章節 71: Unpleasant Is He
Pr-9 had always reminded him of Eighth Headman. Or his thoughts ran in reverse, making the correlating relationship a cause of vice versa. Both discarded decorum, ignored proper procedure, made it their life's goal to interfere with his well-being whenever they crossed paths with him, wore smiles that made him cringe on his best days out of clammy fear, and made casual conversation a laborious endeavor.
He was sure one of the two hadn't retained such habits in their formative years. One likely imposed themselves on the other, leaving him with twice the trouble down the line. If betting was still a relevant activity and not historic entertainment, he would've risked some personal trinket in favor of predicting Eighth Headman as the perpetrator.
She was the longer-lived of the two; though the idea that Pr-9 was the one brought him a greater sense of humor twisted outside of convention.
These thoughts wreaked havoc in his mind as he let Pr-9 guide him through the examination. The medical officer had him perform basic stretches, exercises, and thought puzzles before the three categories became more progressive in their difficulty.
When he reached the limit of how far he could stretch his forehead to touch his toes or identify an odd image out of hundreds of identical ones, Pr-9 placed that segment behind them.
The second round of tests was biological. He refused the needle and offered Pr-9 a scalpel from one of the trays to collect a moderate amount of his blood. He exhaled into a moisture tube, tested his vision, and had to swallow a pill with miniaturized machinery inside emitting a trackable origin frequency. Pr-9 took his measurements and asked him to hang from handlebars hanging from the ceiling for ten minutes.
When the waiting was over and he dropped down to massage his stinging palms, his blood pressure and heart rate received recording next, along with breaths per minute and estimated ATP production.
He climbed into a large scanner that would produce faithful copies of his brain, down to the smallest neuron neuron pathways. The whirring of the machine rendered every word out of Pr-9's mouth blissfully null, protecting his ears for a few minutes. He was almost disappointed when it finished.
"You'll have to go under anesthesia; I need to retrieve a sample of bone tissue and marrow from your body." He grunted his assent and moved to the surgery table always in the periphery of his vision. Since he couldn't swallow it, the injection was inevitable.
The suspense before the needle punctured his skin felt prolonged; when it did, he couldn't avoid a hiss escaping his lips. Pr-9 cocked an eyebrow, but his tone remained free of judgment. "Try to relax. You'll feel the effects in a moment." His grin returned. "After that, I'll cut you open."
The offhand comment should've worried him more, but his thoughts were already slowing down, like wading through congealed blood. Pr-9 hadn't spoken any mistruths on the effectiveness of the cocktail entered into his body. Another couple of seconds, and his vision failed him, the task of keeping his eyes open too daunting to persist. His consciousness followed.
He didn't dream, free to drift in a black river that swept away anything from his waking memory. No responsibility. No concerns. No tribulations or trials. No unwanted confrontations. It…nice. It felt nice.
Reawakening was an ugly experience, one that left him with a throbbing head and side. He wasn't sure which to clutch at first, but Pr-9, watchful and cautious despite his provocations, had strapped him down with soft restraints. They didn't chaff at his exposed skin, but neither were they frail, resisting his sudden seizing. Pr-9's footsteps traversed the room, and he was by his side with little delay.
"It's fine. We're done, the pain will fade." A chuckle. "It might've danced around my consideration to warn you the drug cocktail I picked leaves behind terrible side effects." His eyes cracked open, and he flinched at the bright, overhead orbs of light. "Migraines, soreness, chills, mental fog. I apologize."
"If you're sorry…don't prevent me from punching you once I recover." His mouth was dry. "How long did it take?"
"Ever the positive one. The procedure consumed eight hours, but the effects of the cocktail lasted an hour longer." As he spoke, Pr-9 removed the restraints keeping him tied to the surgery table.
"Don't worry about long-term or even short-term recovery. I injected you with a moderate dose of liquid sun that should accelerate your natural recovery from weeks to a couple of hours."
That was relieving to hear. He covered his eyes until the overhead lights deactivated. With the Aud army fast approaching and the remaining time until the first confrontation only growing smaller, he couldn't afford to let his body take the long route to recovery; mere weeks weren't something the typical human body was capable of, but even his Blessing wouldn't have moved the process along fast enough for his liking.
Pr-9 declined his request for water. "We need to wait until the effects of the cocktail are completely out of your system. With your miraculous metabolism, I doubt you'll need to wait as long as the other Ancients."
"Why does everyone consider me one? I'm not that old."
"You might as well be one. Half a century is still a long time to live, even if you're still younger than the youngest Ancient."
"Aren't you older than me?"
Pr-9 snorted. "By a few months. But if I acknowledge this and receive outstated importance from it, I'll hold no reservations in--"
"Forget I said anything." Damn. Every time he opened his mouth, he shot himself in the foot. He couldn't win with either Pr-9 or Eighth Headman! Then there was Ch-4, but she existed on a separate tier far above the other two. "Isn't there anything useful you have to say?"
"Oh, I say plenty others would consider useful, but not you. Never you." Pr-9 dragged over a seat and settled into it with no small display of satisfaction at the comfort of it. His legs kicked up to rest heels on the far edge of the surgery table, away from him. "I could change that if you like."
The Prime Beacon shrugged. "Why not? If you tell me something interesting enough, I may even punch you with less force when I do it."
Pr-9 raised his hands in a "What can you do?" motion. "That's fair. Painful, but fair. Would you like to hear a summary of Pa-5's medical reports?"
His first thought, instinctual and driven by parental urges, was rejection. "Wha--no! Why suggest that at all? She has a right to confidentiality, especially after what she's been through!"
"I don't know what tribulations the world forced upon her." Pr-9 shrugged again. He wasn't wrong; talking of the confidential reminded him of Pa-5's now heavily altered service history, courtesy of the Third.
"You know I also hold no regard for things like patient-medical confidentiality, nor did I ask you anything of it. I asked if you'd like to hear of her results, and I'll ask again: do you?"
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