Chapter Text
Hurt.
True, unadulterated pain. That's about all he's remembered in the past few months, ever since the last Phestival. Subspace wasn't exactly the most usual Inphernal, don't get him wrong, but this was... new.
It happened in a random morning. When he woke up, the pain of his rot was worse than last time.
It was normal, of course, his own self-inflicted curse, in a way. A cruel prank the universe decided to pull on him, that's been lasting for years now. Except this time, he didn't feel like getting up. It was bad. Pushing past it wasn't a choice. It didn't feel like one, anyways, since any little movement he made sent another jolt of that awful, burning through his nerves. He only, finally got up, when one of his Biografts (His favorite, zc-36) showed up to his room, helped him with his medicine and clothes, and half-carried him to the workstation.
He barely functioned through that day. A combination of the pain inching back, headaches hitting him every hour, and exhaustion from the last few days worth of projects. And when free time came around, his choice was to retreat to his quarters and lay down. Not to sleep, he wouldn't dare, but the thought did come to him.
That was, as it became clear, just the start of a set of patterns. Ones that he took too long to acknowledge, admittedly. Painfully long. Of his coworkers caring less about the signs of pain he's been showing. Of His handlers seemingly being less worried about his wellbeing. Of him being shrugged off, pushed away from work.
It worried him. It made him feel useless.
So now? Now, he's sitting at his desk, tapping that stupid glass lenses he ordered a month ago, fidgeting with his tools and a new, more... personal, invention. In a sense, anyways.
Because this wasn't for him.
[==========================]
A knock on his door snapped Medkit out of work, alongside the annoying, familiar clicks of an exoskeleton. They're annoying to him, anyways. It meant that man was nearby. (The one he despised, hated with all his heart and soul.)
But when he opened the door, he was nowhere to be found. Instead, there was a small box (suspicious, I know) and a note.
Though Medkit wasn't a fool, He'd be found dead before saying he wasn't curious. Because he was. The box was too small to contain anything reasonably dangerous, so as he brought it inside, and opened the note, he was surprised to see a handwritten note. Yes, surprised. Subspace normally prefers typing out letters, he's known that for a fact ever since they last worked together (too many years ago. It baffles him he still remembers it.) and it was strange he's decided to write this one by hand. It felt personal. Too personal for Medkit's liking.
The letter read oddly, mostly because Subspace's handwritting is a bit messy, part of the ink stained into the paper like water had fallen onto it while writing.
He had to read it a few times before making out all of the words properly:
"Medkit.
It's been a long while since we've last seen eachother.
Though I'd never admit it out loud, your presence in the lab
was comforting. Despite how annoying you are.
That isn't what I am sending this to you for, though.
I want to speak to you.
I understand if the feeling isn't mutual.
- Sincerely, Subspace."
..As he said. It read oddly. Sitting down, though, he opened the small box regardless.
Inside, nestled neatly in a cushion, is a single mechanic eye. The red iris reflects back at him, a familiar but long forgotten memory resurfacing.
He pushed it down at fast as it came to him. He would rather not remember him this fondly.
But the prosthetic... It was odd. Why to him, and why now? Was this a sick joke? That's what Medkit initially bet on.
Still. As he got up to the bathroom, pushing his eyepatch out of the way, he undid the stitching around his eyelids.
and as he pushed the device into the empty socket of his missing eye, he felt the familiar minty chill of his own crystals. As he blinked, he could feel his vision coming back. Fully.
He stared at the mirror, at his own reflection, at his own mismatched eyes. And he let out a long, wary, yet defeated sigh.
Regretfully so, he supposes...
Subspace may be stubborn, but he knows how to get a guy to talk.
So, against his better judgement, he pulled up his communicator, checking when he'd be free. Next week, almost the full week. Perfect.
He sent a message to Scythe, letting her know where he would be. Wouldn't want her to worry, after all. She's quite protective.
He went right back to work, of course. It was only Friday. He had multiple projects he was yet to finish.
But that thought never left his mind, as he put metal pieces and screws into place, adjusted the parts, re-adjusted to having full vision, a thought crossed his mind.
What had brought Subspace to doing this?