As Linda droned on about 'insurance coverage' and 'payment plans', a strange tingling sensation crept up Morthisal's spine—the same feeling he'd experienced moments before casting powerful spells in his previous life. The fluorescent lights above flickered, casting erratic shadows across Linda's startled face, and the television screen behind her erupted in a cascade of static. The familiar surge of dark energy coursed through his veins. Instead of the raw power he expected, it was an embarrassingly loud sneeze that sent Linda quickly backing away.

"Bless you. You should cover your mouth."

"I'm sorry? Cover my mouth?"

"You really are loopy. When you sneeze, cover it so I don't get germs."

"Ah. Yes," Morthisal said, at a loss as to what she meant.

"Now," Linda advised, her tone gentle yet firm, "I recommend that you sit tight and wait for all of your test results to come back. We'll have a clearer picture of your health and can work on finding the best solution to satisfy the portions you are responsible for."

Morthisal, still baffled by the intricacies of this so called modern healthcare, could only nod in agreement. Linda, satisfied with his response, pulled out a form from her clipboard and handed it to him.

"I'll need you to sign this form," she said, offering him a sleek, black writing instrument.

Morthisal took the pen, marveling at its smooth, cool, round surface. He had often used quills and inkwells in his own world, but this device was entirely new. He turned it over in his hands, examining it with curiosity.

Linda, mistaking his fascination for confusion, pointed to a line at the bottom of the form. "Just sign right here, Mr. Logan."

"Ah, yes," Morthisal said, his voice barely above a whisper.

He lowered the pen to the paper, the tip hovering just above the surface. In a moment of forgetfulness, he began to carefully inscribe his true name: Morthisal Ebonheart. As he neared the end of his signature, the realization of his error struck. It also struck him that he had written in a language that was foreign to him, and yet, he understood it as if it were native to him. The effects of this transmigration continued to amuse and baffle him.

Quickly, he scratched out the name, the ink smearing across the page. His eyes darted to the top of the form, where the name "Vincent Logan" was printed in crisp, even letters. The precision of the script was unlike anything he had ever seen, as if some sort of mechanical scribe had created it.

"How is this so perfectly scribbled?" Morthisal pointed at the words.

"It's just a computer printout, Mr. Logan. I can assure you that nobody's hand wrote that out. It's just from our printer, which is working today, for a change.”

With painstaking care, Morthisal copied the name, his hand aching slightly as he formed each letter. The result was a passable imitation of the printed name.

"That is an interesting signature, Mr. Logan. Well, then." She slid the paper out from under his hand. "I'll take that. We should have you out of here soon. I understand Dr. Patel has gone home for the day, but Dr. Broushard will be along shortly."

"Yes. Thank you, Miss. Linda. I was curious. How can I attain another CT scan?"

"Oh, dear. You can't. It's one per customer, I'm afraid." Linda laughed. "I'm glad you're finding your sense of humor, Mr. Logan. I detest the things. Worse than being trapped in a cave. Alright then. Get some rest."

Linda briskly departed his room.

Morthisal stared at the ceiling, his frustration mounting with each passing moment. The strange devices around him beeped and hummed, a constant reminder of how far he was from his realm of dark magic and absolute power. His fingers twitched, remembering the feel of necromantic energy that had once flowed through them.

A man rapped once on the door frame and breezed in. The man's lanky frame cast a sharp shadow across the floor, his bald head gleaming under the harsh lights. A ring of gray hair clung desperately to the sides of his skull, and deep wrinkles carved paths of what appeared to be perpetual annoyance across his face.

"Hello. I'm Dr. Brouchard. How are you feeling?" Dr. Broushard asked, not waiting for an answer as he studied the various machines in the room.

"I am feeling well enough at the moment, however…"

"Great. Good to hear. Give me a moment."

The doctor then sat and tapped at the strange pebble board that Travious and Megan had used earlier. He lifted a large white sheet, squinting at it before muttering under his breath.

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"You're good to go. Bye," Dr. Broushard announced, turning to leave.

"I require another CT scan, Dr. Broushard," Morthisal said.

"No, you don't." Dr. Broushard laughed dismissively.

Morthisal frowned and tried a different tactic.

"I have lost my memory. I need assistance finding my residence," Morthisal insisted.

"Listen. Whatever you think is wrong with your head isn't real." Dr. Broushard rolled his eyes, and sat back down to tap on the pebbleboard. "I'll write you a prescription for Ativan. Ten should do the trick. Take one twice a day as needed for anxiety. Just one at a time, please, unless you want to sleep for twelve hours. Don't mix with alcohol. You should make an appointment with your primary as soon as you can. If you experience any more episodes, hearing voices and the like,” Dr. Broushard waved his hands around dramatically, “seek help immediately.” He pointed his finger at Morthisal. "Now, go home and relax. I'll put in a referral for a mental health provider. I'll also put in an order for a doctor's note for your employer. Any questions? No? Good."

"But-"

The doctor ignored Morthisal and swept out without another word, leaving behind an unmistakable odor that made Morthisal's nostrils flare. The man who called himself a doctor had passed gas before departing.

Morthials lips trembled with rage as his hands clenched into fists. Oh, how he yearned to reduce this building to rubble, to show these insolent healers true power.

A moment later, Travious appeared in the doorway. "It's time to get dressed. We need the room—you're free to go home."

After sitting for so long with nothing to do but stare at a flat screen with strange moving pictures and people discussing war plans, he found it fascinating that the next few minutes were a rush. He was told to change out of the gown he'd been given, struggled to figure out how to dress in his host's clothing, and finally settled in a thin jacket that had inside pockets. He pulled out long pieces of paper, one so much so it was like unfurling a tome-length scroll.

Morthisal squinted at the writing on top of the parchment, still amazed that he had the ability to read the writing in this world.

"What is a CVS?"

Morthisal carefully rolled the scroll up tightly and placed it back in the jacket's inner pocket.

He was given a small pile of papers and then told to sit in another gliding chair, which was pushed by a stern-faced man with a neatly trimmed beard and bald pate.

For the moment, it seemed he had escaped the attention of the one named Linda, who had spoken at length of monetary obligations. Good. When he was out of this place, he would make certain not to see her again. She could take her talk of owing money to the grave for all he cared.

The person pushing him would have made an excellent fighter in one of his armies. His arms were clearly defined and rippled with muscle. He wore a tag with a name etched upon the surface. Morthisal had learned that the individuals who worked in this 'hospital' were quite proud of their names and wore them openly upon their lapels.

This one's name was Jaxon.

"It appears you are no stranger to wielding a sword, Jaxon," Morthisal told the Jaxon as he patiently sat in the gliding chair, taking in his surroundings. Men and women dressed in similar garb rushed here and there with papers or strange glass slabs in their hands. Most of them walked with purpose, and few of them offered greetings or words to the others.

"A sword? Nah, man. I pump iron, for sure, for damn sure. I never held a sword except for a cheap piece of crap my nephew won in an eBay auction. Wasn't even sharp."

"This iron you pump. Is it to ready yourself for war?"

"Only war I know is in my head, bruh. I played football. Almost went pro, maybe in another life. I guess that was my war. Yeah."

Morthisal frowned at all the strange turns of phrases, but found the last part interesting. "You also have lived another life? Tell me, are you from Mythralon? Is the ability cross realms widespread?"

"I don't have time for video games, man. Too busy gettin' swole. Plus," Jaxon lowered his voice and leaned over slightly. "I do bodyguard work in my spare time."

"Bodyguard," Morthisal said thoughtfully. If he was to rise to power in this world, he may need such an individual. "If I had need of one to guard my body, how would I contact you?"

"As soon as we're away from prying eyes, I'll slide you my deets. Cool?"

"Cool," Morthisal responded, assuming that was the correct answer. He'd heard others using the phrase, and it seemed to fit. Morthisal sat back and tried to digest this information. The language of this world baffled him almost as much as all the machinery.

A man stood before a large machine emblazoned with bright red logos. He tapped a card on the front, then touched a protrusion. Something clattered inside the device and ejected itself against a metal rail.

"What is that?" Morthisal pointed.

"Coke. Want one? There's a machine in the lobby. Can't stop now. I have another pickup on four in five."

Morthisal sighed to himself.

A moment later, they entered a large box with gleaming metal railings polished to a hue he'd rarely seen.

Morthisal felt a twinge of unease as he entered the large white cell, its gleaming metal railings and polished surfaces contrasting with the dark, stone-walled chambers of his former castle. The doors slid shut, enclosing him in the confined space, and a sudden lurch caused him to grasp the arms of the wheelchair tightly. The sensation of descending rapidly was unsettling, but mercifully brief.

The doors split apart, and Jaxon pushed Morthisal out into a hallway, navigating swiftly to a place called a "pharmacy."

"Wait here while I check on your prescription," Jaxon said, leaving Morthisal to take in his surroundings.

Moments later, Jaxon returned. "It'll be just a few minutes. After they give you your meds, you can call an Uber or grab a taxi. They still have those in Seattle. One will be by before much longer."

As they waited, Jaxon began to talk about his work as a bodyguard. "I've been one for a few big-time movie actors and some football players. Ironic, since I was a football player myself, but some of those guys have more money than sense."

"Yes. I see." Which he did not, but he listened intently, trying to make sense of the unfamiliar terms and concepts. Jaxon reached into his back pocket, pulling out a folding pouch and extracting a small, thick piece of square paper. He handed it to Morthisal with a warning. "I didn't give you this here in the hospital because I don't want to get in trouble again. Feel free to call or message me."

Morthisal took the card and glanced at the name printed on it: Jaxon Reed. He nodded, tucking the card away carefully.

"Have a good one,” Jaxon said, pointing to a line of chairs. Morthisal understood the gesture and settled into one of the seats as Jaxon rolled the wheeled chair away without another word.

“Have a good one what?” Morthisal said, but Jaxon was already gone.