Chapter Text
Word has gotten around that Tim Bradford, one of LA's most experienced paramedics, is teaching a course today. He offers it every year, and every year the number of participants grows. Word spreads about how tough, but also how good the course is.
It's evening, they've all had a hard day on the streets of LA. The sun has long since disappeared behind the high-rises, leaving behind a leaden fatigue. Nevertheless: Training room 200 in the Training Center is filled to capacity. The smell of disinfectant mingles with the sour aroma of coffee from paper cups and the metallic tang of sweat on worn uniforms. At the tables sit aspiring LAFD paramedics in their blue uniforms, mixed with police officers from various precincts, including officers from Hollywood and Central. The muted murmur of tired voices fills the room, interrupted by the scratching of pens on paper and the occasional squeak of chair legs on linoleum. In the middle of the front row sit the rookies Lucy Chen, John Nolan, and Jackson West from the Mid-Wilshire precinct.
Up front stands Tim Bradford. Upright, alert, commanding respect. He wears the dark service uniform of the LAFD, the paramedic patches on his shoulders gleaming in the pale neon light. The fluorescent tubes on the ceiling cast hard shadows beneath his eyes and emphasize the sharp lines of his face. He seems just as authoritative here as a Training Officer, but his gaze is that of a man who has watched too many lives slip through his fingers—a gaze that seems to see through you, as if assessing a wound.
"Welcome to the tactical medicine course,"
Tim begins, without introducing himself. His voice cuts through the air like a scalpel—precise, without preamble. His name isn't important. What's important is the content of this course and that the people here can save lives better afterward. His gaze scans the room with the cool efficiency of a sniper and briefly rests on Lucy, who has already pulled out her pen, focused and ready.
"We wear different uniforms. Out on the street, when the shots are fired, their color doesn't matter. Whether we're firefighters, medics, or," his gaze falls on Lucy, "police officers. We're there to save lives. That's all this is about!"
He slams a heavy, obviously used tactical bag onto the table. The dull impact echoes through the quiet room like an exclamation point. Dust particles swirl in the beam of the neon lights. The bag is worn, frayed at the corners, covered with stains too dark to be just dirt.
"Nolan!" he calls out.
John Nolan looks up, startled and surprised, his pen frozen above his notepad. He hadn't expected to be first. A nervous clearing of the throat escapes him.
"You're first on scene. Mass shooting in a mall. Your partner has a through-and-through to the thorax. He's suffocating right in front of you. What's your priority?"
The silence in the room is suddenly palpable, heavy as a blanket. Lucy unconsciously holds her breath.
"I... I provide first aid?" Nolan tries cautiously, his voice a note too high.
Tim shakes his head, a sharp, almost impatient gesture.
"Wrong. You find cover. You try to neutralize the threat. If you try to apply a chest seal while the shooter still has you in his sights, I'll have two bodies instead of one."
He turns to the entire group, including the LAFD students. His shoes squeak softly on the floor as he takes a step forward.
"Tactical medicine means: Good medicine in a shitty situation."
He walks through the rows now. The quiet rhythm of his footsteps mixes with the hum of the air conditioning. A cold draft brushes across Lucy's neck.
"In the Army they call it Care Under Fire," Tim explains, his voice echoing off the bare concrete walls, as if the room itself amplifies his words. "When the bullets are flying, you don't have time for a nice chat with the patient. You have seconds to stop massive bleeding, and that goes for yourself too."
He reaches for a tourniquet on his belt—the movement is fluid, automatic, like drawing a weapon. He demonstrates with a speed that looks almost painful how to apply it one-handed to yourself. The ratcheting sound of the Velcro cuts through the tense silence.
He waves Lucy forward. "Chen, come here."
Lucy steps forward, visibly trying not to show weakness in front of the stern instructor. Her boots creak softly on the floor. She feels everyone's eyes on the back of her neck like small pinpricks. Tim hands her a tourniquet; the rough nylon fabric chafes slightly against her palm.
"West has been shot. He's lying in the 'Hot Corridor.' You have 20 seconds to get this thing on his arm while the other course participants are screaming at you and throwing training ammunition. Go!"
Jackson West grins briefly at Nolan before theatrically dropping to the floor screaming—
"Ahhh! I've been shot!" The impact makes the floor shake.
While Lucy kneels over him, fumbling with the Velcro, her fingers struggling with the stiff material, Tim steps so close to her that she can feel his breath—warm, with a note of peppermint and the bitter hint of too much black coffee.
"Faster, Chen! He's losing consciousness. His blood pressure is dropping. If you don't pull that tight enough, that's it for him."
The other LAFD trainees watch the scene intently. They know Bradford as probably the best, but undisputedly the toughest paramedic in the city. Lucy bites her lip, tastes copper for a moment, secures the windlass of the tourniquet and pulls it tight with a jerk until Jackson shows real discomfort—a choked gasp escapes his throat.
Tim looks at his watch, the soft ticking of the second hand like a countdown.
"Eighteen seconds. Acceptable for a police officer. But for a lifesaver? There's room for improvement."
He looks around at the other district police officers, his gaze moving from face to face like a probing scan.
"Who's next? Or would you rather wait until it gets serious and you realize all you know how to do is write tickets?"
"Chen, up front again," he commands.
Lucy steps forward, her expression focused. She tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ear that has escaped from her ponytail.
"Show them how to treat an arterial wound."
He knows she knows it. He showed her, out in the field during a real call. He knows she's someone who watched instructional videos afterward to do it better next time.
"And don't you dare be squeamish. Imagine it's MY life hanging by your fingertips."
Lucy looks at him. HIS life. For a moment there's something in his blue eyes that has nothing to do with medicine. Biology, maybe. It hits her deeper than any bullet could—an electric shock running down her spine.