Left for Dead

[2087, I-9 East, Rocky Ridge Plains, The Badlands]

Chaos... engines redlining, tires screeching, metal straining under load... vehicles made to do unnatural things as they put more and more distance between their rusted carcasses and the City while the sun beat them down and the sands suffocated them. And above it all, voices screaming, bickering with each other and bordering on feral shrieking.

Nomads were known for their close-knit families, and these animals were anything but; pointing fingers, placing blame, and mere seconds from tearing each other apart. Even the most cyberpsychotic Raffen Shiv looked like a functional unit compared to this. And between them all, splayed out in the bed of a pickup truck and bleeding profusely, was a young girl.

She wasn't alive, but neither was she yet dead. Instead, she had found a bridge between worlds... but not by her choosing... and she walked the path wearily and alone, stumbling over her own two feet. She made no progress in either direction, and so she swayed back and forth. She was in limbo, flashing between the light and the dark, a tortured soul amid the voices clawing and screaming... and more importantly, deciding what to do with her.

You want to do what with her?! What if he finds out she's gone?!

What if we return his favorite pet dead?! What'll he do then? Nah, we cut our losses.

Bitch ain't dead yet, choom. She can hold out another hour.

Not your call, choom... HEY! PULL OFF HERE!

The brakes squealed as the truck lurched to a stop, the tires crunching over loose gravel. The wind died down, giving way to the brutal sun and hot stagnant air invading the pores and assaulting the skin. Aged metal creaked and whined as the tailgate was kicked open with a solid thud against the back bumper, the sliding of fabric and bare skin scraping against the bed until the body landed heavy in the sand; a cloud of dust shot up, blanketing the area as the tires screeched again and the truck took off to catch up with the rest of the convoy, tailgate still hanging wide open.

A low groan sounded as the girl tried to raise her head. Her own blood was pooling against the hardened sand as her strength left her bit by bit with every waking second. Her vision blurred as she caught sight of a dark shape in the distance, approaching. Every muscle quaked as she struggled to focus before caving altogether. Her journey across the bridge to the other side was finally nearing its end as a single thought crossed her mind... peace.

--

[Some time later - DaKota, The Badlands]

The sun had set behind the city, the twilight's pink and orange rays peeking in through metal shutters and washed out by the bright lamps overhead. The girl was splayed out on her back on a table, crude IVs running to her arms. She was severely dehydrated and nearly exsanguinated. Her body, shielded at the moment only by a thin sheet for her own dignity, was covered in deep lacerations and other bruises with evidence of at least a few fractured bones. If they didn't know better, the folks unfortunate enough to find her would safely assume she'd just been tossed under a moving truck out on the highway. Sure as shit she was left for dead, as they only found her a hundred feet from the driveway for the old Nomad landmark on the northeast route out of Night City, her "chooms" speeding away from the scene as fast as they could.

The side room, this makeshift operating room, off from the main garage was cramped to say the least, not aided in any way by the fact that the man charged with the girl's care was in excess of 2 meters tall, having to dodge the hanging lamps as he worked. "Strong" was his name. Kind was his game. For those outside the city limits and just outside the reach of the famed Viktor Vektor in Watson, Joshua Strong was the best bet when it came to medical care in the Badlands, cybernetic or otherwise. An imposing man as wide as a Thorton Mackinaw, there wasn't a kinder soul out here. The lights reflected off his dark complexion and shaved head, beads of sweat forming from the desert heat creeping in. His deep brown eyes were focused on his charge, narrowing and twitching as he worked over the body with a precise and graceful touch. His hands were as big as her head, and yet he was careful to not exacerbate her critical condition. His veiny and vascular arms flexed as he manipulated the tools of his trade, the sweat soaking the aramid weave tanktop stretched across his torso. Like all nomads worth their salt, he favored function over form, a simple pair of old grey cargo pants bloused over an even older pair of combat boots.

What would actually surprise anyone more than Doc Strong's sheer size was finding out he was all 'ganic. Except for the standard neuralware in his head, not one bit of chrome had found its way into his body over almost forty years on this Earth, and he was proud of that fact.

His focus was broken as a pair of lightly falling boots sounded behind him, followed by a weathered female voice, "How's she doing...?"

Her voice paled in comparison to Strong as he answered, booming, "She's in rough shape, but she'll heal... eventually, and with the right care."

The woman smirked as she pressed her luck, "Don't s'pose I could convince you to take her with ya?"

Her unassuming and disheveled appearance was the only thing fitting that description about her. She was a shrewd operator, her wise and weary eyes narrowed at anything that crossed her line of sight. Her skin was leathery from a life under the California sun, her menagerie of tattoos deeply set and faded to match. She wore a simple ragged and green t-shirt, cropped unevenly just above her toned abdominal muscles. Her denim weave shorts were in a similar state of disrepair, threadbare and hanging on by a single stitch along with her trusty kick boots. Perhaps the most noticeable item was the small harness securing an oxygen tank to her upper body; she had no afflictions requiring such an apparatus, and yet she was rarely seen without the tank proverbially attached to her hip, often taking whiffs from the hose-attached mask. An enigma wrapped in peculiarity, but Dakota Smith was the foremost fixer outside the City limits, and a trusted Aldecaldo family member. If you were doing business on this side of the I-9, she was getting a piece of it.

"Them's treacherous waters, Dakota...", Strong chuckled as he shook his head, "Girl's barely stable as is, and you know how the boss is... won't like it one bit..."

"Won't like what?", a firm and authoritative male voice asked. Both Dakota and Strong turned, amused at their guest's timing as he carefully removed a cowboy hat and nodded, "Always a pleasure, 'Kota..."

Were it not for the shit-eating grin plastered across his face as he indulged his favorite pastime of sneaking up on others uninvited, one might mistake Jackson Calloway as some type of troublemaker. His face was hard and chiseled, marked with scruff and the scars of his chosen profession on the outskirts of civilized society. And yet his smile carried a warmth and frivolity akin to a wide-eyed child full of life and wanderlust. Like Dakota, his skin was naturally tan on account of his indigenous heritage, and a life lived on the edge in the desert left him looking older than he'd like to admit. His steely blue eyes held no secrets, captivating anyone unlucky enough to catch his gaze. His medium length dark brown hair was blasted back from years of living under his somewhat quaint cowboy hat, and yet his scalp showed no signs of thinning. His attire was simple, a syn-cotton ranch shirt tucked under an equally quaint buttoned vest and tucked into a pair of aramid weave jeans, finishing the entire ensemble with an almost predictable pair of pointed boots adorned in a western flare, the one-inch heel only adding to his some six feet of stature. Perhaps his most striking feature was his visibly implanted entire left arm; almost skeletal in appearance save for a few sparing artificial muscles, Jackson's left arm was a concession prize for his part in fighting for the Free States during the Unification War. So he was in fact older than he let on.

The silence was irritating at best, and as Jackson held his hat in his right hand and ran his chromed fingers through his matted hair, he repeated himself in his trademark drawl, "So... what won't I like...?"

Dakota's eyes cut to Doc Strong as she subtly raised her eyebrow with a smirk. This was his fight to have, even if they were standing in her house. Over the years, nobody had been able to move and persuade Jackson quite like Strong, and even now he didn't hesitate to look the well-mannered bull in the eyes, "Dakota's asked if we can take the girl with us."

Their host took her chance and cut in with a chuckle, "I'd like to have my kitchen back..."

"Well... if ya can call this a kitchen, I s'pose...", Jackson teased as he locked eyes with the elder fixer before cutting back to his trusted friend, "So what d'we know, Doc?"

Strong continued with a deep sigh, "Shit, Jax... I won't lie to you, I've got more questions than answers so far... but right now I've been so focused on stitching her up that I haven't even had time to do a proper physical work-up. She was about bled dry when we fou—"

They were all cut off by a piercing scream emanating from the girl as she arched her back up, reaching and clawing for anything within sight as her feet kicked. No words, just snarls and feral cries of protest as her entire body bucked up and down despite Strong's quick reflexes to hold her in place as he called to Jackson, "Get over here and hold her down! I have to tranq her right in the neck!"

Jackson obliged as soon as the words left Strong's mouth, moving into position at the head of the table as he leaned forward and braced his arms against the girl's body. He tried to keep his face clear of the grabbing hands reaching between his arms for anything and everything. For her smaller size, he'd never seen such wild and untamed strength, and he started to lose his grip. He chanced looking down, and in that moment, he wasn't sure what he saw was actually human. There was a fire in her eyes, and her teeth gnashed like an animal backed into a corner and fighting for its life. Behind the rage, there was fear, tears shooting from her eyes and running down her face.

Jackson had almost lost the fight before Strong made his move, bracing one heavy hand over the girl's entire face as he took his chance and jabbed the syringe into her neck. He emptied it as quick as he could without risking any air bubbles, and within a few seconds, the struggle subsided. Jackson was able to catch his breath as the girl's strength waned and her outbursts grew weaker with every passing second. At last, her arms fell by her side and she was out cold, but the damage was done. She was shivering, trembling. She should have been unconscious, but every outward indication told a very different story, like she was stuck in a nightmare.

Jackson stepped back, freeing himself as he observed the situation with wide eyes. He took a few deep breaths as he locked eyes with Strong. He didn't like what he was about to say, but he knew if they wanted answers, there was only one way to get them, and he obliged Dakota as he said, "There's no way we get anythin' useful here. Strong can do a full work-up on her an' keep her under back at our place. Give us enough time to figure out what we're workin' wit'..."

Dakota nodded, almost bowing her head with a sense of gratitude as they all watched the girl carefully for any sudden moves. The night ahead looked to be mighty interesting, and each of them was forced to asked themselves what the fuck had just been dumped on their heads. Only time would tell.

--