(Tetris has been in the fleet for basically his whole life, you know. Let's talk about that.)
Mind and Body
The fluorescent lights of the lab buzz faintly overhead, their constant droning oddly comforting compared to the inconsistent drip-drip-dripping of liquid on the cold tiled floor. Cricet stares blankly at the corpse on the table, his wide eyes trained on the artificial heart still pulsing inside its open chest. Bronze blood rolls down its hanging arm to collect in a pool beneath its fingertips, the heavy metallic odor just barely detectable through the sterile scent of formaldehyde.
“I’m not a physiopsionologist,” the Doctor grumbles, holding a vial of blood toward the light. She pulls her attention from the sample to turn an unimpressed gaze onto Cricet, her expression stern. “Or a pediatrician.”
He shrinks slightly when the jadeblood looks at him, small fist finding its way to the Colonel’s pristine pant leg at his side. The officer brushes his hand away without looking down, smoothing the fabric where he grabbed it.
“You’re closer than the ship’s medics, at least. I’m not asking for routine.”
The corpse’s fingers twitch. Cricet tries to remind himself they do that sometimes.
“I’m busy.”
“You’ll be able to take a sample.”
This time when the Doctor looks at him, Cricet closes a fist around his own shirt, heart thrumming in his ears. She sniffs once and adjusts her glasses, then takes a scalpel to the side of the brownblooded cadaver, gaze returned to her work.
“Doctor Nalaco,” the Colonel pleads, exasperation seeping into his voice. “Just a few tests, until we can get a proper specialist on board.”
“The fact you’re even asking me this is ludicrous.”
She prods a gloved hand into the body’s chest, pausing to watch the fake heart spasm and pump in response. With her clean hand, she jots down a note, then turns her back on the table to sift through the supplies behind her. Cricet continues to watch the heart, mesmerized by its morbid, thready rhythm.
He loses himself to the pulse, the adults’ argument slowly absorbed into the steady hum of light bulbs and machinery. The blood crawls further outward, each quiet plip echoing through Cricet’s head like thunder. Why is she letting so much of it drain onto the floor? Isn’t that a waste?
He pulls his gaze away from the corpse’s wayward arm to focus on its expressionless face, dull eyes fixed unblinking on the ceiling above. Then the body twitches again, and in a moment that feels all at once blazing fast and agonizingly slow, those lightless eyes snap to the side and lock directly onto his.
Cricet screams, the sound tearing out of him like a bird from his chest. He stumbles back in shock, moving so fast he trips over his own heels and tumbles to the floor. The Colonel swivels to look at him, and all he can think to do is thrust a finger at the body, eyes blown wide with fear.
The Doctor scoffs under her breath and carries on working, making another note on the manufactured heart that Cricet now realizes is keeping the bronzeblood alive on her table. His stomach lurches, his mind racing.
He has always heard that the fleet has use for everyone.
Suddenly, Cricet is certain of one thing:
Whatever use they have for his brain, he will give it to them fully. He does not want the fleet finding use for his body.
Hey Tetris how old are you?? When did you come into fleet care and why?
"I'm like eleven-ish. Been bouncing around fleet facilities since I waaaas... three? Three and a half? I lived in some cavern town before I got shipped off but I think some kind of bigwig asked for me or something.
I dunno. I got moved around a lot, the early stuff kinda blurs together."
