Sira didn't like how much cigarette smoke was filling the small room she was using as an operation room. Not the fact that it meant the room was no longer sterile, no, that didn't matter. She just doesn't like cigarettes. They reminded her of her ex-husband.
Her eyes narrowed on the culprit who was standing far too close to her patient. He was a man who seemed to be in the later stage of his middle years, but in Rhy'Din it was hard to tell. He wore a very nice silk suit in a black so dark it seemed to suck in the light. His tie was a brilliant scarlet, looking like a bright smear of fresh blood against the white of his dress shirt. He was bald and his eyes a stormy grey. He was watching her face, not her hands, which were busy digging some sort of bullet out of the back of one his so-called best men.
Sira found this odd, and disturbing. She prefers not to make eye contact, and few seemed to like meeting her off-colored eyes anyway. They are a deep brown with a centric heterochromia of honey-orange, pretty enough, but much like the man's suit they seem to draw light instead of the normal....glint....that people tend to have. And the longer you look, the more it seems she can see right into the darkest corners of your thoughts.
"So," the man's deep, gravelly voice broke her from her study and she returned her attention to the unconscious man on the table. "What is the prognosis for Varheem?" Sira grunted and shrugged, a most eloquent response.
"He's lost a lot of blood," she glanced at the pint hanging, to check it's level. Blood was cheap here thanks to all the vampires, but she still hated to waste it. "His right lung has been pierced multiple times, I would need a full team to fix it. Maybe a new lung." Also not hard to come by, thanks to the black market. And mages. "But I think the worst of it is the bullet nicked his heart." She glanced up from her work. "The small one, not the larger..." Non-humans were always tricky, even if she could read them. "I could probably prolong his life by a few hours, but full recovery is unlikely. I could still try."
The man took a long drag off of his cigarette and blew out the smoke through his nostrils.
"That won't be necessary," he replied, his tone dismissive. "He was a good man, but that's too much trouble. I just want the bullet. I will still pay your full fee." He turned and left the room, but the hulking goon that had accompanied them remained.
Sira's eyes were on the now closed door, one hand placed gently on the dying man's lower back. Even with her help he likely would have never recovered. The hand on his back remained, her other started replacing tools on the surgical tray at her elbow. She used a heart rate monitor for the benefit of others, it was useless for her. The beat had been slow, but steady enough, and now it slowed and slowed as she convinced his mind to let his body go. She let him feel no pain, feel nothing as his life left him.
Varheem. She didn't like knowing the names of the people she worked on like this. Not that it bothered her to know the name of a man in her care who died. He was in a dangerous business on a dangerous world and he had known the risks. She knew when she had put him under, read it from his mind, that he knew he was likely to die. He had accepted it, so could she. Knowing his name made it easier to access his deeper thoughts and memories, that lingered for a time even after he'd 'gone'.
While she worked to uncover the bullet lodged near his spine she could see his younger sister playing on their family's property when they were kids. She saw them playing near a peaceful pond. Skating in the winter, on the ice. Her lifeless body after some meaningless attack by some unknown perpetrator that had lead him to the Man's group, seeking revenge.
By the time she'd withdrawing the offending projectile, she knew his whole story.
She took the bullet to her sink to rinse it clean of blood and gore, revealing the odd pattern etched into its surface, somehow unscathed by both its explosion from the barrel of a firearm and its harrowing trip through a man's body. Sira wrinkled her nose. Magic.
She dropped the bullet into a vial and capped it, holding it out for the hulk to take. He said nothing when he grabbed it, and nothing when he left.
Alone she turned to deal with the corpse. It didn't bother her. After all, this is the life she had....not quite chose to enter, but had chosen to keep. It was messy, but it was hers.
Her eyes narrowed on the culprit who was standing far too close to her patient. He was a man who seemed to be in the later stage of his middle years, but in Rhy'Din it was hard to tell. He wore a very nice silk suit in a black so dark it seemed to suck in the light. His tie was a brilliant scarlet, looking like a bright smear of fresh blood against the white of his dress shirt. He was bald and his eyes a stormy grey. He was watching her face, not her hands, which were busy digging some sort of bullet out of the back of one his so-called best men.
Sira found this odd, and disturbing. She prefers not to make eye contact, and few seemed to like meeting her off-colored eyes anyway. They are a deep brown with a centric heterochromia of honey-orange, pretty enough, but much like the man's suit they seem to draw light instead of the normal....glint....that people tend to have. And the longer you look, the more it seems she can see right into the darkest corners of your thoughts.
"So," the man's deep, gravelly voice broke her from her study and she returned her attention to the unconscious man on the table. "What is the prognosis for Varheem?" Sira grunted and shrugged, a most eloquent response.
"He's lost a lot of blood," she glanced at the pint hanging, to check it's level. Blood was cheap here thanks to all the vampires, but she still hated to waste it. "His right lung has been pierced multiple times, I would need a full team to fix it. Maybe a new lung." Also not hard to come by, thanks to the black market. And mages. "But I think the worst of it is the bullet nicked his heart." She glanced up from her work. "The small one, not the larger..." Non-humans were always tricky, even if she could read them. "I could probably prolong his life by a few hours, but full recovery is unlikely. I could still try."
The man took a long drag off of his cigarette and blew out the smoke through his nostrils.
"That won't be necessary," he replied, his tone dismissive. "He was a good man, but that's too much trouble. I just want the bullet. I will still pay your full fee." He turned and left the room, but the hulking goon that had accompanied them remained.
Sira's eyes were on the now closed door, one hand placed gently on the dying man's lower back. Even with her help he likely would have never recovered. The hand on his back remained, her other started replacing tools on the surgical tray at her elbow. She used a heart rate monitor for the benefit of others, it was useless for her. The beat had been slow, but steady enough, and now it slowed and slowed as she convinced his mind to let his body go. She let him feel no pain, feel nothing as his life left him.
Varheem. She didn't like knowing the names of the people she worked on like this. Not that it bothered her to know the name of a man in her care who died. He was in a dangerous business on a dangerous world and he had known the risks. She knew when she had put him under, read it from his mind, that he knew he was likely to die. He had accepted it, so could she. Knowing his name made it easier to access his deeper thoughts and memories, that lingered for a time even after he'd 'gone'.
While she worked to uncover the bullet lodged near his spine she could see his younger sister playing on their family's property when they were kids. She saw them playing near a peaceful pond. Skating in the winter, on the ice. Her lifeless body after some meaningless attack by some unknown perpetrator that had lead him to the Man's group, seeking revenge.
By the time she'd withdrawing the offending projectile, she knew his whole story.
She took the bullet to her sink to rinse it clean of blood and gore, revealing the odd pattern etched into its surface, somehow unscathed by both its explosion from the barrel of a firearm and its harrowing trip through a man's body. Sira wrinkled her nose. Magic.
She dropped the bullet into a vial and capped it, holding it out for the hulk to take. He said nothing when he grabbed it, and nothing when he left.
Alone she turned to deal with the corpse. It didn't bother her. After all, this is the life she had....not quite chose to enter, but had chosen to keep. It was messy, but it was hers.