Chapter Text
The first memory Ramona has of Doll—not her earliest, but the first she can clearly remember—is of cold warmth. She is ten, and has just begun her long and tumultuous journey with the rapier. In time, she will become a prodigy with it, able to deflect ancient tentacles and pierce eldritch hearts. But for now, she is merely proficient. Lotan thwarts her at every turn, and she trains daily, eager to overcome her.
One day, as humans are known to do, she makes a mistake. She missteps, underestimating the reach of Lotan’s sword, and its tip cuts a line of pain up her arm. She falls to her knees, hissing, and as her blood stains the floor, she feels like an idiot. The frustration of defeat, of an obvious mistake, hurts far worse than the injury.
She is whisked to the clinic, her wound disinfected, and there, out of the corner of her eye, she spots Doll.
She knows little about Doll: she is taller than Ramona, but not by much; her father and Doll talk often, and are familiar (but not in that way); and while the other professors dote on Ramona, Doll is cold, and aloof. In a childlike way, Ramona has decided: she doesn’t like Doll. She can’t pinpoint why, but she feels it, like a worm stuck in her throat.
The medic-in-training tapes the wound closed, and Ramona hisses. Doll turns to the sound, and their gazes meet. Her eyes are like stars, beautiful but distant. As Ramona looks away, she feels... afraid? Annoyed? She can’t tell.
Doll approaches, and the nursing student scurries off. Everyone in Mythag seems scared of Doll: is that a reason to dislike her? The artificial woman towers over her, and stares at her injured arm. Ramona can’t read her: what could Doll possibly want? With the barest of sighs, she finally speaks: “You want to return to training as soon as possible, right?”
Ramona isn’t sure what to say. She’s not an adult, much less a doctor. So she responds honestly: “Yes.”
Doll takes the student’s seat, and a pair of metal hands, white as porcelain, emerge from her sleeves. She grabs Ramona’s arm in one hand, and the edge of the tape with the other. Her touch is cool, like the tip of a refrigerated bottle. “This will hurt. Are you ready?”
Ramona nods.
Doll pulls at the tape, and Ramona grits her teeth, the sticky fabric red with blood. Despite her proclamation, Ramona can tell Doll is being careful: she pulls at the tape with a perfect pace, doing everything she can to minimize the pain. Even still, Ramona grunts, breathing in and out, in and out, as the tape peels off her skin.
When the tape is off, Doll wastes no time. Her palm glows, and she brings it against Ramona’s wound. “How were you injured?”
For a moment, Ramona refuses to answer. Speaking it aloud feels like rubbing failure in the wound. But Doll’s gaze invites no silence. It seems a bad idea to deny a healer’s request: “I made a mistake during training.”
Doll doesn’t seem surprised. “Of what kind?”
Ramona squirms as a strange presence invades her arm. It feels like a knot of worms, a colony, wriggling under her skin. It’s not painful, but it sure is unpleasant. “I misjudged the length of Lotan’s sword.”
“Hmm.” Doll slowly guides the hand down her arm, and Ramona watches, amazed, as her flesh bubbles and warps, knitting itself closed. She knows that Doll’s medical ability is unparalleled, but this... this is--
A question interrupts her thoughts: “Why are you training with that battle-crazed maniac?”
Ramona can’t hide her grimace. From the moment she started training with Lotan, every adult has asked the same question. She gives the same answer, knowing it’ll invite debate: “If Dexter”—even then, she preferred using his actual name—“ever goes bankrupt, I’ll need a well-paying job. And Queen’s guards get paid more than policewomen.”
She braces for Doll’s words. She’ll say that Dexter will never go bankrupt, or that there are plenty of safer jobs out there. Or, if she’s combat minded, she’ll chastise Ramona for taking on opponents above her level...
Doll hums. “You’re awfully forward thinking.”
Huh? She was supposed to—“Well, with Dexter as my father, I have to be...”
Doll... snorts? Not a snort, but a gentle exhale through her nostrils. Did she find that funny? “Are you frustrated that you lost?”
Ramona gapes. “How did you know?”
For the first time, in a way that will stick with Ramona over a decade later, Doll smiles. Not a large smile, not an intended one, but one unavoidable, a byproduct of the slightest chuckle. She is not concerned about Ramona’s training, but is, rather, amused. “Even for me, your emotions are easy to read.”
“Even for you?”
Her expression returns to neutrality. “What frustrated you about losing?”
Ramona kicks her legs. The pain of the wound is mostly replaced with the uncanny sensation of Doll’s power, but it doesn’t make her feel any better. “I shouldn’t have made a mistake. It was stupid of me.”
“That doesn’t sound very scientific.”
“What?”
“Have you learned about the scientific method yet?”
Ramona puffs up, back straight. “Of course I have.”
“Describe it.”
“It’s when you prove things with evidence. You establish a testable hypothesis, and then run an experiment to see if it’s correct.”
“Very good.”
“What does that have to do with my frustration?”
“You said you were stupid because you made a mistake.” The hand finally reaches the bottom end of her wound, sealing it closed. “But making mistakes is an essential part of the scientific process. For every correct prediction a scientist makes, 99 false predictions have to be made and tested. If scientists didn’t make mistakes, we’d know nothing at all.”
Ramona sits silent, flexing her arm. The pain has gone away, replaced by an uncanny chill. “...I don’t see how that doesn’t make me stupid.”
Doll sighs. “Loathe as I am to admit it, combat is its own science. If you want to become a Queen’s Guard, you will have to make countless mistakes.”
“Really?”
Doll blinks, as if the answer is obvious.
“But... Dexter complains all the time about people making mistakes. Wouldn’t it be better if they never did?”
“Maybe,” Doll says, “but most people can’t. What’s important is that you learn from your mistakes. It only becomes a problem when you refuse to. That is what your father complains about.” Doll tilts her head. “Did you learn?”
Ramona bites the side of her lip. Like so many ten year olds, she has never thought about it that way. “I guess... I guess I did. I learned the length of Lotan’s blade.”
“Will you make the same mistake again?”
She considers it. Plays the fight in her mind. If she had just flicked her wrist then, she could have parried it. So... “No.”
“Then you have nothing to worry about.”
A moment of silence. A question, inevitable: does Doll make mistakes? Is the ‘Brain of Mythag’ ever wrong? Surely not, but—“Do you ever make mistakes?”
Another smile, this one deliberate, but genuine. “All the time.”
Doll stands up, and the glow in her hand dissipates. She speaks without looking: “Don’t play with your arm, and take a few days of rest. If you can do that, you can fight Lotan again in no time.”
Ramona nods, her thoughts distant. Even Doll makes mistakes?
Doll walks to the door, but just before she leaves, she looks Ramona in the eyes. While her expression is cold, her eyes twinkle with warmth. “Keep at it, I’m sure you’ll make an excellent Queen’s Guard one day.”
Doll leaves, and Ramona sits there, half-confused. She comes to a bizarre realization: she likes Doll.