"Good. You're doing better than I thought, then."

The doctor would step forward, looking over him appraisingly. She wore a thick pair of glasses over her face, but was still somewhat attractive, though any such thoughts appeared to be far from her mind. Reaching down, she would move the sheet down the man's body to inspect his chest, though she didn't move it past his waist.

"You're in pretty good shape, considering the circumstances. I think it would be good for you to tell me where you are, though. Your name, the city, that sort of thing. Just to make sure you didn't get hit in the head too hard."

The doctor's last name was visible on a tag attached to her coat: Fatin. Her clothing and demeanor were both friendly, but somewhat withdrawn, extremely professional. It certainly didn't seem to match that of someone who wasn't even twenty years old...

The brief examination was fine. She didn't have any tools on her or anything, so it wasn't like he had reason to freak out. A look over was necessary at the moment, anyways--even he could discern that much. Considering how beat to hell he was and all, a full exam, and some pain relievers, might have also been great.

"I'm in Christonian, right?" he asked--though, he was slightly unsure. The last he remembered, he was, but if he were taken to a hospital in another city, then he clearly was not.

He reached up to hold his head in pain. Some pain medication would definitely have been wonderful, but not if it came in the form of a shot. Then, the ends did not justify the means.

"My name's Kayn--Idris," he replied. Idris Kayn, quite the uncommon name. He could have either been from Xexoria or Ulster, based on name alone, as both names seemed to have either originated from the two lands, or at least once been popular, even through different spellings.

"Very good, Idris. You're right, you're still in Christonian. You're one of the unlucky ones, though. Everyone else seemed to want to go to some showboating foreign doctor. You were unconscious, and wound up here with me instead."

Reaching into the pocket of her coat, the doctor would draw forth a small prescription bottle of pills, opening it and shaking out two for her patient. There was already a bottle of water on a small stand next to the bed, and she would hand the pills to him carefully, making sure he could actually hold them.

"These will help. You shouldn't feel much of anything after a short time."

Writing down a few things on her clipboard, the doctor would sit in a chair next to the bed, not really saying anything further or examining Idris. She seemed very tired, and the chance to actually sit down didn't come often for her, likely. Not dealing with a large amount of patients by herself...

"Unlucky, huh?" Idris asked, not meaning much behind it.

I think we're all a bit unlucky, in this situation.

A foreign showboating doctor. Idris didn't know if people were taking to him because of some sort of botched anti-nationalism, or if that foreign doctor just seemed better than the rest. Either way, that must have taken a load off of this hospital. Whatever hospital this was.

Then, the doctor handed him a couple of pills. "Thanks."

These were taken quite quickly. He was able to move his hand perfectly fine, and set the two pills on his tongue, retrieved the glass of water, and washed them down accordingly. It wasn't going to be immediate pain relief, but it was still something, and he was very appreciative.

Following this, he was silent for a moment, too. There was a lot to say, but no ideas about how to say it . . .

"What happened, anyways?" Idris asked, "Nhh. I remember wanting to withdraw money from the bank, but that's it, anymore . . ."

"You were involved in some sort of terrorist attack, it seems. A couple of people reported two men leaving before help arrived. You and everyone else were pretty lucky, considering. The building didn't survive, but no one was killed..."

In all, Dr. Fatin seemed very soft-spoken, fitting her appearance well. The hospital was well-kept and clean, but small... And empty. It was possible the building had more rooms, but certainly within this large room, there was no one else. And chances were, if there was no one here, there was no one else in the hospital, either.

"You'll probably be ready to go in just a day or two. There appear to be no life-threatening injuries, so you'll be just as well-off at home."

There was, perhaps, a tiny bit of bitterness in the doctor's voice. Almost every time a patient had a choice, they chose somewhere else to go, either for the fact that she was a woman, the fact that she was so young, or the fact that the hospital was so small. It was hard to help people when they wouldn't let you...

A terrorist attack?

"Those two guys . . ." Idris muttered, "You're sure they were terrorists?"

Amidst all the chaos and confusion, there had been two men--he remembered that much. One pulling another from under the rubble. Flashes of that memory began to blink in his mind, though much of the entire time he was briefly conscious after the "attack" was completely gone; effectively removed from his mind, or never recorded in the first place, by way of a severe concussion. There was no way to tell if he had some sort of brain damage--not immediately, at least. That was the least of his concerns, anyways.

Likewise, so was going home. He didn't even touch that subject matter, as it was far less important than what he remembered. Those two men weren't terrorists. Terrorists sought to strike fear into the hearts of those they opposed; they didn't seek money.

"I saw them carting off money instead of people," Idris recalled the moment that he called out to them to help the injured, "Terrorists usually aren't in it for the money . . ."

"Me? It doesn't really matter to me who did it... I just clean up after other people's messes..."

As a doctor, she seemed resigned to her fate. There was very little like a profession where your absolute best hope is to be never needed. But, it was the best way to reduce the amount of suffering in the world, one patient at a time. Of course, she needed more patients to accomplish that...

"That is interesting, though... You may want to speak to the police at some point. There's gang activity around here, too..."

She didn't mention where else she'd encountered gang activity...

"It would be better, though, wouldn't it . . .?" asked Idris, "Think about it. If the police are looking for terrorists, and they're not profiling anyone else, they're not going to find the right guys, and more people will wind up getting hurt."

He couldn't necessarily explain what he was thinking, or why he was thinking it, but he was extremely put off by the notion that a couple of thieves almost killed so many people during a bank heist. He wasn't truly that much of a bleeding heart, but he figured that a doctor should have been--it was like he was making up for that. There really was no way to tell that one way or the other, though he'd have preferred if she passed that information on rather than him. Idris hated police almost as much as he hated hospitals.

Also, though he was put off by hospitals, too, he figured that a doctor should care about human life in general. More people would get hurt if the police were searching for terrorists rather than thieves, as neither could be profiled as the same.

"I guess it'd be like cleaning up future messes before they can happen."

He was just thinking out loud, really--because there wasn't a damn thing else he could do at the moment.

"The police will probably be interested. They'll never find the thieves, though. These people are too good at hurting people and getting away with it for that..."

For a doctor, she seemed to have quite a bit of cynicism, especially in a young doctor. However, she seemed eager to do her job, at least. If there were more people to practice on. Which there always were, if they would only come through her hospital rather than some overcrowded place where they couldn't get proper care... Sighing, she stood and moved to the edge of the curtain.

"I'll let them know. You can rest for now if you like."

"Thanks . . ."

Well, that was a sigh of relief. Police were a problem for him--not that he was in trouble with the law or anything. In fact, Idris Kayne was a pretty law abiding citizen; he tried to stay out of trouble, tried to keep the police from ever finding reason to be interested in him, and just got along with his life as he saw fit, presumably uninhibited by the scourge of corruptions and the like. He made for himself an honest living, he could get good prices on decent goods, he wasn't short on water, and that was that.

All of this, though . . . well, it was inviting trouble into his life, and involving himself with the police directly might have had an adverse effect on his quaint lifestyle. He didn't want them meddling, even if he wasn't doing anything that they had any reason to meddle with. Idris had seen it happen far too much.

Nonetheless, he had to agree with Dr. Fatin--rest was a good idea. He wasn't going to start feeling any better at all unless he got some of it, and though he wouldn't have minded a conversation with his doctor, perhaps just get to know her better either to make the whole place less nerve wracking, or make himself trust her as a doctor, but the medication was pretty strong, and he was feeling fatigued. Sleep had become an inevitability.

The medication wasn't really that strong, but Idris might well have been feeling sleepy. He'd only received a sugar pill from the doctor's bottle. They worked just as well as many types of medication, and there were other options if he didn't respond...

The doctor would move to a back room, sitting down at a desk and drawing forth a piece of paper. She would quickly begin writing a letter to the police, keeping things as discreet as possible. However, her letter also included a few leads on local operations, particularly the names of a few people such as Rasmid. How she had come by such information, she declined to mention...

------------------------------------------

Several days later, in a dark backroom of a police station, two detectives would sit, investigating a crime that had resulted in several deaths, now. So far, they'd been able to discover some sort of chemical in the explosive used was causing severe scarring to the lungs of victims nearby, and death in several people. There was still more to discover, though...

Detective Kadin Salinger was in no way a terrifying man, but he had a badge, a gun, and a customized side-blade--and he knew how to use them. Salinger was short for a man his age--around forty years old, and five feet and six inches tall, give or take, and remarkably thin. Out of fear of becoming overweight, he exercised in excess. He was a dark skinned man who shaved and groomed himself on a daily basis, having the constant appearance of a five o'clock shadow, and no sign of hair loss. Salinger kept his hair short, to boot.

It was in no way uncommon to see him in this state, though: sleep deprived and partially out of it. He was a good detective and all (though, he did have a habit of taking bribes when there was no potential for loss of life), but he had been diagnosed years earlier with sleep apnea, and though he slept for six to eight hours a night, it wasn't out of the question for him to lack any semblance of REM sleep for the entirety of the night, leaving him in a constant state of fatigue the next day.

This was a frustrating case, all because of the loss of life involved, the potential for more lives lost, and the fact that no one had all that great of an image of the suspects, were terribly indescriptive, or were simply too busy dying miserably to explain the mysterious "two men" that got up, took money, and walked out of the bank like nothing happened. Of course, some provided descriptions that other didn't--different descriptions that couldn't necessary be trusted.

"Hmm . . . let's just overview what we've got to go off of so far," Detective Salinger stated with fatigue in his voice, "And what leads we've gathered . . ."

"Well, that's just it. None of the big ones has turned up with the money, yet, and no one has claimed responsibility..."

Detective Randall was a young man, barely 25, but he'd already made investigator, mostly due to his willingness to work 20 hour days on a regular basis. He never seemed to get tired, either, which was perhaps tied to his habit of consuming coffee almost to the exclusion of anything else. Even now, he had a double-tall cup of coffee, black as always.

"The descriptions don't match any of the usual suspects, either. It's too small-time for the big players, and too big-time for the small players. Someone's watching these guys, whoever they are..."

Randall wasn't exactly known to be a good investigator. Rather, his reputation had more to do with how often investigations turned into apprehensions or confrontations under his watch. He didn't overtly start fights, but he was always quick to go to the baton if someone was a bit too resistant...

"What do we do, then?" Salinger asked rhetorically.

And that was exactly why this case was such a pain in the ass. They had these two possibilities, and neither of them made any sense. It was uncharacteristic. Gangs didn't blow up banks, using some sort of biochemical warfare. Higher forms of crime and business did that--but there wasn't enough money stolen to make the effort remotely worth it.

"If someone is watching them, who would it be?" Salinger asked, this time seriously. "One of our big players? Or maybe some of the small timers are trying to move their way up on the food chain. They carted off a hell of a lot of money; enough to fund a more than successful street war. If they spent it right, I assume. But if it's a big time player trying to boost up someone small time . . ."

What would even be in it for them?

That was what he especially couldn't wrap his head around. Big players dipping their hands into something meant that they were getting something out of it--and something this small time . . . what gain was there?

"Maybe we can go straight to the source, save some time. There's some punk somewhere living it up, I bet. We just need to find him."

Randall wasn't the best at anticipating crimes, perhaps, but he had a good idea occasionally. One of the good things about crimes involving a lot of money was that the small timers players made a lot of cash, which they would proceed to spend. If someone suddenly had a lot of purchasing power, they were a good suspect...

"Once we find him, he'll roll on whoever put him up to it. Or we bust him down, if nothing else..."