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Rhys felt almost at home, for the first time in a long while.
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The hospital was bedlam, of course. The incursion of Rockets had spurred both the League and the civilians of Petalburg into a frenzy, and it seemed that everyone congregated around the main floor of the hospital, frantically scooping up supplies for the wounded, wheeling bespoke wounded to odd corners of the corridor when it became apparent that the emergency room's beds were too full to cope, and generally creating an enormous mess.
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It was naturally for this reason that Rhys had adopted a top-down approach for his mission. When Elisabeth Fiorelli had told him that he would be assigned to Petalburg, he'd assumed he would be safely ensconced beyond the city limits as a field medic for any Grunts - or otherwise - that required immediate treatment. To find himself in the very thick of things was at first a nerve-wracking proposition, but once he slipped inside amid the chaos, it felt more like an unexpected gift, something that he'd long been denied.
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He was in his element. He'd even eschewed the Rocket uniform or anything similarly...tactical...for his lab coat, a loose tie, messy hair - all things that were nondescript enough to keep him from being identified but in place enough that, as long as he moved with purpose, wouldn't call him into question.
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So he found himself on the fifth floor, rifling through a file cabinet replete with the medical histories of the League's best and brightest, carefully selecting those whose names he recognized and slipping them into his satchel. He was alone, as Medical Records was hardly the hub of activity given the circumstances, and so his light, almost jaunty humming was interrupted by the door sliding open and someone stumbling in, panting.
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He turned too quickly, his eyes wide for an instant or two before his trademark lazy, bemused smile fell into place, eyeing the nurse who regarded him with confusion. "I'm sorry, Doctor, I didn't see you- oh my gosh, Doctor Collins?"
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Fuck.
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The woman lit up, relief easing the creases on her features as she took him in. "Oh my goodness, you haven't rotated here since your residency! Although, gosh, I know it's a stressful field, but you look ten years older than you ought to, young man!"
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Rhys gulped, carefully maneuvering his satchel behind him as he offered a bright smile. "Nurse Sweetbriar, how are you? I'm so glad you're still here, they called me out to help with the mess. I don't know how we'll hold up, if I'm being honest."
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She offered a laugh, weak and without the empathy of feeling behind it, but smiled nonetheless. "We'll make do, you know we always have, here! Come on, let's get you down to Emergency, there's a cardiac emergency and not enough hands on deck."
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The scrub-clad woman turned and beckoned him through the door, though something caused her to pause. "...Doctor Collins? Who did you say sent you here, again?"
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A flash of light caused her to turn, and she came face-to-mask with the narrowed eyes of his Galarian Slowking's mask. Rhys sighed, his shoulders slumping.
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"I really, truly wish you weren't so sharp, Amelia." The Slowking unleashed a PSYCHIC NOISE that reverberated through the doorway's narrow aperture, causing the woman to shriek and clutch her head. Rather than relent, the pokemon built the assault, stepping forward as she sank to her knees, only ceasing once she had crumpled to the floor, motionless, blood pooling slowly from one ear.
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Rhys stared at the dead woman with the focus of obsession, his brow furrowed. She'd been a friend, once, or at least an acquaintance. He could have handled this a dozen different ways and still come out successfully. Surely.
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No. There was no time to play nicely, not when he had a job to do and a number of people who would do far worse expecting him to do it. He'd asked for this, after all. Had wanted it, and played to get it. He couldn't feel badly about his choices now.
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He'd see her when he closed his eyes, he knew. But he couldn't feel badly about it.
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Cursing under his breath, he slammed the file drawer shut and nudged the body out of the way with his foot as he stepped over it, Brahms trailing him obediently. He'd picked through this office as much as he could, so his next destination was the office's mate across the hall. Entering revealed no occupants, and he set about his task, filtering through the drawers once more.
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He silently hoped he wouldn't run into any more old friends.

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