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Connor and his partner, a human named Riley, roll up to the mall with sirens blaring. Other teams have already arrived and likely left with the most injured. Police mill about the scene, interviewing the people who made it out unharmed. Connor hops out of the passenger seat, eyes quickly scanning the area. They’re late arrivals; Connor’s station is generally out of range for this part of Detroit. But with a mass casualty event, other units are often called in to assist.
He gathers a small medical bag with basic supplies before meeting Riley near a police officer. The officer nods to Connor and gives them a quick brief. “We’ve already neutralized the perp. Just doing final checks of the mall and surrounding area to ensure we’ve taken care of all the casualties. If you guys want to head inside to assist, be my guest, but things seem to be wrapping up around here.”
Connor looks to Riley, who shrugs. “Might as well check it out.”
Connor nods affirmatively, already heading for the doors of the mall. The shooting had taken place in the food court, so this area is relatively clean. There’s a few personal belongings scattered about, the things people had dropped in the mad dash to escape. Connor’s LED cycles yellow as he processes the data. They continue through the foyer, finally coming to the food court.
Riley mutters a curse under his breath.
It’s a grisly scene. Blood, blue and red alike, is splattered and puddled on the floor. Just based off the patterns, Connor can identify various levels of injury. A shock of emotion passes through him – still a surprise so soon after deviancy. He’s far too new to such feelings to identify what it is, but it feels weighty and dark. Despite the irrationality of it, each step Connor takes feels slower, heavier. He moves carefully to avoid getting anything on his shoes – blood or discarded mall food – keeping his eyes and ears peeled. More officers wander around this area, setting down evidence tags, collecting shell casings and blood samples.
He and Riley reach the end of the food court. Riley stops walking immediately, calling out to Connor. “It’s unlikely that anyone would’ve tried to escape this way.”
Connor looks back at his partner, a neutral look on his face. “Statistically speaking, there’s always a chance for unlikely events to take place.”
Riley only rolls his eyes and makes a dramatic gesture with his arm. “Lead the way, then.”
The android allows a small smile to turn his lips. They head out of the food court and into the main area of the mall. It’s a sort of diamond shape with hallways branching off from the apex points. Various stores line the walls. Connor pauses in his tracks, scanning the area for any indication of life.
Riley walks up beside him. “Connor, I don’t think-”
Connor holds a hand out and interrupts him. “Quiet, please.”
There. A knocking sort of noise. It’s uneven and faint, so faint that Riley hadn’t heard at first. But Connor had. He sets off in the direction of the sound, unconsciously clutching his medical bag tighter. Any traces of uncertainty have been wiped off Riley’s face as he follows.
They round a corner into a nearby store. Connor sees you first and immediately rushes to you. You’re lying on your side, blood oozing steadily from a wound on the right side of your chest. Your breaths are shallow and weak. In your hand is a metal water bottle, which you’d been using to hit the ground in a desperate attempt to be located.
When Connor kneels down beside you, the bottle falls from your hand and a smile lifts your blood-stained lips. You think you might almost pass out from the relief of being found. Riley is quick to take up the spot behind you. Together, the two work in sync to roll you onto your back, with Riley holding your neck and head steady.
You let out a gasping cry as Connor applies firm, steady pressure to the wound in your chest. Your hands scrabble weakly at his as you try to pry him off of you. The pain was intense before, but this is agony.
Connor pays no mind, continuing to hold the pressure. Blood pools around his hands, spilling between his fingers. He speaks in a determined voice to Riley as his LED cycles to red. “GSW to the right chest, no exit wound. Estimated blood loss of 1.74 liters with ongoing hemorrhage. Possible hemothorax. GCS 10, heart rate 127, respiratory rate 32.”
Riley rips open the medical bag and starts pulling out supplies. “Let’s pack that wound and confirm hemothorax.” He passes a big wad of gauze to Connor, who begins to press it into the still-bleeding wound.
You continue trying to get Connor off of you, but your hands are so slick with blood that they just slide right off his synthetic skin. Your back arches as you attempt to get away from the crushing pain in your chest. Connor’s eyes finally meet yours although his hands don’t move. “Please, stop moving. We’re trying to help. I know it hurts, but you have to be still.”
It takes a moment for the command to work its way through the haze of pain. Eventually, you settle, breaths short and gasping. Your gaze finds Connor’s and you try to plead with him with your eyes. You’re far too winded to speak and your mouth tastes like copper.
The android’s gaze softens, his LED spinning rapidly as he looks at you. “We’re going to take care of you. My name is Connor; this is Riley. Just stay still for me, can you do that?”
You nod slowly, mesmerized by the flashing of his LED and the gentleness of his tone.
Connor allows himself to give you a small smile before shifting his focus back to your wound. “Good. You’re doing well.” The determination returns to his face and he speaks to Riley now. “Wound is packed. Bleeding is slowing.”
Riley nods and begins to cut away your shirt. You have no time (or even the mind space) to be embarrassed about being exposed in front of two strangers. “Lungs?”
Connor moves his hand to tap two fingers against your chest. He moves them to various spots, listening carefully to the sounds. “Percussion indicates hemothorax in the right pleural space. We should put in a chest tube.”
Riley’s already holding out more supplies to Connor. He takes them with a grace you envy, a smoothness to his movements that you’ve never experienced. Your eyes, although half-lidded with pain and weariness, remain focused on him. Riley carefully steps around you so that he’s on the same side as Connor. He grabs your arm and begins to raise it, getting you into the correct position for the procedure. You let out a cry and Riley looks down at you apologetically. “I’m sorry it hurts. This is going to help you breathe. Connor’s gonna help you out, okay?”
His voice is not nearly as soothing as Connor’s, but you still nod. You swipe your tongue across your bottom lip, tasting blood with the anxious movement.
There’s a cool sensation on the right side of your chest as Connor sterilizes the area. “Lidocaine going in,” he murmurs, his voice low as he concentrates. There’s a small prick, although it’s nothing compared to the still-immense pain in your chest. It crosses your mind that you’re absolutely terrified of needles. Still, you don’t react. Apparently, a near-death experience is enough to put such phobias into perspective.
Connor speaks directly to you now. It takes a moment for your eyes to focus on him, and he only continues when they do. “You shouldn’t feel any pain, but you might feel some pressure when I insert the tube. Please, try to stay still.”
His commanding tone shouldn’t be so comforting and yet it somehow is. Perhaps it’s because you feel so out of control; it’s nice to hand the reins over to someone else. Before you can nod or indicate your understanding, the feeling he mentioned arrives – and it’s about a hundred times worse than you expected. It feels like someone is trying to rip into your chest with a dull garden spade. Fortunately, it doesn’t last; only moments later you feel an immediate release in your chest. It starts a coughing fit, one that has your body nearly spasming. Riley’s hands land firmly on your shoulders, trying to keep you from moving much.
Connor’s voice again, soothing: “That’s it. Deep breaths now.” He’s still working on your chest, eyes focused on the tube that has just been thrust so precisely into your side. You feel the soft sensation of gauze padding the area.
It takes another moment for you to catch your breath, but it immediately helps clear your head. Although still wheezy, you can fully inhale for the first time in what feels like hours. The rush of oxygen leaves you feeling dizzy, and your eyes begin to flutter. Connor’s concerned eyes hover in your line of sight, his LED cycling between yellow and red. His lips move, but there’s a ringing in your ears and you can’t make out the words.
…
You wake slowly (when did you fall asleep?), ears still ringing. The sound clears, becoming the distinct beep beep of a heart rate monitor. You let out a groan as you feel dull pain in your chest, an odd feeling of heaviness on one side. Your eyes flutter open and you’re met by an unfamiliar smiling face – a nurse.
“Why hello there!” She’s far too chipper for you, her voice high-pitched and piercing. “How are we feeling?”
You groan again, shifting in the uncomfortable hospital bed – yes, that’s where you are, the hospital. “Hurts like hell.”
The nurse tuts sympathetically and adjusts a nearby machine. “Well, that’s to be expected. But you’re recovering well.”
The memories come back slowly, first the failed shopping trip (perhaps failed is an understatement), the screaming of the crowds, your attempts to escape only to be pushed further into the mall. Then – Connor. The android paramedic and his partner who had found you. “Connor,” you murmur, eyes glassy.
The nurse hums, looking up from a tablet at you. “What was that, hun?”
You startle. You’d honestly forgotten she was here – your memory has never been that bad. You blame it on the blood loss. “Oh, just, um. The paramedic, Connor. The one who saved me. I…”
She furrows her brows, thinking. You’ve never seen a lightbulb moment in real life until now. “Right! Yes, Connor. Such a sweet boy. You’re very lucky to have had him there.”
You sink into the bed, realizing he’s not here. Of course he’s not; why would he be? He has other people to save. Still, you can’t get his eyes, his voice, out of your head. He had been so calm, so in control. “I was just hoping I might have been able to thank him.”
Another sympathetic smile is all you get before the nurse leaves you alone.
…
You’re discharged a day later, sans chest tube and with only a small scar to show for the whole ordeal. The wonders of modern medicine. Immediately, your goal becomes to find Connor. You head home, scouring the internet for clues of which station he might work at, team photos, any piece of evidence that will allow you to contact him and express your gratitude.
Unfortunately, you have a life and a job, and finding Connor takes a backseat. It’s only a few weeks later, when an ambulance passes you on the street, that you remember. You return to the search with a renewed vigor, and are finally rewarded. There’s an indie newspaper for your county that posts every journalist’s photos in the archives, even the ones that aren’t included in articles. One of them had covered the mass shooting, and you spend hours looking through the various snapshots, trying to spot Connor’s familiar face.
And then you see him. It’s grainy and out of focus, a picture of Connor and Riley loading a stretcher into an ambulance. You realize with a jolt that you’re probably the one on the stretcher. But that’s a concern for another day. This is the future, and the future means free photo enhancement technology for all. It’s only a matter of moments before you have the station and number of Connor’s rig.
A short internet search later and you have the station’s phone number.
It takes far too long to build up the courage to dial. Doubts creep in – what if he doesn’t even remember you? Is it weird to call the paramedic that saved your life? Is it even weirder to spend weeks searching for him? Who knows. All you know is that you wouldn’t be here without Connor. That’s the thought that finally spurs your fingers to punch in the numbers.
Each ring reminds you of the last time you saw Connor’s face – the determination, courage, perhaps even worry, that you witnessed. Your hands grip the phone tightly as you sit gingerly on the edge of your couch.
“Detroit Fire Station 7.” The clear voice on the other end is not the one you were hoping to hear, but it’s a start.
You clear your throat. “Hi, um.” You introduce yourself by name before realizing that you’d never actually had the chance to tell Connor what it was. “I’m looking for a paramedic, Connor?”
There’s a small rustling noise on the other end of the line before the voice returns. “He’s just returned from a call; would you like me to put him on?”
You hesitate, suddenly unsure. Those doubts rise back up in you, but you shove them down. “If he’s available, yes please.”
The line goes silent and you wait anxiously, chewing on your bottom lip. It seems as though hours pass, the other end deadly quiet. You even pull your phone away from your ear to make sure you hadn’t accidentally hung up.
“Hello, this is Connor. With whom am I speaking?”
Your heart stutters at the sound of his voice. It’s exactly as you remembered, although slightly changed by the phone. It takes you a moment to find your words. “Hi, Connor, I… I wanted to thank you. You saved me a few weeks ago after the shooting at the mall.”
The line is quiet for a moment. You fear your thoughts coming to life, that he’s forgotten you or thinks you’re odd. Then, his voice again. “You’re welcome. Although I was only doing my job.”
You shake your head and immediately protest. “No, you kept me calm. You made me feel… safe. Cared for. In such a scary moment.”
Connor’s next words are somehow softer. “I’m glad I could assist. May I ask your name?” You give it and he continues. “I assume you’ve recovered well?”
You smile to yourself. “Yes, no complications. Just a scar.”
“That’s good to hear.”
There’s an awkward silence. You didn’t really prepare for anything past this point. You suddenly blurt out your next sentence, surprising even yourself. “Would you like to get lunch? My treat. I feel like I owe you or something.” You realize halfway through that he’s an android and doesn’t eat, but the words are already out there.
“As an android, I have no need to eat, but I would enjoy… catching up.” The phrase sounds odd and clunky coming from him. Like when you hear a catchphrase on TV and start incorporating it into your vernacular. It’s endearing.
Your smile has grown to an embarrassing grin and you’re just glad he can’t see it. “Great. Good. Um, when’s good for you?”
You make plans to go to a nearby park the following day to “catch up” as he says. You almost regret to hang up, but you hear sirens in the background and realize he must have a call. “You go,” you say, after solidifying the not-lunch plans. “And… thank you. Again. Um… stay safe.”
Connor’s answer comes in that curt, determined voice you know well by now. “Thank you. Goodbye.”
And with a click, he’s gone. But you’re still smiling. Because perhaps your injury-occupied brain hadn’t processed it in the moment, but fully lucid, uninjured you can recognize that Connor is cute. And you just made plans to hang out. Mission accomplished.