Ex Lacrima Remnant

Track #2 – Danger Pierrot

“So, Dr. Zonta, let me ask this clearly: why do all your rhizome models, well… look like attractive young girls in their early twenties? Don’t you think they should represent all of humanity? As far as it’s known to the public, there are no male rhizomes, overweight rhizomes, disabled rhizomes, or even just, you know, a single black rhizome, right? All of them are Caucasian or Asian-looking, white-skinned or with a light brown complexion, with straight or spiky hair. I wonder…”

“No, you don’t. See, I created them exactly like I wanted them.”

Two men sitting in a studio, small armchairs in front of a red curtain. An insignia spelling ‘Late Night Bash’, in neon-bright colors. The first man, sitting on the left, was a short guy in his fifties, donning a gray tuxedo wrapping his excess body fat in a way that could have been defined elegant. Despite his receding hair and cobweb of wrinkles, he looked right at home on that background, as if he were always meant to be a part of it. The man on the other side, instead, felt like an absolute outlier. First off, he was wearing slippers during what seemed to be a serious interview. Secondly, he was donning circular extra dark sunglasses, despite sitting inside a studio. Third, he wore an oversized, ripped, dirty lab coat that eons before had to be white, but now looked more like a post-modern art piece. Fourth, he was joining his hands in front of his eyes, index and medium against index and medium, with his almost anorexic arms bent to the point of looking ridiculous. Fifth, his bushy sideburns made him look like someone who didn’t know what a ‘comb’ even was. Yet, this man was no other than Graham Zonta, the chief designer of the Peacekeeping Corps Research Team (or PECORE Team, as he used to call it). Said doctor (nobody knew in what discipline he got that title in) was now taking part in an event that was deemed necessary by his superiors to have people learn more about rhizomes and how to behave in front of them. However, it quickly devolved into a no-holds barred interview – the kind of which Zonta used to love and hate at the same time. Hate, because answering questions took precious time off his duties. Love, because he could seize the chance to expose his rather peculiar worldview in front of a relatively wide audience. Thus, before Konstanz van Vijrtel could even begin to comment on Zonta’s sudden remark, the scientist carried on in a stream of words. That question was the beachhead. Now, it was time to invade and conquer.

“See, there are two kinds of people in this world: the cowards and the chads and I – yes, I – I’m a chad, see? So, bleep”—the censorship filter kicked in, covering Zonta’s choice of words with a ringing bell—“your politically correct and body positivity, When I started the project, I wanted to design creatures I’d love to be stepped on by. So, there’s your answer. I want them to be my type, the type that turns me on. Young, slim, short, with small to medium sized boobs, flat bellies, fit thighs and perfectly smooth feet. Underline feet, please. It’s important. But not the sole, that is too vanilla – the back. That’s what I look at, in a woman. The back of her feet and her toes. Those, see, those have to be perfect.”

At these words, Konstanz van Vijrtel blinked. Slowly. With an expression that could only be translated as ‘good grief, this guy is a weirdo’. Which is also what Kryzalid thought, while biting the rubber chewy dog toy in her mouth, right as her shoulder was being medicated. The pain. The pain was so much to bear. That subpar PV show wasn’t even that good, but at least she thought it could distract her from her current predicament. Only for the pain to hit her stronger. A sharp jolt through her nerves, a shout escaping her lips.

“Fuckin’ Lagash! Dobrio, can’t you be more gentle?! You’re almost ripping my arm off!”

“It’s your fault, Kryz.”

The massive silhouette of a man bent over her, wrapping her shoulder with gauze and bandage. His skin was unnaturally gray, yet not decaying, and his open jacket put his pecs and abs in full view. It was something Kryzalid couldn’t really appreciate due to her sight issues, but sure would have loved to. To her eyes, that hulking man at her side was just a gray patch, something that she wouldn’t have immediately associated with a human being. Yet, that weird skin of his complemented the rest of his unusual appearance too. A metallic plate covered his face – or, maybe, was his face. Rusted. With bolts protruding on its lower side. No mouths of note. Just one, big, central red eye with an ever moving pupil. The cyclops in question was named Dobriovchka. No first name, no surname. Just Dobriovchka. And now Dobriovchka (Dobrio for short) was tending to her wounds, wounds caused by a supersonic spear that almost ripped her muscles open and sent her to the afterlife with a one way ticket. Play with her food, she did. Now, she was facing the consequences of it. Kryzalid sunk her teeth around the squeaky toy again, preventing them from delving into her lips instead. Anything else would have been less humiliating, but that was all she had around. It wasn’t the case to be picky, not when her life depended on it. Thus she lay on the cramped sofa, belly down, wearing just black shorts, while Dobrio was handling her pierced muscles as well as a former army conscript could. Her skin was marred by small scratches and bruises, many of which already medicated and covered with yellow plasters. Those plasters had been stolen from the ruins of a child hospital and were way past expiration date. Yet, the pictures of the cartoon bees decorating them made Dobrio feel at peace. Replacing something awful with something cute. That was one of the few activities that increased his serotonin levels and self-satisfaction. Yet, tending to Kryz’s ripped muscles was somewhat more of a challenge. He cracked his knuckles, browsed his medikit purse again to look for a suitable tool.

“The next step will hurt a lot, Kryz. Focus on the PV, please.”

“What arecha gonna do?”

“Tie your damaged tendons together, so that they regenerate overnight and don’t rip open tomorrow.”

“…I shouldn’t have asked.”

“Right, you shouldn’t have.”

Kryzalid gazed lazily at the show. Without her blindfold on, her blue-ish eyes had some rare time to peek at the outside world. A world made of blurry shadows, patches of colors that looked like people, from a certain angles at least, and what she assumed to be faces – two of them now arguing on the main stage. She sighed. Living with her blindfold on was way more comfortable. Being in complete darkness let her forget that once she was able to see. From that distance, she could distinguish some details, but most of them were completely lost in a maze of indistinct nothingness. Fortunately, the best part of that Late Night Bash episode was the audio. The ramblings of Dr. Zonta had been relatively amusing till that point. She glanced at the thinner silhouette, now standing in her limited field of vision. That had to be the good doctor. But, of course, he was moving around like a cocaine-addicted rabbit, making her efforts to keep her eyes on him fruitless. PVs offered a 360 degrees experience. It was almost like being on stage with the guests. Too bad that being forced to lay still made it no more entertaining than an old-fashioned slideshow. Dobrio raised his fingers, increasing the volume of the device, letting Dr. Zonta’s voice take front and center.

“My dear obese friend, a coward would design rhizomes to absorb nourishment from the soil through the soles of their feet and justify that choice by saying that’s ‘the most efficient way’ or some other apologetic blabla. A chad would do the same, but would tell you the truth: I made them like that because I want to see them barefoot as often as possible, possibly all the time! It’s this simple!”

The sounds from the PV show ate the noise of Dobrio’s tools revving up, making it disappear in the background. Kryzalid knew that they were there, but couldn’t focus on them, for better or worse. Zonta kept going on, fending off all the futile attempts by the host to shut him down.

“It’s like, I dunno, that gal in my group who proposed hybrid mermaids for deep sea exploration and made them so that they could only breath through their skins. Even a layman – a fat layman like you – can see the problem, right? They couldn’t cover up too much or they died, right? Well, that gal is a coward too. She said that was the most efficient way to constantly extract oxygen from water. I call bull! Her only reason to design her fish-tailed babes like that was that she was aroused by the sight of naked mermaids swimming around her bathysphere! That turbo-lesbo bleep should have been more open about it and maybe, maybe, I would have approved her project! But disguise her fetish like a coward? Bleep no! The only bleeping rule in my group is be a chad or get lost.”

Kryzalid bit the chewy dog toy with all her strength, as pain spread through all of her body, jolting from the shoulder down to her spine, to her ribs, to her lungs, almost causing her tears to overflow. Her free hand grabbed the armrest of the sofa, her fingers delved into it, as groans escaped her lips. She tried to count upwards. Five, six, seven. Trying to keep the pace to avoid thinking about her severed muscles. Eight, nine, ten. One more. One more second and Dobrio would be finished. One more. One more. One more. One…

The PV shut down, letting silence fall inside the room.

“Okay, I’m done. Don’t move it until tomorrow, if you can. I’ve put some extra gauze and injected plenty of painkillers, but if you strain it too much, the wound will open again. Now, it’s up to your body to recover.”

Kryzalid let a long sigh out of her lips, her eyes still wet, her breathing ragged, irregular. The pain had subsided a little, but her arm was out of commission. Her right arm, of course, the one she used the most. That rhizome didn’t waste a second to try to suppress her or at least make her harmless.

“Why didn’t you go for the kill sooner, instead of ripping her suit open?”, Dobrio asked after saving her butt from the battlefield.

“I wasn’t sure she had shown all of her cards. I wanted to play my hand carefully”, was her answer.

Well, that was the coward answer, as Zonta would say. The correct, chad answer was that Kryz got aroused by the thought of Prim standing in the nude, with reddened, embarrassed cheeks, covering her body as well as she could with her bare hands to avoid being gazed at – even if Kryz couldn’t possible see her. Heck, that thought aroused her in that moment too. She felt a stirring sensation between her legs, right as that image peeked inside her mind. Yet, she couldn’t – she wouldn’t act on it, not with a barely movable arm and numb fingers, at least. A long breath, to mask her discomfort. Prim was one of the few rhizomes she had met before becoming blind, so she kept vivid memories of her. Once, Kryzalid even caught a glimpse of her in her birthday suit, standing still in the precinct’s greenhouse, bathing in sunlight and absorbing nutrients from the soil, while her roots and tendrils wrapped around her body – only for her cheeks to turn completely red as soon as she caught wind of not being alone. That picture of Prim naked in the greenhouse lived rent-free in Kryzalid’s memory for the past three years. It had been her awakening, the moment that confirmed her that no, she couldn’t possibly be completely straight. Yet, Prim never even learned of her name nor remembered her face… until the incident that cost the life of thirty-seven civilians and four public security officers. The incident that turned Kryzalid into a mass-murdering renegade. Killing those officers last night did nothing to improve her standing. If anything, it made it even worse and, yet, it was absolutely the right thing to do.

Dobrio’s sudden appearance captured her attention, more so because he was carrying something in his hands. She couldn’t make out the details, but she could guess. They had to be aluminum cans, as usual. Indeed they were – battered cans with discolored tags that once had to be green. Yet, Kryzalid couldn’t appreciate that level of detail. Dobrio put one of them in her functional hand, opened it for her.

“Here’s something for you, Kryz. Hope it improves your mood.”

He sat close to her on the sofa, taking care of doing it slowly enough for Kryz to adjust her position first. She glanced at the can, at the indistinct shape that occupied her retina, then stared back at the gray blot that had to be Dobrio.

“Where did you find this?”

“I have connections.”

“Hope it’s not plant piss.”

“Would you recognize it, if it were?”

“Yes. Tried it once, never again. But it’s the cheapest lymph on the BM.”

“Good thing I didn’t settle for the cheapest, then.”

She sniffed the content of the can, before clumsily bringing it to her mouth and sipping a bit of its content. The green fluid poured into her mouth, embraced her tongue, before flowing down her throat, slowly but constantly, at a steady pace. She savored it a little, let it rest on her buds for a couple seconds. Yeah, that lymph wasn’t extracted from rhizome ejections. She missed all the undertones that came with it, which was good. At the same time, something was missing. The balance was off. She downed the rest of the can, before throwing it at Dobrio with a sudden movement of her only healthy hand.

“You idiot, this is synth crap! Not even the real deal!”

“The real deal costs a kidney and a half. Unless you’re okay with plant piss, that is.”

She groaned, let her head slump on the sofa, as her braids swung down. Of course. Of course it was synth. Either synth or piss, that was all they could afford. Lymph junkies had it rough, when money didn’t flow. Kryzalid cursed under her breath, before shoving her face under her pillow and chewing words into something unintelligible. Dobrio’s red eye gazed at her, before rolling in its ogival socket.

“What did you say? I didn’t get it.”

“I said that we should get our own plant. It ain’t cheap, but she’d provide for us and we’d be settled for life. Is there any on sale on the BM? Possibly not withered, I mean.”

Dobrio would have smirked, if he had a mouth on show. Instead, he just patted Kryz’s hair, before pouring the content of the can in a duct opening on his neck. He cleared his voice, before finally starting to talk.

“There’s one, indeed, if rumors are to be believed. A renegade like us. But that’s too much for today. You need to recover. We’ll prepare an action plan tomorrow. Until then…”

He snapped his fingers, causing all lights in the small flat switch off at once.

“…good night, Mimi.”