Chapter 4. Ward No. 1 (Part 1)

  The living module of the "Ark" was bathed in semi-darkness, punctuated only by the green luminescence of the patient monitor and the soft backlighting of the instrument panel. Inside, the howling wind and the rhythmic drumming of rain were inaudible. The only sounds were the steady, clinical hiss of the Philips Respironics oxygen concentrator and the mechanical click of the infusion pump dispensing medication. Hiss... Click. Hiss... Click.

  Dmitry sat in the pilot's seat, rotated toward the cabin, monitoring the waveforms on his tablet screen. Two days. Forty-eight hours had passed since he had brought Toby on board. Forty-eight hours of a relentless struggle for every single breath.

  The first night had been hell. The boy’s temperature spiked to 104°F (40°C). His oxygen saturation plummeted to a critical 80%. The child thrashed in a delirium, clawing at his mask, wheezing, and calling out to someone in an unfamiliar tongue. The Snow Lion’s pelt, which Dmitry had used to cover the boy’s legs (leaving the chest accessible for the stethoscope), would flare up and fade, reacting to its small master's condition.

  Dmitry operated like a machine. He inserted an intravenous catheter into a vein thin as a matchstick on the first try—his muscle memory from emergency medicine courses held true. A loading dose of Ceftriaxone. Dexamethasone to reduce pulmonary edema and break the fever. Normal saline with glucose to flush out toxins and provide energy to the emaciated body.

  He didn't sleep. He swapped IV bags, checked tube patency, and adjusted the nasal oxygen cannula. He wiped the boy's burning forehead with antiseptic wipes. And he talked to him. In Russian.

  "Breathe, kid. Come on. Inhale, exhale. You’re not dying. Not on my watch. I’ve got a sterile environment here; I’ve got science. Your ancestral spirits can’t get in here—I have HEPA filters."

  Finally, toward the end of the second day, the crisis broke. Dmitry looked at the sofa, repurposed as a hospital bed. Toby was sleeping. His breathing had become steady and deep. The whistling in his chest had vanished, replaced by the soft murmur of clear air. The cyanosis had faded from his lips, replaced by a pale but healthy pink. The monitor displayed the coveted numbers: SpO2: 96%. Pulse: 85. Temperature: 36.8°C.

  "You're alive," Dmitry exhaled, rubbing his eyes, which were bloodshot from sleep deprivation. "You pulled through."

  He stood up, stretching his stiff back. The glucose bag needed replacing. He approached the makeshift IV stand—fashioned from a microphone boom. Only a few drops remained in the transparent bag. Drop by drop, liquid life flowed into the veins of the medieval child. Dmitry deftly closed the roller clamp, swapped the bag, and primed the line to remove any air.

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  "Eat up," he whispered. "You need to put some meat on those bones. You're nothing but skin and frame."

  The boy smacked his lips in his sleep and turned onto his side. The Snow Lion’s pelt glowed with a soft, warm amber light, almost as if it were purring. Dmitry stroked the fur. A strange object. It radiated heat, but intelligently. When Toby had a fever, the pelt turned cool. When the temperature dropped after the crisis and the child shivered with chills, it heated up like a furnace. "A symbiont," Dmitry decided. "Smart textile on a biological basis. I'll figure it out later."

  He checked the clock. 08:00 AM. Time to feed not only the patient but also the "support group" outside.

  Dmitry approached the airlock control console. He could see them through the cameras. They hadn't left. Baron Coen practically lived on the wall above the gates, huddled under a lean-to, staring at the vehicle. And Hans... the old servant sat directly on the wet cobblestones in front of the drawbridge, wrapped in burlap. He was waiting for news.

  "Time for an update," Dmitry picked up a pre-prepared bag from the table. It contained two kilograms of buckwheat (another gastronomic shock for the locals), a can of tinned meat (stew), and a pack of hardtack crackers. He threw on his jacket, pulled on a mask—quarantine is quarantine—and pressed the button. Hiss. The airlock opened.

  The morning chill rushed in, but Dmitry quickly slipped outside and slammed the door shut. He descended the stairs. Hans, seeing him, sprang up. His old joints cracked, but he hobbled toward the edge of the moat as fast as he could. He looked at Dmitry with horror and supplication. Was he alive? Or would he bring out a body?

  Dmitry stopped at the edge of the moat. He gave a thumbs-up. "Alive!" he shouted, and the Amulet of Envoys (which he never took off) translated the meaning. "He lives. He is breathing. The fever is gone."

  Hans collapsed to his knees right into the mud. He folded his hands and wept. "Praise the gods... Praise you, Lord Mage..."

  "I'm not a mage, I'm an engineer," Dmitry corrected him habitually, though he knew arguing was useless.

  He swung and tossed the bag across the moat. Hans caught it mid-air, clutching it to his chest like a holy relic. "Food," Dmitry said. "Pass it to the Baron. Tell him the boy is sleeping. He needs two more days. Then I’ll return him."

  "Two days..." Hans echoed. "Thank you... Thank you..."

  Dmitry nodded and turned back. He needed to return to his sterile world. Inside, a patient was about to wake up and see the interior of a spacecraft for the first time. Dmitry suspected this culture shock would be even stronger than the taste of chocolate.

  He entered the airlock, went through the decontamination cycle (air-blast and hand sanitization), and took off his jacket. Then, he heard a faint rustle.

  On the sofa, Toby stirred. The boy opened his eyes. He stared at the white, smooth ceiling with integrated LED strips. He looked at the chrome racks. The IV drip. His gaze was entirely lucid. And in that gaze, there was no fear. Toby slowly turned his head, saw Dmitry, and whispered one word through parched lips—a word the Amulet translated instantly.

  "Paradise?"

  Dmitry smirked, drawing water into a syringe to moisten the child's lips. "Almost, kid. Almost. It’s a MAN KAT1. Но for you, it'll pass for paradise."

  ? Overpowers: Magical Girl Crossover [Grimlight Progression Urban Fantasy/Genre based Power System] ?

  by Moawar

  He, Life, had a simple job.

  His responsibility as an Overpower was to make sure that fiction stories and the characters in them follow their dictated path. He always did his job well enough, not more or less than was needed.

  His latest assignment, however, would, in retrospect, prove to be his most challenging one of all.

  He would find himself in a unfamiliar world. There he'll have to quickly adapt to guide Nozomi.

  The strongest magical girl with the potential to accidentally destroy those she seeks to protect in her fight against evil.

  What to Expect:

  -If you like the psychological aspects of Madoka Magica and the mixing of different genres a crossover story brings then this story is for you