Two doctors walked along the rough cobblestones. Their conspicuous, long, white robes stood out in the filth of the poor city block. One of the doctors stepped into a muddy puddle, soiling the golden hem of his garment.
"Damn this life... Why does that lunatic always insist on meeting here?" cursed the unfortunate doctor as he tried to wipe off the mud with his sleeve. Now both the hem and the sleeve were dirty.
The other doctor tried to stifle his laughter as he watched his companion struggle. "Shut up... He sells us medicines ten times better than ours, and for cheap. We'd meet him in a cave if we had to."
A few passersby dressed in tattered rags watched the duo warily.
After ten minutes of walking, they stopped in front of a half-collapsed structure made of cardboard, sheet metal, and wood. Instead of a door, a tattered curtain hung—a relic that might have been red in the distant past. Today, it had so many holes and stains that its original color was unrecognizable.
The doctor with the soiled sleeve nudged the curtain aside with his elbow and stepped into the dimly lit room. The space was not small, but it felt claustrophobic due to the sheer number of shelves, books, and medical tools scattered everywhere. The only surface not cluttered with items was a... counter? No, the doctors immediately recognized it—it was a surgical table. The reason they didn't identify it at first was that someone was lying on it, sleeping.
The figure was covered with a heavy woolen blanket, with only the top of their head peeking out.
"Is... is that him?" stammered the doctor with the clean robe.
"Is this your first time here?" whispered the one with the dirty sleeve. The other nodded. "Get used to it. Our host is a bit... eccentric. Watch this."
"UP AND AT 'EM! YOU'VE GOT CUSTOMERS!"
No reaction.
The doctor slowly raised his hand and, with the caution of someone putting their fist into an alligator's mouth, poked the blanket, which rose and fell rhythmically with the sleeper's breathing.
In a flash, the doctor felt a hand on his stomach and another on his shoulder. Before he could yelp, he was hurled across the room. He hit the wall with his back and collapsed to the ground.
"Oh... It's you. Sorry about that, didn't expect you today," said the figure, now sitting on the surgical table. They were grinning, clearly pleased with their display of strength and reflexes.
"Damn it to hell!" grumbled the doctor, picking himself up off the floor. Dust clung to his white robe, which was now a shade of gray.
"E, e, e... I don't believe I've seen you before. Hi, I'm Ater. Ater Arbor," Ater introduced himself, extending a hand to the newcomer, who stared wide-eyed at it, then at his friend who was dusting himself off, then back at the hand.
"A... A... A..." the frightened doctor stammered, stepping back in panic. He tripped over some glass apparatus and landed on the floor with a thud. Ater clicked his tongue in annoyance and approached, lifting the terrified doctor with one hand.
"It's rude to refuse a handshake," Ater chastised. "If you didn't hear me earlier, I'll repeat: Hi, I'm Ater Arbor," he grinned again, "and this is my pharmacy."
"Deril... I'm... Deril," the doctor in white finally stammered, hesitantly accepting the handshake. As expected, Ater shook it vigorously, nearly lifting the doctor off the ground.
Five minutes later, Deril still couldn't believe his eyes as he watched his friend place orders with Ater. The room was dark, but rays of light poked through holes in the curtain and walls, casting dotted shadows everywhere.
Ater was tall, very tall—almost two heads taller than Deril. "Two meters... at least," Deril thought to himself, his fear now replaced by curiosity.
Ater's robe was also peculiar. Its structure was similar to theirs, but the material was different. It was lined with wool on the inside and coated with a thin layer of rubber on the outside. "Waterproof and warm... Not designed for this climate," Deril concluded. The robe was black, though—unlike their white ones.
All healers wore white. Ater wore black.
After a moment of hesitation and summoning his courage, Deril spoke: "Why do you wear black if you're a healer?"
Deril's friend shot him a sharp look. He realized it might not have been the wisest question to ask.
Ater stared at him for a few seconds before answering. "I travel a lot. Black clothes are easier to clean."
That was obviously a lie—or at least the second part was. Deril didn't dare press further.
Fifteen minutes later, Deril and his friend shook hands with Ater, left a small bag of silver coins, and headed back through the slums. They walked in silence for a few minutes before Deril couldn't take it anymore.
"You can't just stay quiet! What the hell was that?? He threw you across the room like a sack of potatoes, and you didn't even say 'ow'! What is he? A cultist? Gravediggers wear black, not healers! RUSUF! STOP IGNORING ME!" Deril shouted as they walked back through the slums.
Rusuf let out a deep sigh and began massaging his temples. His head was starting to ache. "Let's go sit down for a beer..."
Behind them, a grimy boy ran after a dog, tripped over his own foot, and fell. His arm twisted at an odd angle—broken. The child began to cry. The doctors didn't even glance back. One of the passersby approached, picked the boy up in his arms, and headed in the opposite direction of the doctors.
Rusuf and Deril sat in a cozy tavern located right next to the Guild of Physicians. The tavern's interior was spacious, well-lit, and clean. Most of the patrons inside were doctors, each dressed in the distinctive white-and-gold robes.
A serious-looking waiter brought them two wooden mugs of yellow liquid bliss on a tray. Deril sipped the foam while Rusuf downed his beer in one go. "S-slow down, for God's sake..."
"Ahhh..." Rusuf sighed contentedly, slamming the wooden mug onto the table. "Now my butt's where it should be... So, you have questions about our dark friend, Ater?"
At the mention of his name, the atmosphere in the tavern instantly shifted. For a moment, a wave of silence enveloped the room. Just as quickly as it came, it vanished, and the usual murmur of half-drunken doctors resumed, though noticeably quieter now. They were listening.
"But I don't have all day... So, so... so! I'll give you just three questions," Rusuf declared, waving three fingers in the air, slightly tipsy. He motioned to the waiter for another drink.
Deril thought for a moment before asking his first question: "Why do you buy medicines from him?"
"Pffff... What a stupid question. If every doctor here got together and spent a month making a single dose of medicine, they _might_ manage to create something that..." Rusuf let out a thunderous belch, "...something that could match the level of the potions that lunatic brews in that shack of his. And it's cheap too!" Rusuf raised his mug triumphantly, as if to toast, and took a victorious swig. Something might have even made it into his mouth.
Deril glanced nervously at his friend. He probably had only a few minutes before Rusuf started "galurping"(same as drinking, but with more spilling). At that point, he wouldn't get a coherent answer to anything.
"Who is he, and how did you hear about him?" Deril asked.
"Drunk... Drunk, you trying to trick me? That's... that's... two questions!"
Deril rolled his eyes. His friend's ability to retain some semblance of logic while under the influence of enough alcohol to sedate a hippo never failed to astonish him.
"Just answer the first one, then."
"Ater... Ater's a good guy. Really goo... good. He came... came to the capital a year... or two? No! Three years ago, he came. Yeah... good guy, that... At... Ateb! No, Ater! So... three years..." Rusuf waved his empty mug as he spoke.
The waiter approached them. "Gentlemen, you're disturbing the other patrons."
Deril turned around. Sure enough, every head in the tavern was turned toward them. Deril nodded, slammed four silver coins onto the table, glanced at the spilled beer on the table and floor, added a fifth coin, and grabbed Rusuf by the shoulder. Gently but firmly, he led them out of the now-hostile environment. Eyes followed them all the way to the door.
At the threshold, Deril turned, expecting to see frowning, irritated faces staring back at him. Instead, in the eyes of the patrons, he saw... fear? They looked like rabbits who had just seen a hawk. "What are they afraid of? Us? No... They're looking past me..."
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! I heard my name being mentioned!" boomed a cheerful voice from behind Deril.
Ater Arbor himself stood one step below Deril, yet still towered over him. His brilliant white teeth gleamed once more in the light, showcased by his wide grin.
"The Dark Doctor..."
"What's he doing here...?"
"The last time he was..."
"Where are the guards...?"
"Is that a rat in my beer...?"
"That's the Dark Doctor—wait, what rat?" murmured the patrons of the tavern _Broken Leg_.
The waiter, as gracefully as a galley docking, positioned himself beside Ater the moment he stepped through the door. Ater wrapped his long, thin arms around both Deril and Rusuf, drawing them into a wide embrace.
"Excuse me, sir, but you are not allowed in this establ—" The waiter was cut off by Ater's enormous, skeletal hand, which politely but firmly communicated that it didn't care for such warnings.
"Mfffmfff MFF! Mffff MF MF MF!" the waiter grumbled through the iron grip clamped over his face.
"Sorry, what was that?" Ater leaned theatrically closer, pretending to struggle to hear him.
"MFFF! MFFFF! MFFFF MF MFFF!" The waiter wriggled for a few seconds before giving up. Frustrated, he folded his arms and tapped his foot on the floor.
"Say MFFF twice if I'm allowed in," Ater said.
"mfff... mfff..." came the waiter's muffled, defeated reply.
"That's the spirit!" Ater laughed and released him.
"We currently have no available tables..." the waiter began, only to be interrupted.
"We'll sit at the bar," Ater declared.
"Our beer supply is running low—"
"I'll drink milk," Ater cut him off again.
The waiter sighed deeply and motioned them inside. As Ater settled at the bar, the waiter hissed under his breath, "The guards will be here soon. What are you trying to pull?"
The Dark Doctor didn't dignify him with a response. Instead, the waiter huffed and retreated behind the bar, pouring a mug of beer for Ater.
"You may carry on," Ater announced to the tavern, addressing the entire room, which had been watching him in silence. Snapped out of their trance, the doctors resumed their conversations.
"So," Ater turned to Deril, "I hear you have some questions about me?"
Deril darted his eyes around the room, panicking as he sought an escape route from the uncomfortable situation. Finding none, curiosity overtook his fear.
"What did you do to the waiter? We're doctors—we're not supposed to hurt people!" Deril critiqued cautiously.
Ater laughed heartily. "Oh, you mistake me for a doctor?"
Silence.
"Yes...?"
"Hahahaha! The most rational person here!" Ater turned to the rest of the tavern. "You hear that? The kid says I _am_ a doctor!"
"Doctors don't break people's bones and then charge them to heal them!" someone shouted.
"Yeah!"
"That's right!"
"Tell him!" others chimed in.
Ater ignored the jeers, chuckling softly. "Believe it or not, I'm not particularly popular among th—"
"Doctors should also be human!" the same voice called out, emboldened by his earlier success.
Dead silence.
"Y-yeah...!" the voice added, hesitantly encouraging itself. The doctors seated nearby scurried away from him like he carried the plague.
Ater stood and approached the lone heckler. Leaning close, he locked eyes with the trembling man, who desperately tried to avoid direct contact. Ater grabbed him by the collar and lifted him up.
"And what do I look like to you?" Ater asked in a voice sharp enough to cut icebergs.
The heckler quaked with fear, fidgeting as though trying to sink into the air
"You're a m-man!" he stammered, panic giving way to a manic burst of survival instinct. "A man! Through and through! A human! Just wanted to say you're such a brilliant doctor you seem... superhuman! Yes, superhuman! But still a man!"
Ater nodded, satisfied. "Let this be a lesson to y-"
BANG!
The tavern doors flew open, and a dozen guards stormed in.
The guards—policemen of sorts, answerable only to the Regent—maintain order in the capital with an firm fist and an even firmer baton.
"We heard there's been some unrest near the Physicians' Guild..." the lead guard began, but stopped when his gaze landed on Ater.
Ater Arbor slowly lowered the man he had been holding by the collar, carefully straightening the crumpled fabric of his coat.
"Ah, you see, there's been a veeeery big misunderstanding—"
"HEY! HEY! I HAVE NOTHING TO DO WITH THIS MAN! PLEASE! THIS IS A HUGE MISTAKE!" Deril shouted from the damp, stale-smelling guardhouse cell. Ater sat leaning against the stone wall, dozing beside Rusuf, who still hadn't awakened from his drunken stupor. Deril's voice was hoarse from yelling.
Finally, a portly guard approached the cell door. "Listen, kid, you were there with this tall guy. Witnesses say you walked into the tavern arm in arm. It is what it is, and I can't show you any—"
Still blissfully adrift in the land of dreams, Rusuf attempted to roll over but ended up punching Ater in the back.
CLANGGGG! The bars rattled loudly as Ater threw Rusuf against them.
"...—mercy, even if what you're saying is true," the guard continued, utterly unfazed by the commotion beside him.
"But... Please! My shift starts in an hour! Look at my robe, I'm a doctor! If I'm not on duty, someone could die!"
Rusuf, gasping for air, picked himself up off the floor and immediately began yelling at Ater. "Eat dirt, you scoundrel! That's twice in 24 hours you've tossed me around like I'm a stuffed toy!"
"I'm sure they have backup doctors, but nice try. Next—"
Ater scratched his head sheepishly, as if slightly embarrassed. "Sorry, that was reflexive..."
"...—time, be careful who you drink with," the guard finished, entirely disinterested. Deril watched in disbelief as his jailor walked away.
"WHAT DO YOU MEAN _REFLEXIVE,_ YOU BLOODY SCOUNDREL?! WHO EVEN _REFLEXIVELY_ THROWS PEOPLE IN THEIR SLEEP?!" Rusuf bellowed. Finally, he glanced around. "Wait a second... Where the hell are we?"
Deril began to cry.