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„Doctor, dear, I know that you’re in there.”
His increasingly incessant knocking was only answered by the soft echo of his own strained sigh.
The imposing metal doors hiding away Glupov's main laboratory were, for once, locked.
To his own great displeasure, Pantalone had found himself unwelcomely surprised by this simple fact mere minutes ago, when he, embarrassingly, walked into the door with a resounding thud.
In his defense, he had not been aware the door even had a lock.
Besides being an egregious lab safety violation, nary a person would have the guts to enter the Second Harbinger’s domain uninvited and get to keep them afterwards. Truthfully, none but one person, really. And that one person’s patience was running very thin today.
He was not even picky – he just needed one segment, any of them, to explain to him why a total of nearly two million mora had been noted under ‘travel expenses’ in this quarter's expense report. Yes, even 8.
Pantalone tapped his knuckles against the metal once again, because he was a man of too high a standing to be seen banging his full fist into it.
“Dottore!”
His colleague surely knew him well enough to understand the clinking of his rings on impact to mean all the same.
Oh, it was nothing new for the Doctor’s reports to require review. And reprimand. But usually, whatever issues he had with them, 35 was sent to smooth-talk him out of it.
Perhaps, they had finally realized that their success rate with this was horribly low. (He griped with himself that he could not truthfully claim it to be zero.) Either way, a shame – he quite enjoyed the verbal boot-licking from the horribly prideful man.
To lock himself in his laboratory, however… This was unusual. It carried a sort of childish petulance that the Doctor would surely feel to be below him. It made Pantalone almost wonder if all six of them were out, had a guard down the hall not just confirmed 25 to have entered recently.
Pantalone exhaled sharply into the frigid air, the condensation curling around him had him terribly craving a cigarette. Some doctor he was, making him need a stress relief.
Sometimes, he wondered whether Dottore had become more audacious ever since he had risen to the rank of the Ninth.
While he had essentially been working under him as a secretary, every single expense report handed to the Regrator of the time had gone through him – none of them had made him want to shake the man by his shoulders. The formatting had changed for the worse, too. And his handwriting: What used to be the scribble of a man too busy to translate his brilliancy into the mundanities of written language had now fully succumbed to the scrawl of a true doctor.
Something about the image of Dottore drafting especially horrendous reports just for him entertained him thoroughly.
Pantalone finally gave up on knocking.
“If you are unwilling to sort this issue out, I am afraid that I’m going have to freeze your ongoing funding plans until further notice.”
He hoped his smile to be audible through the door. Giving Dottore the satisfaction of having gotten under his skin was the last thing he wanted now – although they both knew his cortisol levels to have skyrocketed upon reading that report.
Really, some doctor he was.
He was about to reach for the cigarette pack in his coat, when the noise of a surely heavy bolt being moved shook the door in front of him.
Oh, but how predictable his doctor was.
“Regrator.”
The door opened inward just enough to reveal 25’s masked face, most of his body hidden behind the metal. The biting smell of antiseptic assaulted his nose.
“My, you had me waiting an awfully long while,” he smiled most pointedly, “One could almost think that you were avoiding me, dear.”
The Doctor made no apparent move to open the door any further, or follow even the basest of etiquette to invite him in – although hints of concern doused his broiling annoyance as a cough suddenly wracked through 25’s chest. Not one of the abashed, polite kind, instead it appeared to take the man himself by surprise as it shook him.
But before Pantalone could even ask any questions, the door was being pressed back against the hand he had begun holding it open with.
“Do forgive my inconsideration,” the usual polite stiffness of the 25-year-old doctor was ever more apparent. His eyes flitted away, what little was visible of his face drawn in a frown. “I believe it is within both of our best interests to continue this conversation –,” he blinked rapidly and, if Pantalone was not mistaken, noticeably tightened his grip on the door, “ –later.”
The segment nodded with an air of finality as his face disappeared from sight.
How terribly rude.
The Regrator pressed back against the metal with force. In truth, it should have concerned him that he was able to overpower the Doctor at all. The door flew inward, and 25 momentarily swayed where he stood as he lost his support.
“Do forgive my insistence, but I cannot simply leave now.”
25’s discomfort was obvious. His normally so impassive face (at least the visible half of it) had turned slightly cloudy and unfocused. However, the stare Pantalone received still told him in no uncertain words that he would have been physically thrown out, were he his usual(?) self.
Still, Pantalone considered it simply the good conduct of a businessman to be well informed of any weaknesses his partner may present. Or at least, that is what he told himself as he watched 25 lean unsteadily against the nearest counter in what he assumed to be an effort at feigning some sort of normalcy.
“Are you unwell?”
“Astute observation.” 25 scoffed, as if it hurt his personal pride to admit it. It probably did.
Pantalone sighed. From where he was standing just beyond the laboratory’s threshold, he could finally take a proper look at the segment’s face. The harsh, clinical overhead lighting gave him a sort of sickly pallor. “Did you inhale some chemical fumes again?”
25’s voice strained around a suppressed cough of indignation, “That was once.” Hm. Pantalone remembered the occasion with mild amusement tugging at his lips. “And not me, as a matter of fact– it was 35 who we had to carry out of your office.”
But, if it was no chemically induced trip, well, then Pantalone was only left to come to a painfully human conclusion.
“You are,” he found himself almost silly to suggest it, “…ill.”
25 appeared as if he wanted to douse himself in the nearest acid vat. Or Pantalone. “Unfortunately.” How very mortal of him.
Pantalone would be lying if he said that this circumstance wasn’t in the slightest hint ridiculous. Artificial, undying, un-aging, and yet…
“I was unaware that you could even get sick, if I’m being honest.”
The segment seemed to have resigned himself to the conversation. Still, his eyes flickered along the barren tiles between them, as if counting the white slates.
“Neither were any of us, unfortunately. You would have assumed that the original would spare us such human trivialities.”
So would Pantalone indeed.
Zandik had very much hated being sick – From his resentment at how his stomach would turn on long train rides to being frequently caught up in a simple common cold during his later days. The man had never fully adapted to Snezhnaya’s frosty climate, really, and would complain about his body ‘holding him back from progress’ every time.
Perhaps he had found it to build character.
“Well, what about the others?” As terribly sorry as he felt for 25’s unfortunate discovery of his own humanity right now, he was slowly getting itchy about finishing this quarterly’s paperwork. Even the Marionette had handed him something acceptable after the third revision. “If not you, surely another one of you can look over these papers.”
25 gave him a long, exhausted look.
“…everyone present is, unfortunately, not better off than me.”
For a moment, the only noises came from the standby humming of some horribly expensive machines and the paper crumple of the offending report in Pantalone’s strained hold.
So, the segments were sick. All of them.
Fantastic.
“Do tell me, doctor,” he opened his eyes just a sliver further. Regrettably, neither Zandik nor his segments had ever bothered with reacting to this gesture of displeasure in the slightest – aside from making color comparisons of varying degrees of flattery. “Which horrible ailment am I to thank for not being able to close this file on time?”
“I would tone down the arrogance if I were you, Regrator. I postponed the bone marrow graft trials two months ago to attend to you over a mild case of cold.”
“A severe case. I had a fever. Don’t try to change the topic now.” A new recruit would have experienced a cardiovascular event under the glare 25 was leveling him with. To Pantalone’s great pleasure, however, 25 ended up conceding with an exasperated sigh.
“Commonly referred to as trooper’s flu.”
Oh.
And if that name didn’t bring up memories.
“Transmitted by a bacterium that prefers to linger in still and frigid waters, therefore more often spreading amongst those with access only to poor water supply.” 25 launched into a slightly lengthier explanation, but Pantalone mostly tuned out his ramblings.
The illness had run its course across his village when he had been a child. While he had been the only one infected in his family, starkly still did he remember the added page to the death ledger of the newspapers over the following weeks. He had been part of the lucky few that did not develop pneumonia – a condition practically equivalent to a death sentence where he came from.
Sometimes Pantalone did wonder whether his parents would have had that same luck, had he infected them.
A spoiled opportunity, really.
The only upside of those horrible few days: The sickness rewarded those who survived by never haunting them again. One of the few boons of his childhood, he supposed.
Although this immunity was more than fortunate now – perhaps he would have a chance to play the doting ‘doctor’ instead, for once.
Oh, this was sure to be entertaining.
If his expression had changed, the segment did not take notice, likely entirely caught up in his own monologue. He still went on, his unexpressive voice occasionally uncomfortably straining around a cough.
Besides taking a toll on his voice, being sick evidently dulled 25’s normally inhuman precision in everything he did. Falling into a ramble like this was much more characteristic of 35 and 45 – 25 usually preferred to keep communication to a minimum. Precise, to be more accurate.
Pantalone spent a while longer selfishly taking in how truly out of sorts this brilliant mind must be, if his perfect posture was starting to fall into a slight slouch onto the counter. Not until after he had had his fill of the slightly uncoordinated hand gestures did he interject:
“It can be lethal, if I remember correctly.”
25’s eyebrows momentarily drew in displeasure at being interrupted. Only after the short bout of indignation had passed, something that Dottore had only learned to mask in his later years, did he focus on his words.
Gloved fingers fiddled with the surgical mask covering his face.
“So, you are familiar,” 25 did not appear to understand the meaning of his unspoken question, however. “Therefore, I trust you understand that I still implore you to leave, Regrator. Although the chances of aerial transmission at this distance are quite small, I would rather not take the risk.”
Pantalone briefly wondered why 25 did not simply leave himself. Ah, well, surely it would hurt his pride. The young doctor had been stricken with such an intense desire for control at that age, it went against his very base instincts to give up the command of a room.
Still, he would leave the Doctor dangling in his concern for a while longer. His intended question had remained unanswered, after all – despite 25’s comparatively calm demeanor, it was not like Dottore had been historically very… distressed over his own death.
The glimmering ornaments of his glasses chain jingled sharply as he inclined his head: “Must I be concerned with finding a new doctor now?”
At the implication of his question, 25 crossed his arms over his lab coat. “Don’t be unreasonable.” The way he tilted his head back did not look quite as condescending on any other segment.
“We have been monitoring our vitals and the illness progression closely for the past day. It appears safe to assume that we were given some resistance to human illness, be it intended or not, as it runs a significantly milder course. So, you needn’t worry.” How daring of the doctor to accuse him of such. Still, he might be able to be convinced to call this feeling ‘relief’.
“Now, would you care to leave before we have you here on your deathbed? Again.”
The ever-increasing insistence made him chuckle. “Oh, but I am sure you would never leave me to die now, would you?”
25 looked about ready to sew his mouth shut. “I am indeed not, which is why I am asking you to leave, Regrator. You are exacerbating my headache.” Pantalone was not quite sure whether the redness that had spread across his face was due to the fever or his agitation. He found it most delicious regardless. “As you might be able to tell, we are all a little indisposed right now. Could you please settle for preventative measures, for once?”
“And leave my poor doctor to suffer this terrible illness all by himself? Oh, how could I.” As amusing as Pantalone found his doctor’s progressively desperate face, 25 started to look a little unbalanced on his feet. Despite the rumors, he still had some mercy in matters unconcerned with money.
“I remember it had me barely conscious for the better part of a week.”
He waited for the realization to dawn on Dottore’s delightfully muddled brain. Meanwhile, Pantalone folded the crinkled report somewhat neatly enough to tuck away in his coat.
“It had you…?” There he was.
“You’re immune, then.” In contrast to the exasperation in his voice, 25 did visibly relax. If asked, he would surely deny any concern.
Being sluggish with sickness, however, rendered him much easier to read. Really, this was turning out to be at least compensation in entertainment value for having delayed his work.
"And you are certain?"
“Absolutely. Quite fascinating, don’t you think? Contracting it as a child can save you from certain death as an adult.” Now that was a little bit of an exaggeration.
“How kind of you to bide your sweet time telling me.” In his defense, Pantalone was a greedy man, and he quite liked hearing that his doctor did not want his favorite colleague to pass prematurely. No harm in prolonging that desperation a little.
Now that he was not concerned with infecting him anymore, 25 did try to physically usher him out the door. Although Pantalone was quite unbothered and gracefully walked past him.
The segment pinched the bridge of his nose over his glasses where he stood. “You aren’t going to leave now, are you?”
The corners of Pantalone’s lips twitched upwards. “Of course not.”
He was met with a sigh. “Alright,” 25 sniffled, his voice taking on a slight stuffy-nosed quality, “then follow me, if curiosity plagues you so.” Pantalone kindly chose to ignore the snide look thrown at him over 25’s shoulder, “You surely are more than familiar with the patient rooms by now.”
-
The very first thing Pantalone heard upon stepping into the back section of the laboratory, a crude imitation of normal hospital in its sterile furnishing, were the voices of the younger segments through the open door of the first room.
“Turn that light off.”
“But I want to read, 18.”
“And my eyes hurt, just go to sleep.” The rustling of those horrendously scratchy, stiff hospital blankets sounded down the corridor. Although whenever he stayed here, they were replaced with more acceptable fabrics.
“45, isn’t it past 8’s bedtime already?” 18 yelled across the hall. Pantalone could only make out a muffled groan in reply.
“Would you be quiet? You know I don’t have a bedtime.”
He was fairly certain to have made out but you should, brat in 18’s answering mumblings. It made him acutely aware that he rarely ever saw all of them in the same place. Their argument continued as 25 walked him to their room. His eyes looked unfocused behind his glasses.
“If it bothers you this much, just wear a mask like Omega.”
“I most certainly will not! Do I look like I have lost my dignity yet?”
“I heard that!”
“I think it’d suit you just fine.”
The 18 he saw as he turned the corner looked like he was only held back from self-homicide by a splitting headache and the aforementioned ‘dignity’.
“I see you two are doing well.”
Quietly fuming, tired red eyes snapped up at him. “Do we need to update your glasses prescription?”
And then, directed at 25 beside him: “What’s he doing here?”
8 looked at him over the top of his book with furrowed brows.
“It’s alright, he already contracted it once as a child.” Pantalone took note of the accusatory side-glance as 25 pushed up his glasses. “And could unfortunately not be persuaded to come back later.”
The banker only smiled sweetly in response. He was a man of business at heart, of course, a bloodhound for opportunity by trade. How could he let this one get away, when it allowed him to gain some leverage over his business partner. Dottore had seen him on his patient bench so many times – really, Pantalone was only leveling the ground here.
His personal enjoyment of seeing the mighty Doctor a little helpless was entirely unrelated.
The standard Harbinger heavy winter coat was slowly proving too warm for the regulated temperature of the patient area. Along with, apparently, the ability to get sick, the distain for the cold was something very human Zandik had left his segments to deal with.
Pantalone draped his furred mantle over the nearest, slightly fragile looking chair. He sat down, facing the room and its occupants with elegantly crossed legs.
“Now, did you all feel inexplicably compelled to take a sip of a back-alley puddle, or do you have a more reasonable explanation behind this?”
18 broke out into a fit of coughs.
25 closed his eyes.
“One of last week’s subjects died in the holding cells,” the segment began once he appeared to have collected himself, “It wasn’t an issue at the time. That batch was large enough, and we took the body to be dissected for anything of use. Going off of the traffickers’ descriptions as well as the autopsy results, it appeared he had succumbed to late-stage lung cancer.”
8 piped in from his right with a dry pointedness to his voice. “At the cause of smoking, just so you know.”
Ah, how grateful indeed was he for having his devoted doctor replace his own lungs before it could ever come to such a scenario. Pantalone was once again reminded that he was only on his 7th cigarette of the day so far – although he had more decorum than to smoke next to someone else’s sickbed.
25 stared at the bejeweled hands interlaced over his knee, as if waiting for him to reach for the pack in his pocket. He really was making it hard to resist, honestly.
“45 and I isolated the tumor as well as any metastatic tissues we found. Some strains of lung cancer exhibit remarkable qualities, so getting one in culture was no loss at all, actually.”
The segment at the door took a deep breath before continuing. A faint wheezing rattled through it. The longer he spoke, the rougher his voice sounded.
“Unfortunately, the subject had also contracted a bacterial infection prior to its death. An upper respiratory tract infection, though it had not yet had time to develop into pneumonia. 45 and I were unknowingly exposed to a heavy bacterial load during the autopsy.”
The sound of the youngest segment blowing his nose interrupted him. 25’s face spelled several different words of regret.
“Since we were all unfortunately present in the main lab at the time, and are forced to work in close contact one way or another, it seems to have spread relatively quickly.” he cleared his throat. “The earliest symptoms set in yesterday morning, first tests were performed yesterday evening.”
8 continued after a short pause, as 25 did not seem to be planning on speaking much anymore. “Only 65 wasn’t infected.”
Now this was news to Pantalone. Goodness, perhaps he would be able to get done with that report today, after all.
By now, 18 had resigned to hiding his face under a pillow. His grumbling was heavily muffled, “Seems like that ridiculous mask he never takes off has some use.”
“And where is he now?”
“Out, buying some common pills to restock his medicine cabinet with,” the youngest segment shrugged somewhat noncommittedly, “He wasn’t really prepared to have to treat 5 people at once. Usually, it’s just you.”
Pantalone raised an amused eyebrow. “You act like our colleagues are the prime of physical health.”
“Well, puppets and fae usually have no need for ordinary fever medicine. And La Signora…,” the kid appeared to be searching for the correct words. The corner of Pantalone’s mouth tugged upwards. “A fever tends to be her status quo.”
A sudden sneeze caught 8 by surprise. He dug his back deeper into the mound of pillows behind him, shivering visibly. Sandwiched between the off-white hospital bedding emerged the striking blue of a thin plush arm: Pantalone recognized it belonging to the Aranara plush he had gifted him decades ago on Zandik’s birthday – artisan-made and based on some sketches 8 had attached to a funding request. He was probably trying to hide it from the others. Something within Pantalone’s chest squeezed at the thought.
The look he faced 8 with again was just a little softer. “How long do you think until 65 returns?”
“Within the next hour, probably,” the sound of a stuffy nose in the kid’s voice was much more prominent now. He adjusted the heavy book in his hands. Big, red eyes looked at Pantalone as he quietly patted the space on the blanket next to him. “You can wait here, if you’d like.”
25, who was looking worse than he did last time Pantalone had faced him, abruptly cleared his throat and stood up somewhat straight. “Go ahead and watch over them. I’m going to lay down,” he announced without much fanfare.
Before Pantalone could even ask what exactly he meant by that, the tails of the segment’s pristine lab coat had disappeared around the corner. Some words that sounded like they included his name were called into the adjacent room, then a door further down the hall shut.
Silence ensued.
While he did not mind caring for his sick doctor for a while – on the contrary, even – they all looked to be just fine by themselves. Perhaps 25 had simply felt the need to re-establish his authority before he left.
The banker’s eyes traced over the glass and tissues on 8’s bedside table. Some colored crayons peeked out behind them.
“You seem to be dealing very well with being sick.” Pantalone remembered laying in a pitch-dark room, both too cold and too hot at the same time, and fighting for air with his own lungs.
A rough cackle sounded out from under 18’s pillow, “Oh, you should see the others.”
-
After refilling 8’s waterglass and convincing him to postpone his reading to tomorrow morning, Pantalone turned off the light and quietly closed the door behind him. While he hadn’t said anything as he left, 18’s look was one of appreciation.
The adjacent room’s door had been left wide open, the bright, cold light casting a strip of the hallway in unwelcoming colors.
The younger segment’s comment had not quite prepared him for what lay beyond the lit-up doorway.
35’s dressed-down form was standing facing the window, the top of his head pressed against the cool glass. 45 was laying ram-rod-straight in one of the patient beds, with an arm slung over his mask where his eyes should be. Neither of them reacted to his appearance in the doorway beyond heavy breathing.
“Dear me, aren’t you two a sight.”
At his voice, 35 whirled around to face him, but instead overshot a little and ended up comedically stumbling to find his footing. On the glass pane where his heated head had just been resting there was a weirdly shaped spot of condensation, and the hair above his mask was terribly ruffled. Pantalone prided himself in being able to suppress his amused chuckle.
The “Prime” Doctor looked a lot less imposing without his usual extravagant clothes. No harness or elegantly ruffled cravat was to be seen, instead his richly colored blouse had been replaced with a simple shirt in a cut he recognized as Sumerian.
It had been a long, long while since Pantalone had seen him like this.
“Pantalone?” He would assume that Dottore had not intended the delighted undertone to shine through, but was turned a little fever drunk, “You haven’t left yet?”
“My, were you waiting for me? How sweet of you.”
Goodness. Not even the most sold-out opera performance would he trade for this.
Pantalone raised a brow as he took in 35’s every-so-slightly swaying stance.
“Now, but you really do not look like you should be standing up.”
With a sharp-toothed grin, 35 spread his arms out to his sides in the gesture of grandeur he was prone to.
“Nonsense! It’s just a cold, dear.”
Admittedly, the pose looked a little ridiculous in his current get-up, with soft-looking socks at his feet instead of heels. The heated red of his cheeks and ears presented a stark and unmissable contrast to the mint of his hair. From the bed to his right, 45 stifled a cough that sounded a little like laughter.
Just as he was about to try and offer 35 an arm for support, he took notice of the rhythmic tapping of 65’s cane approaching down the hallway. A beaked mask finally stepped into his view.
“Why are you standing, 35,” Pantalone could not see his face, but he had a pretty good idea of what it looked like at this moment. This thoroughly unimpressed tone of voice Zandik, too, had often chastised his younger segments with, “You should be resting.”
35, however, appeared unperturbed. He smiled haughtily and pointed upwards with his ungloved hand – a motion that, by itself, already had Pantalone mirthfully charmed: “A walk can be very conducive to the recovery process.”
If it would not look terribly awkward over his mask, he was quite certain that 65 would now be pinching the bridge of his nose. Well, beak, he supposed. “You’re not walking, you’re wobbling. Go lay down.”
The coughs from 45’s bed had now turned into undeniable wheezing cackles.
Before 35 could do anything but, a heavy cough gripped him, too, and forced him to sit down on the bed in the interest of not crumbling onto the floor.
A second passed with 65 and Pantalone quietly standing in the doorframe.
Pantalone briefly considered whether he might have been drugged that morning. It would serve as a more probable explanation for whatever had just played out in front of his eyes.
“I’ve been told you wanted to speak to us?” 65’s calm, deep voice brought him out of his incredulous stare.
Their eyes met though the eyeholes of that plague mask. Pantalone smiled.
“If you would.”
65 smiled back, even if he could only hear it.
“Just a moment.”
He waited patiently at the door, tracing over his rings with gloved fingertips and watching while 65 handed the two segments each their medicine – some pills and what looked like cough syrup.
35 still seemed somewhat wounded over his perceived loss of face, if his snarky remarks were anything to go by.
“Quit your explanations. Did you forget at what age you studied basic pharmacology?”
“I seem to remember to also have learned to walk before the age of 35, and yet here you are.”
Although the segment now had indeed resigned himself to bedrest.
It seemed almost bizarre, how different 35 and 45 acted despite their age-gap of just a decade. But, back when a decade had actually meant something to him, watching the prideful-to-a-fault man he had convinced to spare his life mature into his more even-tempered colleague and partner had felt unquestionably natural.
Sometimes, Pantalone almost missed growing alongside him. Although, he supposed that he had robbed Zandik of this experience first, greedy as he was. Now, the six-split echo of him stagnated together with Pantalone.
-
The coat he had quietly picked back up from the chair he had left it on still held some of the residual warmth of the room. Bemusedly, he noted the cigarette pack in his inner pocket to be missing.
Not that it mattered now.
65 would have no qualms about plucking any sticks right from his lips before he could even get to lighting them.
Their steps echoed sharply through the empty halls on their way to his office, with only the brighter sound of the Doctor’s cane as an accompaniment.
“When, exactly, were you planning on telling me of this?”
“Do you mean to ask when I had planned on handing you cannon fodder for ridicule to last you the next century? Surely you must know the answer to that.”
Pantalone breathed out around a cheerful hum. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about, Doctor.”
A rough chuckle lit up the quiet background of their walk, ever-so-slightly muffled by the mask Zandik had taken to wearing in public at that age. “I admit, seeing 35 making a fool of himself is a welcome change. I would have said that I would hope it to cut down his ego a little, but…” 65’s sentence ran into silence, but he knew Pantalone would hear its ending nonetheless.
“You know yourself much too well for that.”
He was only answered with a vaguely contemplative sound.
“Might I inquire how this could happen? I seem to remember quite the staggering sum being spent on ‘sanitary equipment’ each month. Don’t tell me that all of that goes towards 25’s personal mask supply.”
65 answered with a fuller laugh now. “No, no, we do all use surgical grade masks, gloves and disinfectant. During procedures on living beings, at least. You don’t receive special treatment in that regard, dear.”
Pantalone would almost have found this believable, had 65 not had felt the need to insist on in out loud. At his knowing smile, 65 continued with what was surely a roll of his eyes.
“Still, assuming we could not contract pathogens had us stray from the strict lab and theatre etiquette the original had insisted on. We always ensure that our subjects remain in sterile contact, but for us… I suppose we do not pay the amount of attention we should have.”
“I assume that that will change now?”
“Certainly.”
He would savor this occasion thoroughly then.
The guards in front of his office sent an only slightly shaky salute their way – despite the unnerving mask, 65 was one of their more ‘favored’ versions of the Second Harbinger. So far, he had not yet threatened to perform a vivisection on anyone. At least not to Pantalone’s knowledge.
As per his request, the ornate fireplace had already been lit, bathing his workplace in a leaden warmth. The Regrator usually preferred his office to be a little frosty. It set the right mood for discussions.
After they had sat down, he slid the only slightly crumpled report across the small, dark cedar table in the center of his plush seating area.
“Now, I am sure you are aware that I require each item of the sum to be individually listed. Groupings can only be made after previous discussion or according to common consensus,” he began with exasperation already seeping back into his voice.
Across from him, 65 only sat with his legs crossed and head inclined in an inquisitive tilt.
“You have neither indicated how the sum of near two million mora is made up,” he sharply tapped his pen twice over the number in question, “nor even noted down the bare minimum of your travel destination.” Or any other details, really.
“Would you care to enlighten me?” The pointed edge of his smile would hopefully communicate his annoyance.
65 breathed out a quiet chuckle, which, unfortunately, was much more likely to be directed at him than over any amusement derived from the Doctor’s own error.
“A small, one-man expedition to the Fontaine Research Institute, nothing more.”
“See, that wasn’t so hard now, was it,” Pantalone amended the listing. His own orderly letters looked horribly out of place next to the scrawl on the paper. “Now, I do think I deserve an explanation on how a singular person can accumulate a two million mora travel bill.”
“Oh, but aren’t you always so generous with your own travel funds?” This was entirely irrelevant. “Why, dearest Regrator, are you upset that 25 did not invite you on his trip?”
His smile was starting to feel terribly strained.
Warm fingers hidden under silken gloves gently took the pen from his grasp to note down an itemized list on the bottom of the page. Why did 65 have the exact numbers memorized?
At this point, Pantalone was more inclined to believe that the earlier image of his colleague drafting these insults to bureaucracy on purpose held more truth than he anticipated.
It was in that moment that he decided that he would take his sweet time transferring those funds to Dottore’s office. Perhaps he would simply ‘forget’ about it for a little while. He was a busy man, after all.
-
“How fast do you think they will recover?”
Pantalone was seeing his guest to the door, as was proper. He would have invited him for a glass of indulgence after their business dealings had concluded, really – but he was terribly craving a smoke. Had been for the past hour.
65 gingerly put his arm through the sleeve of the coat Pantalone was holding up for him.
“Less than a week, I am sure. 18 and 8 likely faster than the others, but it shouldn’t keep us held up for long.” He thanked him with a nod, “We will make up the delay before the end of the month.”
The banker absentmindedly smoothed down the coat’s opulent feather collar. A shame he was wearing gloves right now – he knew it to be enticingly soft.
To his own surprise, he had not once thought of the money lost on keeping the laboratory running without any usage. Perhaps he had found the personal benefits of the situation to be of far greater value. And it was his explicit intention to squeeze it for all its worth.
“Should I bring anything?”
The Doctor gave a perplexed tilt of his head. It reminded him of the birds that occasionally lent him company on his balcony. Pantalone allowed his amusement to show on his face as he traced a finger up one of the longer feathers near the man’s head.
“I can hardly let my dear doctor suffer through this alone, can I? This would be my chance to repay your thorough care.”
Not a lie, but not the whole truth. Having the Doctor laying before him for once, delirious with fever and needing his help, would be something to look forward to during his monotonous work day.
Pantalone’s hands had since moved down to the older segment’s lapel, which meant he was able to feel the chuckle in his chest more than hear it. “Sure, if you wish to go by that. It isn’t like I can stop you now.”
Oh, he could. They both knew that fully well. But he would not. Not least because, while not having any lasting effect, it would surely put a bruise on 35’s inflated ego to be seen like this by his business partner. Although Pantalone, for one, found it quite endearing.
65 turned slightly as he passed through the door. “I believe just yourself will suffice.”
-
Tick. Tack. Tick. Tack.
Pantalone could not remember the last time he had been this impatient.
Tick. Tack.
He had told himself he would leave after finishing this stack of documents. He would be finishing it. Only then would he leave.
Tick.
Not a minute earlier.
Tack.
The last invoice dragged on as the minutes flew by.
Putting his signature onto that last page felt like release.
What he was so impatient for, he didn’t even know. Perhaps it was the dopamine surge he had gotten upon seeing his infallible doctor so vulnerable.
Pantalone did not allow himself to hurry as he filed everything away. His coat was put on with pronounced leisure. At age 20, he had trained such pointless displays of restlessness out of himself – he would not start again now.
But before he had fully pressed down the handle of his office door, he stilled. With deliberately measured steps, Pantalone grabbed the small, decorative lamp that was standing on one of the side tables and finally made for the laboratory.
This time, the doors were unlocked.
Noone came to greet him, as they usually would. Some segment always heard him – it felt strange to stand in there alone, for once.
But, from the door to the medical wing, he could hear the faint clamor of voices.
With the lamp still held under his arm, Pantalone stepped in to the familiar corridor.
25 seemed not much better than the previous day, still looking unusually hazy and a little flushed as he came out of the first room right when Pantalone entered. This time, though, he was dressed much like 35 had been: Comfortable shirt and pants, his high leather boots traded for something easy to slip on and off. He had a bowl of what, from the distance, vaguely looked like stew in his hands.
“I see we’ve become your evening entertainment,” the segment said in lieu of a greeting.
Pantalone only smiled back as he closed the door behind him. While he could not see his mouth, the banker could have sworn that he saw 25’s eyes squint in the slightest grin. He left for his room before Pantalone could be certain.
Idle conversation between 65 and the two youngest segments filled the empty hallway.
“I don’t see why he should be the one to get to have a room to himself.”
“You chose this room on your own. It isn’t like we have a room order.”
“Yes, but when I did, it was still empty. He followed me in here.”
“That’s because I always sleep in this room when I don’t feel like walking all the way back to the bedrooms,” the noncommittal gesture he saw 8 make looked much too collected for an average 8-year-old, “Technically, this is my room then.”
Pantalone made his presence known by walking in and depositing his coat on the same chair he had yesterday. Only this time, he had left his pack of cigarettes safely in his office.
For now, he set the desk lamp down on top of it.
“You’re back.” 18 did not sound all too happy about the fact. Although he really could not manage to look very irritated while swallowing spoonfuls of what, on closer inspection, was a vegetable soup.
Before he knew it, an identical bowl was being pressed into his own hands.
“I had the kitchen prepare a seventh portion,” 65 said nonchalantly as he handed him a spoon. “You haven’t had dinner yet.”
A statement. Not a question. And he had the gall to be right about it, too.
With a sigh he would be hard-pressed to call fond himself, Pantalone took 8 up on the returning offer to sit with him. His previous spot was occupied, after all.
The room lapsed into relative silence after 65 had left with the tea cart on which three more bowls stood. 8 sniffled more frequently than he had the previous day. The constant furrow in 18’s brow had worsened.
The lamp he had quietly brought along had long since caught both of their interests. There wasn’t anything special about it, not at all. But then again – what would have moved the Regrator to bring a lamp, of all things? Pantalone relished in their befuddled expressions as they ate.
8 had lasted less than five minutes before his curiosity won out.
“Isn’t that from your office?”
A sharp eye. He expected nothing less. Pantalone took his time swallowing before he answered.
“You’re correct,” he directed his pleased smile at the kid next to him. “It’s so you can continue reading when it’s dark out.”
The blank expression he was given spelled confusion, “But we have a light here.” 8 pointed to the fluorescent ceiling light which was, in fact, turned on at the moment and illuminated the room.
18 seemed to catch on much quicker. Pantalone heard a mumbled ‘thank you’ from his direction. Evidently, he was not very used to saying those words.
This, however, also brought understanding to 8's eyes. For a moment, his gaze flickered between Pantalone and his older counterpart, before finally landing on him with a nod.
"Yes, thank you."
Despite his face remaining relatively impassive, Pantalone thought the kid's eyes to sparkle a little as he swapped his empty bowl for the heavy book on his bedside table.
After he had finished his own soup, he stood up to leave them be. On his way out, Pantalone turned on the lamp, still sitting on the chair cushioned by his coat. He could not remember ever having seen the way the intricate patterns on the lampshade turned colorful when lit up. It had served as only a decorative piece for years.
He had been right, though: This was much easier on the eyes than those cold overhead lights.
-
25’s door was the only one of the three occupied rooms’ that did not stand wide open.
“Come in,” came the less-than-exuberant reply to his knocking, “To what do I owe the pleasure?”
“I was coming to see whether my poor doctor needs attending to over his ‘mild case of cold’.” The segment had phrased it so kindly the previous day.
At that, 25 bristled. He finally looked up from the papers strewn across his bed with a disgruntled glare – the efficacy of which was strongly dampened by his unusually messy hair.
A black ballpoint pen was pointed at Pantalone’s face, “First of all, this a bacterial infection, not a viral one.” His nose still seemed to be a little stuffy. The following sniffle was absolutely detrimental to any sort of sternness 25 was trying to establish with his words – he looked quite adorable.
“Second of all,” 25 readjusted his cross-legged sitting position amidst the papers. “I am doing just fine by myself, thank you.” He began sifting through his notes again. “You can go bother 35, he’ll love it.”
The sentence was clearly meant to put an end to the conversation, so he could go back to his paperwork.
Still, the fever that had already materialized to its fullest in 35 looked to be turning to him, too. 25 looked sweltering: red heat graced his cheekbones down to his shoulders. Most notably, he had taken off his mask. His mouth was pressed into a thin line of discomfort.
“Don’t your eyes hurt?” Pantalone internally winced at the thought of focusing on reading with a fever. Not that he didn’t do it, anyways. The economy did not run itself.
25 looked back up at him. “It’s no matter," his voice told him that he had very much hoped for Pantalone to just leave, "If I can formalize these protocols now, my time won’t be entirely wasted.”
Of course.
Pantalone inclined his head in a show of contemplation. “I seem to remember you forbidding me from working through my cold.”
“That’s because you don’t know your limits.”
“Oh? And you do?”
“Naturally.”
“But you don’t care for them, do you,” he sighed. 25 had returned his focus to the papers. “If you ever paid any mind to the limits imposed upon your mere human existence, my, then where would we be?” Slowly, he had been moving from his place at the door over to 25’s bedside.
Before he could react, Pantalone smoothly took the segment’s glasses from his face.
He remembered this expression. Back when Pantalone had taken away his reading glasses at 3 in the morning, Zandik had always looked at him in plain affront the very same. It was exquisite.
25 was pulling himself together admirably. He answered through gritted teeth, “I am sure you know the answer to that question.” Of course he did. They would be dead. “So will you quit being a nuisance?”
Of course not.
“Oh, but what kind of doctor does not follow his own advice?” Pantalone put just a hint of theatrics into his voice. The now folded glasses were held over his chest in a show of concern that anyone but the man across from him would doubtlessly fall for. “Surely you understand how demotivating this is to see for a patient.”
“As if you ever listen to that ‘advice’ anyways.” 25 slid a hand down his face. “I’ll take a rest now if you promise to be less difficult the next time I am assigned to your care.”
How sweet. “We have a deal, then.”
To Pantalone’s slight disgruntlement, 25 had him sign an impromptu contract on the childish agreement written on one of his notepads. He could not decline now, at least not without losing face – evidently, he had misjudged the Doctor’s cunning, even while terribly fever-ridden.
-
By 25’s earlier suggestion, he did, in fact, go check on 35 and 45.
His entry into the room wasn’t met with any dramatic greeting this time. 45 looked to be sound asleep upon closer inspection, having half tossed off his blanket and shivering almost imperceptibly. The banker tugged it back in place.
35, however seemed to be awake, judging by how his head followed him.
“You haven’t touched your food yet.” Pantalone stood at 35’s bedside, scrutinizing the full bowl and clean spoon on the table. Oh, how many times had their positions been reversed – he took a sort of perverse joy in being able to look down at him like this for once.
35 seemed less delighted about the circumstance.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Oh, but you need to eat, dear.” A teasing smile tugged at his mouth as he sat down next to his blanket-wrapped body. “’Proper nutrition is essential for fast recovery’, as I have been told.”
Dottore groaned. A hand swatted against the arm he had braced himself with on the bed.
The man made no move to start eating. His voice was a little slurred with sleep. “We were built to require less food.”
Pantalone chuckled. Of course, he was aware. How unfortunate, then, that it was also 35 who had once told him that “less” still amounted to one meal a day.
“Now then, when was the last time you ate?”
The segment ended up only grumbling. The fever warmth of his hand had moved to resting against the sleeve of Pantalone’s woolen sweater.
“I’ll survive,” 35 muttered with a roguish smile, as if that would convince the banker of anything.
He softly chuckled at the doctor’s antics. The next time he was under 35’s care, he would be sure to remind him of this very moment.
With quiet amusement and a hint of anticipation, Pantalone grabbed the full bowl and spoon from the bedside table. The segment watched.
“Say ‘ah’.”
35’s smile fell. His eyes, if he had them, would surely be wide open in indignation now. Zandik’s had been, the first time he did this.
Pantalone patiently waited with a the most serene of smiles on his face, vegetable-laden spoon held mid-air.
The man on the bed did not move a muscle.
“Pantalone,” he tried.
Pantalone was unperturbed.
“Open your mouth.”
He had begun sitting up now, shuffling his torso up the pillow, in an effort to be at least at eyelevel with the banker.
“Regrator,” Dottore’s voice was clipped in outrage. “I am not a child.”
Pantalone only inclined his head innocently, “Really now? You could have fooled me.”
For a moment, it appeared as if they would end in a draw.
Then, 35 grabbed the spoon and bowl from him with a scoff. He began eating without further comment, albeit slowly and with a distinct energy of murderous intent.
Pantalone did greatly pity that he had not let himself be fed. Alas, at least he got the man to eat.
45 still appeared to be in a restless sleep as he left. Pantalone pulled his blanket up to rest a little higher on his shoulders.
Before he could grab his coat and head to his chambers, though, he had instead been roped into reading out loud by the youngest segment.
18 had vehemently complained about the childish treatment, of course – but his dizzy mind refused to focus on any written text and he must have been oh so terribly deficient in mental stimulation. His grousing while 8 was holding out the book to Pantalone was not nearly emphatic enough to be believable.
At some point, 65 had come in for a few minutes with a fever thermometer and some more water. 8’s temperature had, apparently, slowly climbed over the past hours. 18 had been given a damp towel to put on his forehead. Another one had been left in a bowl on 8’s bedside table. A pill, too, incase his fever got worse.
The banker had lost track of time by the start of the 4th chapter, Bioluminescent Symbiosis in Megafauna. 18 had long since closed his eyes and remained in complete stillness, safe for the regular rise and fall of his chest. He was not quite sure whether he had fallen asleep or was simply pretending not to be listening.
Somewhere in-between the phosphorescent bacteria and the effect of thunderstorms on dendro elementals, Pantalone found himself momentarily reminded of the recovery time after his first lung transplant.
Every night before his release into ambulant care, 8 had come to his bedside with a book and read to him. Most of them were on carcinogens.
Pantalone could admit that he, even at the time, barely remembered a thing. But the quiet voice of the child reading out words that would sound terribly wrong coming from any other 8-year-old had lulled him into a peaceful sleep more than once.
Now, looking at the kid tightly hugging his Aranara plush sitting next to him while fighting to keep his eyes open, he felt pleased to be able to repay the gesture.
After three more pages, 8’s head had started sagging onto his upper arm. Even through the thick fabric Pantalone could feel the feverish heat emanating from him.
“Dear,” his voice was kept low, as to not wake the potentially sleeping 18, “I think its time for you to lay down, no?”
The fluffy blue head of hair pressed a little stronger into his arm. “No. I’m awake.” His voice sounded like that statement would be true for approximately five minutes, “You can continue.”
Pantalone closed the book with a fond sigh. He turned to gently press his wrist against the kid’s forehead. 8 looked a little disgruntled at having lost his wall to lean on.
“You’re feverish,” he reached for the pill and the glass of water on the bedside table as he announced the obvious.
8 grumbled and hugged the blue plush a little tighter. Its face looked very squeezed.
Pantalone held out the pill and glass to him. Even under the dim light he could see the sickly flush of his face. The kid conceded after a moment of staring down the items in his hand.
He likely understood his own symptoms perfectly well, Pantalone thought as 8 swallowed down the medicine with only a hint of distaste on his face. It was simply that he did not want to believe that he had a fever. Just as stubborn and prideful as every older version of his doctor.
The kid ended up flopping down onto the bed in defeat. Pantalone swapped the book on his lap for the bowl and cloth on the nightstand.
He gently pressed his lips to 8’s heated forehead, “I’m sure you’ll feel better tomorrow morning.”
The boy just huffed as he placed the cold towel on his head.
He cuddled further into the pillows and his eyes fell closed before Pantalone could pick the book back up. 8’s voice already drawled with sleep, “No, I don’t think I will.” The words were spoken with the bluntness of a doctor diagnosing their patient.
Pantalone smiled to himself. Of course.
He continued reading until the little hand that had grabbed onto his own fell limp in slumber. The biting chill of the halls seeped through his coat on his way back that night.
-
Never once in his abnormally long life had he ever considered where you would best place a cold compress on someone without a forehead. Granted, he had also only once been in the general position to take care of another human being. And that human did have a forehead.
Should he just place it over the mask? Directly on that glowing red energy crystal below? Or rather on the back of his neck?
Really, if Zandik had given his segments the ability to get sick, he should also have given all of them a forehead. It had only been the eyes that he could not get convincingly human enough with in his first segments, 35 and 45. A forehead should have been possible.
Through his fever haze, 45 appeared lucid enough to be entertained by his befuddlement.
A concerningly hot hand sluggishly grabbed at his wrist. 65 had assured him that the segments ran a little hotter than the average human, even more so in high fever, but it felt subconsciously alarming nonetheless.
“Just on the neck is fine,” 45’s voice rasped with disuse. The hand holding the compress was loosely tugged towards said neck.
Pantalone did as he said. It looked a little uncomfortable to have the weight of a wet cloth weighing down on your windpipe, but he supposed that theirs must be of a sturdier build than his own.
That burning hand had not let go of him yet.
“Do I get a ‘get-well-soon’ kiss, too?”
Oh dear.
His fever was worse than he had thought.
Pantalone could not restrain his surprised laughter as he wondered what 8 had told him.
He was still chuckling as he readjusted 45’s hand so that he was now properly holding it in his own. Pantalone lifted the warm knuckles to his lips in a pronounced gentlemanly way – a smile had grown on 45’s lips now, too.
The segment’s chuckle sounded almost drunk. “Thank you, doctor,” he let his fingers trace over Pantalone’s lips briefly before gracelessly letting his arm fall back onto the blanket. “I feel much better.” Judging by the ensuing dead stillness, he was out cold.
He sat at his bedside for a while longer, threading his fingers through the Doctor’s hair.
The residual heat of 45’s touch kept tingling on his lips like a brand.
When he had entered the medical wing that day, it had been eerily quiet. Only 65 had been sitting on the chair in 8 and 18’s room placidly reading a book. He likely still did right now.
That noon apparently had everyone reaching the height of their fever. Most of them had fallen asleep right after their dinner. The evening dose of medication had yet to kick in.
45 shifted uncomfortably in his sleep and Pantalone removed his hand. He would let him rest.
Meanwhile, from the other bed, 35 was staring at him – at least Pantalone thought he was. His head had tilted slightly when he had just moved, so he surely must be. He had been silently eating his soup for the past ten minutes. Such a good patient.
35 set the bowl down onto his lap. “Give me one, too.” His usual eloquence had been taken away by the fever flood, along with, apparently, his prefrontal cortex.
Hm. Pantalone was in a generous mood. Perhaps the warmth on his lips still had him a little dazed.
He wordlessly walked over and sat down next to the mildly delirious man. 35 looked at him expectantly. A little like a dog.
As his hands were occupied with the soup, Pantalone instead lightly grabbed his face and leaned towards the pointed tip of his mask.
“It doesn’t work if it’s not on the skin,” Dottore told him with the same voice he had used to explain to him the application of his scar ointments.
Pantalone only chuckled at his very admirable attempt at covertness. “I take it you’re an expert in these matters?”
35 scoffed at the mere implication the he was anything but. “Certainly.”
“Alright,” Pantalone gently rotated the man’s head by his chin, “I’ll listen to the doctor’s order’s then.” The kiss he planted on his cheek lasted for a few delicate seconds.
“Better?”
Dottore inclined his head with that slightly crooked smile of his, “I fear that a conclusion will require more extensive testing.”
Pantalone breathed out a laugh. This feverish talk should not sound as endearing to him as it did. He patted Dottore’s leg over the blanket. “And I fear that you should finish your soup.”
The man showed no signs of moving to do so.
“Unless you’d like me to feed it to you?”
The charming look on 35’s face very quickly vanished. His grip on the bowl in his lap tightened a little.
He thought so.
-
Coming into the laboratory the following evening, he was greeted by a much more lively looking 18. His fever had broken and, as evident by the pile of papers in his arms, he was well enough to be able to finish some busywork while on bedrest.
If 25 and him thought that Pantalone would ever be listening to them again on matters of ‘not working through illness’, they were sorely mistaken.
The rest appeared to be much better, too: 45 was sitting up while 8 laid on his front across from him. They looked to be playing some variant of chess. 35 had apparently regained his ability to walk without being overcome by dizziness – something he was itching to demonstrate, judging by how he had invited Pantalone on a walk before he could even get to taking off his coat.
The banker obliged, of course – normally, it was only 65 who he would occasionally circle the courtyard with. At age 35, Zandik had not quite taken to ‘leisure activity’ yet.
In the interest of not crossing paths with too many guards or, Tsaritsa forbid, one of their colleagues while 35 was still dressed as he was under that white coat, he had insisted on taking a less frequented route. Having the word get out that the Doctor, of all people, was sick – and it undoubtably would with how much he was still coughing – well… it served much easier to simply avoid the presence of others.
This, eventually, lead them to the sunroom Pantalone had let build.
It was not particularly big. There was only so much you could retroactively add to a building. But it did serve its purpose as a reasonably temperate place, hidden from outside discretion, to sit and watch the snowflakes fall. Right now, though, it sat close to pitch dark.
An iron-wrought bench with swirling patterns to mimic the few plants at the sides stood in front of a matching, small table in the middle.
Dottore was the only one he ever brought here. At one point, he had a small crow statuette soldered onto the backrest of the side Zandik liked to sit on – the other man found it a lot less humorous than Pantalone did, but it only made him intent on keeping it even more. Now, it more than often served as his sole company lit in the dim glimmer of his cigarette.
35 did not react as he sat down, unperturbed by the little bird looking over his shoulder in a comical imitation of his usual accessory.
Before Pantalone could take out the lighter from his pocket, the candle in the small lantern on the table caught fire with a snap of Dottore’s fingers.
–he decidedly did not startle. But he could not help the slightly surprised chuckle as he sat down. Show-off.
35’s smug grin was interrupted by a bout of coughing. Pantalone sighed.
“You seem to be worse off than 8 and 18,” he removed his glasses to wipe the condensation off of them, “Don’t you claim to be the bodily Prime?”
The Doctor bristled at his teasing tone. At this age, specifically, he was so awfully easy to rile up.
“They simply had a lower exposure,” came the very brisk response. A hint of offense he could not quite mask. “They weren’t in direct contact with the body.”
“Oh? But you were? I was told that only 25 and 45 conducted the dissection.”
Pantalone noticed the tense set of his mouth once he put his glasses back on.
“I took some bloodwork after they were done with it.”
35 stared straight ahead. Pantalone waited. Early on in his time working under Dottore had he noticed that, if you did not fill the silence after a statement of his, he often would unwittingly do so himself.
“Immune cells can still be viable hours after death,” he paused again, but this time it appeared he was simply looking for the correct phrasing. The next words were spoken slowly, as if still in consideration. “I wanted to see if he had developed lymphocytes or antibodies against the tumor.”
Even after prolonged silence, 35 now remained still.
Unusual, if the background of his research were simple scientific curiosity. He normally hardly stopped talking about his projects of interest.
“I wasn’t aware the immune system could deal with cancer.”
“I…,” Dottore’s speech now quickened slightly, as it tended to when he was agitated, “I’m not sure it can. I believe it plays a role in preventing anomalous cells from developing out of healthy tissue, but even for this I have no proof yet.” A cough interrupted his distressed ramble. “However, once the tumor has started growing… I don’t know how or why that system fails.”
‘I don’t know’. Zandik had always despised saying it. 35 looked positively aggravated at having to put those ludicrous words into his mouth.
“If I can understand it in its entirety, perhaps I can – I will – find a treatment for cancer that does not involve surgical removal.”
“Impressive.” And he meant it. Ambition looked good on him. “Where does your sudden desire to contribute to the public good come from?”
Dottore fell into silence again. It was a tense one. Pantalone heard the shifting of his legs under that heavy coat. He remained like this for a moment, with half a breath hanging in suspense.
“What if you developed cancer?” he finally exhaled. His voice had lost the tense rush it held before.
Pantalone simply smiled at him. “I trust you will cut it out of me, of course. One more scar isn’t going to make a difference now.”
35’s hands, resting on his own thighs, tensely gripped into his coat. He let go again.
“What if it spreads before we find it?” He fought with a cough as he spoke. The banker thought he looked ready to go back to the laboratory.
“We can’t cut you open like a sponge, Feofan.” The demand for him to stop dousing his lungs in carcinogens swung within it. A plea, perhaps.
That beaked masked was now turned towards him, Dottore’s mouth set into a thin line.
He was looking at him, unmoving.
Pantalone pushed back a chuckle. Oh, his doctor. This incessant concern that he would always deny having endeared him so terribly.
In the ensuing quiet, Feofan lifted his hand to one of the light blue strands framing his face. Like he hadn’t done since the evening before Zandik’s 85th birthday, he gently wound it around his finger.
Whether it was the weight of that single motion or something else entirely, Pantalone’s chest burnt.
“I have utmost faith in your abilities, my doctor.”
His eyes, fully opened now, traced along the familiar form of the man before him.
He watched his throat work around a dry swallow.
With a tacit smile, he gave a soft tug on the hair in his grasp. 35 looked about to protest.
“We should head back now, hm?” Feofan murmured into the space between them, “65 won’t be happy if you get worse on my account.”
He fell into a restless sleep that night.
-
The following evening, Pantalone stepped into the laboratory halls much later than ‘usual’ by now. That last meeting had stretched uncomfortably long, and the smile on his face had become increasingly aching.
If he had not witnessed the spectacle of the past few days firsthand, he would be hard pressed to give the notion any sort of belief: 35, 18 and 25 were milling about the lab as usual. Only the occasional coughing and clearing of a throat would alert him to any abnormality.
The soft steps of 8 came up to him. “Do you want tea?”
The kid looked up with expectant eyes. Pantalone suppressed the desire to ruffle his hair.
“Sure,” 8 had already grabbed his hand to lead him in the direction of the patient rooms, “It’s been a while, hasn’t it.”
At the very back of the corridor of the medical wing was a small, sad excuse of a kitchen. The hum of the fluorescent overhead lights as well as the existence of a deionized water tap made it feel more like a laboratory space than any place to reasonably prepare food. Pantalone had looked inside the cupboards once: Crackers, a few cans of corn, and a vast assortment of teas.
8 had dropped him off here before going back to the room 45 was still resting in. At a glance in passing, it had looked like they were in the middle of another game of chess.
The sickness had evidently hit 45 the hardest. Everyone else was more or less back to usual business, yet he had still looked a little under the weather as Pantalone had just briefly seen him. Although, perhaps he was also simply less intent on working through his discomfort than the younger segments. They had all the time they wanted, after all.
Despite this, the segment’s recovery had been a considerably faster affair than he would have expected, especially remembering his own experiences.
Pantalone absentmindedly voiced those thoughts to 65, who had been standing next to the softly boiling kettle since his arrival.
“You’re right,” the man nodded, “A normal human would only be starting to show first signs of betterment at this point in time.”
Pantalone was feeling the weariness of the day slowly crashing down on his mind. For a while, they stood in silence next to each other, watching the tea brew.
Zandik had started sharing tea with him back when he had still filed his reports for him.
Sometimes, he missed sitting at the same desk with him every day.
A striking red color seeped out of the leaves and into the water.
Sometimes, he missed him.
He let his eyes roam over the peaceful-looking figure next to him.
They all were him. And at the same time, they weren’t quite. It had taken him all of decades to look into 45’s masked face and feel familiarity spark within him. He knew that they were Zandik – his heart, or whatever remained of it, as they say, seemed to not be quite caught up with the notion yet.
65’s gloved fingers tapped a silent rhythm against the kitchen counter. It looked to be part of some languid melody meant to be played on a piano.
These past few days had near bombarded him with such quiet reminders of the man he knew. Perhaps this was why he was even choosing to spend thought on this. Perhaps he was just tired.
The sound of feathers shifting against each other pulled him out of his head.
“I am sure that your devoted care must also have played a great part in their recovery,” 65 spoke with a tilt of his head and an audible smile in his voice. A hint of a tease was in there, somewhere, too.
“Please, I only repaid the favor.”
“Oh, but I am certain.” Dottore now turned towards him almost fully, smile not having left his words. “Especially since I was told of those… ‘healing powers’ you had kept from us all this time.”
–Oh.
Pantalone exhaled a chuckle. Never would he have expected The Doctor to latch onto an unscientific folly such as this. 45, 35, and now 65, too. He would gladly play along, though.
“How could I have known that all it would take for the mighty Doctor to heal was a humble banker’s kiss?” soft hints of mirth played in his voice, “You better watch out then: Before you know it, I’ll have replaced you as the Fatuii head doctor.”
65 scoffed lightheartedly, “I still believe the proof of its efficacy to be very lacking.”
“Then what do you propose, Doctor dearest?” His hand had once again wandered up to the feather collar of Dottore’s coat.
“Self-experimentation, of course.” The sound of a haughty smile accompanied the simple sentence.
“But you aren’t, and never were, ill, no?” Pantalone briefly wondered whether he was considering purposefully infecting himself to prove a point.
65 traced one of his soft gloves down Pantalone’s arm, finally interlacing their fingers out to the side.
“Oh,” A lofty head tilt accompanied his words, “but I am a sick man, Feofan. Surely you are aware.” Pantalone’s breath hitched for a moment.
His free hand found the Doctor’s nape, thumb tracing along the clasps of that plague mask. The smile ever-present on his mouth grew teasing. “My, now don’t tell me you are hoping to get better.”
“Who knows?” The bony but sturdy hand holding his own squeezed softly. 65’s voice dropped to barely above an intimate murmur. “Perhaps you’ll have me laying off the shackles of blasphemy and worshipping a true God.”
The burning in Pantalone’s chest had returned.
Goodness.
“How could I ever say no to that?” he felt his own voice running breathless. He was caught in a slightly dizzying cocktail of amusement at the absurd conversation and the choking warmth of desire.
“But, oh,” Pantalone threaded his fingers through 65’s beautifully long hair as he remembered 35’s words, “I am sure you know that it only works when placed directly on the skin.”
The sound of the seams of his gloves catching against the mask’s metal clasp accompanied the Doctor’s hummed chuckle. Although unnecessary, the man bowed his head slightly, so that Pantalone could comfortably slide off the headpiece. Zandik had always done the very same. Perhaps, Pantalone gripped the mask a little tighter than he needed to.
The scorching in his rib-cage became almost unbearable.
Having righted himself, 65 gently took the mask from his hand, safely depositing it on the countertop. Pantalone was too caught up staring to think to do so himself.
It had been centuries, at this point. 35 and 45 only had half a human face – the 25-year-old Zandik he had never met. But the face hidden by that bird mask was so painfully familiar.
It choked him, the feeling. Recognition. In those mirthfully smiling blood-red eyes, he finally found recognition.
A small gasp escaped from the Doctor’s mouth as Feofan pulled him in to press their lips together in a longing kiss. He distantly registered that the man’s top hat had been knocked off by the sudden movement.
It felt like inhaling the first drag of smoke after an attempt to quit. His most depraved vice.
Feofan’s hand was desperately clawing into to 65’s coat lapels, tugging him impossibly closer, as if they could merge together as one. A part of him, the one that had put the man’s heart into a jar on his desk, never, ever wanted to let go again.
Zandik’s lips were just a little warmer than he remembered.