Rafael swallows. “The patient—if they need nutrient therapy, they need regular hospital evaluations…From a doctor…”
His fists clench at his sides. “You think I don’t want what’s best for them?” The words come out sharper than intended, and Kane’s interface flashes with Rafael’s elevated vitals.
A dull pang settles in Kane’s chest.
He doesn’t soften his tone, even as an unfamiliar urge surfaces. “We can’t just walk into VitaCorp and ask for treatment. Half of our people only have below-average insurance, and the rest can’t risk being in their system. Understand?”
“I shouldn’t have assumed…” Rafael glances around the med bay. “I guess I never thought about what happens to people who don’t have access to VitaCorp.”
Kane studies him for a moment. Midtown types rarely acknowledge anything beyond their safe walls. “Well, out here, we handle our own problems,” he goes on. “VitaCorp and the city abandoned the Outer Districts after the Collapse. Nothing new there. We’ve been surviving on scraps since.”
There’s another pause, long enough that Kane thinks this conversation is over. But Rafael murmurs, “I understand. And I know I’m not here by choice. But…if I can help while I am, I want to. They’re still my patients.”
Most corporate types would do the bare minimum out of fear. This one actually seems to care too much. Especially for strangers he’s practically treating at gunpoint. Useful, though. If Pulaski’s replacement isn’t here until tomorrow, Rafael will stay busy.
He grabs Dr. Pulaski’s old jacket from the hook and tosses it to Rafael. “Let’s go. Your patient’s waiting.”
7
Chapter 7 - Rafael
Unlike the slums Rafael’s seen on V-link, the street outside the bar is eerily calm. No ambling synthheads or random gunfire, but buildings in various states of repair. Some sit abandoned, relics of the pre-megacorp era he learned about in school, back when cities still ran on government grids instead of Lux Systems. Others bear signs of care in cracks patched with tape, makeshift energy shields on the roofs, and doorways reinforced with scavenged metal.
The homes are mostly old tenements and brownstones, far from the towers he’s used to in Midtown or the sleek high-rises of Downtown. These look like structures built pre-Collapse, from before the Mason Group took over. Between them, neon signs crowd the alleys in half a dozen languages, advertising shops and services he doesn’t recognize. Not a single corporate logo anywhere.
What strikes him most are the people. A woman in worn but modern clothes balances a grocery bag against her hip while kids tug at her sleeves. Farther down, a pair of older men in Factura uniforms walk side by side, their augmentsmismatched but matte instead of chrome. Others in torn Premiere Corp jackets hurry toward an HOV stop at the end of the block. They could pass for the same commuters he sees every morning in Midtown. Except here, their shoulders hunch and eyes wander.
“This way.” Kane’s voice slices through his thoughts. Rafael’s gut clenches again. He still doesn’t know where they’re going, or who he’s meant to treat, but the drone carrying the nutrient regenerator floats behind him as he follows the taller man down the block.
They stop around the corner at the porch of a brick row house. Two boys fight in front of the home, swinging glowing laser swords. Too absorbed in their game, neither notices them until Kane steps forward and clears his throat.
“Yichen, Runchu.”
“Baron!” One boy drops his laser sword with a buzz. “Sir!” The other shrinks back.
“Runchu,” Kane starts, but after a breath, his voice softens. “How’re you feeling?”
Rafael blinks. Kane’s voice carries a gentleness he didn’t expect. For a heartbeat, it doesn’t match the man who pressed a gun to his chest.
The taller boy swallows. “I…I’m okay. Just need my treatment, sir.”
Kane’s eyes lock on the shorter of the two, expression hardening. “Yichen, why aren’t you in school?”
“I stay home for my brother’s treatments,” the boy answers. “Mom has to work.”
“Fine. Just stay inside next time. Don’t give other kids the idea you’re staying home to be a cyber gladiator.”
Is this what Kane meant by “they handle their own?” Hisgang isn’t just holding territory. They’re keeping tabs on neighborhood kids, ensuring they get medical care, even joking with them. The boys seem to respect Kane, too, or maybe they fear him the way Rafael does. He can’t tell which. Either way, it makes him dizzy.
The boys share a smile before the leader motions to the door. “Why are you two just standing there? Get inside.”
They hurry to punch the code into an old-school security panel and push the patched-up door open. They slip inside, and Kane follows, motioning Rafael and the hovering drone to do the same.
Inside, the home is almost an extension of the street. Wooden floors creak under his steps, and paint peels from the walls in long strips. But small improvements show in reupholstered furniture and secondhand appliances, more lived-in than polished. Though like Rafael’s place in Midtown, personal touches fill the space in flickering holographic photos on a scratched dresser, toys scattered across the floor, and a Premiere Corp uniform hanging to dry in the window.
Runchu huddles beside his brother on the sofa. “Can I just sit here?” he asks.
Kane doesn’t answer, turning to Rafael. Their eyes meet, and Rafael hesitates. No one at work looks to him like this. Nurses follow protocol—they don’t get asked for opinions.