Hi, fellow reader! This my first fanfic on here, so I'm sorry if I'm doing something out of the norm. ^^ As you can see, this will be (or already is, depending on how far I am when you read this) an extremely long fanfic - about the length of novel, actually. I apologize again for any excruciatingly long chapters and unrealistic happenings and whatnot. My writing skills are still in their early stages of development.
Anyway, please R&R! Constructive criticism is be appreciated. If you have any suggestions for future story events or my writing style (or anything at all, in fact), PLEASE message me! Thank you! 3
Hey guys, sorry I haven't updated in a looooooooooooong time. o_o In truth, I'd already written almost 20 chapters of this fanfiction, but I hadn't really found much motivation to update it on here. I'd also written it all before Trauma Team was even released, so I was debating for a while between rewriting this fanfic, or just continuing from where I'd left off. (If the characters don't act the same way they do in the game, it's because I had to guess their personalities) For now, I've decided to continue updating this one, but if y'all prefer I restart it, then do tell. ^^ I'll be adding at least one chapter per week from now on, I promise. Again, my sincerest apologies!
"…And remember, first practice hands separately, and then start to play hands together, slowly. It's important not to jump ahead. And practice equally! Don't get really good at the beginning and barely be able to play the end." I nod my head obediently. My piano teacher, Mrs. Knoll, smiles kindly at me before closing my music binder and handing it to me. I take it from her, stuff it in my bag, and get up from the bench while she opens the door.
Just outside the room is my dad, sitting leisurely on a couch reading his favorite medical magazine. He immediately notices us come out and flashes us that toothy grin of his. I smile back. "Remember to practice!" Mrs. Knoll calls at us as we make our way to the door.
I nod and say, "Thank you!" before leaving the house and entering the freezing wintry nightmare just outside. The wind bites at my cheek and burns my eyes. I wrap my coat tighter around me and follow my dad to our car. We get in and start up the engine (and the heater) as quickly as possible.
"Want to grab some Starbucks on the way to The Music Gallery?" he asks cheerily over the loud rock music playing on the radio.
"Yeah!" I reply, and he takes a right turn instead of the usual left. We pull into the parking lot and run towards the safety of the coffee shop, laughing as we trip over the ice.
"Well if it isn't Ayden and Cecilia Navarre! Glad to see you guys!" the lady at the counter greets the moment she sees us enter. We are frequent customers here, so we've befriended many of the employees. "What would you guys like today?"
"Hey Mary! Two pumpkin spice lattes, please," my dad says, holding up two of his gloved fingers like a peace sign. Mary nods and starts making our coffee while dad and I sit down at a table near the counter. Every winter we always got pumpkin spice lattes, like how we bought iced cappuccinos in the summer and so on. Mary soon has our orders and slides them over to us. My dad takes out his wallet, pulls up a few dollars bills and hands them to her. "Keep the change." With a wink, he and I walk out and dash back to our snow-covered black Lexus.
While we are waiting at a red light, I hear the distant wail of an ambulance. "Hey, do you hear that?" I ask my dad, tapping my fingers against the glass. He tilts his head slightly up and pauses for a second, then nods.
"Yeah, I do. Where'd you reckon its going?" he asks, giving me a sly look. I put my finger on my lip in thought and am about to respond when the siren suddenly gets alarmingly loud. Before I know it, the ambulance shoots past us and goes directly through the red light. I stare at it, open-mouthed. My dad doesn't seem as surprised as I am.
"Hey! It's an ambulance from Resurgam First Care, the hospital where I work," he points out. "I'll bet Maria Torres is driving that with CR-SO1 in the back."
"They're still working during winter break? What do they do?"
"Maria Torres is one of our top paramedics and CR-SO1 is a surgical prodigy and an ex-convict."
"Wow… Resurgam has some cool staff," I sigh dreamily. I am just about to ask why CR-SO1 was in prison when we pull into the Music Gallery parking lot.
"Do you want me to come down with you?"
I shrug. "If you want to, then sure." We both get off the car and walk into the building.
"Hi Cecilia, Hi Ayden!" the lady sitting next to the door and the man behind the counter acknowledge in unison.
"Hey there Poppy, Kestrel," I greet back. Like Starbucks, we knew most of the employees at The Music Gallery, but this time it is because I work here part-time on the weekends.
"Watcha need?" Kestrel asks, his striking green eyes glittering. My heart seems to skip a beat as we make eye contact. I know it seems kind of silly for me to have a crush on a high school student while I was in my first year of college, but who cares? Kestrel is cute, nice, patient, and one of the best saxophone players in the state. What's not to love about him?
"Some harp strings, a silk flute swab cloth, and sheet music for a new Chopin piece. I think Mrs. Knoll ordered it for me." Kestrel nods and gets back to his own business. I stare at a rack of swab cloths for some time before I finally find the right type in one of my favorite colors (blue). I pick it out, quickly snatch the harp strings I need, and file through a cardboard box full of sheet music until I at last find the folder labeled Navarre. Inside is a thin book titled Scherzo No. 1 Op. 30 by Frédéric Chopin. We approach the counter and Kestrel glances up hopefully.
"Ready to checkout?" he asks. I nod and slip the items over to him. He quickly scans them, punches some numbers into the computer, and prints out a large yellow slip of paper and a receipt before handing those and my items back to me. "Thanks for coming to The Music Gallery!" he chimes, a playful sparkle in his eye. I blush slightly and smile my thanks before making my way to the door. Poppy waves good-bye just as we exit.
"I can finally get back home and hit the hay," Dad yawns, glancing up at the now-dark and moonlit sky. I giggle and get inside the car with him. The ride home is met with silence except for the radio blaring music. It wasn't an awkward silence, though – we both needed a break from the long day.
At last we stop inside the garage of our home. We both get out at the same time and enter the house. A dog immediately begins to bark.
"Quiet down, Nisa!" a familiar voice calls. The barking seizes for a moment but soon begins again. A large black lab dashes from the other side of the room towards us and leaps up, panting heavily. Mom shortly appears at the door where Nisa came from, her black hair tied back into a messy ponytail and her gray eyes tired.
"Welcome back," she says, her voice bright but hoarse. "How were piano lessons?"
"They were great," I reply. "But what are you doing out of bed, Mom? Didn't the doctor tell you to get at least 12 hours of sleep?"
Mom touches her face sheepishly. "Yeah, but I couldn't sleep. I just had to move," she sighs. Dad gathers her in a hug, whispers something into her ear, and brings her upstairs to their bedroom. I set down my book bag and head to my room where I turn on my laptop.
My mother was recently diagnosed with a just-discovered and incurable heart disease. She only has a few years remaining in this world, so we're trying to make the most of it while we still can. There are also a couple of restrictions, like the 12 hours of required sleep and the medication she has to take before breakfast every morning that sometimes give her horrible side effects, etc. etc. I try my best not to think about reality and the day she will pass away, but sometimes I just can't help it.
Shaking the thought away, I quickly check my e-mail and Facebook. When I finish those tasks, I thrum my fingers rhythmically against my desk, listening to music, not quite sure what to do. Then something suddenly strikes me.
I pull up Google and type "CR-SO1" into the search bar, since I hadn't been able to ask my dad about him earlier. I hit enter and billions of results pop up in less than a second. Without thinking, I click on the result at the very top of the page, bringing up an article titled Trouble at Cumberland College.
I go to bed that night with my mind whirling about what I had just learned after reading the online editorial. Apparently, CR-SO1 is the prisoner number of a young man who was accused of taking part in the well-known "Cumberland Incident," a biological terror attack several years ago at Cumberland College, the same school I'm currently attending. He suffers amnesia and no longer knows who he is, what he did, or why he did it. All he remembers is his vast knowledge of medicine and surgical skills. The government saw his honest grief over the deaths he may have caused and allowed him to work of his 250 years' worth of imprisonment off by performing complex surgeries at Resurgam First Care, the same hospital where my father works as a diagnostician.
All of these relations with a medical prodigy that I wasn't the least bit aware of until now made my head spin. I groan and flip over on my bed, squeezing my eyes shut, but it is long until I'm finally able to fall into an uneasy sleep.