Pilot (14/?)
He couldn't be picky, he supposed as he pushed open the door. Above him, a bell jingled. In front of him was an oak-colored labyrinth of tables and chairs, and at the very end of it stood a dog washing out a shot glass.
He was not at any sort of hospital.
He was, very clearly, at a bar.
It was, strangely enough, not very modern. In fact, it seemed to be purposely emulating a style straight out of the 1990s. It almost felt like he'd walked into a time warp to a nearly empty speakeasy.
He was not, of course, alone. On the left side of the bar there was a fireplace, and a couple patrons sat with their backs to him facing the blaze. Even further back, vaguely visible in the dingy light, was a hallway. Dave couldn't tell where it led. He took all of this in before the bartender said, "Can I help you?"
She was a dark green mastiff who peered over dark glasses. If she saw Dave's crudely bandaged arm, she didn't look like she cared.
Dave motioned to it, in case she hadn't. "Someone pointed me to this place," he explained, wincing as he walked up to the bar. "I got shot."
"I can tell," the bartender said. She put down the glass and the towel she was using to clean it and sighed. "You're not from here."
Dave wished she wouldn't change the subject. He was getting dizzy. "No, I'm not. I'm also losing blood."
"And you're looking for a doctor in a bar?"
"Someone told me to come here." From this distance, Dave could read her name tag: "Julia."
Julia pinched the bridge of her snout. "As much as it pains me to say it, you've come to the right place. As long as you can pay."
"What's the price?"
"Depends. That a bullet wound?"
Dave nodded.
"Take that tie off it. But don't bleed on my counter or you'll wish you'd been shot somewhere more permanent."
Dave did as he was told. The wound stung like hell, and now there was blood drying on his fur. He had never been much for blood.
"Energy shell," Julia observed through her shades. "At least it's not a hard job. It's $100 for a tourniquet and $50 to clean the wound beforehand. Up front."
Dave knew it was a bad idea to prolong the conversation while there was a wound in his arm, but he asked anyway: "Why do you do this?"
"Dropped out of med school. You'd be surprised how much money you can make under the table with one year and internet access, even if it is a pain. So can you pay?"
Dave reached into his pocket. Felt around. Empty. His insides froze.
His car keys were the sole occupant of his other pocket. "Um. Fuck."
He realized what must have happened. At some point, Kara had stolen his wallet and his phone. Which meant not only was he stuck here without any identification besides his keys, he was probably going to pass out in another few minutes.
And then Kara crossed inside the back hallway.
