Life was pretty good for Donald. He’d always been a happy go lucky person, life of the party if you know what I mean. He worked as a trauma medic in a hospital on the south side of the river, and he was pretty good at his job, even if he did say so himself.
He liked helping people. He also made some sweet money on the side absconding with whatever medications he could get his mitts on. Donald wasn’t a dealer, not really. He just liked a bit of horse trading, a little swapsies and bargaining up. Sometimes he’d trade up for meth, sometimes down for mul, even sideways for some extasy. Life was a party, when he’d amassed as much as he was going to get he’d cash it out and start again.
Or that was how it was supposed to work – until the day a deal his best friend brokered went wrong. Those Lunatic bikie bastards had him pinned up against the alley wall, and he can still remember how pale his friend’s face was, how she jittered and protested as the bullets punched through his chest. The bikies left. His best mate caught him, held him as his vision faded. But when his eyes closed he heard her running feet.
He hasn’t yet got the chance to tell her its alright. The Tree claimed him, and he claimed it, the aspect of Heartwood strength, and he dreamed of a place of power. Life is a party again. The drugs don’t work for Donald no more, but he believes he can not die.