Grey
Dialectical Hermeticist
This is probably all I'll post of this before it's done, but I'm pretty pleased and would appreciate some reactions so I know if I should maintain this direction or change now while it's still early.
A hundred eyes blink in a pattern Dalton is reluctant to follow. Bathed in their dim pink glow, he feels foetal, warm. They fill a single wall of the otherwise bare, white-tiled room, and he prays they do not find him wanting. Eternities pass, alone with his own thoughts and a presence too alien to seem like company, until with a sharp click all eyes shut and a door opens, bathing him in soft artificial light.
“Congratulations, Dalton,” calls a familiar, cheerful voice. Operator Calbus. “You passed. Come on, the doctor wants to look you over and then I'll buy you a beer.”
Dalton rises from the molded chair and stretches, joints popping, leg tingling with pins and needles. “Cold stethoscope and colder hands? After that it'll be welcome.”
Calbus doesn't laugh, brushing back his blonde fringe. “Cha-surl doesn't do cold, Dalton. You're a viable spiritual host, but its up to him to give the yea or nay on your vitals.”
Dalton leaves the room, shrugging, for the comfortably lit and carpeted but ultimately bare corridor of the Induction Centre.
“How much of this shit do I actually need to understand?”
Now Calbus grins. “Unless you want my job someday, precious little. Field Operations have more immediate concerns.” He claps Dalton on the back and leads him towards Medical.
“So,” Dalton begins. “Cha-surl is...”
“Eudae. Yeah. No finer physicians in the world.”
Dalton felt an odd shiver of anticipation. He'd seen Eudae before – humanity's mysterious benefactors from worlds unknown – but at a distance. It was hard for them to physically enter the world, as he understood it, so they were rare to meet. No, much easier to... bond with a human host.
He squinted on entering the Medical Wing – the light was harsh here. White tiles, white coats, white beds, the smells of disinfectant and sickness. They passed a nurse pushing a wheelchair, the occupant so covered in sores their sex and age were impossible to determine, hands strapped to the arms of the chair. Dalton thought better of seeking explanation from Calbus.
He saw Cha-surl from the rear, at first, as he stepped into the consulting room. A tall, white-coated figure leaning over a bed. And, to his credit, neither screamed nor fled when Cha-surl turned to gree them. The Eudae did not, at least, seem offended by the expression on his face.
“Ah, this is the Dalton for hosting, yes? Good. We have been told of the Dalton.” It's voice set his teeth on edge – he was hearing common, certainly, but the creature wasn't speaking any language human organs could reproduce. It towered over him, at once comical and terrifying in its modified lab-coat – extra sleeves added for the other four arms. Bright, black eyes languidly sliding across, or perhaps under, the lurid magenta flesh. He suppressed a shudder.
“Yes, I am Dalton Lang. Greetings, Cha-surl Flesher,” he managed to reply, and the thing nodded. He realised Calbus had shown himself out.
“Good. We greet the Dalton with joy. Please become prostrate upon the bed.”
Nervously, he shrugged off his cadet jacket and lay down on the examination bed. Cha-surl loomed over him, plucking at the edges of his clothes with too-long fingers.
“The Dalton must shed. These impede us.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Good. Examination is now. You will be without joy. We are not sorry.”
“Wait, wha-” Dalton begins, but then the hands descend on him, fingertips splitting into a myriad of strange instruments that probe his skin, eyes, ears, mouth... He feels pain and, to his disgust, pleasure at the various ministrations of the Flesher, and knows somehow that it has taken blood.
“It is done. The Dalton is with tumour. Small. We will remove it and then the Dalton will be healthy for hosting.”
A hundred eyes blink in a pattern Dalton is reluctant to follow. Bathed in their dim pink glow, he feels foetal, warm. They fill a single wall of the otherwise bare, white-tiled room, and he prays they do not find him wanting. Eternities pass, alone with his own thoughts and a presence too alien to seem like company, until with a sharp click all eyes shut and a door opens, bathing him in soft artificial light.
“Congratulations, Dalton,” calls a familiar, cheerful voice. Operator Calbus. “You passed. Come on, the doctor wants to look you over and then I'll buy you a beer.”
Dalton rises from the molded chair and stretches, joints popping, leg tingling with pins and needles. “Cold stethoscope and colder hands? After that it'll be welcome.”
Calbus doesn't laugh, brushing back his blonde fringe. “Cha-surl doesn't do cold, Dalton. You're a viable spiritual host, but its up to him to give the yea or nay on your vitals.”
Dalton leaves the room, shrugging, for the comfortably lit and carpeted but ultimately bare corridor of the Induction Centre.
“How much of this shit do I actually need to understand?”
Now Calbus grins. “Unless you want my job someday, precious little. Field Operations have more immediate concerns.” He claps Dalton on the back and leads him towards Medical.
“So,” Dalton begins. “Cha-surl is...”
“Eudae. Yeah. No finer physicians in the world.”
Dalton felt an odd shiver of anticipation. He'd seen Eudae before – humanity's mysterious benefactors from worlds unknown – but at a distance. It was hard for them to physically enter the world, as he understood it, so they were rare to meet. No, much easier to... bond with a human host.
He squinted on entering the Medical Wing – the light was harsh here. White tiles, white coats, white beds, the smells of disinfectant and sickness. They passed a nurse pushing a wheelchair, the occupant so covered in sores their sex and age were impossible to determine, hands strapped to the arms of the chair. Dalton thought better of seeking explanation from Calbus.
He saw Cha-surl from the rear, at first, as he stepped into the consulting room. A tall, white-coated figure leaning over a bed. And, to his credit, neither screamed nor fled when Cha-surl turned to gree them. The Eudae did not, at least, seem offended by the expression on his face.
“Ah, this is the Dalton for hosting, yes? Good. We have been told of the Dalton.” It's voice set his teeth on edge – he was hearing common, certainly, but the creature wasn't speaking any language human organs could reproduce. It towered over him, at once comical and terrifying in its modified lab-coat – extra sleeves added for the other four arms. Bright, black eyes languidly sliding across, or perhaps under, the lurid magenta flesh. He suppressed a shudder.
“Yes, I am Dalton Lang. Greetings, Cha-surl Flesher,” he managed to reply, and the thing nodded. He realised Calbus had shown himself out.
“Good. We greet the Dalton with joy. Please become prostrate upon the bed.”
Nervously, he shrugged off his cadet jacket and lay down on the examination bed. Cha-surl loomed over him, plucking at the edges of his clothes with too-long fingers.
“The Dalton must shed. These impede us.”
“Right. Sorry.”
“Good. Examination is now. You will be without joy. We are not sorry.”
“Wait, wha-” Dalton begins, but then the hands descend on him, fingertips splitting into a myriad of strange instruments that probe his skin, eyes, ears, mouth... He feels pain and, to his disgust, pleasure at the various ministrations of the Flesher, and knows somehow that it has taken blood.
“It is done. The Dalton is with tumour. Small. We will remove it and then the Dalton will be healthy for hosting.”
