Slumrat Rising

Truth was fairly flummoxed. “So, having considered all the relevant information, you just decided to die?”

“Yeah. Basically.” The kid nodded.

Truth had to control the urge to say something about “smart to leave early and beat the rush.” Kid had tried to kill himself with a cloud of poison gas. He deserved better than someone laughing at him. Not that Truth thought his personal views on the subject made a lot of rational sense.

“Not going to lie, little bro. Tough one.”

The kid shrugged.

“If it was a chemical imbalance in your brain, or demons or addiction or something, I have a procedure for that.” Truth waved his clipboard. “Philosophical resolve to die isn’t in the procedures manual.”

The kid shrugged again.

“Well, it is. Suicide watch, followed by a consult by Feelings-Bro. But I think you get what I mean.”

“Bro?”

“No, you keep saying Bro.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Truth nodded.

“Why?” The kid looked curious.

“Because I basically agree with you, Kid-Bro. Everything is just incredibly cursed.”

That got Truth a weird look. No matter. He was used to them at this point.

“You agree with me?”

“Your premises, not your conclusion.”

The kid worked it out in his head.

“Oh.”

Then he shrugged.

Truth’s mouth twitched into an approximation of a smile.

“Basically I decided to be a pain in the ass, Kid-Bro. Everything is doomed, so I’d enjoy it. I’d find things that seemed meaningful to me to do, and even if they didn’t wind up mattering in some global, cosmic sense, I’d have fun with it. I would live a completely selfish life of helping others.”

Truth nodded. “So far, it’s been a great success. Not all sunshine and roses, but things are definitely better for me now, compared to how they were when I was growing up.”

This got him another, more intensely judgemental look.

“You trying to be funny?”

“No, I am famously not good at jokes.”

“You got famous for that?”

“Yes. I am known far and wide as a Bro who cannot tell good jokes.” Truth’s face was very severe.

“You still haven’t explained the “Bro” thing, though. Are you sure you are a doctor?”

“Bro. Did I go to med school, or the gym?” Truth waved a muscular hand over his incredibly sculpted body. “And yes, it does. Everyone is my Bro. Without limitations. All are Bros. Some are Bad-Bro’s. Out there hurting people, being jerks. It’s not good, but they are still Bro’s.”

The kid gave him an impressively flat stare.

“We agree the world is cursed, right?” Truth asked the teen.

“Yeah.”

“So… we just go along with it?”

“What’s the point of fighting?”

“Bro, the point is the fighting! I win by having fun! I win by finding a point to the things I am doing. The whole game is rigged? Alright, World Bro. Watch me flip the table and play my own damn game.”

This had the kid looking at him like he was the one in need of psychiatric consultation.

“You… are fighting the world by being a bro. Just… Bro-ing. All the time. Full time Bro.”

“Bro! You get it bro!”

“And women?”

“They can do it too. Obviously.” This time Truth gave the kid a “Why are you so weird?” look.

“No, I mean, are they also “Bro’s?”

“Yes. Obviously. Look, Kid-Bro, discrimination on the basis of gender is really not Good-Bro behavior. Women are just as capable-”

The kid buried his face in his hands. “HOW DO THEY BRO?”

“How do any of us Bro? Indeed, what, in our heart of hearts, does it mean to Bro the world? I ask that question all the time, and am constantly refining my answer.” Truth nodded wisely. “But the first step, I think, is acknowledging the cursed-ness of everything, and resolving to be part of the problem.”

“I thought you were being part of the solution?” The kid was caught up in it now, battling through the flying leaves of the autumn storm of Truth’s ‘logic.’

“Don’t be silly. YOU were being part of the solution. Clearly the world wants everybody to suffer. I, on the other hand, am determined to make as many people as I can not suffer. Starting with myself. Even if I die having only pleased myself, I will count it as a win. I am therefore, definitionally, part of the problem.”

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

“You, Doctor Bro-”

“It’s Doctor Bone-Bro, actually. I’m a board certified Orthopedic Specialist. We do an extra couple years of training compared to squishier fields.”

“Doctor Bone-Bro, do you have, like, hospital ID or something?”

“Ah, worried I’m pulling the ‘ole “Put on scrubs and pretend to be a doctor” game, eh? Well, it is a classic. Here-” Truth stuck out an empty hand. Level Five using magic on a Level Zero? This kid would swear blind he saw a valid I.D.

“How did you get your name changed to Bone-Bro?! And didn’t get immediately fired?”

Ah, whoops. Might have overdone it. Oh well. Never apologize, never explain. THAT’S the senior doctor way!

“Bro. Do you know how tight the job market is for doctors right now? And it’s only going to get worse as the Army starts drafting more and more of us. I could set up a squat rack in the OR, and the only thing Hospital Admin-Bro would do is make sure it’s properly sterilized before every surgery.”

“Why would you put a squat rack in the OR?”

“Do you know how good squats are for you? They are practically the perfect full body resistance exercise. Gotta use good form, or not-bone-bits don’t like it. But if you do have good form, squats are the best. You wanna do some squats right now, Kid-Bro? Bodyweight only, sorry, don’t have my rack and weight pile handy.”

“No, I’m good.”

“Really? I love doing bodyweight workouts. Not as good as lifting, obviously, but it’s just so damn satisfying feeling my body move.”

“Okay…” The look was bordering on pitying this time. Truth shook his head at the ignorance of his juniors.

“Listen, procedures usually exist for a reason. I’m keeping the suicide watch in place, and when Feelings-Bro finally gets out of the tweed and into scrubs, she’ll be down to have a talk. All I’m saying is give rebellion a chance. Try it out. Focus on just enjoying the fight. People are going to be jerks. They are going to do the wrong thing all the time. You can’t control that. You control you, and how you think about things. So… become part of the problem. Enjoy making the world a better place. Not because it’s getting better. Just because it is fun to do.” Truth coughed.

Was this… reconciliation? Might be.

“You are going?” Kid sounded a bit sad about that.

“Yep. I’m Dr. Bone-Bro, and I’m doing rounds right now. Hear that screaming? That Bro needs my help. So I’m gonna go help him.”

“Are you going to be around later?”

“Kid-Bro, I am everywhere. You be good now.” Truth walked out. The resident had “just closed his eyes for a second” leaning up against a pillar. Truth tapped him on the shoulder to wake him up.

“Patient is scheduled for suicide watch and Feelings-Bro convo?”

The resident blinked, bleary eyes trying to reconcile the data they were receiving with what Comrad Ears was reporting.

“Uh. Yes, Doctor.”

“Good. Next patient.”

Was there a better way to help the kid? He didn’t know. He really, really didn’t know. But they were in a hospital, and presumably there were people that did know, so keeping him interested in the world and focused on non-destructive stuff should be a good thing, right?

He could only hope.

The next few cases passed on almost autopilot. He looked them over, went “HMMM. Bro, let me explain what happens next,” and generally cribbed from the now completely bewildered, but worshipful, resident.

He even managed to find some orthopedics cases, and snuck in a bit of Cup and Knife work. It might not be procedure, but it did let him loudly lecture the resident about patients “Being sent for a surgical eval when any competent first year med student-bro should have them up and walking off the stiffness in six minutes or less.”

Truth’s voice was raised to a delicate bellow, audible considerably beyond the ordinary human audible spectrum. “Tell me, Junior-Bro, do they still study magic in med-school? Are things so bad in whatever fleapit university you attended that they don’t cover spells?”

“It… it presented as a comminuted displaced distal radius fracture with intra-articular split, apex dorsal angulation and a radial styloid split. I… we thought…”

“Oh please! An Eye-Bro could make that diagnosis in his sleep, never mind a real doctor! And don’t think I didn’t notice that “we,” Bro. You are the Doctor. Don’t try to blame this on the nurse. YOU are responsible for your dogshit opinions! Now let me guess- you want to bolt down the bone fragments with a piece of metal? Hmm? Maybe carve the patients open like the luxurious chicken dinners you are eating every night?”

The resident, who plainly hadn’t slept or eaten real food in three days, could only gawp at the unfairness of the accusation.

“We are Mage-Doctors! Miracle healers! Not barbarians. Not butchers. We make people whole in this place. We HEAL people in this place! Let’s see if you can be a little less disappointing with the next patient.”

It might be unfair to the resident, but every doctor, nurse and patient in earshot was firmly convinced that a very senior orthopedic doctor was now in attendance. Confidence shot way up. Even the patients settled down, feeling more optimistic about how everything would work out.

With the right sort of eyes, and if you were looking for it, you could see the ripples Truth left in his wake. He was watching for them- the subtle changes in expression, the way their bodies shifted from pain and fear to pain and acceptance. The present hurt- but it wasn’t forever. Relief was coming.

It was remarkable how often that was enough. Someone competent is coming to take charge. He will tell you what needs to happen to make everything better. And he will listen.

It was that last bit that Truth reckoned was the secret sauce. Even if you walked into the room knowing exactly what their problem was and how you would solve it, spending a couple of minutes giving someone your focused attention did something for them. He didn’t know if it was the illusion of control on their part, or the magic of having someone of high status really listening to you for once.

It was a pretty interesting afternoon. When his shift was up, he pulled the resident and head nurse to one side. “Who’s his supervisor?” Truth asked the nurse.

“Doctor Frink.”

“Alright, I’m writing out orders for what’s-his-name here,”

“Bill. My name is Bill-”

“Please. Please don’t talk. Save your old school at least a little face.” Truth resolutely turned his back on the reeling resident, and continued talking to the nurse.

“This Bro is presenting with clinical malnourishment and parasomnia, including insomnia, with comorbidities including audio, visual and sensory hallucinations, memory dysfunction, slurred speech, delayed reaction time, paranoia, ocular dysfunction and loss of motor control. Given that he presents a significant danger to patients and himself, I am ordering him a week’s bedrest, and a hospital supplied six extra protein rations a day.” The nurse was nodding along, jotting notes down on a pad. Truth pressed on.

“He is to be prescribed 25 ml Valeri-Somm or generic equivalent before bedtime for the first two days, not to exceed three days without reevaluation from Feelings-Bro. He is not to return to work until the course of treatment is completed and he can be recertified as safe to work by Feelings-Bro and Brain-Bro.” The nurse finished jotting it down on her pad and nodded, with a definite gleam in her eye.

“What… what is going on?” Asked the bewildered Bill.

“Thank you for stepping in, Doctor. I didn’t feel like it was my place to say anything.”

“Of course.” Truth gently put a hand on the back of the resident’s head and subtly ran Cup and Knife, knocking him out.

“A bed might be a bit much to ask, but is there a linen closet you could shove Bill-Bro into for ten to twelve hours?” He asked, as he guided the unconscious Bill onto a gurney.

“Sure. Wonderfully soft blankets in Closet 2-1093. I’ll make some room for him. About time those bums woke up anyway.”

“How’s the suicidal kid?”

“With psychiatric now. We didn’t need to sedate him, restrain him… he’s been no trouble, really. So. I don’t know. I guess that’s promising.”

“Well. It’s a start. And tell Frink from me that the next time he pulls a stunt like this, he better stick to walking on crowded streets.”

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