“Sir, can you stop flirting with the coffee dispenser?” Some high pitched voice spoke behind me while I was in the middle of pondering what the hell I wanted to drink and rizzing the machine into the mood for some hot, steamy drink.

  I turned, visibly bothered, and found a parcel of empty air immediately in front of me, and a metallic support with an IV bag connected to some sort of prepubescent midget (you know, what we colloquially know as a little shit or “child”) through a cannula next to the parcel of air, which was excessively calm and polite. You know, being air.

  “Oh, they let one of you out of containment.” I crouched to be eye level with the child of green irisises and scant hair. “What will you have?”

  “I have met.. meta… my-toasted-sis.” The child said in a weak voice.

  I was confused for a second, and then I realized it was an oncologic patient that probably lived in one of the hospital rooms. “Can you even drink coffee with your condition?”

  “No. The machine makes chocolate milk too.” He said meekly, incapable of holding my stare. I could be an asshole to the wee lad.

  “I shouldn’t buy you a drink, it wouldn’t be responsible on my part. But, I am a motherfucking Retriever.” I pointed at my insignia before I introduced some coins into the machine, got a styrofoam cup in place and pressed the round, salacious button so my dear would grant the dying brat his drink. “So, are you terminal or in remission.”

  “Doctors say I may be free from the illness soon, sir.”

  “Well, they’d be technically correct either way. Take a seat at that table over there. I am an agent of public order and it’s not correct for me to let a sick child wander alone around the hospital.” Poor child was oblivious to my plans, to how I was going to make him into a diversion for my person. Nothing perverted or exploitative though: I am an an asshole, not a creep, not a predator. A-s-s-h-o-l-e.

  “They let me come here to buy food and drinks, and they know what they cannot sell me, sir. They were told by my doctors and caretakers.”

  Once the drink finished pouring I accompanied him to the round table and we sat across each other. I slid the cup over the polished surface. “First of all, the price of this drink si hearing me rant a bit, okay?”

  “Mom says I shouldn’t talk to strangers.” He seemed uncomfortable on his sea.

  “But she never said you shouldn’t listen to them. Listen here little one: doctors and low rank healers may not want to tell you this, but odds are you are going to die. You are frail, consumed by your own body conspiring against itself. Your soul will go whenever souls go when they aren’t ensnared by a soulgyver, that for some reason aren’t called soulshacklers, which, my esteemed tumor manse, sounds cooler.”

  “Mom told me. Mom told me the last time she came to see me.” He said , and silence settled between us. I didn’t know what to say. Or rather, I knew what to say, but not how to word it.

  “Did she ever talk to you about adult things? Can I swear in front of you?”

  Between the budding sobs he nodded. “Yes, I am thirteen.”

  “You look younger. I could have asked your mother for your age whilst I kept her collared in my sex dungeon. That’s right, she hasn’t come back to visit you because the bitch likes to get spanked while her son dies alone in the hospital. “I loomed over him and his choccy milk. “Say hello to your new daddy.”

  “I think I played you online before.” The boy said, impervious to my basic bitch insult. A tic overtook my eye.

  “Did I wish you cancer?”

  “Most people I play with or against do,” he said, his voice full of acceptance. “Listen here, jerk, I know I am probably not getting out this place ever. But I have hope.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  He reached for his cup with the trembling hand of a defeated body, and, stirring the souls on my sacromotor. I concentrated on the drink. On its flavor. On how I wanted to modify it. and then, when he took a sip… nothing happened.

  “Is the chocolate milk salty?” I asked, pretending to be merely a curious, undiagnosed psychiatric patient. People all around glanced at me, they judged in silence. But they didn’t act: the uniform acted as a strong deterrent. To mess with a Retriever wasn’t only to mess with someone who was potentially a powerful mage, but with someone who was backed by an organization for which human dignity and rights were suggestions at best. Might may not make right, but nobody with power aimed for right in the Minced Meanders. Wrong without consequences was their bread and butter. Nobody will punish you for your wrongs, and a conscience is not something we lot cultivate under the dome.

  And again, might may not make right, but the rumors say that we Retrievers are all left-handed.

  “Why would it be? It’s sweet, like chocolate milk is supposed to be.” The brat answered.

  “You know? I wish I was a biomancer so I could help the cancer. But I am a mere illusionist,” and here I lowered my voice, “and apparently not a good one at that.”

  “I’d prefer a healer to manage my illness, sir. No offense meant towards biomancers.”

  “Shhh shh shh shh.” I extended an open hand, a gesture to reinforce my shushing. “Needing or not a manager is the cancer’s to decide, not yours. I said I need a biomancer to help the cancer, not you.”

  “To help it kill me?” he asked horrified and offended in equal parts. His face? priceless.

  “Yes, you called me a jerk. The cancer has been polite this whole time.”

  “It is killing me!”

  “It’s a living for it. You know, maybe your cancer has a name. Maybe he’s called Derek. Maybe he feels restricted by your bitch ass body preventing him from reaching his true tumorigenic potential.”

  The boy looked at me straight in the eyes.

  “Die in a hole.”

  “Your mother has three I’ll gladly die in!”

  “Cunt!”

  “Bitch.”

  Then his anger turned into a smile., tears welled in his eyes. “It’s just like in the post-game lobbies.”

  I stretched his weak, cold hand, smiling myself. “A pleasure to let you reminisce the good times, kiddo. Want to make some Faustian bargain? “

  “No good sir. You have done enough by pretending to be a gigantic moron.” He tried to smirk, but it was noticeable how even his face hurt. “I should go back to my room or the nurses will come hunting for me, all worried.”

  “Yeah, I have compromises too, kid. Will dance over your grave!”I waved as he hobbled away.

  “If you dance as well as you support then my grave will remain untouched.”

  And that one hurt my pride. But at the same time, I closed my eyes and smiled: the youngsters were alright. Except for the cancer.

  But you know what?

  If it was taking chemotherapy like a champ—and so it seemed— odds were the cancer was alright too.

  I rushed out the cafeteria and began frantically looking for the room where I would meet my healing instructor. I was not stoked to learn how to use my ehaling module. I had it just in case. Because as a policeman of sorts, I’d get hurt often, and having built-in ibuprofen and first-aid was a hell of an advantage. Severe wounds kill men as they lay hopeless, but small wounds kill you when you are trying to run away from the murderer, while you still dream with waking up tomorrow.

  As I robot-danced down an aisle the deep voice voice boomed form behind me. “I saw you bothering a kid, pathetic thing. You must be my new pupil. Follow me.”

  And let’s say a thing about Hoffal Demias: You could put him side by side with the Grim Reaper and Death itself would be the less somber of the two. The man was all long bones and ropy muscles, wearing a bloodied uniform that both hanged loose from his shoulders and fell short at covering the entirety of his orangutanesque arms. His skin and the sun were not on talking terms, and from all the ill people one could meet in the hospital, few looked more demarcated than this man who enjoyed a perfect health.

  He led me up to a sterile room closed with key and lock. After he unlocked it, I was met with several young kittens padding or crawling across the clean, white tiles of the floor. And over a nearby table, several scalpels and several impermeable gowns piled besides them.

  “I would rather bunnies, but my sibling’s cat gave birth not long ago and these popped out. She doesn’t want them so… your education comes for cheap.” He said slowly, marking every word as he approached the rectangular table and began walking along it, one long finger skidding over the surface. “I didn’t have your measures, so use whatever gown fits you. I assume you have not much of a background education in histology, but you will learn, Saon.

  I had an idea and my face scrunched up. “Are we gonna stab the cats?”

  “Medicine requires sacrifices.”

  It wasn’t going to be some pleasant training session, so I made the only relevant question. “Do we have rubber gloves? I bet their insides smell like shit.”

  He pulled a box of disposable gloves from a nearby set of drawers. “It would be unsanitary otherwise.” And so he grinned, and while I didn’t see his teeth under his lips, I could imagine them being as long and twisted as the rest of his features. “Any further questions, mister Ladius?”

  “No, Doctor Demias. Let’s get to slaying some pussy, then.”

  And the doctor dropped the scalpel he was grabbing. “Were that not slightly funny, you’d be getting formally admonished right now. Watch carefully how I open and close the wound. Then explanation will follow. Afterwards, your practice begins.”