Vol 1 - Ch 21 - The Choices we Make

Caelan watched the space between buildings with unwavering focus. Prototype rifle ready for the shot. Matt lay beside him, spotting. “Sure hope intel hit the spot this time.”

The smugglers arrived and set up a perimeter, their sniper watching the exchange. Caelan doubted he could hit their position two miles away, but better safe than sorry.

They could not fail the operation.

“Eyes on the target.” Caelan’s muscles tensed at the words.

He watched the trucks coming in, his heart racing. He had trained for this moment for too long. He worked with R&D to craft the perfect weapon for the occasion.

A railgun rifle, requiring five people to carry. Once assembled, it was four meters in length. Each shot flies seven times faster than sound.

All to kill one man.

The trucks stopped, and from within came the Shepard. Face mask, he held onto a person. "Command, this is Overwatch. Be advised, HVT has brought an unknown female, bound and gagged, into AO. Possible hostage. Request guidance. Over.”

The soldier shifted his body while waiting. “Overwatch, copy. Standby. Running ID on unknown female. Maintain overwatch, hold fire unless compromised. Further instructions inbound. Acknowledge. Over.”

"Roger. Holding position. Awaiting further orders. Overwatch out."

Caelan cursed under his breath. That bastard! Purple eyes flashed before his vision. The ones haunting his sleep. I can’t let him get away, not this time!

“Overwatch, ID confirmed. Non-essential. Execute primary objective when feasible. Maintain discretion. Acknowledge. Over.”

Heat spread across Caelan’s chest. "Roger. Engaging on opportunity. Overwatch out."

With the scope, he marked the Shepard. The computer took a minute to go over all the variables. He watched the scene, finger itching for the trigger. The smugglers began to load crates filled with weapons of all kinds. The deformed monster kept a tight grip on the woman.

Caelan recognized one of the criminals. The leader never showed up in person—why now? According to Intel, the man was averse to any risk.

Caelan paid closer attention to the way he looked at the Shepard. No, not at him. At her!

He analyzed the woman with greater attention. From the distance, he couldn't tell many details. But he saw how she and the smuggler leader had the same hair color. The realization had his stomach sunk into the ground.

He almost called it in. But Command had already written her off. Still, it explained why the smugglers dealt with the Children.

Still left a bitter taste in his mouth.

Once the calculations finished, he charged the shot—twenty seconds to fire. Come on… do it already!

Beep. Fire. The railgun spat blue light. Two seconds. No way in hell he dodges this.

Caelan’s heart froze when the Shepard turned his body. Like when they first met, he used a human shield. The woman, this time. But to no avail, as it carved its way through her, hitting him.

“Yes!” He fist-bumped Matt, his body light as a feather.

The spotter exhaled hard, watching through his scope. ‘Jesus. Thought I’d see his head pop clean off.’

"Overwatch. Target hit, high cranium shot. No movement. Assessing. Over."

Gunfire erupted. The Children and the smugglers turned on each other as the squad advanced. With the Shepard gone, they would pose little to no threat.

Then time stood still. For Caelan realized the Shepard began to rise. No way in hell he survived that! He watched with stifled breaths as his men took him to the truck.

“Overwatch. The bastard is alive! Repeat—target is alive. Engaging extraction by armed personnel. Request guidance. Over."

The shot connected. It should have killed him. But the bastard still stood, one eye burned out, still breathing.

Just before stepping into the truck, the Shepard turned. The soldier knew it would be impossible for him to see him. Or even know who had taken the shot. But the way his body froze told Caelan the fanatic knew.

And that he would get away. Again.

“Fuck!” He slammed his fist into the concrete, forming a crater.

-----

Nashoba eyed the weird concoction with a curled lip. “What exactly is in there again Doc?”

The old man grumbled, eyes never leaving his cauldron. “You drink what I give you, or walk out of here. Those are your choices. Don’t waste my time with ‘what’s in it’, boy.”

Nashoba swallowed hard before downing the concoction in one go. He retched, only to quiet down when Doc shot him a glare. The man grunted before leaving the patient, Caelan, and the girl with them. She slurped at a lollypop conjured by the medic with a downward stare.

“Is he always like that?” Caelan examined the room. Two dozen beds, all packed tight. No wasted space. Every inch of this place is optimized. Runs the place like a war camp, not a charity.

The injured man grimaced without stopping. “Only when he’s in a good mood," Nashoba muttered, arm reaching for a cup of water.

“What happens when he isn’t?”

Despite everything, Nashoba smirked as he lay on his side. "He introduces Bernice to you."

Without a sound, Doc appeared beside them, startling Caelan. He moved like a ghost, too quiet for his large build. Light step, controlled breathing—he isn’t just a doctor. He knew how to move unnoticed. His confusion only intensified when the large man threw a white coat at him. “Put that on. More unlucky bastards will show up soon.”

Caelan stared at the clothing for a moment, before he turned to the medic. “I have zero medical or nurse training.”

Doc’s gaze made shivers run down his spine. “Did I ask? You look healthy, have two arms, and nothing to do. Now, go wash yourself and put that on."

As soon as Caelan did as instructed, knocks came from the door. “You waiting for a potion to finish boiling? Go open the door!”

For the following hours, people poured into the clinic in droves. Caelan got put in charge of triage, while Doc gave aid. The old man ran his clinic like a battlefield medic—fast, efficient, ruthless. Color-coded cards decided who lived, who waited, and who didn’t get a chance.

Greens—minor injuries, walking wounded. They barely got a glance from him before being shoved aside with a huff. A few of them got handed white coats, and pressed into makeshift service.

Yellow—serious, but not immediate injuries. The large bear of a man would look them over, snapping bones in place and the like. Unless those classified with the next tag showed.

Reds—patients who will perish, but can be saved. Doc would leave less serious cases to his “assistants” while making sure they could be saved.

But the worst ones are the Black Tags. Only three of those showed up at the clinic that night. A man with a stray arrow through his skull. A woman with several ribs broken, with bone piercing the skin.

A man stumbled in, his wife draped across his back like a broken doll. Her head—too soft, too wrong—made Caelan’s stomach churn. Even with no medical training, he knew she couldn’t be saved. He turned away before the man’s voice could dig into him any deeper. He’d heard that sound before—on battlefields, and places where no one was coming to help. The kind of grief that made you wish you were deaf.

One he felt deep within his soul.

“You’re just gonna let her die?!” He could hear Nashoba’s voice above the tumultuous noises at the ward. His voice flared up like lit embers.

Caelan took a peek back inside. The husband got on his knees, sobbing for Doc to help. Unflinching, the bearded man turned, offering only his back. “Yeah. I am.” Doc said with a flat voice. “Cause I can save this one, and that one’s already dead.”

None of the black tags survived more than an hour. As soon as they perished, they were placed at the morgue in the back.

"This space belongs to the living." That was the only explanation Doc offered.

-----

“You alright?” Nashoba whispered as Caelan dropped down on an armchair. “Doc ran you through the paces, huh?”

Caelan nodded, eyelids heavy. The old man could’ve run a boot camp in his sleep.

With the deluge of people coming in, Doc had Nashoba and the still-nameless girl moved. A room on the ground floor, with a familiar cluttered space. The injured zoakri lay on his stomach, the girl dead asleep by his side. Her tiny hands held onto Nashoba like a sailor to his safety rope.

If Caelan had a good shower and a bed, he would be satisfied. But once his legs tasted the cushion, they refused to move. "How are you doing? You and him went at it hard"

Nashoba shifted on the bed, head supported on the palm. His nostrils flared as he spoke. "I get it, I do. Doesn't mean I have to like it, ya know?”

The more Caelan stayed in the armchair, the heavier his eyes became. "Did he… work in the army or something?"

“I dunno.” Nashoba pondered on that for a moment. “Would make sense tho. I mean, he only came to town twenty years ago. With me in a bag."

“Oh…” Caelan’s body relaxed, unconsciousness fast approaching. “Sorry, didn’t mean to… intrude…”

“No worries, pal.” Once his head leaned into the cushions, Caelan couldn’t hear him anymore. He thought his companion wished him good night, but he would never know.

He felt a rough push at his shoulder. Opening his eyes, his hands going for a knife at his waist. He had borrowed it from an injured Verdant Dawn member at the clinic.

If Doc felt bothered by a knife being pulled at him, he didn’t show. “Breakfast is done.”

He left before Caelan could even form a reply.

Getting up, the displaced stretched his arms, a blanket falling from his lap. He folded it in the military style, neat and compact. When he got to the kitchen, Nashoba already had a pile of food in front of him. The girl also sat there, wolfing down a portion of her own.

“Sit.” Doc slammed an even bigger portion of bacon and eggs on the table. “Idiots who like to get in trouble need calories.”

"Can this idiot get seconds?" Nashoba raised his cleaned plate, mouth still full of food.

“I’m not your butler. Get up and pick it yourself.” He groaned as he sat on a chair reinforced with steel pieces. It still protested against holding his weight. “You better eat fast. Plenty of work to be done today.”

Caelan’s temperature dropped. “Seriously?”

“You rather face the anthurian goons hunting down terrorists?” He huffed from his nostrils as Caelan remained silent. “Thought so.”

Over the following days, Caelan made good use of his first-aid knowledge. Changing bandages, washing bloodied ones, and much more. Even had to hold down a man so Doc could put his bones back in place.

Caelan had faced religious fanatics, spymasters, and all sorts of monsters. Without ever flinching or backing down, for the most part. Yet, Doc had a much stronger presence. A single glance, heavy as a judge’s gavel, and Caelan would shut up.

Leopold must be laughing his ass off.

Not all of it was bad. He memorized every move—suturing techniques, how to realign a fracture, and the fastest way to sterilize tools. Medical work proved to be not so different from war. Both required precision and quick thinking.

One night, before dozing off to sleep, he stared at his hands. Strange to think I’m saving lives instead of taking them.

Doc moved like he had weight to spare but control to match. Heavy steps, but none ever wasted. His ram’s horns and thick beard made him look intimidating and demanding. But his actions showed otherwise. Like when no child left without candy, taken straight from his coat.

Somehow, Caelan began to understand him just by his growls. Even managed to get things he would need just before he asked. For days, it was just Boy or Dimwit. Then, when the last patient shuffled out, Doc handed him a towel without looking up. “Assistant,” he muttered.

That made a pleasant warmth spread on the man’s chest.

Through all that happened, two moments caught Caelan’s attention. One man came into the clinic, with a burning fever and infected leg wound. When the displaced took off his pants to check it, he saw a tattoo. His body froze for a moment, recognizing the symbol.

A mummified hand, a hole in the middle of the palm. From which an eye got stitched shut. This is a follower of the Betrayer!

Heart racing, Caelan looked to the door, expecting the mysterious figure to come in. It couldn’t be a coincidence another follower would be there.

Doc came over, one hard look at the image engraved in ink. Then, he picked up his pants and threw them at him. "Leave." It felt like a miracle for him to speak, with how tense his jaw looked. "We don't treat religious fanatics in here!"

Caelan blinked twice as the man ran off the door. How does he know their secret symbol?

Still analyzing the first moment, the following day he got down to the basement. To pick more supplies or something. Down there, he noticed a half-covered picture frame. He wouldn't bother much with it if he didn't recognize the style.

A group of people, with a figure twice as large as the rest in the center. They all smiled and waved, while the large bearded men scowled. At the corner, the initials G.F stood out in golden ink.

A plan clicked in place in Caelan's mind. He would just need to find the perfect moment to put it into action.

-----

When Caelan entered the Kitchen, Doc sat at his reinforced seat. A mug of coffee and the morning newspaper in hand. “Where’s Nashoba and the girl?”

“Out getting groceries.” Caelan poured himself a glass of water, throat dry as the Wastes. “And her name’s Rosa, by the way. Took us long enough to figure that out.”

Doc puffed through his nostrils. "I'm still amazed you two manage to save the only illiterate mute child I've ever known."

“I’ve seen worse odds work out.” Caelan gripped his cup and sat. “I don’t think we ever said why we came to see you.”

“Never cared for it.” He took a swig from his mug, some blush spreading through his face. “But feel free to tell.”

Time to commit. He steadied his breath, forcing his thoughts into focus. “First, to thank you. For saving me, I mean.” He waited for an objection, which never came. “Second, because having a doctor will be useful, considering what I plan to do.” No questioning or reaction other than an amenable grunt. “Now, more than ever, I think you can help me.”

“Stop stirring the pot and spill it already.”

Caelan fixed his gaze upon Doc’s eyes. “I need to kill someone. And you’re going to help me.”