cardiac tamponade.” Blaylock sounds strangely tense now. “It’s all in the charts, Madame Director. …Anyway, obstructive shock was the priority, and anterolateral was all the access I’d need to deal with that.”

Her chest hurts. It’s starting to make her afraid again, but this time, Irene can ignore that.

“You were focused on your patient. How could you be sure of the diagnosis?”

“Yeah, but I could still hear Doctor Everett. He was about to open a pericardial window when…” she makes a dejected gesture instead of finishing the sentence.

“Why not let Doctor Everett do it, then?”

She notices Val’s eyes widen – clearly, she’s also starting to realize…

“Because of the Healing Touch? What kind of question-”

“Can your gift work during an asystole?”

“…You don’t trust me?” Valerie’s voice is clipped, and her expression is no better – stiff and frozen.

“I trust you with my life. With anyone’s life.”

Val crosses her arms again, tugs at the sleeves of her blouse to cover her hands like she’s out in the cold.

“Well, if you do, I – I don’t appreciate this kind of questioning.”

She’s clamming up. Irene barely has any moves left before-

“Doctor Blaylock, there’s no need to protect anyone. Not from me.”

That was one hell of a gamble. The kind of gamble that (now that she thinks about it) is more Naomi’s style than her own.

And it works. For a moment, Valerie looks shocked before her expression changes to that of a novice player trying too hard to keep a poker face.

“…Why’d you assume I’m protecting someone?”

Irene closes her eyes – she’s suddenly feeling the exhaustion set in all at once. “…It’s not adding up. Nothing is. Why would you make the call and not Everett? Attempted pericardiocentesis, that’s at most five minutes, then fibrillation – you said two shocks, that’s two to four minutes, then asystole – I’d certainly be dead if I went without oxygen for any longer. How long did the first patient take you? At least thirty minutes, I estimate. I think that…” finally, the pieces are starting to fall into place. “You might have finished my surgery, but you certainly didn’t start it. Markus and Justin both stumbled over their words when they said you made the call. I didn’t think anything of it, but… You guys really are too honest. I suppose that means I picked my staff well.”

She hears an uneasy laugh from Val. “Is that all?”

“Not all. Justin said he almost wrote me off. Except he also mentioned Healing Touch in the same breath. I’d have written myself off, too. Every good surgeon knows their limits, especially someone like you or Vaughn. I’ve seen your gift. I know it doesn’t work during V-fib, let alone asystole. If anything, it could make things worse. Not that I want to test it.”

“Okay, now that’s just conjecture.”

Irene keeps speaking, no longer caring about choosing words. “This isn’t your strategy. This isn’t your strategy. I suppose if I kept asking questions, I’d see more contradictions. For instance, you said Naomi helped Everett carry me in. And then? Did she just leave?”

Valerie sighs. Irene hears her chair scrape the floor as she shifts closer.

“What do you mean by strategy?”

Irene leans back into the pillow, letting her eyes rest on the now-familiar expanse of the ceiling.

“…If I were you, I’d ‘lay on hands’ and let the primary surgeon decide. Not rush to make an incision. And that’s ignoring the fact that your Healing Touch would have made the cardiac arrest irreversible.”

“I guess it would.” Val pulls one knee up to her chest, rests her chin on it. “I mean, it’s – none of that is definitive proof.”

Still, it doesn’t sound like she’s seriously objecting now – just arguing for the sake of it.

“All right, then. Doctor Blaylock, how did you undertake the initial incision?”

It takes Val a good two seconds to respond, and that alone is extremely telling – she knows there’s a catch, and she can’t understand where.

“…Well, I had to deal with the tamponade, and I figured direct cardiac massage would be needed, so I decided left lateral thoracotomy was the best approach.”

Nothing wrong so far, but Irene doesn’t respond – doesn’t even react – and Val continues uneasily.

“So I… took a scalpel and made a standard cut?”

“Please be precise.”

“An incision through the fifth intercoastal space from the sternum to the mid-axillary line,” Valerie clarifies with slight annoyance.

“That’d be the ‘standard cut’…?” Irene would have crossed her arms if the drain didn’t get in the way. “I’m seeing an incision through the fourth intercoastal space.”

Val’s expression flinches like she stops herself from swearing.

“That, uh, provides better access to the base of the heart?”

“I see. Is this why you modified your approach?”

“Yes…?”

It’s not that Blaylock is bad at lying. She’s just no good at improvising.

“What about following the wound track? Was that not a factor?”

Val twines her fingers in her hair with an exasperated huff that turns into quiet, defeated laughter. Irene doesn’t smile, if only because she feels too tired for that.

“…Madame Director, you worked together, right? You and Doctor Kimishima?”

Naomi doesn’t call herself a doctor, not any more. That’s another point of evidence that Irene decides not to mention.

“We did, albeit briefly.” Somehow, those words alone bring back too many memories all at once. “That was in Caduceus Europe. Ten years ago, after… the first GUILT pandemic.”

Valerie doesn’t look surprised. Almost everyone would be – it’s been a downright war zone, with how hard Delphi’s activities had hit UK. Irene doesn’t like talking about it. Neither do most of her colleagues.

“I see. Actually, I… You know a lot about Healing Touch. I-I was surprised you recognized mine.”

That, too, had been a gamble. Would Valerie even know what a Healing Touch was? Would she believe Irene’s words? Then again… what were the chances of her visiting Concordia and happening to see Doctor Blaylock in action? God’s choreography; no other way to put it.

“…I’ve seen it before.”

They’re both in the I-know-you-know stage, and yet not giving straight answers. It’s kind of funny.

“I wondered how…” Valerie looks away for a while, then back at her. “Except it isn’t quite like mine, right? The Devil Doctor’s-”

“Blaylock, how dare you-!”

Val’s eyes widen slightly, and then she smiles – and Irene realizes: that was a test, and she’d passed.

“Sorry about that, ma’am. I had to be sure.”

“…Well played.”

Was it Naomi who brought up that damn nickname? Had to be. That’s extremely surprising.

Valerie’s arms are crossed again, hand clasping elbow, bracing herself.

“…Okay, well, you guessed right. Doctor Kimishima asked that… we don’t mention her involvement. I don’t know if she will tell you herself, but… well, I wasn’t going to get her in trouble. If word got out…”

“Why’d she make the call…?”

“You’d have to ask her, but…” Valerie shrugs uneasily. “I guess we all had other patients, but Naomi was only thinking about y- about your condition. Although I guess that’s not the complete answer.”

That’s… one way to put it.

Irene immediately stops herself from trying to consider the implications of Valerie’s words. She doesn’t need that right now – not when a meeting with Naomi is just a few hours away.

“…I see that you’re already acquainted?” It’s a pointless question – she’s better off asking Kimishima herself – but it’s something she’s ultimately curious about.

“Yeah, it was in fact Leslie’s idea.” That line is not making any sense whatsoever, but Val seems to realize that in the time that it takes Irene to process it. “Oh, uh, kind of a long story.”

“Go ahead.”

“Well, after we were all done, Justin – actually, ma’am, don’t you want to hear about the other surgeries first?”

She’s got a radiant (and more than a little smug) smile on her face. Kind of similar to Vaughn – Irene wonders if one of them got it from the other.

“I think I’ve already spent all my brainpower for today. Later, please.”

“Oh well. Anyhow, Justin offered Doctor Kimishima a ride along, ‘cause…” Valerie’s got her arms crossed again, and she winces before continuing. “Well, uh, her clothes were straight up drenched in blood. Not surprising when-”

“Unhurt?”

Val instantly nods in reassurance. “She’s completely fine, ma’am.”

“…Good. I’m glad to hear that.”

“…So, after we were done transferring the patients, Doctor Everett gave us the rest of the day off – it was evening anyway – we were going to go out for drinks, you know, decompress, and Leslie looks over at Doctor Kimishima and then at us and we just sort of immediately invited her along. That’s… basically it.”

“Us meaning you, Vaughn, Salazar, and Newman?”

“Yep. Doctor Everett would’ve joined…”

“Except that he was stuck as the acting director after I managed to get shot,” Irene concludes with self-deprecating amusement.

“…Pretty much, yeah.” Val looks like she wants to follow up with a question, but doesn’t.

“And Kimishima’s past came up… how, exactly?”

Valerie slouches in her chair, elbows resting on knees.

“Honestly, ma’am, I wish you’d introduced us. It’d be nice to… meet someone with a Healing Touch like mine. I mean, one that affects vitals directly. I hadn’t even known that was possible.”

She did consider that – or, rather, she wondered what would become of that meeting – but… where would she start? Would Kimishima even have agreed? Actually, yes, she might have.

“…I couldn’t. Naomi would just try to talk you out of using your gift ever again.”

Turning it into a joke wasn’t the best idea, but fortunately, Valerie doesn’t mind.

“Well, if Markus hasn’t managed to talk me out of it, I doubt anyone would. Even if…” she pauses – her hand moves as if to cover her mouth, but her fingertips rest on her chin instead. “…I guess that needs explaining, too. Markus is always trying to do research on Healing Touch, and he says he’s found a mention of a doctor losing her license in Japan for… really strange reasons. And I was wondering just how on Earth I haven’t heard of another surgeon with a gift like mine. So eventually, I ended up asking and, well, Doctor Kimishima’s recapped the whole story with her license for us.”

Irene is very certain they didn’t quite learn the whole story.

“…Have I told you how I got my Healing Touch, ma’am?”

“You haven’t. It was in Alaska, right? Montgomery Memorial?”

“Yeah.” Val looks down, rubbing her face like she’s tired. “We spent three years there. It was uh… an experience. I’m still glad I went through with it – working in the middle of nowhere taught me all kinds of skills I couldn’t have learned in a bigger hospital. But…” she sighs again. “…To be honest, I hated it at first. It slowly grew on me, but still, I… I was kind of glad when the hospital closed down. Even Concordia would be preferable – well, I mean, it’s not like Concordia was… it wasn’t bad, really, just the usual stuff residents have to go through. Anyway, it’s not that I mind working somewhere remote, but I sure wouldn’t want to live any further north than here. I guess the lack of sun just… wears me out real awful.”

“Doctor Blaylock…?” Irene interrupts, cautiously, only after she’s certain Val is paused. “…I know I forced the three of you into Caduceus. And I’m sorry about that. But, now that the crisis is definitively over-”

“Would I want to work somewhere else?”

“Assuming an equal or higher pay for your preferred workload, yes.”

She could certainly find a better wage elsewhere. Their salaries are above the national average, but still, Caduceus can’t afford to pay their staff as much as some private US hospitals can.

Val thinks it over – for a few seconds, at most.

“…Nah, probably not. First off, I’m not in it for the paycheck – sure, I do have some college debt to worry about, but I’d rather try to change jobs than sell out completely, right? And second…” Surprisingly, she laughs briefly. “Honestly, even with, well, everything that went on that year? Getting ‘forced into’ Caduceus ended up being the best thing that’s happened in my career, no need to apologize for that. I’d much rather work here than deal with, well… what our healthcare looks like right now.”

Irene nods in wordless agreement, letting Valerie go on.

“That’s what I’m saying today, but… back then, I was real burnt out, and the polar nights weren’t helping. And neither was… well…” Her hands are clasped in a prayerlike gesture, clenching each other so tight that her thin fingers go noticeably pale. “…I was dealing with some personal stuff, too, but… the main reason I went to Alaska was to learn from Markus. To learn his Healing Touch. It’s been three years, and I still had no idea just how he – did what he did – and I just felt so… slow in comparison to him. I didn’t even think I had learned anything.”

Her hands relax slowly, and Valerie looks down on them for a moment, like she’s unsure of the power that she holds in them.

“And then – shortly before we were due to leave… It was the week before Easter. I was actually out in the city…” she shakes her head like she’s trying to shake unpleasant thoughts out. “I must’ve been pacing the same street for a good half hour. I uh promised I’d visit the church there, and that was likely my last opportunity, except… I couldn’t bring myself to. I guess my heart was too heavy. If that makes sense-? …Sorry, that’s not really relevant to the story at all.”

“No, I – I understand. Please continue.”

“I got an urgent call from the hospital. There’s been an accident at the construction site – oh, right, I didn’t say they were building a new church across the river. Except they didn’t plan for the weather to be as terrible as it was. Fairbanks still gets a little snow in April, but that year, we were having actual snowstorms, so… The roof ended up caving in under all that, and someone was trapped under the debris – Catherine Jackson, one of the nuns.”

“…Sister Catherine?” Blaylock has only mentioned her once or twice, but they seemed close.

Valerie looks shocked for a moment, then crestfallen. “…Yeah. Her. I’m, uh, surprised you remember.” She smiles at that, a brief sad smile. “She… she got lucky, I guess, in that the rubble didn’t crush her entirely, but it’d still take too long to free her and… she needed surgery at the scene.” Val breathes in deep, almost gasping in air, hands clenching in fists. “…I don’t know what came over me, but I didn’t even think of handing her over to Markus. I just knew that… not like I had to be the one doing the surgery, no, more like I was the only one that could.” Her eyes are glistening more than usual. She blinks furiously and looks away. “I guess it’s ‘cause Sister Catherine trusted… I was struggling. I didn’t even know if I should have continued on as a doctor. If I could call myself one. But she believed in me, so… on that day, I believed in myself. That’s what it took, I think.”

If only acquiring the Healing Touch were that straightforward.

“…What was it she needed surgery for?” Irene asks quietly.

Val buries her face in her hands, and her voice is raspy when she finally responds.

“…That’s the, uh, thing, she… Cardiac tamponade.”

It’s painfully simple and yet too complex to comprehend at once.

“…I’m sorry, Doctor Blaylock. Val.”

“Y-you’re…?” Valerie laughs into her palms – shaky, unconvinced.

“I know that it’s – how it feels when you’re unable to help someone. Especially when…”

Her words are empty without context, but she can’t stay silent.

“Yeah.” Val drags her hands down her face, as though wiping away her thoughts, and straightens out. “It’s still… I felt awesome that evening, since we managed to save everyone who was still alive, but later on, when you start analyzing your work, well…” She shakes her head. “You always find things you could’ve done better. I mean, I’m not gonna revert to the mindset I had in Alaska. Not a chance. But still, I’ve got a lot to learn, ‘cause sometimes it feels like I’m just using my gift as a crutch or- …Director, I’m just – what did I do wrong?”

“Nothing. I wasn’t your patient.”

“What did Everett…?”

“Nothing. He doesn’t have the Healing Touch.”

“Why did Naomi end up making that call and not-?”

“One of you would have reached that decision very shortly. This time, Kimishima was faster. That’s all.”

From the way Blaylock’s arms are crossed, something is still bothering her right now.

“…When I got my Healing Touch, it put all the thoughts of quitting medicine out of my mind. I couldn’t imagine that someone with a gift like mine could… bury their talent like this. Except now that I’ve met Doctor Kimishima, I… kind of understand. It was like looking in a mirror, in some way. She’s been through a lot, and… I don’t know what I would have done if – if saving lives got me ostracized like that. I really don’t know.”

“She was your age then,” Irene notes.

“Yeah. That’s what really got to me. It’s all unfair, isn’t it? You get the Healing Touch and now you’re kind of obliged to keep using it because there are some patients only you can save. Except that…” her shoulders flinch with a minute shiver. “I have this gift, so of course I think – I want to think I deserve it. Even if I’m fresh out of residency and… hell, who can say that only good people – good doctors – get the Healing Touch? Bello’s got it – he’s definitely not a bad surgeon, but still – and… so did Kerensky, didn’t he?”

“That’s unconfirmed.”

“That’s what the witnesses say. …Doctor Kimishima told us I’m the first case she knows of someone actually learning the Healing Touch. And I can’t even confirm that I did. It – it must be in my blood, which I don’t want to believe in, because that just means I’m…” She’s cradling her head in her hands, fingers twined in her hair. “…God. Just why? Why do some doctors have the Healing Touch and… most others don’t?”

“…I wish I knew. I’ve been thinking about that question for the past ten years.”

“Ten years? You mean, since you met… oh.” Val looks down on her hands again. “I’m so sorry. I can imagine how – I know I sound like a hypocrite, but…”

“No, that’s fine. You know exactly how it feels.”

“…Did you really take a bullet for her?”

The question catches Irene utterly off-guard, almost physically so – mouth going dry and heartbeat speeding up.

“…That’s absurd. I didn’t get out of the way fast enough, that’s all it was.”

“You pushed her down.”

“And?” Irene drags a hand through her hair, rubs the back of her neck with controlled anger. “I cannot assume the bastard was aiming for her in particular. Or me, for that matter. I hit the tarmac when I saw him raising the gun. I didn’t have time to think.”

“Well, uh, I see. I apologize for asking that.”

Except that Val’s looking away and biting her lips as though she’s trying not to smile. Irene can guess she doesn’t believe her.

To be honest, she doesn’t quite believe herself, either.

Kimishima doesn’t look any different – as extravagantly dressed as ever, bearing straight and proud, white hair pulled back in a loose ponytail with deliberate carelessness. Although – no, there’s that look in her eyes, piercing and haunted at once. That look Irene remembers from years ago.

“…By the way, I stole your watch.” She raises her hand – the glass catches the evening sun, sends a spot of light racing across the ceiling. “Take it.”

For a split second, it looks like she’s considering tossing it across the ward (Irene could have caught it easily, except that she’s in no shape to even stand up quickly); then she crosses the floor in a few brisk strides to hand it over. The metal is warm from her hand; must have been holding it for a long time.

Irene fastens it on her right wrist, next to the hospital bracelet – her left hand still has a catheter in it, even if it’s not attached to an IV right now.

Naomi notices that. A flinch of an expression crosses her face for an instant.

“…How have you been?”

“Not that bad. I’d gladly get shot again if that got me out of writing thank-you letters to our sponsors.” The joke falls flat – there’s no hint of a smile, not even an appalled reaction. “…And you? How are you managing?”

Naomi lets her bag drop to the floor (black, waterproof-looking canvas; might even be the one she brings to crime scenes), takes a seat. Her back is still straight, shoulders not even touching the plastic of the bedside chair.

“…Could be worse. It’s hard not to think about the shooting when it’s all over the news and everyone is asking how I ended up at the scene.”

“How’d they find out?”

“Goddamn journalists.” Ah, that explains it. “And if it weren’t for them, it would be Baltimore PD recognizing me. At least I could leave my car with them overnight.”

Her forearms are resting on her knees, and that lets Irene get a good look at her hands – the skin is dry and cracked, still red between the fingers where it’s thin and most sensitive.

“What happened to your hands?”

“No idea.” Naomi is much better at lying than Vaughn or Blaylock – casual and convincing. “Looks like chemical dermatitis to me. Must be something we handle at CIFM.”

“Or the surgical scrub we use out in the field.” No reaction from Kimishima. “It only takes two minutes, but it’s extremely rough on the skin. The surgeons didn’t warn you…?”

“What on earth do you mean?”

“…Let’s not play this game. I got the truth out of Valerie. Please don’t blame her, I figured it out myself.”

Naomi closes her eyes for a moment, as if she’s too exhausted to stay awake.

“…Fine. I know, she’s informed me already. And yes, Elena did warn me. Loaned me her hand cream, in fact. Not to be naïve, but… they seem like good people. You chose your staff well.”

“They’re awful. I asked Leslie for something to listen to and she got me a playlist that starts with ‘Shot through the heart’.”

Kimishima finally smiles – weary, but sincere.

“Cunningham brought me heartworm medicine when I was laid up after my surgery. You’re lucky I’m not in the mood for jokes… madame director.”

“And you let him live?”

“I told him ‘Gabe, that’s for small dogs, and you know I’m a huge bitch’.”

Irene can’t help laughing, even if it chokes down into a cough and she has to hastily brace her elbows into her ribs.

“…Are you trying to kill me?” she finally manages to say.

“You got me there.” The look of concern on Naomi’s face slowly fades when she can see Irene’s fine. “See, that was the real conspiracy all along. Spend all that time and effort saving you only to kill you with terrible jokes once you’re in the hospital.”

She still needs another chest drain removed. Compared to that, death by bad humor doesn’t seem all that dreadful.

“Organize us some coffee, would you kindly? Strychnine to taste.”

“Of course.” For all the banter, Naomi stands up immediately; only at the door of the ward does she stop to add: “Strychnine is odorless and extremely bitter. I doubt it would improve your coffee, unless it was exceptionally terrible to begin with.”

Sometimes she’s worse than Robert.

Naomi’s back in a few minutes, with two paper cups of vending machine coffee, shouldering the door open. There isn’t much space on the bedside table; Irene tries to be careful as she takes her cup, but a few drops of black still end up spilling on her chessboard. No big deal, it’s been through a lot-

It’s nothing – it’s just a feeling – more than a feeling; something about (the appearance of oxidized blood following exposure to gastric acid) something she can’t remember, doesn’t want to remember (chess pieces don’t bleed) and there’s that flashback taste in her mouth, acrid, burning, and vile.

She’d wash it down with her coffee, but it’s far too hot to drink yet. She’s still tempted.

A few drops of black are spilled on her chessboard.

Irene glances at Naomi and looks away immediately – she knows they’re thinking about the same thing, even she doesn’t know why.

“The thoughts that end up crossing one’s mind…” Naomi rests her hand on the chessboard, wipes the spilled coffee away. “I’m frantically trying to think of what could be causing hemoptysis, and the first thing my brain suggests is ‘pneumonia’.”

“Well, you were still correct in the end – it wasn’t hematemesis.” Torn bits of memory surface through the fog. “You hadn’t presumed it was a GI injury? Could have been the esophagus… Or was the presentation different?”

Naomi presses her fingertips into her temple – too forcefully, like she’s trying to cause a headache and not fight it.

“…I don’t remember. I couldn’t have known for sure. I’ve been thinking this over since, and… I have to conclude I didn’t consider it. Didn’t want to consider it.”

It’s utter madness, but Irene can understand why. Esophageal injuries alone carry a high chance of mortality, to say nothing of the surrounding structures – aorta, venae cavae… if the bullet had been deflected that way, odds are she’d have bled out at the scene with Naomi powerless to help.

“That… the police girl – Kowalski? She asked about you.”

“Kowalczyk.” Irene doesn’t even know why she recalls that – a lifetime of remembering names, perhaps. “What did you tell her?”

“Same thing I told myself – that I trusted Caduceus doctors and that you’d be fine.”

These words are familiar; she said them plenty of times, herself, whether to patients or relatives or colleagues. Now, though – even post factum, with her survival pretty much assured – they hit different.

Irene has to look away to compose herself.

“…The paramedic who helped me – do you know who she was?”

“No idea. I wanted to thank her, but, by the time we were finished, the EMTs had already left. …It should be easy to find her, though – should I?”

“There’s no need.” She isn’t even sure why she asked that – it’s not as though she wants to actually know what happened after… “Hold on, did you end up helping with other patients?”

Naomi tries to smile, but her eyes are still troubled.

“Wish I could say that. No, I ended up passing out – didn’t even finish your surgery. First time for everything, right? Then again…” her hands are together in her lap; her fingers close slowly, gently, like she’s holding something intangible. “Even my Healing Touch has its limits. Restarting a stopped heart… I didn’t even know if it was possible.”

“It’s a shame I wasn’t able to witness this brilliancy.”

“Priorities, doctor.”

“I’m serious.” Her last surgery, and, perhaps, one of her greatest… “How did the – the others react?”

“Well, after I was finished with being unconscious, Doctor Blaylock asked me in utter surprise just who I was and where I worked. I had to inform her I was actually a medical examiner. Cue awkward silence. Then, of course, I got asked just what on earth I was thinking.”

Now she’s really regretting missing out – the looks on everyone’s faces would have been a sight to behold.

“You said you didn’t know if your Healing Touch would work?”

“…I didn’t even know if I could still use it.” Her jaw is near-clenched and her shoulders are visibly tense. “I had to do something. That’s all. I’m surprised they even trusted me with a scalpel.”

“Then, why…?” Irene doesn’t bother finishing the sentence.

“Same reason you took the bullet.”

“I wasn’t intending to. That’s – that’s not remotely the same.”

“It’s not that different.” Naomi’s looking off into the distance, the way she does when she’s deep in thought. “It’s not as though I was thinking about the consequences.” The following ‘and neither were you’ goes unspoken.

“Still…” she could keep arguing, but she doesn’t even want to try – almost like there’s some bigger truth here in play, something she can’t challenge. “It’s been ten years. How did you… were you certain you could perform a surgery?”

The tension goes out of Naomi’s shoulders. She slumps in her chair.

“I wasn’t. Not until I picked up a scalpel. It felt… as if, at once, my heart remembered it.” Her hands are tense, fingers trembling in a barely perceptible way. “…Then again, I haven’t put my knife down for the past eight years. That has to count for something.”

Irene knows she can’t hope to understand this – not her Healing Touch, and not that reckless, genius decision. Besides, there is no point in asking questions now; what’s done is done, and she can only guess at what would have happened if Naomi wasn’t at the scene.

Everett would have made the call shortly, opening the pericardial window for a faster incision. He’d have to extend upwards and crack the sternum to get access and repair the injured artery. Perhaps Vaughn or Blaylock would have stepped away from their patient for a minute to assist – probably Vaughn, simply because his Healing Touch allowed this stunt. If they began CPR immediately, which they certainly did, her body wasn’t completely without oxygen. With the tamponade relieved, her heart may have resumed beating anyway.

Of course, it may have not.

“…Well, I imagine thoracic surgery is a little harder than an autopsy.”

That was a profoundly stupid observation, but Irene can’t bring herself to say anything more serious (like something in her chest is still broken and would shatter if she tried).

And, anyway, the remark earns her an amused eyebrow raise from Naomi. That has to count for something.

“It wasn’t all that different. I just had to wait for your heart to stop first.”

Unfortunately for her still-healing ribcage, Irene isn’t too appalled to laugh again.

Her coffee has cooled enough to drink, maybe even a little too much. Naomi picks her cup as well – with both hands, cradling it as if to warm them.

“…You know, something about bad coffee always makes me feel nostalgic.”

“For the hospital life? I didn’t think you’d miss that.”

“I didn’t, either.” But she doesn’t put her cup down. “Maybe I’m missing something I only wish I had. That feeling of belonging. Meeting Vaughn and Blaylock has been – it’s been nice to talk with someone who… understands. Then again, maybe there’s something about being a surgeon that will always stay with you, no matter where you go and how far you run. …Or maybe that’s just my ego speaking. I know that stunt was utterly irresponsible, but I can’t help being proud of myself.”

“Well, would you consider going back? As long as I’m in charge, there’s a place for you in Caduceus.”

That question catches Naomi as she’s drinking, and, from the look on her face, only good manners stop her from spitting her coffee out.

“…Wh – would I consid- excuse me, are you fucking kidding?”

“I understand that is a ‘no’?”

Naomi sighs in a frankly exasperated way, looks down at her coffee with suspicion, sets it away on the table.

“…Please don’t get me wrong, doctor. Right now, that offer’s far too tempting for my liking. Don’t ask me again – I’ll keep saying no because I’m afraid I might accept.”

Maybe they could end up agreeing on a researcher’s contract… Irene considers the idea for a few seconds, then mentally files it away – this isn’t a good time for her to be thinking about work.

“And I doubt I could accept,” Naomi elaborates – either by coincidence, or guessing at what Irene’s thinking. “I was making light of it, but… The past few days haven’t been easy. There’s something viscerally messed up about cutting into a living person, isn’t it? I haven’t thought about it like that at first, not until… well, you already know about my past.”

“…I’m sorry.” There isn’t much else she could say.

Naomi nods, but doesn’t respond otherwise.

Irene looks away from her, occupies herself with her watch. It’s nice to have it back – one more thing that’s familiar, something that makes her feel more like herself and less like a patient.

Except that the bracelet feels a hair loose on her wrist – nothing major, but it’s still irksome to her. And…

No. This can’t be right. This is patently absurd.

“…Doctor Kimishima?”

“…Don’t call me a doctor, please. I’ve already asked you that.”

“How long was I in cardiac arrest for?”

Naomi’s silent for a while, pensive, right hand close to chin but not quite touching.

“…At least five minutes, I’d estimate. That’s time in V-fib plus the time it took for me to make the incision, and at least a minute or two of cardiac massage until ROSC.”

Her watch is late. As though it stopped for five minutes.

This is ridiculous (she remembers Naomi taking the watch off her wrist), this is completely irrational. There has to be a reasonable explanation – most likely, the crown just got turned at some point, doesn’t take much. Or it got damaged, perhaps, maybe blood got into it (glint of sunlight on the watch glass, Naomi’s jacket covering her), she needs to get it looked at…

Except that she’s already learned that rational explanations don’t always apply when the matter concerns Naomi Kimishima.

“…What’s wrong?” Naomi’s fingers brush her wrist gently, stumble across the watch, close over her hand. “Is something…?”

She couldn’t answer if she wanted to – her throat is tight and painful, and she doesn’t want to end up breaking down in front of Kimishima. She’s not too proud to cry, but that’d just make Naomi concerned for her, and…

She closes her hand on Naomi’s, too, traces letters into her palm again.

‘thankyou’

Naomi doesn’t reply, but Irene can feel her draw a sharp breath. Her hand covers Irene’s at first; then she reaches in, and her arm rests lightly over Irene’s shoulders, too cautious of her injuries to be an embrace.

#trauma center #trauma team #fanfic #naomi kimishima #irene quatro #valerie blaylock #markus vaughn #elena salazar

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