Blackheath
***
He was woken by noisy scuffling as two men carried in an inert form, the woman following close behind, holding up a glass jar that tubed fluids into the unconscious arm.
"Put him down there, guys," she said softly.
Blackheath's hand slid instinctively to his calf at the sight of strangers, to the comforting lines of his knife, but they ignored him, and the tension passed.
"Do you think he's going to make it, Jiu?" one said, sitting and catching his breath while the woman drenched the unconscious man's clothes in water and opened out his arms and legs.
"What's happened?" Blackheath asked, taking in the patient's slack red face and purple stains beneath his eyes.
"Bushwalker," she muttered, "Heatstroke." Blackheath shifted closer carefully and took a rag to mop at the man's face.
"Anything we can do, Giulia?" the other asked. Giulia grimaced, setting up another drip set into the patient's other arm.
"Identify his next of kin?" she muttered, and the other two exchanged guarded glances and left.
Blackheath discovered they made their own fluids, sterilising jars in steam, boiling up water, salt and sugars in strict quantities, sealing and letting them cool. Giulia kept at it all day while Blackheath rhythmically soaked the man's body, trying to draw the heat away. As night came the patient regained a level of consciousness, muttering and jerking erratically.
"That a good sign?" Blackheath asked. Giulia shrugged.
"His insides are probably cooked. His brain might recover a little but his body's shutting down."
Blackheath knew he needed specialist medical attention. But there was no way to do that here, the humans had severed all contact with Soul areas, apart from occasional supply trucks. And the only hospitals were in Soul areas. The man would die. Blackheath leaned back, stretching his aching leg.
"Then why the hell are we doing this?" he growled in frustration, throwing the rag on the ground.
"Just in case," Guilia whispered wearily, "Sometimes, a tourist comes through with a car, sometimes the truck comes early…" she shrugged, "we have to try, just in case. Like with you."
Blackheath looked at her, surprised.
"You didn't look like you'd make it either for a while there. But you pulled through."
"I've got something to live for," Blackheath muttered, fighting the useless urge to get up and run for the city, anything to be closer to finding her. Sitting here was killing him. Not knowing…
"Maybe so does he," Giulia said softly.
Blackheath slowly picked up the rag and began the methodic rounds of mopping again.
***
He was woken up by the clink of glass on glass. Giulia was packing away the fluid jars. He sat up slowly, rubbing at his leg; he must have dozed off.
"He's dead," Giulia said, sitting back, defeat allowing her to give in to her exhaustion, her eyes dull in the lantern light. Blackheath glanced at the inert form, no emotion on his face.
"Let's see his wallet," Blackheath said curtly, tugging it free. "Jack Rankine," he read, "He's Mixed status."
"Good riddance then," Giulia whispered, eyes closed, but he felt her anger was mostly directed at herself. He pushed himself up and limped gingerly over. He sat next to her, leaning forward, careful not to touch her.
"You did your best, you know. More than anyone else would do."
"Yeah, well it wasn't good enough was it."
"It was good enough for me."
Her eyes held his in the warm, flickering lamp light, like she wanted to believe him. Then she looked away, and her face was lost to the darkness.