He presses the knuckles of his right hand to the hollows under his right eye, hoping to rub away the burgeoning migraine. Examiner Sanguine had asked to see his results. That’s fine, Caiilo knows. It’s Examiner’s job to keep a peeper on things. He stares at the carefully sliced open part of his forearm, the neatly cut flesh pinned to the same table said forearm is strapped to.
He has no results. Nothing conclusive. Nothing he could show withing a a few nights. The transplant had gone fine, as far as he knows. Though even that wasn’t for sure for another few nights, his bones could reject the sample- they wouldn’t, he keeps telling himself. They can’t. He likes being alive too much, likes dissecting the troll race on a level impercievable by others. Well. Perhaps not everyone is incapable of such understandings. Examiner not only keeps up, but offers possible solutions and ideas to further his research. A splendid man, he supposed, though the mask was a bit odd. None of the others were quite that level of anon. Gray? Yes. Comtacts or glasses? Yeah. Speculation was maybe that Sanguine was violet. Not that any of them oughtto be supposing anyone’s colors.
Caiilo keeps to himself. Much smarter that way. At least. It would be, if that hadn’t left him in his lab, strapped to a table with his own partially dissected arm pinned to it. After a particularly painful moment in which he slammed his free hand on the counter- now the pliers he needed to pull out the pins were on the floor halfway across the room.
He breathes in, and then out. Carefully thinking through his options:
Scream bloody murder until someone hopefully shows up? Unlikely, though possible.
Tear the pins out? Ruin his arm in the process, and likely end up with a bone, blood, or other form of infection and die of sepsis? That would be unfortunate.
As if summoned by the thought, the Examiner himself walks through door as it slides open.
He blinks owlishly, gloved knuckles white against the counter as he stops himself from screaming just on principle at this point. His elbow aches. “Morning boss. Uh.” He glances down at his open arm. Though most of his blood seems to be brown, the injection point seems to be seeping blue. Good. It’s working. As long as he doesn’t end up violet again….
“You wouldn’t happen to mind handing me the grip pliers on the counter there, would ya boss?” He certainly didn’t want the pair on the floor now.
He doesn’t even seem sheepish. Fish can smell fear. He knows they can’t actually, but sometimes it sure feels like it. “Ah. And I wanna put in an order for a table with wheels.”
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