Tuesday, 19 November, 1400; Touristville, Redmond, Seattle Metroplex
Serge was doing what he did most days - taking care of kids. Hang a shingle and they came, came out of the woodwork. First from the slums around T-ville proper - vaccinations, flu, skating spills - and then from deeper into the Barrens - TB, polio, STIs, systematic abuse - and lately from afar afield as Glow City and the Plastic Jungles - sepsis, malnutrition, radiation poisoning.
But the screech of tires and then the crunch of a semi-controlled crash outside told him he was about done with kids for the moment. He cleared the small operating theater he'd been working on bringing up to speed and then Bruiser staggered in with another ork draped over his shoulders and bleeding everywhere. Behind them four other walking wounded followed, all wearing the purple bandanas signifying them as T-dogs, the small neighborhood gang that Bruiser headed and that Serge relied on for security.
This was getting to be a weekly thing, and even though he lost one for each one he patched up, they never failed to find more new recruits. More kids.
He did a lightning triage - they all could wait, except for the one Bruiser was holding. He'd be dead in minutes without some plasma and surgery to stop wherever all that blood was coming from. They got him on the table and by the time the gloves were on half a dozen more armed gangers had crowded in to watch their friend live or die.
Serge knew better by now than to try throwing them out.
But some did not know better.
There was violent shouting outside, sounds of weapons being drawn and angry curses in Or'zet. The ugly command of a shotgun's pump action.
Then four Knight-Errant officers crashed through the door. The first was covered in blood that couldn't be his or he wouldn't be standing, or holding his Colt Manhunter icy still on Bruiser. Half a dozen makeshift firearms and blades appeared in the hands of the gathered T-dogs.
The next cop was supporting the third - a woman, a young blond rookie - her leather flak jacket was off and her uniform shirt was torn aside revealing a vest scored with ballistic impacts and a widening stain where one had gone through. Her hand gripped her neck, which was also gouting blood. She was crying like a baby. Or trying to as she choked on her own blood.
They were followed in by the fourth cop, walking backwards, Mossberg shouldered, scanning the pack of gangers hot on his heels.
The cops were hopelessly outgunned, but it was clear they wouldn't go down easy. And even these stupid ganger kids knew that making a move on them would be the end of their gang, their families, even the whole neighborhood.
But that didn't mean they weren't all thinking about it.
Serge looked for Markman - that would have made things easier - but he wasn't one of them.
The lead cop spoke - "She won't make the trauma center, doc." It was true, she wouldn't make it another thirty seconds without help.
And neither would the young ork on the table.