The sterile white corridors of the Central Relief Hospital were filled with the agonizing screams of hundreds of wounded soldiers and recovering civilian patients.
Throughout all four trauma wards, the glowing golden suture lines that closed complex surgical wounds over the past month began dissolving into toxic blue mist.
Above every hospital bed, the automated proprietary monitors installed by the Mercy Spire medical conglomerate flashed callous, neon-red corporate repossession notices.
"Hold pressure on Ward Two!" Kendra screamed frantically, her hands covered in blood as she pressed clean gauze against a young militia soldier's torn chest incision.
"Healer Wallace, we have twenty patients going into hemorrhagic shock on the third floor!" Sister Teresa cried out from the crowded corridor.
