Chapter Text
Michael Robinavitch, to put it simply, hated his female co-workers. There were a few exceptions. Heather was one of them, but she left after her residency, and he was forced to live with her absence. He liked Mel as well, though recently her closeness with Langdon had made Michael question her smarts.
Just hours ago, Michael thought he was going to kill himself. He would take his motorcycle, ride into the sunset, and leave this world forever. But after berating his innocent co-worker and being a massive hypocrite, he suddenly felt a lot better. Hey, maybe he’ll coddle Dennis Whitaker a little just to put the cherry on top. Dennis Whitaker was Michael’s favourite thirty five year old minor.
Michael walked out of The PTMC, his bag slung over his shoulder as he slipped on his sunglasses. The air about him was electric with anticipation. Who knew what would happen this Fourth of July evening? He reminisced about his day. His favourite moments were probably when he was able to take his anger and depressive angst out on Samira Mohan, his least favourite of his female co-workers. She was having a panic attack, something Michael had experienced himself just months prior, but it was okay when he did it. Michael was a white man, he ran this fucking department, he was allowed to let his personal angst interfere with his work. But when Samira Mohan did it? She was a slacker.
Michael scoffed at the thought. Sure, he also had mommy issues, but it was cool when he had them.
He reached his motorcycle and was about to get on it when-
Bang.
Michael suddenly felt an agonising pain in his side, worse than anything he had felt before. He had gone through horrible things, panic attacks, his mother leaving him, uhm…not much else, yet this was the most painful thing he had ever experienced. He glanced down and watched as blood seeped through his shirt. Michael looked behind him.
And there she was. Samira Mohan stood behind Michael with a gun in her hand. The barrel was smoking from the bullet and she had this determined look set on her brow. The sun was just beginning to set, meaning her skin was glowing as if she was an angel. Her hair, loose from its usual bun, fell in gorgeous curls down her back. Fuck, Michael thought, he had just been shot. He collapsed to the floor, yelping in pain as he gripped his side. He fell to his knees, scraping them a little against the concrete.
“Samira- why-” he tried to grunt, but his words were cut short by another bang. Pain blossomed in his chest, and he looked down again to see that he had been shot in the left of his chest.
Michael felt the consciousness slip from his body as he collapsed. A laugh came from Samira and the sound was so beautiful that every bird in the vicinity flew to her and landed on her shoulders, singing a sweet song in her ears.
“Well done.” A voice came from behind her. That was the voice of Heather Collins, holding a trophy. “You have been appointed the new attending for the day shift, and we will give you one million dollars.” Everyone started clapping and cheering, and they all lifted Samira onto their shoulders. She looked around, and locked eyes with handsome night shift doctor Jack Abbot. She grinned at him. She was going to peg him tonight.
And they all lived happily ever after!!! Tune in for The Pitt season 3: The rise of Samira Mohan!!!!