>>5972974>>5973007>>5973098Deep breath. You're fine. It hurts, a dull ache all over, but now you've got nearly fresh air in your lungs, your faculties are starting to come back under control.
Your shirt - an old tanktop with "Visit the Sunny Pacific Coast" with an unrecognizable mascot beneath - is torn apart. A militech ballistic harness sits over the top, a couple patches sewn on. In it's main pouch, you can see the outline of a pistol - something you intrinsically know to be an Armali - no, *your* Armalite-44. A weapon you're familiar with. Adeptly unholstering it, the weight tells you it's fully loaded. You put it back.
Another pouch has a shattered inhaler in it. The coded label on the top is meaningless to anyone else, but a trauma team 'medic - like you - would know that it indicates it's a 50% speedheal and 50% Syncomp mix. A general use medical 'hypo, popular among mercenaries.
Shaking it a little, you figure that whatever wasn't drained must've evaporated.
Last pouch is empty - but your pocket, a regular jean pocket - has a burner cell. It's a bit damaged, but still works.
You stow it back away and heave the rest off, checking yourself over. Bruising on what seems like most of your body, a slice on your upper shoulder and worst of all, two gunshot wounds. Abdominal wounds. Medium calibre, it seems. Must've been from a rifle or something. A mix of bloodclot and badly applied synthskin stops them from bleeding, but as you probe it with your fingers a thin trickle of blood leaks out. Ouch.
The diagnostic told you those bullets did hit your kidneys. Not good. Plus... You run your hands across your head, not finding any noticable damage... something's clearly wrong with your head. You're struggling to remember how you got here. Not a heavy drinker... so... must've been dumped here? Left for dead?
>1: Check the phone to jog your memory.>2: Shoot a couple of empty bottles down the alleyway, test your hand-eye coordination.>3: Wander out into the street.>4: Call 911 for help.>5: Write-in. 