"Doctor" Patrick & the Schmidts

Chicago. Not exactly home sweet home, but hey, it’s as close I suppose I can get. I have a couple low level contacts here and well, a mission to find the owner of this klaive.

I don’t dare go to my den like I am. I am too… trackable. Anyone who knows me even a little will know I will seek medical attention. The city though… was evacuated. So much for that notion! Fine… I find a back alley, disgusted, and find a large abandoned cardboard box. In there I strip down, pop a codeine pill to dampen the pain and shift to cat in the dark to be as well hidden as possible. I curl there and lick my wounds.

It is amazing how much of my body I can lick in this form.

Holy god-forsaken fucking resurrected Christ! Cat tongues are SCRATCHY!

I think I passed out several times trying to lick my burned and blistered and torn flesh. Why did I think this was a good plan?!

I watched the lights of the ships above warily. I ate some food I stole from the hospital. I licked my wounds again. This went on for a few days. I felt like a stray cat. Except I am a bit big for a stray cat. I am grateful the fuzzy disorientation has finally totally left me. I regret that I cannot lick some places of myself, like parts of my face that I don’t dare wipe with filthy hands and parts of my neck and between my shoulders. I think I have a fever. No… I know I do.

The lights have left the sky. The space ships are either gone or … cloaked. Can they do that?

I hear the noise of vehicles and then slowly the city starts to come back to life. There is a great deal of military on the streets. The Alien invasion must still be in progress. A stolen hoody from someone’s public wash allows me to blend into the crowd and hide my festering wounds. I make it into one of the public hostels where the city people are staying till the city can be confirmed completely safe again. This allows me to at least have access to actual clean water. I don’t stay though. I don’t dare. They would yank me into medical care that I must avoid.

Time to find “Doctor” Patrick. He is one of the two contacts I have in this city. He’s a black market doctor. Does good work, asks no questions, and reveals nothing. He’s worked on me before. I make undetected to his side door. I must have underestimated my state of health because before I realize it, this big albino, Patrick, is practically scraping me off the floor and dropping me onto a table. I just let him. He doesn’t need to be gentle; he just needs to make me well. But he is remarkably gentle before I remember vaguely that he often treats the street kids for free. He keeps my stolen hospital supplies as payment for his services.

In the end, I have fresh bandages, fresh meds, fresh food... Oh thank gods, fresh food. I’ll be scarred over my right brow and cheek, down my neck and the back of the right shoulder, and down between my shoulder blades to the middle of my back. All the places I could not lick heal. I listen to him tisk as he gives me something to fight the infection. Blending in is going to be harder now. I will have to find a good lie to make convincing and believable for a new cover. I’ll have to invest in lots of hoody sweaters and until I am more healed with a better lie, avoid anything where I need to look good. HA! Look good! I find this funny while we are invaded by aliens.

I get a few days to recover in the privacy of Patrick’s illegal underground clinic. I think he knows what I am, but I can’t tell. My nose tells me he’s… something… something like Fahr, but different. Fahr… I shove the memories aside and try to tell myself that I am not suffering PSD. The nightmares these past few weeks have been unbearable. Then I remember! Bone Gnawers. I think. I haven’t really officially met any, but Patrick fits the likelihood. I say nothing though. He is keeping my secret, I can keep his. I feel satisfied to have a new secret though.

The dark moon is coming. I need to get back to my den, my safehouse. I glance down at my coded comm. Still no orders. Good. I need to recover. I need to heal and then rehabilitate my physical skills and endurance. With some medication in hand from Patrick and a quiet reminder from him that if I need a place to stay he can find me one. He mentions some place called the “privy”. I laugh so hard it hurts. I would have laughed even harder if he called it the “loo”. He describes how to get there and that it is under the care of some man names Marchettus. It is supposedly safe… a backup. Well, if all else fails, I will consider it. I thank him for his service and patience. We have hardly spoken the entire time I have been here till now. That’s fine.

I slip out for a quick stop by Schmidt’s to get my handgun checked. A father and son run place where they sell guns and supplies. The father thinks I am ridiculous for having come here to clean my gun… that with an issued piece like this, I should bloody well know how to clean it. I scowl at him. I know how to clean the damned thing. I would just rather pay someone else to do it, especially if parts are damaged from the explosion I was caught in.

On my way through the streets of scared people, for I can smell the fear on them, I find my way to my loft safehouse. My den. An Alien ship was seen overhead briefly and people ran terrified. I decide to drop off the radar for a while. Not even this safehouse is known to my superiors. I hope it stays that way. I need to recover and rethink all that has just happened. I need to gather intel and understand what the hell we are facing with these aliens. Wait… why should I? It’s not my job. Not my mission.