Paralyzer [Gotham]

10

"Thank you for coming," a woman sighed, opening her door wide and allowing me in.

"Of course," I nodded, following her into the apartment. Their living condition was less than optimal, probably the root of her child's reoccuring sickness, but the people of the Narrows couldn't afford to do much about their circumstances.

"He was doing fine last night," she explained, pausing in the doorway of the boy's room. "When I woke up this morning his fever was 102, nothing brought it down but a cold bath." I slid my bag off my shoulder and sat beside the boy, holding a hand against his clammy forehead. The poor boy was on fire and his breathing was shallow, the bed was soaked in his sweat.

Reaching into my bag, I grabbbed an instant ice pack, breaking the seal to mix the chemicals and placing it under his neck as it grew cold. "Hey, buddy," I spoke gently, coaxing his eyes open. "I need you to take some medicine." His eyes shot to his mother, who nodded, before nodding too. I propped his head up to help him drink water, allowing him to take a pill on his own. "Very good," I hummed, taking the glass of water from him.

I ran my hand over his head and stood, lifting my bag from the ground and handing the mother the bottle I'd taken the pill from. "These are high strength ibuprophen," I explained, still speaking softly. "They should help keep the fever down, no more than one every five hours. The ice pack on the back of his neck will slow the blood flow and cool him down, cold baths if that still isn't enough. Call me if he reaches 103."

"Thank you," she whispered, nothing but concern in her features. "Thank you so much." With a light smile, I nodded and let myself out, keeping my head down as I walked down the street. As I walked home, my phone came to life. It was getting late, other than the emergency call I just came from, I knew there was really only one reason anyone would call me this late; it was a mob call.

A quick glance at the caller ID had me frowning. "What can I do for you, Butch?" I asked cautiously.

"You've worked with amputee's outside'a me, right, doc?" he rushed out. He was clearly panicking and I heard three sets of heavy breathing, a woman barking at people in the background attempting to clear them a path.

"Um, yeah--"

"Think you can reattach a hand?" My footsteps stopped and I looked around, taking a moment before redirecting myself.

"I can do my best," I shrugged. "Come to my place and I'll take care of it. Keep the hand alive."

"Already on it." The call ended, my feet rushing faster towards home. I had time to get things together. Sutures, a heavy duty stapler, huge staples for said gun, gauze, a silng, a brace. I even had time to sterilize my tools and dining table by the time they'd arrived.

It was true, I'd had experience amputating limbs - working with cancer there were many limbs you simply couldn't save. Reattaching something that had been previously severed, however was a new concept. I jumped at the harsh pounding on my door, barely moving towards it before the knocks erupted again. When I finally opened the door, a blonde woman thrust a bag of bloodied ice and a severed hand into my face, an irritated smile on her lips as Gilzean held an unconcious, dark skinned woman. "Right this way," I breathed, taking the hand and leading them to the table.

As Butch laid her out, I took the hand from the bag and began cleaning the wounded flesh, listening as the two paced my livingroom. "You think she'll be okay?" he asked, his voice wavering. He wasn't nearly this shooken up after Zsasz's reprogramming, nor his own amputation.

"Please, she's tough as nails. She'll be fine," the blonde sighed, the weight of her eyes heavy on my back. Every so often, the cold fingers would twitch against my hands, responding to my warmth, as distrubing as it was, it told me the hand was still alive. After cleaning the bit of wrist, I turned to the stump on her forearm. The woman didn't respond to the pain I was putting her through, but her pulse came at a concerning but steady rate.

"You know this is war, right?" Butch fired off, causing me hesitation. "Nygma, Penguin, anyone who stands with them - they're all dead." I swallowed hard and took a moment to study him; I could tell whatever had happened was terrible to say the least, but I worked for Penguin. Meeting my stare, Butch took a breath before informing, "Not you, just help Tabitha. Please." I looked to the blonde once before nodding, the fire behind her eyes terrifying me to my core.

"This woman Isabella," she inquired as I focused back on my patient. "Nygma said she was a librarian, right?" One of the many perks of being a doctor, most people considered us deaf. Essentially we are, especially when you worked for the mob; so as long as I had patients, I was normally kept up to date on the latest goings on. This is so for the fact that Butch had been the to attack Zsasz on the celebration night. The woman on my table, Tabitha, had helped him escape prison custody.

With a deep breath, I prepared myself for the gruesome process of stapling her hand to her stump. "Who kills a librarian? I mean, what's the motive?" The blonde seemed to be quite the detective - for all her fury, she had some brains.

"Maybe someone had an overdue book that got out of hand?" I shrugged, deciding to keep my mouth shut when both of their stares shot to me. Definately not humor people, got it.

"You cut someone's brake lines, you know where they're going and when," she thought loud. I had to fight shudders as I forced the staples through Tabitha's skin, and I could tell she'd raised her voice to drown out the squelching. "You'd know... You know them." She started laughing, and I could feel my blood churning in response. Whoever had crossed Tabitha, Butch, and this manic blonde hadn't had their tracks well covered.