“Go again.” Sourceless, modified.
Tanaka kneels, pushing sweat slicked hair from her face. Her hand shakes as she slips the slim headset back over her eyes. An exhale of air through slats near her ears causes her to flinch involuntarily. Pressure builds at her temples. The strap tightens, and her world shifts. Her body reacts, trying to gain purchase on ground that no longer exists. A stumble in one’s dream, but she does not wake. The vertigo crescendos then halts, nausea lurches in her stomach. Her heartbeat thuds in the back of her head against the too-tight strap. Her eyes feel like they’re bulging out of their sockets.
Finally, the pressure equalizes. Her body settles into its new environment. An amber light glows overhead, woefully dim. Three men circle a table where another lays prone, clothes removed from his torso. Fine grey suit pants are muddied with blood, still fresh and oozing from a bullet wound in his chest. He is groaning, head hanging back over what appears to be a dining table in a closed restaurant. His eyes are a bloodshot panic, desperation holding her gaze. The man to the left says something in a language she doesn’t immediately understand.
Translated text generates in Tanaka’s vision, “Did we get one? It’s moving. There a doctor in there? Get a move on. We pay how much for this shit and it takes five goddamn minutes to get someone. You. Hello? Your paying client is dying.” He snaps his fingers in front of her eyes.
He startles, something about her sudden movement scares him. The other two look on warily. Tanaka smiles but prevents her simulacrum from processing the gesture. “Describe what occured.” She says, a measured voice automatically adjusts to their native tongue.
“Take a guess.” The one who she presumes to be their leader continues.
“No. Describe what occurred.”
“What’s it look like you fucking machine, he was shot.”
“When.”
He looks at his watch, flecks of blood dot the face, “Fifteen minutes ago.”
“Who shot him?”
“Just fucking help him. What does it matter?” The man slams his hands on the table.
Visual processing has completed. The man on the table is Ivan Egorov. White-color criminal. Leader of a local criminal syndicate that deals, mainly, in weapons smuggling. Rich. Recently divorced, two kids. Both estranged. Genetic details follow. He’s on blood thinners and speed. Two bullet wounds, both from a .22. Medium range. Collapsed lung. Advanced blood loss.
The other three are irrelevant. She steps forward, the fatigue in her body is kept at bay here. Her mind is sharp as the scalpel that emerges from her fingertip.
“Step back.”
They do. The workplace is far from sanitary. Figures flood Tanaka’s mind. Probabilities rise and fall with each action she takes. She releases a mist to keep particulates at a minimum and approaches her patient. The procedure is performed with precision and deftness. Her mind and body move with exhilarating deftness. Artificial blood is transfused from a bank in her stomach. The bullets are removed in moments, followed by repair of the flesh and sinew. And, yet, she is too late. He flatlines. Resuscitation fails. Unerring perfection cannot roll back time.
“Depsite Healing Hand’s best efforts, the patient is deceased. You will…” the automatic script plays as she returns to her body. Shouts fade, no longer perceived.
Tanaka wakes, retching. Pain is omnipresent. She gasps for breath, muscles straining to hold her to her feet.
“Go again.”
No comments:
Post a Comment