Chapter Text
“Fuck, I’m going to be late.” The warm breath from which the comment births evaporates in the morning winter air. Speed walking uphill, Dylan’s labouring body aggravates her already strung nerves, silently gripping that its too early for strenuous activity. The strap of the overly large handbag packed with the days essentials slips from her shoulder, and she heaves it upward again in a dramatic fashion, continuing the internal grumbling.
Only a week into her clinical pathology course, she had arrived late on two occasion already. Receiving verbal reprimand on the second show from her facilitator warned that a third would be inexcusable. Of course an event of a serious nature would factor understanding but overindulging the continued use of the snooze alarm wouldn’t. Her hand reaches into the pocket of her slacks, grasping the phone concealed and confirming the time with an anxious glance.
The cemented walls of the hospital towered either side of privatised, paved street, the area devoid at the early hour. Advancing the crest of the hill, she diverts across the deserted road for the staff entrance, seeking to utilise the short-cut. The interlink passageway looms overhead, its shadow swallowing her silhouette as she merges into its cast form. Her steps quicken to a skip, the pressure of time influencing the pace and she draws near the entrance. All movement comes to a startling halt when a blurred figure drops before her.
A man rises from the land with haunting grace and Dylan follows his ascent, astonished by height of the fall and his apparent lack of injury. Her eyes flit over his person, analysing the striking and disconcerting characteristic of his person.
He’s tall, broad shouldered and built, the definition of form accentuated by the military styled attire, not hidden by it. Even more alarming is the artificial left arm tense at his side, bicep marked by a single red star and recognition whispers urgently. He’s dangerous and this resolution is precipitated by the concealment of his face, only his eyes, framed by black zinc, incalculable and sharp. Cold fear roots itself in the pit of her stomach when caught in his gaze. Few reasons compelled a person to hide their identity.
Dylan swallows dramatically, eyes fixed on the imposing form before her. She darn not move in fear of provoking reaction, but the intensity of his presence and the intimidate he exudes prickles across her neck. She was right to be fearful. With a calculated subtlety she inches back, seeking to distance the proximity of their bodies. There is no movement, no reaction in response to hers and it only succeeds to perpetuate her spiking anxiety. She thinks of faking inquiry, a sweet smile and all too obliging need to help. But something warns her that no facade will fool the man. No, she needs to stall for time, to prolong the reason for his coming.
Licking her lips she asks, “Ah, can I help you with something?”
The continued penetrating gaze and the distant sound of traffic is her only response. She notes a flicker in his attention and sparing a second from him pinpoints the student identification card that hangs from the brim of her slacks. Their eyes fixated upon one another again, the silent clarification adding to the daunting situation. Her eyes dart in the direction of the entrance, but twenty meters from her. If only she could make for the safety of the hospital but he’s strategically positioned between her destination. Rationalising the next course of action, Dylan can’t foresee many options that wouldn’t instigate an adverse reaction. Fake it ‘till you make it. With a breath she draws herself to full height with faux confidence, ignoring the sweat of her palm enclosed around the phone and the rabbit beat of her heart.
“I’m late,” she pronounces firmly but not enough to hide the slight quiver of her voice.
And with that declaration she steps around him, maintaining her distance, attention darting between his stationary form and single door. There is half a second in which Dylan naively thinks to have intimidated him, but that hope is cruelly smothered when the masked stranger blocks her path again. Dylan halts misstep, eyes blowing wide and expressing her emotions without restraint.
His hands remain clenched at his sides, feet parted and institutionalised posture commanding attention. Fair, green eyes never waver nor suggest a subtle hint of expression or intention. Even when a chilled wind casts his stray hair in an erratic dance, he remains an immovable pillar. The wind howls again and Dylan can’t suppress a shiver, arms trembling. Holding the stalemate but barely, Dylan witnesses the relaxation of the metal hand and instinct screams at her to react. At the movement, her thumb activates the print recognition of her phone and instinctively stretches over to tap the call icon.
The movement is too fast to process until her wrist is secured in the assailants tight grip and twisted with savage accuracy. Dylan yelps in pain but she doesn’t fight the hold, leaning into the restrained arm to prevent her wrist being broken. He rotates his grasp further and she feels the protest of bones and searing of muscles, and she grits her teeth against another outburst of pain. Her hold on the phone loosens and it topples from the slack grip, clattering to the ground, the smashed screen counting the seconds of a connected call.
Dylan beholds the attacker, her face a twisted combination elicited by her vulnerable state and frightful mind. Despite the obvious impact of his actions, the man remains neutral of expression, focused and without deterrent. His free hands reaches for the utility belt, the suspense of the prolonged moment severed when revealed is a knife. It gleams maliciously, catching the morning rays which highlight the sharp, dual edging.
Dread and understanding wash over Dylan like a bucket of iced water. She had known, somehow she had known the intention of his coming from the moment he had stood before her. And she knows still that even her greatest effort couldn’t have prevent this…because never in her life could she predict being the target of such a cause and prepared for his coming. It inspires a thought: what had she done to deserve this? Or not what she had done, but because of what she was?
The blade reflects brilliant light as its position and Dylan is triggered by a sudden burst of instinct: survive! Fighting the iron clad grasp, she pulls back amidst the excruciating pain and draws back her leg. Prepped for her retaliation, she pours all the energy of concentrated thought into the action as its brought forward in a swift kick, aimed for the assailants stomach. A grunt sounds on impact and he stumbles back knowingly losing his grip which is expressed with furrowed surprise.
Dylan doesn’t allow a second to be wasted, setting herself into action. Phone forgotten, she pivots and bolts for the decent of the hill. With each propulsion of her feet, she gains momentum and hopefully, distance. She dare not chance of look behind to confirm pursuit but she doesn’t hear footsteps, only the pounding of adrenaline fueled blood in her ears. Closing the bend, she swerves outwards to accommodate for her speed and as she is about to clear the corner, a white, hot pain sears through her shoulder. She hadn’t heard the piercing of gun fire nor does she hear the scream elicited on impact. She only feels the burst of excruciating pain as muscle is shredded. Her pace staggers, loosing speed and she grasps at her injured shoulder but it doesn’t deter the fight to survive.
Exiting the hospital parameter she darts between the congested city traffic, not convinced that the public area will dissuade her attacker. Her eyes urgently seek out a taxi and spotting one she swerves between the crawling traffic, aggravated honking following her. Throwing open the passenger door, she lunges herself onto the seat, gasping in pain and relief.
“Hey! What the hell, lady?” The driver protests, bringing the vehicle to a standstill.
“Just drive!” Dylan bellows, ignoring the driver to twist in her seat. She scans the adjacent street and her gut wrenches finding the assailant’s half hidden form at the street entrance. A horn blares from behind and the driver tsks in annoyance but concedes, accelerating after the moving traffic. Feral eyes observe the distancing taxi. It wasn’t often a target escaped him. An error not likely made again. No matter. It would be a factor of time, time that was swiftly counting down the precious few minutes the target had fought to gain. Their fate would come like those before and his mission would commence again, anew - their slain corpse forgotten among those who preceded them.
Feral eyes observe the distancing taxi. It wasn’t often a target escaped him. An error not likely made again. No matter. It would be a factor of time, time that was swiftly counting down the precious few minutes the target had fought to gain. Their fate would come like those before and his mission would commence again, anew - their slain corpse forgotten among those who preceded them.
“Well, where to then?” The peeved retort prompts her to turn back around reluctantly but she doesn’t immediately answer. The comprehension of the past few minutes overloads her mind and shock sets in. Fuck. What the fuck?! I’ve been shot?! Fucking shot! Instinctively, she’s reaches for her pocket with her phone in mind, only to remember its fate along with her bag when she searches the bare pocket. Shit! Shit! The weight of her situation bares too much to handle, combined with an overload of light, sound, and sensation.
She curls forward onto herself, a sob smothered against the fabric of her legs. Her breath comes in quick, shallow breaths and she presses the heel of hand into the right and injured shoulder, blood oozing between her fingers.
The drivers concern is divided between the scene unfolding and the attention to the road, aimlessly following the traffic without a preordained destination. He begrudgingly thinks to himself that no shift could conclude without drama. Fucking typical! When another sob breaks in the concealed space of the car, he returns another, if not a tad annoyed, glance to the distraught woman, his attention flickering over her fetal body. He almost rear ends of the car in front when his eyes are snared by suspicious colouring on the woman’s jacket. The car jolts with the sudden break, then stationary at a set of traffic lights, his full attention rounds on his passenger.
Blood! The dark colour bleeds into the fabric, and even more disconcerting is a section the threads fray around an opening to reveal a hole. The fuck?! The fuck she…? Several moments pass and the traffic sets in motion before the driver finds his voice to coherently utter his alarm.
“Shit! Shit! Lady, are you alright?”
There is no motion or response from the woman and his increasing anxiety and propensity for high blood pressure increases. He considers the nearest Police station and the suspicious inquires it would result, but it beat having to cart a dead woman and the complication it would ultimately follow.
“Hey! Hey!” he begins again.
Deaf to the drivers incessant badgering, Dylan clears through the pain in an attempt to rationalise. OK. OK. Get a hold of yourself. She focuses on her breathing, steadying the hyperventilation episode. You know this. You what’s happening. She can’t predict the amount of blood she’s possibly loss, but she knows text book details of the symptoms that she’ll possibly experience: shock, nausea, loss of cognitive judgement and reasoning, and unconsciousness. Her heart is racing and will only exacerbate blood loss. As difficult as it’s proving to be, she tries instill mental calm with the combination of steady breathing to lower her heart rate. The wound itself presents the next issue. She already knows even slight movement triggers pain. With both a clean entry and exit wound, applying pressure or utilising something to block both entrances is useless. No doubt the driver will be less than enthusiastic to assist with second rate dressage in the confinements of his taxi. The scenario is almost funny. The extent of the damage is difficulty to ascertain, her concentration disrupted by the pain.
It hurts, she grimaces, almost whimpering aloud. Past experience and practice hadn’t included injuries of this severity. Nothing had prepared her for this.
The action is delayed another moment, knowing the movement will aggravate her state, but concept of time required she did. Uncurling from the position, she grits her teeth to suppress the urgency to cry out and straightens in the seat. The compression on her wounded shoulder doesn’t relent. Her eyes open to the onslaught of the bright morning, fluttering until adjusted to the light. A few seconds allow her to gather composure before she at last replies to her eager and distressed companion.
“I need a hospital.” She attempts to say evenly.
The driver splutters at the obvious suggestion. “No shit!” he remarks loudly. “We just passed St. Teresa’s. I can loop around-”
"No!” Dylan shouts and she addresses him finally, expression frightful and pleading. She can’t go back there…because. Because he might still be there and waiting. The possibility produces a shiver. But he was right, Lamar was right, noting his displayed identification. She needed help but distancing herself from that place was a priority. Her growing silence post the blatant objection earns another glance at her person, Lamar far beyond subtitles by this point.
Composing herself again, she doesn’t address him directly but her quiet voice expresses remorse at her outburst. “I can’t go back there.” And the implication of her words increase the severity of Lamar’s lined face. He regards her again, chancing away from the road and analysing her downcast eyes and painted hand, and he silently agrees with her.
She continues, “But I do need a hospital.” And they’re both reminded of the severity of her state. “Can you take me to Red Cliff Public?” At the suggestion, objection immediately rises to blurt a rebuttal but it dies in his throat when he catches her expression: etched with pain but undeniably stubborn.
Red Cliff Public. It was the furthest metropolitan hospital from their current location Lamar notes, visualising the city. Has she purposefully chosen it for that reason? But he can only wonder, eyes flitting to her for a moment. Ah, fuck. His shoulders sag and grip upon the steering wheel loosens for the first time since the abrupt acquirement of his mysterious passenger. I better get compensated for this, he grumbles inwardly.
“We’ll be there in twenty. Give or take.”
Dylan nods in recognition. The congestion of traffic would only continue to increase during the peak hour of commuters traveling to work. Twenty minutes was a rough estimate and a stretch at that.
Dylan leans her head back, eyes closing in concentration and exhaustion. Her lips purse against the rolling waves. Distantly she hears Lamar say something but she pays it no heed. Nausea swirls in her stomach, and a cold sweat has swept body wide. Not good. Among her failing attempt to maintain control and composure, wanting to limit further distress to the driver, her mind flits through countless scenarios that necessitated being attacked. An assassination? However ridiculous it sounded, the assault against her suggested just that. She shakes her head to rid the thought. Questioning his actions wouldn’t help her now.
“Oi! Can you hear me?”
Dylan’s eyes flutter open. Shit, I fell asleep? Or fainted? She notes the car clock - it’s been almost fifteen minutes. Fifteen minutes that Lamar was continually monitoring the motion of her chest to ensure her breathing, noting the small expressions of discomfort.
“I’m not dead,” she mumbles.
“Oh good. Here I was thinking my day couldn’t get any worse.” The driver remarks sarcastically. If it didn’t pain to move nor requiring the effort to do so, Dylan would have chuckled. Instead she musters a smile though unfortunately twisted.
“Was saying we’ll be there in five.”
“Maybe not soon enough.”
At the implication of her suggestion, Lamar’s looks to her and notes the increasingly sickly demeanour. His reaction is almost comedic; the way he frowns while comprehending her words and at the realisation his eyes blow wide and lips snarling.
“Hey! This car is a spill free zone!”
As much as she wants to remind him that she broke that policy by bleeding all over his seat, Dylan’s struck with another wave of nausea. Lamar watches the deterioration with increasing worry and uses it to justify his GTA inspired driving.
He bypasses the emergency entrance and rounds the corner to the ambulance bay, blaring his horn knowing it will spark attention and intervention from personal. Just another wayward civilian they will probably think. The car jolts to a stop and his passenger grunts, unappreciative. Still alive. Good. He flings himself from the cars confinements as if repelled and hastens to the staff who are predictably approaching.
Dylan pears through lidded eyes and watches as Lamar flounders and flaps his arms in an exaggerated manner. The staff shake their head and respond back. Lamar is obviously displeased by their response, rudely gesturing at them which instigates outrage from one of the uniformed persons. He’s at his again, motioning back at the car and is beginning his trek back, muffled exclamations explaining the urgency of the situation. The staff follow, though one with some reluctance, but once they near the vehicle and see the state of the person within, Dylan observes the split second when which they realise the severity of her condition and cause for the drivers insistence. One person pelts back towards the facility, probably seeking further aid. It’s a matter of seconds before the passenger door is wrenched open and so begins the frantic inspection of her person, routine questions striking at her, one after another.
It’s too loud. Too much. Releasing her injury, Dylan gestures at the person to stop, expressing discomfort at the movement. The obey the request, if only for a moment until Dylan attempts to pull herself from the car. Protests sound but against the recommendation to remain seated until further help arrives, Dylan insists on standing and they assist her claim footing. She cradles the injured arm against her body, swaying on her feet as a dizzy spill disorientates her balance.
Lamar stands by observing the scene with arms crossed across his chest, knowing his hands will fidget if left unrestrained. He concludes it’s the exhaustion from the shift, completely unrelated to a passenger bleeding out beside him. The clattering of a stretcher draws his attention and he watches as more staff rush from the ambulance entrance. He follows their predicted path until his focus returns to the woman who regards the exhibition with pained vexation. Astonishingly, he releases then he doesn’t know her name.
Staff exchange comments among themselves, evidently shocked by the scene and if not somewhat unsettled. Gun related injuries aren’t common, not here at least. To suggest that such an incident had occurred here would provoke concern. Despite their growing unease, them remain professional, if not a little too pedantic, treating Dylan with porcelain like care. Not dying just yet, guys. But she relents to their coaxing, several hands steering her to the bed and she hisses when the movement exacerbates the pain. Commands and inquires continue to bark and as she’s rolled towards the entrance. She remembers just before it’s too late, turning around despite protests, she locates Lamar, transfixed and watching. She smiles weakly and calls out, “Just send me the bill.”
Lamar doesn’t return the smile nor offer a reply. He remains paralysed as the stretcher disappears behind the automated doors, speculating what fate awaited the woman without name.
An hour ahead of schedule, he decides to clock off and start on the six pack awaiting him at home. It was 5 o'clock somewhere.