The Back-Alley Medic
Kael carried Ryn through the undercity like she weighed nothing, which she almost did. Her blood dripped down his arm, hot and thin, and left a trail of red dots on the rusted catwalks. She’d wrapped her foot in her own shirt, but the fabric was already soaked through, and every step Kael took sent a fresh pulse of crimson onto his fingers.
“Put me down,” Ryn said. Her voice was tight, the kind of tight that came from gritting teeth so hard they might crack.
“Shut up.”
“I can walk.”
“You can’t even stand.”
She tried to twist out of his grip. Kael tightened his arms and she gasped, her body going rigid against his chest. The movement sent a fresh wave of blood down his forearm. He could feel it pooling in the crook of his elbow, warm and sticky.
“You’re making it worse,” he said.
“You’re making it worse by carrying me like a sack of flour.”
“You’d prefer a fireman’s carry?”
“I’d prefer you let me die in peace.”
Kael laughed. It came out hollow, more of a cough than a chuckle. “You don’t get to die. You owe me a tournament win.”
They passed under a flickering neon sign that read “DR. MORO—DISCREET MEDICAL SERVICES—NO QUESTIONS ASKED.” The letters were missing half their bulbs, so it actually read “DR. MORO—DISCREET MEDICAL—NO UESTIONS.” Kael had been here before. Three years ago, after a bar fight left him with a knife in his ribs and no insurance card. The doctor had stitched him up on a metal table while smoking a cigarette and complaining about the price of black-market antibiotics.
He kicked the door with his boot. It swung open, revealing a room that smelled like antiseptic and old sweat. A single fluorescent bulb buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow light. The walls were lined with shelves of pill bottles, their labels handwritten in a language Kael didn’t recognize. In the corner, a man in a stained lab coat sat reading a magazine, his feet propped up on a desk cluttered with syringes and empty coffee cups.
“Doc,” Kael said.
Dr. Moro looked up. He was in his sixties, with a face like a crumpled paper bag and eyes that had seen too many things they shouldn’t have. He took in the scene—Kael, covered in blood, holding a teenage girl with a mangled foot—and sighed like a man who’d just been told his flight was delayed.
“What did you do to her?” Moro asked.
“She stepped on broken glass.”
“On purpose?”
“Accident.”
Moro set down his magazine and stood up. He walked over to Ryn, lifted the blood-soaked shirt, and whistled. “That’s a deep cut. You can see the tendon.”
Ryn’s face went pale. “Is that bad?”
“It’s not good.” Moro gestured to a metal table in the center of the room. “Put her there.”
Kael laid Ryn down as gently as he could. She gripped the edges of the table, her knuckles white, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Moro pulled on a pair of latex gloves that were yellowed with age and snapped them at the wrist.
“I’m going to clean this,” he said. “It’s going to hurt.”
“I know,” Ryn said.
“No, you don’t. I don’t have anesthetic. The last batch I bought was cut with baking soda. It didn’t work and it gave a patient a seizure.”
Ryn looked at Kael. Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t ask for help. She didn’t ask for anything. She just nodded at Moro and said, “Do it.”
Moro poured alcohol over the wound. Ryn screamed. It wasn’t a loud scream—it was a choked, animal sound that got stuck in her throat and came out as a gurgle. Her back arched off the table. Kael grabbed her hand and held it.
“Look at me,” he said.
She didn’t. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, on the cracks in the plaster, on the water stain that looked like a map of a country that didn’t exist.
“Look at me, Ryn.”
She turned her head. Her pupils were dilated, her face slick with sweat. Kael squeezed her hand.
“You’re going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I’ve seen worse. I’ve been worse. You’re tougher than me.”
“That’s not saying much.”
He almost smiled. “No. It’s not.”
Moro worked in silence, his hands moving with the practiced efficiency of a man who’d done this a thousand times. He pulled out a curved needle and thread that looked like fishing line. Ryn’s breath hitched when she saw it.
“How many stitches?” she asked.
“Twelve,” Moro said. “Maybe fourteen. Depends on how deep the cut goes.”
“Can I watch?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll pass out, and then I’ll have to stitch you up while you’re unconscious, and that’s harder on my back.”
Ryn laughed. It was a wet, broken sound, but it was a laugh. Kael felt something loosen in his chest.
Moro started stitching. Ryn bit down on her lip so hard that blood welled up and dripped down her chin. She didn’t make a sound. Kael watched her face, watched the way her jaw clenched and her eyes squeezed shut, and he felt a pang of something he hadn’t felt in years. Respect. Maybe even admiration.
When Moro finished, he wrapped Ryn’s foot in clean gauze and taped it with medical tape that had a logo from a company that had gone bankrupt a decade ago. He stepped back and pulled off his gloves, tossing them into a trash can that was overflowing with bloody bandages and empty vials.
“Don’t put weight on it for a week,” he said. “Change the dressing every twelve hours. If it turns red or starts oozing green, come back and I’ll amputate.”
“You’re joking,” Ryn said.
“I’m not. I’ve done it before. It’s not as hard as you’d think.”
Kael helped Ryn sit up. She swung her legs over the edge of the table and looked at her bandaged foot like it was a stranger she didn’t trust.
“How much?” Kael asked.
Moro walked back to his desk and sat down. He picked up his magazine and flipped a page. “Five hundred.”
“I don’t have five hundred.”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought her here.”
Kael reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. It was everything he had—three hundred and twenty credits, most of it from the odd jobs he’d done over the past week. He threw it on the desk. “That’s all I’ve got.”
Moro looked at the money. He didn’t touch it. “I said five hundred.”
“And I said that’s all I’ve got.”
“That’s not my problem.”
Kael stepped closer. He was taller than Moro, and broader, and he knew how to make himself look dangerous. He’d spent years perfecting that look. “You’re going to take the three hundred, and you’re going to forget we were ever here.”
Moro didn’t flinch. He’d been in the undercity too long to be scared by a man with a bad reputation and a worse haircut. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll tell the league medical board where you’ve been getting your supplies.”
Moro’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know where I get my supplies.”
“I know you buy from the same black-market dealer who sold me a fake ID last year. His name is Tito. He works out of a shipping container near the old docks. He’s got a record of every transaction he’s ever made, and he’s not loyal to anyone.”
Moro stared at him for a long moment. Then he picked up the money and stuffed it into his pocket. “Fine. But if she gets an infection, don’t come back.”
“I won’t.”
“And if you ever threaten me again, I’ll make sure your next visit is to the morgue.”
Kael nodded. He helped Ryn off the table and put his arm around her waist. She leaned on him, hopping on one foot, her breath warm against his neck.
“That was impressive,” she said.
“What was?”
“The blackmail. You made that up, didn’t you?”
“Tito’s real. The shipping container is real. The record of transactions is real.”
“But you don’t know if he’s loyal or not.”
“I don’t. But Moro doesn’t know that.”
Ryn laughed. It was a real laugh this time, full and bright, and it echoed off the rusted walls of the undercity. Kael felt something shift inside him. Something that felt almost like hope.
They made it back to the train yard an hour later. The team was waiting for them, huddled around a fire they’d built in a rusted oil drum. Brick sat on a crate, his massive hands wrapped around a cup of something steaming. Spin was pacing, his fingers twitching at his sides. Mira was sharpening a knife with a whetstone, her prosthetic leg stretched out in front of her.
When they saw Kael and Ryn, they all stood up.
“Is she okay?” Spin asked.
“She’ll live,” Kael said.
“What happened?” Mira asked.
“She stepped on glass.”
“I know that. I mean, why was she stepping on glass?”
Kael looked at Ryn. She was staring at the ground, her face flushed with embarrassment. “She was trying to prove a point.”
“What point?”
“That she’s not afraid of getting hurt.”
Mira snorted. “That’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” Ryn said. “It was.”
She hopped over to the fire and sat down on a crate. Brick handed her his cup. She took a sip and made a face. “What is this?”
“Tea,” Brick said. His voice was a low rumble, like thunder in the distance.
“It tastes like dirt.”
“It’s good for you.”
Ryn took another sip. She didn’t complain again.
Kael stood at the edge of the firelight, watching them. They were a mess. A mute giant, a twitchy pickpocket, a girl with a prosthetic leg, and a teenager with a bounty on her head. They had no money, no gear, and no chance of winning the tournament.
But they were still here.
They hadn’t quit.
He walked over to the glass court and tapped it with his boot. The sound was hollow, wrong. He crouched down and ran his fingers over the surface. There were cracks spiderwebbing across the center, thin lines that caught the firelight and glowed like veins.
“What are you doing?” Ryn asked.
“Listening.”
“To what?”
“The glass.”
He tapped again, harder this time. The sound was different near the edges—higher, sharper. He moved to the center and tapped again. The sound was lower, duller.
“There are weak spots,” he said.
“We know that,” Spin said. “That’s why we lost the exhibition match.”
“No. I mean, there are specific weak spots. The glass isn’t uniformly damaged. It’s cracked in patterns.”
He stood up and walked to the far end of the court. He tapped with his knuckle, moving in a grid pattern, listening to the way the sound changed. The team watched him in silence.
After ten minutes, he had a map in his head. The court was a patchwork of safe zones and danger zones. The center was the weakest—one hard impact and it would shatter. The edges were stronger, but there were three specific spots near the baseline that were almost as bad as the center.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’re going to learn how to read the glass.”
“How?” Mira asked.
“With a wrench.”
He walked back to the fire and sat down. The team looked at him, waiting for more. He didn’t give it. He was too tired, too sore, too aware of the blood drying on his skin.
Ryn handed him the cup of tea. He took a sip. It tasted like dirt.
He drank the whole thing.
“Put me down,” Ryn said. Her voice was tight, the kind of tight that came from gritting teeth so hard they might crack.
“Shut up.”
“I can walk.”
“You can’t even stand.”
She tried to twist out of his grip. Kael tightened his arms and she gasped, her body going rigid against his chest. The movement sent a fresh wave of blood down his forearm. He could feel it pooling in the crook of his elbow, warm and sticky.
“You’re making it worse,” he said.
“You’re making it worse by carrying me like a sack of flour.”
“You’d prefer a fireman’s carry?”
“I’d prefer you let me die in peace.”
Kael laughed. It came out hollow, more of a cough than a chuckle. “You don’t get to die. You owe me a tournament win.”
They passed under a flickering neon sign that read “DR. MORO—DISCREET MEDICAL SERVICES—NO QUESTIONS ASKED.” The letters were missing half their bulbs, so it actually read “DR. MORO—DISCREET MEDICAL—NO UESTIONS.” Kael had been here before. Three years ago, after a bar fight left him with a knife in his ribs and no insurance card. The doctor had stitched him up on a metal table while smoking a cigarette and complaining about the price of black-market antibiotics.
He kicked the door with his boot. It swung open, revealing a room that smelled like antiseptic and old sweat. A single fluorescent bulb buzzed overhead, casting everything in a sickly yellow light. The walls were lined with shelves of pill bottles, their labels handwritten in a language Kael didn’t recognize. In the corner, a man in a stained lab coat sat reading a magazine, his feet propped up on a desk cluttered with syringes and empty coffee cups.
“Doc,” Kael said.
Dr. Moro looked up. He was in his sixties, with a face like a crumpled paper bag and eyes that had seen too many things they shouldn’t have. He took in the scene—Kael, covered in blood, holding a teenage girl with a mangled foot—and sighed like a man who’d just been told his flight was delayed.
“What did you do to her?” Moro asked.
“She stepped on broken glass.”
“On purpose?”
“Accident.”
Moro set down his magazine and stood up. He walked over to Ryn, lifted the blood-soaked shirt, and whistled. “That’s a deep cut. You can see the tendon.”
Ryn’s face went pale. “Is that bad?”
“It’s not good.” Moro gestured to a metal table in the center of the room. “Put her there.”
Kael laid Ryn down as gently as he could. She gripped the edges of the table, her knuckles white, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. Moro pulled on a pair of latex gloves that were yellowed with age and snapped them at the wrist.
“I’m going to clean this,” he said. “It’s going to hurt.”
“I know,” Ryn said.
“No, you don’t. I don’t have anesthetic. The last batch I bought was cut with baking soda. It didn’t work and it gave a patient a seizure.”
Ryn looked at Kael. Her eyes were wide, but she didn’t ask for help. She didn’t ask for anything. She just nodded at Moro and said, “Do it.”
Moro poured alcohol over the wound. Ryn screamed. It wasn’t a loud scream—it was a choked, animal sound that got stuck in her throat and came out as a gurgle. Her back arched off the table. Kael grabbed her hand and held it.
“Look at me,” he said.
She didn’t. Her eyes were fixed on the ceiling, on the cracks in the plaster, on the water stain that looked like a map of a country that didn’t exist.
“Look at me, Ryn.”
She turned her head. Her pupils were dilated, her face slick with sweat. Kael squeezed her hand.
“You’re going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. I’ve seen worse. I’ve been worse. You’re tougher than me.”
“That’s not saying much.”
He almost smiled. “No. It’s not.”
Moro worked in silence, his hands moving with the practiced efficiency of a man who’d done this a thousand times. He pulled out a curved needle and thread that looked like fishing line. Ryn’s breath hitched when she saw it.
“How many stitches?” she asked.
“Twelve,” Moro said. “Maybe fourteen. Depends on how deep the cut goes.”
“Can I watch?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“Because you’ll pass out, and then I’ll have to stitch you up while you’re unconscious, and that’s harder on my back.”
Ryn laughed. It was a wet, broken sound, but it was a laugh. Kael felt something loosen in his chest.
Moro started stitching. Ryn bit down on her lip so hard that blood welled up and dripped down her chin. She didn’t make a sound. Kael watched her face, watched the way her jaw clenched and her eyes squeezed shut, and he felt a pang of something he hadn’t felt in years. Respect. Maybe even admiration.
When Moro finished, he wrapped Ryn’s foot in clean gauze and taped it with medical tape that had a logo from a company that had gone bankrupt a decade ago. He stepped back and pulled off his gloves, tossing them into a trash can that was overflowing with bloody bandages and empty vials.
“Don’t put weight on it for a week,” he said. “Change the dressing every twelve hours. If it turns red or starts oozing green, come back and I’ll amputate.”
“You’re joking,” Ryn said.
“I’m not. I’ve done it before. It’s not as hard as you’d think.”
Kael helped Ryn sit up. She swung her legs over the edge of the table and looked at her bandaged foot like it was a stranger she didn’t trust.
“How much?” Kael asked.
Moro walked back to his desk and sat down. He picked up his magazine and flipped a page. “Five hundred.”
“I don’t have five hundred.”
“Then you shouldn’t have brought her here.”
Kael reached into his pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of bills. It was everything he had—three hundred and twenty credits, most of it from the odd jobs he’d done over the past week. He threw it on the desk. “That’s all I’ve got.”
Moro looked at the money. He didn’t touch it. “I said five hundred.”
“And I said that’s all I’ve got.”
“That’s not my problem.”
Kael stepped closer. He was taller than Moro, and broader, and he knew how to make himself look dangerous. He’d spent years perfecting that look. “You’re going to take the three hundred, and you’re going to forget we were ever here.”
Moro didn’t flinch. He’d been in the undercity too long to be scared by a man with a bad reputation and a worse haircut. “Or what?”
“Or I’ll tell the league medical board where you’ve been getting your supplies.”
Moro’s eyes narrowed. “You don’t know where I get my supplies.”
“I know you buy from the same black-market dealer who sold me a fake ID last year. His name is Tito. He works out of a shipping container near the old docks. He’s got a record of every transaction he’s ever made, and he’s not loyal to anyone.”
Moro stared at him for a long moment. Then he picked up the money and stuffed it into his pocket. “Fine. But if she gets an infection, don’t come back.”
“I won’t.”
“And if you ever threaten me again, I’ll make sure your next visit is to the morgue.”
Kael nodded. He helped Ryn off the table and put his arm around her waist. She leaned on him, hopping on one foot, her breath warm against his neck.
“That was impressive,” she said.
“What was?”
“The blackmail. You made that up, didn’t you?”
“Tito’s real. The shipping container is real. The record of transactions is real.”
“But you don’t know if he’s loyal or not.”
“I don’t. But Moro doesn’t know that.”
Ryn laughed. It was a real laugh this time, full and bright, and it echoed off the rusted walls of the undercity. Kael felt something shift inside him. Something that felt almost like hope.
They made it back to the train yard an hour later. The team was waiting for them, huddled around a fire they’d built in a rusted oil drum. Brick sat on a crate, his massive hands wrapped around a cup of something steaming. Spin was pacing, his fingers twitching at his sides. Mira was sharpening a knife with a whetstone, her prosthetic leg stretched out in front of her.
When they saw Kael and Ryn, they all stood up.
“Is she okay?” Spin asked.
“She’ll live,” Kael said.
“What happened?” Mira asked.
“She stepped on glass.”
“I know that. I mean, why was she stepping on glass?”
Kael looked at Ryn. She was staring at the ground, her face flushed with embarrassment. “She was trying to prove a point.”
“What point?”
“That she’s not afraid of getting hurt.”
Mira snorted. “That’s stupid.”
“Yeah,” Ryn said. “It was.”
She hopped over to the fire and sat down on a crate. Brick handed her his cup. She took a sip and made a face. “What is this?”
“Tea,” Brick said. His voice was a low rumble, like thunder in the distance.
“It tastes like dirt.”
“It’s good for you.”
Ryn took another sip. She didn’t complain again.
Kael stood at the edge of the firelight, watching them. They were a mess. A mute giant, a twitchy pickpocket, a girl with a prosthetic leg, and a teenager with a bounty on her head. They had no money, no gear, and no chance of winning the tournament.
But they were still here.
They hadn’t quit.
He walked over to the glass court and tapped it with his boot. The sound was hollow, wrong. He crouched down and ran his fingers over the surface. There were cracks spiderwebbing across the center, thin lines that caught the firelight and glowed like veins.
“What are you doing?” Ryn asked.
“Listening.”
“To what?”
“The glass.”
He tapped again, harder this time. The sound was different near the edges—higher, sharper. He moved to the center and tapped again. The sound was lower, duller.
“There are weak spots,” he said.
“We know that,” Spin said. “That’s why we lost the exhibition match.”
“No. I mean, there are specific weak spots. The glass isn’t uniformly damaged. It’s cracked in patterns.”
He stood up and walked to the far end of the court. He tapped with his knuckle, moving in a grid pattern, listening to the way the sound changed. The team watched him in silence.
After ten minutes, he had a map in his head. The court was a patchwork of safe zones and danger zones. The center was the weakest—one hard impact and it would shatter. The edges were stronger, but there were three specific spots near the baseline that were almost as bad as the center.
“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’re going to learn how to read the glass.”
“How?” Mira asked.
“With a wrench.”
He walked back to the fire and sat down. The team looked at him, waiting for more. He didn’t give it. He was too tired, too sore, too aware of the blood drying on his skin.
Ryn handed him the cup of tea. He took a sip. It tasted like dirt.
He drank the whole thing.