THE POTENTIAL PROSPECT of thread made him rip out the drawers without so much as a struggle, and he dug around for the fabric he had seen before. He stretched it out, looking, looking, and found the seams, but the coppery stench of blood almost made his head hurt, almost as much as the adrenaline seeping from 683′s pores, the noisy pounding of a heart, the scratchiness of his breaths, it was almost too much for the creature to take in, but he had to, for his friend’s sake. So he bit into the night shirt with thin, sharp teeth and tore away at it to get to the thread with second-hand adrenaline beating through his elongated heart, but he was only met with disappointment. He had made a face at how frail the thread was, he could break it without trying, but his companion needed to be stitched. His poor attempt at a bandage would not be able to hold for the entire day. The thread he found was a poor substitute for the metal-spun wires that held together his own physical being, but he decided he would have to do with what he had.
THE CREATURE GRIMACED, gritting its teeth before opening its mouth wide and reaching inside, trying not to gag itself as it searched for the smaller, curved teeth in the far back and pluck it from it’s palate with a flinch and a yelp. It was so thin it was nearly transparent, and sharper than steel. Clutching the newfound treasure, it looked to its wrist with a look of disdain, and bit down it bit into the crevice of its thumb and radius, gnashing through the membrane and into the tendons to catch a glimmer of tarnished silver thread that held its sewn-together body. It was a minor motor function it could do without, for now, pulling the cords out, out, out from its wrist, careful not to cut anything vital and spray ichor into the mix, the room was enough of a biohazard already. Unsanitary, most definitely, its long black tongue wiped the black oil from its grooves and wrapped the wire around the base of its curved tooth. It peered at the Atomina’s foot, making sure he would not be in danger of further bloodloss, or else it would lose its newfound friend.
HE WAS CAREFUL to peel away the sticky, clear material, the thin layer of adhesive salivae done away with as he cradled the red-haired being’s ankle with a firm, strong grip as not to let him slip. He had a steady, well-practiced hand as the basic suturing of flesh was the epitome of his society’s make, needling flayed bits of muscle together in desert huts, encased in bright white filigree. It was simple, and he was quiet despite the whining and bumbling. He had a job to do, one that he could not misstitch, reminiscent of his early trials where imperfection could mean certain death. So the needle went in, curved into the bloody meat, certainly sensitive, but To Amass’ grip over 683′s ankle stilled the appendage as best he could. It was different working with live repair, living things squirmed and writhed, very much unlike severed bits of flesh. The needle punctured the other side of the wound, pulling metallic thread through, colored with green, he couldn’t risk going too fast and missing, but too slow would surely be agonizing. ❝ You will be fine, yes, ❞ he assured in a tight voice, not that he was uncertain, he was perfectly confident in his primitive sewing skills, but the tension of saving his friend put his nerves on high alert.
FOUR EYES CONCENTRATED until the length of the wound was entirely closed. Thin, clear wings lowered themselves back to the floor, the creature hadn’t even noticed its tension drew out its wings in such high alert, an automatic gesture embedded deep in the menagerie of his multi-piece brain. To Amass sat back on his palms, but one had slipped and he fell against the floor. Making a thin line for his lips, he realized which stitches he had taken from himself. He did not have much strength left in his arm beyond a decent grip of his fingers. It wasn’t too terrible, he could sit up instead and be relived that his friend would not die. ❝ Can you clean it ? Clean it or it will fester, yes. When the wound is healed, we can take our stitches back. ❞ To Amass could finally relax. The room was a mess. It looked like a battlefield. But the deed was done, and they could rest, yes.
683 ALREADY possesses a complexion only rivaled by the alabaster white of the chrome walls, but whatever meager, verdant flush of life adorns his cheeks drains at the sight of it all, turning his head as he swallows back a gag. How repulsive, repugnant, how distressing, fraying at his already brittle nerves, shattering the veneer of safety, all he’s known of his sanitized existence. It plunges its own hand down its throat and plucks a needle from that void-black maw with a sickening crack; said teeth turn on its own wrist, a whistle as thread swishes free, glinting in the aseptic white light. Inundated with things to fret over, 683′s brain spares him the agony by suddenly deciding to think of nothing, settling into a comfortable, black chasm until his ankle is suddenly held aloft, yanking him from his stupor. His eyes refocus on the nimble fingers maneuvering the makeshift needle to his skin: he does not have the opportunity to protest. At the initial insertion, he seizes, all at once, shuddering in sudden agony as his forearm splayed over his eyes and a pathetic, piteous whimper is wrung from his throat. His knee seizes involuntarily when it breaches skin once more, the whisk of thread through layers of tissue, pulling his flesh taut and tight with a quick tug, fibers against the flayed edges of the wound. Painful, obviously, excruciating to be more specific, and To Amass’s words ( albeit kind ) do little to comfort him.
PROD, PUNCTURE, thread pushed through tissue, the ragged lip of torn skin sewn tight and tucked away into a green-twinged line neatly intersected by tidy black stitches; he could not say how many, and when it is over, he doesn’t care to count. All his fault -- To Amass’s, maybe, for breaking glass and being a menace, his own for letting it inside in the first place. The Atominan feels the remnants of adrenaline settle like silt into his blood, the incessant tremors fettering their last rippling shivers as he manages to somewhat still himself. ❝ Yes, ❞ he replies, his voice a hoarse, timorous croak, ❝ yes, I’ll clean it. In the morning. I’ll have it looked at, ❞ he assures both To Amass and himself. He allows his injured leg to extend, the other bending to his chest as he curls frail arms around it, perching his chin atop a bony knee. A gasp, a startle, a hand extended forward in concern when he stumbles, a pang of guilt piercing his heart as if to stitch the ventricles shut. Regardless of his judgement, regardless of who he ought to blame, To Amass helped him, and 683 cannot deny the inherent selflessness of his actions. Altruism is, indeed, a facet of higher thought; to recognize and address his injury in such a gentle manner makes the harsh white light bathing his unatominan carapace dim the slightest bit softer upon its jagged edges.
HE AVERTS his eyes to some far corner of the room, a tepid sniffle bit back as he wipes at his face with his arm. Some miracle of self control ( or the overwhelming panic of so much going wrong so fast ) prevented him from embarrassing himself by crying, but agitation bubbles in his stomach as the depths of his troubles begin to reveal themselves. Ruined bed. Ruined wall. Ruined foot. These are not things easily concealed. Mismatched irises trawl over the floor, following the jagged shadow cast upon the white tiles, settling on To Amass as if beholding him for the first time once more: wings and teeth and too many eyes, hair and blood as black as the infinite expanse of space itself. A pity, then. He would have liked to have a roommate.
STRUGGLING TO stand, he makes a frustrated sound as he succumbs to his exhaustion, dropping back against the floor as the agony of his injury outweighs his desire to sleep in the ruined remnants of his bed. ❝ T...thank you, ❞ he mutters dejectedly. His eyes flicker from the top set of secondary optics to its -- his, he corrects himself sternly, main pair. His brow dips into a furrow, the corner of his lip tugs down in a tremble. Inquiries occupy his mind: will To Amass detest him for ruining their secret ? Will anyone accept him ? Even worse, will they force To Amass to leave ? And yet, through all his roiling anxiety, only one manages to be properly voiced: ❝ will you come here ? ❞ he asks him, a timid warble of a question. ❝ I ... I know I told you I would keep you safe. And, and I’m not lying, ❞ he amends quickly, stumbling over his words in his haste to remove his culpability. ❝ But ... ❞ and the remorse darkens his tepid, even tenor, his gaze shamefully slithering over the floor as if physically incapable of meeting his eyes, ❝ but I’m ... thinking. I can’t keep you in here forever. I’ll have to tell someone -- I have to. And you, you must promise me, ❞ he pleads, lunging forward to snatch his hand, the flesh of his frail fingers squeezing tight into the grooves of his plates, little green lines of burst blood vessels in their wake, ❝ you must promise me you won’t hurt anyone, no matter what happens. No one is going to hurt you -- but, but maybe ... you’ll have to leave, ❞ he chokes, hands twisting into the still drenched fabric of his filthy sleep shirt. ❝ You can see ... how different we are, ❞ the astronomer laments, curling his fingers over the miraculous mechanicary of the Stezhok’s hand. To Amass’s palm is turned up, towards the ceiling, and 683′s fingertips find the grooves of his ligature, tracing them like the invisible lines between constellations. How noble, to sacrifice his own stitching, how selfless and brave and smart. Not some -- dumb animal. ❝ I’m not -- we’re not, ❞ he mutters, ❝ like you. We’re ... soft, ❞ he manages through a weak laugh, ❝ and you could hurt someone without even realizing it. ❞ Astonishing, then, that he was strong enough to pull the panels off the wall, still delicate enough to stitch him back together.
THE FINGERS close over his fist, curling To Amass’s digits, and he purses his lips. He pushes the hand back to him, retracting his own to hesitantly curl back over his knee. ❝ You can sleep in the bed. I can’t stand up. Give me my pillow, ❞ he mumbles, ❝ and I’ll sleep down here. ❞
