"If you want more people to trust you with their treatment, shouldn't you work on your appearance first?"
In the dimly lit treatment room, Ash studied the raven-masked medic with a mix of amusement and confusion. "Dressing like that, people are more likely to think you're here to rob or recruit them into some shady cult. How do they even bring themselves to trust you? Or is this some sort of meaningless tradition?"
"It's a tradition, but far from meaningless," the medic replied, their tone carrying a hint of pride. "Think about it—if, by some chance, I made a mistake during your treatment, and you woke up missing a... piece or two, would you dare attack someone who looks like this?"
"Not really," Ash admitted.
"There you go."
They stared at each other in silence for a moment before Ash had an epiphany. "Ah, so the terrifying attire and creepy ambiance are actually tools to improve doctor-patient relations… Wait, does this mean you screw up treatments often?"
"No, no! It's a very small chance!" The medic waved their hands defensively, but their voice wavered, their body language betraying a galaxy-sized margin of error.
Ash raised an eyebrow. "This attitude isn't going to work for you. I bet you didn't have many patients outside, did you? Let me guess, they even complained about your treatments being subpar, which is why you had to retreat to this prison to 'practice' on us helpless inmates, right?"
The medic looked down, clearly embarrassed. Ash's guess had hit the mark. "I mean… I healed them, but they still complained. Some problems weren't even my fault—it was their own negligence. All I offered was basic treatment, but they always expected so much more…"
It seemed Ash had struck a nerve. The medic started venting, unloading a stream of grievances like Ash was a free therapist. From Ash's perspective, though, the story reeked of rookie mistakes: in an era where most medics charged for even the smallest treatments, this one refused to take any payment and even offered house calls. Unsurprisingly, they were hounded with complaints and couldn't survive in the city, forcing them to take refuge in the prison as an "XP grinder."
After listening patiently, Ash asked, "Do you know what your real problem is?"
"I know—my skills aren't refined enough…"
"Your words aren't sharp enough!"
"Huh?" The medic tilted their head, confusion evident even behind the mask.
"When you speak, you come off as timid and uncertain. That's a red flag for patients, especially if anything goes wrong. They'll pin all the blame on you, even if your treatment is free." Ash straightened up, taking on the air of a seasoned mentor. "Let me teach you. When you tell a patient there's a chance their treatment might not work, you need to own it. Speak loudly, stand tall, and deliver the news with pride and confidence."
The medic blinked, unsure how this was supposed to help.
"Step two," Ash continued. "Find their flaws and exploit them. If your patient's good-looking, accuse them of living a reckless lifestyle. If they're ugly, blame their problems on a lack of social interaction. If they're too thin, tell them they're malnourished. If they're overweight, say they're overindulgent. Everyone has weak points—you just have to find them and hammer them down. Make them feel like they're the problem, not you."
"Once you've done these two things, you'll have established your authority. The patient will feel like they owe you for even agreeing to treat them. If anything goes wrong, they won't complain—they'll defend you instead."
"Does this really work?"
"Absolutely!" Ash nodded firmly. "I've seen it firsthand time and again."
This "workplace PUA" technique was all too familiar to Ash. Criticize the target's shortcomings, assert dominance, then offer them kindness as a lifeline. It was practically a textbook method for controlling fresh college grads in toxic workplaces.
Of course, Ash despised such tactics in the workplace. But when it came to a free-spirited medic who just wanted to help people, even at the cost of personal risk, he figured a little professional armor wouldn't hurt.
"So, do you get it now?"
"What should I do?"
"Every time you finish a treatment, you need to say this: 'I did my best.'"
"I did my best," the medic repeated hesitantly.
"Louder! I can't hear you!"
"I did my best!" The medic clenched their fists, shouting with newfound conviction.
Ash nodded approvingly. "The rest you'll pick up with practice. Anyway, I should get going—I'm starving."
The medic seemed lost in thought, reflecting on Ash's advice. But just as he put on his shoes and prepared to leave, they suddenly stopped him.
"Are you sure you don't want cosmetic surgery? Look in the mirror—don't you think showing up in public like that is disrespectful to others?"
Ash froze, a look of pride crossing his face. This kid's got it. They had turned the lesson back on their teacher in record time.
"If you compare me to your creepy mask, I look like a goddamn movie star. Next time, if I ever feel ugly, I'll come to you first."
"I'm not creepy—you're the ugly one!" The medic huffed, clearly flustered. They even reached for their mask as if to prove a point, but the sound of footsteps from above made them stop.
"Oh, right! Take this."
The medic handed Ash a small metal tag with the number 222 engraved on it.
"What's this?"
"It's my ID tag. Keep it with you at all times, even when you're sleeping. That way, everyone will know you're mine."
Ash blinked. "Okay, I really need to know—what species are you? Male? Female? I'm pretty open-minded, but if you cross my line, I'll have to charge extra—"
"It's not like that! If you keep getting into fights, people are going to beat you into pulp. If you're carrying my tag, I'll have priority to treat you. And if your face gets smashed, I can finally convince you to get that surgery!"
Before Ash could reply, the medic shoved him out the door. "Go eat! The cafeteria's closing soon!"
Ash chuckled, pocketing the tag. As he turned to leave, he asked, "By the way, can I get you to cut an apple for me next time?"
The medic froze. "Uh, sure?"
Objective complete.
This wasn't just idle chatter. Ash had a simple but effective philosophy: getting people to help with small, harmless favors was an excellent way to build rapport. The sense of being "needed" was a powerful motivator. It was this strategy that earned him the title of "Employee of the Month" and a six-month bonus back in his old job.
"Let's have lunch together sometime. See you, 222. Oh, and… thanks for the help."
"If you're really thankful, let me operate on you!"
"Next time! Next time for sure!"
As Ash left, the medic tidied the room, humming softly. But soon, another door opened, and a towering figure in a similar raven mask strode in.
"Why are you still here?" the newcomer demanded.
The medic glanced at their badge—176.
In the prison, even medics didn't know each other's identities. Outside their private quarters, the raven mask was mandatory, and they relied on ID tags for recognition.
"A patient just woke up. I took a little time to secure them as a future case."
"You didn't speak with them, did you?" The towering medic's tone turned stern.
"You know it's against the rules to fraternize with inmates. Our identities must remain a secret. If word of our rituals leaked, the Human Rights Council would dismantle the Assembly."
"I know." Beneath the mask, the smaller medic stuck out their tongue in defiance.
"Then hurry back to your room. And don't forget your 11-inch bloodwork thesis is due this weekend. Don't think your so-called talent gives you the right to slack off. If not for the team leader's approval, you wouldn't even be here—"
In the past, such scolding would have left the medic a nervous wreck. But after talking to Ash, a new thought occurred to them:
"Isn't this guy just using my flaws to assert dominance? He's criticizing something I can't change—how I got here—to keep me in my place."
The towering medic droned on, but the smaller medic tuned him out, reminiscing about Ash's candid advice.
"His recovery speed is incredible… It's such a pleasure to treat him. Honestly, I hope he gets beat up again soon!"