Repaying a debt.
"Diamond City. They call it a diamond, a gem of the Commonwealth. I have been here for almost a week now, and I have seen little that could justify such a title. The Great, Green Gem is brown with rust and decay, black with mud and red with the blood spilt to protect its people. This is what they idolize?
I must return home, away from this place. But until I find a way, I will do what I can to repay Piper her kindness. She has let me stay in her home and eat her food, and I cannot offer anything in return. Not yet, anyway..."
"There's always light at the end of the dark tunnel.
That's a pretty uplifting statement, right? We've all heard it before, I know, when we're down, or when the world's just about to chew us up and spit out the sorry mess that's left. Raiders raid your caravan, Supers eat your last Brahmin and then tax collectors show up. You know, regular ol' Tuesday.
Of course, some of us have slightly more unusual days, where nothing just seems to go the way you'd think. No one wakes up in the morning, thinking, 'oh boy, I'm going to experience the dark past of Commonwealth history today', I think. To be fair, neither did I. But, sometimes you just gotta take what life gives you, even if it involves radstorms, super mutants and ghouls.
Oh yes, yours truly has been out on quite the adventure these past few days. Those of my readers living out west of DC might have heard the thunderstorm three days ago. I did too, and I went to check it out. If not for investigating the mysteries of life, what's a reporter for anyway?
Of course, it's the Commonwealth. I didn't even get out past the Beantown Brewery before the local wildlife got a little too interested. Word of advice for anyone adventurous? Bring something heavier than a 9mm for your outings. Super Mutants don't really care unless you can nail them in the soft spots, and good luck with that with one of those charging at you. Of course, I'm still here, telling you folks this. So, you probably ask yourself, how did I get out of that tight spot?
Let's just say you're never as alone as you think you are. Kindly strangers still exist, and I met one of them out there in the Wasteland. Martin, he called himself, to my rescue like a dashing knight of old..."
Martin frowned at the last part. Much of the article was beyond him in context, but it wasn't even a fortnight since he'd lived in sight of the Imperial City's walls. Legionaries had patrolled there, knights in all but title to folks like him. And more admirable in truth, for they were commoners like himself, not nobles with landed estates. He was just as surprised by their implied obsoleteness as he was that the title even existed here.
"Something wrong?" Piper glanced at him, some uncertainty in her eyes.
"Knights of old..." he muttered; "No, it's nothing, just...curiosity, I think. Our worlds are different, yes?"
"Don't see more of your kind 'round here, so, yeah, I'd say so." she shrugged; "Guessing knights aren't so much an old thing where you're from."
"...something like that."
It didn't make it any less strange that he'd been staying with Piper and Natalie for a week now, and still knew less than little of their world. She'd told him, of course, and answered every question he had, but when he scarcely knew what to ask, how could she answer? He understood much of the history of the Commonwealth, or at least what was known between Piper and Clements, the town priest. Disappointingly, it quickly became evident that even though they lived in the ruins of the city, they treated much of its past like myth. More than lives and technology had been lost in what they called "the Great War". Knowledge of life itself was lost, and beyond speculation, neither could even explain what had caused the apocalyptic disaster.
Nuclear War, they called it. Destruction on a scale he could hardly fathom possible without magical means. To unleash a force he would have thought belonged solely to gods and daedric princes, and even the understanding of the why's had been lost...
What was almost as bad as the destruction, was the food-culture it had left behind. Martin never thought he'd miss the wholegrain bread and cheap cheese of the grocers at the marketplace, or the sausages dangling from racks in the butcher's shops... but this place was making him so verily nostalgic for just those homely comforts.
"What about the rest?" Piper gestured to the opaque screen with a nod of her chin, bringing Martin from his reverie; "It's not proof-read yet, but..."
"It's very informal." Almost as much as her usage of 'knight', this too bothered him. Or, maybe bothered was not the term he sought, but it certainly confounded him; "Most posters and announcements made public in the Imperial City would be in formal script, authoritative and excessively formal. This... reads like a conversation at a tavern?"
"Well, yeah, that's what I'm going for." she seemed to find him amusing there for some reason; "I'm not writing for those fops up'in the higher levels, not that they'd read junk like mine anyways. Folks down here are much more common, you know? They don't like to read some high'n mighty declaration. I tell them stories, make them aware of what's going on outside - and inside - the city."
Somehow, the notion of commoner literacy here still surprised him. Piper wore what seemed like rags at times, and lived in a shack, yet not only was she literate, she could read better than some people he'd known at the college. Diamond City had a school, she had told him, though he'd yet to see it, and its children were educated there at the government's expense. There was something strangely, unexpectedly reassuring about that, to see literacy and overall education continue, even when all that once supported it had crumbled to dust and ruin.
"Though I was of course the picture of gratitude, we did not have the chance for a proper introduction. The radstorm last week hit just moments after the super mutant breathed its last, and we were forced underground in the old subways near Chestnut Hill.
This, my friends, is where our little tale really takes off.
With the radstorm raging behind us, and all my provisions for the trip lost in my flight from the mutants, not knowing too how long the storm would rage - remember last year, where one went on for almost a week? Chem-suppliers made mint - we saw only the option of taking the subway back east, to home, sweet home.
I know what you're thinking now, I do. The subways east of DC? The dead stations? The tunnels of who-even-knows-what? Those very same, yes.
We had made it as far as halfway to Chiswick before we met the first inhabitants. Well, much as ferals can 'inhabit' anywhere. There were just two of them, sickly creatures devoid of what once made them human.
Even those of you who think that of regular, thinking ghouls would have agreed with me if you'd seen those things. I have seen a lot of stuff in my days behind the camera, people, but ferals will always be the creepiest thing the Commonwealth's shown me to date.
They fell on us before we even had a chance to get out of the way. Gnashing teeth and deformed, mutated claws tore their way through our clothes and skin, dripping their reeking salive down as they came close, so very close. Even in the lightless tunnel, I could see the yellow of its eyes as the feral trying to make a meal of me bore down.
Then, suddenly, it jolted to the side, as if a super had decided to interrupt. Instead it was Martin, my savior yet again, who had managed to gut his attacker and now came to my aid. Truly, people, not all strangers out there in the Wasteland are as bad as you'd think. Even then, we did not get out of that scrap without our share of scars and bruises. Double my luck that day, for Martin was nothing short of a miracle-worker, being something so rare in the Commonwealth these days as a genuine, dyed-in-the-wool doctor. DC subway guards can attest to that, by the way.
We made our way to Chiswick then, bruised but alive."
"It reads more like a novel." Martin noted, pausing his pressing of the small piece of metal with a downwards-pointing arrow on it. He wasn't entirely clear on the mechanism behind it, but pressing that small, unassuming piece made the opaque screen react. Once more, had this been an arcane matter he could have explained it with glyphs or runes, but this was pure gearwork. Somehow.
"Gotta give folks something to chew their nails over." Piper hummed, quite self-satisfied; "Plus, figured I could throw in some free advertisement for you."
"...me?"
"Yeah, you know, if you wanna try your luck workin' here." she nodded, almost eagerly; "Sun's the only other doctor in DC, and people come from outside too for treatment. You'd be swimming in caps with those hands of yours."
Her words made him pause. There was nothing about Diamond City, or the Commonwealth as he'd seen it at this point, that didn't make him wish for a spell to send him back to Cyrodiil, to his life of relative comfort and guaranteed safety. It was rust, decay and ruin, and apparently roaming bands of murderous lunatics, man-eating mutants and mindless ghouls. Did he want to try his luck in this place?
No, there was no want in it. But he'd now lived with Piper for a week, eaten her food and slept on a bed she provided, given him a knife for his protection. She had not charged him for it, though he knew she likely considered it repayment for saving her life. Even then, still, it felt as if he abused her hospitality by simply lingering, aimlessly, loitering and wandering about. Even this place, ruined as it was, held to a degree of civilized behavior.
If he could pay her back, he would, and the only applicable skills he had lay with healing.
"Do you think I could do it?" of course he could, but the real question was less straightforward; "All my learning goes into restorative spells. I don't know anything about your medicines."
"You already know the theory, right?" Piper adopted something like a contemplating pose, scratching her chin; "Could work with Sun, help out with less serious cases. Most folks just need bandaging, or a shot of stimpack. Bet he'd appreciate the help, being the only doctor left and all."
Martin was not deaf to the emphasis she put on those words. She'd made him aware of the purge of the city's ghoul population, among them not a few doctors from before the destruction of their world. It sounded like meritocracy had disappeared along with the rest of this land's culture, and superstition had wrought its vengeance, turning neighbours into foes. Those same neighbours, Piper now suggested he help. Personally, there was a not so small part of him that wanted to turn them back at the metaphorical door...
But he'd given an oath.
"I...can ask him, maybe." Truth be told, it wasn't an unsound idea. If there was only one doctor in the city, it would be better for the community at large to join him rather than work against him. Competition was valid, when it could sharpen the drive of the competitors, but here there was but a single man, and likely dangerously overworked at that. He pushed the decision aside and pressed the downwards-going arrow again, but came up empty.
There was nothing more written. He frowned, for some reason disappointed. He knew what would happen, and yet strangely he was keen on seeing it put into letters on the opaque screen, each one a myriad of neatly arranged, green dots against the black.
"That's how it ends?"
"Rest is still in write-up." Piper shrugged, sliding a little down in her chair; "I've thrown out a dozen scripts already. Keep coming back to square one..."
Slumped like that, she looked more like a youth than a woman grown. It was a strange contrast to how he'd seen her in the tunnels, alert and wary, weapon in hand. Said weapon now rested against the wall by her desk, cleaner than they had found it. Its shells, small cylinders filled with lead-pellets, stacked in smaller boxes in one of the cupboards. A single lightbulb - and he still found this a marvelous creation - illuminated her office, framed by a red, hat-like screen atop it. It had become rather obvious soon after becoming a guest at her house, that Piper liked red. Natalie, however, was much more attuned with pink and green colors, much as he'd known little girls in the Imperial city to be, though they had wandered the paved streets with dolls in hand, frilly dresses and flowers in hair.
Piper's sister wore oversized, water-proof boots, an unsightly ugly jacket, more holes and patches than not, and a knuckle-duster. The latter was yet another creation of this world that seemed more at home in his.
"What about the 'dead' station?"
"That'd be square one... Not sure how to handle it, and it keeps throwing off the rest of the article." she muttered, scratching her hair; "I didn't see anything. You did, but I can't write that and expect people to think you're not another batty Wastelander. People get the bad mojo, they can feel something's off, you know? But they can't see it. Honestly I'm glad I can't either. Gotta be some magicks-stuff I figure."
It...did make sense, what she said. But then, wouldn't he then have seen ghosts and spirits all the time back home, if he could see them here? Had he simply been blind before, or was there something here that made them different? Their deaths? Brutal, and agonizing beyond what he could even comprehend, to be eaten alive by torrents of rats, scratching claws and gnawing teeth... Could pain alone force the spirits to linger, like an echo of their final moments?
Was that why he still thought so much of that particular station, and almost nothing of the others? He'd scarcely given two thoughts to the Mirelurk nesting grounds, the ghouls or the campfire they had shared with those people. Somehow, maybe because it came the closest to a supernatural entity, he still thought of the dead station. The station of rats, and ghosts. Where the bones lay spread and gnawed apart.
"I never saw them back home." he muttered at last. Piper watched him, intent on his eyes; "Never heard them. Only of them, of other people seeing them. But even then, was different."
"How?" he was not blind to how her fingers seemed to caress the touch-pads of her machine, as if awaiting a revelation; "Different how?"
"People, the... stories, they always talked of humanoid beings, like other people but see-through, translucent." They would have been recognizable as people, as once having been people. What he saw in the tunnels however, it was less than people, or...maybe more so? Barring the dancing shadows, of which he could say little for certain, he'd seen nothing. Only the voices had lingered, the last echo of a dying station; "Not like what was down there."
"Hmmm..." Piper rubbed her forehead; "Okay. I'll go light on the details for that one. Station was creepy as heck, I should be able to write something up without mentioning what you heard." For a second, it seemed as if she wanted to say something else, then changed her mind. It was hard to notice, just a twinge of her brows before she exhaled; "So, Sun?"
If there was something else there, her means straining from housing him, he couldn't hear it. His own conscience was enough on that account anyway, knowing how meager her resources were. If he could become employed with Sun, whom he'd not yet met - it was a failure of his own, he supposed, spending far too much time with Piper and Clements, the latter sometimes inquiring about Martin's own gods - it would serve to bring coin to the household, and help alleviate the debt he'd no doubt acquired by now.
The Diamond City hospital was not entirely deserving of name, as far as exteriors went. Like Piper's home, and most in the town in fact, it was wrought from scrap and stone, steel and wood in a mockery of any decent architect. It bothered him, for reasons of simple pragmatism, that these people had not just stripped the buildings outside of bricks to build something better. And the hospital seemed a perfect example.
Just one floor, it seemed, and little in the way of care for hygiene or proper sanitation. What he'd first assumed as nothing but an open-air entrance was in fact - by virtue of a surgery being in process as he walked by now - the main operations room. A patient was strapped down to a raised bed, whilst a man in white dug metal fragments from his arm. In full view of anyone who passed by and, as the clinic was situated by the main street, that was not a few.
That couldn't be in accordance with patient privacy requirements.
Doctor Sun, for it had to be him, seemed in less than a charitable mood. Blood spattered from his patient's arm, specks already decorating his face like angry freckles, and stained his white coat. It was strangely familiar, all too akin to his own, now shredded one. Martin went close enough that he could pick up the doctor's irate mumblings.
"Hold still, damn you. Don't twitch like that or I'll hit the artery..."
Whatever complaints the patient had were muffled behind a gag, though his facial expressions told it all. Operation without anesthetics? In full view of the public, and with no gloves? Things were...different here, certainly. Though the exact causes for many - most - diseases were still unknown, it was a widely accepted fact that general hygiene went a long way to prevent them. Even Peryite couldn't be everywhere at once, and diseases usually could be explained.
Still, though the man's grasp on sanitation seemed lackluster, at least he appeared competent in his field. One by one, small bronze-like fragments landed in a metal tray next to the strapped-in unfortunate, each placed by the doctor's unshaking hand. Sun was an experienced surgeon, that much was clear. Martin watched him until the operation finished, and Sun jabbed his patient with a syringe, - Piper called them 'Stimpacks', some sort of wonder medicine - undid the straps and stepped back, lighting a cigarette.
"Enjoy the show?" it was a surprise when Sun, visibly irritated and now watching him, spoke. He took another drag from the smoking stick between his fingers - the glow almost went halfway down -, then flicked it away, disregarded amongst the rest of the town's trash; "Something wrong with you, then? Or just morbidly curious?"
"Doctor Sun?" Introductions, Martin felt, might be the most cordial way of handling this. Especially if he was going to work with the man. Provided Sun was even interested. He knew of some of the more eccentric minds at home, who viewed partners as little but competition-to-be. Sun, for his part, seemed more stressed than eccentric.
"Evidently." Sun nodded; "Must be new around here, if you have to ask. Another Wastelander in for treatment you can't get out there? ...don't look wounded. No signs of radiation poisoning either, and pupils are normal. What, a headache then, or just never seen a man in white before?"
"Are you the only doctor in Diamond City?"
"Looks like it," Sun shrugged, fishing out another cigarette; "Used to be others, but yeah, I'm the town's sole serving savior, or just doctor, if you're so inclined. What, you're looking for a job?"
"Are you hiring?" the cigarette paused in Sun's hands, inches from the dancing flame of his lighter. The doctor watched him now, with greater intensity than before; "I mean, do you need help?"
"Mopping the floors?"
"Helping people." Only his skills - the credentials were long gone - gave Martin the confidence to even speak against the scrutinizing stare Sun now fixed him with; "I can help people."
"You don't exactly inspire confidence." Sun scoffed, eying him up and down. The jacket he'd found in the tunnels, and the pants Piper borrowed him, indeed did not make him seem much of a medical professional; "Chem-dealer out in the Wasteland? Maybe you amputated someone's leg and figured yourself a doctor?"
Martin fought himself here, knowing, instinctively, that no doctor was ever hired on empty words. At the same time, however, his abilities were unnatural in this world, a contradiction of nature. Piper trusted him, but that was it. No one else would regard him kindly if he revealed to them his magic. He'd heard of Nords reacting to wandering mages with steel and stones, and likely the result here would be much the same.
But what else was there for him to offer, but words? His journeyman papers were still in the Imperial City, and he knew next to little of the medicines and practices of this place. Piper had given him only a layman's understanding of stimpacks and whatever else was used for medicine in this place, and he had no access to anything remotely resembling a properly equipped alchemical laboratory.
No potions, poultices, restorative spells or even knowledge of local plants to rely on. He was little better for the task at hand than the commoners walking by. He had but his theoreticals to rely on, his knowledge of the human body and its functions.
"I...have been taught basic theories, in my homeland." it stung his pride to speak so lowly of his tutelage and knowledge, yet it was all he could muster without proof. He offered Sun a respectful bow; "It is all I know. I would be honored if you allow me to assist you in the medicinal administrations of town."
The doctor, for his part, seemed more aghast than anything at the bow. Were gestures of respectful subordination not a norm here? Piper had said nothing of it, but then, he'd not asked. It had seemed a given, merely, that even here people would hold to a degree of courtesy.
"Jesus, don't make a scene, okay?" Sun pushed him back to a straighter standing, palming his own face in the process as if it was a scene of shame. Martin felt some of it himself, realizing not a few around had stopped to look; "Look, I'm not trying to be an asshole here, but I've no idea who you are. You want work?"
"Apologies." It was a quick thought only that stopped him from bowing again. De Crue would have scoffed at the scene, no doubt; "Yes. I would appreciate chance to help."
The doctor watched him for a moment, eying him again from shoes to hair. This time the examination felt...different, though he could not put a finger to it. Then, with a small gesture of his hand, Sun beckoned him to follow inside. The patient Martin had seen strapped down was still there, moaning. But the holes where Doctor Sun had dug out the still-gleaming pieces of brass had now sealed up, little but angry, red marks on the skin.
It was only because Piper had told him of stimpacks, that he did not stumble and fall flat at the sight.
A metal wall separated the surgery room - though more of a porch, really - from what inside turned out to be a modestly decorated and furnished office. A cushioned chair awaited Sun behind his desk - seemingly made before the apocalypse, if the wear and tear and weathering of it was anything to go by. The walls were metal, but covered where they could be with shelves and faded pictures, all of it illuminated by a single lamp dangling from the loft, framed by a white cone-screen.
"Now," There was no chair for Martin, so he simply stood, feeling oddly small, yet cramped in the room; "As I understand it, you seek employment? I'll have you know I'm not in the business of offering jobs if the applicant in any way could pose a detriment to the welfare of my patients. I have been down this road more times than I should care to recount, and each time has cost me some of the valuable trust the people of Diamond City place in my skills."
It wasn't a question, and so Martin could only nod in affirmation that, at least, he understood. In truth he was still surprised Sun had not turned him away at the door.
"That said, I often find myself worked to the bone, literally..." the older man sighed; "I could use an assistant, provided he's capable. Your name?"
"Martin," Though Piper had called him Smith, it sounded off to him, and he'd never before referred to himself as anything but just Martin. Surnames were really only important to those who introduced themselves as such, while commoners like him, even those who had them, cared little beyond when it was asked.
"You're not from Boston, I can tell that much by the accent," Sun mused; "Never heard one like it, actually. Where are you from?"
"Europe," Piper had explained it was a continent across the seas, to the east. More than that, it seemed no one could tell him. But at least it gave him something to latch onto, a homeland of make believe and myths. Who could really tell he was lying, if he claimed to be from there? "Cyrodiil."
Sun's frown for a moment made him sweat, dreading that the doctor was more well-versed in geography than he'd assumed. Or, maybe there really was such a place over there, in the lands of mist and fog. Maybe it was home? Maybe, somehow, Europe was what these people called Tamriel?
It would be a sweet fate for such to be, though he suspected it was not. There was no knowledge of magic in this land, and he doubted any living man or woman in Nirn would have been ignorant of the universal forces of the Arcane. No... this was not Nirn.
"Europe?" the doctor snorted; "Arizona or Nevada would have been a more believable lie, I think," Martin's breathing halted at those final words, even as Sun continued; "There has never been word from Europe, to my knowledge, since the Great War. You really claim to be from there?"
"I am from Cyrodiil, yes." it was easier to speak a lie when it was true, and he could claim with truth to be Cyrodiilian. Implying then, that he was thus also from Europe, was his best chance at staking the claim with any validity. He only hoped - and prayed, though to which Divine he wasn't entirely sure, maybe all of them - that he sounded more self-assured than he felt; "I was born there, and was taught the basics of medicine in the Imperial City."
A thin, well-kept brow rose at his statement, the only outwards sign of interest on Sun's skeptical face.
"I see." he nodded, though with little apparent conviction; "Born in Europe, yet now...here in Boston. I wasn't aware any intercontinental transportations had been rebuilt. I imagine Miss Wright would have a field day with you..."
"Maybe." What could he even answer to something like that? A 'field day'? He wasn't even sure he understood Sun's intention, though it brought to the fore once again thoughts he'd repressed around her. Martin shifted on his feet, breathing in and pushing those thoughts away again; "But I am physician foremost."
"So you say." Sun mused, tapping a finger against his desk; "Experience?"
What experience could he even boast of, though? Sun would probably ask for proof, if he spoke of the College of Whispers, rendering his tutelage null and void. Here, in this place, he had performed only two operations, of Piper and the guard. Though both had been grievous injuries, would that be enough?
"Two...cases." he felt a hint of shame, though he knew he ought not. To have performed successfully under duress and with little magicka in reserve, it was what was expected of proper healers. And both had been his first real patients, without supervisors or senior medicae acting as safeguard against malpractice.
"Hmm..." again, finger striking the desk against the quiet of the room, shrinking Martin where he stood though he could not say why. It was eerily reminiscent of his early days at the College, his first meeting with Madame de Crue. A terrifying, brilliant woman who would induct him into the world of medicine and restorative spells; "Not exactly a stellar record. What were they?"
"Piper Wright and guard in the subway." he explained, wishing for at least a stool, now that Doctor Sun didn't seem immediately ready to throw him out; "Super Mutant attack, six major fractures of ulna and radius, and four more of left humerus, and a dislocated clavicle, for Wright."
"And the guard?" Sun asked, his eyes now a little wider, as if his interest was truly piqued. Or, maybe it was distrust, or disbelief? Were the bones called something else here, perhaps, and he'd just counted off words that, to the native, meant naught but gibberish? "Was this the incident in the subways?"
"He was shot." The idea of handheld firearms was still a novelty to him, though an understandable one. Their shots were smaller, and of a different make than the cannonballs the Redguards would use in their ships, but the idea was, he figured, much the same. If a body was compared to a ship, then the use was the same. Only, it could be harder to extract the intruding metallic object from the human body than its counterpart, and far more pressed for time; "They had run out of stimpacks."
"Anesthetics?"
"I had none."
"Surgical instruments?" Sun pressed, now leaning a little forward in his chair, eyes sharp. What could he say to that, beyond his own two hands? "I presume you removed the bullet."
"I had none." he admitted. The room seemed to grow quieter, the already muffled sounds of the outside world deafened further, as Doctor Sun stood from his chair; "Piper and I came through barricade just after the firefight. I had to use my fingers to remove bullet. I cleaned and closed the wound."
"Mister Sullivan has made a full recovery, yes." the doctor stopped in front of him, eyes boring into his; "He spoke of a stranger who saved his life. This was you, I take it?"
Martin nodded. It was good, to know he was at least not forgotten by the guard, somewhat delirious as he had been at the time. Even magic couldn't quite do away with the body's own response to trauma, especially when restorative spells did little more than accelerate said response. It was one of the less beneficial side-effects of relying on magic in the healing of injuries. And one of the reasons he'd also been taught surgery without, though with tools instead. A lack of tools forced one to rely on magic.
"I see." Sun hummed; "Mister Sullivan also spoke of a golden light, magical hands and assorted other, nonsensical stuff. Of course, this is a place of medicinal science, and I pride myself at least a little on it being kept as such."
"Sullivan was barely conscious through the operation." Martin said, wanting little more than to dismiss Sun's suspicions before the doctor started pressing; "Delirium commonly accompanies experiences of lights and sounds purely of one's own imagination."
"I inquired with those of his colleagues present during the incident." Though his tone did not change, Martin found the man before him suddenly seemed...taller, darker. There was a sinister hue to his appearance, like a child intent on stealing the toy's of another, consequences be damned; "They corroborated his story. You saved Sullivan's life where others could have only let him die."
"I had to."
"I know." The dark aspects seemed to flee Sun's expression like shades before his namesake, and Martin found his breath return as the doctor nodded; "The Hippocratic oath endures, even when the world that birthed it went to ruin."
"I don't know what that is..." He could not say what made him speak, only that something in Sun's change of demeanor inspired trust, the kind only found between peers. Though, in truth, Martin doubted he could ever boast the experience Sun no doubt had in his field; "We swore the oath of Kynareth."
"I hope it's much the same."
"Care for the patient to the utmost of my capacity. Never to harm, or allow harm to come to them, nor to suggest it for others. To enforce, if necessary, a cure that caused discomfort, so long as it brought long-term ease and cure " Though he knew the words by heart, he'd never before recited them to one who did not, yet seemed to recognize their meaning; "My mentor would not allow me near a textbook, let alone a scalpel 'fore I could recite the words in my sleep."
"Wise." Sun nodded; "Still, if you want to work here, I would understand how you saved Sullivan's life. Rest assured, provided your methods do not endanger my patients, this conversation will never leave this room. I have dealt with stranger cases than you, rest assured."
Martin hesitated.
That he even hesitated, that he considered explaining it to Sun, struck him as inexplicable. He did not know Sun, and yet considered telling him the truth. Piper had made it clear how easily the people of this town would jump to conclusions with synths - another inconceivable notion, artificial people - and had impressed upon him to be, as she said, damned careful. He was, he would like to think, always careful. Especially when it came to secrets, and phenomena that might upset and cause lynch mobs.
"I do not think you have."
"Try me." Sun said, little mirth to his voice, dry as paper. Martin did not know why he was still here, in this place. He could leave - ought to - and never return. He could leave and not explain himself, safeguard his identity or at the very least his abilities. In this world bereft of the arcane, a mage would arouse unwanted interest. It was his fear, and it was very much a present factor.
And yet, he did not move for the door. It was unlocked, he knew, having heard no click when it closed. Sun made no move to stop him either, a finger curled under his chin in apparent contemplation, or expectation, perhaps.
"What will you do with the information?"
"Nothing." Sun shrugged; "Unless you're an Institute infiltrator. Of course, I probably would not leave here alive then. Anything else, you have my oath of silence. Doctor's confidence."
He could leave.
Sun wouldn't be able to stop him, and couldn't do anything to him if he did, knowing nothing more than had already been said.
If he turned now, and left, that would be all it took. He could go back to Piper's house, pretend nothing had happened... and know the truth. That he had opted for the coward's way, that he remained a strain on her dwindling resources... Where he could have instead been a gain, and help repay what he'd cost her. Julianos, I pray you guide my hand.
"It is magic."
He felt nausea, uttering his own damnation in three, simple words. It was the kind that weakened his knees, wobbled his legs and hazed his mind with uncertainty. The dread he felt was not the kind a predator might invoke, rather the reactions of others, here in particular Sun.
"Magic." the doctor repeated the word, as if amused; "Magic, you say?"
"I am a Healer, educated by the College of Whispers in Cyrodiil." Martin would have bit off his tongue, if he could, or suck back down the words that spilled from his lips, each only further damning him should Sun go back on his oath. Or further ridiculing him, should Sun simply take him for a madman. It was the sting to his pride that caused this, he knew and yet could do naught but react; "You would laugh."
"I am sorely tempted." Sun hid what was a growing smirk behind his fist, crossing the other before him; "Last time I had people speak to me of magic, they were trying to convince me of the properties of mushrooms. Still, you have earned my curiosity, Martin. I don't suppose you could offer up a demonstration? Something to dispel these doubts of mine, besmirching your honor as they no-doubt are?"
The knife he drew was the one Piper had gifted him, with a suddenness that made Sun retreat a step, eyes widened in surprise. The edge was old, older than anyone in the town if he had to guess, but had been resharpened and made lethal again, though the blade itself was dull to behold.
Before Sun could act, he drew blood. Martin slid the blade down his forearm, leaving an inches-long, reddening gash that quickly filled with warm, running blood. The pain was lessened by it being self-inflicted, but still bit him harder than he'd expected.
Not that he'd even contemplated his actions long enough to form much of an expectation.
"Jesus Christ, what are you doing?!" Sun gasped, though he did not move further. The momentary fear of the knife gone, he now seemed angered more than anything else, at the display before him. Martin, for his part, slid the knife back into its sheath, pocketed it and generally did his best not to lose nerve.
"Demonstration."
Martin hissed, holding out his now free hand over the wound, palm down and fingers spread wide. The air he breathed became energy in his blood, and in turn flowed like water to the tips of his fingers, before pooling out like golden, semi-liquid light, washing over the wound.
Before Sun's eyes, disbelieving as they were, the spilt blood evaporated or seemed sucked back into the flesh, before the gash sealed itself back up, and left nary a trace that it had ever been, but for a stripe of slightly cleaner skin than the rest.
It was a small wound, and simple too, and did not take much from his reserves. Though it was still felt, a weak, barely irritating pulsating in his temples. Martin did not let it show, or at least he tried not to let it show.
Sun, for his part, did not immediately speak. He did blink, repeatedly, reaching a hand to hesitantly poke a finger at the now restored skin, as if expecting the healed wound to be nothing but an illusion. He rubbed his eyes, blinking again and again before finally, apparently, coming to the conclusion that he was not hallucinating.
"...Magic, you say?"
There was none of the earlier amusement now, as he asked the question again. Instead it was in a quiet voice, of disbelief and realization both. Sun muttered to himself even as he spoke, skin pale and eyes wide. His hair, before so well-kempt and orderly, now stood as if exposed to electric shock. Though the last bit surprised him, Martin nodded.
"Yes."
"I see." the older man nodded, then again, scratching his neck; "I see. Magic. I see. Yes, it's... magic, yes. Yes, I suppose there's... hmmm, yes, hmmm... And, this...this magic, I...suppose it is the thing you wanted kept secret. Yes, yes..."
"Preferably." Martin did not relish the disheveled state he'd delivered Sun into, though at least it seemed his doubts were dispelled; "Piper has told me of the Institute."
"...I see." Sun moved a shaking hand to his breast pocket, withdrawing another cigarette from its faded paper casing. He stuck it between his teeth and flipped open the lighter, much akin to the one Piper had used in the tunnels. The flame did not come, however, no matter how many times the doctor spun the tiny steel cog. Martin had learnt its mechanism from Piper, though he did not care much for tobacco. Never had. Finally, the baffled man relented, casting a glance to Martin; "...I don't suppose...?"
He had no lighter of his own, obviously, but still stepped in to help. A small flame, scarcely larger than a candlelight, danced from his thumb as he held it 'neath Sun's cigarette - the man himself not daring to move, seemingly not even blink or breathe - until the tip was lit, and he extinguished the flame. Though his reserves were strained in this land, at least this much was no great waste of magicka. And, in a manner that was perhaps detrimental to his standing with the doctor, it brought him a little amusement to further befuddle the man.
Sun seemed to take a moment before he registered the cigarette as lit, then took several long, drawn-out drags on it, each longer-lasting than the fore. He seemed almost desperate to inhale as much of it as he could, fast as he could, as if Martin would rob it away from him, or pull some new spell from his sleeves.
Silence reigned thereafter, for several minutes as the weather outside audibly changed, and rain began to pelt the roof of the clinic. The natural lights that had shone in through the cracks in the doorway faded, and instead the constant rumbling and drumming of rain took hold. The small lightbulb in the center of the room became it sole source of illumination, and cast the doctor's face in shadows that made him seem all the older and more weary for it.
"Magic...magic..." Sun muttered to himself in-between the drags; "Magic, of all bloody things... Magic, sure, why not? Why not? We've got...super mutants and ghouls that live centuries and... and synths playing detectives and Atom cultists and... Magic. Sure, why not that too? In all the cavalcades of madness, why not magic? At least this one's a benefit..." the doctor took another, long drag on his cigarette, now reduced to barely a thumb's length, and turned to Martin, who was trying to ignore the thick, wafting aroma; "Okay."
"What."
The sudden change in Sun's demeanor took Martin off-guard. The doctor regarded what was left of his cigarette and discarded it, stomping it out with the tip of his shoe against the floor.
"Okay." Sun repeated, drawing in air; "You have magic hands. Literally. You want to enter my employ and help people. That is, how it is, is it not?"
Martin blinked. This was... this was acceptance? He'd not expected it to take so little to convince - and rattle - the doctor. He couldn't even tell if he was disappointed or relieved at it all. Wait, why by Magnus am I disappointed?! This is great! I think. Yes, yes it is great, right?
"Yes."
"Limitations?" Sun asked next, pulling a piece of paper from the desk. The pen he plucked from his chest-pocket, a graphite-core stylus much like in function to those he'd seen the lower clerks use for notes in the College, though theirs had been charcoal, of course; "To your... thing. What it can do, I mean."
"I am... somewhat limited, presently." Truth might then be a sound path, or Sun would put him to tasks that exceeded his capabilities; "Healers usually work from both hand and poultice both, but of the latter I am bereft. I have no knowledge of the plants of this land, yet, so must rely on what I can bring about by hand. Wounds, bones, the physical trauma to the body, these I can mend. I cannot end disease or purge poisons from the body as easily, it... is complex, I merely accelerate the body's own regenerative abilities, and supplement where it falters."
"Magic, and yet you make it sound academic..." Sun snorted. It seemed he'd recovered now, fully, from his disheveled state; "Scientific. Restricted by the laws of nature..."
"Magic is a science." Martin argued, standing a little straighter; "Only those who understand laws of nature can properly harness it. You cannot regrow a leg, if body couldn't eventually do it on its own... Not without potioneering beyond my capacities anyway. Once, people thought disease-prevention was a matter of piety, too..."
It was, perhaps, best to leave out the fact that maintaining daily rites of prayer could keep you healthy, provided it was on consecrated grounds, and before divinely recognized altars and shrines. There were some, charlatans and filth of same, who tried selling amulets outside the arms of the Temples, though they were of little use beyond trinkets and toys, unblessed as they were. Here, in this land, there were no priests inducted into the Imperial Pantheon, and so no way of consecrating or blessing altars or amulets. It was best left unsaid.
"Hourly wage is twenty caps, twenty-five on weekends." Caps, again. Martin could have sworn, for he still couldn't comprehend its actual value. How did something as flimsy as the waste-products of bottles become the grounds for an entire economy? The metal wasn't even special, it was a poor alloy of steel, and worthless in its own right. Did no one mint coin anymore? Was twenty caps an hour a great amount of wealth, or a slave's ration? "We're public sector, so we're tax-paid for equipment, but the salaries go out of what we earn for services. Buggy system, but it lets us do charity work for the poor sods outside the Wall. Lord knows they need it. Until now I haven't been able to get out there and do it, though."
"So they come here?"
"Those who can." Sun nodded, humming; "Of course, people who break their legs have a hard time walking here, so usually we only see mild trauma or regular diseases. Sometimes people from Goodneighbour come here to get their systems flushed. To get cleaned off the chems. I won't ask you to work with chem addicts, not yet at least. They can be...twitchy. And people in town don't often get serious injuries, though the guards are an exception. Maybe we could set up an alternating schedule for you, week-wise? One week in the clinic, one week visiting the settlements. I'd have to secure some additional funding and procure a firearm for you, of course, and mandatory shooting lessons..."
The thought of handling firearms made Martin slightly uneasy. He'd seen their destructive power when Piper, with a squeeze of her shotgun's trigger, had removed everything above the neck from the bandit in the tunnels. It was a different, more raw kind of power than mages like him could call upon, for it required little focus or strength of will, and simply the motion of a finger.
"I'll not send you far out." Sun said, perhaps seeing his unease and mistaking it for reluctance to leave the safety of the town; "Mostly north, along the Blue Line. It's pretty safe, caravans go there all the time. Anyway, that's for later. Right now, we'll draw you up on contract and get some conditions settled. Do you have a place of residence in the city?"
"I live with Piper Wright." Martin said, hurriedly adding when Sun seemed surprised; "We met in Wasteland and she invited me to stay as guest."
"My condolences," The doctor shook his head; "Miss Wright's known to be pushy, sometimes to the extremes. She once stalked my clinic for two weeks because someone had spread rumors of a fetishist dungeon in my basement." Sun sighed; "I don't have that, before you ask. Crocker might, for all I know. He's the facial reconstruction specialist next door."
Though he could not for certainty say what that was, something to Sun's tone made him hesitate to ask. He also could not think ill of the doctor for his words on Piper, as having lived now with her for a week almost, he had been on the receiving end of more questions than he could even fathom asking. What was Cyrodiil like? What was the Empire? Who was Emperor? What was an Emperor? What kind of food did they eat? Did they use bottlecaps or paper for money? What was an Argonian? Why was an Argonian?
It was only made stranger by Natalie still being unaware of his origins. Piper didn't want her sister mentioning it in school, from what he could understand, but it was difficult to explain an Argonian to someone who couldn't even fathom its existence. And still pretend to be from Europe. Nat, he worried, was going to grow up thinking strange things of the continent across the seas. He still wasn't sure either, exactly, what Piper had told her sister his magic was. The girl hadn't questioned it when he healed her knee, scraped from a fall, as if it was as common as applying gauze.
Piper had simply shrugged when asked.
"If you're on the guest-list, we need to have you upgraded to proper residency, or Security will come down like a vengeful hammer for potential exploitation of guest workers..." Sun didn't seem to notice - or perhaps just care for - Martin's ponderings, continuing his questions instead; "Do you have a certificate from... who trained you, again?"
"College of Whispers, the Institute of Restoration."
"...yes, well, we'll pretend I understood that and move on." Sun rubbed his forehead with something that seemed like mounting irritation; "Certificate?"
"I had my Journeyman's papers, but..." How to explain without lies, that they were left behind when he "decided" to go to the Commonwealth? "They... were...lost in transit."
Sun fixed him with a look for that, only for a moment, but enough to convey that he did not fully accept such for explanation. In truth, it was a poor one, and would have seen him laughed out of any hospital, clinic or other healing facilities back home, if not outright arrested for attempted fraud.
"Lost in the Wasteland." The older man nodded, adjusting his coat; "Happens all the time, I hear. Since you seem acquainted with Miss Wright, have her write up and print a new one. I can't actually employ you unless you have a certificate."
It struck him then, looking around, that he could not see anything on Sun's wall resembling a certificate of his own. Beyond a few, faded paintings and wardrobes and shelves, nothing else decorated the walls.
"Where's yours?" the question was one he immediately wished he hadn't asked, for the look that appeared on Sun's face when he had. It was not irritation, or anger. It was something else, that he couldn't identify; "Forget I asked. Sorry."
"No, no, it's a fair question." The doctor stepped back around his desk and pulled out a drawer. Out came a sheet of paper, white and starkly contrasting the rust and decay of the world around it. In bright blue was testified Sun's medicinal career and prowess, with terminology that seemed far removed from his peers. There wasn't any signature, though. As if the bottom had been cut away, and the place of origin missed as well, torn from the top; "I just don't keep it on display. Right then, I believe our business is concluded for today. Bring me your certificate soon as possible, and we'll get you started. Meanwhile, I will procure the necessary permissions and equipment."
"I am employed, then?" He still felt that he had to ask. It seemed too easy, too fast for him to have a conversation of mere minutes, and suddenly become employed with scant more to show than his own magic. Was it enough?
"Wasn't that your intention?" Sun paused; "Yes, yes, you are hired. At least for a trial period."
"T-thank you." Martin breathed a sigh of relief, even as he shook Sun's hand - it hadn't been outstretched - and offered the doctor another respectful bow. He left, when it became clear Sun had nothing more to say, or didn't know what to say, and emerged back into what passed for operating room.
The light from before was gone, replaced with darkness and dankness as the rain turned the dustbowl of a town into mud. He'd seen before, and pondered, the way they had made the street. It was dirt, but rather than attempting to improve on it, boards were lain down and formed walkways. Now he understood why, as the ground underneath turned to mud. Street-lights - old lanterns and refurbished glass-lights - dangled from chains and wires, bringing some illumination to the otherwise dark streets. It had been bright day when he entered here, how long had they talked? Aside from the solitary guard, strolling the street with club or firearm in hand, not a soul was out. An acrid smell wafted to his nostrils, like detergents or a mishappened alchemical experiment.
"Hey, where's your protective headwear?" He hadn't noticed the other guard before he spoke, voice muffled by the helmet he wore. A tarp of some sort was draped over his shoulders, foul-smelling rain splashing against it; "Not going out like that, are you? It's an acid shower, real bad news for that smooth skin of yours."
"I...don't have any?" He did not even own a hat, much less anything protective against...acid rain? "Acid rain?"
"New around here, huh?"
"...you could say that." Martin muttered, glancing at the skies. Dark and foreboding as they were, draping the land in a curtain of rain, he couldn't have told them apart from the rainclouds over Cyrodiil. Certainly not to this extent.
"Probably saw it comin', but there's a law against going unprotected when we're experiencing fallout-weather. That's radstorms, acid-rain or whatever else freakish stuff nature throws at us. Don't gotta protective suit, you don't go out of cover, simple as."
"...how long do they take usually?"
"Minutes, hours... a day, sometimes." The guard shrugged, chuckling; "Sucks for you, I guess. Folks either head home or to the Dugout when the skies get dark. Better stuck in a bar than a clinic. Enjoy your stay in the Great Green Jewel of the Commonwealth, yeah?"
"Thanks..." Martin could not muster a tone more polite than a mutter, as the guard strolled off, leaving him standing underneath the sheet-metal roof.
At least the acid wasn't strong enough to eat through the metal. It still left him with a sense of desolation, a depressing feeling that was as if the acid ate at his soul, rather than just any unprotected skin and flesh. It was colder too, temperature dropping with the downpour. He wasn't dressed for it, and felt the humidity dampen his clothes. He shivered, was cold and felt the earlier optimism leave him.
He had gotten a job, and could soon enough repay Piper for her hospitality. He could sustain himself, and be of use to others. He could even work as intended, and use his abilities and skills to serve and earn a living with what went for a legitimate clinic here...
...but he missed home.
By Mara and Kynareth, he missed home.
Oh Boy.
Okay. So, yes. It has been quite a while. There's been a lot of stuff going on in my life that conflicted with writing, and left be so drained when I actually had time, that I did not have the energy. Hopefully, I am past it now. Hopefully. Lockdown has not exactly helped on my mental state either, safe to say.
Anyway. Yes, we're back at it again. I appologize for the long wait.