PRIVATE Dealing With Trauma

[Joseph "Grey" Graham]

The Medcenter had always been a busy place, though that was no surprise. Humans were a fragile species. So many moving parts, and all of them prone to failure. The pollution didn't help. If it wasn't the radioactive waste being pumped into the San Morro Bay, it was the smog drifting off of Santo Domingo. Day in, day out. Still beats lead poisoning, Joe thought to himself, as he waited atop the landing pad, garbed in the green, white and red of his profession.

Ceramic plating over a Kevlar vest over an aramid-lined jumpsuit. Good shit, though nothing when compared to the tech his helmet was stuffed with.

The firepower was nice, too. A G-58 Dian, courtesy of Kang Tao. Tsunami Arms' Nue strapped to his thigh, and enough nades and dorphs to make even a Maelstromer giddy with joy. TTI didn't skimp when it came to outfitting their personnel with the best weapons and tech money could buy. Made sense, really. The clientele being what it was. Highfalutin corpo types with deep pockets tended to value their lives more than most, though everyone had something to lose.

Even if that something didn't amount to much.

Puffing on a cigarette, Joe eyed the skies as the pilots ran the AV through its pre-flight checks. Engines spooled. Thrusters flamed to life. The draft they kicked up tugged at his limbs, or maybe that was just the wind. Up this high, it was hard to tell. 'Alright, boys and girls! Five minutes! Five minutes til showtime!' He heard the co-pilot shout over comms. Joe turned to look over his shoulder, one thumb raised in acknowledgement. He couldn't see jackshit through the CrystalDome protecting the pilot's cabin. He was certain they could see him, though.

'Fuckin' MT's takin' her sweet time getting here.' Murphy growled, flicking down his visor. Charlie Team's other security specialist, he was a big, broad-shouldered gonk. But he looked mean, and the way he handled his weapons suggested he knew how to use them. Joe could live with that. 'Chill, choom, chill!' He smiled. 'She'll be here. Ain't no way one of ours would miss out on a pay cheque of this calibre.'

'Yeah, yeah!' Murphy replied, cheerful as always. 'Just sayin', princess better hurry the fuck up, or we'll be leavin' without her.'

@Dietmaris Hicks

 

[Dietmaris Hicks]

Tag: @Joseph "Grey" Graham
Vibe: Mice Waltz

Dietmaris's eyes stared emptily ahead at nothing in particular. Her scleras were lined with fatigue's thin red lightning bolts. They were the only indicators of a stressful job on her otherwise expressionless face. That, paired with the electric green uniform and the red helmet under her arm sporting a white asterisk logo, explained her predicament better than any words could. Trauma Team ®.

She was alone in the elevator, climbing floor after floor in her ascent to the rooftop where her squad awaited takeoff. It reeked of the bleach which scrubbed clean a thousand pairs of gore-stained boots walking in and out every day. There was also the faint scent of vomit lingering in the air as the occasional employee succumbed to the pressure of the job. The daily encounters alone make TTI's mandatory paramedic military training look like a joke. Die liked to think she was one step ahead on that account—a childhood in a combat zone had made sure she was desensitised early on. For many, this elevator ride was the most dreadful part of the day. A cyclical constant that promised stacks and stacks of pain, lined with the allure of eddies. A job that paid well, but at what price? Like a shuttle that launches one to hell, if heaven and hell had traded the up and down. But it was a hell that Die relished in.

A droplet of blood rolled down her philtrum, over her lips, down her chin, then fell to the ground in unison with the passing floors. Her gloved knuckles wiped the trail and examined the stain; the crimson traces had seemingly blended with the red shiny latex. The corners of her mouth curved in the faintest smile.

One minute until takeoff. The doors of the elevator drew open like curtains, revealing the stage. Exterior: Night City. Act one: Don't die, Die. It was the same play she watched every day, just with different actors playing the Play-Dead role. A strong current invaded the space and rushed through the strands of her hair. She put her helmet on and it hissed shut around the collar's magnets, hermetising her suit.

"Come on, boys! Corpses don't pay!" A light-hearted exclamation as her thin voice barely carried over the roaring jets of the AV. She strode across the landing pad and climbed on board the aerodyne, nodding at the assistant EMT. She double-checked the jump-kit, cryo-tank, and drug shelf before joining the comms channel.

"Ready when you are," she chirped merrily and moved into position. Please take your seats, silence your phones, and let the show begin.

✱

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