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The steady rhythm of approaching footsteps is the first sound that creeps through Pantalone’s consciousness. His eyelids flutter at the rustle of fabric when someone adjusts what seems like a heavy coat. The most he can do in reaction is turn his head towards the visitor and wait for their next move. The weighted thud of a bottle against the table at the side of his sickbed stirs him into wakefulness, and he pries his eyes open to find the source of the disturbance.
45 greets him with a smile that’s all teeth, one hand on his hip and the other holding the neck of the wine bottle that he set on the side table.
“Good morning,” he says after Pantalone keeps his eyes open for longer than three seconds. The Segment is still wearing his Harbinger white overcoat, stylishly overdressed for a simple visit to the recovery room in the laboratory’s medical wing.
“Good morning,” replies Pantalone, voice all sandpaper. He watches 45 leave the bottle and shift his attention to the medical report folder left on the table, flipping through the pages and nodding occasionally at what he reads. Pantalone cranes his head towards the bottle to read the label: a Dawn Winery vintage, if his poor vision is interpreting the blurry label correctly. “How was your trip to Mondstadt?”
“Exceedingly dull, compared to what apparently transpired here during my time away.” 45 flips back to the beginning pages for one last review, then snaps the folder shut. “May I?”
Pantalone lets him drag back the blanket and hospital sheets to his hips. The front of his cotton gown is opened to reveal the dressings covering the incision on his right abdomen. He can’t recall when the bandages were last changed, but 45 apparently decides they’re due to be replaced. Pantalone rests his eyes again, hearing the sound of water running in the sink and the snap of a pair of gloves. He barely registers the hands carefully peeling back the old dressings when 45 begins his work.
“Hmm,” 45 hums approvingly when the incision is exposed. “25’s handiwork?”
“So I’m told.” Pantalone opens his eyes and glances down, seeing a long line dotted with black stitches. A small cloth is pressed against the top of the line; if there’s any soap or other cleaning solution soaked into it, Pantalone is unable to feel the sting. “Is that wine intended for me?”
“A gift, which you can enjoy to its fullest several months from now.”
“Thank you. I don’t suppose I can trade you for a cigarette in the meantime?”
“You’ll have to try much harder than that.”
“Ah, was worth a shot.” Somewhere in the middle of this conversation, 45 had finished applying fresh bandages. Pantalone will have to request a reduction on whatever painkillers are being fed through the needle and tube taped to the back of his hand, so that he can have a better retention of events that occurred within the past five minutes.
45 pulls off the gloves. “Any theories on who is responsible?”
“Nothing yet.” His eyelids droop heavily again. He feels his gown get tied at the hip and the bedding pulled up to his chest. There was something he was supposed to request to his attending doctor. 45’s hand is on his shoulder, warm and welcome. “How was your trip to Mondstadt…?”
He hears a chuckle and the hand is removed. “We’ll catch up later.”
Surprisingly, Pantalone is able to recall most of the conversation when he wakes up an hour later and sees the wine bottle on the side table. He shifts as minimally as he can, eager to stretch out the stiffness in his limbs. 18 appears a second later with a metal tray in hand, as though he sensed the patient’s movements from just down the hall.
“You’re not supposed to move without assistance,” he says, lacking any ability to curb the disapproval in his tone. The tray is set on the countertop next to the sink and 18 comes to his side, helping Pantalone squirm into a more upright angle against the pillows and headboard. Sitting up clears a bit of the grogginess in Pantalone’s head.
“How many days has it been?” he asks. More recollections start surfacing as he glances around the recovery room, noticing the bags of fluids hanging on a pole next to him. “Enough to reduce the amount of painkillers, surely.”
“Two days since the operation. And you can bring that up with 25 later today, as I have been delegated to mere food delivery.” With Pantalone now rearranged upright, 18 returns to the tray and brings it to Pantalone’s lap. Something makes him pause and hold the tray away, the line of his mouth pressed in displeasure. “Where did this blanket come from?”
“This one?” Pantalone raises the hem between two fingers. Now that he’s a little more alert, he can better observe the blanket’s traditional patterns woven in red and white thread. “I believe 8 brought it.”
18’s mouth tightens further, skin blossoming in white at the corners of his lips. For the sake of the recovering patient’s comfort, he muffles his disapproval to a mere click of his tongue and sets the tray in Pantalone’s lap. Its contents include a cup of water, a ceramic bowl covered with a lid, and a folded newspaper with a pair of glasses resting on top.
“Plain oatmeal,” 18 announces with a finger pointed at the bowl. “Eat it slowly. You’ll have to manage without any milk or salt for now.”
“Thank you.” Pantalone pops off the lid. Plain indeed, seasoned with only water, based on its unappetizing appearance. He skips the spoon for now and starts with picking up the glasses and newspaper. Once he puts on the glasses, he can see that 18 has taken up residence in a chair next to his bed, sitting with his arms crossed and watching him intently. His posture is much like 35’s, though without the refined practice of keeping his shoulders relaxed to hide his intentions. Pantalone understands why he’s staying from that posture and plucks the spoon from his tray. 18’s shoulders relax once he witnesses Pantalone swallow down the first spoonful of oatmeal.
“And thank you for the newspaper,” Pantalone continues. A pencil emerges from the crease when he unfolds the paper. “You and 8 are quite the courteous attendants.”
18 scoffs at that observation, both at the comparison to the youngest Segment and at the suggestion of harboring any bedside manners. Prideful to the point of stubbornness, which makes it terribly easy to get under his skin. “You don’t need to coddle him.”
“I never said I am.” Pantalone scans the front page while chewing through another bite of oatmeal. A new opera is expected to premiere at the end of the year, and seasonal business is booming as usual in Port Belovodye. He flicks to the next page whenever he feels his focus starting to waver. “What has my office been told?”
“35 says he took care of it. You can ask him later.”
“I see.” Pantalone works his way to the last page between nibbles of his bland breakfast. He contemplates the crossword puzzle printed on the back, a newer addition to the local papers over the past few years. He thinks Zandik would have both admired them for encouraging critical thinking and detested them for being too easy.
He trades the spoon for the pencil, tapping the graphite tip against the paper. “The process where blood changes from a liquid to gel, which forms blood clots. Eleven letters, ends with N.”
18 raises his brow at him. “Is that a serious question?”
“I’m operating a little more slowly today,” Pantalone says. He pushes the corner of his glasses up, ensuring 18 sees how he glances over to the maze of tubing and hanging bags of fluids. “It must be from the excessive use of painkillers.”
He smiles sweetly and waits. The bait works within mere seconds; 18 soon sighs and rises from the chair. “Coagulation. You know this.”
“Ah, of course.” Pantalone writes out the answer in its corresponding boxes, deliberately not looking while 18 adjusts the infusion pump next to his bed. Another bite of oatmeal is swallowed down to show his appreciation. “Eight letters, N from the previous answer as the fifth letter: a type of investigative accounting that determines if a financial body has engaged in reporting misconduct.”
18 slows in his movements. “Balances…no–”
“Forensic.” He grants the Segment another smile after writing out the answer. “I’d be happy to teach you more about the science of accounting and economics. It may improve your arguments for approval in your next funding request.”
18 returns to the pump with a barely-muted grumble. “Finish your breakfast.”
“Yes, Doctor.”
“…And save some of the questions for when I return with lunch.”
“Yes, Doctor. I’ll look forward to it.”
Pantalone has managed through about half of the paper’s articles by the time 25 makes his appearance. He offers no greeting and goes right to the various machines by the bed, checking their dials and writing down their status into the medical file on the table. It takes less than five seconds for him to notice a change, by Pantalone’s estimates.
“18 is not authorized to adjust the infusion pump,” he says from behind his surgical mask. Professionally straight to the point, with more confidence behind his chastising, compared to his younger selves.
“I believe the adjustment was necessary to ensure I kept my breakfast down,” Pantalone responds without looking up from the newspaper. 25 doesn’t reply to that, skeptical at the claim but still young enough to assume the best of intentions in Pantalone’s way with words. Such claims wouldn’t work on the older Segments.
25 moves on to the hanging bags of fluids, jotting down notes on their levels in the medical file. “How many glasses of water with breakfast?”
“Two.”
“I hope that is just for decoration.”
“Hmm?” Pantalone glances up from the newspaper to check where 25 is looking, his attention on the side table that’s hosting the wine bottle. The removed newspaper sheet with the partially-filled crossword puzzle lays next to it. “That is a gift from 45.”
“And it will remain a decorative gift for the next twelve weeks.” More notes are written out while 25 paces around the room with the file, resembling the habit more commonly seen in his older selves. “Five more nights in recovery here. Blood tests three times a week, for four weeks, then once a week for eight weeks. No strenuous activity for this twelve-week period–”
“When you say strenuous–”
“Nothing more intense than light walking.” Pantalone nods along politely at the clarification, mentally filing away any further thoughts he has on that. “And lastly, no alcohol, and no tobacco.”
“Understood, Doctor.”
“Don’t.” 25 snaps the file shut between two long fingers. “I’m not gullible like the others.”
Pantalone’s about to ask a most innocent question on what he could possibly mean, but stops himself when 25 comes to the bed and hands over some small items from his lab coat pocket. “What are these?”
“An advanced formulation of polymers to stimulate mastication, flavored with mint.”
“Ah.” Pantalone looks over the contents dumped into his palm, all flat and rectangular and wrapped in foil. “You made chewing gum.”
“Yes, I made chewing gum.” 25’s tone suggests that the pedestrian phrasing is beneath him. He can’t help it, being stuck in a time with the belief that he has so many talents to prove. “It will assist with nicotine cravings. Ideally you will continue using this instead of reverting to your old habits when you’re discharged, but I’m aware that will not happen.”
“Thank you.” Ever a good patient, Pantalone unwraps one stick and pops it into his mouth. The flavor could use some sweetening, but the burst of mint on the first chew is enough to tickle the senses. He deposits the remaining pieces onto the side table, piling them between the wine bottle and crossword puzzle. “Oh – mastication.”
25 looks over his shoulder, having already turned to leave the recovery room. “What was that?”
“A word I was stuck on earlier.” He pulls over the puzzle and his glasses, reading the clue. “Yes, that will fit. Thank you.”
25 stands at the end of the bed, eyes shifting downwards. He tugs the edge of the woven blanket, straightening out a corner that was bunching up at Pantalone’s feet. “You’re welcome.”
Pantalone isn’t aware he dozed off again until 65 visits him later in the afternoon, awoken by the tap of his cane on the floor. Its cadence is an exact match to Zandik’s when he first started using a cane, its beat even and deliberate, as if to convince any listeners that its use is primarily for aesthetic purposes.
“Good afternoon,” 65 greets, similarly cordial as 45 was earlier in the morning. Like the others, he too checks the machinery by the bed and the latest updates written in the medical file, but keeps his review quick on the trust that the other Segments have done their due diligence. “How are we feeling?”
“Never better.” Pantalone rubs his eyes, feeling less groggy compared to his other unplanned naps throughout the day. Something soft lands on the floor next to his bed, and a hand starts pulling back 8’s blanket. “My, am I being discharged already?”
65’s laugh is muffled behind his beaked mask. He and perhaps 45 would be the only ones to understand and appreciate the humor within that question. “I’m here to assist you with your daily walking regimen. Carefully, now – take my arm. Legs over the edge first.”
The consequences of convincing the younger Segments to reduce the amount of painkillers are now front and center. Pantalone is hyper-aware of the length of his incision and the ache in every single joint as 65 helps him get up. Once he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, he can see that 65 had dropped a pair of black slippers on the floor. His glasses are slipped onto his face, allowing him to see the geometric pattern woven into the slippers.
“My favorite wool?” he asks, toeing one of them on.
“Nothing less.” 65 wheels over the metal IV pole and wraps Pantalone’s hand around the middle.
“With this level of treatment, you’ll make it difficult to leave.”
More lighthearted humor, and another muffled laugh in response. 8’s blanket is draped over his shoulders, then he partakes in the monumental effort of bracing against the pole and 65’s shoulder to stand.
The first steps are rougher than anticipated. Pantalone bites down any vocal reactions while moving through the recovery room, and 65 makes no comment on any of the hard exhales that punch out of Pantalone’s nose. It’s a good minute to reach the hallway just outside the recovery room, then the aches begin to subside from his legs when 65 directs him towards the main laboratory. The lobby there is one of the few areas with windows, where Pantalone can get a little natural sun on his face without being directly exposed to the harsh outside elements.
“It seems unusually sunny today,” he notes once they’ve made it to the lobby. Similar mundane conversations happened between him and Zandik centuries ago, when Zandik got into the routine of daily outdoor walks, weather permitting. Pantalone pauses in the middle of the room beneath a golden sunbeam, closing his eyes against the light and stretching out his toes within the slippers.
“It is.” 65 halts next to him, adjusting the cane in his hand. “You smell of mint.”
“That would be 25’s chewing gum. I seem to have already gone through the sticks he gave me.”
Another laugh, but breathier in its exasperation. “I’ll tell him to make another batch.”
“Thank you.”
They stand there for probably longer than would be advised for the patient’s condition. Pantalone shifts more of his weight towards 65’s shoulder, hearing distant chatter down the hall towards the main laboratory. It sounds like 18 is expressing his annoyance over some matter, and whatever 45 is saying to him is only agitating him further.
“Have you seen 35 today?” he asks during a pause in the bickering.
“No.” 65 takes a step in the opposite direction, encouraging Pantalone to resume his walk away from the commotion. “I last saw him at his desk yesterday focused on an experiment. I’m sure he’ll share the results with you soon.”
“Certainly.” Pantalone glances over his shoulder again towards the main laboratory, then follows the gentle nudge of 65’s hand on his back.
8 visits him shortly after dinner, seeming to have waited down the hall until after 18 left with the meal tray. He pads over with two volumes held against his chest and a folded piece of paper pinched between two fingers. That paper is dropped next to Pantalone’s hand, then he quietly directs his attention to the machines and medical report.
“Hello,” Pantalone says. He opens up the folded paper while 8 reads the data recorded by the other Segments. The paper appears to be a page torn from one of 8’s notebooks, decorated with colorful drawings and get well soon written in a child’s script in the middle. He finds an Aranara drawn in one corner, and a crude scribble of a cigarette with a giant red cross over it in another corner. “Is this a card for me?”
“…It’s what you’re supposed to do.” 8 steps away from the machines and hugs the books tighter in his arms. “Promise you won’t tell anyone.”
“I promise. Thank you for this, and for the blanket.” Pantalone folds the handmade card in half and adds it to the growing collection of gifts on the side table. 8’s posture straightens when he sees the table, noticing the restocked pile of gum next to where his card is set.
“Is that candy?” he asks.
“Mint-flavored chewing gum, courtesy of 25. Would you like one?”
8 makes a face before Pantalone has finished asking the question, tongue sticking out in childish disgust. Pantalone bites down the urge to laugh, knowing 8 won’t appreciate it. “He gave me one yesterday as a test. It’s bitter.”
“It is a little strong.” He watches 8 approach the side table and curiously inspect the other items. The soft slippers on the floor seem to take most of his attention. “What books do you have there?”
8 looks up at the question, shifting on his feet for a moment before answering. “Mental activity and stimulation are just as important as physical rest in a patient’s recovery.”
The statement would be bizarre to hear coming from any other child. Here, Pantalone nods to show his understanding. “And are you here to help with my mental activity?”
8 nods back and holds up a book in each arm, revealing the titles on the front covers. “I’m going to read to you the Encyclopedia of Recorded Poisons, Derived from Natural Sources. Volume one, Snezhnayan types; or volume two, Sumeran types. You can pick which one.”
Pantalone continues nodding slowly. “That is an interesting choice of bedtime reading material.”
“Because you keep getting hurt.” 8 lowers the books and frowns at him, expression raw in all the ways that the other Segments have learned to tamper down by their time. Pantalone lightly laces his fingers together, staring back into those large red eyes as 8 pitches his case. “If you learn about poisons, then you can avoid getting poisoned again.”
“I’ll be more careful going forward.”
Based on his expression, 8 doesn’t buy that assertion, nor would any of the others if they were all in the recovery room right now. “Pick a book.”
Pantalone pretends to contemplate the options for a couple seconds, then says, “I want to read The Boar Princess.”
8 makes another face. “That’s a kid’s book.”
“Is it? That’s a shame. I quite like it.”
Pantalone smiles at him and waits.
Ten minutes later, 8 wordlessly shuffles back into the room with a hardcover copy of The Boar Princess. The book is mostly pristine save for faint signs of wear on the sharp corners, proving its occasional use. Pantalone isn’t sure where 8 has been keeping it stashed away ever since he gifted the book to the youngest Segment last century.
“Would you like to sit here?” Pantalone pats the bed next to his hip, the space just roomy enough for someone of 8’s size to share. 8 kicks off his shoes first towards the slippers, then climbs up and slots himself carefully against Pantalone’s side, mindful to keep his weight leaned away from the patient’s abdomen. Now settled, 8 rests the book across his lap and opens the cover.
“The Boar Princess,” he starts. He pauses to shoot Pantalone a skeptical look, mimicking 25’s doubting stare earlier in the afternoon. “You really want to hear this?”
“I do.” Pantalone settles further back against the pile of pillows and removes his glasses. “For my mental stimulation, as my doctor has advised.”
8 turns back to the book, a finger worrying the edge of one of the cover’s corners. Pantalone rests his hands in his lap and closes his eyes, waiting for his young companion to begin.
“…In the myths of ages past, every living being in this world had its own kingdom,” 8 reads aloud. His weight inches closer to Pantalone’s side. “Mondstadt was a forest in that age, a playground of the boars. In the forest was the Boar Kingdom, where everybody lived happily…”
“…she asked her people about how to defrost his heart and turn him back to his former sweet self. She asked and asked, but only the wise fox and the elderly turtle knew the answer: only sincerity and fire could melt such evil ice–”
“8.”
The boy gasps, startled, hugging the open book to his chest. He stares at the darkened silhouette of 35 standing in the doorway and clamps his mouth shut. 35 steps forward, emerging under the soft lights of the recovery room.
“He’s asleep,” 35 adds once he’s at the end of the bed.
8 blinks at him in surprise before looking over his shoulder to inspect the patient. Pantalone has his head tilted back over the top of the pillows, eyes closed and breathing in an even rhythm.
8 eases the book away from his chest, fiddling with one of the corners. Eventually he closes it and delicately slides off the bed. The book is set onto the side table, leaning against the wine bottle so that it does not obscure the crossword puzzle, handmade card, or pile of chewing gum. He slips on his shoes and ensures the slippers are located close to the bed on the floor, so that the patient does not need to stretch too far if he needs them later.
35 remains in his place at the end of the bed, waiting for 8 to take his leave without watching him directly. The boy slips past him with his head down the entire way, his steps picking up the pace once he enters the hallway. 35 waits for those footsteps to fade, then he closes the door and dims the lights to more appropriate evening levels.
Now Dottore can get to work.
He begins with reviewing the latest updates written within the medical file. He had planned on swapping the fluids first, though 25’s notes confirm this was done before dinner, and that the infusion pump has been adjusted for lighter pain management per the patient’s request. 18’s report marks the exact times when meals were served today, what the patient consumed, and that all food was successfully kept down, so no further attempts at meals or light snacks are needed. 65 assisted with physical activity twice; extended walking can commence the next morning when the patient has recovered more of his strength. The incision was redressed by 45 both in the morning and before dinner, along with running the latest blood panel, results attached. 8 was just here and would have mentioned if anything else was required tonight. Dottore checks through the file a second time, then sets it aside.
He walks around the bed to the other side, assessing its cleanliness along the way. The blanket and bedsheets are already tidy; Dottore straightens one corner regardless. The temperature controls on the wall are set to their optimal levels and do not need to be checked until morning. Dottore continues to the side table, where he notices 8’s book among a clutter of nonclinical items scattered over the surface. His gaze lands on the crossword puzzle first, its boxes fully filled in, then on the handmade card partly tucked under the puzzle sheet. He recognizes the label on the wine bottle, having gotten the same vintage for Pantalone before. A strong scent of mint is emanating from the stack of chewing gum. The tip of his boot prods against one of the slippers on the floor, pushing it out of place.
The patient stirs before Dottore can determine how to deal with the medically unnecessary items. He observes Pantalone bring a hand to the bridge of his nose, habitually checking for his glasses after awakening from an unexpected slumber. He finds them in his lap a moment later, and when Pantalone slips them on and opens his eyes, he smiles upon seeing Dottore at his bedside.
“I was wondering where you were,” he says, voice softened from sleep.
“You could have requested me,” Dottore says. He clasps his hands behind his back, posture straight and attentive.
“65 said you were occupied with an experiment. The others were able to handle everything.”
Dottore looks over to the side table again. “Are you hungry?”
“No. I was able to finish my gourmet dinner of plain rice.”
“Too cold? Or too warm?”
“Perfectly comfortable.”
“We can try another walk.”
“I believe I’ve met my activity quota until tomorrow morning.” The last few words come out scratchy from his throat. Dottore steps towards the sink for the potable water line, but stops when Pantalone reaches for a filled glass that was hidden behind the wine bottle on the table. He returns to the bedside and waits for Pantalone to finish drinking. After a couple sips, Pantalone asks, “What were you working on?”
“I was formulating an antidote for the poison, now that I have successfully recreated it. It will be finished by tomorrow.”
“For what use?” Pantalone smiles back at the deepening frown on Dottore’s face. All of the Segments glower in the same way, and all of them would deny this fact. “I heard you advised my office of my absence. What did you tell them?”
“That you are on routine medical leave, and are not to be disturbed until you are officially discharged.” Pantalone’s eyes narrow a fraction at that. “Surely your people can manage without you for a week.”
“Economies always become more volatile when one assumes it’s safe to look away.” Pantalone sighs and leans further back into the pillows, returning the water glass to its corner on the table. “But I do have reliable people to keep watch, in the meantime.”
“I’m surprised to hear no arguments against these forced days of rest from you.”
“The amount of painkillers given to me earlier would be responsible for that. Rest assured I’ll be far less agreeable by tomorrow.”
Dottore checks the side table a third time. His boot bumps against one of the slippers again; he pulls his foot back quickly enough to scrape his sharp heel against the floor. “Anything else you need?”
“Are you busy right now?”
Dottore mentally reviews the catalog of projects on his desk. “No,” he says.
“Then I would appreciate your company.” Pantalone raises a palm to his mouth, partially muffling a surprise yawn. “Assuming you don’t mind the high likelihood of me rudely falling asleep in the middle of our conversation.”
“…You’re certain you need nothing else?”
“I’m certain.” Pantalone lowers his hand and glances up at Dottore with half-lidded eyes. It’s a gaze that only works on the Segment standing before him, without fail. “The only thing I haven’t received today is your presence.”
Dottore says nothing, reacting with only a minor tilt of his head. Several moments pass before he moves, picking up a chair tucked against the wall and bringing it to the bedside. He sits with his arms crossed, then rests his hands on top of his knees – too idle to know what to do with himself for such a domestic request. Pantalone provides an answer by offering his hand, palm open and upright on the bed. The weight of Dottore’s hand soon drapes over it, his fingers instinctively inching towards the pulse point on Pantalone’s wrist.
“Yes, just like this.” Pantalone curls his fingers along the edge of Dottore’s hand and closes his eyes for the rest of the night, having now gotten everything. “Thank you.”