“Auto doc, is such a crude term, don’t you process? I jest, be at ease patients, you are in capable manipulators.” The men and women of the order of the road cringed in abject horror, more than once had their order been called upon to decomission such a protocol, each time because of the same reason. Outdated equipment running obsolete analytics, with poor self diagnostics. Causing auto docs to operate without anesthetics, or worse. ” I refuse treatment! I repeat; I refuse treatment!” Dame Spriggott nearly screached her protest, ignoring her injuries just so the protocol might be tricked into thinking she was fine, it should work, it had worked before on medical protocols of the more recent Framework series. “Please patient 5461, cease your overly strenuous activities! You will merely agitate your injuries. Also if you feel the need to prove my thesis please do so in a more creative manner.” Terror gripped her mind, this protocol was more advanced than the newer and more widely used protocols, as she tried to find a way around that she realised it had ignored her refusal, hence it must be running on broken coding, grasping at straws she asked the first thing that came to mind. ” What thesis?” A syringe came into view as medical protocol Holm answered. “Everybody lies, especially when their health or well being is concerned. It is why I never consult records or databases, each diagnosis stands fresh, with no bias towards presumed prior mallfunctions, every examination is a full one.” The sting of the needle was followed by a dull ache. “Worry not 5461, I have learned much about alternative healing, and we have the parts, we can rebuild you.” With those words her world went dark .
Her world was pain, hot and cold alike, a deep tearing pain. Her world was also stench, ozone, burnt flesh, and sewage were it’s smells. In contrast her world was dark, yet filled with distant muted sounds, pleasantly rounded tones as if someone spoke with a deep and heavy voice, rounded off by decades of speaking. From far away she could hear her father’s voice, a wicked sneer as he yelled at her to get up, the enemy something or another, the deep voice was nicer to listen to, less demanding too. Cripa therefore ignored her father’s voice, and drifted at the edge of life, or death depending on how one looks at it, untill her world became dull, and of a more consistent temperature. After that she fell asleep, a real sleep with dreams rather than being unconscious.
It had taken him literal hours, but at long last he had finished finding and reading the most adequate manual for his current predicament. And so it was with a smile that Sir Tor pocketed his copy of: “distressed damsels, and how to deal with them.” Before carefully picking his damsel up in his arms and properly bringing her to the nearest medical facility known to him, the only hitch in that brilliant plan was that he only really knew of one such place, and that was back on the Sword of Damocles.