Trauma Team, as the name suggests, operates in tightly organized squads.
Each team typically consists of five core members: a driver, a senior medical technician, an assistant, and two heavily armed security operatives.
The driver almost never leaves the AV (aerial vehicle). He stays in the pilot seat, armored to hell and back, flying the gunship like it's an extension of his own body. Smashing through cars? Not a problem. The client's insurance covers everything anyway.
The senior medical technician is the heart of the operation—a battlefield doctor trained to keep the client alive no matter how bad things get. Side effects, complications, trauma? Not their problem. Stabilize the client and get them to the hospital. After that, it's up to someone else.
The assistant is a glorified gopher: carrying medical kits, hauling crates, helping move bodies—alive or dead.
The security team? Walking death machines. Most are retired special forces, hardened mercs, or Trauma Team's own hand-raised psychos in armor. These guys don't hesitate. They shoot first. Then shoot again.
Arthur stood still in the hotel lobby, head lowered, his face hidden beneath a shadow. The network scrambler on his implant ensured no camera could identify him—no face recognition, no heat signature tracking.
To any electronic surveillance, he simply didn't exist.
Of course, someone could still investigate... but who would bother unless he was Hanako Arasaka?
The corporations wouldn't waste that kind of effort for someone like him.
Meanwhile, Jim—the team's lead medic—was having a crisis.
He recognized the man standing across from him. Not the face, but the stance... and those glowing red mantis blades.
Exactly like the ones from last time.
Cold sweat dripped down Jim's neck under his helmet. He felt the AV shift behind him, engine still idling. The last time he saw those blades, he'd barely escaped with his life.
Back then, they were on a mission to retrieve an Arasaka executive—routine stuff. But that "routine" ended with grenades, fried circuitry, and Jim watching half his team get torn apart like meat.
He'd only survived by pure luck, ejecting at the last second while the AV exploded behind him. It took months of therapy and reconditioning to convince himself it was a fluke.
And now, those same red blades were in front of him again.
What were the odds?
The rest of the team behind Jim had no idea. They were itching to move in. The client's vitals were dropping, and every second wasted meant less of a bonus.
One of the guards finally muttered: "We gotta go—"
"Shut up!" Jim snapped.
He stepped forward slowly, raising both hands in a nonthreatening gesture. His voice came through the helmet calm and measured.
"Sir... our client is upstairs. We just need to retrieve them. Can you let us pass?"
Arthur raised an eyebrow. He looked the guy up and down.
The voice sounded... familiar.
He studied Jim's stance, the way he held his gear, the slight tremble in his gloved fingers.
Arthur smiled behind his collar. He remembers me.
But outwardly, Arthur said nothing. He just gestured vaguely to his face and replied with calm sarcasm, "Believe it or not, I'm just a tourist passing by."
Jim nodded faster than necessary.
"Of course. No problem at all."
Arthur turned to point toward Thor and the survivor, still standing off to the side like they were ready to bolt.
"They're with me. Just bystanders. We'll be leaving now. Sorry for the trouble, Doc."
Jim nodded so hard he nearly dislodged his helmet.
"Yes, yes. Safe travels."
Arthur walked past him, pausing only to give Jim a friendly slap on the shoulder.
The poor man flinched like he'd just been shot.
Arthur grinned.
"You're a good guy, Doc. Your bedside manner's really improved."
As he stepped past the trauma team and out the hotel doors, he could hear Jim mumbling a quiet prayer inside his helmet.
Not for his client. For himself.
Back at the elevator, Thor blinked in disbelief.
"That worked?"
Arthur lit a cigarette, taking a drag as they walked across the now-barricaded street. "Told you. I'm just a tourist."
Jim stood frozen in the lobby, watching them go. He knew the operation had gone completely off-book, and there would be consequences. His bosses would be furious. He might even lose his job.
But he didn't regret it.
Sometimes, staying alive meant playing dumb.
And after all, he'd survived another day in Night City. That alone was w
orth a bonus.
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