I should be dead.
Instead, I'm not. How does that work? I mean, really.
Let me tell you about Mr. Kerr.
Mr. Kerr runs a small clinic, it's not important where this clinic is. A major city, suffice it to say. High population density.
I've been avoiding them thusfar. Why? Probability says that the more people there are in one place, the better the chances you have of finding a particular subset, if that subset can exist. In this case, the more people there are, the better your chances are of finding Us.
Stalked. Runners, fighters, whatever the fuck you decide to call yourself. Big cities are a breeding ground it seems, so long as there's an internet connection and at least one unlucky bastard. And where you find Us, you find the other guys. Them. You know the ones I'm talking about, Agents, Proxies, Hallowed (god I hate that word). Call them whatever the fuck you like. The Competition.
Into this mix, enters Mr. Kerr. Mr. Kerr is not exactly a doctor. Mr. Kerr was an EMT. You know, ambulance man. And apparently a volunteer with the Red Cross during some disruption of civilized life.
Mr. Kerr is of an indeterminate age, an undisclosed race, weight and height, as none of those are particularly important.
What is important, is that Mr. Kerr is aware of this particular mess. And it is to Mr. Kerr that I owe my continued survival at this particular moment.
You know what can happen, I'm not going to bore you with the fucking details of how it happened. Suffice it to say I was on the receiving end of a particularly deconstructive variety of mask wearing freak. He got the worst of it but I needed something more than improvised first aid. Bullet wounds are like that.
So how does Mr. Kerr enter into the picture? I stumbled into his "clinic". The reason I say "clinic" is because it's not marked like one. In fact, it looks like a drug store. Which admittedly amounts to almost the same thing. Only the staff don't tend to actually practice anything resembling medicine.
I stumble in. While I'm trying to purchase the supplies I intend to try to patch myself up with and trying very hard not to bleed through the bandage and tourniquet, he starts to describe a certain general sort of portrait which might describe any of us.
"Stop me if any of this sounds familiar," he says, "You're a runaway? Some masked guys in hoodies did this? Tall fellow in a suit." I nodded, admittedly I wasn't in any state for more violence. He offered to patch me up. Apparently good samaritans do exist. They're just few and far between. Colour me fucking surprised.
Judging by the way he acted, I'm not the first unlucky bastard to have stumbled in here. Not sure how Mr. Kerr is involved. The way he talks, he's not exactly in the know. I imagine he's taken pains to avoid that. I also think that the rather large gun under the counter isn't just for would-be bandits.
You people love your damned amendment, don't you?
Did a pretty good job of cleaning me up. I'm apparently lucky that the bullet didn't hit anything particularly important but my arm is going to be a little more useless that it was before. That's alright. I've had broken arms before.