[Power in My Hands is an inFAMOUS fan-fiction short story, viewing an event in Empire city through the eyes of an EMT who views himself as morally sound... for now]



“Thank you, doctor,” the man whispered as I cleaned out his stab wound. I threw him a fake smile before bringing my focus back to his damaged body.

“I had half a loaf…” the man whispered again. “Stabbed for a few slices…”

The man was impaled rather deeply in his abdomen, but the knife fortunately missed all the important organs. I stopped the bleeding. For now.

“Try not to talk too much, or walk. Just rest,” I told the man. “You will have a scar once this heals. I can’t stitch this up for you.” The man laid on the gurney in silence.

If he had been stabbed a few hours earlier he may have had better luck, but victims of similar assaults were flooding into my make shift clinic and supplies were rather hard to come by. That’s usually the case in a post-terrorist attack and quarantined city. I don’t think life will ever return to normal in the Neon or anywhere else in this forsaken city.

I applied a heavy bandage to the man’s gut. “Just rest and you will be fine,” I reassured him.

“Thank you, doctor,” he said again.

I walked away from the man and moved through my small maze of gurneys I had set up atop the roof of an old gas station. The homeless wandered below. Hell, we were all homeless now. Mixed amongst them were the slightly stronger, probably robbing and pillaging. The other half of the slightly stronger were trying to protect what was left and some were still debating which course of action was best to take.

The gas station’s roof was like my safe island among a sea of anarchy; anarchy that will eventually yield the results of a survival of the fittest contest. After that, who knows what will happen? At this point, waiting for the government to step in and help felt like a lost cause. It had been days, and the only thing the government had given us was an armed barricade and lethal doses of bullet rain for anyone trying to escape. At least I had my island. Of course, I had seen this so-called terrorist flying around town. Stan Lee’s idea of Spider-Man is apparently not that far-fetched. After what has happened in the past couple of days, nothing would surprise me anymore. My wife was probably cheating on me. Whore.

Gunshots will always startle me, though. A small group of Reapers, the bloody gang of drug dealers trying to own the place via AK-47s, decided to show up, guns blazing. The medicine I stockpiled to help sick people must’ve garnered their interest.

I threw myself down on the roof as the gang approached, yelling and firing in the air. Their scare tactic was working. I could hear my patients’ fear as their breathing turned to hyperventilation. Who knew what these sick bastards were going to do? The scariest part was that we all knew what they were capable of doing. In a selfish move for my own safety, I slid off the roof as stealthily as I could and dove behind an overflowing dumpster. If I live to see another day, I can help save more people, though it will be at the expense of my current patients’ lives. Funny how that works, and how in times like these, you always find a way to justify your actions. I wasn’t even a real doctor – just an EMT. But, I’m a quick learner I thought. I’m making the right choice.

I watched the scavenging bastards ungracefully climb up to the roof of the defunct gas station. I was certain I had gotten away unseen. In any case, the Reapers wore such large hoods and masks that it was a miracle they could see at all.

“Where’s the drugs?” I heard a grizzled voice shout from the roof top. Then a few gunshots. A gurney flung from the roof. I would most certainly have become a dead man had I stayed up there. Luckily I got away unseen – or so I thought.

I heard a crackle – like lightning – in the distance and then the terrorist was behind me in a split second. I froze.

“What’s going on up there?” He asked me, his voice marked by a distinct anger and frustration. I’d heard mixed stories about this human light socket – the TV hijacker claimed he was a terrorist, the cause of the blast that sunk our city to the pits, but nearly every soul I ran into had nothing but praise for him. He seemed well-intentioned right now.

“Reapers pillaging my clinic,” I finally replied, getting my head back in the game. “Probably looking for my meds, but they’re shooting up the place while they’re at it.”

He glanced up at the roof and told me to stay put. He flung himself up on the roof like a gymnast and proceeded to exercise his electrical powers on the Reapers. With a few strikes of lightning from the terrorist’s palm, the drug dealers fell from the roof, fried like a pig roast. It smelled great, too. There was nothing I could do to save those poor souls; they were victims of their own circumstance. Our so-called terrorist friend was dealing some brutal vigilante justice, but he spared one man. One heavily beaten and burned man, trapped to the pavement by what looked like sparkling electrical hand cuffs. I felt our light socket friend had the situation under control and it was safe to expose myself. I caught myself – I told myself never to refer to him as a terrorist again. He just saved my life and my clinic. Mr. Light Socket felt more appropriate. For now.

“You really think your gun-toting, crack head bastard children can prance around here doing as you see fit? I will kill all of you,” Mr. Light Socket growled as he stepped on the back of his prisoner’s head. I swear my home had turned into a comic book. What I can only describe as electrified Wolverine claws shot out of the man’s hands as he raised his arms, ready to strike.

“Wait!” I shouted, presumable saving the bastard Reaper’s life. I couldn’t let him get executed like this.

“What?” Mr. Light Socket growled at me.

“You can’t just off him like that!” I pleaded. It felt wrong… somehow. In this anarchic quarantine excuse for a society, the execution I was witnessing still just felt wrong.

Mr. Light Socket walked up to me, his nose inches from mine. “Let me understand you. These low lives pillage your clinic, shoot up your patients, and you want me to let him go so he can come back and do it again?”

I had no answer. Without thinking, I replied. “If we murder him, we are no better men. Can’t you haul him off to prison?”

He laughed. “Prison? You think there’s anything left of a prison now? Let alone people willing to guard it?”

I just stared back. I knew how dumb my question was the minute it left my lips.

“The choice is yours,” he said and pointed to the trapped Reaper's AK-47 lying on the ground. "Pick it up."

I reached down and picked up the rifle, feeling as if I had no choice but to obey the man's command.

“My binds will wear off in a while and he will be free to do as he pleases," he said. " Of course, you hold the power in yor hands, the choice to stop him from inflicting chaos and pain on countless people again or to let him run back to his gang banger family. The choice is yours.” And then he turned and walked away. I couldn’t reply. I have never held so much power in my hands before.