Mitchell pressed a cold beer to his forehead. It did little to aid the building heat, the burning pressure that threatened to burst within his skull. Drops of icy condensation ran down the can and onto his face. He didn't bother wiping them off; His attention was entirely fixated on the small slip of paper in his hand. He'd stared at the check off and on for more than a week now. It was as if he couldn't recognize what he saw in front of him. But every time he checked, it was right there, real ink on a real page. Far more money than he could ever have hoped for.
Working for the Atlas Initiative had other benefits as well. He had a week off, a full week after each assignment, and an additional week afterwards when he was 'on call', where he didn't have to come into the precinct unless there was some kind of pressing threat. Some of the more senior soldiers such as Chuck, the gruff older captain who'd been the only other survivor on Mitchell's first assignment, preferred to take only the minimum three days to recuperate. Mitchell, for the life of him, couldn't understand why. Then again, about a month ago he couldn't understand why anyone would want to work for Atlas with their incredibly high mortality rate. But the money and the benefits were so good, he was having a hard time convincing himself that he'd made the wrong decision, and that worried him.
Six of his fellow soldiers, all fresh faced recruits such as himself, had died in front of him. They'd been burned, crushed and slaughtered where they'd stood. People just like him who were just looking for a decent paycheck, thrown against an enemy they could barely hope to fight. Maybe that's why, a week and a half later, Mitchell still hadn't cashed the check. If he did, it would mean admitting that he valued a comfortable life over a lasting one. But how much of a life did he truly have? Mitchell glanced around his tiny apartment, his gaze passing over the peeling paint and worn furniture. A pile of unopened mail, mostly bills of some variety, lay strewn across his small wooden dining table. He sighed and walked over to it, sorting the various envelopes. Left for bills. Right for ads.
One letter caught his eye. A thin envelope with the logo of the University of Chicago stamped onto it. His hand hovered over it, unsure of whether or not he really wanted to know what it said. It was probably just another bill, he hadn't paid one for the University in months, but it was rather light and wasn't labeled as such. Mitchell cautiously opened it. Inside was a single sheet of paper.
Dear Mr. Mitchell,
It is unfortunate, yet understandable that you had previously decided to end your
time as a student at the University. However, I as well as many of your former
professors would be willing to allow you to continue your classes, considering how
few credits you have remaining before the completion of your degree and your
otherwise spotless record. I'd urge you to remember, Mr. Mitchell, that one mistake
does not define an individual and that you are no exception. None of the faculty
here at the University blame you for the events that transpired and we all wish you
luck in any endeavors you may seek in the future. If you need any help, my office is
open any time during regular school hours. I hope to hear from you again.
Dr. Gabriel R. Martinez, PHD
Mitchell grimaced as his head swelled with searing memories. He rubbed his temples slowly with his thumbs to quell their anxious cries and exhaled deeply. It did little to stop the memories from surging back.
Searing pain coursed through his retinas as a blinding white light engulfed the room around him. Mitchell stumbled backwards, his hands now coated in a thin layer of red and black sludge. A loud droning rose in the background, drowning everything out with its deafening blare. His breathing quickened into short, ragged gasps. His heart beat so hard he thought it might explode. He felt trapped, completely isolated in this never-ending prison of light and sound.
A sudden jolt brought Mitchell tumbling to the ground.
"Shit." He muttered as he pushed away the last faint memory of blinding lights and crimson blood staining his hands. He stood, albeit unsteadily, and returned to the couch where he sat with his head held in his hands.
That was why he'd never be able to go back. The mere mention of the incident had caused him to panic and collapse. He'd lost all control of himself.
"Come on you stupid fuck." Mitchell muttered to himself as he tried to calm his rapid breathing, "Get it the fuck together. You can't afford to do this anymore."
He didn't quite understand exactly what happened when these attacks came on. He'd once thought that they'd been the result of seeing blood, but his recent assignment with Atlas hadn't produced one. It had to be more specific, he supposed, a more targeted reminder of what he'd– of what had happened. Maybe a more targeted treatment was necessary.
Mitchell downed a large gulp of beer and swallowed down the hot bile that rose in his throat. His phone buzzed. It was an alert from the Atlas security network. Code 143. An altercation involving one or more Anomalous and one or more casualty.
"That's right, asshole. Keep it the fuck together." He cracked his neck and stood, grabbing his helmet from where it lay by the side of the couch. If he'd had any doubts before, they'd all faded. He couldn't go back to the way things were before. That ship had long since sailed. But maybe he could use this new position for good. Maybe he could redeem himself. If all else failed, at least he'd die in the place of someone far more deserving of life.
As he placed the helmet on his head, his personal ID flashed on the HUD before connecting to the Atlas security network.
"Contractor." Chuck's voice sounded through the speakers, "Are you ready for another assignment?"
"Yeah. Guess I am." Mitchell responded, clenching his fists to keep himself steady.
"Well good for you. Newbies like you rarely take their second suicide mission so quickly." The older man laughed dryly, "Get your ass down to the precinct. You and I are the only ones with any goddamn experience on this one, command didn't want to send us anyone worth their weight in shit for what they consider to be a simple bag and tag."
"I'll be there as soon as I can. Three minutes at the most."
"You'd better. This is my last mission for this shithole precinct and I don't want it to be a complete bloodbath. Just keep the greenhorns out of my way and try not to get yourself killed." Chuck's voice cut out with a click.
Mitchell let out a long sigh, before quickly gathering his gear and leaving his apartment. He ran the two blocks to the precinct without breaking stride. The streets were clear at this time of night and the yellow street lamps glowed brightly against the cloudy sky.
The bulky concrete precinct building stood out starkly against the night, its imposing exterior rose above the shorter residential buildings along the street.. Outside, several figures milled about the main entrance. Mitchell could make out Chuck by his helmet's markings. The armor, while quite similar in appearance to the untrained eye, actually contained a few subtle indicators of rank. Chuck, for instance, had three small gray lines underneath the left eye of his helmet that signified his rank as Captain.
Four other soldiers shuffled around, nervously checking their gear or pacing impatiently. Chuck gave Mitchell a quick nod before staring off into space, likely looking at some kind of readout on his helmet's HUD.
"Looks like this is all we're going to get." Chuck announced, "I was hoping for a full squad, but it looks like some of your comrades decided to be lazy bastards and spend this beautiful evening asleep and out of danger. Fucking amateurs.
"Anyway, we've been called out here in the middle of the fucking night because of a 'minor altercation between two or more parties of anomalous origin involving one or more casualties'. In other words, we have us a little dispute between two of the rival gangs over in the older end of town. Our primary mission is to apprehend or eliminate any and all anomalous threats. The safety of civilians is a priority, but secondary to the main objective. Any questions?"
Deafening silence followed.
"Good." Chuck stated, "Precincts C-26 and C-27 are taking streets west of checkpoint Hotel. Precinct C-21 has everything to the north of the old courthouse. We have everything else, and since we're the smallest team we'll need to move quickly. Ramirez and Klein will take the APC up the main streets, I'll take Hayes and cover the southern wards and Mitchell and Hansen will search the industrial zone. You'll be closest to C-26 over there, so keep your eyes open for friendlies. Now let's go earn our pay."
The fog had descended further by the time Mitchell found himself patrolling the quiet streets of IZ-23. Hansen, a woman of similar height and age as Mitchell, hadn't said a word in the last ten minutes. To be fair, neither had Mitchell. The night was perfect for an ambush, with the fog closing in all around and the streetlights dimly shining in the distance. It was dead silent, a strange enigma in a city so large. Maybe it was the threat of the anomalous gangs that walked in the shadows of the night. Maybe it was just the fog.
The joints of the two soldiers' armor clacked as they walked, giving a muted echo with every movement. To Mitchell it was painfully loud. He grit his teeth and tried not to think of the very real possibility that they were walking into some kind of ambush. It would be all too easy to drag two unsuspecting soldiers off into the fog, never to be seen again. He quickly scanned his surroundings, attempting to pick out movement in the densely obscured row of factories and warehouses, but much to his frustration all appeared completely still.
A faint sound caught Mitchell's attention. He stopped dead in his tracks, swiveling his head around in its direction. Hansen stopped walking, suddenly alert. Both soldiers stood completely motionless, desperate not to miss any signs of movement. Time seemed to slow and Mitchell became acutely aware of the sound of his own heartbeat pounding in his ears. Deafening silence swallowed him and for the briefest of moments he found himself thinking that the sound had all been in his imagination. Just as he turned to signal the 'all clear', he heard the sound again; a soft whimper of pain.
Mitchell gestured to Hansen to follow and she fell in formation behind him, covering their rear. He closed in on the source of the sound. It was on the opposite side of the street inside a dark alley. After a quick check up and down the narrow boulevard the soldiers crossed the street in a quick half crouched run. They took up positions on opposite sides of the alley and approached, guns raised and flashlights trained on the misty darkness ahead of them.
Blood stained the concrete below and ran like a river out from a lump in the middle of the tight corridor. Mitchell broke out into a jog as Hansen scanned the roofs of the surrounding buildings, keeping her gun trained on possible ambush locations. As he drew closer, Mitchell could make out the form of a woman slumped against the wall of one of the buildings. What appeared to be a gunshot had ripped through her upper torso, leaving a large, bloody wound. Her hand lay on her chest as if in an attempt to stem the blood that seeped out through the cavity in her chest and it was only then that Mitchell noticed her trembling.
The injured woman's eyes were narrowed against Mitchell's flashlight, but in them Mitchell could see a mixture of emotions. Panic. Uncertainty. Fear. He reached out to touch her and to his surprise the woman raised her hand in a feeble attempt to ward him off.
"It's okay…" Mitchell managed to say, panic rising in his chest. He felt the dull sting of memory rise in the back of his mind. The lights. The droning. The blood on his hands. It was all happening again.
"It's okay." Mitchell repeated, more to himself than the injured woman, "I'm here to help. You're going to be alright."
The woman reluctantly lowered her arm. It was amazing that she had the strength to move at all, considering the severity of the wound and the time elapsed since gunshots were initially heard. Even given the benefit of the doubt, this woman would have to have been bleeding out for at least ten minutes.
Mitchell fought against every instinct he had as he reached out and pulled the woman forward. White light filled the edges of his vision, threatening to drag him into his memories once more. He fought back, desperate to remain in control. He couldn't afford to wallow in the past any longer, not when there was a life on the line. He just needed to focus on what was present. What was real.
There was no exit wound. That was bad, it meant that the bullet was still somewhere in the woman's body. Mitchell pulled back the flaps of skin that marked the entrance to the wound and grimaced as the woman let out a muted cry of pain. He shined his flashlight into the wound, hoping to assess the damage. It was difficult, considering the amount of blood he'd stirred up by doing so, but assessing the condition of the internal organs was paramount. If she was bleeding internally then there wouldn't be much he could do, but if by some miracle none of the internals got hit…
He couldn't make out anything. Not here, not without proper equipment, and his attempt at an exploratory procedure had already cost the woman more valuable blood. His best bet would probably be to stem the bleeding and close the wound. It exposed the woman to potential infection from the bullet and any other foreign materials in the body, but would give Mitchell more time to get her proper medical attention. Of course he could also try to remove the bullet here and now. Infection could kill quickly, especially with the woman's accelerated heart rate. If he did sew her back up and she contracted an infection, she could be dead of sepsis before reaching a hospital.
The answer would depend on how much more blood he thought she could lose. Just the thought of it sent a white flash across his vision and he was forced to take a deep breath to calm his nerves. The ground below his feet was covered in blood and the woman's skin was pale. She was hardly breathing. Full-on stitches were probably out of his capacity at the moment, both due to the incredibly unsanitary surrounding area and due to Mitchell's own… reservations.
Mitchell retrieved his small first aid kit from where it had been affixed to his upper leg. He swiftly removed a roll of bandages and gauze. He carefully packed the wound with gauze before wrapping the woman's chest in bandages to keep the gauze in place. It wasn't exactly the highest profile treatment he'd given, nor was it the most elegant, but it would work until he could find a place to perform a proper operation.
A proper operation. How ironic. He almost laughed, despite the situation.
"Help me carry her." He called to Hansen.
The two soldiers gingerly lifted the woman off the ground. Mitchell carried her by the arms while Hansen took the legs. It was important that they keep the bullet wound facing up so blood wouldn't leak out.
"Will she live?" Hansen asked nervously.
"If we're fast." Mitchell replied. It was an oversimplification; if they hurried she had a higher chance of living, but that was looking more and more unlikely by the minute. Still, he didn't want to explain that to Hansen. Atlas had some very strict policies about when it was appropriate to cut losses and abandon at-risk lives.
"God, I hope nothing is watching." Hansen muttered as the two slowly made their way back out into the fog.