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witchdisk · 3 days ago

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grafting parlor

a little biopunk short story I made as an example of what I want to see more of in the genre. feel free to use any element of it you want in your own writing.

I stared out the window of the train as it skittered along the track through town, its frantic pace for the sake of meeting the schedule making the seat a bit warmer than I would have liked as its countless legs accelerated to a blur. It always gets hard to focus when they run this fast, their heavy breaths reverberating through each segment. Outside, the dim streets glowed with the last lights of the night-taxis as they returned to their nests, the soft blue of their photophores contrasting with the piercing sunlight of dawn, their diurnal counterparts just starting to wake up and crawl tiredly from the garages. I yawned and carefully took a sip from my coffee, inevitably spilling some of it due to the train’s pace. “Why so fast?” I mumbled, running a hand along the chiton of the wall. The train did not respond. Maybe it couldn’t hear passengers, or maybe it was just one of the older generations that couldn’t understand anything but its own conductor’s neurosignals. The scenery of the city rushed by outside, streets and trees and buildings and combinations of the three melting together in the sunrise in that way that always makes you start to feel tired no matter how much caffeine you’re on. I mean-- it wasn’t like I had really gotten that much sleep the previous night, the anticipation of the day’s upcoming events having caused me to stay up so late that I’d only managed to fall asleep a few hours before my alarm had gone off-- but still, there’s something about a train’s undulating steps that makes it so you can’t help but doze off a bit. I must have, as I was jolted awake so heavily by the chirping of an incoming call that I fell suddenly from my seat onto the soft floor of the segment. My phone scampered from my shirt pocket as the train’s long, spindly arms descended from the ceiling and lifted me gently to my feet. “Who’s it now?” I asked as it climbed up my sleeve and perched on my shoulder, tugging at my ear until I picked it up. This was one of the newer breeds of phone, only having entered full production a couple months ago, though I’d had mine for quite a bit before that, from back when it was still in R&D. Swiping it from the lab may have set the Sciurus Corporation back a bit, but they could afford to deal with it. The prototype I had was always a bit too insistent that I answer calls as soon as they came in, a feature that I didn’t know whether or not was present in the final version. It squirmed slightly in my hand, all six limbs flailing as I held onto it with both my right thumbs, holding its head in place with my other hand, squinting in the sunlight as I looked at the screen set into its face. “Oh!” I exclaimed, loosening my grip. The phone proceeded to smooth out the fur that I had ruffled, staring at me intently as it continued to chirp. If a phone screen could look irritated, this one did. An impressive feat, considering the otherwise total lack of facial features-- not to mention that bio-transmitters hadn’t had subjectivity in years-- a mutual agreement by the Chordata Group had made it so. I pondered if I had time to answer and, deciding that I did, gave the phone a light tap in between the ears. “Sam!” I said, my voice half excitement and half tiredness, a theme that was quickly emerging for this part of the day. “How’re the legs?” my phone hopped back over to my shoulder, holding onto my ear securely before speaking into it.

“Sore.” they replied. “Can’t really walk, even. Should be at least a week before it’s done.” I leaned back in my seat and glanced out the window again.

“Damn. How long since you started?”

“Eight months, if I’m keeping track right. Feet started changing about four days ago, and apparently they’ll grow wrong if I put any weight on them for too long. Not that I could if I wanted.”

“Can you bend them the other way yet?” There was a couple seconds of silence on Sam’s end, followed by some barely audible sounds of discomfort.

“Kind of.” Digitigrade legs were a highly recommended enhancement, but there was a reason why most people choose to have them grafted. Ambystomagen treatments were a lot of things. Well established, for one-- older than grafting by over a decade-- and with a nearly zero-percent rejection rate compared to grafting’s 8% for first-time recipients, but also weren’t known for being either quick or painless. Still, there’s something about feeling your own body change that meant I wouldn’t have disagreed with Sam’s decision in a million years-- and was in fact, the reason I’d recommended that they grow the legs themselves. It’s all about that moment-- that one morning when you wake up, see yourself in the mirror, and realize that it was the first time you’d truly done so. When I’d got my ears done, I’d had a hundred such moments, and each time I saw myself in the two years it had taken had been more euphoric than the last. My favorite part was that day I’d realized I had become able to angle them in the direction I’d wanted. Iris had needed to tranquilize my computer because I’d lose so much sleep otherwise staying up late watching videos on how to exercise the newly-grown muscles. “But….”

“Let me guess, ‘significant height gain?’” I sighed.

“And I can just feel how much faster I’ll be able to run!” from the moment they’d had the effects of digitigradization explained to them, they’d been extremely excited about not being the shortest member of the team anymore. “Still hurts like hell though.”

“Are you sure you don’t want me to head back to base once my appointment’s over? Help you take your mind off it for a bit?” Sam’s response was somewhat flustered.

“I… should be fine. Besides, Iris is still here.” I rolled my eyes. Don’t get me wrong, Iris is great to have around, but she’s not exactly someone I’d trust to take care of me while my new legs were growing in.

“To do what, exactly? Their medical knowledge is limited to “here’s half a liter of knockout venom directly into one or more of your veins.” I could be back by lunch if you want.”

“An enticing offer…” Sam muttered, “but you’re getting a major graft today. No walking around until everything’s fused, and you know that you probably won’t be able to with what Doc’s going to have you on. Not to mention…” their voice dropped to a semi-conspiratorial sort of tone. “We all know you’d been waiting for a chance to spend the whole day in its office.”

“I’m guessing that’s not why you called, though.” I glanced around the segment, making sure there was nobody else there before changing the subject. “You’ve got an update, don’t you.”

“It’s on the move.” they said gravely. “Iris got a ping from one of their eyes a few minutes ago. Apparently, they’ve got the cargo loaded onto an Arktos-class freighter.” I snatched the phone from my ear so suddenly that it let out a pained squeak. Had I not finished my coffee, I would have spilled it for sure.

“Arktos?” I half-shouted into its ears. “Where the hell did they get one of those?”

“They’re a Chordata corporation.” the phone said, a bit of distortion present in the words as it caught its breath. “Tytonidae may not be the highest ranking, but they’ve got more net worth in one of their executives than we have in the whole city.” I took a deep breath, withdrawing a tin of mealworms from my pocket and handing one to the phone as an apology.

“That still wouldn’t explain how they got a military grade chimera that, need I remind you, shouldn’t exist. This isn’t just a corporate agreement, this is World Pact level stuff. All the Arktoses got put down after the war, and every single fused pilot had to be severed. All of them, Sam. I once knew a former pilot who said they’d needed to cut both his legs off to meet the decommissioning schedule because they didn’t have time to remove him from it properly. The Pact Keepers do not take half measures. A surviving one would be worth billions.”

“That’s what I’ve been wondering about. Either they’ve had a huge leap in sales to be able to afford it from whatever the rich person equivalent of a back-alley flesh market is…”

“...or this cargo’s worth way more to not just them, but the whole group.”

“Exactly.” The segment was silent for a moment, the only sounds I could hear being the train’s footsteps.

“Sam…” I said, staring out the window and looking ahead in the direction of the Doctor’s parlor. The city at dawn was as beautiful as a coral reef, and certainly not without its sharks. “If they’ve really got an Arktos… then this is big. This isn’t just swiping canisters of Ambystomagen from a branch pharmacy, this is something so important that Chordata’s willing to risk being the target of the Pactkeepers just to make sure it gets where it needs to go. I… I think I’m going to need to cancel the appointment. Get back to base, make a plan. With you out of commission and Iris’s situation… We need to-”

“Why do we do this?” Sam asked. Their voice was firm and declaratory despite their obvious exhaustion and I suspected a bit of Iris’s venom-- not as strong as a grafter’s but still effective. I took a second to center myself, slowing my breathing to match the train’s.

“To become ourselves and live the lives we always should have had.” I’d said those words a thousand times in a thousand different contexts, and they had never lost any meaning whatsoever. I still remembered the first time they had been said to me-- the first memory I’d had that wasn’t melted into the fog of half-repressed events that my mind had been up until the moment I’d first felt the sensation of ambystomagen gel soaking into my skin.

“And not let anyone or anything stop us. Don’t forget that what you’re doing today is the reason we all started working together in the first place. The journey’s important, but don’t let it make you forget the destination.” there was another brief silence. “It’s fine. Trust me, Eva. Today, you don’t need to worry about this. Iris got a few bugs on board the Arktos before it submerged, and from the path it’s taking, it’ll be at least a week before it gets remotely close enough to be of any concern. Go become yourself, and don’t forget to enjoy it.”

“Thanks, Sam.” I sighed. The train was starting to slow down now, and the sunrise had begun to disappear behind the dense canopy that covered Nyx Town. “Looks like I’m almost there. I’ll call you back later if I can.”

“Iris will swing by around eight to pick you up. I’m guessing you’re going to be pretty high on… whatever it is that it uses, so…” they trailed off for a moment. “I’d better ask now instead of later if that offer of a distraction’s still going to be good then.” I rolled my eyes and leaned in to whisper into the phone’s ear.

“If I’m still conscious by the time I leave its office, I’ll provide all the distraction you need.” The train hummed a short tune that reverberated through its carapace as it pulled into the station, flexing its seats to inform any passengers that hadn’t been listening that we had arrived. “But also, don’t be afraid to let Iris put you under for a few hours if your legs start hurting too bad.” The phone’s screen went dark and it climbed back into my pocket as I stepped off the train into the warmly-lit streets of Nyx Town.

The sun never reached this part of the city, blocked almost entirely by the enormous trees that towered above even the highest buildings around. It was the kind of place that gives you a feeling like being safely hidden beneath fallen leaves from the moment you step off the train and watch the fireflies meander across the skyline like stars that had come down to earth for a night on the town. The streets were mostly empty at that time of morning, as most of Nyx Town’s residents formed a large chunk of the city’s nocturnal population, and had probably just returned from their various night shifts across the city and gone to bed just a few hours ago. A few windows were still lit, but the only real activity then was the fireflies and the occasional homunculus that would wander past every so often, a tray of fliers or a clipboard with a petition on it balanced on top of its head or held in its stubby hands.

“♪♪” I heard, looking down to see a smaller homunculus holding out a stack of papers. I sighed, reaching down to take one as I knew that it would just follow me around until I looked at what it was selling. I read through the flier absentmindedly, making sure it could see that I was doing so, though the contents of it did intrigue me. “𝅘𝅥𝅰𝅗𝅥”

“20% off first visit? Really?”

“♪!”

“I’ll be sure to check it out, then.” the homunculus turned and waddled away as I folded up the ad and slid it into my pocket. It was for the new place that had just opened a few blocks down from where I was, which Iris had been wanting to take me to since they had started setting up. I’d never been in a tentacle pod before, but every time I heard someone talk about them made me more excited. The ones that this place had were apparently big enough for two people at once, and according to the flier the homunculus had given me, they were working on installing one that was big enough for three. Really, I had no Idea why I hadn’t gone to one as soon as I’d learned about their existence. Anyone who’s met me could tell you that it perfectly matches my idea of a good time, and Iris said they were great for dealing with soreness-- in fact, they were originally invented for use in spas. Maybe we could go after my appointment. The day was already going to be amazing, and three hours high on whatever was in the pod’s fluid while thick, slippery tentacles massaged me inside and out would be the perfect way to round it out.

The restaurant was busy with all sorts of activity as I stepped in from the street, many-armed waiters and homunculi hurrying between tables under the soft, pulsing orange glow of the Lux Beetles as they scurried though the colony-tubes which branched out across the ceiling. In the corner, a large homunculus hummed a slightly familiar tune, its eight-fingered hands dancing across the crescent keyboard that it sat in the middle of. Pandora’s Box was the kind of place you could only find in Nyx Town-- an atmosphere devoid of any concept of time, tinted windows blocking out what little sunlight managed to reach the street to the point that even the fireflies were barely visible unless one flew right next to the glass. It didn’t matter when it was, where you had come from, or where you were going after, the warm lights of Pandora’s Box would shine all the same. The symphony of sizzling oil always managed to cut through the most frantic cacophonies no matter how many people were talking, sending out smells that you could pick up from a block away of everything from dollar-fifty synthflesh to the most top shelf of products so fresh that the meal was cooked up and served before whatever unmodded farm-raised livestock it had come from could be pronounced dead. No matter what they were cooking here, no matter what the customer could afford to order, the smell alone was enough to make you believe in a benevolent universe. I sauntered over to the bar and slid into one of the seats, a small team of office ants carrying a menu over to me as I waited.

“What’ll you be havin’ today?” Damian asked in his signature, all-over-the-place accent, not yet having recognised me. He traced a hand along the shelf, looking through his not-insignificant collection of expensive looking beverages. I leaned in as far as I could, not that the words I spoke were particularly secret to any of the place’s regulars.

“A tall glass of all that I am” he spun around, grinning as he set his hand on the table and allowed the ants to crawl up it and into his sleeves.

“How long’ll ya be staying?”

“Until I can live with myself.” He reached under the counter and withdrew a wooden box, like the ones in which food was served there but a bit fancier. It contained nothing except a small piece of paper, three words printed just below a dotted line--

Who are you?

A few ants crawled from the messy curls of his hair and pulled the pencil from behind his ear, carrying it down his arm and placing it in my hand before returning to their home. Slowly and deliberately, I signed with a flourish.

Evalin Veritas, nothing less. Damian closed the box and set it aside.

“Good seein’ ya, Eva.” he said, reaching behind him and grabbing a bottle without looking. How’s Sam? They started gettin’ results for that latest change a’ theirs?”

“They’re in the middle of the worst part now.”

“Ankles snapped yet?”

“Not yet, but it’s close.” he poured the drink into the glass just as the ants carried it over, then slid it over to me.

“Gets better after that, trust me.” I couldn’t see below the counter, but I knew that he was hopping from foot to foot in that way he always did when he felt euphoric. I remembered how Sam had nearly died from mod envy the first time they’d seen him step out from behind the bar. “This one’s on th’ house for Doc’s favorite customer.”

“Thanks.” I said as I sipped it. It was one of my favorites, imported from Europe. The kind of drink that was right on the edge of what Worldpact considered legal, fitting nicely the tone of an establishment that was one live jazz band away from feeling like it would be right at home in the 1920s. The kind that made my ears twitch no matter how small a sip I took. I never did understand how he managed to always pick the right one without looking at it. “Really, I feel like the authentication wasn’t necessary. You know who I am.”

“Ya can never be too careful.” he twisted around and placed the bottle back on the shelf, a few ants falling from his vest as he did so. “Got a Monopoly Man ‘round here just a few days ago with Liam’s face-- high-dollar stitchwork too, and cloned so good I’d thought they’d cut it off the man ‘imself. Besides--” he tapped the box under the counter. “--I know how much ya like t’ sign your name.” I laughed as I finished my drink.

“And my mom said I was no good at signatures.”

“I bet that’s the least of what’d surprise ‘er if she could see ya now.”

“Eh, she still wouldn’t be impressed because she’d think I wasn’t signing with the right name.” I said. “Sometimes I wouldn’t mind putting her in the ground right next to the name she would want me to sign.”

“And give ‘er the satisfaction of knowin’ ya cared at all about what she thought?”

“Good point.” I sighed. “Well, I’d better head downstairs. Don’t want to keep Doc waiting.”

“Alright then. See ya after, and don’t forget t’ say hi t’ Sam for me.”

The lights downstairs were softer than the ones above, the glass-covered veins of algae along the walls dim enough that I nearly stumbled as I descended the stairs that led down from the kitchen. The waiting room was small, and the few couches and chairs had so many heavy blankets piled on top that I had to move a few out of the way before I sat down. Down there, below all the frantic activity of Pandora’s Box, a long staircase and a door hidden behind a spice rack between me and the rest of the world-- it just felt safe in a way that few other places really did for me. not through any danger present, but simply the lack of the warm, comfortable atmosphere of this hidden place beneath the city. With none of the bright lights, rapid activity, or constant schedules of the world outside, this place was where you went to forget whatever worried you, and just beyond the large doors opposite the staircase was where you went to become something that was able to handle it. I hadn’t really been to any other grafting parlor, but I assumed that I was incredibly lucky to have found this one. I might have fallen asleep for a second as I waited.

“Hello~” I heard from behind me as something heavy leaned onto the back of the couch. I looked up to see the Doctor, its face inches from mine as it stood over me.

“Um… hi.” I stammered. I froze for a minute, unable to think of what to say. How’s it going? Been to the new tentacle pod place yet? What big teeth you have? Not to mention the fact that wherever it got its venom from, just breathing in the air that it exhaled was enough to make me lightheaded. It laughed in a sort of way that sounded as if it was laughing with several voices at once-- a sort of layered quality that, in the several years I had known the Doctor, I had not been able to figure out how exactly it had the effect that it did on me.

“That’s all it takes to freeze you?” it said playfully, a pair of right hands sliding out from under its coat to scratch under my chin. “The way it’s going so far, I might not even need to use venom to numb the site.” one of the hands traveled up my face slowly, stroking the top of my head in between my ears. “In my medical opinion… it seems like all I need to do is say hello and you just become completely helpless. Don’t worry though, you’ll still get plenty. I won’t hurt you.” I stood up and stretched, taking a second to center myself as the Doctor smiled warmly at me.

“You just surprised me is all.” I said, not exactly confrontationally and not exactly making any attempt to disprove its conclusions. It stood up to its full height, nearly nine feet tall. To anyone who didn’t know it, the Doctor might have seemed somewhat imposing-- towering over just about anyone else, who knows how many arms hidden beneath its coat-- the more you looked, the more you saw. That seamless transition from fur to feathers to scales on just about every patch of exposed skin, the way that no two of its limbs were quite the same despite the sheer number of them-- it really was on a different level. Chaotic, huge, and absolutely beautiful to anyone brave enough to let themselves see it that way.

“Shall we get to the grafting? I bet you’re excited.” it gestured to the large door before heading through it, holding it open with one of its longer arms as I followed.

The office of the Doctor’s grafting parlor had much of the same atmosphere as the waiting room-- the same soft lighting, all the cushioning on the seat-- even the shelves of medical instruments were populated by just as many plushies as scalpels. The Doctor yawned, the whole lower two-thirds of its face splitting open, rows upon rows of teeth glinting in the algae-light as it stretched out each section and layer of its beautifully complex jaw and flexed its tongues, thick saliva starting to drip down its neck. I blushed slightly as I watched from the chair. “So how have you been, Eva?” it asked, the structure of its face all folding in on itself like a flower blooming in reverse until in under a second, it had all snapped back to its original position.

“Not bad.” I replied. “We’ve got good intel on the next job, but there’s a bit of a complication involving… an Arktos.”

“Really?” it said, turning to face me as its tails organized the shelf behind it. What was the deal with the people here being able to do things without looking? Maybe its tails simply had their own subjectivity, or a portion of the Doctor’s had been assigned to them. “I got to take one of those for a spin a while back. They’ve got enough nerve feedback to scramble the sense right out of you unless you’ve been trained to take it… or you’re willing to surrender to it. But, that’s not what I meant. I was asking about your mods. Any trouble with them?” I thought for a second.

“No… not that I can think of.” the Doctor slid over to where I was.

“Don’t worry about work, Eva. not here.” it said. “It’s been a bit since the last time you stopped by. Do we have time for a checkup before we start?” I nodded, and immediately I felt countless hands run across every part of my body, tracing around the seam of every graft and feeling the progress of each ambystomagen course. I laid back in the seat and let it do its work, trying and failing to keep my mind out of the gutter.

It’s strange, the way the Doctor examines someone-- a sort of exploratory embrace formed from hands alone, wrapping around you completely and taking in every bit of information all at once-- feeling how much softer your skin’s become, every tiny change to your shape, how well blood flows through a new artery. All you can really do is relax, and that’s really all you’d want to do. It always laughed softly whenever it felt me go limp like that. “Your ears have grown in nicely.” it said gripping one of them softly and moving it from side to side. “And they look great on you. So it’s that, the extra thumb, the estrogen, the larynx, and a few other assorted mods… am I forgetting anything.”

“And the lung.”

“Oh right, the lung.” it said as it tilted my head up and ran a finger along the scar on my throat. It could have gotten rid of it easily long ago, but the voice change had been one of those mods where I’d decided to keep the marks of its installation. Simultaneously, it slid a pair of hands to each button on my shirt, ready to unbutton them all at once as soon as it had my permission. “Mind if I check the scars?”

“Sure.” I stammered. Of all the changes I’d had, the lung might have been my favorite so far to get installed. The Doctor never told me exactly how it’d managed to perfect its venom formula, but once all the capacity for pain is temporarily removed from your nervous system, feeling its many hands moving around inside your ribcage as it pulls out a failing organ before cracking open its own chest to withdraw the replacement it had been growing for you and sliding it into yours-- the sensation is really quite interesting. It always connected its own cardiovascular system to yours whenever it did major work like that, so as it worked it could feel exactly how much your heart was pounding.

“It’s all feeling good? No pain?”

“A little bit if I run too fast, but it’s been getting better.”

“Voice is sounding good?”

“Yeah. Did it feel ok? It’s been a bit itchy.” It thought for a second.

“As… far as I can tell from just a quick examination. I’ll check a bit more thoroughly once you’re nice and relaxed.” I blushed slightly. Larynx and other throat mods were easier to examine internally than from the outside, and the most noticeable difference of the Doctor’s business model from other grafters is “who needs an endoscope when you’ve got several foot-long tongues?”

“It looks like everything’s going well, then…” one of its eyes continued looking at your face as the other three slowly glanced down. “...and so’s the estrogen, I see. You just don’t get results like these unless you combine them with an ambystomagen course. Just the hormones and nothing else, and the results would be much less impressive.”

“My eyes are up here.” I said, a clear lack of any actual irritation present in my voice.

“Only for as long as you wish to limit yourself to two. Just say the words, and I could give you eyes everywhere." The office was silent for a minute, then we both laughed.

“Thanks, but I’m good. Maybe a tail, though.”

“You would look great with a tail.” the Doctor leaned back, setting me down in the chair. “I’ve got a few options for you if you’d like to grow it yourself, or you could have one of mine. but now, let’s focus on your new arm.” I grinned as I remembered why I was there in the first place.

“Which one is it?” I looked at the many limbs I could see. All of them looked fantastic. It pulled back its coat and stretched out one arm, letting the others hang at its sides.

“I’ve been growing this one just for you.” it said as I reached out and touched it. The skin was soft and had a strange but pleasant smell to it. “Six fingers and double-shouldered, just what you asked for. I even took the liberty of putting a few helpful muscle memories in it.” I sat up and slid my hand along the length of it. “A high-quality limb like this, not to mention unchipped and unregistered… ordinarily, one of these would be worth its weight in gold. But…” it held my face in a few of its hands, smiling at me with a sort of warmth that you might not think was possible with all those teeth. “Just seeing how great you feel after a new graft-- that’s all I need. I just want to know that it’s helped, and that’s enough… That and the couple thousand dollars you paid upfront.” I chuckled slightly. “Hey, all the ambystomagen I need to grow these isn’t exactly free. Besides, I do need just a little bit of entertainment now and then, and with what it takes to hold my interest, I need a significant budget.”

“Shall we start?” I said, leaning back again and rolling slightly to one side to show the part of my back that I wanted the arm attached to.

“I thought you’d never ask.”

I had been to the Doctor’s grafting parlor many times before-- I had been expecting the sensation long before I heard its face split open again and felt its tongues against my skin-- but no matter how much I would prepare for it, I would always shudder at that first moment of contact. That tingling sensation wherever its saliva touches you, followed by a gradual numbness as it sinks in. it didn’t spread through your body like its venom did, but it still always left me a little tired. I’d never seen a modification like that advertised, let alone on anyone other than the Doctor. It’d said that it was a bacteria that it had worked almost five years to imbue with all sorts of useful functions-- antimicrobial, anesthetic, a little bit paralytic-- and also cherry-flavored, though I’d only learned that a few months ago with a bit of firsthand experience. It wasn’t entirely necessary-- every grafter had some variant of total anesthetic venom, the Doctor included-- but it was nice to know that it was willing to spend years of its life and who knows how much money spent on plasmids for the bacteria, just to make it not hurt when it sunk its fangs in. All it felt like was two gentle points of applied pressure, followed by that wave of calmness as almost 250 milliliters of venom wrapped around each nerve. I could feel my mind start to slow down almost immediately.

“Doing okay?” the Doctor asked. I couldn’t quite get myself to form the words, so I just nodded. “That’s good.” it said, lifting me up for a second to adjust my position. “Try to relax.” At the moment, relaxing was really all I could do. My vision was starting to blur to the point where I couldn’t answer when it asked me how many fingers it was holding up-- meaning the amount of venom had been sufficient.

I barely felt it as the Doctor began to cut, peeling back layers of flesh and holding them in place with its hands alone-- a nearly imperceptible warmth as blood flowed from the incision, a numb pressure as it held it open, and a strange tingling as I felt air against my spine. It always worked quickly, dozens of limbs all moving independently, hands filled with scalpels and jars of stem cells-- sculpting the bone itself as its remaining hands ran through my hair, stroking my ears as it told me how good I was doing.

It’s strange to think of your bones as having nerves. Soreness in them can be proof enough in their capacity to hurt, but you often might think of your skeleton as simply an inert frame-- no actual life in it to speak of. Still, that intense feeling as preexisting nerves connected to new ones was strong enough that I could feel it through the venom. It didn't really hurt-- that part of my brain had been sealed off completely-- and without it, all that was left was sensation. Like the feeling of a neutral texture against your skin, magnified by a factor of ten thousand until it was practically electrifying. Through the venom and the nerve signals, I could hear a sound from behind me-- a sort of suppressed whimper as the Doctor worked on getting the new arm ready to graft. More and more of the scalpel-holding arms left the graft site as it worked until finally only a few pairs of hands remained, holding the incision open until the new bones solidified. There’s a reason why major grafts are often so expensive-- not just to get them registered, not just all the ambystomagen needed to grow a new limb entirely from scratch-- but because giving an arm to someone else is much harder for the person that’s not allowed to use any sort of numbing agent. Laying back as a new appendage is sewn on is one thing. Cutting off one of your own limbs is another, even if you’ve got plenty to spare.

I could barely move then-- it took all my energy to lift my arm, to reach up over my shoulder, and to hold it out. The Doctor accepted it, squeezing it with one hand, then another, then another. I struggled to form words, but I had to say it.

“You’re… doing… great.”

It leaned over me for a second, the flesh around the arm sliced and pulled back until only a few fibers around the bone held it on. A few drops of blood dripped down onto my face as it smiled weakly. “Thanks.” it whispered, before it gripped the arm right next to the ragged edge of the cut and tore it suddenly from its socket.

The graft went smoothly after it took a second to catch its breath-- bones were lined up, ambystomagen slathered on the cut ends of veins and nerves, and flesh stitched into place with the Doctor’s personal silk. It told me as it bandaged itself that it would take a bit for everything to merge together, but I was already half asleep. Getting a major graft done takes a lot out of you-- a good grafter can get you through it with only a little bit less blood then when you’d started, but getting new nerves connected is exhausting. I tried to stay awake-- even if the Doctor had been doing major grafts for years, some part of me couldn’t help but feel a little worried. Trying to stay conscious, however, was as futile as trying to move. The sheer amount of venom inside me made it completely impossible, and I passed out from the effort of trying to turn myself over.

You always wake up slowly after one of the Doctor’s grafts-- an element of its business model that few other grafters share. Go to a corporate parlor and you’d be out the door just a few minutes after waking up, but it tended to value customer satisfaction over keeping a tight schedule-- besides, it didn’t have the option to clock out and bring in a new grafter following each major graft. As a result, you really get a good while to fade in and out of consciousness, your brain too exhausted even to think “I should really get up now.” not to mention how with just how safe you feel in that place, you wouldn’t be thinking that anyway.

The first thing I felt as I regained consciousness was the Doctor’s breath-- a slow, gentle pattern against my shoulder as I lay on my side, its arms draped over me, but its grip was weak enough that it was at first indistinguishable from the blankets I was wrapped in. my eyelids still felt too heavy to open and I still hadn’t fully regained sensation in the ends of my limbs, but I could tell immediately that it was asleep. Asleep, but still taking care not to damage the new graft as it held me, all its many arms surrounding me like a nest. I was vaguely aware of some sort of movie running in the background, the sound of it seeming muffled at first, but slowly becoming clearer as the venom began to wear off-- likely an attempt by the Doctor to find some way to stay awake. Leaving an unconscious patient unattended is generally something that grafters avoid doing, but this wouldn’t cut into my review of the place in a million years.

I focused on the textures around me as I lay there-- the blankets, the arms, the fur that covered the Doctor’s chest, thinning the further down it got until it left that warm, soft patch of skin on its stomach, not unlike one that a bird would have to incubate eggs. I could feel its additional heartbeats through it-- the second and fourth hearts, I think. It might have gotten some new ones since last time, or moved them around a bit. Did it know that I liked to listen to them? Did it get them installed somewhere where the sound of them wouldn’t be muffled by layers of fur so that I could? This was one of those moments where I felt allowed to not care about anything else-- the plans, the world outside that room, even the Arktos and however the corporations got their hands on one-- none of that mattered. What did matter was that the feeling as each nerve connected as ambystomagen fused new tissue with old was one of the best things I’d ever felt, even through the remaining venom. That moment, that place-- that euphoria that flooded my brain with each pulse of calcium ions through my nervous system-- that was what I had been looking for. That was why I-- no, why we did this. The knowledge, clearer with each time I flexed the muscles of the new arm, that I was more than I had been before.

(oh, and @estrogenandspite— your move.)

#ah #this is what it's all about #amazing writing

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