Jean Pierre Lemoine was an artist. His magic moved the needle through the subcutaneous tissue with surgical precision, which was no great surprise to anyone that knew him, as he did have two years of surgical residency under his belt. The surgical scars will be less noticeable than if a plastic surgeon had been over them to hide them, despite being located in plain sight, across the man's abdomen. He finished the suture and relaxed. An orderly used his power to levitate the man from the surgical table onto a hospital bed next to it. The nurse handed Lemoine the patient's chart and he filled it out. He had just implanted a whole liver into the man and the orderlies wheeled him back to his suite. The patient needed to sleep off the anesthesia.
Lemoine stretched and removed his surgical mask. The machine beeped out a flatline alarm and he turned to the other surgical table. The trafficked young woman finally expired, causing Lemoine to bunch his brow and examine the gaping hole in her abdomen where her liver used to be. Then he saw and remembered that he had cauterized her arteries and portal vein, as he had severed them, in order to keep his surgical field clean. Still, he was surprised her cardiovascular system had lasted this long. "Clean this up," he said to the nurse and she nodded. Two more orderlies came in and dragged the fresh corpse from the table to be taken away for disposal, along with the corpse of the girl that was drained to change the DNA of the liver. He took off his scrubs, bunched them up and tossed them on her as they passed him by.
Jean Pierre got dressed, left the surgical suite and proceeded down the hall, taking a few turns that led him to his office. Outside his door, he saw Khaled coming in the other direction. "Ah, good," he said, "I've been meaning to speak with you, Khaled."
"Lemoine," Khaled said, not even bothering to slow down or look at the man.
Jean Pierre skipped to catch up to the stocky, bald Arab. "The level of professionalism around here has dropped significantly, since you came here," he said. "We cannot run a clinic in this way. There are certain procedures that must be followed in order to ensure the smooth running of this operation."
"What are you talking about," Khaled said. The doctor was an uppity, abrasive man, but he had to be tolerated. Most surgeons grew a conscience after learning the truth of their operation and had to be silenced. He knew well that to Lemoine, the practice of medicine was not about doing good or saving lives, it was about playing god. Since he had his license revoked for drug abuse and malpractice, he had no other way of practicing his craft, except working for them, here.
"I'm talking about us not having enough organs delivered to meet our demand," Jean Pierre said. "I used to get medical records of people to review and make certain we were harvesting only from healthy, uninfected subjects. Now, every day, one of the organs I get is unchecked and then my assistants have to drain a whore's life to change it, right before implantation, and I'm supposed to implant it on just your word that the organ is good? And just now, I took a whore's organ to implant!"
Khaled was a proud man and he did not take slights against his honor or reputation lightly. He bit back his anger at having this pipsqueak call warlocks, that were his betters in every way, "assistants". The doctor's lack of morals was not the thing that made him a precious asset for their organization. He had a small amount of magical power and he expertly used that to simplify and speed up his surgeries. The Nassau clinic was doing ten implantations a day and warranted three dedicated collection clinics just to supply its needs for fresh organs. The big bucks were coming in, hand over fist, but only as long as Lemoine remained an eager participant. They tolerated his unseemly appetites and many addictions and even covered up the results of his homicidal tendencies, but Khaled was close to losing it with the uppity, little, annoying Frenchie.
"Yes, doctor, you are supposed to take me at my word," he said. They reached the elevator and he pressed the call button.
"I am a medical health professional," Lemoine said, causing Khaled to roll his eyes. "When I implant an organ into a patient, I am responsible for-"
Khaled turned to him and cut him off with a wave of his hand. "You are responsible for the surgery," he said, "and that is all. The provenance of the organs is not your responsibility. That is my responsibility."
"If our patients contract anything from the organs we implant, we'll be ruined," Lemoine said.
The elevator dinged and opened its doors. Khaled entered it and said, "Please, doctor. If any of our clients come down with some disease, it is because of their lifestyles. And they'll only come back to us for the cure." He turned and smiled at Lemoine's sour expression. "Another organ or two, to stave off the inevitable, eh?" Lemoine made to enter the elevator, so Khaled played his ace that always seemed to end his bitching sessions. "Besides, if you're so concerned about infection, why don't you use your magic to prevent it?" Lemoine stopped dead in his tracks, glaring down at the smiling Arab who said, "Happy Christmas," as the doors closed.
Jean Pierre had been born with a very small amount of power, and he didn't even realize he had it until he had been a teen. After he had met other witches and seen and felt what they could do, he thought himself cheated. However, those witches were hunted down by the Directorate and all but neutered by signing licenses, while Jean Pierre swooped under their radar, free to continue to hone his craft. He knew then that he wasn't cheated at birth, but rather blessed. One of these days, he was going to show Khaled. One of these days, he was going to show them all. But not today. He was a professional and there were more surgeries scheduled. Surgeries that would implant tested organs he had already reviewed and approved. Selected, even.
He walked back to his office. A tall, hispanic, young woman, barely nineteen years old, greeted him there, on her knees with downcast eyes and a playful smile. She was enslaved by his magic, a process that took him months to accomplish, and trained to his exact preferences. She had been trafficked there to be whored out and kept on hand in order to have someone to drain in case of an emergency, but he took her for himself, along with thenty year old girl from Latvia, that was kneeling in the corner. They both wore bright red lingerie and Santa hats, his only concessions to the ridiculous american pageantry of Christmas. "Cognac," he said and sat heavily in his office chair. The brunette jumped up to pour him a tumbler. "Massage," he said and the tall, leggy blonde popped up to start rubbing his shoulders. He relaxed in his seat as the brunette brought the tumbler to his lips and carefully tipped it. The tasty liquid washed over his tongue and its emanations wafted up to his nose.
Jean Pierre enjoyed the delicious drink and soft fingers, for a few minutes more, and then he commanded the girls to suck his cock. The brunette set down the glass and knelt beside him. She opened his zipper and reverently fished out his soft cock. The blonde ran her hands all over Jean Pierre as she made her way lower to join in the worship of his cock. She snaked her slender hand inside his underwear and began to gently tickle and stroke his sack. His cock started to become engorged and she took it whole into her mouth. She formed a tight seal and applied suction. He started to grow in her mouth. Soon, he was at full mast and she started to run her mouth up and down his shaft, using her tongue to tickle his most sensitive flesh. The brunette then took over and the two of them took turns sucking his cock and stroking the shaft until he blew his load down the blonde's throat, breaking his silence to announce his release with a moan. They licked him clean and put him back in his drawers, zipping his pants up. Jean Pierre sighed in delight and gestured for a refill.
He had just begun to think on the surgeries he had yet to perform that day, when he heard running and panicked voices in the hallway, outside his office. He sighed in annoyance but kept his eyes closed. He was a surgeon, an artist with a blade and spell and he needed to be completely relaxed and concentrated to do his work. All this running and shouting was unprofessional. His musings on the lack of professionalism, that was affecting this place ever since Khaled arrived, were interrupted by his door opening wide to admit one of Khaled's casters.
"Doctor," gasped the short, fat, black man as he bent over to catch his breath, "we're under attack!"
Jean Pierre raised an eyebrow in response. "I thought you people came here to protect us from that," he said.
