the worst calls always seemed to happen at the end of his shift — the calls that take an emotional toll. the ones that end up requiring paperwork.
it’s less than an hour before the end of his shift when they get the call: an unnamed male in his thirties was found in a ditch on the outskirts of detroit, unresponsive. multiple injuries. likely the victim of a kidnapping, possibly an attempted murder.
when they arrive, it’s not just another call. it’s a crime scene. his goal is the same: take care of the patient. but he has to be careful where he steps. who he talks to.
❝ can you hear me? ❞ eli stands over him for just a moment, observing him — his hands are tied with rope behind his back. scrapes and bruises cover nearly every inch of visible skin. most horrifically, bruising on the man’s neck is indicative of a strangling.
he crouches down. the victim has a pulse, and he’s breathing. ❝ my name is elijah. i’m a paramedic, i’m here to help you. can you open your eyes for me? ❞ he turns to look at his partner. ❝ we’re gonna put you on a gurney and get you checked out, okay? ❞ of course, the nearest hospital is nearly twenty minutes away, in good traffic.
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@apexadapted liked this for a starter (accepting!)
She was quiet. Covered in blood that wasn't entirely her own, though she couldn't quite feel any pain just then. Was she injured? She couldn't remember. Her hearing aids were gone, broken, lost...she wasn't really sure what. The only reason she even realized they were gone was because of how quiet her surroundings were. She was in a hospital, right? Riley was pretty sure that's where they'd brought her. All she could hear was the soft murmur of background noise, everything muddled and quiet and far away. She stared at the curtain pulled around—oh, she was in a bed. Her fingers idly played with the sheet drawn over he lap. When had she gotten into a bed? Just another thing she couldn't remember.
Why couldn't she remember?
The curtain pulled open in front of her, but it took several slow blinks before she actually registered the person that now stood in front of her. Gaze locked onto the stranger, she tried to figure out why he was there. Who he was. Did she know him? He was saying something she couldn't hear. Why was he...white coat. Was he a doctor? Right, hospital. They'd brought her to a hospital...
“What the hell?” He’d just been going about his day (er, night), walking home from work, when he’d felt something strange nearby. Some unfamiliar bit of tech intermittently letting out sharp bursts of electricity. It wasn’t something Jace had come across before, though it did feel somewhat similar to a dog’s shock collar, only larger. Something uneasy settled in his gut with the thought. It was curious enough that he followed the feeling of it, coming upon a dark alley. Not creepy at all. And adding to the not-creepy factor were the sounds of scuffling, yelping, cursing—someone was back there.
“Hello?” he called out warily. Another burst of electricity through his mind, a vocalization that sounded almost like a yowl, emboldened him, pushed him forwards a few steps. He couldn’t see whoever it was very well, but something was very obviously wrong. “Are you alright, back there?”
' ... i know. ' in this journey to expose muirfield with him, she couldn't bring herself to forget that even if they did, it wouldn't change the fact that her mother had been gunned down in front of her or her adoptive father, who would never hurt a fly, had likely died for the same reason. the loss was hard to grapple with, especially when she was forced to slow down for a few seconds instead of following the next clues.
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apexadapted asked: they're looking for me, you know.
❝ i know, what the fuck do you think you’re doin’ here? ❞ hank has the other’s coat by the shoulder, uses it to yank him into the house before slamming the door. he has all of the curtains closed, but leaves the porch light on. even if they did figure out vincent was here, who would break into a home with the lights on? even so, hank is fully loaded in his bedroom closet — hand guns, mostly, but it’ll get the job done.
it was nothing less than fate’s sick humor that the lieutenant had a tendency to befriend all the wrong people. ❝ you alright? ❞ tone softens just a little bit, hands giving both arms a squeeze.
“ hey, hey… look at me, okay? you gotta get up now. you think you might be able to walk? ‘cause they sent for back-up, and if they find us… we cannot let them find us. understand?
his ears are still ringing from his head smacking against the ground — in all honesty, he doesn’t remember what happened. was he shoved? did he fall? pass out? all he knows is that he’d landed on his back and hit his head, hard.
a shaky hand reaches toward his right ear. it’s wet, and warm, and he can’t really hear out of it. eyes squint at the other as he speaks. ❝ what? ❞ as if he hadn’t comprehended a word that vincent just said. he raises his free hand, reaches it out toward the other’s. he wanted connor to get up, was the impression he got.
he isn’t sure about the walking just yet; he can barely see straight laying down.
in seven years of work, connor had NEVER been affected by a case like this. though he often had trouble connecting with people, with feeling emotion at all, he as trained in negotiation.
he doesn’t know why they chose him for this particular case. a young girl, no more than ten, held at gunpoint on the top of a building. the man, her uncle, balanced backwards on the ledge. he’d already killed his brother, the girl’s father. twenty five minutes of back-and-forth conversation ultimately ended in the man deciding to fall backwards. connor took a shot to the left shoulder before he jumped.
the rest is somewhat of a blur. he was in shock. he didn’t shout when the bullet struck him. he didn’t cry. he only fell to his knees, unable to speak. all he could hear was the sound of the girl’s screams. the sound of her mother screaming, the sound of glass shattering as the two landed on a car, then the sound of sirens. he couldn’t see, or speak, or move.
the wound was non-fatal, but surgical. hank stayed with him most of the time, the two would sit in silence together for hours on end. but it helped, having someone there. vincent, a friend colleague who had watched the events unfold from behind, paid connor a visit the day after his surgery. he’s there for all of five minutes before, ‘there’s nothing you could have done.’
the words make connor want to throw up. he’s wrong. there must have been SOMETHING. something he could have done differently, something he could’ve said that would’ve prevented this. ❝ that’s not true. ❞ he finally chokes out, eyes fixed forward. his body starts to shake, trying to fight off the feeling of a full-on panic attack. ❝ i could have done better. i could have done something. ❞ connor argues.
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