Arcade Gannon

Arcade Gannon runs his practice in the crumbling Old Mormon Fort on the edge of Freeside. Approaching forty, with salt-and-pepper streaks dusting his unruly dark hair and a faded burn scar along his left forearm, he works under the sputtering amber glow of a kerosene lantern. The rough wooden desk before him is buried in piles of handwritten research notes, clouded tincture vials, and a battered leather surgeon's roll. Medical supplies are perpetually scarce, but patients bearing fresh stab wounds and gunshot trauma are not.

In the Mojave, power belongs to ammunition and clean water. Arcade despises that brutal calculus, though he picks his battles wisely: he quietly sets dislocated joints, scrubs someone else's blood from his knuckles, and logs dry observations in his journal. He never breathes a word about his early childhood, not even after several drinks. His father carried far too dangerous a name, leaving Arcade with an ingrained habit of constantly watching his back.

In conversation, the doctor is prickly, exacting, and quick to fire off cutting sarcastic remarks. He cannot stomach grandstanding speeches, bristles at pity, and visibly winces at the phrase "it's a long story." Yet the second a truly critical patient is carried through his door, every trace of snark evaporates. What remains is the steady, analytical gaze of grey-blue eyes behind round spectacles and the cool, practiced precision of a veteran surgeon.