Suzanne works the night shift from 9:00 PM to 10:00 PM, holding down one of Lilycove's Pokemon Centers. A man enters at 9:50 PM, 10 minutes before she is due to clock out and Amelia is to come in, saying something about one of his Pokemon not responding. Suzanne is a good nurse; does not falter, does not ask meaningless questions. Just ushers the man into the emergency ward and asks him to show her the problem.
He hesitates. She looks him over, from the immaculately combed brown hair, the sharp suit and crisp lapels, down to the glossy leather shoes. Wealthy; she assumes old money, a young aristocrat in the big city to have some fun and while away the time in fancy bars and luxury suites. A flash of colored steel chips. A pro-battler, then. Still he is reluctant to hand the Pokeball over. Suzanne presses the "open" button and burning light splashes onto the linoleum, congealing into a gardevoir too flushed to be dead, but too listless to be fully alive.
Her gentleman waits in the hallway, reads a magazine. Suzanne does her best. No less than three hospital chansey fill the room with their healing, and she applies cold compresses regularly to bring her patient's temperature down. In a moment of error, Suzanne chooses to flip the gardevoir over. There is bad smell coming from her Beckenridge pleats, the two extraneous tails that mask her long legs just so. The chansey hum. A life monitor beeps.
"Sepsis," Suzanne reports. The gentleman looks up. She takes a deep breath.
"There's layers of diseased tissue all along her thighs and spreading up her midsection. The reason she's been out of it is because she has a fever of over 110 degrees, and from my estimates, it's been untreated for about a week and a half. But that's not what I'm most concerned about."
Papers crinkle. Moans from behind the door.
"It looks like she's been violated. And forcibly. She's got enough STDs to fill a lab's worth of petri dishes."
He stands up, tie a red slash down his chest. There is no surprise on his face. His hand twitches, a seemingly idle spasm until she looks at his belt and spots three more Pokeballs, two Ultras and a Master. Her watch reads 10:09. Suzanne wants to scream.
"I'll see to it that she gets the best care possible, sir."
"Of course."
"Her cost-"
"I can pay. Any amount it takes, as long as my Cordelia's alright."
And she knows what will happen after he leaves. A young aristocrat in the big city who wants to have some fun, with unorthodox tastes that can't be satisfied anywhere else. His check is perfectly valid. His money is perfectly valid. He wets his lips every thirty seconds, tongue wet and fleshy. Cordelia sleeps, drinks the pure air, heals slowly but surely. When she leaves, her eyes are black as sin.
Suzanne is a good nurse. She takes the rich man's money and bites her cheek as she writes it off.
Tries to yell but her throat is choked thick with her own blood and spit.
a/n: cover - 'dead flowers' by lamiller