Chapter 14: The Tour
Elena arrived at the warehouse at eight PM, exactly as instructed.
I watched her approach on the security camera Bear had rigged up—a secondhand unit we'd salvaged from an electronics store dumpster, barely functional but sufficient for basic surveillance. She moved cautiously, checking her surroundings, hand near the pocket where she kept her mace.
"Good instincts. She's not naive about what she's walking into."
I opened the door before she could knock.
"Ms. Vasquez."
"Elena." She stepped inside, eyes immediately cataloging the space. "If we're going to work together, first names work better."
The warehouse looked different than it had two weeks ago. Bear and I had spent days cleaning, organizing, creating something that resembled a functional space rather than an abandoned meat locker. The industrial shelving was reorganized into storage areas. The back office had been converted into sleeping quarters. A corner near the loading bay had been designated as a potential medical station, though it was empty for now.
Elena walked through it all with clinical detachment.
"This is it? Two men and an empty building?"
"This is the foundation." I followed her gaze around the space. "We're building the rest."
"With what resources? I see a generator, some cots, and a lot of concrete." She turned to face me. "Medical operations require supplies. Medications, surgical equipment, sterile environments. You can't treat gunshot wounds with good intentions."
"That's why you're here."
Bear emerged from the back office, moving with the careful deliberation that had become his default. Elena's attention snapped to him immediately—a medic's instincts, evaluating the potential patient before anything else.
"You're the Ranger."
"David Kowalski." Bear extended his hand. "People call me Bear."
Elena took the hand, but her focus was already on his eyes, his posture, the subtle signs that spoke to his condition. "How long since the injury?"
"Three years. Give or take." The 'give or take' was the TBI talking—his memory of exact dates had never fully recovered.
"Symptoms?"
"Memory problems. Confusion sometimes. Processing takes longer than it used to." Bear recited the list without emotion. He'd had this conversation before, with VA doctors who couldn't help him. "Some days are better than others."
Elena's demeanor shifted. The skepticism that had marked her tour of the warehouse faded, replaced by the focused intensity of a medical professional confronting a challenge. "Sit down. I want to examine you."
Bear looked at me. I nodded.
He sat on one of the folding chairs we'd salvaged, and Elena went to work. She checked his pupils, tested his reflexes, asked questions about headaches and sleep patterns and medication history. Bear answered everything with the patience of a man who'd been poked and prodded by doctors for years.
The examination took twenty minutes. By the end, Elena's expression had shifted from professional interest to something closer to determination.
"He needs proper neurological care, not a cot in a warehouse. Cognitive behavioral therapy, a medication protocol, regular monitoring." She turned to me. "This man should be in a treatment facility."
"The VA says he doesn't qualify. Private facilities cost money we don't have." I kept my voice level. "So he's here. And you're the best chance he has for actual care."
"I'm not a neurologist."
"You're a trauma surgeon with eight years of combat medical experience. You've treated TBI patients in the field, under fire, with fewer resources than we have now." I gestured at the warehouse. "This isn't ideal. But it's what we've got. The question is whether you're going to help us make it work, or walk away and leave him to manage alone."
Elena was quiet for a long moment. Her hand went to the crucifix again—the unconscious gesture that seemed to accompany difficult decisions.
Bear watched her with those gentle, patient eyes. He didn't beg or plead. He just waited, the way he'd waited for three years for someone to actually help him instead of writing him off.
"I need supplies," Elena said finally. "A proper medical kit. Medications—anti-inflammatories, cognitive enhancers, emergency supplies for trauma. Where's your money?"
[OPERATOR RECRUITED: ELENA VASQUEZ]
[DESIGNATION: AEGIS OPERATOR #002]
[ROLE: MEDICAL SPECIALIST]
[BONUS: +50 SP]
[CURRENT SP: 1,700]
[OPERATOR ROSTER: 2/5]
I pulled an envelope from my jacket—two thousand dollars, half our remaining funds. "Get what you need. Whatever's left over, use your judgment."
Elena took the money without counting it. "I'll have a supply list by tomorrow. Basic trauma kit, medications, monitoring equipment. It won't be hospital-grade, but it'll be functional."
"That's all we need."
She spent another hour with Bear, creating a treatment protocol from memory. Dosing schedules, cognitive exercises, warning signs to watch for. Bear wrote everything down in his notebook, his precise handwriting filling page after page.
I heated canned soup on the hot plate—the best dinner option we had available. Elena ate it without complaint.
"Navy food was worse," she admitted, scraping the last of the broth from the bowl. "At least this has actual vegetables."
The comment surprised a laugh out of me. The first genuine laugh I'd had since waking up in this world.
"Small pleasures. Remember the small pleasures."
Elena left at midnight, the supply list folded in her pocket and a promise to return tomorrow with equipment. Bear was already asleep by then—the examination had tired him out, but he'd looked more peaceful than I'd seen him since the recruitment.
"Someone competent is watching him now. Someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Two operators. A medic and an assault specialist. Not an army, but getting closer.
Tomorrow, I'd find the third piece: the man who could build us a communications network from scratch.
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