Tori Scarlen

Dad... jeez. Why does there have to be a connection with Dad? I can’t honestly say I know much about him, but he’s from Germany. At least I think so. He never talked much about his past. The doctors and nurses he works with love him. A hearty man at 6’5”, he’s a drinker, a laugher, and a hospitable guy. His giant bushy eyebrows hide the squinty blue eyes that sparkled with interest and precision, and his beard couldn’t be matched by anything on this Earth. He looks more like an old bartender or a baker that has been doing it for generations, rather than a surgeon who’s fresh off the exams, but he’s great at what he does. Still brazen and outspoken at 53, he’s a great guy, tough as nails, and his mind is sharp as the German zweihänder he has hanging on the mantle. Dad loves his ancient weaponry, wherever it came from. His huge collection of bows, arrows, swords, maces, shields, axes, and poles, bladed or otherwise, could outfit an army, albeit an army the size of the community’s German population. There are plenty of Germans here. But his favorite weapon, the only weapon he has never shown to anyone outside of the family, is a spear. Much longer than your average spear, the shaft is a pearly wood that never seemed to rot or need shining. The shaft is tipped in an intricate gold inlay at the base, and a similar swirling pattern in the setting of the spearhead. The spearhead itself was about six inches long, an inch thick, and three inches wide, and appeared to be made of a gold alloy that was a sharp as steel. He never used it, and the only thing I ever see him do with it is stare for long periods of time, like he missed what it represented.

“Hello.” The girl walking in was almost definitely not whoever she claimed she was. I bent over and put my hands across my chest, raising my eyebrows to get a better look. “Tori Scarlen, yes? Vhat is it you wanted?” The thick cultivated accent came out naturally after years of practice.

“I need to ask, sir. Who are you, really?”

I look at my son in the back of the room, as confused as the last time I showed him how a flintlock pistol worked. He didn’t understand gunpowder at all, really. I took the girl to the side and said over her shoulder “Son, leave and close the door. This is private. Patient confidentiality and all zat.” He closed the door as he left, and I turned my attention back to the girl, dropping the ridiculous accent.

“I don’t know if you remember me or not, girl, but I remember you.”

She looked startled. “You know me?”

“Yes. I will never forget you, because I cannot. You see, I know what your problem is.” I place a hopefully reassuring hand on her shoulder, my massive palm wrapping around it easily. “And I can fix it, Twilight Sparkle.”

I heft the body easily and walk out the room, with my son and the nurses staring in horror, of course, dumping it in the car. As  I drive off, I wonder what in Tartarus I’m supposed to do with her.