To array a man's will against his sickness is the supreme art of medicine.

[westin_sagert]

[Late afternoon of Thursday, February 18 (day 263)]
[Basement of the Sagert residence]With the miserable weather, I do not expect that anyone would have been interested in stopping by anyway, and so I was quite happy to leave the shop closed. Although I admit the weather is a slim excuse. I do believe this is the second (possibly the third?) day

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[damien_dw]

I sink gratefully into the softness of my bed, just a quick nap before eat something and go to the Tavern. I am finding that it is easier to manage both work and play if I have these naps in between.

I feel light as a feather but the bed is very firm under me, almost hard. Someone turns on a light above me and it is very bright, almost blinding even through my closed eyelids. I throw my arm up to help block the light, finding out too late that I can't because there is a binding on my wrist. On both of them.

I force my eyes open and squint through the brilliance just barely catching a glimpse of a tall shadow reaching its hands into the light. I can't look at what those hands are holding, the metal is too reflective of the light.

[westin_sagert]

The light is dazzling, the steel mirror darting needles of brightness into my eyes. One hand across my face, I fumble the reflector aside, look down, and--

"Good god, ma-- er-- well. Yes," and I need to address that in just a moment, but "What have you done with my work?" I push--well, him, it, I shall determine it later--aside, buckles springing loose and straps snapping like tendons. And no-one is on the table, no-one at all, certainly not... well, whatever I was working on.

It is very perplexing. Linnea's jawbone is embedded in the wall, neatly flensed, and I reach up to touch it... for reassurance or familiarity, I suppose. The gaslamps in the alley walls provide enough light to see the stranger. They do seem to be perhaps a bit better dressed than one might expect for the late hour and the street, but then so am I.

"I'm sorry," I say, craning to look underneath the table only to find that what I was working on is not there either, "what are you doing here? What are you?"

[damien_dw]

The light is moved and i can see a man in a suit he speaks in a cultured masculine voice, Good god, ma-- er-- well. Yes,What have you done with my work? I am pushed sideways, the restraining straps popping open of their own accord and I hastily stand up.

Now that I can see I find we are in an alley light by a pair of gaslamps and the faint green glow from what looks like a jawbone of some kind that seems to be embedded in the wall between them. The man reaches up to touch the bone and then bends over to look under the steel table I was lying on. He asks,what are you doing here? What are you?I blink and run a hand through my hair. What does he mean what am I doing here? What am I? Oh. I did it again. Dreamwalked without being aware of it. I look more closely around at the alley and at the gentleman in front of me. Of course it's a dream I should have known that much sooner

[westin_sagert]

It says something like "I'm not actually sure. I think I was just passing through," and that seems useful, passing through means less ties and for a minute the dark hair flickers to something short and blonde and it's clearly male, but then that passes.

"Yes, yes, but what are you?" I pat Linnea's jawbone once more and it comes neatly out of the wall, so I put it on the shoulder of my coat. It clings there, neatly balanced. I am reminded of a rat, in a sort of clean and comforting way, and I stalk forward, curious.

[damien_dw]

I can feel a flicker as the dream briefly changes something about how I appear but it doesn't last. I wince when the guy refuses to drop the question and insists, Yes, yes, but what are you? Reaching up to pat the glowing jawbone once more. It comes loose and he places it on his choulder just like it was a pet.

I frown as he comes closer, instinctively taking a step back but there is not much room and I can already feel the closeness of the alley wall behind me. I lick my lips in sudden nervousness. "What I am is tired and I really should be going. Have a nice night.' I try to slip sideways along the wall.

[westin_sagert]

It makes some polite noise about leaving, but it's flicking its tongue about in nervousness or guilt and I wave it aside. "Yes yes," a nice night, that is nearly certain. Apparently it can't or won't answer, and I wave one hand dismissively.

The classic Y-incision is quite useful, and its skin splits neatly along those lines, carrying back its clothes as it peels back. The ribcage unfolds like a pair of hands, leaving the thrumming wonder of lungs and heart open to view. There is no blood to speak of, or at least not any which is doing anything so messy as leaking and obscuring my view. Diaphragm normal, liver normal, the glistening sac of stomach and the coiled heap of intestines...

And nothing remarkable. "Fascinating," I say thoughtfully, looking back up at its face. "What makes you special?" I am sure there is something, somehow, but I cannot for the life of me tell what.

[damien_dw]

He waves one hand as if to push my words aside like he pushed me earlier. Next thing I know, my chest is opening up as if he's cut me open. i yell in shock but there is no pain just the odd sensation of air flowing gently over my organs. It feels weird but nothing else.

The man, the dreamer, is examining my innards. Fascinating, He says, but he looks disappointed by something. He peers at my face as if that will give him the answer he failed to find in my guts. What makes you special?

He asks that as if the earlier failure to answer did not happen. As if I must answer him. I frown and say, "What? Me not dying of being opened up isn't good enough?" Then I reach out and carefully fold my chest back together pressing tight on the edges to make them stick.

I feel better for not having my insides on display anymore.

[westin_sagert]

A look on its face like a pout or pain or sulk, I can't quite tell, and "Me not dying of being opened up isn't good enough?" I laugh at that, because of course that's my skill not its. If everyone I opened up died I would have been a terrible surgeon. Terrible, and I am not.

"Don't be ridiculous," I say, and I am thinking "Everyone's been opened up. It's how they live," and of course I have also spoken the words aloud. I gesture towards the street where people would be, with their stomas and stitches, except they don't quite seem to be around now. It's folding back in on itself, retracting. Really, I wasn't done, there was still the wet white chunk and scrimshaw of bone to look to, the sheen of tendon and ligament

[damien_dw]

He tells me not to be ridiculous that people live by being opened up. No, I think, that's not quite right. We can open up but we don't have to.

He insists there has to be something and uses my closing myself back up as part of his proof. Would you mind being on the table?I would like to see if it matters, and it clearly won't hurt you. Or I could wait until you were dead. Do you have family?

I can feel my eyes go wide at his request. And the question that follows. "No..." I whisper. "No I DO mind. I mind you looking, and opening and and poking at me." I try to step away from him but the table is right next to me, there is a wall behind me and the dreamer in front with the that glowing bone on his shoulder...

[westin_sagert]

It is hardly as if I have made any move towards it, and I have been nothing but polite. But it is backing away and half-gasping its first words, and I am once again disappointed at the unsophisticated aversion so often displayed in response to perfectly simple needs.

"Well, then," I say, "I shall wait until you are dead, and buy your body." And it is still standing there cringing against the wall, which I suppose is of no matter since its corpse is lying on the table, and I can work with that. I have worked with distractions before.

...admittedly the distractions do not usually talk, and I suppose there may be some requirements for courteous behaviour. The measure of a man is his manners to his inferiors, I suppose. "Why did you come here?" I say, pulling on my hands and stretching the fingers inside their skin. "I did not put you on my table."

[westin_sagert]

It does not answer. I wait politely for a moment, and then another, and when nothing is forthcoming I shrug and turn my attention to the corpse. It opens beautifully, the fluids only just beginning to set, and the skin still gently elastic...

It is quite a pleasant exploration, all told, although I continue to find no cause for whatever peculiarity I am sure it possessed. Still, it does not hurt to keep one's hand in.