Heaven's Golden Finger

I'm the WHAT?

"You idiot."

Song Shirong blinked at the ceiling. His head. Gods, his head. Like someone slammed him into the pavement and rubbed his nose down the sidewalk. His throat wasn't much better. Who told him to eat sandpaper and why'd he listen to them, anyway? He coughed.

Something - a foot? - nudged him. "Wake up, brat." The foot nudged again. And again. Until at last he forced himself to look towards the source. Long dark hair. Long blue-white silk dress. Face a blur. Who was she? "Did you hear me?"

"Ah... yes, ma'am?" Shirong struggled to speak, only to take a good solid kick to his aching head.

"MA'AM?" The voice was clearer now and so obviously male Shirong couldn't blame its owner for being insulted. Or he wouldn't have, if he weren't too busy trying not to vomit over what looked like an expensive oriental rug. "DARE MOCK ME?"

"Sorry. Sorry. Sorry." Shirong would have tried to evade the foot, but he shouldn't be able to move. Hell, he shouldn't be able to talk. What the hell what the hell what the ever loving HELL was going on?

Another, much older, much gentler, voice spoke. "Disciple Shun. What are you doing?"

"Shizun! This idiot broke your cauldron!"

Cauldron? The hell? Shirong had been bed-ridden for months now. How the hell could he have broken anything? He could hardly move. He moaned. Closed his eyes. He was done. Just going to lie here. Maybe go ahead and die. He'd been just about there anyway.

Oh, wait. Maybe that was the problem. He was probably on the operating table or something, hordes of doctors and nurses trying and failing to save what little was left of him. Likely this was just some stupid dream from one of his web novels. So many web novels. Too many web novels, probably. Which one was it? After a while they all started running together.

The voices faded, not because they went away but because Shirong just couldn't focus on them any longer. He let them go. Bad enough to be dying at last. Dying and having to listen to a badly written dream go on over his head was worse. He hoped it'd be over soon.

#

When Shirong woke next, he wasn't in pain. Quite the contrary. He felt comfortable. Warm. Safe. A far cry from the last time he'd 'woken'. A far cry from his hospital bed, for that matter. Stupid body, anyway. Who'd told it to get sick anyway? Fuck cancer. Fuck it left, right and sideways.

Was he dreaming again? If so, it was a better dream. One he'd prefer not to wake up from. At least it was comfortable. He sighed. Shifted and snuggled into the covers. A luxury, a sheer, unadulterated luxury, being able to move without pain.

"Young one. You're awake. Good."

Shirong cracked an eye open. At least now his vision wasn't so blurry. It should be, of course. He wasn't wearing his glasses and without them his eyes were shit. More proof that he had to be dreaming.

"Young one? Disciple? Shirong?"

Guessing the dream wasn't going to let him lie there quietly, Shirong opened his other eye. Shifted his head so he could see the speaker. An older man, maybe in his thirties or such? Calling him young one like he was just a baby. He was just short of twenty years old, for God's sake. And why the hell was he calling him disciple?

Deciding to play along, he tried to remember the proper address. Sensei? Shihan? "Shifu?"

"Oh, child. You know I'm your Shizun. Here. Sip this."