A Gamer's Guide To Beating The Tutorial

“Has anyone told you that you could’ve been a drakekeep, doctor? Even Charm’s like wax in your hands!” Lent comments as he accepts the reins from Moleman, smiling broadly. His eyes briefly move to my own hands, before returning to Moleman’s. He hums. “Those are hands, yes?”

“Oh, yes,” Moleman says, his voice a little high, like it usually is when he’s lost in his own thoughts. “Hands. That’s what we have.”

Lent pauses, one hand on Charm’s side. A frown deepens the wrinkles around his face. “Everything alright there, doctor?”

“Yes, yes. Why wouldn’t I be? That is, why wouldn’t it be?”

Lent’s eyes narrow in suspicion. “You seem a bit haggard, that’s all. Mayor’s got you working like a dog, is he?”

“No, not at all,” Moleman says, but the smile on his face contradicts him. Tut, tut, Moleman. Aren’t you the one who told me not to lie? Ah, but he also told me some lying is necessary on account of society. “I’m just a little tired, that’s all.”

“So rest then,” Lent suggests helpfully.

Moleman’s mechanical smile turns strained. But he’s not allowed to assault people, so instead, he just says, “Thanks, I’ll try my best.”

And as for me, I’d probably be a fair bit more invested in all of this if it weren’t for the scent I’m picking up on Lent. A scent I really don’t have to make any comment on. In a couple of weeks or so, it won’t matter. So, there’s really no reason to mention it. None whatsoever.

In the corner of my eye, Lent hunches over and coughs into his hand, eventually hacking up a near-solid blob of yellowish mucus. Like the man of class he is, he wipes it directly on his overalls, a display disgusting enough to make Moleman lose his smile briefly.

“You don’t seem too alright yourself, Lent,” Moleman comments humorously.

“Huh? Oh, no, this is… Heh, well, figured you’d pick up on it, doctor. But it’s really nothing bad. I had a cough like this when I was younger, went away when I got married, so it’s just a returning thing. Nothing for a man like yourself to worry about.”

And in the same way he’s looked at me so many times, the same way he looks at patients and the same way he looks at friends, he smiles lightly at Lent, and says, with care warming his voice and shining through his eyes, “Sure, but make sure to come in if you feel any worse, okay? Ask for Sully and I’m sure you’ll be—”

“It’s dragon plague,” I say.

Moleman’s jaws snap together with an audible clack. Lent, for his own part, stares at me blankly before being able to squeeze out a chuckle. “Now, now, mister assistant, I may not have been at the speech or anything, but I know what the latest plague is called. I’d rather you didn’t make jokes like that.”

But Moleman knows better. He turns to me, brows pinched in dismay, and for one, he looks his age. “What do you mean?” Is that a frown I see tugging at the corner of his lip? “What are you trying to say, Kitty?”

I direct my steady gaze at Lent. “You have dragon plague.” Next, to Moleman. “He should probably be laid in for observation.” Moleman looks as though he’s about to correct me, but I quickly explain my piece. In a grand effort to keep the real reason under wraps, I tell a half-truth: he smells a whole lot like the rats do. Just a feeling. Nothing more, nothing less. Lent rejects it, of course, but Moleman knows better than to doubt me on olfactory matters. However, with Lent as our only stablemaster and Moleman too kind to forcefully put him in, Lent narrowly avoids being administered. Good for him. I supported him a little by saying I could smell that he wasn’t infective yet, so until I drop that, he’s safe.

And unlike what I expected, he actually remains that way for a fair while. Over a week passes without him getting noticeably worse, aside from his cough turning slimier and his overall gait being marked by a slight limp. He didn’t seem to mind it, so unless he’d gotten that all-too-noticeable fever, I’d say there’s a pretty fair chance he would rather have passed out right in the stables than go to the hospital. But by the time he got that bad, he wasn’t in any place to fight back as Moleman and I dragged him into the new dragon plague ward.

He got a bed, room, boarding, and two full meals every day, all for free! Part of his insurance, I’m told. And with him so close to hand, we’re able to observe him even closer. I don’t care all that much about how the disease progresses, but Moleman is more than anxious to know the steps, so I follow along by principle.

Aside from the first stage, which is basically a cold without the fever, it’s a pretty debilitating thing. It didn’t take long before he could barely even walk on his own. The muscles in his neck and back also deteriorated until he could hardly keep his own head up. Breathing became difficult, and speaking took every inch of his willpower.

Passing into December, Moleman started spending more and more time observing Lent.

Part of his justification was to teach me how to better smell each part of the disease’s development, but I know better. If he’d left Lent alone for too long, he would’ve felt guilty. As it was, he was already blaming himself for not having him forcefully administered from the start. Neither I nor Lent could convince him of the futility of such thoughts. His wife and children didn’t blame Moleman either, but he still lowered his head to them anytime they visited.

Lent himself mainly seemed anxious to get back to working, which I can’t fault him for. The drakes were currently being handled by Plus and Rat. They’re doing a fairly good job from what I’ve heard, not that it’s put Lent’s mind at ease or anything. But it’s better than nothing.

By this point, thankfully, he can’t really raise objections anymore.

“And how is he?”

Both Moleman and I turn to Benevil as he saunters closer to Lent’s bed, closely followed by Mitt and Pinn. The two kids, now more than used to how this goes, scramble to Lent’s side to check his pulse and temperature. Moleman smiles at them before returning his attention to Benevil. “I can’t say he’s better, unfortunately.”

“Same as yesterday, then?”

“No, with the ways things are developing…” He turns to look at me, and I respond to his unspoken command by catching Benevil’s gaze.

“It’s doubtful he’ll improve—ever,” I say in Moleman’s stead. Lent himself is fast asleep as he often is nowadays, so it’s fine.

Benevil’s gentle expression doesn’t change even a smidge. “I see. And how long would you say he has?”

“Well, patients who came in in the state he is now lasted maybe… A week or so? It’s difficult to know. His fingers have started to turn black and he’s almost completely paralyzed, so he’s clearly starting to enter the final stage. But whether this last part will last a few days or a week is difficult to tell.”

“But you feel certain that he…?”

“Yes,” I answer easily. If it was my choice, it might even be good to empty the bed to make space for someone who might have a chance of recovery. “By this point, only a heart could save him.”

“Do we have any current donors?”

In the corner of my vision, I notice Moleman making a face. I try my best to ignore it. “Unfortunately, no. Most people with dragon plague refuse to donate until they feel certain they’re terminal—” which is a bit dumb since we’ve yet to have a single person recover from this thing, ”—at which point they are often unable to consent due to paralysis, coma, etcetera. Which is why I, again, think that we should just—”

But now, I can no longer pretend not to see the look on Moleman’s face. A look that tells me without words not to bring up my coma-equals-consent plan again. Which is… fine. Benevil knows what I was suggesting, not that he can refuse Moleman either.

“It is important to the continued functioning of the hospital that Lent should recover. However, we cannot go against our principles to make it happen.”

I kind of want to argue, if only because principles shouldn’t stand before human lives. On the other hand… I don’t really care. So, I shrug, and that’s that.

We discuss Lent a little bit further, specifically in regards to possibly amputating his fingers and toes to keep the spread contained. But if he were to recover against all reason and logic, being fingerless would make it impossible for him to work again, not to mention possible complications. So, rejected. Then we talk about other patients, other things happening, other important events…

“Has he replied yet?” Benevil asks while he gives routine care to one of the comatose patients.

Moleman, helping him, frowns slightly. “Yeah. He did.”

“And?”

“He… accepted.”

“He did? That’s great! So, should anything happen to the mayor, you’ll be working in his stead?”

Considering how important this has been to Moleman, it’s a little surprising to find him frowning so deeply. “Yeah. But it’s not like we want something to happen to him, and even if it did and I took over, there’s no guarantee that people will listen to me just because the king’s on my side. The mayor was far from supportive, and the people really like him, so one word from him and nothing I say will matter anyway.”

“I think you might be a little pessimistic. You’ll do great! Assuming something happens to him, that is. And even if they don’t like you… what does that matter if you end the plague and keep casualties to a minimum?” Benevil pats Moleman on the back. “You’ll do great.”

Moleman musters a smile. I think that’s the first one I’ve seen all day. “Thanks.”

To that, Benevil simply smiles. I think he might have tossed a look my way, but I’m in no position to return it. Personally, I would love to sneak a diseased rat into the mayor’s bedpan and watch Moleman gain the power to fully ensure the plague doesn’t spread too much further. But… no. Not yet. It’s too early, so it’ll have to wait. Only a few thousand are sick with dragon plague, and most haven’t even started showing symptoms yet. Besides, for now, the mayor is actually being kind of okay. He did refuse to do a full-scale quarantine again, and he’s being purposefully lax with the rationing, and he occasionally refuses to hear Moleman at all, but other than that, he’s fine.

“Oh, and before I forget,” Benevil continues, “I hear your birthday’s coming up. The sixth, isn’t that right?”

“No, it’s…” Pausing, Moleman furrows his brows in thought, most likely trying to remember what day in the goblin calendar today is, and to what day in the human calendar it corresponds to. Being such a clever fella, he soon finds his answer. “Yes—yes, the sixth.”

“Tomorrow, then?”

“It is.” Expertly reading Benevil’s unsaid question, Moleman quickly continues. “Celebrations will be tomorrow at six, at the mayor’s estate. You are most welcome—as are Mitt and Pinn. There will be other children, and plenty of toys to play with.”

“Oh, wonderful! I was afraid you might have tried to avoid hosting any sort of party, on account of the circumstances in the city and everything.”

A defeated look briefly passes Moleman’s face. “I intended to, but in the end, my pleas went unheard. All I can do now is try to keep the food consumption to a minimum.” A meaningful look is sent my way, which I accept with bravery. I haven’t eaten actual food since the rationing began, so there’s really no need to tell me again, but his thought process is good. “Your presence would doubtlessly be a delight, and I would love for you to come.”

“Charmer. Well, how could I possibly refuse? Am I right that you are also prone to gift-giving as part of the birthday festivities? Because if so, I will bring you something quite delightful, indeed.”

“I’m glad to hear it, and I’ll look forward to seeing you there.”

They chat for a bit more, and then we do the final few patients for the day and start heading home. It’s gotten a bit difficult to get anywhere what with it being late December, especially because of all the snow. It’s stacked in piles here and there, the daily snow-shovellers hardly being able to keep up with demand as it seems to snow every other day. You’d think that most Swedes would be used to this ungodly amount of snow, but that’s only northern Swedes. The two of us are strictly southern Swedes. Snow is a rarity down in Skåne, with the frozen days more so marked by a grayish, dirty slush than any actual snow. So, the snow is nice! Since we got it, I’ve made snowangels, snowmen, snowlanterns, snowforts… Everything. Each time I do it I’ve done it in a park, and each time I’d get surrounded by kids who wanted to join in. Moleman seemed apprehensive about it at first, but by now, he’s gotten used to it. We even had a snowball fight once where Moleman got roped in, though he totally cheated by using his crystal ball to make the snowballs unable to hit him. I plowed him in the face for that one.

But there will be no such playing today. Tomorrow is Moleman’s birthday! Specifically, it’s in seven hours. I have much to do. So, once we get home, I waste no time barricading myself in our shared room and refusing Moleman entry. He’s got food to eat, and what I’m about to make is entirely confidential!

Alright. I’ve got the leather, I’ve got the handprint I stole from him in his sleep, I’ve got all my tools and things…

It’s time.