This is the first chapter of a fan fiction I started last year. It is not finished yet but I have made enough progress that like last time, I'm just gonna fuckin send it.
Warning: This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues, addiction and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.' If anything gets spicy, I will tag it *NSFW* but I don't have anything currently in the works as such. Let's be honest, I'm not that good at spicy stuff anyway.
I say again: SEND IT
“Tier 1 Trauma, ETA three minutes.”
Ten minutes after two in the morning, the city of Pittsburgh should be at its quietest, the people of its city asleep, most hours away from their alarms, or others hours away from getting off shift. Traffic is at its lightest, nearly all of SEPTA’s transport vehicles still snuggled away in depots and yards.
At a level one trauma center, none of that ever matters.
“Alright, we’re gonna put that in Trauma 1” Nightshift charge nurse Lena calls out as heads snap towards the desk.
Dr. Jack Abbot along with nurse Kim Tate put on isolation gowns as the residents and medical students scramble into the room.
“Okay, Whitaker, you get the head for primary assessment and airway, Santos, you do the EFAST, Mohan, you’re gonna check the back when we roll them. Javadi, you’re gonna make sure they don’t miss anything. Welcome to your six weeks of nightshift. We’re gonna have a great time.” Abbot says, a smirk crinkling his eyes as Javadi still struggles with her gloves. The sliding door is open, the room buzzing with anticipation. Respiratory and social work mill by the door, but someone walks in, leaning onto one of the cabinets and crossing their arms. Abbot doesn’t recognize them, with their hair in a colorful scrub cap, a surgical mask tied to their face and their scrubs not the emergency departments black or grey. “Hey.” He says, his brow furrowed at them. “Who are you?” He points from the back of the room.
“I’m Cam. I’m from the O.R. Waiting on the trauma, just following the new S.O.P.” She says, tearing her mask off of her face and putting her hands up.
“Why do we need a nurse from the O.R?” Javadi asks, her safety glasses askew and foggy.
“Ooh. Don’t call her a nurse. She hates that.” Garcia says, marching into the room and grabbing a gown. Cam arches an eyebrow in Garcia’s direction, silent.
“What are you then, a medical student?” Abbot asks, crossing his arms.
“Scrub tech. I’m just the messenger. Miller and Underwood’s new grand plan.” Cam sighs. Abbot stares at her confused. “There’s been too many emergency cases with no warning. I was sitting at the desk last month when someone comes rolling by with a guy with an eleven inch chef knife sticking out of his chest. No warning.” Cam says, staring down Garcia as she focuses on putting on a pair of gloves. “So now, I call the desk, make sure we know if any tier 1 or tier 2 traumas are coming up or not.”
“That’s your whole job? Just…calling the desk?” Whitaker asks. Cam turns to him, brow furrowed, her lip beginning to upturn with mild disgust. Whitaker flushes, his eyes wide, and turns back to his intubation supplies.
“Did his mom drop him off? These kids get younger every damn year.” Cam mumbles.
“We’re just getting older.” Abbot says, putting on a mask.
“What’s this ‘we’ shit? Did you just call me old? After asking if I’m a med student? Good, God.” Cam says, shaking her head.
“I’m just trying to figure out who’s rubbernecking in my trauma bay.” Abbot says, crossing his arms.
“And I’m just wondering how a guy your age had the balls to ask for the curly broccoli hair cut all the twenty year olds have.” Cam replies.
“My hair grows this way.” Abbot replies, pointing to his silver and blonde curls.
“Whatever you say, bro.” Cam says, smirking at him. Whitaker, Javadi, Mohan and Santos gape at the two of them, eyes flashing to everyone in the room who’s staring at the two of them.
“Don’t worry, if you rotate through surgery, you’ll get to enjoy her all the time.” Garcia says haughtily, desperate to break the awkward silence in the room. She turns to Santos, who is putting ultrasound gel on the probe. “You get to do the EFAST? Super fun. I’ll help you.” Garcia smiles, sidling up to Santos. Cam raises an eyebrow, her eyes locking briefly with Dr. Abbot’s as they both witness the display. Before any more words can be uttered, Lena calls out.
“Trauma 1, in room now!” The patient rolls by, groaning.
“27 year old male, GSW times two to the abdomen, GCS 15, packed the one in the flank that went through and through, last BP was 97 over 58. Hung a pack of RBCs, access is an 18 in the AC and a 22 in the hand.” The paramedic reports casually. No one in the room is startled by the patients groaning.
“Thanks, guys. Whitaker, on your count.” Abbot says, his eyes flashing again to Cam before they move the patient.
“Right, uh, My count. One, Two, Three.” Whitaker calls softly, moving the patient over onto the ER stretcher. The patient cries out again, despite the soft landing.
“Uh, sir? Sir? Can you tell me your name?” Whitaker asks, the patient still moaning. The patient doesn’t answer, and Whitaker grows nervous as everyone stares at him. “Sir! You need to tell me your name!” Whitaker demands, shocking the trauma room, the patient included.
“John. My name is John.” The patient croaks out, his writhing lessening on the stretcher.
“John, I’m Dr. Whitaker. Do you know where you are?” Whitaker asks. The patient is interrupted by Santos pressing the ultrasound probe to his stomach, making him cry out again.
“Sorry, sir, we just have to check your abdomen.” Garcia says, nodding to encourage Santos to keep looking. Santos and Garcia keep exchanging glances as they scan the quadrants required for an EFAST, Dr. Garcia’s voice taking on a different tone than usual.
The exam continues, but the only thing Cam focuses on is the ultrasound, and how little Garcia seems to be paying attention to the scan. Dr. Mohan checks the patient’s back, the only thing of note was the already known exit wound, fraying the tissues in John’s flank.
“Well, call me if the CT shows anything. Good job, Trinity.” Garcia says, taking her gloves off and slingshotting them into the garbage can. Cam’s brow furrows deeply, her eyes scrutinizing Garcia. She looks at the vitals displayed on the screen, the blood pressure cuff just now deflating and providing a new reading. Her eyes flash to Abbot’s before looking back at the screen.
“You got the look.” Abbot says, coming around past Whitaker toward the side of the bed.
“What look?” Whitaker says, turning to follow Abbot as he grabs the ultrasound.
“Your spider-senses tingling?” Abbot asks, flashing his eyes to Cam, who pushes herself off the wall while still staying feet away, but closer than before, her eyes still glancing between the patient’s vitals and the ultrasound machine. “Blood pressure is soft, we got a bullet running around somewhere in the body...” Abbot says, as if he’s reciting eggs and milk off his grocery list, his eyes glancing at Whitaker, Mohan and Javadi, who stare anxiously at him. Santos is behind him at the door, freezing when Abbot grabs the ultrasound again. The ultrasound picture on the left hand side just below the ribcage shows on the screen, and Abbot flashes a look to Cam.
“Always listen to your instincts.” Abbot says, cracking a small smile. “You see a lot of EFASTs before?”
“A few. I thought I saw a space, but I wasn’t sure. Just felt…off.” Cam says, pulling out her cellphone. “Hey, it’s me. Open up the trauma room, we got a spleen that needs to be taken out. Yeah, it’s usually a couple of prolenes. Just…open the room. I’m oscar mike.” Cam hangs up, jamming her phone in her back pocket. “Well, no rest for the wicked.” She says, heading towards the door.
“Nice meeting you, Cam.” Abbot says, taking off his gown and throwing it away.
“Nice meeting you…uh.” She pauses in the doorway grimacing when she realizes she doesn’t know his name.
“Jack Abbot. You can call me Jack.” He says, putting hand sanitizer on from the wall dispenser before holding out a hand for her to shake.
“I don’t call doctors by their first names, but it’s nice to meet you Dr. Abbot. I guess someone will send Garcia’s dumbass back down to transport this patient.” Cam scoffs, heading down the hallway toward the stairs that lead up to the surgical department.
“And I guess Santos is presenting the clinical indications of an EFAST exam during rounds in the morning.” Abbot calls into the room, much to Trinity’s horror. “Hey!” Jack calls out to her. Cam turns, hands in the air again. “Did you serve?” he asks.
“My brother.” She replies. “I gotta go help these kids get this party started.” Cam shrugs, hustling down the hallway. “Hey, you know I’ve got some really good mousse if you want to add a little volume, by the way.” She calls, turning back once more to him, gesturing like she’s fluffing her hair despite the cap covering it. Cam pops the stairwell door open and charges up before Abbot can reply, leaving him with his hands on his hips, staring down the hallway.
“Tier 1 trauma, ETA 15 minutes”
It’s just after seven in the morning, the sun beginning to crest above the tall buildings in the city. Dr. Robby slides in through the ambulance bay doors, past a patient on a gurney transported by paramedics.
“Good night?” Robby asks Abbot, setting his backpack down under the desk as his eyes lock onto the board.
“Not bad. Santos and Garcia almost missed an EFAST doing…whatever it is they think they’re doing.” Abbot says, leaning onto the desk as they both stare at the screen full of people that probably could be almost anywhere else besides stuck in the hallways of the emergency department.
“You want me to talk to her?” Robby asks, turning to look at him a moment.
“No, she’s sufficiently humiliated I think. Guy went up to the OR around 0230. We got a trauma coming in about…12 minutes.” Abbot says, looking at his watch.
“Why don’t you get out of here, before it comes in?” Robby says, rolling up the sleeves of his hoodie and nodding at Dana as she gets done getting report from Dana. “Which room, Dana?”
“Trauma two sounds good to me.” Dana answers, slamming back some coffee and putting her reading glasses on to check her computer.
“Sounds wonderful. Seriously, Abbot, you should get out of here.” Robby says, heading toward the trauma room.
“What am I going to do? Sleep?” Abbot says with a small chuckle, following him into the trauma room.
“Good morning, everyone. You guys wanna get out of here, or are you taking a page out of Dr. Abbot’s book and stick around?” Robby says, putting on a gown. The younger residents and students don’t answer, grabbing gowns, gloves and putting on safety glasses. “I guess that answers that.” Robby says with a slight smile at Abbot.
Cam rounds the corner into the room, taking her spot from this morning back, sidling between the cabinets on the wall near the door.
“Hey, how’s the patient from tonight?” Whitaker asks.
“Fine. Spleen out, put a G-tube in since there was a hole in the stomach too. Just pursestringed the tube into it, extubated in the OR, didn’t even need to go to the ICU.” Cam shrugs.
“Robby, that’s Cam, she’s a scrub tech from the O.R. She’s the one who had the spider-senses about the EFAST.”
“It’s actually Spidey-senses.” Whitaker mumbles. They all turn to him, surprise plastered across all their faces, but Cam can’t help but crack a smile.
“He’s right. And it wasn’t anything special. Like you said, I’ve seen enough EFASTs. I just had a gut feeling.” Cam shrugs.
“I cannot believe Gloria has the O.R staff doing this.” Robby says, putting on gloves as he shakes his head.
“Well, forewarned is forearmed.” Cam shrugs. “I’m nosy, too.” She faux whispers, winking at Javadi.
“How long have you worked at the Pitt?” Robby asks.
“Eight months. Been a scrub tech for…just about six years.”
“You from Pennsylvania?” Robby asks, untangling the cords from the monitor on the wall.
“Pittsburgh born and raised. I got out of scrub tech school and traveled though. Got a job in Chicago, then Detroit, a year in G-Dub in D.C, methodist in Indy, Shock Trauma in Baltimore.”
“Anywhere but here?” Abbot challenges, turning his eyes to her. She shifts under his scrutiny.
“Yeah. Well, back now.” Cam sighs.
“I take it you’re a trauma junkie like the rest of us?” Robby says with a wry grin. Cam huffs out a small laugh.
“Oh yeah. I live for chaos.” Cam says with a smile. The room, teeming with nurses and ancillary staff all murmur with agreement.
“Doesn’t your shift end in like fifteen minutes?” Abbot asks, eyeing the clock.
“What am I going to do? Go home and sleep?” Cam scoffs. Robby raises an eyebrow at Abbot, who looks away from all of them, focusing on a cabinet full of I.V supplies.
“Trauma two, in room!” Dana calls out, the patient slack on the gurney.
“Twenty one year old male, long extrication from single-car MVC, GCS of 5, but that was after 8mg of Narcan. The long extrication was because he was halfway out the sunroof, but too high to get all the way out. 18 in the right wrist, 20 in the left AC.”
“Oh, boy.” Cam mumbles, getting a pair of gloves off the wall dispenser as they move the unconscious adult over.
“Alright, what’s the move, Whitaker?” Robby asks, standing over Dennis’ shoulder.
“Probably eight more of Narcan?” Dennis says, his words dripping with uncertainty.
“Whitaker, is that an order or a question?” Abbot says, checking the patient’s abdomen with the ultrasound, Santos standing shoulder to shoulder with him.
“Mateo, can I get 8 more of Narcan?” Dennis requests with a smattering of authority. The syringe of Narcan goes into the I.V line, and Cam sidles up to the patient's side. Robby’s brow furrows as he sees her close to the patient, until all hell breaks loose. The young man bolts upright, screaming and trying to get out of the stretcher. Cam throws her body across the young man’s knees and hips, her hand locking onto the patient’s to prevent him from tearing out his I.V’s.
“Let’s get some precedex and haldol, see if we can stop this rodeo ride.” Robby says, chuckling at Cam wrestling the patient and Dennis’ stunned expression. “You saw that coming, too?” Robby asks.
“You know how many twenty-somethings and redheads I’ve helped keep on the table?” Cam laughs, still pinning the patient down.
“She really does like the chaos.” Robby smiles, shaking his head at Abbot, who is staring at her. “Go home, you’re tired. I’m tired, and I just got here.” Robby says, putting his hand on Jack’s shoulder to break his trance. “Cam, nice meeting you. Thanks for the extra hands.” Robby says, taking off his gown and throwing it in the garbage.
“Well, let me give you report at least, before you throw me out. Bed one is a THC user with hyperemesis, I think Perlah just got him out of the shower. Probably give him a liter of crystalloid and get him out. Bed two is waiting on ortho to come down and do a surgical consult, hopefully they can find a bed.”
“Have a good day!!” Cam calls, waving to the trauma bay as she heads out. She gives a weak salute to Robby and Abbot, and Abbot cracks a smile at her as she spins around, marching down the hallway toward the surgical department.
“Good God, that's a big girl.” Myrna states, shuffling her wheelchair towards Robby as Cam struts toward the stairwell.
“Hey.” Abbot snaps. Robby turns her wheelchair to face him, taking off his glasses to stare her down.
“Myrna, you don’t comment on staff’s bodies. You want to get banned from here? Where else is going to take you?” Robby asks, raising his eyebrows.
“If I had known the brooding one was into big girls, I would have started working him over years ago.” Myrna mumbles to Robby. He shakes his head with a sigh, pushing her wheelchair further from the desk and locking the brakes when he pushes her into the corner. Robby shakes his head as he walks back towards Abbot, who’s glaring at Myrna, but his ears are flush.
Robert cleared his throat, glancing down and squinting at the file in his hands. First interview. No pressure.
“Sharp Shoot?”
“Nah, bro.”
The voice cut in immediately.
The man across from him shook his head, clicking his tongue. “C’mon. You say it how it’s spelled. Sharp Shoota. You gotta emphasis on the a.” He leaned back in his chair, the metal legs scraping softly against the floor.
“Say it with some flair, like you’re hollerin’ at your boy.”
Robert blinked once.
Then again.
He’d assumed the name was a typo, perhaps some alias scribbled in by an overworked clerk. He’d tried to be polite.
Turns out, he was wrong.
“…Sharp Shoota,” Robert repeated carefully.
“There you go.” The man grinned, clapping his hands once before rubbing them together, clearly pleased. “Now we’re talkin’.”
The grin was easy. Confident. Almost disarming.
For a brief second, Robert forgot where they were, and why.
He adjusted his grip on the file, finally studying the man properly. A Black man in his forties. Broad shoulders. Calm posture. No twitching hands. No nervous energy.
If this was someone who never missed, he didn’t carry it like a threat. He carried it like a fact.
“You understand why you’re here,” Robert said, settling back into his chair. “Correct?”
“Yeah,” Shoota replied with a shrug. “You tryna figure out if I’m worth not throwin’ back in a box.”
Robert didn’t correct him. He was technically right.
“Right. And before we go any further,” Robert continued, tapping the edge of the file once, “you should know this isn’t about charm. I’ve read your record. I know what you’ve done. This is about whether I can trust you under pressure.”
Shoota nodded slowly. “Fair.”
Alright, Robert thought, straight to the questionnaire.
“Why do you want to join the Phoenix Program?” he asked, watching him closely for any discrepancies or discomfort.
The slight grin faded, not dramatically, but deliberately. The man leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, voice lowering just enough to matter.
“My mom.”
Robert’s pen paused mid-stroke.
“She’s sick,” Derrick continued. “And if I stay where I’m at… I ain’t really seein’ her again. Not in any way that counts.”
Robert looked up, meeting his eyes now.
“How sick?” Robert asked quietly.
Shoota hesitated. Not long—just enough to be honest.
“Cancer,” he said. “Stage three. She’s fightin’, but… time ain’t on her side.”
A beat of silence followed, Robert a bit stunned at the revelation.
Not only did this man seek redemption; he wanted to see his family.
Shoota continued, “I don’t want to watch my momma die while I’m behind bars, and I don’t want to just listen to her voice through phone calls. I…” he shakes his head, as if he physically rejected the emotions to go through. “I just want to see her.”
“I’m sorry to hear that,” he said quietly. “Truly.”
Shoota nodded, his hands clasped together in front of him, his hands now finally nervous as they fidgeted.
“Thing is,” he added, “she ain’t the only reason.”
Robert waited.
“My pops was around,” Derrick said. “Before you ask; He was a good man. Worked docks outta Oakland- Port of… Port of Oakland. Pop taught me patience. Taught me aim.” A faint smile flickered. “Used to say, ‘if you gotta rush a shot, you already lost’. I just wanna see my old man’s resting place, pay some more respect.”
Robert said nothing. He let the silence do the work.
“He died when I was sixteen,” Shoota continued. “Stroke. Outta nowhere.” His jaw tightened, just a little. “After that, everything got louder. Streets. People. Opportunities that don’t come with receipts or paper trails.”
“So you followed the wrong ones,” Robert said gently.
“I followed the fast ones,” Derrick corrected. “There’s a difference.”
Robert nodded and wrote that down.
“My mom and I moved with my little sister,” Shoota went on. “Held the house together. Told me I was better than the dumb shit I kept gettin’ pulled into.” He exhaled through his nose. “Guess I just learned that lesson late.”
The room fell quiet.
Robert glanced briefly toward the one-way glass behind him, where Royd, an LAPD social worker, and several correctional officers observed in silence, before returning his attention to the man across the table.
“I’m not askin’ to be a hero,” Shoota said. “I just wanna sit with her without cuffs around my wrists. Maybe prove to myself I ain’t a lost cause. Show her I can be better, that pops was right about me.” He grins, “That I am one of the good fellas.”
Robert nodded once, deliberate. He sat across the man with the same goal as him, redemption, a chance to prove himself.
“Thank you for being honest. Very honest and… transparent.” Robert responds kindly, making a note in the margin.
Then, after a beat of silence, Robert spoke up again.
“One more thing,” Robert said. “Your name. Mr. Shoota… it doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue in formal settings. What should I call you?”
Shoota scratched his head, considering it like it actually mattered.
“You seem solid,” he said. “Not the type to run your mouth.” A easy grin crept back in. “Name’s Derrick. Derrick Coleman.”
“Derrick Coleman,” Robert repeated, relieved. “I can work with that,
“My people call me Derry. Some fine ass chicks down Wilson Street call me Daddy D,” Derrick said, leaning forward and tapping the table once. “But you—”
He pointed lightly at Robert’s chest.
“You can call me Derrick. Until I know I fuck with you.”
Robert blinked, a bit jarred from how the tension— that was not there before— suddenly became charged. Like he was warning Robert.
Do. Not. Cross. Him.
“Fair enough,” Robert said, trying to deescalate the strange energy. “I’ll take that.”
And for the first time since the interviews had begun, Robert felt something unexpected settle in his chest.
Confidence, a bit of fear, but overall pride that he found a genuine piece of gold in the system to work with.
Robert closed the file, but he didn’t stand immediately.
He studied Derrick for a moment longer, as if committing him to memory.
“Well it was nice meeting you, Mr. Coleman.” Robert concludes.
As if on cue, the door opened. Cold air rushed in the sterile and metallic rooms carrying the sharp scent of disinfectant and old concrete.
It cut through the warmth Derrick had left behind like a warning and recall to what his life will be like if he doesn’t turn it around.
Correctional officers stepped inside, boots heavy against the floor, radios murmuring low static at their hips, no sign of firearms on their utility belts, cautious of Derrick’s power and his abilities.
However, Derrick stood without protest, like it was second nature. He complied, hands behind his back and everything.
As they moved to cuff him. Robert didn't know the multitude of his power yet. So far, Robert didn't see Derrick as aggressive as his past crimes suggested, he was just... human.
Derrick glanced back once, meeting Robert’s eyes.
There was no anger. No resentment.
Just expectation.
“What’s your name, man?” Derrick called out while his cuffs were adjusted from being attached to the table, do being attached to the other wrist behind his back.
“Robert. Don’t worry, you’ll be hearing back from me soon, Mr. Coleman.” Robert responds, a slight smile on his face.
Derrick shared a soft smile and a distant, “Later, man!” A casual quip, but one that held a slight tone of respect.
Then he was gone, escorted down the corridor, the door sealing shut with a hollow click that echoed longer than it should have.
With a soft sigh, Robert looked up at the one-way glass. He was trying to make eye contact with someone, anyone, but met his own gaze.
This is going to be a long day...
⚬──────────˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗──────────⚬
The chair across from Robert scraped loudly against the floor as it was pulled back to make room, an excessive amount of room, for the next interviewee.
“I’m assuming you already know my name,” the mass of a man said, sitting down onto the ground without waiting to be told. His voice was steady, edged with irritation rather than nerves.
Robert looked up. Mid-forties. Tall, boulder-like humanoid, with grey, bubbled, rough skin.
That nuclear accident must have seriously fucked up his genetics, Robert thought.
The man rested his large, rough hands flat on the table, looking down at Robert while sitting on the floor. He may have been able to withstand a large threshold of strength, but the same did not apply to the average interrogation chair.
“I heard of you, but please, humor me,” Robert said evenly. “For the record.”
A breath through the nose. Almost like a chuckle.
“Anchorman,” he replied. “That’s what they’ve got me under in that little folder of yours,”
Robert chuckled softly. “And what should I call you? What do you prefer?”
The man tilted his head slightly, studying Robert.
“My real name works just fine, the one I went by before… I changed,” he said. “Ron Tucker, and yes, I am that Ron Tucker.”
Robert chuckled slightly, a mirror to Ron’s. He remembered how much of an icon Ron was on NBCLA way back then, a charismatic, high energy reporter that had respect in the journalism community. He almost had his own segment for NBCLA.
Almost
Robert nodded once, then glanced down at the file. “Alright then. You understand why you’re here, correct?”
Anchorman gave a short laugh, his body rumbling the entire room, a grin on his lips, “Yeah. I know. This is about the Phoenix Program, isn’t it?”
After a beat of silence, a mutual action of seeing who makes the first move, says the first world, Anchorman leaned forward.
“I don’t know what those files in your hand say, but I need to make it clear to you, I didn’t hurt anyone,” he said, firmer now.
Robert looked up at the man, at least what was left behind in his rough exterior.
“Didn’t pull a trigger. Didn’t plan violence. Hell, I wasn’t even on site when half of it went down.” Anchorman said solemnly, as if he was trying to convince Robert that he was innocent.
“You were involved,” Robert said calmly after looking over the file in front of him. “You were at the scene for a lot of these… minuscule crimes,”
“I was adjacent,” Anchorman corrected. “There’s a legal difference. A very important one.”
Robert watched him closely.
No shaking hands. No visible fear. But there was tension, tight in the jaw, coiled behind the eyes.
This wasn’t a man haunted by guilt. This was a man irritated about placement.
“So,” Robert said, folding his hands, “why the Phoenix Program?”
Anchorman scoffed, then followed it with a light hearted chuckle. It was like Robert told him a plain joke.
“Because I don’t belong here. Because my sentence doesn’t match my actions. And because if this system is actually about rehabilitation instead of optics, then someone should have flagged my case months ago.”
“That’s not an answer,” Robert said, “At least, I’m not convinced that’s all this is about.”
Anchorman exhaled, then sat back. “Fine. Because I won’t survive 3 more years being treated like I’m something I’m not.”
Robert tilted his head slightly. “And what is it you’re not?”
Anchorman met his gaze without blinking.
With a pause, leaning back now, shaking his head and opening his heart, he finally muttered; “A… A monster.”
The room went quiet. Robert didn’t write that one down. Not yet.
Anchorman shifted slightly, the table creaking under the weight of his arms. “I may appear as one, maybe I scare the hell out of everyone. Once beloved Ron Tucker reduced to skin as hard as rock, body as big as a kaiju. I was a beauty who turned into a beast. All because I wanted to reveal the truth behind that reactor to the world.” He let out an hollow laugh, “And it worked, they shut it down after the world saw what it did to me.”
Robert leaned forward, pen poised, ready for the story behind the stone-like presence.
“You keep saying you don’t belong here,” Robert said carefully. “Then tell me why. What really landed you in this system?”
Anchorman’s lips tightened, eyes narrowing. “Just for what’s on my file. That ‘minuscule’ stuff,” he began, voice low and measured. “Nothing violent. Mostly trespassing, evading arrest, resisting. Things that make people nervous seeing a monster like me doing. Things that make cops nervous. Me being me. The big, ugly, me.”
Robert raised an eyebrow, catching on to one of the charges that he wanted to press more on. “Evading arrest?”
“Yeah,” Anchorman said, leaning back just enough to let the weight in his arms settle. “Evading arrest is one of them. But not like you think. I’m hard to apprehend. Not because I run fast. Not because I’m tricky. Because I’m this.” He tapped a fist lightly against the metal table, making a cacophony of scraping rock to metal. His grey, bubbled, rock-like skin reverberated the sound.
“You try to cuff a boulder. You try to shove a seven-foot-whatever … thing… into a squad car. It isn’t happening without collateral damage.”
Robert stayed silent, letting him speak.
“The city,” Anchorman continued, “they … they decided I’m a liability. But, I wasn’t hurting anyone, I’m just different now. Too strong. Too uncontainable.” He raised his thumb, pointing to the one-way glass behind him, “So they put me here. Just in case. Because it’s easier to lock me away than admit they don’t know what to do with someone like me.”
Robert nodded. “And minor offenses piled up because you were hard to manage, not because you were dangerous.” He said, more in revelation than anything.
Anchorman’s rugged jaw flexed. “Exactly. I wasn’t a threat. Not really. But I’m a problem. And to these people-“ he nods back towards the one-way glass, referring to the correction officers watching their interactions, “a problem like me… it’s a crime.”
Robert jotted a note in the margin while he listened to the man speak;
Anchorman- minor offenses, imprisoned largely as a liability, evading arrest due to physical uniqueness, no evidence of malice or threat to others. Great strength, important asset for Z-Team
“And yet you’re here,” Robert said. “Applying to the Phoenix Program. You think this is your shot to prove that? That your differences can be used for good and don’t have to be contained from the public?”
Anchorman’s eyes softened slightly, just enough for a flicker of something almost human to slip through the hardened exterior.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “I want to show them I’m more than a liability. That I can exist without breaking everything around me.”
Robert nodded, taking a slow breath. The tension in the room was palpable, but Anchorman’s presence wasn’t violent. It was enduring, solid, honest, human in his own way.
“Alright,” Robert said finally, leaning back in his chair. “Let’s see if we can figure that out together.” He said with a soft smile.
He could envision a promising future for the Z-Team with Anchorman by their side.
⚬──────────˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗──────────⚬
The corridor narrowed as Robert and Royd descended, the walls shifting from painted concrete to reinforced steel and plexiglass.
The air grew colder the further they traveled, the sound of their footsteps dampened by the low hum of containment systems running nonstop.
Robert Robertson adjusted the file under his arm while walking side by side with Royd, glancing over at the man who curiously peered around the unfamiliar hall.
“So this is where they keep the ones who don’t fit the chairs,” Royd muttered beside him, “I don’t know, bro. If they keep these fellas in here, they surely will be a problem for the Z-Team, no?”
Robert exhaled. “That’s one way to look at it, I suppose. But we can’t be too quick to judge.”
As Royd was about to rebutal, the two stopped in front of a thick, transparent chamber.
Inside, the lights were dimmed low. The floor in front of the containment, one that resembled some shit he would find for the amphibian exhibit at the Los Angeles Zoo, was sloped, subtly grooved to funnel liquids toward a sealed drain.
There’s no furniture. No fixtures. Just smooth containment surfaces and reinforced seams.
A correctional officer waited for them beside the glass, standing tall, expressionless, with a tablet tucked against his chest.
“Silt,” the officer said without preamble. “Male. Liquefaction-class. Full body conversion. Highly evasive.”
He tapped the screen once, getting the attention of.. what seemed to be a puddle of blood and skin.
Robert nearly wanted to barf at the sight. He gulped, seeing the mass of biological matter just bubble and burble.
“Bro.” Is all Royd could say, as disgusted as Robert was. Whatever appetite he had, he lost it at the sight of the gorey human puddle.
“Rules are simple.” The officer said between him, Royd, Robert, and Silt, “You do not approach the glass. You do not respond to anything not directed at the interviewer. No physical contact under any circumstances. You only get 5 minutes with this one,”
Robert nodded. Royd did not look away from the chamber.
Royd snorted quietly. “Okay, that sounds easy enough.”
The officer keyed the panel.
Inside the chamber, the mass on the floor stirred.
It rose slowly, gathering itself, shape forming with unsettling patience.
Limbs pulled free of the sludge, features smoothing into something recognizably human. Not perfect. Not entirely stable. But somewhat human.
Silt stood upright, head tilted, eyes already on them.
“Well,” he said, voice slick and amused through the speakers, “you brought a friend.”
Robert stepped forward to the yellow and black caution marked line.
“I’m Robert,” he said. “This is Royd. We’re here to talk.”
Silt’s gaze slid past him immediately to look at Royd, who immediately avoided eye contact.
Royd felt Silt’s gaze settle onto him with narrowed eyes. It felt invasive and deliberate.
“Oh,” Silt murmured. “I get it; you’re the quiet one.”
His form leaned closer to the glass, stopping just short of the warning markers. His surface rippled faintly, like oil disturbed by a breath.
“Did they bring you for backup, like a body guard,” he asked Royd, “or just because you think I look like someone worth watching?”
Royd’s shoulders tensed, put on the spot. “Talk to him,” Royd said flatly, motioning over to Robert. “Not me.”
Silt smiled, liking how reactive the big man was. “Oh,” he said with a chuckle, a deep one that rumbled his humanoid figure. “So I found the line.”
Silt’s attention returned to Robert, interest sharpening rather than fading.
“And I wager you’re the director of the Phoenix program,” Silt said. “You must get lonely, very busy, don't you?”
Robert did not react to Silt’s condescending tactics. He just looked down at his file, writing a note on the margin.
Human Sludge Guy - Asshole.
After making his little note, Robert looked back up, “You know who I am, therefore I believe you understand why I’m here,” he said evenly. “So, let’s start with that. Why the Phoenix Program?”
Silt studied him for a long moment. The room felt smaller under the weight of his piercing gaze.
“Because,” he said at last, voice lower now, “this place was never meant to hold something that won’t stay solid.”
Royd chuckled softly behind Robert, who settled down when he got a sideways glance from both Robert and Silt
“But now I see, maybe my assumption of you being my redeemer was wrong” Silt added, eyes flicking briefly back to Royd, “You clearly don’t trust me. You brought someone who looks like he’d pull you back with all that strength if I tried to disintegrate you.”
Robert’s tone did not change, nor did he look afraid. He just grimaced, he knew that Silt wasn’t even the most difficult out of the 8 the selected.
“That’s not an answer,” he said. “You’re posturing, you’re sizing me up.”
Robert then got closer as he could possibly can, the toes of his shoes sneaking almost past the ‘danger zone’.
“What’s the motive here? Why apply for the program if you’re going to continue to act like an uppity villain? With the cheeky low-blow lines, and trying so hard to read people in the goddamn room down to filth like they’re your bigoted relatives on thanksgiving.”
Silt’s smile widened, slower this time.
“Because,” he replied, “It’s the fun of the game. And I am no villain. No. No I don’t do evil just because I want to. God, what a fucking joke,” he snickered
The officer near the door folded his arms, “Three and a half minutes,” he reminded them.
Robert nodded once to the office, but not break eye contact. He wanted to hear Silt’s pitch.
“You want the goddamn truth? I seek chaos.” Silt chuckled.
Robert deadpanned, maybe this wasn’t the best choice, but he still wanted to press.
“You’re a chaos seeker?” Robert asks with a bit of a scoff, “Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you, Silt, but the SDN seeks to maintain order. Not this--," He pauses, waving his hand, thinking of a word to describe the gross fascination Silt has, "...lust to be a maniac across Los Angeles.”
For the first time, Silt didn’t laugh. Not even out of the absurdity of the statement.
Silt's body stilled. When he spoke again, his voice came quieter through the speakers. Measured. “You think that’s what this is?” he asked. “A thrill thing? To seek destruction?”
Royd nodded behind Robert, "Not going to lie, bro, but that's exactly what it sounds like."
“I don’t crave chaos,” Silt continued, his words emphasized and his glare directed to Royd, before a smirk formed on his lips. “I understand it.”
Robert didn’t move. “What do you mean by that, exactly?.”
Silt straightened, now pacing as he began to explain;
“Cities leak,” he said simply. “Pressure builds in places no one monitors. Sewers. Transit tunnels. Sublevels. Infrastructure rot. Do you even know how many emergency response teams lose suspects because they hit terrain they can’t follow into?”
Robert fidgeted with his pen as he listened, taking the hook of the pitch carefully.
Silt continued, “I can go where your people can’t, I don’t break doors. I don’t trigger alarms. I don’t leave footprints. I slip through cracks you don’t even acknowledge exist."
The officer near the door glanced at the time on his watch, glancing at the trio, and clearing his throat.
“I don’t cause collateral,” Silt continued. “Liquids move around obstacles. They don’t smash through them. You want someone who can retrieve, infiltrate, extract, without turning the city into a headline.”
Royd crossed his arms. “And what do you get out of it?”
Silt grins, "Im glad you asked," and with a dramatic pause, he stilled his pace and faced the two, “Structure,” he said with a snicker. “Rules that make sense. A job where I’m not punished for existing the way I do.”
Robert studied Silt further, glancing down and sloppily jotting some points down. He noticed how Silt wasn't threatening, hadn’t crossed the line, hadn’t surged forward, hadn’t pressed the glass.
However, Robert knew this interaction may have been different had it been him and Silt alone, or not with him in a plexiglass containment.
“You’re saying not asking for forgiveness, is that correct?” Robert said.
“No, I can't fix whatever the hell I am” Silt replied. “All I’m asking for is employment. Stability.”
The timer beeped once. A warning.
"One minute left," The corrections officer said gruffly.
“You’ll be evaluated,” Robert said solidly. “No promises. No shortcuts. Your job is to follow orders. That's it. As simple as that. Think you can handle it?"
Silt inclined his head slightly, his eyes looking over at Robert, Royd, then the corrective officer in that order.
“That’s all I wanted,” he said. “A system that admits I fit somewhere and gives me shit to do, not sit around and rot in a glass cage.”
The officer moved for the panel, ready to escort Robert and Royd out."Times up, follow me to Ashwalker's holding cell."
Royd and Robert turn around, ready to leave.
As the chamber lights dimmed, and Silt’s body began to soften again, his form melting back toward the floor. Just before he turned into human muck, his voice came through one last time.
“Oh, Robert?”
Robert paused, turning around to meet a literal head in a pile of human slush.
“If you pick me,” Silt said with a determined voice, “you won’t have to worry about me slipping away. I’ll be exactly where you tell me to be.”
Then he was gone, spreading thin across the floor as the containment field sealed with a low hum.
Shit, Robert thought, I never asked for his name.
Royd let out a slow breath. “I hate that I didn’t hate that guy, but also hate how he is a literally liquid. I hope I don't slip on him when he is around the office," he attempted to joke
Robert didn’t respond right away, he only let out a soft snicker while pulling out the other file, hoping this interaction wasn't as daunting, or disgusting, as the last.
⚬──────────˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗──────────⚬
Ashwalker’s holding area didn’t look like containment. But it didn't feel welcoming either. That was the unsettling part.
The air felt dry, sterile to the point of breathing feeling like a discomfort. It was sharp enough to sting the back of Robert’s throat.
The corrections officer didn't follow them inside to the containment room, which Robert took as a good sign. He relaxed and walked through the door, hearing it shut and hiss the expelled air before it locked.
Airtight.
Ash, a young girl with sat on her metal framed bed near the far wall, barefoot, one shoulder resting against the plain white wall. She wore loose gray sweats with the number '294' branded on it with black ink, a plain black shirt loosely hanging off her shoulder, her dark hair pulled back messily, in a bumpy ponytail, some strands already slipping free.
She didn’t look dangerous. In fact, she looked normal. Like your run-of-the-mill tired college student.
The girl turned as Robert and Royd entered, eyes sharp and assessing, but not hostile.
“You’re late,” she said.
Royd blinked. “We just got here.”
“You still took your time,” she replied, unbothered, pouting softly, "Not that I don't have all the time in the world to wait, but it still is good practice to be punctual."
Robert stepped forward alone this time. There was no caution line, no warning stripes on the floor to remind him to keep his distance. He took this fact as a sign that he could step as close to the glass as much as he pleased.
“I’m Robert Robertson,” he said.
She tilts her head, "Really? Is... Is that your name, or are you giving me a really bad alias?"
"It's my name," Robert said a bit hastily, irritation seeping slightly though his tone. He already gets teased enough about it, he didn't need another person to do so.
With an amused giggle, the girl stands up from her bed and makes her way closer to the glass, "Ash." she introduces very briefly, no theatrics included.
He glanced briefly at her file, then opened it while clicking his pen. Setting the file on his lap, he looked up at her, “Is that what you want to be called?” he asks.
“It’s what I answer to,” she said with a soft shrug.
Royd lingered near the door, arms crossed, letting the silence stretch. Ash noticed him, then dismissed him just as easily.
"So," Robert got her attention back, her gaze flicking back to him, "Your power, teleporting through smoke and ash. Do you mind elaborating your ability?"
Robert then leans forward, wanting to understand exactly what she can do, "Explain it to me, how it works, how you even find out you can do such a thing. More importantly; how can it benefit the Z-Team?"
She exhaled softly, glancing up at the lights, thinking of a way to answer, taking her time before she finally speaks. “People think smoke means chaos. Fire. Loss of control. But, for me, it’s quiet. It’s a gap. A pause between where I was and where I need to be.”
Robert shifted the file in his lap, ready to bring up another point, “Your record—”
“I know what it says,” she cut in, not unkindly, but a bit abrasively. “It says I did some shit that I didn't even do, shit that's pinned on me solely because I managed to be at the wrong place at the right time," Ashe grumbled, her voice slightly raising, "Does it tell you, huh, how many times I was placed? How far I moved across the fucking country all because of the shit people claimed I did?”
Robert tilted his head slightly. That was new. It was like a spark ignited in Ash. But he was unfamiliar with the terms, and wanted to press more on what she meant
“Placed where?” he asked.
“Foster homes,” Ash said bluntly, her eyes downcast. Her hands curled briefly into her sleeves, then relaxed.
He noticed her demeanor change, and he lowered his pen.
“You’re twenty-two,” Robert said carefully. “You’ve been on your own for a while, and you're still young to... learn to cope with that unresolved childhood trauma. To use it, to learn from it and make good choices.”
Ash nodded. “Its been long enough since them to know that freedom isn’t about running. It’s about not being chased in the first place.”
Royd looked at Robert then as. He recognized that look. That line landed. Royd knew that it would affect Robert, of course it would.
Because Royd and Robert both knew this young girl was just like Courtney.
“You applied to the Phoenix Program,” Robert began with a soft sigh, “Not because you had to.”
“No,” Ash agreed. “Because I want to stop disappearing, and stop hiding. I... I just..." Her voice croaked softly, crossing her arms and hugging herself, "I want to feel like I belong.
She met his gaze fully now. Steadily keeping the eye contact. He saw the unshed tears.
“In terms of my powers, I’m good at moving through situations that fill up with smoke fast. I don’t make it. I don’t control it. I just… navigate it. House fires, collapsed Metro rail, chem labs, riot smoke bombs. Im there. I always am."
Robert considered that. “And when there’s no smoke?”
A corner of her mouth twitched. “Then I stay put.”
That answer mattered.
There was a pause between Robert and Ash, the two silent debating within themselves.
Finally, Robert spoke, “You don’t look afraid, at least not to the point you want to disappear,” he said.
“I am, afraid” she replied, scoffing softly. “Just not of you.”
With a bit of a hurt ego, Robert just playfully rolled his eyes, then looked at her, "You do understand the weight of this, correct? It's high intensity, high volume calls. The citizens of Los Angeles will depend on you, your team will depend off you."
She nodded without hesitation. “Good, I don't mind that, I can handle pressure.”
“Right, so no vanishing when it gets hard.” Robert said, he felt like he said these words before, and felt a stir in his chest as he spoke them.
“I’ve done enough of that,” she said softly, a giggle escaping.
He studied her for a long moment, then opened the file at last—not to read, but to note the margin.
“I can’t promise you freedom,” Robert said, "But you can finally get out of this oxygen tank they built for you," He chuckled.
Ash shrugged lightly. “I wasn’t asking for promises, honestly,"
“What were you asking for then?" Robert asks curiously, finishing up the note before clicking his pen.
She thought about it. Really thought.
“A direction,” she said. “So I can stop moving in circles.”
Robert closed the file again.
“I think,” he said slowly, “you already know how to stay, and that you'd be a good addition to the Z-Team.”
Her shoulders loosened, just a fraction. She smiled warmly as she watched Robert stand and make his way to the entrance, "Awesome! I'll see you soon then, Robert!" She chimed, waving him goodbye behind the glass.
On their way out, Royd turned around. He had been silent for this inmate, knowing it wasnt his place to think out loud.
“For what it’s worth,” Royd added, “we could use someone who doesn’t run the second things get smoky.”
Ash smirked. “I won't run.”
She looked back at Robert.
“I show up and out.” She said with a toothy smile.
They enjoyed the optimism, and Royd and Robert carried on to interview the next person on file.
⚬──────────˗ˏˋ⚡︎ˎˊ˗──────────⚬
Note: For my sanity, and the general attention span, I needed to cut the chapter in half. I am proud of these original characters, and am excited to explore them more!Like and reblog if you wish to see more! the next few members are definitely more fun and dangerous, so I hope you guys are ready for that!
Until next time!!
omg Of Stars and Plebes is so great and funny i can hardly wait for the next chapter. i love your characterization of Bones, and the dynamic between Spock and his mother -precious-. thanks for sharing it
My gosh, thank you so much! That means a lot to hear. The characterization is very important to me.
I love working on OSAP, it has been a hot minute!
I've gotten quite a bit written for it and I plan to update it soon, so stayed tuned. :)
In the meantime, here is a cute lil' WIP of Jim and Spock that I'm working on from my fanfic Of Stars and Plebes (also a teaser):
Thank you kindly for your support of my work. It means a lot! 💚🖖
Chapter 34 -- (We’ve come a long way now) Latest Update to Oceans Away
Leo Fitz sat alone in a room filled with electronics, towers and screens that sung an electronic tune as they gave off a red hue. The familiar warmth, the humming and buzzing, it should have made him feel comfortable. But it didn't. Because of where he was. Because of who he was with.
"Alright, Fitz, we're going to have a civilized conversation now, got it?" Ward said, crouching down in front of the scientist. He looked almost the same as Fitz remembered him - except more stubble covered his chin and cheeks. He looked less cleaned up as he did when he was with Shield. Though, Leo supposed, he was probably trying to be a model agent when he was pretending to work for the good guys.
"Why the hell would I do that?" Leo spat back at him, letting all the anger that had filled him for these past two years come out with venom in his words. He hated Ward - but he also hated that there was a part of him that wasn't filled with hate. There was a part of him that still wished he was wrong. Asia would say it was the good in him, he knew that, but he still hated that part of himself. It made him feel weak.
Ward tsked at him, shaking his head. "Now that's not the attitude my guests should be behaving with. We don't have to act like that Fitz, we really don't. I don't want to have to make things difficult."
"Do you worst," Fitz said back, putting on a brave face. Really, he wondered what Ward's worst could possibly be. He had already dropped him out of a plane, after all. He had nearly died down there. What was any different from nearly dying in here? At least he could breathe, in this room.
Ward sighed, "I really don't want to have to do that. You know I don't want to hurt you. Or at least, I'd think you would know that. We were friends once." Ward ran a hand through his hair, then looked back at Fitz. "I just need you to tell me how Simmons got back. That's it. And then this whole mess can be done."
"I'm never going to do that," Fitz replied, shaking his head, no, as if the words themselves weren't enough. "You're going to have to figure it out on your own." He looked down at his lap. His legs weren't shaking. He was standing strong. He knew, some way, they would come for him and Simmons. They'd be saved. Asia would get there before anything happened to him.
Ward sighed. "You really have gotten stubborn, haven't you? That's what hanging around with Monroe will do to you."
"Don't say her name," Fitz spat out, flames of fire heating his words. The thought of Ward being anywhere near her made him feel like he could take on ten men alone, and come out victorious.
You don't stitch up jagged holes/cuts in people. It will end up with dead space under the suture and/or infected. Also ragged the skin edges will die, the suture will tear through the dead tissue, and the wound will reopen. If you want a character to sew anything closed, they can suture ligate a blood vessel, which cannot be done by a 1.5 inch needle by hand. You can look up "suture ligation" on youtube if you want to write out the process.
You pack a roll of saline soaked gauze into the wound and cover it with a dry gauze, telfa or ABD dressing and tape. You can close it later, but that also means washing it out with more saline, cutting the dead tissue edges.
I've worked in surgery for 5 years, and have rarely completely closed a hole/knife wound/cut the first time. Everytime I read a story/watch a movie with someone fumbling a giant needle through a jagged ass hole/cut I yell "WHY?!"
This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.'
Also I'm not putting GIFs each time because unlike when I wrote Heart of Rock and Roll, there isn't 50k GIFs running around. I made a shitty clip art cover. It's as good as it's gonna get.
“Tier 2 Trauma, ETA 5 minutes”
Cam slides into the doorway, sliding into the nook where the cabinet and the door meet. It’s been a long night, and it’s six in the morning on Wednesday, the shift nearly finished. Her body aches, her bed calling her name after three twelve hour shifts in a row.
“Cam. Welcome back.” Abbot says, looking mildly pleased to see her.
“Abbot. Good to see you.” Cam says dryly.
“You weren’t kidding. Dana said teenage boys get perms now.” Abbot says, putting gloves on from the dispenser on the wall.
“I know, now we know your secret to trying to look youthful and hip.” Cam replies.
“See? You said ‘hip’, and I know that’s not cool anymore.” Abbot replies, pointing a finger at her from across the room.
“You wouldn’t know what was hip if I threw a femur stem directly at your forehead.” Cam snorts, taking her hair out of her scrub cap. The dark waves cascade down past her shoulders as she fluffs it, a few strands still wet. There’s heavy highlights in her hair, shades of bold purple, pink, deep blue and turquoise shining through her dark locks.
“Oh my God, your hair!” Dr. King exclaims, smiling.
“Yes, I do have hair. It’s still wet, it never dries with my cap on.” Cam says, hand de-tangling as she shoves her scrub cap in her cargo pocket.
“It looks like Rainbow Fish!” Dr. King exclaims excitedly, her hands shaking in front of her face.
“Oh yeah!” Santos says, Javadi nods, as does Whitaker. Abbot and Cam flash glances at one another.
“I got nothing.” Cam says, shrugging at Abbot.
“What’s a rainbow fish?” Abbot asks.
“It’s a children's book. It was my sister's favorite for years.” Dr. King says, composing herself now that she realizes she’s overly excited.
“I was more of a Little Critter fan myself.” Cam shrugs.
“I liked Dr. Suess.” Abbot answers.
“Everyone likes Dr. Suess.” Cam huffs.
“I liked ‘Don’t Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus’.” Javadi interjects, receiving glances.
“What the fuck is that? Is that a book?” Cam asks. “Jesus, I’m getting old. Do you guys even know who Little Critter is?” Cam asks, sliding out from her assumed corner. Whitaker nods, but Santos, Mel and Javadi stare at her with blank expressions.
“It’s hell getting old, Cam.” Abbot shrugs.
“I thought war was hell.” Cam replies.
“We are each our own devil, and we make this world our hell.” Whitaker says, stunning everyone milling in the trauma bay. Santos just rolls her eyes.
The patient flies in the room, their shirt already in tatters on the gurney, their chest and abdomen slick with blood, Cam jumps out of the way, slamming her back into the cabinet again.
“I thought this was a tier 2 trauma.” Santos says.
“They crumped. The last blood pressure was 100/60, they were satting 100 on room air, they got tachypneic and brady-ed down, we were about to intubate.”
“Don’t intubate!” Cam and Abbot yell at the same time, making the whole room jump. Cam turns, digging through the cabinet she’s been leaning on. She slams a blue wrapped tray onto a mayo stand, shoving her hair into her cap and putting her safety glasses on.
“Sorry, didn’t mean to step on your toes.” Cam says as she rips the tape off the wrap, opening it like a giant blue and white present.
“It’s fine. Great minds think alike.” Abbot shrugs, shoving a central line kit into a nurse’s hand.
“Should we place a chest tube?” Dr. King asks.
“We need to get some big lines in them, now and hang 2 units.” Abbot calls.
“What happens when we push paralytics?” Abbot asks, digging through the cabinet for a pair of sterile gloves. He glances at Cam as she produces her own from her back pocket.
“Succinynlcholine, rocuronium or–” Javadi begins.
“Any of them.” Abbot says. The monitors begin flashing, the EKG line starting to stray from sinus rhythm.
“I got a 14 in the left arm!” Someone calls.
“Whoop! There it is.” Cam says, grabbing the top of the mayo stand and shoving it closer to the patient.
“Now you can intubate.” Abbot calls.
“I need a splash of paint on the chest here!” Abbot calls, and Jesse obliges, opening a bottle of betadine and pouring it onto the chest. “Keep going Javadi.” Abbot calls, as Cam hands him a disposable #10 blade scalpel. He presses it into the patient’s skin, making a cut that goes all the way across the patient’s chest. It looks as if the man has a wide grin on his chest, if it wasn’t for all the betadine and blood.
“Well, paralytics block the action of acetylcholine.” Javadi states, gobsmacked by the incision.
“Simpler than that.” Cam states, taking the knife from Abbot’s hand and handing him a pair of curved scissors with a smack.
“It paralyzes people?” Javadi says, looking at Santos and Whitaker.
“And everything relaxes. Everything that was maybe even when someone is unconscious, holding back a hemorrhage. Fuck.” Cam says, jumping out of the way as blood from the chest cavity flows toward her shoes. “It’s why we don’t put ruptured AAA patients to sleep until we get the balloon in from the groin.” Cam states, pushing a chest retractor into his hands.
“I got an art line in the right wrist! Getting the waveform up in a moment.” Someone calls. Dr. Ellis swings into the doorway, eyes wide.
“This was a tier 2 trauma.” Ellis says, staring at Cam and Abbot, splashed with blood and betadine.
“You know that doesn't mean shit to the hole in the heart I’m staring at.” Abbot says, putting his finger into the hole.
“Is it just me or does the diaphragm—” Cam starts.
“Yeah.” Abbot nods.
“You want to—” Cam says, holding up a big clamp. Abbot snatches it from her hand, putting it underneath the heart, closing it with a series of clicks.
“Cross clamp time, 0619.” Cam calls. Ellis is still standing in the doorway, mouth hanging open.
“Ellis, can you call the O.R desk for me please?” Cam says. Ellis lifts the phone off the wall, dialing and putting it to Cam’s ear. She presses it into her shoulder, holding her gloved hands away from her body as they drip blood onto the floor.
“Nikki? It’s Cam. We’re clamshelled and cross-clamped. Well, I was passing the damn scalpel Nikki, what the fuck am I supposed to do? I’m not fucking telepathic. Is Gopal still in the OR? Don’t let him leave yet, this guy has a hole in his heart. We’re clamshelled and cross-clamped, Nikki. I just said that. I don’t give a fuck about Garcia and her lap chole, trust me she sees this guy she’s gonna drop that gallbladder like a hot rock. I gotta go, get the trauma room open.” Cam says, rolling her eyes. Ellis pulls the phone from her ear. “Day shift is gonna have fun with this one.” Cam says smirking. Abbot is grinning underneath his mask, but everyone else looks mildly horrified as she turns. “How much blood is on my face?” Cam asks.
“Not as much as is on my pants.” Abbot remarks, his black scrubs wet and clinging to his leg. He’s still leaning over the patient, hand covering the hole in the heart. Cam lets out a hearty laugh as Garcia charges through the door, Walsh following behind her closely.
“Jesus.” Garcia says.
“Abbot knows how to bring the party.” Walsh says admiringly.
“Cross clamped at 0619. There’s a hole in the heart, I’ve got my finger on it.” Abbot says. Walsh puts on an isolation gown and mask, her hair already pulled back in a black scrub cap with PTMC’s logo on the band.
“I can take over and walk him up to the O.R.” Walsh says, putting on a pair of sterile gloves.
“Yeah. Ready?” Abbot asks.
“I got it.” Walsh says, her arm resting on the patient’s open ribcage. “I love when you bring me gifts, Abbot.” Dr. Walsh says with a smile. “You guy’s ready to transport?” Walsh asks everyone. Garcia takes the head of the bed, squeezing the Ambu bag for the patient to breathe.
“Anything for you, Emery.” Abbot says, as they unlock the cart and begin the trek to the O.R
“Stop stealing my good scrub!” Emery calls, shimmying out the door and taking the turn for the elevator.
“I don’t think I will.” Abbot says, as Cam heads toward the O.R.
“Cam!” Abbot calls.
“Yeah?” she answers, turning around.
“Thanks.” Abbot says.
“Pleasure’s all mine on that one. Love a clamshell!” She cries, heading toward the stairs.
“She’s unhinged.” Ellis says, hands on his hips.
“Takes one to know one.” Jesse says, ditching his gloves and isolation gown.
“We’re all mad down here.” Lena says with a snicker, peering into the disaster zone of the trauma room. The floor splashed with brown and red, trash littering the floor.
“Anyone have any questions about our crash thoracotomy?” Abbot asks. All the residents are standing on the cleaner outskirts of the room, they shake their heads.
“You guys can do the next one. I gotta get new scrubs.” Abbot says, walking toward the scrub machine.
“Sweet.” Santos whispers, tip toeing out of the trauma bay around the debris.
Cam is heading out the door of the hospital as she hears her name called again. She turns and Abbot is hurrying to catch her before she goes through the exit.
“I saw the hair and figured it was you.” Abbot says, catching up as she heads out the door.
“Not all of us are blessed with your youthful look. Some of us just want to have the hair they were never allowed to have at seventeen. You get all cleaned up?” Cam asks him, putting her lunchbox across her shoulder.
“You get the blood off of your face?” Abbot asks.
“Nothing a whore bath in rubbing alcohol can’t fix.” Cam says, yawning.
“Hey, so Friday night we’re all meeting in the park. Just to celebrate the med students and new residents surviving their first weeks on nights. You should come.” Abbot says, holding the door for her as they exit into the chill of early winter.
“I think I traumatized those kids.” Cam says, shaking her head but smiling wide.
“Dr. King likes your hair.” Abbot says, shrugging. “It’s brief, if that helps make up your mind.”
“I’ll think about it.” Cam says. They begin to part ways and he turns to her, watching her go.
“It’s at 2000 hours!” Abbot calls, Cam gives him a thumbs up as she heads to the parking garage.
This fic may include the following: Blood, injuries of all shapes and sizes, descriptions of surgery, death, deceased persons, situations of sexual abuse, physical abuse, psychiatric issues and all the other horrific and/or hilarious shit you get to see as a healthcare worker. If you thought The Pitt was too graphic, this isn’t for you. This is the only warning you will receive, there will be no chapter by chapter warnings. In the words of Sweet Brown 'Ain't nobody got time for that.'
Cam’s phone rings, the phone dancing across the wooden nightstand as the ringtone trills loudly. Cam blinks, seeing the hospital’s I.D run across her screen. She’s already done her three twelve hour shifts, ripping the thirty-six hour work week off like a bandaid so she can have four days off in a row. Her body aches, and despite normally working at this time, she laid down at midnight, not able to keep working on the bathroom. She’s disoriented, but slams the phone to her ear on instinct.
“Hello?” Cam grumbles through the receiver, confused. She’s almost positive she’s not on call, but she’s been wrong before.
“Cam?” Jack asks through the other side.
“What the fuck?” Cam barks, sitting upright out of bed. “Are you out of your mind? Where did you get my number?”
“Cam…” Abbot starts.
“You’re calling me from the hospital now? Because showing up to my house wasn’t weird enough. Jesus, Abbot. What is wrong with you?” Cam snaps, pacing her bedroom as she looks for her slippers.
“Cam, he’s here.” Abbot says loudly though the receiver. Cam freezes, one foot in a slipper.
“What? Who?” Cam asks, her heart caught in her throat.
“He came in an hour ago. It’s him.” Abbot answers, quieter now.
“How do you know?” Cam asks, leaning on the doorframe for support.
“Because he told me his name is Owen Cillian Tighe, and he was born January 17th, 1984, and he asked me to call you.” Abbot says softly. Cam shakes in the doorway of the bedroom, trying to compose herself.
“I’m on my way.” Cam says, hanging up before her voice breaks over the phone.
She barely scrapes the ice off her windshield before she goes flying down the road, blowing through a red light on Carson to get onto the Birmingham bridge and onto Fifth. She nearly puts her mini cooper on 2 wheels, ripping the left hand turn to get into the staff parking garage. She parks quickly, flying out of the garage into the building, not bothering to put on her coat for the trek into the hospital. Her hands are shaking as she fumbles, trying to find her badge in her purse, trying to get the locked door open, but it opens quickly as an x-ray tech wheels their machine through the hallway. Cam gives them a tight smile as she slides past them, resisting every nerve in her body to say she should run down the hall. She reaches the E.D, searching for any familiar face, frantic, praying she doesn’t wake up and he’s still in the wind. She sees Dana at the desk, exhaling with relief to find someone who will recognize her, but she’s stopped by Abbot’s voice.
“Cam.” He calls, taking off his safety glasses as he waits for her to reach him. She slows as she starts to reach him, realizing she has no idea the condition her brother will be in when she sees him.
“I put him in bed 30.” Abbot says quietly, heading toward the rear of the E.D. Cam takes a deep breath as they approach the door. Abbot knocks on the doorway, sliding the curtain open from the sliding door.
“Brought a visitor.” Abbot says with a small smile. Owen is skinny, but not gaunt, and recently clean shaven, his nose having markedly more color than the rest of his face. His hair is buzzed short, and it reminds Cam of when he went to basic training, ready with his buzzcut to prove he couldn’t be phased by the Army. Abbot slides out of the room when Cam lets out a quiet gasp.
“Hey, Cami.” Owen says, sliding up in the stretcher.
“Hi.” Cam says with a whisper, tears flooding her vision.
“I’m sorry. I was–” Owen starts.
“None of it matters, Owen. You never have to tell me about any of it, you never need to explain it to me. I’m just glad you called me.” Cam says, flopping against the back of the chair in the corner.
“Don’t be mad. I called Maureen, too.” Owen says, pursing his lips, which are dry and cracked.
“It’s okay, Owen, it’ll be fine.” Cam says, with a chuckle.
“I’m sorry, Cami.” Owen says again.
“Owen, it’s okay.” Cam says, insistent now.
“I missed dad’s funeral.” Owen says, hanging his head. Silence seeps into the room, despite the din of the emergency department outside.
“You missed the worst funeral.” Cam says with a bitter chuckle. “Maureen tripped and almost knocked over the casket. One of her kids was in the back watching cartoons on full volume during catholic mass.” Owen lets out a laugh, which makes Cam feel like she’s glowing.
“Was she drunk?” Owen asks, flushing Cam with second-hand embarrassment.
“No, I think she just wore stripper heels to her father’s funeral that she didn’t know how to walk in.” Cam sighs.
“Where is she living now?” Owen asks.
“Upper St. Clair.” Cam says, rolling her eyes.
“Shit. Guess me living with her is out of the question. I’m not cool enough for Upper St. Clair.” Owen says, picking at his blanket on his lap.
“Owen, I’ve got dad’s house, there’s a lot of work to be put in, but you can live with me.” Cam says, leaning toward him in his bed.
“Cam, I have to find someplace to get clean first.” Owen says, looking up at her, swallowing hard.
“I’m sure the V.A has resources.” Cam explains.
“I don’t even know where to start.” Owen says dejectedly.
“I do. I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go find Jack.” Cam says, standing up.
“You call him Jack?” Owen says, a wry grin on his face as he raises his eyebrows at his sister.
“Shut up.” She calls, pulling the curtain taut across the doorway. Cam heads toward the desk in the center of the Emergency Department, thankful to find him talking to Dr. Mohan near the charge nurse.
“Hey. Kiara, our social worker is going to be there in a minute.” Abbot says, Dr. Mohan is lingering when Cam wishes she would go do something else so the entire emergency room staff doesn’t know her family's business, but she swallows her pride for the sake of her brother.
“Owen needs to get clean. Do you know any program at the V.A that–” Cam starts.
“I already called the guy who runs the rehab program. He’s trying to find him a spot.” Abbot says, taking a sip of his coffee. Cam exhales hard, not realizing that she’s been holding her breath since she left Owen's bedside.
“Thank you.” Cam says quietly, averting her gaze from his and Samira’s. Cam sees her sister, dressed in every manner of beige unflattering spandex charge through the door from triage. She’s carrying a massive leather purse in a color that reminds her of getting a sunburn in July. “Fuck.” She mumbles, before steeling herself. Mohan flashes a glance at Cam.
“Cami!” Maureen calls, far too loud for the hospital at four in the morning. Cam puts a finger to her lips as her sister dramatically sashays towards her in her chunky fashion forward sneakers.
“Where is he?” Maureen fake whispers, getting close enough to Cam for her to see all the makeup her sister slept in rimming her eyes, the clumps of mascara pinned to her cheeks.
“He’s in bed 30, We can take you guys back and wait for social work.” Abbot says, relieving Cam. Cam follows Abbot like she too is just a patient’s family member following a doctor down a hallway she’s unfamiliar with, pretending to be a normal family member in this hospital, despite her badge still floating in her purse somewhere.
“Is he awake? I mean, like, unconscious. How long is he going to be staying in the hospital?” Maureen continues to fake whisper. Cam goes to answer, but decides to play ignorant, despite not wanting to be embarrassed by her sister’s ignorance.
“He’s not sedated. His labs were not ideal, we’re going to do more bloodwork, see if the treatment we’re doing is helping, and our social worker will be by to talk about the next steps. We are waiting for a response from some resources at the V.A for him as well.” Abbot explains. Cam is surprised by the change in his demeanor, keeping her face as neutral as possible for the sake of the facade they’ve both formed.
“Cami? Should we transfer him to the V.A?” Maureen turns to her, tears flooding her eyes.
“That’s—” Abbot starts.
“No. My sister works in healthcare, I want her opinion.” Maureen snaps, putting her finger close to Abbot’s face.
“Oh my God Maureen.” Cam groans.
“I understand..” Abbot says, eyeing Cam.
“Maureen…” Cam warns.
“No, because these doctors, they all give you platitudes and then they miss big things, like Dad with his cancer.” Maureen starts rambling, her voice getting louder.
“Maureen, I fucking work here!” Cam hisses, stopping her sister’s building freakout. "And Dad wouldn’t go to the doctor for three years when that cough started, don’t even start with that shit.” Cam snaps, her voice low.
“Wait, so you do know him?” She looks between Abbot and Cam.
“Yes, Maureen.” Cam says, trying her best not to roll her eyes at her younger sister, but she flashes her a look that makes Cam’s eyes disappear, searching for their own optic nerves in the back of her skull.
“Okay, I’m going to go say hi.” Maureen says, stepping toward the room and opening the curtain. Cam hears her say her brother’s name like he’s an injured wildlife creature, and it makes her grit her teeth.
“As long as no one pulls a knife or a gun, it’s really not that remarkable of a family meeting.” Abbot shrugs, making Cam chuckle.
“Sorry.” Cam whispers, crossing her arms over her chest.
“Hey, I’m sorry, by the way. I said something really disrespectful, and –” Abbot starts, leaning against the wall next to Cam.
“It’s fine.” Cam says, waving off the apology.
“No, it’s not. That was really insulting to you and your job. I owe you an apology.” Abbot says. Cam gives him a tight smile.
“Thank you.” She whispers, desperate to ignore her sister inside the room, her nerves already fraying and it’s not even been an hour.
“I’m going to go check where Kiara is, do you want me to send a resident to you? Families act better with a buffer.” Abbot says, stepping back into the hallway.
“No, it’s fine.” Cam says, shrugging, trying to compose herself.
“I’m sending Whitaker.” He says, walking away toward the control desk. Cam slides into her brother's room, seeing her sister paw all over her brother makes her let out a scoff.
“You can live with me or Cami, or we’ll get you an apartment. Owie, we will get through this.” Maureen says dramatically. Cam wonders if her brother lives with her sister, if he’ll be subjected to being part of the family vlog.
“Maureen, I gotta get clean first.” Owen states, looking over at Cam, who swallows the lump in her throat. Maureen drops his hand, looking at him shocked, her eyes flashing over to Cam and back to Owen.
“Clean? You’ve been doing drugs?” Maureen whispers. “Does the doctor know?” Maureen asks Cam.
“Maureen, I’m an addict. It’s genetic, you know.” Owen says, his eyes looking toward Cam who shakes her head slightly. There’s a knock on the doorway, and Whitaker opens the curtain to Owen’s room.
“I’m Dr. Whitaker, I’m here to take some vitals.” Dennis says nervously. Cam wants to shoo him out of the room, save him from the chaos of her family.
“You’re a doctor? You’re so young, you can’t be a doctor.” Maureen announces. Cam closes her eyes tightly, shame and rage beginning to boil inside.
“Maureen, he’s a resident. This is a teaching hospital. He’s good, don’t worry.” Cam says, giving a tight smile to Dennis, whose ears flash red. Dennis logs into the computer, obviously just sent as the buffer by Abbot, but Cam isn’t complaining, because the potential fight between her sister and her brother turns back into her sister fawning on her brother, all but crawling onto the stretcher with him, playing the role of loving younger sister.
Cam hears a voice outside in the Emergency Department, the shrill tone setting her on edge. Her whole body goes rigid, the fight or flight activated in her body with a hefty pour of adrenaline.
“I need to see my son! Owen Tighe! I’m not a Tighe anymore, I’m a Cullen, but all the kids kept their father’s name. You know everyone pronounces it Teague, but it’s really like tie, like a shoe string. I don’t miss having to explain that….” She hears the voice prattle. Her stomach flips, and she closes her eyes, trying to keep her composure.
“Maureen…What did you do?” Cam asks calmly, like she’s asking a child playing with matches in front of a burnt down townhome. She’s staring at the ceiling tiles, wishing that God, or Thor or whatever deity likes to wield lightning will strike her where she stands.
“What? I’m not going to call mom? He’s her son, Cam!” Maureen shrieks, setting Cam more on edge than before. She feels like she’s nine years old again, stuck at the dining room table, trying to disappear into her lima beans.
Abbot knocks on the door frame before opening the curtain, Cam snapping to look at him with her eyes wide. He furrows his brow at her before looking at the rest of the room.
“Kiara will be here in a minute.” Abbot says, entering the room.
“Good. You should run.” Cam says, crossing her arms over her chest.
“I’m waiting for Kiara.” Abbot explains, putting hand sanitizer on from the wall dispenser. Cam turns to Whitaker.
“You should definitely run.” She hisses to Whitaker who looks confused. The shrill tone of the voice is growing louder, coming closer to the room.
“Cami!” Maureen hisses, but Cam doesn’t bother answering. She’s praying it’s a hallucination, that she’s having a neurological event.
“You think security will let me borrow their gun?” Cam hisses to Abbot.
“Camilla!” Maureen says, standing up and stomping her feet. Cam looks at her siblings before turning back to Abbot.
“Don’t worry, it’s for me.” She says with a fake smile. Abbot starts to crack a smile, despite his furrowed brow.
“Oh my God, my poor baby, thank you so much for helping me, miss. You’re an angel. You’re all angels!” The woman’s voice coos.
“Cam, it’ll be okay.” Owen says, a tight smile on his face.
“Jesus suffering fuck. Here we fucking go.” Cam mumbles, bracing herself like she’s about to be hit by a bus.
