“Fuuuuuuuuck… Oh roots I’m in here again.” Al’Corvo stared up at a fluorescent light, which was probably too bright for someone who just woke up from a… however long coma. The tiles were still nice, white and presumably sterile. Al’Corvo was once more in the hospital. His head didn’t hurt this time, but a sharp, pulsating pain was felt in his legs and arms. His right hind-arm in particular hurt like nothing before. Even with 2 packs of painkillers ejecting their contents into his arm, he still felt the tender flesh and exoskeleton of his right hind-arm. The nerves were all wrong as well, as it kept twitching even when Al’Corvo focused on trying to keep it still.

Of course, despite his head not pounding like last time, the painkillers still shrouded everything in a light fog. Even still he could hear some sort of heated argument from outside his room. Which was odd. Not the argument, but the fact he had a room. Wards didn’t get those did they?

“Eugh, thinking hurts,” Al’Corvo grumbled before focusing his attention on the argument outside. Which wasn’t too difficult since it was apparently getting quite heated.

“...I’m telling you, his body simply cannot take another one of these- these idiotic missions!” Al’Corvo assumed that was the doctor, maybe surgeon, who took care of him last time.

“And I assure you, Al’Mik,” Al’Corvo noted the large amount of venom loaded into the name, “that he is perfectly capable of recovering. Is this not what ectoplasm is for? Healing our wounds?”

“I swear to the fucking seraphs Legatus,” again, a lot of venom put into the formal title, “you know damn well that ectoplasm can’t heal all of these wounds. Root dammit his arm will never be the fucking same! Because of your reckless actions, the poor bastard will never be able to bear weight with that arm again! Why didn’t you get someone else?!”

“Hmph. Shame that. I suppose he wasn’t as good as I thought. I assumed he would be competent enough to let Il’Nok get rid of any possessed.”

“YOU CALLOUS FUCKER! HE’S CRIPPLED THANKS TO YOU! And don’t even get me started on Il’Nok. You didn’t even inform her of the…” Al’Corvo felt himself zone out as more painkillers were pumped into his body. By the time he could hear again the argument was almost at its conclusion.

“So if I see Al’Corvo in here. One. More. Time. I swear to the yggdrasil tree above that I will make sure no more Wards are treated here. If you cannot take adequate care of your men then you do not deserve our support.”

Al’Corvo heard the ‘legatus’ figure begin speaking before getting cut off by the irate doctor.

“Don’t even fucking dare say you don’t have resources to give him armour. I know for a fact that because of your previous term as a Praetorian, you could arm the current Wards twice over. And that’s just a conservative estimate.”

The legatus, who Al’Corvo finally recognised as the officer who gave him his mission, paused for a moment before assuming an icy cold tone.

“Say what you will about my tactics, however they get results. Something neither the current Praetorian of the Wards or the Praetorian of the Immunes haven’t gotten in years. I am also confused as to your obsession with this lowly engineer. He took needless risks, and ended up in hospital.”

“My issue is that this isn’t the fucking FIRST TIME! Every time you get your hands on someone new, you never give them anything but expect them to get results anyway? Why?” Al’Corvo noted that defeat and desperation seeped into those last words.

Instead of an answer, there was only silence for about a minute, before the legatus spoke.

“Fine. Al’Corvo and others of his ilk will be granted the chance to leave. Should they remain, they will become an evocatus. Does that please you?”

“Yes. Now as for Il’Nok’s wounds…” Al’Corvo heard footsteps and the sound of the now-conversation faded away.

Al’Corvo lifted his right hind-arm, and merely stared blankly at the damage. From the elbow down his arm was no longer recognizable as his. For one, the shell was much paler in colouration, more like a slightly bluish-white than the pastel blues of the rest of his body. Lifting his other hind-arm, he noticed that his new one was at least 3 centimetres shorter. Gazing down at his chest, he saw a neat crater of exoskeleton where he was punched. Luckily for him, he had just recently molted, and the blow was along the part of the exoskeleton that became the hardest after molting. If he were hit by a similar blow anywhere else the damage might have been serious. Instead he just got a crater.

Al’Corvo was now waiting in the lobby of the hospital. Apparently it was nighttime, as the lights outside now only flickered with a dim glow. He was waiting for the clerk to arrange for some forms and various drugs to assist in the successful regeneration of his arm. It was explained to him by a doctor that while the flesh and nerves were there and indeed connected, his mind still didn’t quite recognise the arm as a part of itself. With a few… mild hallucinogenic pills (the clerk assured Al'Corvo with the knowledge that the hallucinations were only a side effect) and bedrest, he should be good as new. The ectoplasm would also help.

While he waited, he simply looked forlornly at the outside street. To say he was a mess emotionally would be putting it lightly. Having his arm ripped off was bad, but the realisation that he could never perform his job again disturbed him on a deep level. Work was what helped him get up in the morning, indeed it was not too much of a stretch to say that his work was the thing that kept him sane. Everyone had something to keep themselves going in dire times. Friends. Family. A good drink, or perhaps other exotic substances. Al’Corvo relied on his moral debt to keep him going.

“To provide and serve is a citizen’s duty. To protect and uphold is the duty of the state.” That statement was one drilled into Al’Corvo by his parents. To ensure his survival, he needed to work and provide even his own life. That lack of personal freedom was the currency he used in exchange for protection, without it he solemnly believed he was less than nothing. Not worthy of survival. The contract, as his father referred to it as, was all Al’Corvo cared about once he left his home.

He didn’t even realise he had said the statement out loud until he heard a rasping cough right next to his ear.

“Fucking roots!” he yelled before turning to see a heavily bandaged Il’Nok. He could barely see her raw and bloody skin beneath the layers upon layers of gauze. Her eyes still shone with mischief, although there were also hints of pain in her green eyes.

When she finally spoke, it was an irritated, scratchy tone that came out instead of her normally smooth and click-filled speech.

“Sorry Al’Corvo. I just…” she coughed loudly and grimaced, “thought you looked lonely. I heard about the damage. Are you going to be okay?”

Al’Corvo had to grab his broken hind-arm in order to stare at his palm.

“Probably not. At this point I’m fucked. What can I do now? Arm’s useless, I’m a liability on missions due to my seraph-forsaken temper and I’m going to be kicked out of the Wards.”

Il’Nok raised a finger to her chin as if in thought, before saying, “you know you can come back right? As an evocatus? You will be honorably discharged, in fact you will probably get a military diploma.”

“What use would I be? I can’t bear my own weight anymore. Fucking useless engee I am. Besides, what are you going to do? You’re in the same boat as me. Wouldn’t be surprised if your carapace was completely fucked.”

Il’Nok simply laughed, “firstly, stop with the swearing. Secondly, I am being assigned to one of the inner squads. I can’t tell you much ‘cept for the name, which is the Rameel Squad.”

“‘Thunder of God’, if I’m remembering correctly. The sixth of the Seraphim leaders, worshipped by those who desire truth,” Al’Corvo recalled with little interest in his tone.

“You know about the Seraphim Church?” A remnant of the old world, the Seraphim Church was shunned due to its connection to the apocalyptic entities, the seraphs. Depending on where you lived, even knowing one of the names of the Seraphim leaders would end in your corpse being found in the garbage.

“My grandma was obsessive. She refused to believe that they would turn on us. She made sure to teach me the names of each leader. Roots she even gave me the seraph-damned cane if I mispronounced one syllable. I won’t say I’m glad she was killed by a mob, but I will say that I don’t miss her.”

“Roots Al’Corvo. That’s harsh.”

“So was the cane.”

The two story snatchers were silent for a moment, before laughing at the poor attempt at a joke.

“Thanks Il’Nok. I appreciate the chat.” Al’Corvo heard the ringing of a bell along with a call of his name. The paperwork had been gathered along with the drugs. Walking up to the front desk he quietly collected the supplies before going onto the cold streets.

He couldn’t wait to get home and get some rest. He hadn’t had a proper, normal rest in days. Comas, as it turned out, didn’t help too much with fatigue.