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Feofan is no stranger to Zandik and his segments’ laboratory.
He is both benefactor and beneficiary—the prime test subject for the elixir of immortality, and the source of Dottore’s funds for his many experiments. If he is not on the operating table for the sake of dissection and testing, then he is there to get treatment for whatever malady is ailing him.
There is no other who would know his body best after three hundred years, after all.
Others may call it a misfortune to seek out the Doctor for anything, mission-related or otherwise—but Feofan doesn’t mind being in the company of someone who understands his preference for a new world order. Less judgment that way, and certainly more productive conversations as a result.
That being said…
His current problem requiring the Doctor is a lot less… ah, dignified, compared to his usual issues.
(He doubts Zandik would call his other appointments as any level of dignified regardless. He knows even without being told; there’s no honor to be had in coming to the doctor because of his own negligence. Needs must, as he says—though all of Zandik’s segments would often, if not always, disagree with him on this.
Well, it’s not like they can stop him from doing his work, can they?)
When he enters the doctor’s office, there is naught but the youngest segment there to greet him—Zandik at age 8, face round with baby fat and a gaze sharp enough to cut any unassuming adult. Those red eyes sharpen even further at the sight of him entering, zeroing in immediately on the hand he has clutched onto his face to stave off the bleeding.
“What happened this time?” 8 asks, frowning as he ambles over to him, leaving a black notebook opened flat on his desk in his wake. “Another altercation?”
“Unfortunately not,” Feofan answers. He smiles as he kneels down, allowing 8 to observe and manipulate his head as he sees fit. Child in body 8 may be, Feofan knows better than to believe it means this little one is truly a child. Dottore is Dottore, regardless of the body he’s in—and he has never failed in caring for Feofan’s body, often doing a far better job than Feofan himself. “This was my own fault.”
“I’m sure,” 8 mutters. “With you, it’s either assault from an outside party or your own lack of self-care. Are you telling me you hit your face against something?”
Feofan clears his throat. “I did, yes.”
8 blinks, releasing his cheeks from his hold. “Wait, truly? How did that happen?”
“I may have lost sight of my glasses… and tripped over a bedpost in my search for it.”
“...”
It doesn’t take long for the silence to be immediately drowned out by 8’s gleeful laughter. “Hahaha! How embarrassing! A grown man at your age, tripping over a bedpost..!”
“My vision is impaired without my glasses, so you’ll have to excuse me for failing to account for the obstacles in my way,” Feofan sighs. Still, he smiles; it’s not often that he can hear 8 laughing for such an innocent reason, even if it’s at the cost of his own dignity. “Now, doctor, what shall I do about my nose?”
“Hah! Alright, I’ll take care of it. Sit on that chair over there,” 8 says, waving a hand at the chair close to his desk, “and wait for me; I’ll go get my things. Make sure to keep your head up while leaning forward.” In a more gleeful whisper, he adds, “Oh, how the great Pantalone has fallen…”
Feofan will forgive 8 for the teasing, if only because three hundred years of life has afforded him a great amount of patience.
Still, when 8 returns with his equipment, he returns the teasing with, “Isn’t it unprofessional to be so joyous in light of your patient’s suffering?”
“I’m 8, you can hardly fault me for finding amusement in such a trivial thing,” 8 retorts, smirking as he gently cleanses the blood from Feofan’s face. Once he’s finished applying ointment and dressings for his nose, he passes over an ice pack and instructs, “Apply ice for 10 to 20 minutes throughout the day for the first few days. Take this capsule for the pain too.”
“I don’t need it—”
“I don’t care,” 8 interrupts. “Take it.”
Obediently, Feofan accepts the capsule with his free hand, downing it with the water swiftly given to him. He returns the empty glass to 8, saying, “Thank you.”
8 nods, pleased with his obedience. As he sets the glass aside, he picks up a file—Feofan’s medical records, presumably. “I’ll make sure to tell the others to watch over you too. Is it because you’re old that you forget to take care of yourself?”
“How blunt,” Feofan laughs. “Perhaps I was always like this. Though, you would know me best, wouldn’t you? We’ve known each other for so long, after all.”
“Mm, that is true.”
Feofan watches, one hand holding up the ice pack to his face, as 8 begins taking down notes on his file. “Are you jotting this down? You’ve never made records for minor scrapes before.”
“It’s too entertaining to be left unrecorded,” 8 explains, his focus entirely on Feofan’s records as he keeps writing.
MEDICAL RECORD
Sex: Male
Age: 312
Complaint: Generally speaking, a trivial matter like this does not call for a file entry. But how can one pass up on documenting the occasion where the great Pantalone got a nosebleed after tripping over a bedpost?
History: History of allergy and past surgery. Longtime smoker at approximately 10 sticks/day.
Treatment: Routine wound care.
Then, with much amusement, 8 adds:
Recommendation: Put on glasses.
Hah. What a cheeky child he is.
Feofan pulls out his own pen—a different ink from Dottore’s, as always—to add his own little note beside 8’s recommendation.
I'll have to find them first.
8 chuckles under his breath, adding his final notes soon after.
You have to keep an eye on them, then.
Investigator: 8
“You really should learn to take care of yourself better,” 8 admonishes, giving him a look as he closes the file for his records. “You risk undoing all of our hard work for you, Pantalone. We replaced your lungs, yet you continue to smoke… we warn you to take care of your eyes, and yet, you continue to strain yourself. We understand the hazards in your work, but it’s by your own choice that you neglect yourself at times.”
“Well, isn’t that why I have you?” Feofan says, tone light. “When I fail to take care of myself, I have you to rely on. Was that not our agreement?”
8 narrows his gaze upon him. “Our work is meant to extend your lifespan and cure any existing ailments—we’re not meant to be your babysitter. Isn’t it embarrassing to hear this from someone in the form of a child?”
Feofan hums, “Mm, perhaps so. You do such great work, however.”
“Of course,” 8 scoffs. “But I won’t be swayed by your flattery.”
“Ah, that’s a pity.”
There is a short silence as 8 considers his files, before looking up at him with a familiar gaze—assessing, calculating… thinking of him, acknowledging Feofan instead of a mere test subject as he once was in the early days.
How long was it, since Zandik last looked at him as if he were a mere specimen? Just when was it that his gaze changed, acknowledging him as an equal above everyone else? Three hundred years of living… it’s quite a long time, enough for his memory to fail him on certain things. The original Zandik has gone, and yet, his segments remain to remind Feofan that they are ever-connected, bound in life and death.
As if hearing his thoughts, 8 asks,
“You know that your life is ours in essence, don’t you? Perhaps, even your body.”
Feofan tilts his head, smiling. “I do agree that I owe you my life ever since I met you. But, am I not repaying that with my own hard work as your colleague? Your partner?”
8 huffs out a laugh. “Repaying it… I suppose you’re trying, yes. But a life isn’t something that can be measured so easily by mora—is that not something you’ve said before?”
Feofan nods. “Indeed.”
“You must know how selfish I am. How selfish we are.”
“I am quite aware,” Feofan says dryly, reminded of 35’s spiels about his life bound to him—to them, and the elixir they give him. That man has never failed to remind Feofan that he is, in fact, the most selfish of the segments; he’s sure it won’t be long before he finds a way to be the only segment. To 8, he asks, “Your point?”
“You are the one and only recipient of our elixir. This was true from three centuries ago, and it will continue to be true in the centuries to come.”
“...”
8 smiles placidly, seeming satisfied to have caught Feofan’s attention. “Zandik has long passed, rendering the elixir of immortality useless for its original purpose. Now, the only one benefitting from it is you, and we have no intention of sharing it with others outside of you. I’m sure you understand what I mean?”
“Haha,” Feofan laughs, throat dry as he lowers the ice pack from his nose. After clearing his throat, he says, “As the recipient of your most prized experiment, I should take care to not waste your efforts. Is that right?”
“Good, you do understand,” 8 says. “We can keep fixing you, remaking your body to adapt with time… but there’s only so much we can fix before it’s too late. I’d hate to have our precious subject expire because of his own negligence.”
Feofan catches the change in wording, though he doesn’t point it out to 8. Feofan had called the elixir as their prized experiment, yet the Doctor before him called him the precious subject. Didn’t Zandik say he lost his sense of compassion at this age?
Or is this pure selfishness, taking ownership of a person as if he were an object?
Whichever it is, Feofan will just have to keep it in mind for later. For now, he says, “If this is your attempt at making me quit smoking… unfortunately, I can only promise a decrease instead of cessation. It was a good performance on your part, however.”
8 gives a shrug. “Well, I did try. Will you truly decrease the amount, at least?”
Feofan nods. “I shall swear on it. Perhaps… 8 sticks a day instead of 10 should suffice.”
“Good enough! Haha, maybe I should rub it in 18’s face that I succeeded where he didn’t,” 8 says, a proud smile on his face as he walks away from his desk to return Feofan’s file to the cabinet he’d acquired it from. “I did tell him that there are advantages to having a younger body.”
“Try not to aggravate him too much.”
“No promises,” 8 hums, looking back to smile at him. “Besides, you’re on my side, right? I still remember when you rejected his funding request after I told everyone about my stolen notebook.”
Feofan hums at the reminder. So long ago, and yet, he can remember such a far-away memory as if it were yesterday: the youngest segment had complained to the rest that his black notebook containing his proposal had disappeared, while 18 had whispered to Zandik on the side that he was the cause of the issue.
A few days after this incident, 18 had passed his funding request for approval and Pantalone had rejected it, labeling the project as “not profitable”. He doesn’t remember the details clearly now, what with so much time having passed, but he’s certain that he was able to list multiple reasons as to why the rejection was given.
Could anyone fault him for merely doing his job?
“Purely a coincidence,” he assures 8, who regards him with a raised brow. “The project wasn’t profitable enough for me to approve its funding, that’s all.”
8 shakes his head. “Whatever you say, Pantalone.”
How adorable—it seems he believes Feofan to be shy about picking favorites. Unfortunately, he will have to disabuse him of that notion—it wouldn’t do to involve himself in any potential tensions between the segments. “I am, in fact, being truthful. But if you wish to interpret it as you like… then by all means, I can’t stop you.”
His laidback response earns him a frown from the youngest segment. As 8 returns to his side, he asks, “Is it really so difficult to admit that you have a favorite? It’s not like I’d tell anyone.”
“Now, why would I have a favorite? You are all Zandik, albeit in different stages of your life,” Feofan muses. He watches as 8 takes up the seat by him once more, as if truly interested in what he has to say. “In fact, who’s to say that Zandik is my favorite person at all?”
8 gives him a long look, squinting at him. “Is that something you say to someone who just helped you with your nose?”
Feofan chuckles. “Alright, I concede the point. If considering one a friend equates to placing great favor on said person, then I suppose you are a favorite, by virtue of being Zandik.”
“So nitpicky,” 8 sighs. “You didn’t have to say that last part.”
A smile. “I’m covering all of my bases, that’s all. You’re not one to ignore the small details either, isn’t that right?”
“I suppose so,” 8 mutters, lower lip jutting out. After giving the clock a glance, he tells Feofan, “Put the ice back on.”
Feofan obeys wordlessly, placing the ice pack back onto his nose.
“Your favorite…”
8 hums as he rests his chin on his clasped hands atop his desk. Though youthful in appearance, Feofan doesn’t doubt that he’s still leagues above and beyond the average child at this age. And so, he isn’t surprised when 8 continues to say,
“Even if you liked the original Zandik, we can’t be him. Not with the way he made us, at least.”
Feofan stills at those words, eyes opening fully to watch 8 with more clarity. Solemn, curious, yet utterly devoid of sympathy—those red eyes watch Feofan as though waiting for answers, even when they both already know what Feofan thinks.
Or, perhaps 8 doesn’t. The youngest segment who had yet to experience adulthood, and will never experience such in the same way a normal child will—perhaps there are things he fails to understand simply because Zandik chose to create him as a child frozen in time.
Eight years old, and no older.
“I know. I’ve always known,” Feofan says, smiling as he tilts the ice pack just enough to see 8 in full. “You are Zandik, and yet, you are not him in the same way. He made sure of that when he created you.” He pauses then, idly toying with the ring finger on his right hand with his thumb. “I also know that it is thanks to him, both in life and in death, that I am able to live for as long as I have.”
“Does it disappoint you that we used the original in that way?”
“Hardly,” Feofan answers. “Disappointment is born from expectations, and I don’t expect anything from you other than what we’ve agreed upon. You were able to perfect the elixir to some degree after that autopsy, and I can’t deny how I’ve reaped the benefits from it either.”
8 hums, sounding thoughtful. With that ever-observant gaze, he tells Feofan, “You can expect more, you know.”
Feofan tilts his head, curious at those words. “Hm?”
“I think you know what I mean,” 8 insists, leaning forward to get a closer look at his face. “Surely, I don’t have to spell it out for you? The reason that all of the segments look after you, when we could have assigned just one…”
“I’m very aware that all of you need my financial expertise,” Feofan says.
“Don’t be obtuse,” 8 scoffs, frowning. “You’re ours, Feofan. We’re selfish, but we take care of what is ours. Do you understand?”
Feofan laughs, smile widening in contrast to the deepening frown on 8’s face. How very fascinating, that the youngest Zandik could be more honest where his original couldn’t. Zandik always felt like he was running out of time, desperate to find answers for immortality—he rarely ever bothered to pause and admit to things like this.
The advantage of someone with plenty of time on their hands is that they have more room for sincerity, it seems.
“I’ve always known this,” Feofan says, chuckling at 8’s obvious confusion. “Ever since I placed my life in your hands, I’ve been yours.”
“...oh.”
Wide, bewildered red eyes blink while looking at him, that tiny mouth opening and closing like a guileless goldfish. Of course, 8 would give him the most satisfying response as the most innocent of the segments—for as much as any version of Zandik can be innocent, anyway. Amused, Feofan asks, “Why are you surprised? I’m merely repeating something you already know.”
“I didn’t think you would admit to it so easily, given your pride,” 8 mumbles, gaze turned away. “How sly.”
Feofan closes his eyes as he chuckles, his breath coming out cold against the ice pack pressed upon his nose. As he fiddles with the ring on his fourth finger, he says,
“You like me this way, dear Zandik. You always have.”
And he certainly hopes that won’t change, even centuries from now.