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“Someone get Dr. Iron,” a paramedic cries out as he wheels in another patient into the emergency room of SALVA Hospital, “we have another one!”
Dr. Iron barley hears the call over the moans and groans of the wounded that clutter the crowded room, glancing briefly at the paramedic as he and another orderly place their patient with a number of other full gurney’s on the left side of the room.
‘Another Gonzales member,’ Dr. Iron thinks to herself before returning to the patient in front of her.
Two hours ago members of the Legion and the Gonzales Family engaged each other at a bar on the east side of Syndicate. Ordinarily this sort of interaction would not have resulted in fighting, as the many bars and dives in the region were designated as “neutral zones” for the gangs. This time another variable was added to the volatile mixture; the bar was televising a live football game from Eastside between District 14’s Diamondbacks and District 4’s Mad Dogs, and as it happened the Legion were fans of the Mad Dogs while the Gonzales Family favored the Diamondbacks.
The game ended 3-nil for the Mad Dogs; the resulting brawl between the gang members at the bar escalated to a full on skirmish, with 13 Legionaries and 1 7 Gonzales members wounded.
“Damn meatheads,” Dr.Iron curses under her breath as she finishes wrapping the splint on the injured Legionnaire. “Anne, take him to room 102 and keep his leg elevated. And when you’re done set up an IV drip for patient 14 in room 105.”
“Right away doctor,” Anne replies as she carefully helps the patient into a wheelchair. As her head nurse rolls the patient into the hall, Dr. Iron spins on a spiked heel and strides over to the new patient, who is currently being held down by the orderlies.
“What’s going on here?” Dr. Iron asks as she stops in front of the patient.
The blonde paramedic who called to her earlier looks up at the doctor as he tries desperately to keep the patient from jumping off the gurney. “Sorry Dr. Iron, this guy was calm when we got him in here but then…”
“¡Vete a la mierda you Legion shit stains!” the wounded Gonzales gang member shouts as he points to someone on the other side of the room. “Go back to your dessert and shove a cactus up your ass!”
“Say that to my face, you Gonzales pussy!” retorts a Legion member who is barely being held down by two frazzled nurses. “When I get out of this I’m gonna walk over there and give you a new asshole!”
“¡Bring it puto! I’ll fuck you like our guys are gonna fuck that whore boss of yours- EEEAAH!”
The Gonzales gang member stops mid-sentence as a razor sharp scalpel hovers a centimeter from his Adam’s apple. His fearful eyes look up from the scalpel and the metallic arm prosthetic its attached to to Dr. Iron’s cold, unflinching stare.
“We here at SALVAS do not cater to any one gang, nor do we care for your petty squabbles,” Dr. Iron says before leaning in closer to the gang member under her scalpel, forcing him to retreat further back into the cushion on his gurney, “But I will not tolerate anyone, and I mean anyone, insinuating carrying out acts of sexual violence or other offenses in my hospital. Understood?”
The gang member swallows hard as he shakes his head vigorously up and down, careful to avoid the doctor’s blade. Satisfied with his answer, Dr. Iron retracts the scalpel back into her prosthetic and looks out over the other patients in the room. “This applies to all of you as well, be you Legion, or Gonzales, or whatever affiliations you may have.”
“That’s real sweet of you, doc. I didn’t know you cared.”
Turning to the entrance of the ER, Dr. Iron finds a tall, white haired woman in black and purple leather leaning against the door with a smug grin on her face.
“Zoya,” Dr. Iron enthusiastically greets the leader of the Legion. “What brings you here? I didn’t receive any reports that you were involved in this incident.”
“I’m just here to pick up my boys once you patch them up,” Zoya says nonchalantly as she saunters up to Dr. Iron. “I hope that’s okay with you, doc.”
Dr. Iron pushes up her glasses up as a jolt of annoyance twitches at her right temple. “That’s Dr. Iron to you, Zoya.”
Zoya chuckles as she stops in front of Dr. Iron, staring down at her with an amused smile dancing on her lips. “Sorry about that, Dr. Iron. I also spoke to Don Román earlier, he’ll be sending some guys to pick up his boys later.”
“Good, the sooner all of these gang members leave my hospital, the better. You can wait in my office until we have finished triaging all the patients. After that I’ll let you know who can go and who will have to stay.”
“Excellent. I hope you still keep your snacks in your desk drawer, I could kill a few bags of chips.”
“Touch my emergency provisions and I’ll amputate your mouth and transplant it to your ass.”
As the two sinners banter in the ER, a Gonzales member at the end of the line points an accusatory finger at the doctor. “I knew it. I knew SALVAS was in cahoots with the Legion!”
“That’s not true,” Dr. Iron retorts as she steps in front of Zoya. “SALVAS is a neutral organization and all are welcome here, provided they follow our rules.”
“Then why are you so buddy-buddy with the leader of the Legion, huh? I heard she tried to hire you when you first came to Syndicate; they say you turned her down but it looks to me that that ain’t the case.”
“Believe what you will. I don’t have time to deal with this nonsense, I have a hospital to run.” As Dr. Iron turns to leave with Zoya, the gang member glowers at her back as he reaches for the pistol hidden behind his back.
“¡No me des la espalda pinche puta!”
The crack of the gun roars through the ER like a thunder after a lightning storm. Dr. Iron reflexively puts up her prosthetic arm to protect herself as she closes her eyes, waiting for the bullet to strike her reinforced prosthetic. But instead of the crack of metal hitting steel and sharp pain radiating from her shoulder, she feels nothing; opening her eyes her vision is obscured by Zoya’s back, her left arm pushing Dr. Iron back as she faces the shooter with her right.
With a flick her wrist Dr. Iron produces a sedative dart from her prosthetic hand into her palm; she quickly side steps around Zoya’s body and throws the dart into the jugular of the shooter. The man reaches up to the dart and yanks it out of his neck as he aims his gun at the now exposed doctor; but just as he is about to pull the trigger his eyes begin to flicker as he body sways back and forth. Within seconds the sedative kicks in and the man’s consciousness slips through him like sand through a sieve and he falls back into his gurney.
As the orderlies rush to secure the unconscious gunman, Dr. Iron rushes to Zoya’s side and examines the bull wound as she applies a tourniquet . “The bullet didn’t go all the way through. Come, I need to remove it.”
“Its alright, doc,” Zoya grunts out as Dr. Iron starts pulling her along by the hand, “I’m fine! I can just wait in your office while you tend to my guys-”
“Come. Now.”
“Yes doctor.”
Dr. Iron quickly leads Zoya to her office, the click her heels echoing in the dilapidated hallways they pass by before they reach their destination. Pushing the rusty door open with one hand, Dr. Iron yanks Zoya inside and throws her into the stool next to her desk. Opening the glass cabinet next to her she pulls out gauze, bandages, and alcohol before taking the chair by her desk and wheeling herself up to Zoya’s arm.
“Hold still,” Dr. Iron commands as various medical tools flip out from her prosthetic fingers like a switch blade. “The bullet is currently lodged deep in your bicep; thankfully it did hit an artery or fracture upon impact. This will just take a moment.”
“Whatever you say, doc.”
“I said don’t call me doc,” Dr. Iron says without looking up from her impromptu surgery.
Opening the wound up more with a small incision, Dr. Iron grabs forceps from the tray she keeps next to her desk as she clicks the light on her glasses and opens the wound up more; pulling back the muscle and skin, she can see the glint of something metallic. With surgical precision she reaches into the bullet wound and swiftly grabs the slug, pulling it out and dropping it into the metal dish on the tray before cleaning the incision sight.
Zoya whistles as Dr. Iron pulls out her suturing needle and thread. “That was quick. You’ve gotten a lot faster since the first time.”
Dr. Iron’ s mind wonder back to the first time she had the misfortune to meet this muscle brained lout; s he had just graduated from Banyan Medical College and moved to Syndicate to help stem the Mania crisis; it was her first day on the job when Zoya and a half dozen of her guys burst into the ER all bloodied and bruised, but somehow still smiling and joking with each other. As there wasn’t enough room in the ER to work on all of them due to a second of the ceiling collapsing, she took Zoya into her office and worked on her there by herself. She had three lacerations, six bullet wounds, and half a six pack of beer, which saved her from wasting anesthetic on the idiot (though maybe she should have as that would have stopped her from giving her pitch on how the Legion was going to save Syndicate and how she should join up with them).
“You’ve certainly given me many opportunities to practice,” Dr. Iron replies as she places the last stitch. “Done. I’m going to send you some antibiotics home with you, just take one once a day with a meal. Also, refrain from any heavy lifting or other physical activities that would agitate your arm.”
“No promises,” Zoya quips with an annoyingly, handsome smile as Dr. Iron bandages the suture.
“Of course. At any rate just take the medications and try not to overexert yourself; with how quickly your body heals, the sutures will be ready to take out in a couple of weeks.”
“Excellent. Thanks again, Felicity.”
Dr. Iron’s ears burn at hearing her first name being spoken out loud. Whirling on Zoya, she angrily throws a finger at her as she growls, “Don’t call me that!”
“But you said I could call you that,” Zoya says defensively before her voice drops to a lascivious rumble. “Or can I only call you that in the bedroom?”
“Wha—” Dr. Iron struggles to speak as the taller woman stands up and hovers over her. Zoya’s hungry, blue eyes pin down Dr. Iron like a predator cornering its pray as her hands move closer to hers, her strong fingers teasing her own as they slip closer and closer together. “That- That was a one time fling, nothing more.”
“Really? Well, how about we make a two time thing? Let’s see if I can make you moan even louder-”
Dr. Iron pushes Zoya away and shoots up out of her chair. “I need to finish triaging my patients. I’ll com- I’ll meet back up with you once I am finished.”
“Sure thing. Oh and Felicity, catching.” Zoya pulls out something from her pocket and tosses it to Dr. Iron.
Dr. Iron looks at the object, a small black and blue match book with the words ‘l’ Étoile ’ in golden letters followed by an Eastside address. “What’s this?”
“I got reservations there at 9 tomorrow night. A nice private table for two on the balcony; I’ve heard its got the best views in the city.”
“You do realize the moment either of steps into Eastside we’ll be taken in by the FAC right?”
Zoya shrugs as she wears a carefree grin. “Maybe, but I’m sure we can at least get to desert before they find us. What do you say?”
Dr. Iron pockets the match book before rolling her eyes and scoffing. “This is ridiculous. I have work to do.”
“That’s not a no~” Zoya says with a sing-song lilt to her voice as Dr. Iron opens the door. “Oh, you should wear the red dress; it looks great with your legs and is easy to take—”
The door slams behind her with a loud bang, cutting Zoya’s sentence off at the last part. Taking a deep breath to regain some modicum of calm, Dr. Iron reaches into her pocket and pulls out the match book. She rubs her thumb over the gold letters of the restaurant as her mind mulls over Zoya’s proposal, a sudden flash of memory crawling up from the back of her mind to assail her with images of Zoya in a handsome black and blue suit, and memory of her lips on hers and all over her body.
After a moment of hesitation Dr. Iron places the matchbook in a secure pocket on her chest as she puts to memory the time of the dinner date.