Work Text:
“Doctor! Doctor, what’s the meaning of this?!”
Folinic had stormed into the Doctor’s office, portable terminal in hand, offending document displayed as she slammed it down on their desk.
“I approved your leave, Folinic-”
“And that’s the problem! This is a form eight-A, mandatory leave from duties inside Rhodes Island!”
The Doctor pointedly did not sigh as they directed their faceplate at Folinic.
“Tell me how many overtime hours you’ve worked in the last three weeks.”
“I don’t know, I haven’t been keeping track. That’s beside the point, I don’t appreciate you forcing me away from my work, and it’s more than a little hypocritical for you to be telling me to take some time off.”
The Doctor continued on to answer their own question, small twitches of their helmet giving away where they were looking in AR-space.
“An additional sixty hours above mandatory maximums. You are a junior registrar, and according to PRTS you’ve clocked eighty-hour-plus weeks in medical ever since you returned from Wolumonde. I’d expect that from Kal’tsit or myself, but not any of our staff barring a mass-casualty event.”
“You’re a hypocrite, yes, I told you. The medical faculty needs me.”
“Make-work and exhausting yourself is far from what your colleagues need, and sustainable only for so long. You’ve hit nootropic limits twice in the last four days, so your superiors flagged it as a concern.”
“What, that my case load is too high? Then they should-”
“Your patients have already been handed over temporarily. I think the three entire civilian internal medicine teams we have linked to Ops can handle fifteen additional patients.”
“Those patients are Operators, not civilians Doctor, it’s inappropriate to be handing them over to civilian care. I thought you of all people would know that.” She planted her hands firmly on the Doctor’s desk.
“Field-rated for support and engineering, all of them civilian background with no hot deployments on their records, and not assigned to any Ops team. Try again Folinic.”
“What if there’s an emergency while I’m away? You’ll need every trauma specialist on hand.”
“If. Unsurprisingly, Rhodes Island has an excess of trained medical personnel, most of them Infected. And you’re still not cleared for combat deployments pending psych review.”
“Psych is biased because I’m medical staff.”
“No, they have a higher degree of clinical suspicion for all combat Operators, and they know that you’re not above lying outright to pass review. Acknowledgement of weakness isn’t a sin, Operator Folinic.” The Doctor finally paused in their work, hands growing still above invisible haptic interfaces.
“Easy for you to say, you-” Words forcefully bitten back as she straightened up, a single grey eyebrow raised by the Sarkaz sitting to the side of the Doctor’s desk. “Fine. There’s no point getting angry at you, is there?”
Fingers laced in front of them, for all appearances unmoving as a statue. If the Doctor could sign off on the authority, then Dr Kal’tsit would likely have the same opinion.
“Loss is something that we come to terms with in our own time, by our own means. Sometimes quickly, sometimes never. Let yourself think, at least for a few days, Folinic. If you don’t believe that I care about your wellbeing, then know that I would hate to have to replace a capable combat-rated medic.”
“That, I can believe. Fine, where am I to report to?”
She could hear the rolling of eyes in the Doctor’s response.
“Someplace that you’d find fun, preferably. If you can’t think of something, or the hunting isn’t going to be good, report to C-districts, surface plate, starboard wing.” A notification pinged onto her terminal, the stark white of a message from PRTS.
The slightest twitch of consternation that the Doctor knew, but then again, her hobby of hunting wasn’t exactly a secret. “Right. Furloughed for two weeks. Orders received, Doctor.”
With that, she scooped up her terminal and left with the same rapidity as she entered with, already running through the equipment lists she’d need for a two-week field trip.
Frustration still simmering away as Folinic reached her quarters, slapping her hand onto the biometric scanner.
“Mandatory leave, Idi nahui za cyun v’shopu-” She stopped midway through winding up to throw her terminal, counting seconds as she inhaled and exhaled.
Fun? Fun?! She could have fun when everything the nobles built in Ursus was ruin and ash, when she could deploy back to Wolumonde with virus bombs and take the weight of Atro’s life back from them-
And she’d be proving the Doctor right.
Dr Kal’tsit had cautioned her, just once, but had been silent ever since. The Doctor had rejected every attempt of hers to immediately return to combat deployments, but hadn’t stopped her from working in field clinics either. They weren’t treating her like a glass sculpture, so she couldn’t throw a tantrum, as much as she wished to.
Yes, academically it was a classic graded return to work with psychological and psychiatric input, standard for Operators that had close contacts killed in action. Of course, some were more cooperative than others with the appointments. She sat heavily on her bed, rumpling the crisply folded sheets, tossing her terminal to her side.
It was still early morning, just after the start of her first shift, and she was at a loss as to what to do beyond staring at the things in her room. An internal medicine textbook sat on her side table with bookmark placed, bedtime reading from last night. A single picture of her and Atro on her study desk, laid face down, a thin coat of dust upon it. A little fern from Suzuran, slightly wilted due to neglect. A wall of reference textbooks next to a poster, only a few of them dusty.
Her hunting gear was pulled out from the lockbox under her bed, a takedown recurve her tool of choice. Operations had the armoury upgrade it during her training when she was still vacillating about her operational specialty. It could punch through medium armourweave when dialled up to maximum poundage, but she preferred to run it lighter. Most animals didn’t run carrier vests and trauma plates, in her experience.
A quick search through her mental library, the only good hunting in the area would be swifthooves, at least if she were flying solo. Right now, she had no desire to lug a larger cooler and a few hundred kilos of meat by herself. As much as taking down a greater antlerbeast solo would be an accomplishment, she’d have to waste too much of its meat.
Broadheads selected, the more aggressive mechanical ones that could glide through thick hide like air. Twin-bladed, full cutting diameter as wide as her palm, almost sure to give a clean, quick kill. Blades folded in after inspection and secured with a plastic collar at the base before the prepared heads were screwed into red-fletched arrows.
She slipped into her hunting gear, a frown as it fit looser than she last wore it. Deconditioning, she’d have to hit the gym or the training rooms more often. At least, that’s what she told herself. Field kit, quiver, cooler case and accoutrements strapped onto her carrying frame. A quick electronic sign-out, and she was travelling by foot to one of her few happy places. Time enough in the day to find tracks and set up a hide, then start stalking.
Well, it was supposed to be her happy place.
Folinic couldn’t blame her gear, she knew it was well-maintained, smelling only of loam and vegetation. More fool her, overlooking the obvious signs of bent branches, and higher up scuffs upon the bark of larger limbs. She’d literally stumbled upon a herd in a clearing and scared them into bolting, barely enough time to aim and draw before abandoning the shot.
Infinitely thankful that no-one was with her to witness that embarrassment, she returned to her hide to cool her head. She’d be stupid to attempt to stalk that herd immediately after she’d put them on high alert. She’d look for more trails. No luck until late though, an afternoon consumed by a search finding nothing until the sun was almost set, and she had tired somewhat.
At least it was going to be a clear night, the crescent moon most of the way to setting as the starry river rose. Her foster parents had pointed out the constellations to her, and she traced them as she lay back. Zorya of Dusk had closed the starry gate, putting the sun to sleep, and to the south the Seven Nymphs had just started their dances. She traced the Trident, the Greater Clawbeast, the Old Hunter, up to the Compass Swords, not quite directly above her. Take the northern path towards the wastelands, follow the Wanderer, the Mystic, the Orb, the Gibbet.
She wondered; would her own parents have taught her these names? She closed her eyes, settling into her hide. The best time to hunt would be when the starry river was directly overhead, and gave the best light.
She woke to a warm sun, and the chirping of birds.
“Fuck.”
Folinic growled as she rubbed the sleep from her eyes, stomach growling as it registered its displeasure at being denied a meal. Fine, fine. This was fine. That was what Folinic told herself, as she angrily tore through one of her MREs, rehydrated lightweight rations. She had considered bringing a sleeve of rapid-assault-type rations to save on weight, but she wanted to enjoy her time out, damn it. Fortified, freeze-dried miscellaneous puree barely met her definition of edible, let alone a meal.
Though, she missed the sour apple gelpaks.
Hopefully she’d have better luck in the next few days.
It was four days later that she arrived back, less dark circles under her eyes and three arrows, but only half a cooler worth of meat heavier.
At least the nearby stream was deep enough to bathe in.
“Good hunting, Folinic?” The Operator on intake duty signed her back in, a cursory look at her ID tag and somewhat dishevelled appearance.
…A clawbeast bursting from the thick scrub to her right, close enough that she’d have difficulty tagging it before it got to close touch. The swifthooves scattering, slowest one bowled over, neck bitten through with an audible crunch.
“It was… eventful. Not as good as it could be.”
“Shame. Usually, the dinner after you come back with a good haul is really nice, I was looking forward to it.”
“So was I. I think I was off my game this time.” Normally she wouldn’t stop for pleasantries, but there was an unfamiliar urge to release her frustrations.
…Bathing in the stream, lathered with scentless soap before ducking under the surface, just deep enough that if she crouched slightly, she could submerge herself in the fast-running waters.
When she surfaced, there was a swifthoof buck at the opposite bank eyeing her, blowing twice before turning around, bold as brass. Her bow was back on the bank and by the time she reached it, the buck had wandered off.
Well, maybe not that story.
“Well, everyone has their bad trips. Hey, have you considered going with Meteor? She’s ex-Kazimierz forest warden, I think the two of you would make a good team.”
“More like I’d be slowing her down, I’m a skilled amateur at best.” Folinic shook her head, before patting her case. “I’ll need to get these cuts to the kitchens.”
“Don’t let me keep you then, have a good day!”
A parting wave over her shoulder before she beelined for the Operator cafeteria kitchens, hopefully someone she knew would be on duty today.
She was in luck, pushing open the swinging doors to find Matterhorn, his massive frame in an apron at least two sizes too small.
“Matterhorn. How are you today?”
“In excellent health Folinic, thank you. I was about to start preparing for the dinner rush.” He was drying his hands on a clean rag, bare up to the elbows.
“Well, unfortunately I didn’t bag enough to serve all of our Operators. Only one swifthoof, I was off my game this time.” Folinic hefted her cooler case onto the bench, the carcass already dressed and processed in the field.
“Prepared as usual for yourself, or to share?”
A shake of her head. “For the Medical Operations team. Let them know there’s no hard feelings.”
“Was there an argument?” Matterhorn opened the case, the large cuts neatly stacked in vacuum bags, on top of a bed of washed wild root vegetables. “That’s not like you, Folinic.”
“No, no it isn’t. At any rate, it wouldn’t be wrong to call me the one at fault, even if it wasn’t really an argument. More a disagreement on my part.” She took the shaft of a spent arrow from the lid; it could be recycled at the Armoury.
“Some would call you too responsible. You remind me of master Silverash, at times.”
“High praise, coming from you Matterhorn. Have a good day.” She gave him a parting nod, knowing that he’d return the cooler case to her quarters, a long-practiced routine. She didn’t want to be told to lighten her workload by Matterhorn, of all people.
“Not praise, unfortunately. You both work yourselves far too hard.”
“I don’t want to hear anything about working myself too hard from you, Matterhorn.” An eyebrow raised; arms crossed in a huff.
Palms were raised in surrender, eyes crinkled in amusement. “Guilty as charged. Though, I find myself with the rare gift of free time occasionally. Ah, speaking of free time, the Icefield Jubilee gift exchange is approaching, would you like to be involved?”
“That mystery gift exchange? Well, why not? I’m on leave at the moment, and it’ll give me something to do.” A gallic shrug, as Folinic looked around for the traditional box full of names.
“I won’t say that’s the spirit, but close enough. Here.” Matterhorn presented a red and white-wrapped box after shaking it, an opening large enough for a hand cut into the top.
She did the usual tradition of looking away as she rooted around, fingers closing around a folded slip with rough edges, obviously torn from a larger sheet. As was tradition, she wrote her callsign on the nearest scrap of paper, folded and put it in to replace the name she took.
“Warm tidings and good fortune. Don’t work too hard, Folinic.”
A side-eye glare was retuned with a warm smile and an apple lobbed to her. “Same to you.”
Ah, she really liked the green ones.
It was only when she got back to her quarters that she opened the folded slip, torn from a formal Rhodes Island letterhead. Upon seeing the name, she balled it up and threw it across the room.
“Really? Really?!”
There was a familiar, stylised neurohelmet scrawled onto it with a smiley face, a chicken-scratch cursive Doctor written.
It was a whole day of racking her head and vacillating about gifts, unable to focus on her studies before she finally decided to look at the message that PRTS sent through.
A scoff as she realised exactly where she was being sent. This wasn’t mandatory leave; this was punishment detail! Fine, if she did this, then no-one would be able to complain about her spending the rest of her leave in combat sims and study.
She ran into someone unexpected at the entrance to the complex, a daycare for the children of the engineering department’s employees.
“Operator Hellagur? What are you doing here?” She tensed up upon seeing the Ursus veteran, even if she knew that he had cut all ties with his motherland.
“Please, just Hellagur. Would you believe me if I said cleansing my soul?”
“I would say that you don’t believe in the existence of souls, given Ursus orthodoxy.”
Hellagur chuckled, shaking his head. “Sometimes I forget that you too are from Ursus, oomnyashka. There are some children from the Chernobog Azazel clinic there, and it is my duty to aid them, even with my small power.”
“You are anything but small, Hellagur.” She gave him a side-eye from a full head below his eye level, taking in his casual dress, predominantly white as opposed to the black and blue of his battle gear. “Though I suppose it would make wrangling children easier.”
“Stories and bribery tend to work best. Sweet candies are generally preferred, but the Feline children like the sour ones best.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong about that.
“You’ll give them cavities, Hellagur.”
“Then it’s a good thing that this is only a weekly occurrence, isn’t it?” An amused eyebrow raised, as if daring her to continue. “Artificial sweeteners for the most part, all fortified with vitamin C. Occasionally I do get my hands on the real thing though.”
“Not from the Manufacturing department, I hope?”
“Ask me no questions and I’ll tell you no lies.”
“I’m on mandatory leave, so I’ll let that slide.”
“Perhaps you’ll pick up a vice beyond overwork in the meantime.” Beard ruffled in a challenging smile, a twinkle of amusement in his eye. “I prefer vodka.”
“Why does everyone think that I’m a workaholic?!”
Hellagur burst into laughter, quickly returning to a more neutral smile at her expression. “You work yourself so hard normally that seeing you free on a weekday so early is either reason for considerable concern, or you’ve been forced to take leave. If that isn’t the mark of a workaholic, or someone running from their own demons, I don’t know what is.”
Folinic huffed at the response, biting back the rejoinder that it was definitely both. If she was too busy chasing the sun, she wouldn’t have time to think about the ghosts in her shadow.
“I’m here so that the Doctor and Doctor Kal’tsit will get the medical faculty off my back about the hours I choose to work.”
“Very well then, I’ll ensure that you earn that bonus.” A nod, the viciously amused expression of a field commander that just had enlisted ‘volunteer’ for a ‘working party’.
“Hellagur…” She growled at him, daring him to continue.
“Do you know any good stories? Ursus fairytales tend to be… grim, as you’d know.”
“Maybe one.”
“Well, I do hope it won’t traumatise the children, because I’m throwing you under the proverbial bus.”
“Starikashka! You wouldn’t dare.”
“Ah, it seems that in my doddering dotage, the iron discipline of my youth has fled me first.” Hellagur contemplated the sky, a put-on morose expression firmly affixed. “It seems that indeed, my honour can be bought, for the right price.”
Folinic couldn’t help the deep growl she made, only made worse by the twitching sides of Hellagur’s beard.
She softened somewhat upon seeing the children greet him, cries of ‘Grandpa Hellagur!’ as they clambered over his frame, deep baritone laughter as he picked four up at once, hefting them onto his shoulders. They quietened down quickly as the gentle threat of sweets being withheld was uttered by their caretakers.
“Now, I have a surprise for you. Auntie Folinic here will be telling the story, instead of me. My memory isn’t very good today, so she offered to help me.”
A few suspicious looks, but most of them accepted the change in routine easily enough, so she sat down on a cushion cross-legged and began her tale.
“A long time ago, there was once a Sarkaz Princess. She was young and powerful, and wanted to do good, bringing light to the world. She wanted to prove that the Sarkaz weren’t all bad.”
Folinic looked around the room and found she had their full attention, the Sarkaz children especially attentive.
“In her royal court though, her friends and enemies numbered the same. Everything she did, someone moved to stop her. They weren’t satisfied with just stopping her though, so they used as many tricks as they could and her friends disappeared one by one.”
Folinic sank back into memory of the tale, her own rapt attention to the sound of Kal’tsit’s ageless voice.
“Even then, that wasn’t enough to stop the Princess. She travelled far and wide, to cities and villages, wandering the wasteland for years as she built her power.”
With dramatic movements and sounds all her own addition, Folinic told the story of the Princess catching annihilation-light in her palm to bring the Witch-Fortresses of the north to her side, travelling to the eastern edge of the world, to find only fog and ash. In the south she dug up a magic ship, one that she made her new home. Finally, she got to the end, at least of what Kal’tsit had told her, years ago.
“Her brother betrayed her.”
Gasps from the children, rapt in the tale.
“She didn’t lose everything, but enough. So, she was desperate. So desperate, that she would ignore the words of her friends and advisers, and turned to magic.”
A barrage of questions, her first interruption; what kind of Arts were they, could she call lighting from the sky, was it the azure sword of legend, all cut off by Hellagur clearing his throat.
“She realised that it wasn’t the power to smite her enemies that she needed, but something more. So, from the depths of time itself, she summoned herself a Demon. It appeared not with hellfire and brimstone, but with a knock on her door. It didn’t ask for a price for its service, but instead asked her what she wanted, and what she was willing to give.”
A breath, a pause for dramatic effect.
“She asked it to give her a path towards Victory, at the cost of everything but Kazdel and its people. And with a smile, it bowed, declaring that the contract was sealed, bargained well and done. And that’s where we end for today.”
Clamouring for more, almost bowled over by the wave of enthusiastic kids before their caretakers came to her rescue. Order was restored, with many pleading for her to come back soon and finish the story.
Hellagur headed them off at the pass, handing out candies before the two of them took their leave. It was a few minutes of walking in silence before Hellagur spoke once more.
“You’re a fine storyteller, Folinic. That’s a story even I haven’t heard.”
“Doctor Kal’tsit told it to me, many years ago. It seems to have stuck.”
“So, how does the story end, Folinic?”
“How does every story that involves the Sarkaz end?” A huff of mirthless laughter. “The Demon she called to her court gave the Princess victory upon victory, until not even monsters and abominations were willing to stand in her path. Victory enough to drown a nation, and stopper the Lethe with corpses. Ash and ruin behind the two of them, as he crowned her with Originium, treading a royal carpet of bones.”
“And then?”
Folinic shook her head in the negative. “That’s it. I didn’t get to hear the rest of it. I imagine the lesson would be that pride comes before a fall, and only betrayal can come from a trust so deep. I’ve never had the heart to ask for the rest of it. Don’t you think I’m too old for stories like that, Hellagur?”
“No-one is too old for stories.” He pointed to himself as he continued. “Case in point. You’ve a natural gift with words.”
Folinic waved away the compliment before responding.
“Ask Doctor Kal’tsit yourself then. Demons indeed, it’s a silly story anyway. The monsters to the frozen north are powerful, but anathema. Those in the southern hotlands were exterminated a thousand years ago. As for a Demon that could single-handedly crush the enemies of the Sarkaz, unify Kazdel? Daydreams at best, mental illness at worst.” Folinic snorted at her own words. Doctor Kal’tsit’s manner of speech was obviously rubbing off onto her.
“Perhaps you could tell your own ending then? Stories like that one are meant to change with the years.”
“For some reason, I think that there’s more truth to this story than most. Hah, maybe there wasn’t an ending, and Doctor Kal’tsit was telling an angry child exactly what could happen if she didn’t control herself.” Folinic stopped, turning to grip the rails of the observation deck, eyes closed, face raised to greet the early-afternoon sun.
“You are far from the only one to hate Ursus on a deeply personal level, oomnyashka. It is a nation built upon the bent backs of its people, and only the people as a whole can change that. Trust me on that.”
A humourless laugh. “Who better to know the people than the great General Hellagur, who has fought for them for so many decades and now stands opposite? The Doctor killed Patriot you know. Aren’t you worried?”
“No. Not at all.”
The quick statement surprised Folinic enough to break her train of thought, a curious eyebrow raised.
“The Doctor told me that my skills and my blade would be invaluable in fighting my old subordinate. Then, they did everything but order me to recuse myself from that mission.” Clenched fists upon the railing, expression impassive. “I asked to see their battle plans afterwards. At worst I would have been an additional piece of insurance.”
Folinic studied Hellagur’s expression for a long moment, and found nothing she could probe into.
“Surely, they’re not that much of a fighter or tactician to warrant that level of evaluation?”
“If Ursus had their mind fifty years ago, all of Terra would be speaking Ursusian today. I’m rather glad that I never had the opportunity to meet them until now.”
Exaggeration, surely. The constantly tired, absent-minded Doctor that may as well have had a caffeine IV with how much coffee they drank, who couldn’t be trusted with food standards beyond ‘vaguely dead, mostly stationary’?
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“Hopefully not soon, then. On a happier note, will I be seeing you here next week?”
Folinic paused before answering. Perhaps… perhaps just an afternoon shift would be warranted.
“…Yes. And maybe I’ll have part two of that story ready by then. In the meantime, I have a gift to buy for the Icefield Jubilee.”
“Don’t let me keep you then.”
Folinic ended up walking into the very first store that caught her eye in the shopping district, and buying the first item that the she was halfway sure wouldn’t kill its recipient if eaten.
“Aw, Folinic! Thank you!” The Doctor rattled the large cylinder before tearing open her gift to them with gusto, a noise of surprise as they saw it fully. “Sargon Sseath’s Super Spicy Sandworm Searing Set, Jumbo Xtreem Bucket? Emergency food edition? This is perfect!”