It does have to be said: a face-full of instant bath will wake a person up like few things will. But when you’re relying on that state of semi-consciousness to protect your mind from the worst effects of hypnotic manipulation: then in that case, wakefulness might not be so ideal.

A feeling of distant static intensified in his head, as [Forget] and [Anonymity] took hold. Rhode’s count of the room’s occupants began to grow inaccurate.

Fending off an unwelcome, helping towel, he dried himself off, and pulled a patient’s gown over his head. Then Rhode laid back down for what had to be the tenth time. He was already losing pieces of the ritual, and though he recalled the image of drying, tacky blood, the goat was stolen from him. All that was left was an impression, and it was adrift without context.

How much of what Rhode Mortimer Irving was doing was his own choice, and how much was [S□rv■]? How much was [▮e■□e]? How much was –

“Damn it,” the Hero whispered. He tried to decide whether he should be allowed to weep, but he hadn’t started yet and that meant he could endure more.

Who was Rhode? Who was he at his core? It was a question the human had to ask himself before the day came he stopped thinking of himself as human forever. Rhode knew who the goblins wanted him to be: but even if the homunculus had been born a Hero, he wasn’t much of a hero. Rhode feared who Sacred wanted him to be (which wasn't the same thing), and he thought about that night in the Vault. He remembered the haft of a killing weapon in one hand, and the sword in his other. The roar of that night still echoed in his ears: of that moment in time when he’d become exactly who his masters wanted of him –

And it had made him so very happy. What kind of person did that make him?

Alchemist Krevinkya was unpacking oddities onto the second available cart, while Rhode was busy sulking. Boo hoo hoo, my mind has been suborned to make me into a tool for geopolitical ambition and I don’t know what’s real anymore. What a wimp.

Wearing lace gloves, knitted from the whiskers of a volcanic monster, Krevinkya opened a tiny iron box and revealed a charred wooden knot: like a boll or gnarl on a tree. But the inner part of the wood glowed with subdued heat, and she used a pair of tweezers to extract a dull gray fragment of coal from its edge.

“Oh, Goode Alchemist. We’re not giving him [Smolder Heart],” a somewhat familiar, tall young man stopped her. “It’s [Iron Bones].”

“Really? On a [Brawn]? That’s hardly what I designed them for,” the woman grouched. Her earrings tinkled as her ears flicked in irritation. Replacing the coal securely in its box, she pulled out a series of massive brass syringes and thin cylinders of soft, chalky metal.

Rhode was watching the barber sharpening his knives. He told himself that this was what he wanted. Stronger, to unbar any door. Faster, to flee any pursuit. Start simple. Take every advantage. Make better choices next time.

Back on Earth, there used to be a saying, and it went: trust your instincts. Now obviously, there were gaps in that mindset. Instinct is at the heart of prejudice, and superstition too. For all that the words “Common Sense” have guided people to success, they’d led plenty of souls to ruin as well. A week ago, Rhode had known that he needed to get out of Four Ring Hill Palace. He’d gotten to know his captors and he’d forgotten that.

Rhode Mortimer Irving may not have been a complete idiot, but he didn’t particularly consider himself to be so smart either. He was just a regular guy, as far as he’d ever thought of it. In life, he’d only wanted simple things, like certainty and companionship. He’d prized few things more than a cold beer, and a warm summer night on the porch. How was he supposed to outwit…

…outwit…

…who was...

Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.

…so perhaps Rhode was already lost.

Be smarter for next time, he told himself. That’s the least I can do, but at least it’s a start.

A tap on his shoulder brought him back to reality, and Rhode faced Btiobhan with futile intensity to remember him this time.

“We’re ready to put you under, big guy,” the elf assured him. He picked up an opaque bottle, filled with scarlet fluid. “I think the Goodwife has got some [Euphoric Stupor], and an [Oblivion Blank]. Oh, and I guess she’s got a [Visions of Fancy]: I’m assured it’s a lot of fun.”

The young man fiddled with bottles, squinting at labels until Krevinkya flicked the point of his ear.

“Ow. Do you have a preference, Rhode?”

The homunculus tried to decide if those drugs sounded like drugs. “These will knock me out, right?”

The barber shook his head, no. Krevinkya wiggled her fingers for maybe.

“Uhhhhh… mostly, yes?” coughed Btiobhan. “But I think it would be better if you tap into [Hibernate], and take this chance to doze off. I guess I realize this has been a rough day for you.”

Rhode’s face twisted. “I don’t want to go to sleep,” he said.

“Ser Irving,” the barber spoke up, “this procedure is somewhat involved. And I believe we must warn you that it is reputably quite uncomfortable.”

“We’re going to drill you into your marrow and poison your bones,” Krevinkya interjected. “What? That’s basically how it works,” she challenged the others.

Goodman Noffet the barber tapped Rhode in the forehead, then his arm, then his rib. “Traditionally, [Iron Bones] is a treatment that would be applied individually to your largest bones. Ribs, limbs, pelvis, sometimes we skip the skull. But in its strongest form, we would have to operate on every single bone – all of them except for one.”

There was a murmur of conversation as the surgical team reacted to that.

“Rhode,” asked the acolyte, “I think we can all agree that the people in charge would expect us to give you the strongest option we can. Is that okay?”

No, Rhode thought. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Yes,” he said.

An unexpected question was raised by a maid who should have already left the room. “Why don’t you do all the bones?” she asked.

The barber and the alchemist exchanged a glance, and he ceded the answer to her. “Even with the adaptation of a transmutation level, the body requires natural marrow to function. The alchemy of metallic skeletal infusion is toxic by nature. He’ll need one remaining bit to stay unchanged, to remind the rest of his body how it’s meant to behave.”

Rhode sighed. “Otherwise, what happens?”

“Oh, don’t be so maudlin, my masterpiece,” the alchemist patted him on the cheek, “I’m sure we could transplant something. You’d have months before you’d die horribly.”

Rhode wanted to laugh in despair, but it wouldn’t help.

“Oh, and I forgot,” Krevinkya crooned. Then she plucked a silver ring of her finger and flung it at Goodwife Xun. “Get ye GONE, ye lollygagger, ye floor-scrubber! Ye dally with matters which see gobs be killed!”

Under attack by flying jewelry, the maid fled the room with a shriek. A trail of laundry was left behind in her wake as the door shut.

“Ser Irving,” the barber spoke up, “I would recommend we choose the tip of your smallest finger or toe. There is precedent for it, and larger bones are more vulnerable. Are you left handed, or right?”

“I write with my left hand, but I throw with my right,” Rhode replied. He lifted each arm in turn and explained. “I sort of think of this one as my smart hand, and this one as my sport hand.”

“Safest to leave the left hand, then?” whispered B■ob□an. The others all agreed.

The bottle of [Oblivion Blank] was presented to Rhode again.

“Okay, big guy. Ready for the medicine?”

“No,” Rhode ached. “I need to be awake for this.” His fingers wrapped around the edges of his bed, and the wood started to crack. “I need to remember this.”

The elf looked over his patient with an expression of pity. He conferred with the others only briefly. “Okay. Then we’ll get you the [Numb Juice]. Sorry, Rhode. I hope you’re as tough as you think.”