Treatment

Chapter 11: Treatment

Kestrel's jaw nearly hit the ground, his eyes widening in sheer disbelief at the absurdity of the scene before him. "What? This… this is actually possible?"

A life-or-death crisis, resolved with nothing more than money?

Grinning broadly, Paul flashed him a thumbs-up. "Bro, now you understand why I risk my life making money? Because money literally buys life!"

"Then why didn't they use it?" Kestrel turned, gesturing toward the shattered corpses of mercenaries strewn across the ruins.

"Because they didn't have any."

"So, if you're broke, you die?"

"Exactly. No money, no life."

"You're saying—being penniless is a death sentence?"

"Yep. No cash, no future."

"Fuck."

As Kestrel stared at the lifeless mercenaries, discarded like ants amidst the wreckage, his perception of the world shifted once more.

"Let's move. I only bought us three minutes."

Seizing the brief reprieve that Paul had purchased with cold, hard cash, they pushed forward. Just as the crimson glow of the sky reignited, their feet finally found purchase on the rotting heaps of refuse.

The trio collapsed onto the trash, exhaustion hitting them like a tidal wave. In the distance, they watched as ships descended from an orbital carrier, methodically reclaiming the battlefield.

"At least we made it out," Kestrel muttered, spitting blood onto the ground, his breath ragged and uneven.

"Take a good look, folks—this is what the corporation does," Paul declared, flipping his stream back on as if he were some kind of war correspondent.

"This… is the company?" Kestrel murmured, watching the scene unfold. The word "corporation" now carried a far darker weight in his mind.

No matter what had come before, one thing was now crystal clear—this world was nothing like the one he once knew.

"Kestrel, your body temperature is rising. You're severely infected. We need to find a doctor," TPAL said, preparing to help Kestrel over the garbage heaps.

Paul, however, stopped him with a casual hand. "Bro, it's over seventy miles to the metropolis. If you drag him there on foot, he'll be rotting before you make it. I already called the medical center. They're sending a ship."

"Then why didn't you call earlier?" Kestrel asked weakly, his vision darkening.

"What the hell are you saying? We were in a firefight! You think a medical center is gonna take a job while bullets are flying? They're running a business, not a charity. Saving lives doesn't pay the bills."

"Fuck."

Hearing this, Kestrel felt his last shred of hope collapse into dust.

A crimson laser slashed through the sky, carving out a rectangular landing zone before a sleek, white medical ship—emblazoned with a red cross—pierced through the clouds and settled with surgical precision.

Two doctors in pristine white coats emerged, accompanied by four tall, skeletal medical droids that moved with uncanny efficiency.

"Area secure. Initiating rescue protocol."

The droids unfurled, their segmented bodies reshaping into mechanical stretchers, their soft, synthetic limbs carefully lifting Kestrel and Paul aboard.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, Kestrel barely registered the sensation of a needle piercing his forearm.

"User 10314C1 secure. Biometric link established. Vital monitoring online. Administering stimulant. Dopamine: 70 milligrams. Norepinephrine: 110. Blood fibrinogen: 800."

A cold, clinical voice rattled off the updates as a strange clarity surged through him. Against all logic, instead of slipping into unconsciousness, Kestrel found himself awakening.

Lying on the medical table, he glanced down at his abdomen—cut open, yet painless. Above him, crab-like mechanical arms moved with mesmerizing precision, sterilizing and suturing every brutal wound as if sealing a delicate tapestry.

Every cut, every gash—stitched together with impossible finesse, as if embroidered by an artist's needle.

Not once did he feel pain. It was as if this body wasn't even his.

Again, he was shaken by the sheer advancement of this world's technology. A wound he thought would surely claim his life had been treated with the ease of curing a common cold.

"Pretty impressive, huh? I splurged for the premium package," Paul quipped from the adjacent stretcher, casually exhaling vapor from an e-cigarette. His head, once grotesquely caved in, had been fully restored.

"So? Still think I'm useless now?" His tone carried an edge, still stung by Kestrel's earlier complaints.

"Where are we headed?" Kestrel asked, taking in the stark, sterile interior of the medical transport.

Paul flicked his dreadlocks. "The metropolis, of course. What, you planning to trek across the nuclear wastelands to Gomorrah?"

Catching the look on Kestrel's face, Paul arched a brow. "Wait… you're not from around here, are you? Where the hell are you guys from?"

"Not your concern," Kestrel replied flatly. With so little information at hand, improvising would only expose him.

Paul burst into laughter. "Suit yourself. Doesn't matter where you're from—you saved my ass. In our line of work, loyalty's everything. Once we hit the metropolis, drinks are on me."

With that, he pressed a button on the wall. Instantly, the left panel of the cabin turned transparent.

Beyond the window, rain still fell—but the landscape had changed. The endless mountains of waste had given way to the ruins of a forgotten world. Crumbling concrete husks stood in solemn defiance, remnants of a lost civilization.

The bleak scenery, drenched in cold rain, painted a world that had long since ended.

The contrast was jarring—the eerie desolation outside, set against the pristine sterility of the floating transport.

Kestrel didn't need an explanation. These ruins were relics of a time before the AI crisis.

A time abandoned, just like him. Just like TPAL.

They were finally about to step into this world for real. And as that thought settled in, a gnawing unease took root in Kestrel's chest.

He gestured discreetly to TPAL, who leaned in as they exchanged hushed words.

"Scan everything you can on this metropolis. I need to know—how safe is it for two undocumented nobodies like us?"

TPAL nodded, his interface flickering with rows of processing dots.

"Metropolis: permanent population of thirty million. High influx of transient individuals. Population diversity suggests a low probability of drawing attention from major factions."

"You sure? You think no one's gonna notice you looking like that?" Kestrel eyed TPAL's fully metallic frame with skepticism.