Archibald
Dr. Eugene Archibald sat on a tall wooden stool in the center of his modest office. Afternoon light filtered through the glass windows onto his perfectly pressed white coat. His pleasant smile never wavered as he examined the young girl’s inflamed throat. She sat upon the examination table in the middle of the room, anxious, her concerned parents hovering annoyingly nearby. Archibald pressed the girl’s tongue down with a wooden spatula, feigning careful consideration of what he’d diagnosed the moment she walked in.
“Mhm,” Archibald muttered with practiced concern. “Just as I thought: a simple case of beezlebox.” He turned to the parents. “It’s been spreading around lately. One moment.”
Archibald stood and approached the meticulously organized apothecary cabinet nestled in the corner of the office. If only those inept breeders would keep their offspring’s dirty fingers out of orifices. Oh well, healing paid the bills. He selected a small jar of ground herbs and handed the remedy to the parents, their relief palpable. Archibald bristled as the mother’s fingers brushed against his, but he managed to hide his disgust and deftly wiped his hand against his coat.
“Have her take a pinch and keep it between her gum and cheek,” he instructed. “It’ll numb the throat and promote healing. When it wears off, spit it out and replace it with another pinch on the opposite side to avoid mouth sores.”
“Thank you, Dr. Archibald!” The parents gushed, their gratitude practically suffocating him.
“Never you mind,” he replied, ushering them out of his office with subtle urgency. “It’s a pleasure to help!”
“My bill collector will visit you in a day or two,” he added as they left. Archibald flipped the sign outside his door to ‘closed’ and shut it behind the gratuitous family, muffling the general din and cacophony of hooves and carts clattering against the brick street beyond.
The doctor sighed with exhaustion, his benevolent mask replaced with contempt. He strode around his desk and flopped into the cushioned chair, kneading his temples.
The parade of ill and infirm were finally gone.
Their desperate clinging to life exhausted him. Sometimes, he helped them live; sometimes, he helped them…disappear—whichever best served his purposes. The girl would’ve been perfect for his latest experiment, but her damned worrisome parents…If only. No matter.
After allowing himself a moment’s respite, he slid his chair back and flipped up the rug beneath his desk, revealing a secret hatch. The doctor pulled it open and descended, fixing the rug and closing the hatch behind him. Archibald entered a long, torch-lit underground passage, digesting his day and contemplating his experiments as his leather loafered footsteps echoed against the stone bricks.
Eventually, he reached the end: a solid steel door. Archibald unlocked it and entered the vast chamber beyond. Its walls were lined with chained specimens—former patients now serving a higher purpose. Their moans created a haunting symphony as he surveyed his laboratory. Tables and carts filled with dirty utensils were strewn about the dank dungeon. In the center, his latest subject remained splayed on the operating table, blood and viscera pooling on the floor below.
Rage erupted in Archibald’s chest.
“Igor!” He bellowed, his thunderous voice booming against the stone walls. A side door creaked open, revealing a servant—a patchwork masterpiece of the doctor’s horrible creation. Igor limped forward on mismatched feet, one from a dwarf, the other from a gnome, each lurching step a testament to Dr. Eugene Archibald’s incredible genius. The poor, disfigured creature’s long tunic was similarly patchworked, swaying as he hobbled to his maker.
This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.
“Yes, Doctor?” The bald, hunched thing rasped from his sewn-together throat.
“I thought I told you to dispose of this body.” Archibald gestured toward the operating table.
“Yes, my apologies, Doctor,” Igor said, his uneven head hanging low. “I’ll see to it immediately.”
“Honestly,” Archibald huffed, settling at one of his desks. “I don’t know why I bothered constructing you.”
“Doctor?” Igor called hesitantly.
“What?” The word cracked like a whip.
“The restraints are still locked.”
Archibald’s sigh carried years of suffering incompetence. He couldn’t be bothered to unlock them.
“Simply remove the hands and feet,” he directed, dismissing Igor with a slight wave.
“Yes, Doctor.”
Archibald ignored the squelching sounds behind him as he searched his desk for something to stave off his growing headache.
FWUMP!
Igor dragged the corpse away, adding fresh gore to the dried trails that marked his regular path to the incinerator. Igor slammed the door shut behind him, sending pain lancing through Archibald’s skull—that imbecile.
Finally, he found it: a small vial of blue, sparkling liquid. He unstopped it, drained it in one swallow, and set the empty vial on his desk. Archibald didn’t have to wait long for the magical potation to take effect. As the pain receded, gleeful anticipation built within him. This was the part of his day that never felt like labor.
The doctor studied his wall collection and selected a drugged halfling. He called for his servants.
“Vanessa! Geraldine!”
Two sullen females entered, a young red-skinned tiefling and an older, dark-skinned elf dressed in identical raggedy, stained dresses.
At Archibald’s direction, the servants removed the semi-conscious subject from the wall and secured him to the operating table. Archibald ordered for a stool before dismissing them and began his work with a precise incision across the halfling’s abdomen.
The doctor hummed contentedly, savoring his subject’s melodious screams as he explored the halfling’s internal architecture.
Long after the subject had expired, the scent of brimstone interrupted Archibald’s concentration. He whirled, searching for the source. Only the wall-mounted sconces burned.
“Damn it,” Archibald murmured, knowing what the odor heralded.
FWOOM!
Flames erupted within the chamber, revealing a red-skinned devil. His empty eye sockets sat beneath curved, black horns, one of which was missing a rather large chunk. He wore an expensive velvet ensemble that stretched across his muscled frame.
“Wallace,” Archibald sighed, his voice mixed with resignation and irritation as he resumed his work. “You know our arrangement—no eyes unless I get what I want.”
“Is this how you greet all your friends?” Wallace’s voice dripped with sweet malice, his hollow sockets boring into the doctor.
“Devils don’t have friends,” Archibald replied flatly. “You taught me that. State your purpose.”
“I have something more valuable to offer.”
“I doubt that.”
“Information,” Wallace said coolly as he strode about the room. “Information that could save your life.”
“And you’re offering it out of the goodness of your heart?”
Wallace chuckled.
“We have such a profitable relationship,” the devil replied. “I’d hate to see all your hard work go to waste. Nobody with your unequivocal genius possesses your…moral flexibility. Trust me, I’ve searched.”
“Flattery is a worthless currency,” Archibald retorted, probing deeper into the halfling’s chest cavity.
“Death is worth even less,” Wallace countered. “It concerns Victor.”
The doctor's hands stilled.
“What about him?”
“He’s searching for you.”
“Of course he is. I sent him out on an assignment some time ago, and the idiot failed to return before we moved. He’ll come back eventually; he must.”
“Indubitably.” Wallace smiled.
Archibald studied the devil suspiciously. Wallace raised an obsidian claw.
“One eye.”
Archibald considered it carefully—life-threatening information involving Victor. What could it be? Of course, the Doctor expected all his servants to harbor useless hatred toward him, but they couldn’t possibly harm him. The magical constraints wouldn’t allow it. Was the information worth an eye? The procedure was simple enough.
“Very well,” Archibald eventually conceded. “But you first.”
Wallace materialized before the doctor in a burst of flame. Crackling dark energy and flames curled around their clasped hands. The infernal pact was sealed.
“Victor is no longer bound to you,” Wallace revealed with a smile, releasing the doctor.
Archibald’s blood ran cold.
“He’s coming to kill you,” Wallace continued, his face contorting with sickening, diabolic glee.
“What do you mean?” Archibald tried to stifle the terrified warble in his voice. “How? How is he free?”
“That information will cost you another eye,” Wallace replied firmly. “AFTER you’ve installed the first one. Prepare your instruments; you’ll operate in my home again.”
Dr. Archibald grit his teeth, his mind racing.
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