Fascinating Villains

{33} - Culprit

Yesterday, Foul Play and I burned one of David Merc's international clothing shipping centers to a crisp, in the hopes of destroying every last ounce of profit anyone might salvage from it. The storage establishment is situated among ordinary businesses and skyscrapers, on the side of a normally busy street.

This morning, two city buses became uncontrollable and they both crashed violently, not only into the already charred building, but into one another. The sheer amount of injured citizens warranted for the larger proportion of Gotham General Hospital's ambulance service to be deployed on-site.

Furthermore, the police department reared its meddling head into our affairs. While some of the officers were dispatched to appease the angered crowd of people who take this road to get to work, namely, which is functioning as well as anyone would expect, the others are here to investigate. Amidst the wounded, there appears to be multiple criminals, and medical technicians from Squad 76 reported that they found illicit substances scattered in the ashen wreckage of the clothing hangar. These two facts understandably summoned enough cops to fill one public bus. As always, rare are those who are not thoughtlessly interfering with our medical duties. 

In the deafening cacophony of mingling sirens and alarms of remotely every sort known to humanity, I am hurriedly weaving a path from one patient to another. Harsh or suffering voices, inside my head or spoken, string the unbelievable quantity of noise together, to fit the devastating visual.

I am easing a knocked out teenager from behind the steering wheel of his badly painted car, as his young sister bawls even louder than the noise made by the heartless, braindead drivers who are honking at us. As though I am going to stop aiding these children and suddenly decide to drive a clearly ruined car out of their way.

"IS HE DE-E-E-E-EAAAAAD?!" the small girl sobs and screams, sniffling loudly afterwards.

I gently lie her brother down on the cement, pulling up his crumpled T-shirt to witness the damage to his rib cage; the poor boy's security belt was cut, which I noticed instantly when I pried the car door open. Whether that happened during the accident or prior to it is unknown. The important part is that he slammed chest first into the steering wheel and that shards from his windshield indented his young face. The bruising is deep and disturbing, the skin is riddled with clumps and dark purple crevices.

I hastily cover the injury to protect the girl's innocence.

The teenage boy is breathing, above all things. Feebly, but still.

I activate my radio. "This is Tanza Aguayo speaking. I have... Someone who needs an ambulance. Over."

I could not bring myself to announce the child's sibling like a subject in front of her. 16-year-old male, car accident victim, compromised rib cage.

The little girl is struggling to take off her backpack. He was probably driving her to school when... I ignore the knot in my throat, watching her decisively drop her sparkly princess backpack on the ground to produce a resealable plastic bag from it. It contains browning apple slices. She fiddles with the opening, mumbling something, then it slips out of her small hands.

I kneel down to her level faster than the plastic bag can land on the concrete. Crying and shaking, her head is turned down toward the asphalt road.

"Is... Is... Is he..? Ishegonnabeokayplease?!" she wails.

My communication device crackles, preceding a familiar voice, "Copy. Colin Levine here. 76-1 is leaving at 09 hours. Will you get here in time? Over."

I shove the speaker key into activation.

"Affirmative. Over and out."

I instinctively pick up the child's schoolbag, handing it to her along with a question of my own.