I demand stones, and I beg for comments, how life can be so cruel ^^^
The elevator shuddered to a halt, a heavy, mechanical clunk reverberating through the soles of Maya's feet resting on the wheelchair's footplates. The stainless steel doors slid apart with a slow scrape, revealing the fourth floor.
The atmosphere here was fundamentally different from the hushed, sterile purgatory of the critical cardiac ward. The lighting was slightly warmer, lacking that aggressive, interrogator's glare. The air smelled less like industrial bleach and ozone, and more like institutional mashed potatoes, floor wax, and old magazines. It was noisier, too. A television blared a game show from a waiting area down the hall, and the rhythmic squeak of rubber-soled nurse shoes was a constant, overlapping beat.
It was the sound of people getting better. Or, at the very least, people who weren't actively dying right this second.
The orderly pushed her chair over the metal threshold. William walked on her left, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his charcoal trousers, his eyes darting to every passing nurse and medical cart as if expecting an ambush. Eleanor walked on her right, carrying a plastic shopping bag containing Maya's meager possessions: a hairbrush, a toothbrush, and the clothes she had nearly died in three days ago.
"Room 442," the orderly announced, steering the chair around a wide corner. "It's a semi-private, but you've got the window side, and the 'B' bed is empty right now, so it's all yours until admissions sends someone up."
He pushed the door open with his hip.
The room was smaller than her suite in the ICU, dominated by two standard-issue hospital beds separated by a thick, ceiling-mounted privacy curtain that was currently bunched against the wall. The walls were painted a dull, faded seafoam green. But the orderly hadn't lied about the window. It was large, stretching across the far wall, framing a sprawling, hazy view of the Queens skyline baking under the mid-afternoon sun.
"Alright, let's get you transferred," the orderly said, locking the brakes on the wheelchair next to the window bed.
William immediately stepped forward. "I can help her. Maya, just grab my arm—"
"Will, don't pull on her," Eleanor intercepted, her voice tight with instant anxiety. She dropped the plastic bag onto the empty 'B' bed. "She has the IV line in her left hand. Let the orderly do his job."
William's jaw tightened, a flash of defensive hurt crossing his features, but he took a half-step back, raising his hands in surrender. "I wasn't going to pull her, El. I was just offering a brace."
Maya ignored the bickering. It was a familiar rhythm, a heavy, static noise she had inherited from the original Maya's memories. She planted her bare feet on the cool linoleum and pushed herself up from the armrests.
The exertion hit her instantly.
In the Mindscape, with a Might of 3 and Vigor of 5, she had managed to endure Percy's brutal beatings through sheer adrenaline and the strange physics of the Otherworld. But here, gravity was an unforgiving, physical weight. A '10' was a normal, healthy teenager. At a '5' in Vigor, she possessed exactly half the stamina of an average person. At a '3' in Might, her muscles were still severely atrophied, stripped of mass by months of bed rest and poor circulation.
Her knees trembled violently as she took her full weight. The room tilted just a fraction, black spots dancing at the edges of her vision. She gripped the metal bedrail with her right hand, her knuckles turning white.
"Whoa, easy there," the orderly murmured, keeping a steadying hand hovering just behind her shoulder. "Take your time."
She didn't need to fake the weakness. It was entirely, terrifyingly real. She dragged herself onto the mattress, swinging her legs up with a heavy, uncoordinated clumsiness. She collapsed against the pillows, her chest heaving with shallow, rapid breaths. Her heart rate monitor, now a smaller, portable telemetry pack clipped to her gown, let out a rapid series of warning beeps before slowly settling down.
"Are you okay?" William was suddenly hovering over her, his brow furrowed in panic. "Should I get the nurse? Her breathing is really fast."
"She just stood up, Will," Eleanor sighed, though her hands were twisting the hem of her sweater nervously. She walked over and began meticulously adjusting the thin blanket over Maya's legs, smoothing out invisible wrinkles. "Dr. Aris said she'd be easily winded. We just need to let her rest."
"I'm fine," Maya rasped, closing her eyes and letting her head fall back into the starchy pillowcase. The mattress here was thinner, the springs groaning in protest as she shifted her weight. "Just... heavy."
It was the most honest thing she had said all day. She felt like she was wearing a suit of medieval plate armor made entirely of lead.
The orderly checked her IV line, made sure the telemetry pack was transmitting correctly, and gave them a cheerful wave. "Press the call button if you need anything. Nurse Carla's shift ends soon, but the evening rotation is great."
As the door clicked shut behind him, a heavy, awkward silence descended on the room. It was the kind of silence that usually preceded an argument about money or custody schedules.
William cleared his throat, looking around the small, seafoam-green room. He spotted the bulky television mounted on a swivel arm near the ceiling. "Hey, you've got cable in here. You want to see if the Mets game is on later?"
"She needs to sleep, William," Eleanor said firmly, abandoning the blanket and turning to face him. "She doesn't need a baseball game blaring in her ear."
"I was just offering a distraction, El. She's been staring at the wall for three days." William kept his voice low, but the frustration was leaking through. He ran a hand through his greying hair. "I'm trying to be here. I'm trying to help."
"I know you are," Eleanor replied, her tone softening just a fraction, though the exhaustion beneath it was bone-deep. "But right now, 'helping' means letting her rest. Why don't you go grab some food? You've been sitting in that chair since you got off the plane."
"I'm not hungry."
"Will, please. Go get a coffee. Take a walk around the block. I need to sort out her admission paperwork with the front desk anyway."
Maya kept her eyes closed, listening to the subtle shifts in their breathing, the rustle of clothing. With her Aether sitting at an unnatural 13, her perception of the room was almost hyper-sensitive. She could feel the thick, suffocating guilt radiating off her father, and the brittle, defensive shell her mother was wearing to keep herself from falling apart.
Courtly Etiquette, the System had called the skill branch. The ability to navigate high-society events or negotiate smoothly... reading an opponent's mind through their body language.
She wasn't at a banquet, and these weren't opponents, but the mechanics were the same. She could sense exactly how close they were to a screaming match in the middle of the cardiac step-down unit.
"Dad," Maya said softly, opening her eyes.
William immediately looked at her, eager for a lifeline. "Yeah, kiddo?"
"Mom's right. I'm going to crash in about five minutes." Maya forced a weak, apologetic smile. "But if you're going out... do you think you could find me some decent chocolate? The hospital pudding tastes like plastic."
William's shoulders dropped instantly. A clear, actionable mission. "Chocolate. Yeah. Absolutely. Dark or milk?"
"Dark. With almonds if you can find it."
"You got it." He grabbed his suit jacket from the back of the plastic guest chair. He looked at Eleanor, offering a curt nod. "I'll be back in an hour. Text me if the doctor comes by."
"I will," Eleanor murmured.
As William hurried out the door, the tension in the room plummeted. Eleanor let out a long, shuddering breath, pressing her fingers against her eyelids for a moment before turning back to the bed.
"I'm sorry," Eleanor said quietly, pulling up the guest chair and sitting down heavily. "We shouldn't snap at each other in front of you."
"It's okay, Mom," Maya said. And she meant it. Compared to Chitauri leviathans or angry Asgardians, a little marital discord was refreshingly normal.
"I'm going to go down to the admissions desk," Eleanor said, checking her phone. "I need to give them our insurance information again because apparently, moving up one floor erases us from the computer system. Will you be okay here alone for twenty minutes?"
"I'm not going anywhere," Maya pointed to her IV line. "Literally."
Eleanor smiled, leaning over to kiss Maya's forehead. "Get some sleep. I'll be right back."
The moment her mother left the room, pulling the heavy door shut until the latch clicked, Maya felt the familiar, ambient thickening of the air. The smell of ozone chased away the scent of floor wax.
She didn't need to summon it. The Avalon Protocol flared to life directly in her line of sight, the golden knotwork framing a new notification.
[Daily Routine Issued.] A dull blade costs lives; a dull mind loses kingdoms.
[The Daily Checklist] 1. Physical Conditioning: Complete 2 hours of intensive physical training.
2. Armaments Maintenance: Spend 30 minutes cleaning, sharpening, or repairing armor and weaponry.
3. The Knight's Errant: Perform one act of "Common Chivalry."
[Time remaining until reset: 9 Hours, 14 Minutes.]
Maya let her head fall back against the pillow, staring at the glowing text. The Mindscape Pavilion loophole had saved her last night, dilating time so she could complete the physical conditioning without destroying her fragile waking body.
But there was a catch she hadn't considered until now.
In the ICU, she had been heavily sedated. She had slept for solid, uninterrupted blocks of time. Here, in the step-down unit, nurses would be coming in to check vitals every few hours. Her parents were going to be hovering constantly. If she went into deep meditation to access the Pavilion during the day, she would essentially be unresponsive in the waking world.
If Carla walked in to check her blood pressure and found her completely comatose, unresponsive to voice or touch, they would panic. They would call a code. They might hit her with a defibrillator or shove another breathing tube down her throat.
"I can't go to Avalon right now," Maya whispered to the empty room.
She looked at the checklist. Nine hours until reset. That meant the System reset at midnight.
She could wait until her parents left for the evening—visiting hours technically ended at 8:00 PM, even if Eleanor dragged her feet until 9:00. If the night nurse did rounds at 10:00 PM, she would have a narrow, two-hour window to enter the Mindscape, complete her physical conditioning, and wake up before the next bed check.
It was a terrifyingly tight margin for error.
But what about the other tasks?
Armaments Maintenance. Spend 30 minutes cleaning, sharpening, or repairing armor and weaponry.
Last night, she had fulfilled this in the mindscape by scrubbing Percy's rusted armory. But could she do it in the waking world? The System said "armor and weaponry," but in the twenty-first century, what counted?
Arthur's logic began turning the problem over. The System wasn't a rigid computer program; it was ancient magic, running on intent and symbolism. To a knight, armor was whatever protected them from harm. A weapon was whatever allowed them to strike back.
Maya looked down at her left hand. The IV needle was taped securely to the back of her hand, snaking up to a clear bag of saline and a small, slow-drip pump of beta-blockers.
The medication was keeping her heart beating. It was her armor.
She looked at the plastic rolling table beside her bed. Eleanor had left her purse on it, and next to the purse was a small, complimentary pack of antibacterial wet wipes.
Maya reached over with her free hand, her muscles straining against the simple weight of her own arm, and grabbed the pack. She pulled out a cold, chemically-scented wipe.
Carefully, deliberately, she began to wipe down the plastic casing of the IV pump attached to the bedrail. She scrubbed the digital screen. she wiped down the metal pole holding the saline bag. She focused entirely on the action, channeling her intent into the mundane task. This is my shield. I am maintaining my shield.
She watched the corner of her vision, holding her breath.
A minute passed. Then two.
A small, golden ping sounded in her mind.
[Task 2 Initiated: Armaments Maintenance. Progress: 5%]
Maya let out a breathless laugh. It worked. The System accepted the metaphor. She didn't need to be scrubbing broadswords in a freezing Otherworld courtyard; she just needed to maintain the tools keeping her alive.
She settled in, meticulously wiping every inch of the IV stand, the bedrails, and the plastic casing of her telemetry monitor. It was incredibly boring, and her right arm began to ache after ten minutes, but she kept going. She couldn't afford a ten percent stat penalty. If her Vigor dropped back to a 4.5, she might end up back in the ICU.
Thirty minutes later, the final wipe was grey with institutional dust, and the golden interface flared triumphantly.
[Task 2 Complete: Armaments Maintenance.] [Reward: +5% Durability to all equipped items for 24 hours.]
She tossed the dirty wipe into the small plastic trash can by the bed. One down. Two to go.
Now, she just needed to figure out how to perform an act of common chivalry while bedridden on the fourth floor, and survive another brutal beating from a ghost knight without the hospital staff realising she was effectively dead to the world.
The afternoon sun cut through the large window of Room 442, casting long, sharp-edged geometric shadows across the faded linoleum floor. Dust motes drifted lazily in the beams of light, completely indifferent to the anxieties of the people breathing them in.
Maya lay perfectly still for a few minutes, listening. The corridor outside was a steady stream of muffled activity—the clatter of a dietary cart, the low hum of a conversation between two doctors, the distinct ding of the elevator arriving at the floor. No one was hovering right outside her door.
Slowly, she reached into the deep, scratchy pocket of her hospital gown. Her fingers brushed the cool, smooth glass of the empty Draught vial and the stiff paper band holding the hundred dollars together. She couldn't keep them in her gown. A nurse helping her change, or her mother simply doing laundry, would discover them immediately.
"Okay," Maya muttered, her breath hitching slightly as she pushed herself up onto her left elbow.
Eleanor had left the plastic shopping bag with Maya's belongings resting on the edge of the empty 'B' bed, about three feet away. To a normal person, it was a negligible distance. To Maya, fighting the oppressive gravity of a Might stat sitting at a pathetic 3, it felt like a canyon.
She gritted her teeth, ignoring the warning flutter of her telemetry monitor, and leaned over the metal bedrail. She stretched her right arm out, her shoulder joint popping audibly. Her fingertips just barely grazed the plastic handles of the bag. She took a shallow breath, strained a fraction of an inch further, and hooked her index finger through the loop.
With a soft, pathetic grunt of effort, she dragged the bag across the gap and onto her own mattress. Her arm was trembling violently by the time she let go.
She rummaged through the bag one-handed. It contained a pair of worn grey sweatpants, a faded band t-shirt, some underwear, and a pair of thick, fuzzy winter socks. Maya rolled the wad of cash tightly, shoved it deep into the toe of the left sock, and tucked the glass vial into the right. She buried the socks at the very bottom of the bag, underneath the sweatpants, and pushed the whole thing onto the bedside table.
She collapsed back against the pillows, a cold sweat breaking out across her forehead.
Just as her heart rate began to settle back into a normal rhythm, the heavy wooden door to the room swung open, bumping loudly against the rubber wallstop.
"Alright, bring her in. Watch the IV stand, Ricky, the wheel always catches on the threshold."
A nurse Maya didn't recognize—a frazzled-looking woman in her late forties with her hair tied in a messy bun—backed into the room, pulling the front end of a hospital stretcher. An orderly guided the back.
Maya immediately shifted closer to the window, pulling her knees up slightly, making herself small.
On the stretcher lay a young woman, maybe twenty or twenty-one years old. Her dark hair was matted with dried blood and sweat. A thick, bulky fiberglass splint encased her left arm from the knuckles all the way to the bicep. The right side of her face was a swollen canvas of deep purples and angry yellows, her eye completely swollen shut.
But it was her good eye that drew Maya's attention. It was wide, bloodshot, and darting around the room with the frantic, untethered panic of a trapped animal.
"Okay, on three," the orderly said, locking the stretcher against the 'B' bed. "One, two, three."
They shifted her over. The young woman let out a sharp, strangled gasp of pain as her injured shoulder took the movement, her good hand gripping the thin stretcher sheet so hard her knuckles were stark white.
"I know, honey, I know. Almost done," the nurse said, her tone professional but entirely lacking the warm, maternal comfort Carla possessed. She was clearly overworked, already looking at the monitor to plug in the leads. "Ricky, grab her belongings bag from the foot of the stretcher."
The orderly reached down, but his grip was clumsy. The thin, translucent plastic bag, stamped with the hospital logo, slipped from his fingers. It hit the linoleum floor.
A cheap, battered flip-phone slid out, skittering across the smooth floor and coming to a rest perfectly equidistant between the two beds, just out of arm's reach from either mattress.
The young woman violently flinched at the sound. She turned her head, her good eye locking onto the phone. "My... my phone," she choked out. Her voice was raspy, laced with a heavy Queens accent and thick with unshed tears. "I need my phone."
"I'll get it in a second," the nurse said, not looking down, her fingers flying across the digital keypad of the vital monitor. "I need to get your baseline established first. You're tachycardic."
"No, please," the young woman pleaded, trying to roll onto her right side, her injured arm awkwardly dragging across her chest. "My brother... he was working a shift at the docks. He doesn't know what happened. He doesn't know I'm here. He's going to go to the apartment—"
"Miss, do not try to sit up," the nurse interrupted, her voice gaining a sharp, authoritative edge. "You have a hairline fracture in your collarbone and a severe concussion. If you displace that bone, you are going back to surgery. Ricky, secure her shoulder."
The orderly stepped forward, gently but firmly pressing a hand against the woman's uninjured shoulder to pin her back to the mattress.
"Let me go!" the young woman sobbed, the sheer adrenaline and terror finally breaking through her shock. "Please! Those guys, they said they knew where I lived. They said—"
Maya watched the scene unfold. Her Courtly Etiquette skill, though labeled as a diplomatic tool, fired its passive analysis directly into her brain. She read the girl's body language not as a medical patient, but as a combatant assessing a battlefield. The rigid spine. The hyperventilation. The desperate, obsessive focus on the phone.
This wasn't just a mugging gone wrong. The girl was terrified that whoever had broken her arm was going to be waiting at her apartment when her brother got home from work.
The System prompt hovered like a ghost in Maya's peripheral vision. Perform one act of "Common Chivalry."
Maya looked at her own IV pole. The saline bag dripped steadily. Her telemetry box was securely clipped to the breast of her gown.
Arthur's rational mind calculated the risk: If you fall, you tear the IV out. You draw attention. You break the illusion of the quiet, recovering patient.
But Maya's heart—the newly reinforced one—gave a steady, stubborn thud. Chivalry wasn't about convenience. It was about stepping into the gap when someone else couldn't.
Maya slowly pushed the blanket off her legs.
She swung her bare feet over the side of the mattress. The linoleum was freezing. She grabbed the heavy metal pole of the IV stand with her right hand, using it to anchor her weight as she pushed herself to a stand.
Her thighs burned instantly. Her vision swam, the room blurring at the edges. Vigor 5. She forced herself to breathe slowly, in through the nose, out through the mouth, commanding the oxygen to reach her muscles.
She took a slow, shuffling step forward. The wheels of the IV pole gave a quiet squeak.
"Hey," Nurse Davis snapped, finally looking up from the monitor. "What are you doing out of bed? You're a cardiac transfer."
Maya ignored her. She took another step, closing the distance to the center of the room. The physical toll of the movement was staggering, a heavy pressure building behind her sternum, but she kept her face entirely blank, masking the effort.
She reached the spot where the flip-phone lay on the floor.
Bending down was the hardest part. She couldn't squat—her knees wouldn't support the tension. Instead, she locked her legs and bent at the waist, her left hand clutching her hospital gown, her right hand white-knuckling the IV pole. She felt a dangerous, pulling stretch in her lower back as she reached her left hand down, her fingertips brushing the plastic casing of the phone.
She scooped it up and slowly, agonizingly, straightened her spine.
Maya took one final step toward the 'B' bed. The orderly, Ricky, had stepped back, staring at her with wide, surprised eyes. The young woman on the bed was looking up at her, tears tracking through the dirt and bruising on her face.
Maya held the phone out.
"Call him," Maya said softly, her voice carrying a quiet, unshakable authority that felt entirely foreign to her throat, yet perfectly natural.
The young woman reached out with a trembling, blood-stained hand and took the phone. She clutched it to her chest like a lifeline. "Thank you," she whispered, a ragged, wet sound. "Thank you so much."
Maya offered a small, curt nod. She didn't have the breath to say "you're welcome." She turned, gripping her IV pole, and began the slow, torturous shuffle back to her own bed.
Nurse Davis stood frozen by the monitor for a second before shaking her head, letting out an exasperated sigh. "You kids are going to give me a heart attack. Get back in that bed before I page your attending."
Maya reached her mattress and let gravity do the rest, collapsing backward onto the pillows. She dragged her legs up, her chest heaving, the portable monitor attached to her gown letting out a brief series of rapid, unhappy chirps before settling.
As she lay there, staring at the acoustic ceiling tiles and waiting for the burning in her legs to subside, a brilliant, warm light flooded her vision. The golden knotwork of the Avalon Protocol flared to life, more vibrant than before.
[Task 3 Complete: The Knight's Errant] [Condition Assessed: The Host endured physical detriment to aid an unprotected civilian.]
[Reward: +10 Renown EXP] [Bonus Acquired: The Spirit of Avalon recognizes true intent. Renown gain doubled.] [Renown Level: Novice (25/100)]
The interface chimed again, the sound like a distant, silver bell.
[Daily Routine Completed.] [Reward: Daily System Box added to Inventory.]
Maya closed her eyes, a genuine, exhausted smile touching the corners of her mouth. She had done it. Against all odds, trapped in a failing body under constant medical surveillance, she had cleared the board for the day.
From the other side of the privacy curtain, which Ricky the orderly was mercifully pulling shut to give the new patient some dignity, Maya heard the soft, rapid clicking of the flip-phone keypad.
"Mateo? Yeah, it's me," the young woman's voice drifted through the thick fabric, trembling but grounded. "I'm okay. I'm at Metro-General. Don't go to the apartment. Mateo, listen to me, do not go to the apartment..."
Maya let the sound of the girl's voice wash over her. She had bought that girl peace of mind. She had bought her brother's safety. It was a tiny ripple in a massive, terrifying universe, but it felt solid. It felt real.
The heavy door opened again.
"I found it," William's voice announced, slightly breathless. "They didn't have it in the cafeteria, so I had to jog down to the bodega on the corner, but I got the exact kind you asked for."
Maya opened her eyes and turned her head. Her father was standing at the foot of her bed, holding up a dark brown wrapper with gold lettering. He looked ridiculously proud of himself, completely oblivious to the quiet drama that had just unfolded in the room.
"Thanks, Dad," Maya said, her voice soft but entirely sincere.
William stepped forward, placing the chocolate bar on her rolling table. He looked over his shoulder at the drawn privacy curtain, hearing the low murmur of the girl on the phone. "New roommate?" he asked quietly.
"Yeah," Maya nodded. "Rough day."
"Well," William sighed, sitting down in the guest chair and running a hand through his hair. "At least it's quiet in here now. You want me to open that for you?"
"No, I'm good." Maya reached out and grabbed the chocolate bar. She broke off a square, the sharp snap of the dark chocolate echoing in the quiet space on her side of the curtain. She popped it into her mouth, letting the rich, bitter cocoa melt on her tongue. It was infinitely better than the beef broth.
She had her fuel. She had her cover story.
She looked out the large window at the Queens skyline. The sun was beginning its slow descent, the sharp afternoon light softening into a hazy, golden hour glow.
Nine hours until reset, she thought, the phantom weight of Sir Percy's wooden sword already resting heavily in her palms. Sleep well, old man. Because tonight, I'm not dropping my sword.