An imaginary glass shattered somewhere in the distance as the boys did a double take.
"For crying out loud—" Seth muttered flatly, eyebrows folding into a frown. "You got us all worked up for candy sticks? Are you serious right now?"
Helen didn't even look at him. She plucked one of the pops out by its stick and turned it over in her gloved hand, its faint light glimmering against her tired eyes.
"These," she began, "are called Heal-Me Pops. And before you start screaming sugar conspiracy—no, they're not ordinary sweets."
That earned her a "huh?" from Zev, who looked both confused and mildly enchanted.
"They're personalized restorative doses," she continued, setting the pop down carefully. "They react to the resonance signature of the person they're made for. The recipe forms based on a full spectrum read from your blood samples: energy balance, emotional output, Imprint saturation, plus a dozen other things I won't bore you with."
Zach tilted his head, faint amusement flickering in his eyes. "So basically… edible medicine?"
"More or less," Helen said dryly. "A fast-acting one that doesn't taste like socks."
She leaned back slightly, folding her hands. "Once you ingest it, the compound targets whatever strain your body's under—physical, Imprint, or psychological—and speeds up regeneration accordingly. The effect lasts about three to five hours depending on the dose. Mild dizziness after that is normal."
Zev's eyes widened a little. "S–So basically they're, like, painkillers that actually taste good??"
Helen almost smiled. "If that helps you sleep at night, sure."
Then her tone shifted, "But before you get any ideas… Heal-Me Pops are bind-locked. That means each one is tagged to your resonance signature. They're yours and yours alone. If someone else tries to take it, it turns to inert glass at best—and at worst, causes severe internal backlash. Your Imprint would suffer for it."
Seth's expression twisted into a scowl, but even he didn't try to interrupt this time.
"They also have a shelf life," she added. "Six hours outside the infirmary. After that, they crumble into harmless dust. Cooldown is twelve hours minimum before a second dose. Any more and your system starts rejecting them."
She drummed her fingers lightly on the desk, as though to punctuate the next words.
"In short: no sharing, no hoarding, no idiotic experimentation. These are designed to help you recover, not turn you into glowing cautionary tales."
A flicker of guilt crossed Zev's face, though he wasn't sure why. Zach just looked vaguely entertained. Seth grumbled under his breath, something about "stupid over-regulated candy."
Helen ignored him, reaching for the small list clipped to her board. "Now then. Since I actually value order, let's go in the same order you wrecked each other."
Her gaze landed on Seth first.
"You," she said simply.
Seth's jaw tightened. "What about me?"
"Your pop targets the aftermath of that little stunt. Burn fatigue, marrow ache, and the fractures you earned from your display of poor judgment."
Her eyes narrowed faintly. "I should blacklist you for attempting to activate your Imprint without clearance. That's a violation of ethical code and an endangerment clause. You're lucky I'm merciful when I'm tired."
Seth opened his mouth, clearly ready to argue, but one look from her and the words died in his throat.
"If you ever try something that reckless again," she said, voice soft but laced with warning, "I'll revoke your right to medical support for the term. You can knit your own bones next time. You're good at that, after all."
Seth swallowed hard. "...Understood."
"Good boy," came her dry rejoinder.
She moved down the list, her eyes falling on Zach. "You already have above-average regeneration," she said. "Still, your pop will reinforce it—medium analgesic, mild tissue recovery, and an anti-loop stabilizer for residual stress."
Her eyes lingered on him for a fraction longer than necessary. "You heal faster than most 'ghost people' I've treated. That must be a trait that runs deep."
Seth's frown was immediate and open. 'Ghost people? The hell is she talking about? Is that some kind of code word for something else?'
His nosiness spiked.
Meanwhile, Zach's lips twitched upward. The silence that followed was heavy enough to unnerve. Helen caught herself before she said more, a flicker of tension passing between them. Then she cleared her throat and continued briskly.
"And lastly—" her gaze softened, "Zev."
Zev straightened like a deer caught mid-chew.
"Y-Yes, ma'am?"
"Yours is the mildest," she explained, her tone less clinical now. "Light analgesic for the head trauma, and a calming formula for your nerves. The alembic read a high 'Stress Load' in your profile—higher than average for first-years."
Zev winced, his cheeks flushing against his will. "Ah. Yeah. That… sounds about right."
Helen smiled faintly. "Listen to me, Zev. If you ever feel your anxiety getting the better of you, don't push through it. Ground yourself. Step outside. Breathe. Managing your emotions is part of surviving here. Control them, and you'll get farther than you think."
He looked down, clearly embarrassed by the directness but grateful all the same.
"Thank you, ma'am," he said softly.
She nodded once. Then, with a small sigh of relief, she reached into the box and lifted the three finished pops.
"Now, take your medicine before I change my mind."
Seth took his first, snatching it from her hand with a grunt. Zach followed more casually, plucking his without comment. Before Helen could even hold out the last one, Zev had already stepped forward, palms outstretched and head slightly bowed like she was some benevolent goddess.
That earned a rare smile from her. She dropped the pop into his hands. "There. And you don't need to act so formal."
"Thank you, ma'am," he said regardless, clutching it like treasure.
He carefully peeled away the wrapper, only for Seth's voice to break the calm.
"So that's why she asked for my favorite flavor," Seth mused aloud, giving his pop an aggressive lick. "This thing tastes like chocolate. It's weird though—it's see-through."
Zev unwrapped his completely, confirming that it was also translucent. Then he popped it into his mouth, and froze.
Warmth spread from his tongue to the rest of his body, a pleasant current running through his limbs. The ache behind his eyes faded, his chest lightened, and for the first time since the fight, he could breathe easily.
But the taste.... oh, the taste.
It was nostalgia wrapped in sugar. Those amateurish banana pies his older brother used to bake when they were kids. Always half-burnt, always lopsided, and yet somehow the most comforting thing in the world.
He found himself smiling. Maybe today's ugliness held a few silver linings after all. His thoughts, however, snagged on Sparrow, the beige-haired nurse from earlier. A sharp claw of anxiety dug into his gut, demanding assurance that she would, at least, keep her promise after the horrow show she put him through.
But before the worry could take root, the calming formula took immediate effect, smoothing the dread away.
This thing was legit.
Across from him, Zach bit clean through his pop. A soft crack followed by the crunch of crystal between teeth. The sudden warmth startled him. He blinked once, as if trying to place the unfamiliar sensation blooming in his chest. It wasn't the kind of heat that burned—it lingered subtly like the ghost of an embrace.
He didn't remember the last time warmth had felt this close. His eyes found Zev without thinking.
Helen watched them carefully, scanning for signs of side effects. When she saw none, she folded her arms with a small nod.
"Alright, that's everything. You're good to go."
She leaned back in her chair, weary humor crossing her face. "Now do me a favor and stay out of my infirmary. I'm not eager to see your faces again anytime soon."
Seth muttered a reluctant "Noted, thanks," already turning to leave. Zach followed at an unhurried pace, sliding his empty bottle of banana milk into the bin as he passed.
Zev lingered a moment longer, gathering the wrappers. "Thank you again, um, ma'am," he said, earnestly. "You're really amazing—! I–I mean, the way you handled all this—it's… admirable."
Helen blinked, caught off guard by the sincerity. "Oh. Thank you, Zev. That's… very kind."
"Have a good day!" He gave another awkward bow, trailing after the other two—more like, the less scary one. Which one was it? He had no idea.
The door swung shut behind them, leaving the infirmary quiet once more.
For a long moment, Helen just sat there, staring at the empty space they'd left behind. Then she let out a long sigh and slumped back into her chair.
"Jobless again," she murmured with a wry smile. "Finally."
Silence returned, save for the soft hum of lantern-light above. Her thoughts, however, refused to rest. She tapped her fingers against the desk, eyes distant.
An Ossafex. A Skialinth. And an Eclipsian. Three of the most controversial racial types all at once. Just her day's luck.
A dry chuckle escaped her lips. "This year's intake is going to give me ulcers, I swear."
She reached for her drawer, pulling out her lighter and rolling it between her fingers. The motion was habitual, something to occupy her hands when her mind started spiraling.
"Oh, Judith…" she sighed. "It's going to be an arduous term for us, isn't it? I should've quit last year. Salary raise, my ass."
Her eyes flicked toward the cinnamon-tobacco pipe resting beside her papers. The tip—what smokers called the mouthpiece, though she'd nicknamed hers "the peace end"—gleamed faintly under the light.
She lifted it to her lips but did not light it. She maintained a strict no-smoking policy in front of students, but right now, she lacked the resolve to even enjoy the scent.
A tired sigh left her again, immediately followed by a soft voice echoing inside her mind.
'Helen, darling, if you're truly this exhausted, a proper nap would be far more effective than just performing with that pipe.'
She groaned, rubbing her face with both hands. "Always the conscience, aren't you, Judith?"
The voice chuckled warmly. 'It's a demanding job, but somebody has to keep you functional. I try.'
Helen couldn't deny it—her body ached and her eyelids drooped. She needed a break. With a weak laugh, she tucked the lighter back into the drawer, placed the pipe neatly on its stand, and cleared her desk.
Then she folded her arms atop the wood, rested her head, and let the world slip into quiet.
"I'll just close my eyes for a few minutes. Wake me up if I'm getting a suspicious amount of sleep..."
Within seconds, she was knocked out, the faint scent of cinnamon and pineapple still lingering in the air.
╸╺╸╺╸╺╸╺
[ Imprint Spotlight: Dr. Helen Vaudreaux ]
Imprint Name: Ambrosial Alembic
Imprint Type: Relicbound | Restoration sub-type [New]
Description:
Judith, Helen's Imprint object, is a compact glass-and-brass relic that distills dream-physiology into tangible form.
With a single smear of blood, she crystallizes Heal-Me Pops: restorative lollipops calibrated to the user's resonance signature. The alembic reads blood markers to tailor each dose precisely, adjusting for energy balance, Imprint strain, and emotional stability.
Each pop delivers accelerated regeneration, pain modulation, and Imprint stabilization—flavored by the patient's comfort resonance. Though miraculous, the process draws directly from Helen's life energy, leaving her pale and drained after multiple distillations.
Safeguards:
𖤐 Bind-Lock: Pops are tagged to individual resonance signatures. Cross-use will trigger severe Imprint conflict.
𖤐 Shelf Life: Six hours outside the infirmary. It reverts to soot afterward.
𖤐 Cooldown: Minimum twelve hours before redrawing to prevent rebound fatigue.
╸╺╸╺╸╺
Imprint Stats (x/10):
Ambrosial Alembic.
| Endurance: 7
The Alembic can handle dozens of samples daily before cooldown.
| Stability: 9
Her ability is nearly immune to interference and rarely malfunctions.
| Imprint Potential: 8.5
She may evolve toward multi-patient treatment (≥ 50 pops synthesized in one go) or relic restoration.
| Flexibility: 8
Her Imprint functions across physical, Imprint, and emotional injuries.
| Destructive Power: N/A
The Ambrosial Alembic is not a weapon, but a purely restorative agent—an anomaly in the destructive nightmare industry. But this focus on healing, rather than harm, is the very definition of Dr. Helen's prodigy.
| Class: Legendary
Divine — [Legendary] — Ultra Rare — Rare — Common