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Segment 25 squinted his eyes. It appeared that he had lost his glasses. He couldn’t help but frown. He had an important experiment planned that day. He postponed it in favor of searching for his glasses; otherwise, it would result in a disaster since mixing chemicals with vision as poor as his wasn’t harmless.
“Have you seen my glasses?” He asked who he believed to be Segment 35. He could barely see anything. All that he could make out was the light-blue blur of his hair, and the white mass of his lab coat.
“I haven’t,” Segment 35 replied. He didn’t even bother to look up from his workbench, “Did you check your room? Wasn’t it on your bedside last time?”
Segment 25 sighed.
Of course he had checked his room. He was certain that he had made a mess with how thorough his search had been. The contents of his bedside table had fallen to the ground after he had accidentally pushed them while he had been searching for his glasses. He grimaced at the thought of cleaning up such clutter.
That was a problem for later though. His main priority as of that moment was to find the only tool that could help him see clearly.
He shuffled forward. His hands shot out, with his fingers meeting the edge of what he hoped was his workbench and not another segment’s. He felt out the vials and the stacks of papers that he couldn’t read. Ah. He blanched at the realization that this wasn’t his workbench. There was only one segment who kept their paperwork on his workbench.
Segment 45 loomed behind him, “Why are you making a mess of my station?”
Segment 25 flinched.
He didn’t even hear Segment 45 approach him.
“I apologize. I was just looking for my glasses,” Segment 25 explained. He was flustered when Segment 45 let out a hum, as though considering his words. What was there to even consider? Wasn’t it obvious that his glasses were missing?
“Isn’t this the second time this year that you’ve lost your glasses?” Segment 45 mused, not unkindly, but his tone held an edge that made Segment 25’s ears go warm.
“…Perhaps.”
Segment 25 averted his gaze. Shame flooded his face as he couldn’t bear Segment 45’s judgment.
This has been a recurring problem since his ‘birth’. As a segment, he was the perfect recreation of Dottore during his twenty-fifth year. It was unfortunate that by that time, his vision had weakened significantly. As such, Segment 25, as well as the segments older than him, have been cursed to wear prescription lenses for the rest of their miserable lives.
He should know better by now. He has outlived even the original Dottore. It was humiliating that he still loses his glasses—a tool that he needed to see, as without it, he was completely useless.
“This can’t keep happening. Haven’t I already suggested that you wear a mask with a prescription? I haven’t lost mine even once. Neither have 35 or 65.” Segment 45’s hand made its way onto his hip. If Segment 25 squinted his eyes any further, he was certain that he would see him scowling in disapproval.
“It’s uncomfortable though,” Segment 25 murmured. He tried it out once, putting on one of Segment 45’s spare masks for a day. It pinched the bridge of his nose tightly, weighing heavily over his face, “I don’t understand how you can handle the strain that it causes.”
“We got used to it.” Segment 35 shrugged.
Segment 65, who apparently had been in the room the entire time, chimed in, “It’s either that we bear it, or we suffer in our blindness like you currently are.”
“Since when were you here?” Segment 25 looked at the direction from where he heard Segment 65.
Laughter echoed all around.
His cheeks reddened. He was comforted that the mask he was wearing covered all but his eyes, hiding the flush that made a home on his face.
“I’ve been here since before you walked in.”
“Oh.”
It was no wonder that the other segments were mocking him. His horrible eyesight without his glasses led him to overlook Segment 65’s presence. He could only bury his face into his hands, while Segment 45 patted his back in an attempt to comfort him.
“Enough, the both of you.” Segment 45 glared at where Segment 35 and Segment 65 stood, “If you’re not going to be of any help, then get back to work.”
“You’re no fun,” Segment 35 commented. He snickered one last time before finally relenting.
Segment 45 may not be the oldest among the segments, but he was the one who disciplined them whenever they misbehaved. Maybe, it was due to his age, close enough to Dottore’s prime with less of the arrogance that made him difficult to work with. He was certainly more mature than Segment 35, and he also lacked the ache that ran through Segment 65’s bones.
“Come. Let’s find your glasses before you start bumping into doors again,” Segment 45 said, his hand settling on Segment 25’s wrist as he guided him toward the hall.
“That was one time,” Segment 25 protested weakly.
“Uh-huh. If you say so.” Segment 45 sounded amused, as though remembering all the times that Segment 25 has collided with something, whether it be the door, the wall, or a running experiment.
Segment 25 didn’t want to think about it.
He was led through the doorway and into the hall, where the corridor stretched long. The doors to the other rooms were reduced to mere smudges against the metal walls, while the ceiling lights were nothing more than soft halos that he could barely make out. He was like an old man, with his eyes narrowed and his posture slumped as he held onto Segment 45 as if he was his lifeline.
Segment 45 prevented him from bumping into what he supposed was a vase, “You should really get a chain for your glasses, or having a spare pair on hand. Anything, really. We can’t keep doing this every time you lose your glasses. It’s really inefficient.”
“I know,” Segment 25 admitted, “I thought about getting a chain, but I hadn’t gotten around to it.”
“You’ve told me that before. Around a year ago.”
“I’ve just been busy,” Segment 25 said. It wasn’t even an excuse. He truly had done a lot throughout the past year, conducting multiple experiments, overseeing their more unruly test subjects, and completing whatever task he had been assigned to by the Fatui.
It was no wonder that the plan of modifying his glasses had slipped his mind. He could only stew in his regret as he wallowed in his own blindness.
“I still don’t understand why our vision worsened in our twenties,” Segment 25 grumbled.
“Neither do I,” Segment 45 admitted, while he guided him past another turn in the corridor, “Though, I suspect that it has something to do with genetics. It’s either that or the amount of hours that Zandik has spent burying himself in papers late at night has left a mark. Our habits were far from healthy, after all. This one just so happened to have inconvenient consequences.”
Segment 25 was frustrated, “Can’t we just replace our eyes? We can perform surgery on each other. Surely, that will fix our common plight.”
“You know that it doesn’t work that way.”
He huffed. Yeah, he knew. The optic nerve was almost impossible to safely reconnect, and all that. He already heard of this before. However, that didn’t stop him from feeling upset.
“Why did Zandik have to give us his eyes? He knew how awful his vision was. We’re already his perfect replicas in other aspects. Why couldn’t he compromise on this one detail?” Segment 25 had many gripes with the constant blur that clouded his vision. He often argued with Zandik back when he was still alive—cursing him out for giving him such horrible eyesight.
“It’s not in our nature to compromise,” Segment 45 said, still patient despite the bitterness that crept into Segment 25’s voice.
Segment 25 said nothing. He let the words settle over him like a familiar, unwelcome blanket. It was true. As much as he wanted to deny it, as a segment of Zandik, he was stubborn, never settling for anything less than what he considered to be perfection. His eyes troubled him more than he would ever admit, but he understood why he was given them. Anything else would make him less Dottore.
He would be a flawed segment then. He didn’t want that.
It still angered him. His poor vision had burdened him far too many times to count. However, it was an irrefutable part of what made him a segment of Dottore.
He rubbed his eyes. The motion did nothing to clear the blur, with the lights distorted into rings and streaks.
“Where did you last leave your glasses?”
“My room,” Segment 25 replied, “But, I already checked there around three times. I couldn’t find them no matter how hard I searched.”
Segment 45 chuckled, “Let’s try again anyways.”
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
There was a knock on the door. Segment 25 raised his head, his eyes squinted as he stared at whoever was brave enough to disturb him. Beside him, Segment 45 stood up from his crouched position on the floor.
“What brings you here?” Segment 45 asked.
“I was looking for you.” That sounded like Scaramouche, “You had a meeting scheduled an hour ago. Pierro was displeased at your absence.”
Segment 45 exhaled, “Oh, right. I was busy helping 25 find his glasses. I must have lost track of the time.”
Scaramouche’s silhouette shifted in the doorway.
He entered the room. His footsteps were light, with him moving like a haze of dark and red hues. Segment 25 pushed his hand against his bed as he also stood up to face Scaramouche. It was a shame. It was difficult to admire Scaramouche’s appearance without his glasses.
“You should go and talk to him. I’ll help 25 search for his glasses in the meantime,” Scaramouche said.
“Alright. I’ll be back once I’ve smoothed things over.”
Segment 25 bit his bottom lip. He watched as Segment 45 left the room, retreating into the hall, where the rustle of his coat faded into nothingness. It wasn’t his intention to trouble Segment 45. He had been ready to apologize had he not departed in a rush.
Oh well. He could only move to search his dressing table for any sign of his glasses. He could hear Scaramouche sit on his bed and open the drawers at his bedside.
“It’s not there,” Segment 25 informed.
“I can see that,” Scaramouche deadpanned. Segment 25 snorted as he rolled his eyes. How funny. Scaramouche continued to rummage through his items, helping him as much as he could, “How about you? Anything there?”
Segment 25’s fingers skimmed across the surface of the dressing table. They brushed past what he believed was a comb, a bottle of cologne, and lip gloss. There wasn’t anything that felt like the frame of his glasses. He could only shake his head. He already knew that his glasses wouldn’t be there. It was unlikely that he would find them in a room that he previously scoured that morning.
He should have known better than to hope.
“Don’t be so glum. We’ll find your glasses. They’re in this building somewhere,” Scaramouche tried to comfort him in the warmest tone that he could muster.
Segment 25 sat down beside Scaramouche, “I just hate this so much. I’m useless without my glasses with how blurred my vision is. What’s worse is that, if I can’t find them anytime soon, I’ll have to order another pair, and that will take a minimum of a week to make since my prescription is so high.”
Scaramouche was silent for a moment.
He then slid closer next to him, moving to cup his cheek with his hand. His thumb caressed the skin beneath his eye as he seemed to smile sadly. At least, that was what Segment 25 believed his lips were doing.
“It will be fine. A week isn’t the end of the world.”
“It is when I have so much to do,” Segment 25 argued, “I have research to conduct, experiments that I’m forced to postpone because of my impairment. An entire week of progress is to be stalled because of something as trivial as misplacing my glasses.”
“You do realize that the other segments can cover your work while you’re unable to, right?” Scaramouche asked as his other hand brushed aside the strands of hair that covered his forehead.
“I don’t trust them.”
“Aren’t they also ‘you’?”
“That’s precisely why I don’t trust them. Segment 8 and Segment 18 are too reckless. Their frontal cortex has yet to fully develop, which makes them immature. The older segments, meanwhile, are too fixated on their respective experiments.” Segment 25 furrowed his brows, knowing well that if he were to take even a day off, he would be greeted by even more work once he returned.
Scaramouche’s thumb stilled. The expression on his face shifted into something that Segment 25 couldn’t decipher without his glasses.
“Shall we look for your glasses elsewhere?”
“I’ve already checked the laboratory. I don’t know where else I could have lost it.” Segment 25 tried to remember what he had been doing last night. He only ever went to the laboratory and his room. Could he have dropped his glasses somewhere along the way?
Wouldn’t Segment 45 have seen them then? It couldn’t be that his glasses have disappeared into thin air.
He laid his back down on the bed.
Scaramouche followed him, doing the same.
“Do you know the story of how I realized that I needed glasses?” He asked as he then rested on his side to get a better view of Scaramouche.
It really was unfortunate that he could barely make out his face. He must be beautiful that day, as he often was whenever he saw him. He could distinguish the pink of his lips and the cool glow of his eyes, but the rest of his features were an indiscernible blur.
“No. I don’t think so,” Scaramouche replied.
“I used to, well I still do, play the piano. I relied on sheet music to play certain songs. The notes were quite small, but I could read them just fine,” Segment 25 began.
It wasn’t common knowledge that he knew how to play a musical instrument. It was a hobby that he developed in his spare time—during the short breaks he occasionally had before starting a new experiment. It was difficult to reconcile the image of a scholar with that of the arts, but since when were the arts the antithesis to academia?
He adored the piano. He really did.
There was something about pressing his fingers against the keys and producing a lovely melody that soothed his mind. It demanded precision, just as his experiments did, but it was more forgiving. There were no stakes when he accidentally pressed the wrong note.
It was simple fun.
Imperfect, yet merciful.
“Until one day, after months without playing a single note, I sat down to play a particular song. I looked at the sheet music, and for some strange reason, the notes were all blurry.” Segment 25 grimaced at the memory. It was an embarrassing experience to only then discover just how much his vision had worsened.
How didn’t he find out much sooner? Maybe, if he did, he could have nipped the problem in the bud. He could have prevented his eyes from deteriorating to the extent that they had at his age.
“That must have been alarming,” Scaramouche spoke.
“It was. I thought that I was just fatigued at first. I went to rest for a day or two before I returned to the piano, and just like before, the notes were still blurry.” Segment 25’s fingers twitched faintly, recalling the phantom memory of piano keys beneath them, “It was then that I figured out that my eyes were failing me. It felt absurd. My eyesight was suffering even though I was barely at the cusp of the prime of my life.”
Scaramouche held onto his hand. He traced over his knuckles in a soothing manner.
“It’s not a failure to need glasses.”
“I know. It’s still bothersome though. I mean, look at me. I can’t do anything right now just because I can’t seem to find my glasses.” Segment 25 gritted his teeth. It wasn’t fair. It really wasn’t. He never asked for his eyes to lose their luster, to be forced to squint even when he did have his glasses just to look at objects far from him.
Scaramouche went on to bring Segment 25’s hand close to his lips, “It will be alright. We’ll find your glasses even if I have to flip this entire place upside down.”
Segment 25 felt his face heat up.
Scaramouche pressed a kiss onto his knuckle.
“You should rest. Your eyes must be strained since your glasses are missing.” Scaramouche sat up and let go of his hand. For a moment, he sounded worried.
“I still need to find it.”
“Let me search for it then. You’ve done enough.”
Segment 25 wanted to argue. He wanted to say that he could handle it, that he was fine. But, the truth was that his eyes did ache. A dull throb had built up behind them from hours of struggling to make sense of a world that had been reduced to blurred shapes and lights. He was drained of the little fight he had inside him.
“Fine. Do as you wish,” Segment 25 relented.
Scaramouche walked toward the door, “I’ll be back soon, hopefully with your glasses.”
Segment 25 closed his eyes.
The ache subsided ever so slightly.
∘₊✧──────✧₊∘
Segment 25 stirred awake. Yelling echoed from outside his room. It sounded like Scaramouche. He rubbed his eyes, frowning at his sleep being disturbed, as he then stood up and walked toward the door.
“What’s going on?” He grumbled as he leaned against the doorframe.
“I found your glasses,” Scaramouche said.
Segment 25’s eyes widened. Scaramouche helped him put on his glasses, pushing the frame until the tips were behind his ears and the bridge was resting on his nose.
Almost instantly, his vision cleared.
He blinked once, twice for good measure. He could now see Scaramouche standing right before him without any of the blur that permeated his regular vision. He let out the deepest sigh of relief that he could muster. He then went to embrace Scaramouche, profusely thanking him as he swung him around in the air.
“C- Calm down!” Scaramouche yelped.
“Thank you! Thank you so much!” Segment 25 laughed before he eventually set him down, “Where did you find my glasses?”
Scaramouche looked behind him, revealing Segment 8 and Segment 18, “You should ask those two.”
Segment 25 raised a brow.
“Is that so? Did you two take my glasses?”
Segment 8 hid behind Segment 18. In turn, Segment 18 raised his hands, taking a half-step back, as though the added distance would lessen his guilt. Segment 8 wrung his hands onto Segment 18’s sleeve. The little one was shuddering in fear. It must be because of the dark gaze that Scaramouche was aiming at them both.
“I’m sorry. It was all 18’s idea!” Segment 8 cried out.
“What?! Hey—!” Segment 18 sputtered. He whipped his head around to glare down at Segment 8, “Don’t listen to him! He’s the little thief who stole your glasses!”
“Because you asked me to!”
“Shut up!”
Segment 25 pinched the bridge of his nose. His glasses were secure and his eyesight was clear enough to watch the entire exchange in full detail. He was amused at how quick they were to divert the blame, but he was also a bit annoyed at having lost his glasses because of these two pesky, immature little segments.
“That’s enough,” He cut through their bickering, “I don’t care whose idea it was. You both were involved, so you should take responsibility. Tell me, what foolish thought encouraged you to steal my glasses?”
“It’s…” Segment 8 mumbled incoherently into Segment 18’s sleeve. In any other situation, Segment 25 would have carried him in his arms. Unfortunately, he was one of the perpetrators who took his glasses, so he wouldn’t be gracing him with affection for now.
“Well?” Scaramouche crossed his arms, “Speak up. You better have a good explanation for this.”
Segment 18 winced.
There was something odd about the look in his eyes.
“I… I was just curious,” Segment 18 revealed. His gaze was averted as he spoke, “I wanted to know what it was like to see through glasses. I know that your prescription is quite high, but… everything seemed so clear…”
“Oh.” Segment 25 pushed back his glasses. It all made sense now.
He wondered if this was where it all began. Was it at that age when his vision started to deteriorate? None of them even knew that Segment 18 already had problems with his eyesight. It should have been obvious, but it still took him centuries to figure out that Segment 18 also needed glasses.
“Let’s go to the optometrist tomorrow,” He said, having lost all his initial irritation.
Segment 18 brightened, “…okay.”
“You’re still in trouble. But, that’s a problem for another day. For now, go wash up. You look filthy,” Segment 25 ushered the two youngest segments away.
They scurried down the hall. Segment 18 was muttering something about optometrists under his breath, while he was being trailed by Segment 8. Scaramouche was still standing beside Segment 25, his expression softer than before as he smiled at the happiness that Segment 18 was exuding.
“Well, that’s that.” Scaramouche placed his hand on Segment 25’s chest.
“Such foolish children,” Segment 25 murmured.
Whatever. It just felt good to be able to see again.