>It’s another quiet Monday at Heimlich County Medical, with only a few people coming in to visit patients intermittently. >The nurse manning the front desk is leaning back in her seat, watching cat videos on the computer, enjoying the quiet. >It’s shaping up to be another slow day for the local hospital and the nurse has no issues with that, thankful for a brief reprieve of working the emergency room. ”Where the feck are ye gowls keepin him?!” >The nurse nearly falls from the chair as shouting suddenly erupts from the carport outside, echoing through the doors. “Ma’am, please just- “ ”Ye’ve got tha stones ta pick me up and bring me here with no explanation other than O’Connell asked fer me, then ya go an’ say he’s been attacked only after we get to tha parkin lot?!” >A mountain of a woman wearing some sort of ad hoc military uniform storms through the sliding doors, her fiery braid bouncing along as she approaches the desk in only a few lengthy strides. >A sheriff’s deputy is barely keeping up with her, trying to reason with her. “Miss Panni, please, I was told not to inform you to keep you from overreacting!” >She rounds on him, staring down at him. ”An’ look how that’s worked out!” >She turns back to the nurse who is pulling herself back into her chair. ”Anon O’Connell, what room?” she barks, nearly leaning over the desk. “Th-three fifty-two,” the nurse stammers out after checking the computer. >Before she or the deputy can say anything else, the Irish Woman is marching towards the stairs. “The elevator is over- “ *”Feck the elevator, stairs are faster.”* >Taking the stairs two at a time like it was nothing, Panni quickly ascends to the third floor, her escort huffing and puffing behind her a few seconds later as they exit the stairwell. >Head whipping from side to side as she gains her bearings, Panni spots a group of deputies standing a ways down the hall and speaking with a doctor. >The sound of her boots hitting the tile echo throughout the floor, gaining the group’s attention as she approaches. >One of the officers takes a step towards her, an older man with a handlebar mustache and a Stetson tucked under his arm. “Sheriff Brown, ma’am,” he says, offering his hand. “But call me Chief, everyone else does.” >She stops very close to him, eyes boring into his, her fisted hands remaining by her side. ”Panni. Where’s O’Connell?” >The doctor cuts in before the sheriff can speak. “Doctor John Johnson. Corporal O’Connell is fine, for the most part, but I am afraid that he’s currently still unconscious. Internally and externally he seems fine, however the trauma he did receive was enough to send his body into something of an ‘emergency sleep mode,’ in layman’s terms.” >Panni stands motionless, face stuck in almost a permanent scowl as she continues to stare down the sheriff, not sparing the good doctor even a glance. “We’re expecting him to make a full recovery, it’s just a matter of waiting for him to wake up… “ >Silence. “I’ll leave you two to discuss things,” Johnson says, looking to his clipboard and wristwatch for an escape. “I’ve other patients.” >The doctor steps away, leaving Panni with the Sheriff and two of his deputies. *What in the hell happened out there?” she demands, jerking a thumb over her shoulder. “Some doped up gangbanger got a bad batch is what we’re thinkin,” Brown drawls, looping his thumbs under his belt. “Coroner’s runnin an autopsy now to confirm, but I’m pretty sure it’s some of this new stuff that’s been hittin the streets lately. Somethin out of country, I think.” ”What’ve O’Connell’s partner?” >The sheriff’s gaze doesn’t meet the Amazonian’s, instead looking out a hallway window to the parking lot below. “His, uh, partner was reassigned to desk duty last minute, leaving the Corporal on his own. We’ll be lookin into as to why… “ ”So he bout feckin died cause of yer feckin incompetence?” >Her voice carries an obvious hostile tone, the hair on the back of the deputies’ necks standing on end. “What’s important is that he’s alive and another junkie is off the streets,” the sheriff drawls, still not meeting her gaze. >Before Panni can further press the issues, Brown changes subjects by handing her a set of car and house keys. “We brought O’Connell’s truck over from the station for y’all, also moved all his personal items from the cruiser to it.” >She takes the keys without a word. “Now see to your boyfriend, Miss Panni, the boys and I have to go handle some police business.” >Before the Irish Woman can say another word, Brown and his deputies hastily push past her and speed towards the stairwell, not even entertaining the idea of waiting for the elevator. >She stands in the hall for a few moments, staring after them, keys clutched in her gloved palm. ”Grabasstic pieces o’ shite,” she growls to herself, finally. >She turns towards the room where O’Connell lay, taking in a deep breath and slowly exhaling before pushing down on the handle and allowing the door to swing open. >The site before her is enough to send chills crawling across her skin like insects. >O’Connell, her roommate and owner, lies in a hospital bed with multiple tubes and wires strung from him to a myriad of machines. An EKG quietly beeps off to the side, the dim green display glowing eerily in the darkened room as heavy curtains keep the sunlight at bay. >The Irish Woman stands in the doorway for a few moments, taking it all in. On the outside, the Corporal seems fine, but she knows that internally there’s something keeping him locked in a coma. *”I need a drink,”* she mutters, quietly closing the door. >Her exit from the hospital is levels quieter and less grand than her entrance, the receptionist only noticing the faint whoosh of the automatic doors sliding open and closed. >Scanning the parking lot through her darkened sunglasses, Panni spots O’Connell’s truck parked next to the now empty parking spaces where the sheriff and his men had been parked upon her arrival. They’d obviously wasted no time in leaving. >She spits in the direction of where the lawmen had been parked, fists clenching. >In the back of her mind she knew it wasn’t truly their fault. It was a risk that came with the job, and the lack of a second officer being immediately present was the norm in O’Connell’s line of work. >She knew the response time was the best it could have been. >She knew O’Connell didn’t go down without a fight, not him. >She knew the only people to truly blame were the drugged out cunt and the dealer who sold him the drugs that sent him on the zombie-like rampage. >She also knew that Sheriff Brown would more than likely drag his feet in the investigation. “Piss all!” she bellows, slamming her fist into the driver’s door of the Tacoma. >Ignoring the dent in the door, she climbs in and lays her head back against the headrest, staring up at the ceiling. ”Feckin shite, damn this civilian life keepin me chained down!” >She sits in repose for a short while longer, contemplating what actions she should take. A trip to the bar is deemed the best course of action for the time being. >As she sits upright and slides the key into the ignition, her eyes catch sight of something she had not noticed before: a manilla envelope on the windshield, tucked under the wiper blade. >Rolling down the window, she reaches out and snatches the document and cautiously opens it, eying what’s inside. >A single sheet of paper and what appears to be a photograph. >She slides the paper out, envelope resting in her lap. Scrawled across the white printer paper in sharpie is a simple message: >“420 West Jones Street, 4th floor. Law Enforcement won’t be a problem. 0600.” ”The feck?” she wonders aloud. >Setting the strange note down on the dashboard, she grabs up the envelope and shakes the photograph out into her palm. When she turns it over to see its face, she freezes. >While an older photo, with colors less pronounced and vivid, the blood stains and burnt out hulk of what was once a bus appear in almost high definition for the Irish Geist. >The smell of smoke enters her nostrils. >The clatter of gunfire echoes in her ears. >The sight of what occurred plays out in her vision. >The taste of burnt flesh sits on her tongue and hangs in the air. >Panni snaps back to reality, coughing and gagging, cold sweat running down her face. >In a rabid frenzy, she shreds the photograph in her hands, tossing the pieces out of the window and into the breeze. >She sits in the driver’s seat, quietly staring straight ahead, looking but not looking at a pine tree at the other end of the parking lot. >Three things come to mind. >One: Whoever left the envelope knew her. Knew her well. >Two: There was something of interest to her, whether she knew it for sure or not, at 420 West Jones Street. >Three: The rattling of the cardboard box in the backseat was driving her mad. ”Fine, damn it, I’ll let ye out!” she barks, reaching back and swinging the long cardboard box from the backseat to the passenger front. >She dumps the contents out into the passenger seat unceremoniously before tossing the box back to where it was. >She peers over the rim of her glasses at the AR-18 that now sits where she normally would sit. ”Stop actin the maggot and feckin change.” >In the blink of an eye, where once a rifle sat was now sitting a fair skinned beauty donned in all black, her fiery ginger hair a stark contrast to her wardrobe as it falls just below her shoulders, flowing from underneath a black beret. >Hazel eyes roll in the direction of the Barrett, arms crossed over her petite chest in annoyance. “You could have simply said ‘please,’ love,” she sighs. “Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t take a blowtorch to yer receiver.” >The AR shrinks ever so slightly under the larger rifle’s gaze, unsure if she wants to test if the threat is valid or not. “I saved O’Connell and I was what his granda’ taught him to shoot with,” she quickly states, voice wavering slightly “Saved him how?” Panni questions, eyes narrowing behind her aviators. “Well it tweren’t no deputy that fell the cruel beast that had gone to slammin’ our poor boy on the pavement like a jackhammer.” “Where’dja come from?” “O’Connell’s granda’ left me to him months ago when he passed an’ his da’ finally shipped me down from Boston. O’Connell had just picked me up from ol’ Jeff when he went ta runnin fer the chaos.” “Jeff? The one at the gun store O’Connell uses?” “Aye, that be the one. Heard him mention sometin bout how he’d had a larger rifle come through for O’Connell just recently. He talked to me an’ the other guns, like he knew… “ >Panni gives a nod, remembering how the old gun shop keeper had done the same with her while she awaited O’Connell to pick her up for the FFL transfer. “So, how is he?” the AR asks, concern evident in her voice. “In a coma fer now, but I’m thinkin’ we’ve got work to do.” >The Barrett starts the Toyota, engine rumbling as she puts it into gear and pilots it towards the exit. “What kinda work?” “Depends on what we find at 420 West Jones Street,” she mutters, turning out of the parking lot. “And I’m thinkin’ it’ll be related to what happened to O’Connell.” >The AR-18 can only nod, brow furrowed in curiosity and concern. They ride along silently for a few blocks before she speaks up. “Aideen.” “Panni.” >While not the most proper or formal of first introductions, the two Irish girls seem to come to a silent agreement to postpone the pleasantries, instead focusing on what they can only hope to be for the benefit of themselves and their comatose owner.