Dossiers of Divicsi: Eclosion

“Hey, Price.”

“…”

“Price!”

“Yes?”

“…look a bit more alive, will you? Ruinin’ our mood.”

A tiny ember floated from the magma heater by the bedside and drifted slowly onto his feet. The blanket covering his right leg had slipped off, but he couldn't reach it with his entire torso and upper body fixed into that one big, ugly white cast. So, he had told the heater earlier to move to the end of the bed. But now, it was getting too close to his leg, and the warmth was growing uncomfortable.

The blue hospital walls formed an ugly contrast with the glowing orange of the heater, making his eyes even more sore. Though the room was quite warm, snot was still slowly edging down his nose. He tried to suck it back in but stopped midway as he felt a jab in his lungs.

How long have you been here?

The nurses had removed his built-in TimeScale in his nape to facilitate the surgery, leaving Willard clueless of the hour. So to rid his concern, he tried to move his neck towards the digital interface on his bedrails. He ended up twisting it a bit too much and suffered through another episode of severe prickling.

Not daring to move again, he faced the window opposite to him. Unlike the standardized housing units of Harvest Towns, this one had a thick sheet of insulator gel around it that prevented the warmth from seeping out. Indeed, the room was much warmer than his home.

Can it be peeled off? Maybe you could take it back.

Squinting through the window, he couldn't see anything but the raging blizzard. Vicious winds packed with icicles going fifty miles an hour were storming through the Station, strong enough to tear through flesh and dent steel upon contact. Willard wondered if the underground accident had been caused by such a storm. Unlikely, he inferred, since these winds were a common sight up north. He wondered if his brother had brought in the sheets.

As his focus shifted away from the glass, he noticed the sudden numbness in his right foot. Then the numbness turned into an extremely sharp searing. Instinctively, his feet jolted up, knocking the heater into a small cabinet beside the bed and toppling two plastic flasks, spilling their content on the floor. He winced at the sharp twinge that shot through his waist as he did so, a cold sweat rolling down his forehead.

Willard vaguely recalled a distant memory of a similar situation. It was back when he worked on the his village’s railway. They had been hammering arm-sized fastenings into the frozen rail tracks when the ice cracked beneath them, swallowing all sixty workers that day. It turned out that the companies that planned it hadn't regarded the massive ice chasm as a setback. And so Willard, one of the few survivors, came to be in the hospital, his entire body inside one stiff, sultry white shell. The same things had happened too many times for him to remember all of them. And each time, he would survive, only to find himself in massive debt from the medical bills. So, he would take even more jobs and work even harder to pay them off, then harder still to pay off the insurance that did practically nothing. And then sometime later, as he's desperately trying to earn just a little more, he'll get into another accident, and the cycle repeats.

Willard licked the cracks on his upper lip. One day, he thought, one of these accidents will kill me for real.

Just then, the door on the right wall swung open, and in marched a cloaked figure holding two tiny cans. His self-made leg-supports made little "clanks" as he strode across the room, the tip of his black-and-blue striped scarf swinging below the chest of his windbreaker. It was Krummlae, a native Sorissian doctor, who raised a questioning brow upon glancing at the mess on the ground.

"I'm terribly sorry," Willard muttered and tried to wave the formal Sorissian greeting— cupping both hands and pushing it towards the other like an offering—but instead made it look like a dismissive gesture due to his physical restrictions. The doctor took no offense and waved a similar gesture with his right hand. He bent down, returned the fallen flasks to their place, dropped his bag, and pressed two dials on one of the breathers. It fizzled as if someone had thrown water over molten steel.

"Ahhhh." He motioned, propping Willard up against the bed.

Willard opened his mouth and felt an icy gush of air rush down his throat. The coolness soon spread throughout his entire body, finally settling down again in his chest. It had that feeling of the painful panting when exhausted, except this time, he'd just swallowed two ice cubes. He could have sworn he had heard fizzling in his throat each time he used a breather.

"Doc," Willard said after clearing his throat, "it's your day off, isn't it? You should've just let one of the nurses do this. Plus, you've got much more important things to focus on other than one half-dead man."

"You are no man…yet." Krummlae wiped the sweat off Willard's head with his sleeve, "And don't direct me." He grinned, an unusual sight for a Sorissian, revealing his frighteningly sharp teeth. Willard had read somewhere that only the distinguished members of Native Sorissian Society would have their teeth altered in the Makobi Festival, their new-year equivalent. Although he remembered seeing tiny children with sharp teeth the last time he visited their village. Maybe they were the children of the distinguished?

"Alright then. When do I go back?" Willard straightened himself, sucking in two deep lungfuls of warm air into his lungs, his throat raw.

"Tomorrow." Krummlae fished out two oily coins from his back pocket and placed them on the cabinet, then flashed Willard a warm smile that was not at all in line with the traditional Sorissian ways. "For you."

"Ah...my bad. Not home. Back to work."

Krummlae sat back and examined Willard, his eyes squinted and brows furrowed. His already sizable nostrils flared even larger as confusion welled up inside him. Confusion and...disapproval.

"Hmph. You should enjoy the rest while you can." He flipped through his notepad without looking up, “with things escalating the way they are, you won’t be getting any of it anytime soon in the coming years.”

From the end of the bed, Willard could smell the sweet, almond-like fragrance of old paper. That was one of the traits that made Willard admire him—being someone who stuck with the outlandishly old lifestyle of the first world——paper books and radio. The most up-to-date appliance in his house was probably the gas stove, and even that had been outdated for several decades by the newer Chryseis-lightburners.

“What things?” Willard tried to prop himself straighter against the back of the bed, “I thought this incident was, like, the peak of all escalations.”

“It is, and that’s the problem. Look." Krummlae showed him the notepad. There was a crudely folded printout with several lines of scribble on it, accompanied by the very distinct arrowhead of the company logo at the top.

"This is a two-week absence approval." He pulled the sheet out from his notebook and stacked it on top of the coins. "It merges with the Makobi festival, so you actually have three weeks."

"Is that so..." Willard looked down at the cast covering his entire body. He kind of looked like a mummy—something he had read somewhere that was entirely covered in bandages. "That is very...kind of you. Thanks," he gave Krummlae his best smile despite knowing full well the company had probably already given him "honorary" discharge, “what do you mean, ‘problem’?”

“I am not too sure of how to say it. Your neighbor, that little man, Samwell, knows better. Go home and ask him." Krummlae heaved his bag from the floor and set it by the counter, "And don’t forget to rest. My people left you this. Kalok seeds. Helps digestion.”

"You're too kind, all of you," Willard smiled. He hated the sour taste of those boluses, and Krummlae's people knew that. Yet it was gifted to him on every occasion. He made a mental note to keep three for Adrian and sell the rest. Sorissian-made high-value specialties were bound to fetch a good price on any market. Krummlae also knew that, and it might actually be his intention to have them sold as a means of financial support without making both sides uneasy. A warmness gripped his chest. Sorissians natives were known to be apathetic towards anyone outside of their Tak, saving all their kindness towards those of their own. But for countless times over the years Willard had felt the same love from Krummlae and his people as if he was one of them. That said, this tall Sorissian might be the closest person to a father for him.

"Go home. To your Tak." Dr. Krummlae leaned over and used his scarf to brush away the sweat that had condensed on Willard’s forward, "They need you, especially Himi-Adrian." He corrected himself, remembering Willard didn't particularly liked his brother's Sorissian-given surname.

Adrian Price—Himironn—misguided prodigy. He would’ve definitely liked it more if the name had just been “Himi”—prodigy.

"I know he does." Willard wiggled his fingers out of the cast, "that's why I'm here, working my ass off...literally."

"That's not what I meant. Also, don’t swear." Krummlae frowned.

Simultaneously, a fist-sized icicle smashed into the outer window. Instead of breaking apart, it was stuck there, motionless like a small piece of Nesgowl feces. Dr. Krummlae frowned and rose to inspect it.

"Agh, pliach. Didn’t know it would come this soon." Willard heard him mutter to himself. "We were certain we'll still have several weeks."

“Don’t swear...” Willard grumbled, “why not tell yourself that a bit more…”

"Willard, my duties require me to be elsewhere." Dr. Krummlae furrowed his brows, his accent suddenly formal and commanding. Willard was certain he had heard his cheeky comment and was purposefully ignoring him. "I shall return to our community center in two days. I expect you to be home by then for your new prescription." He frowned again. Leaving things unfinished was a quality frowned upon in Tak’Makahn—Krummlae’s tribe.

Krummlae gave Willard one last glance, opened the door, took a look back at Willard with his eyes squinted as if telling him, ‘I better see you when I get back’, and vanished into the corridor, the clanking of his leg supports growing fainter and fainter until they couldn't be heard anymore.

Willard stared at the open door, going over what he'd just been told. Why was he never home with his family? Because he was too busy taking care of them, paying for this and that, talking Adrian out of the messes he landed himself into, and trying to get Bagiraek medication for his mother. He had way too many concerns that shouldn't have been there for those twice his age. He had done everything he could for his family and sought no reward.

I am a good son and a good brother, he reassured himself.

Willard was about to nod in confirmation with his thoughts when a sharp tinge shot through his right foot. Like a stubborn child, the magma-heater had floated next to his legs again.