[ WP ] I 'm afraid we can not use your blood for the transfusion . Our tests show it is not human blood .

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 The field hospital went deadly silent for a single terrible moment. The only noises were the low moans of the dying, and feverish murmurs of the maimed. A rotten, sweltering breeze blew through the long medical tent, carrying with it the stench of rotting meat and shit. The eyes of every doctor, nurse and orderly fixed themselves on the thin, young-looking man. And their eyes went wide. 
 
 `` Assassin!'' someone cried. `` Infiltrator!'' 
 
 The boy's eyes went wide as well, and he leaped off the cot he'd been on, glancing furiously for the exit. Several of the walking wounded, suffering from sword slash and arrow shot slammed into him, knocking the boy down in a tangle of limbs and mud and bloody bandages. The boy cried out as they pummeled him, fists and feet flying. He curled around himself, shielding his face and vulnerable from their blows. 
 
 A gunshot went off, loud and ear-aching. Those nearest to its source scrambled for cover, the heads of the rest swinging around fast enough that one could almost hear the stretch of the sinews in their necks. 
 
 The pistol that had fired the shot might have well been a custom-piece, so rare was its make. A work of art and technological mastery, it was sleek and deadly in a way no modern pistol could ever hope to match. A polymer frame and and fitted grip were both pitch black. Even its ammunition was a rarity. The five point seven by twenty-eight millimeter cartridge had only been used sparingly before the Arrival, making it even more unique. Before the Arrival, the pistol called a FN Five-seven had been known as a Cop-Killer. Now, as a Mage-Killer. 
 
 The man wielding it was in his early forties, his close-cropped beard barely beginning to gray. His boots and tunic were splattered with mud, his fraying green cloak soaked with blood. A cavalry saber was sheathed in a dented scabbard at his side, an equally worn rifle slung over his shoulder. A captain's bars was pinned to the collar of his shirt, while a bloody arm hung limp in its sleeve. 
 
 `` The next bastard to lay a hand on the kid gets a bullet in the brainpan. Understood?'' 
 
 The eyes of both casualty and medic glanced down, unwilling to meet the man's green-gray stare. A young girl, appearing perhaps in her mid-teens hung close behind him, her traveling robes and plain armor unable to hide her heritage. She stood like a blue-blood, glanced warily around like one, and seemed to possess a quiet dignity that was at odds with the scene of gore and violence before her. 
 
 The green-cloaked officer strode towards the scrimmage pile, his finger resting a hair's breadth outside the trigger guard. 
 
 `` What's your name, boy?'' he asked. 
 
 `` C-Chambers, sir,'' the young man stuttered. 
 
 `` Chambers, your mother's name is Alice?'' 
 
 The lad's head nodded. `` Yessir. It is.'' 
 
 `` Then you must be her son Frederick,'' the man said. 
 
 `` That's right, sir. Private Frederick Oliver Chambers, 24th Infantry.'' 
 
 The captain nodded tiredly, holstering his pistol while staring at every face in the medical tent. 
 
 `` Now listen up, and listen well! I can personally vouch for Private Chambers here. No one is to lay a hand on this boy, or I swear by the Grace of God and all his fucking angels that I will lay Hell on whoever harms him. Do n't touch him, do n't shun him, and go back to your fucking duties. That's a goddamn order.'' He turned to leave the tent when a doctor stood. 
 
 `` But Captain Flint, his blood-'' 
 
 `` Of course I fucking know his blood's not human, you stupid sack of shit! It's only half-human. I know'cause I'm the man who shot the Elf who raped his mother. Now sit down and shut up, Doctor. Or else we'll find out real quick whether a surgeon can operate with two broken hands.'' 
 
 With that Captain Hilary Flint paced out of the room, the noble-looking girl following close behind, her pointed ears half-hidden by her hair.
