Rekindled Sparks

Chapter 1-2

The siren wailed. Its shrieking cry ordered people aside as the ambulance careened down the city streets, weaving in and out of cars and skirting around barriers on the wrong side of the road as it tore its path through the city. Blue strobes illuminated the air, casting a vibrant hue against the darkening sky, bathing clubbers and party-goers with a brief taste of things to come once they were granted entry into their chosen establishment.

Maya's fingers curled tighter around the fold-down seat, its coarse fabric yielding to her touch as she held on for dear life. She was thrown from side to side, her long ponytail whipping around with each hastily taken corner. The world sped past her through the small window in a blur, but she knew better now than to watch it flash by.

Her vision remained fixed on the loaded tranquiliser g*n, clipped into place on her left. The rattling of the clasps set her nerves on edge as it fought to make a daring escape. She didn't trust the holdings, even with their fingerprint activated release. They had failed once before with embarrassing consequences, one of which was her unfortunate nickname, Bambi. It didn't matter how many times she had protested that it was his mother who was shot, her dark brown hair and large brown eyes had sealed her fate.

"One minute to ETA," Mike called through the small open partition which doubled as a door separating the driver from the cabin. This blond-haired man was the one responsible for her perpetual motion sickness. He was an excellent driver—his skills were formidable—and Maya had no doubt he could conquer the racetrack circuits with ease and hold his own against any professional in the world beyond the barrier, while barely breaking a sweat.

She, however, already felt the waves of heat washing over her and was grateful she always skipped breakfast when was rotated with the Stig. He was known for his record response time for a reason. He exploited every opportunity and read the roads and his surroundings with the same ease as breathing. If ever she needed help—or even a getaway driver—she could only hope he would be the person behind the wheel.

Peeling one of her hands from the safety of the seat, she reached beneath, her fingers sliding around the smooth, braided handle of her personal equipment. Each medic had their own bag and was responsible for the items within, but given Maya's dual qualifications, she had access to far more tools than the average medic. This single large bag contained almost everything she could possibly need for whatever emergency they approached. Except for the tranquiliser g*n. She would have felt a lot better if that piece of kit was accompanying them inside. She ran a finger across the hidden hook-and-loop sealed pocket she'd added to her belt, confirming the small tranquiliser dart was still secure in its holding.

After the transfer, she had soon discovered medics were not as respected as they should be. She had never realised how much a***e they suffered for just trying to help. Whilst the same could be said of many medical professions, this one seemed to carry more risk. Unlike in the hospitals where the patients were made to wear a suppressor and had all possessions removed on admittance, out here, the patients still had access to weaponry and their latent abilities.

Just eight months ago, someone had tried to hold her hostage, hoping to trade her life for the medicines they carried. Luckily she was already carrying the dart on her by then since just a week before another patient had tried to stab her, not to mention the time when the newly turned vampire had thought to call them as if they were a meals-on-wheels service. Being a medic was not safe, although it made for some entertaining stories.

She had been in her fair share of scenarios where the dart she concealed on her person had come in handy. The g*n, however, was for the more dangerous situations, such as berserkers. If the notification they received was accurate, this would be just a run-of-the-mill resuscitation. But that meant nothing these days.

Even with the reports of violence and altercations, they were expected to go out without issued stab vests or defensive tools. Despite the number of attacks that occurred, the public only ever heard about a very select few; the rest were swept away, logged but ignored, meaning the underlying issues were never addressed.

Over the last year, things had become worse, to the point her Station Officer had purchased protective clothing for his teams from his own pocket, and many other depots across Mython had followed suit. The only times they wore official body armour was when summoned into dangerous situations with the Blue Coats, all other times the public expected to see the golden Rod of Asclepius displayed on the front and back of their green uniform. Maya gave her shirt a tug. She still wasn't convinced the thin vest she wore under it could stop a knife, but apparently, it was the leading edge in discrete protection.

She ran through a mental checklist, her small ritual as she unfastened the belt. While Mike was known for his impressive driving skill, she too had notability. No one tried harder to prevent someone from dying. She went above and beyond, utilised every resource, and fought beyond the window to call time of death for the chance of one more breath. Everyone fought for this, but her success rate of dragging someone back from the underworld was impressive, so much so that Station Officer Silvers had scheduled her for an aptitude test, convinced the unidentified Magic Innate—MI—coding of her blood would prove her to be a healer, despite her earlier testing as a child showing no affinity.

At birth, everyone had their blood registered into type and coding. The coding fell into several categories: EB, meaning the person possessed elder blood, beings believed to have descended from a mortal and divinity pairing, adding extra power to their hereditary talents; MI—Magic Innate, suggesting the person has preternatural tendencies towards manipulating energy and magic or someone in their family once possessed a gift; and NM—Neutral Mundane or Non-Magical, which applied to a majority of the human population.

There were other classes that identified clans; for instance, vampires were categorised as HC, belonging to the Hematophagy Clan since they consumed blood; and shifters were MC, part of the Metamorphic Clan, as they possessed the ability to alter shape. The lists went on, but categorisation meant a medic at least knew what to expect when their device connected to the biometric chip that a large majority of Mython possessed.

These chips were nothing short of amazing. They not only tracked a person's health and location, but allowed them to pay for goods and services, or even access their home computer files from any device. The chips also allowed people access to secure buildings, like the ambulance station and even many homes these days, so long as they had the correct credentials. If it was electronic, this chip could regulate it and thus made the need to carry anything else redundant.

The sirens silenced, bringing her back from thoughts. That was her cue to move. As her hand rested on the rear doors, she took one final glance towards the tranquiliser g*n before disembarking.

The setting sun had just started to dip below the horizon, teasing the solar-charged streetlights into life. Curtains twitched as nosey neighbours peered outside, their inside lights betraying their curiosity as the beams escaping from parted curtains illuminated manicured and overgrown gardens alike.

At the end of the short, cracked driveway, light spilt from the open door causing the few weeds growing between time-worn cracks to cast long shadows down the narrow winding path that led to her destination. Shadowed by the light, the silhouette of a young girl stood waving desperately, her teddy bear gripped tightly by its paw as she jumped up and down shouting through tears that her daddy was in here.

Maya's feet struck the uneven paving, her heavy boots making her run sound like thunder as she hurried up the path, past the young girl in rainbow pyjamas, and into the house, knowing Mike would be on her heels after securing the vehicle.

From the second she crossed the threshold, she was assailed by family photographs. Frames lined the wall, some purchased, others clearly crafted with love from wood, pasta, and glitter. She didn't stare, she barely passed her gaze over them, but she saw so many natural, unposed pictures of happy times and treasured moments covering almost every free space in the narrow hall.

Glancing upstairs towards the bedrooms she paused, her instincts told her whoever needed aid was downstairs. Her gaze lingered on the far door at the end of the hall. Given the uniform layout of most houses, it was probably the kitchen, just as she knew, as she stepped through the left door, she would find herself in the living room.

Light spilt through the slender bell light-shade of the high ceiling, causing the glass remains of the small coffee table to glisten, almost creating a halo around the muscular man's frame. Like his family, he was in his pyjamas, the ebony black fabric making his pallor look even more cadaverous. Darker staining on the carpet wafted the familiar odour of coffee.

Maya inhaled again, catching small remnants of the pizza and chips they must have had for tea and the undertones of popcorn that originated from a small bowl at the side of the worn three-seater sofa. A tiny blonde woman leaned over her husband's enormous frame, her dainty hands pushing at him, silently begging him to wake as tears traced her soft jawline.

"Ma'am, can you tell me what happened here?" Maya questioned, placing her finger to the man's throat. Nothing. The woman glanced up, her lips moving soundlessly. "Was he complaining of any pain, has he taken something, eaten anything unusual?" she questioned, her fingers sliding across her device until it chirped, notifying her the man's chip had synced with her device. A quick glance at the screen showed the black-haired subject, one Fredrick McArther, classified as NM, Normal Mundane. Flat-lined for three minutes and counting.

She had just finished her assessment and started chest compressions when she heard the front door close as Mike walked in, behind her by only half a minute. With a confirmatory nod to Maya, he placed his arm on the grieving woman, escorting her further away, trying to pry some further information from her that might be of aid. Mike could always coax information from even the most terrified or grieving witness. Despite his dare-devil driving, he had an air of warmth about him. If she was viewed as the little sister of the station, he was the father.

Sweat formed on Maya's brow as she began a new cycle, her knee burning from the shards of glass grinding beneath her. Mike would no doubt pull her up on the fact she'd not put her knee pads in, again. She leaned down, breathing for him, watching his chest rise and fall as she forced oxygen into his lungs.

"Come on, beat," she whispered, her eyes drawn to the stricken girl who now stood watching as Maya began her next cycle of compressions. The young girl shared her father's dark hair. She stood by the fireplace, her heartbroken face a sheer contrast to the many photographs behind her. "Beat," Maya whispered in time with each compression.

She breathed for him again. Another cycle, another near-silent prayer as heat and electricity began to chase through her. Then she heard it. The faint bleeping from her device to say there was a pulse. Placing her ear to the man's mouth, she waited, looking down at his chest, hoping to see it rise, or feel the hint of a breath upon her skin. Sweat trickled down her spine, tingling like electricity as it traced its path, and the silence stretched on. Nothing.

She breathed for him, her mantra altering. "Breathe," she whispered. A smile tickled her lips as she leaned back, his chest rising as he pulled in a breath. She could see Mike hovering at the adjoining door and gave him a slight nod. "Good man. Now, let me take another look at you." Maya began her secondary examination, noticing just a few minor cuts and scrapes caused by the shattered glass. "You're looking good. If you would just wake up for me." She continued to talk softly. "That's it, open your eyes," she coaxed as his eyelids began to flutter. After her first month on the job, Maya had found talking softly, telling people what was needed from them, always seemed to help.

The man's brown eyes opened, meeting Maya's vacantly. "Now, sir, can you tell me your name?"