I am disorientated when I awake. This has become a regular start to my day. I look up at the ceiling of my room, reminding myself of where I am. Reminding myself of when I am. I am at Cassel College in the present day, not facing a dragon in the icy depths of the ocean, eleven years in the past. I am safe, I am alive. But none of the students I selected for that mission were quite so lucky. At night, when I am able to sleep, I can see their faces and I witness their deaths, again and again. I breathe heavily into the oxygen mask that keeps me alive, and try to push those memories and nightmares out of my mind. I allow myself a few moments to compose myself, then force myself to get out of bed and face the waking world.

I take off the oxygen mask and lay it down outside the bathroom door, and then proceed with my morning routine.

I try not to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror as I go to get my toothbrush and run it under the faucet. Sometimes my reflection does not bother me, other times I feel the all too familiar rage and regret surge up within me. Despite numerous reconstructive surgeries, I will always bear the scars of that incident in Greenland. Some injuries heal, some memories fade, but some stay with us forever.

I undress quickly and get into the shower. The cold water hits me and for a moment my mind is once again convinced I am in the ice-cold water that almost killed me. I gasp hoarsely, my damaged lungs struggling. I curse myself for not waiting the few seconds necessary to allow the water to heat up. I grasp the grab bar on the wall, and lower myself onto the specially designed chair. These adaptations I need many decades earlier than most others. I was offered assistance with bathing and dressing, but my pride would not allow it. The principal tried to play it off as sending me cute girls to bathe with, as I am sure he has for himself. But he is an ordinary old man, nothing they haven't seen before. No maid, however well trained and generously paid, could keep from grimacing at the nightmarish state of my body. I try not to look at it myself, but I cannot keep from noticing the textures of necrotised flesh, healed wounds, and skin graft scars as I wash myself. My fingers touch the extra scar near my heart which was not caused by that incident. I survived because I am a hybrid. I survived because I am strong. But because of my strength, it was feared that I may become a death servitor, and the school wanted both to keep me as a professor, but also to have an insurance policy against that eventuality. It has not happened yet, but if it was to do so, the explosive device would detonate, and I would be no more.

As I start to shampoo my hair, I notice the pain from lactic acid build up in my arms. I start to move faster. I can only manage for a short time without the oxygen. Once, Manstein called my long hair my last vestige of vanity. I did not allow him to get away with that comment without retribution. But I suppose he is right. My long silver hair made me a magnet for much admiration as a young man, but of course that was when it was growing from an able body. Now I am much more likely to catch people giving me looks of pity or disgust.

I consider skipping the conditioner, but change my mind when I recall how much more difficult brushing and drying would be. My hair will be beautiful today, even if nobody notices.

If I had only saved my students' lives, would I now be heralded as a hero at the college, instead of everybody's least favourite professor? Was it not enough that I had risked my life by diving in an attempt to save them? But then, very few others at Cassel College are aware of anything that happened during that mission eleven years ago. Somehow, and for some reason, the school board has kept it under wraps all these years. I have my suspicions as to why. So, I am perceived merely as a disabled man, and assumed to be much older than I am. At least the students do not find me approachable enough to directly question what happened to me. Although I have overheard them whispering behind my back.

Finally, I am turning off the shower and wrapping a towel around myself, averting my eyes from the mirror once more. I quickly dress in a freshly pressed shirt and suit, and leave the bathroom, putting on the oxygen mask and sitting for a moment while I take several deep breaths. The wet hair against my neck reminds me to get up again.

Brushing and drying my hair is less of an ordeal than washing it. As is looking in the mirror, now that the mask covers the worst of my facial injuries.

I choose a tie and shoes, put on my gloves, and drape my overcoat around my shoulders. Then I am left with my final decision of the early morning: am I feeling strong enough today to use my cane instead of my wheelchair?