The sterile air of the triage chamber, usually a balm against Oplot’s suffocating reality, felt choked with accusation. Liskra’s gaze, usually fixed on diagnostic readouts, traced the faint tremor in Joric’s hand, the man’s skin still pale despite the oxygen mask clamped over his mouth. He was a low-tier fabrication drone, another victim of the city’s slow, creeping slumber. But he was breathing. For now.
“Doctor Liskra, is this how we operate the Volkhov Sanatorium now?” The chief administrator's voice, a gravelly pronouncement of authority, scraped across the hushed room. His pristine white coat, stark against the utilitarian grey walls, seemed to amplify his presence. He gestured with a dismissive flick of his wrist towards the whirring oxygenator connected to Joric, a unit clearly marked for the Vanguard Supply – the elite’s exclusive reserve.
Liskra felt her throat constrict. “He… he was suffocating, Chief. His pulmonary capacity was at… at seven percent. The standard oxygen blend wasn’t… wasn’t enough.” Her voice, though soft, carried a stubborn refusal to buckle. She gripped the cold steel railing of the patient’s cot, her knuckles white.
The older physician stepped closer, his shadow falling over her. “Seven percent, you say? And our precious Vanguard supply is now for the common populace? Do you understand the protocols, Doctor? Do you comprehend the resources squandered on a man whose prognosis was already… negligible?” He spat the last word, his eyes, sharp as flints, raking over Joric’s unconscious form.
“His life wasn’t… wasn’t negligible,” Liskra insisted, a tremor starting in her voice. The stutter, an old companion in moments of stress, threatened to seize her. “He… he’s a citizen of Oplot. He deserved a chance.”
“A chance?” The man scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. “You speak of chances while the elite clamor for their own life-sustaining necessities. Your bleeding heart, Liskra, is a liability in this institution. In this city. Effective immediately, you are reassigned.”
Her stomach dropped. “Reassigned? Where?”
Kraynik’s lips curled. “To the Coffin Wards. Basement Level Twelve. Your new expertise will be in the experimental sleep trials. Perhaps you’ll find a ‘chance’ for the truly lost down there.” He turned on his heel, his departure leaving a chill in the air colder than any filtered vent.
Liskra stood numbly for a moment, the hum of the oxygenator a mournful dirge. The Coffin Wards. The sanatorium’s grim, subterranean underbelly, where the plague’s most hopeless cases were shunted away, left to wither in unending wakefulness. A demotion, yes, but also a sentence.
Later, amidst the gloom of the basement corridors, Pravik materialized from the shadows, a nervous, wiry man with eyes that darted like startled vermin. He clutched a battered satchel, the clink of illicit vials barely audible over the distant thrum of the city’s deep-level machinery. “Demoted, eh, Doc? The chief's a real piece of work. But I got what you need. Serenity drops, freshly siphoned from the Upper Spires. You didn’t hear it from me.”
Liskra accepted the small, dark bottle, her fingers brushing against his. “Thank you, Pravik. Though I doubt even these will help where I’m going.”
Pravik’s grin faltered. “The Coffin Wards? Oh, Doc, bad news travels faster than a storm front. They’re bringing in a new VIP. Command-level, they say. Totally gone. Raving mad from the sleeplessness. A guaranteed death sentence, even for you.” He lowered his voice, leaning in conspiratorially. “Word is, he’s tearing the place apart. Been awake for months. Heard he choked two medics already.”
Before Liskra could reply, a jarring clang echoed down the corridor, followed by a guttural roar. A gurney, escorted by four burly security personnel, was being wrestled through the heavy blast doors. Strapped to it, thrashing violently against thick leather restraints, was a man of formidable build. His face, etched with sleepless agony, was a roadmap of raw nerve endings. His uniform, though rumpled, spoke of high command. Vochak.
“Let me go, you slugs!” Vochak bellowed, his voice ragged. “Find her! The storm woman! She’s still out there! She… she ruined me!” His head slammed back against the gurney, his eyes, bloodshot and wild, raking the sterile walls as if searching for an invisible enemy.
One of the security officers, grim-faced, addressed Liskra. “Doctor, he’s been resisting all sedatives. We need something stronger. He’s a danger to himself and everyone else.”
Liskra approached cautiously, her medical bag clutched tight. The air around Vochak seemed to crackle with an unseen intensity. His thrashing subsided momentarily, replaced by a low, desperate growl as he strained against the restraints. His eyes, though unfocused, fixed on her, a chilling recognition flickering within their depths.
“You… you reek of the surface,” he whispered, his words slurring. “The metallic tang… it’s her.”
Ignoring the strange accusation, Liskra reached for his wrist, her thumb seeking his pulse point. She needed to administer a rapid-acting sedative directly into his bloodstream. Her fingers brushed his skin, triggering a sharp sting.
*A flash. Bare skin, cold and slick with rain, pressed against hers. Strong hands, calloused and firm, pulling her closer, the scent of ozone and metal sharp in the storm-whipped air. His breath, hot on her ear, a desperate plea she couldn’t quite grasp.* The fragmented images vanished as quickly as they appeared, leaving a searing emptiness in their wake.
Liskra gasped, her hand recoiling as if burned. What was that? A memory? But her mind was a wiped slate, a blank canvas where no such intimacies should exist.
Vochak, seemingly roused by the contact, surged with impossible strength. His hand shot out, bypassing the restraints, and clamped around the collar of her lab coat, pulling her face mere inches from his. His eyes, though clouded with madness, held a terrifying intensity.
“You…” he whispered, his voice a rasp against her ear. “You smell like ozone.”