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“You're no good, kid.”
Kuzan’s eyes slammed open, his sclera still bloodshot and his mind racing faster than his lungs could stand. He leaned forward, retching into his cupped hands that were now coated with a thin layer of frost - just enough to separate himself from whatever might emerge from within himself.
Nothing came up - this time, nothing came up.
He maneuvered his leg to hang from the side of his cot, his head now firmly placed in his hands. Whether the dampness on his brow was from yet another leak in this God-forsaken ship or just his body's expression of terror, he didn't know. It didn't matter. One quick freeze rendered any moisture irrelevant, wiping all evidence of the dream he had just had. Almost all evidence. He looked down; it looked back.
A stub - that's what it was. A vestigial appendage of mangled sinew and scar tissue. A ‘traumatic amputation’ is what Fishbonen had called it - said he was ‘lucky to have anything left below the waist’. It took all Kuzan had not to punch his lights out for saying that. ‘Lucky’. Right. That was all he needed to hear. The fat doctor went on to talk about ‘potential treatment options’, but he had already made up his mind. It was in that hospital bed that he fashioned himself a new limb, a glacial floe of his own design. It was crude, with jagged edges that dug into his skin. It didn't hurt. He wished it did.
He ran his fingers across his skin, the fried nerves shooting pain through his body like Hellfire. His fingers tightened, his nails digging into the delicate flesh of his leg - no, his fucking blister. His blister that lacked serum, containing only an inferno that begged for release. He often considered finishing the job - amputating what was left. Seeing it wriggle and squirm—struggling against reality itself to fulfill its purpose—made him nauseous.
He released his grip, the blanched scar tissue returning to its regular scarlet hue. The colour of heat; the colour of force. The colour of the Fleet Admiral.
He gagged again, his body rejecting the very thought of that man. He still didn't understand why he reacted that way—there was no danger present, no threat to address—yet his body instantly recoiled whenever he thought of him. He had weathered much harsher storms than that man, yet something about him refused to release Kuzan from its grip. Perhaps it was the burns that littered his body - his dead body walking.
Perhaps it was something more. It didn't matter - what was done was done. With a heavy sigh, he laid back down. Maybe this time he would have a nice dream… but he knew better than that. He knew exactly who would be right there to greet him.
He just had to make it to tomorrow.