Alma Reebank leaned over the dying man, her steady hand gripping his.

"It'll be all right," she told him, her voice ever so quiet. "May Sheek-Ala, goddess of the battlefield, accept you into her realm, brave soldier. You fought well."

The man, blood coming from the right side of his mouth, missing both of his legs, and laying a a pool of his own blood, gave the small medic's small hand a squeeze. A thank you, before passing on.

"Alma," her adoptive mother said, resting a hand on her shaking shoulder. "He's gone."

The girl, no older than sixteen, bobbed her short blonde hair, cut to her shoulders as to never get in the way of her work.

She gave a little sniffle before the elder woman turned her to get a better look at the girl.

Clothed in white bloodstained robes that fell to her feet, the girl was the peak of saintliness when it came to body and size. Small, no real curves, and perfect untouched skin, as far the the Saints robes she wore let anyone see.

Her face, however, was a different story at the moment.

She was biting her thin bottom lip and trying to keep the tears from rolling out of her eyes. She failed miserably.

"You couldn't have done anything else, dear," her elder cooed, bringing the girl into her embrace. "Now come, you've been in here for two days. Let's get you some sun and maybe some food before you wither into nothing."

The girl let her adoptive mother escort her out of the medical wing of the palace and towards her own room.

She put the small, fragile being on the bed while her own delicate hands shifted through the girls clothes. It took a minute, and then two, until she had what she was looking for.

Robes, of course, as the Saints were a modest group of healers, but a nicer pair. One that was more like a cloak. She slide on a pair of paints and a plain t-shirt before pulling the white robe around her, not bothering to button it.

The elder medic happily took Alma's clothes and dumped them down to the laundry.

Alma slipped into some comfy sandals before letting the older woman take her to the food court.

Packed, as usual, they were forced to eat outside.

Not that it was such a bad thing, her mother said. She needed the sun.

So, lounging in the grass outside of the magnificent stone palace, staring at the street filled with cars and hover cars alike, they began to talk.

"I know you still feel bad about the man," Alma's mother chirped, "but there was nothing more you could've done. Missing both legs and most of his blood when he came in. That's a dead man biding time. You should be proud you gave him the chance to smile before he passed into Sheek-Ala's realm."

Had he smiled?

Alma couldn't remember it. All she could remember was him dying while she sat there, helpless.

Her mother had clearly seen how upset she was, so she tried again. "Alma, dear, no one has saved as many lives as you have. You're a walking goddess if I've ever seen one. But even you can't bring back a man who was already dead."

"But he wasn't dead," she'd replied, her voice soft and small. "I felt his breath and I felt him squeeze my hand and I felt his-his life." Her big blue eyes found her mothers small brown ones. "And I felt him die."

"You're like this every time you loose a life, you know. I don't have time to sit around and console you. I have a job to do as well."

"I know," she replied, her round place cheeks puffing a bit. "But I can't get used to watching people die."

"You're not supposed to get used to it. You're supposed to let it change you for the better."

"I know. Use the fear from watching them die to save the next life. You've told me."

"And as great of a medic as you are, you still haven't learned."

"The thing is, I don't want to see anyone die. I don't want to learn from that experience, I want them to learn from that experience. I want them to learn to live and to laugh and to love again. I don't want them to die."

Giving Alma a soft smile, the old crow kissed the girls forehead. "I know. That's why we're medic's, dear. Now come, we have mush more work to do."

Alma let her mother escort her back to the emergency tables were already filled to the brim with dying soldiers and citizens.

"Saint Alma," a voice said from besides her. "Your first patient."

Nodding, Alma took the tablet from the assistant and continued on with her work.

Everyday, soldiers from the streets came in with new injuries from gangs and criminals. Injuries from protecting the good citizens of Royale, the capital city.

Alma Reebank, Saint and war orphan, saw to it that every man and woman who walked through the constantly swinging double doors had a shot at a second chance at life.

---

Orion Magnus' blade made a downward slash on the man's chest. Blood splattered onto his tight black clothes and, without blinking, he continued forward.

The map of the unfamiliar mansion rushed through his mind three times before he made a sharp right turn.

His hand caught on one of the many small throwing knife strapped to his thigh. With a fluid motion, he let it go, ending the life of the guard at the end of the hallway.

Escapes are always too much work, he thought. Except when they're not. They usually aren't.

When the kill was clean and could only be detected upon investigation, he could make a quick escape.

But he was sloppy. A crack in the door had a now unconscious little girl screaming bloody murder. Which, he supposed, it was.

Another throwing knife lodged in a guards throat and he was near the exit. No, not really an exit but an escape.

Down a set of stairs and he saw it. The window he'd strategically memorized to be at the bottoms of the stair case.

Pausing his dramatic and long run, he pressed his back against the cold wall. His hazel eyes found the hall behind him empty.

The royal assassin made a dash for the window. His body scrunched into a ball as he made contact with the weak glass.

Some houses still used glass while the rest used a type of fiber. Clear and strong. Nearly unbreakable. This house, lucky for Orion, still used normal glass.

The thin glass shattered onto the plastic glass outside, Orion with it. Even on the first floor, the window was a bit higher than he expected. The house, being one of the older models, was built on top of a layer of cement. Apparently the area where the old mansion was used to flood.

So the drop, Orion estimated, was about seven feet.

He painfully smashed into the fake grass, the all too real glass sinking deeper into his thin black clothing and then light skin.

He didn't have time to let the pain register, not with guards on his tail. With a duck and roll, he was back on his feet, cradling the glass protruding from his stomach and mumbling a few curses under his breath.

With no cars waiting for him, he had a long run home.

--

"You alerted the entire damn mansion, Magnus," the master assassin yelled. "Because you couldn't kill a little girl."

He kept his head bowed, hand still cradling the glass protruding from his stomach. He knew better than to remove it. Just like he knew better than to speak without being asked. The end result might be the same. Bloody and just plain embarrassing.

"What do you have to say for yourself?"

"She was a child."

"She was a witness. You know better than this." The older man leaned into his hands, letting out a long sigh. "I taught you better. You should be glad you had the brains to pull up your mask before you went in."

The piece of cloth that assassins pulled over their mouths' main purpose was to defend from airborne poisons. Protecting their identities was their second job.

"Go to the medical wing," the master said, peeking up at Orion with cold eyes. "Do you need assistance, Orion?"

He knew it as a challenge just as well as he knew he needed help. But Orion was a stubborn, worse than a mule by a long shot.

"Thank you, Master," he answered, polite as always. "But I'm fine on my own."

A nod, a dismissal, and he was off. The halls of the assassins keep were quiet. It was past midnight and, prior to belief, assassins did like to sleep. More than most, to be perfectly honest.

Orion was glad for it. No one to see him stumble and trip down the hallways towards the medical wing with blood spilling from his stomach.

His keen hearing picked up on footsteps heading in his direction. He brought his head up and held his posture as straight as he could.

A girl, young by the looks of it. Short blonde hair cut to her shoulders and dazzling blue eyes, large and round. She wore Saints robes with a dark shirt and tight pants beneath. She must be a trainee.

She stopped, to his dismay, right in front of him.

"Are you alright?" She asked, eyes glued to his bleeding stomach.

He blinked twice, trying to push away the blurriness biting at the sides of his vision.

"Fine," he replied, quick, short, and to the point.

He tried to continue his walk, but she was still standing in front of him. Her small body seemed obscenely big and in the way.

"You're not."

She was right and he knew it. The coldness creeping from the glass protruding from his stomach was anything but 'alright'. Not that he'd admit it.

But...Was there any shame in admitting that to a Saint when he was on the way to the medical wing?

Yes, he decided. There was.

"I am," he replied. "Now move."

She never looked him in his eyes, he noted. Not once. Her eyes were glued to the blood dropping to the floor.

But then she did. And it wasn't the fear filled face or the little smile he'd expanded from someone like her. It was a scowl. A cold scowl.

"You're not," she repeated, marching herself in his direction.

And he had the good sense not to move away from the girl. She planted herself under his arm, swinging it over her shoulder, short as she was, and let him bleed on her white clothing.

"Don't be afraid to lean on me," she told him, starting them both in a walk forwards. "I'm stronger than I look."

He doubted that, but didn't mention it. He had little strength to walk, let alone give the girl attitude.

"I'm Alma, by the way," she said, her voice soft.

"Orion."