Bulla shivered. The stainless-steel table chilled her thighs through her clothes. Familiar medical technicians scurried around the room poking and prodding her as usual.
Just another Tuesday, I guess, she thought.
The truth was that she had no idea how many days had passed. Time was a mystery to her and she knew it. She still preferred the illusion of it, offering some comfort.
Three meals and sleep equals one day, she reasoned.
Patterns brought a sense of ease to her being. She held out her bruised, needle pricked arm out to the technician. They pushed the suction cup of the extraction gun to her forearm. The clear chamber filled with blood to the brim. Then the tech swapped it out for another hungry vile waiting for its fill.
Bulla ignored the noise and clatter to her right. She knew it was a table with some poor soul like her with a collar strapped to their neck. She noticed many faces joining her on the other table during the 'weekly exam', or whatever the fuck they're doing to us, she shuddered. She stopped looking when she realized at one point that they always appeared to be male. She didn't want to entertain the thoughts and questions that came with that; she felt dirty enough. It was the kind of filth that scalding water and bleach couldn't fix. A tap on Bulla's arm broke her from her thoughts. She jerked her elbow away and broke her own rule- she looked.
A man sat on the table across from her. His bare feet dangled off his long legs close to the floor. He looked at Bulla and waited. He eased his hand toward her again while the other arm entertained a blood focused technician. He poked the end of his square shaped finger into Bulla's thigh. The palm of her hand smacked on his bare flesh as she shoved his hand away with force.
"Oushka-na, Grouda?," He said.
Bulla didn't bother to open her mouth. The subtle inflection in his voice suggested a question. She was tired of explaining, 'I don't understand you'. His voice was familiar to her. He had became a regular sound in the med bay. He leaned over with his clenched fist and deposited something onto her table. Bulla studied him with confusion plastered onto her face. His skin was amber in color with bronze highlights in the crook of his neck and hollows of his cheeks. A ruddy undertone warned his skin. His eyes were tired and darkened beneath. Bulla imagined the baggage that they hold.
Do I look the same?, she wondered.
Bristly, chocolate fuzz topped his head.
So, you've been here long enough to grow some of your hair back, she noticed.
His eyes struck her the most. They were like warm honey poured into his skull. They were rich and golden. They were deep set yet large. The tip of his nose squared off into a tip over his wide nostrils. His tapered chin and thick brows framed his long face. Bulla's eyes traced his steep cheekbones, like a trail leading to his pointed ears. Bulla thought about her novels filled with regal sleek elves and brutish orcs- more animal than humanoid. She rolled her eyes at her own folly as her brittle reality cracked even more.
What are you blockhead?, she thought.
"Oushka," he paused, "A-na Grouda?," he said slowly and pointed to her table.
The intense eye contact made Bulla's stomach churn. Bulla picked up the grey-brown balls in her palm and brought them to her nose.
"Po-potatoes?," She stuttered.
She nearly dropped them from excitement. Her face ached from the smile, stretching dormant ligaments for the first time in weeks.
"Thank you," Bulla said to him.
Her efforts to break through the man's stare seemed unfruitful. His thick lips were flat over his square jaws. His brows were stern and straight over his black eye lashes.
"Thanks, uh, huh," she nodded over earnestly making the moment more tense.
The technicians seized Bulla by her metal collar. They yanked her backwards toward the table. Bula's eyes watered while their nails dug into her beck through their gloves. The magnetic seal on her collar locked her into place. The magnetic waves rumbled her ears. The reverb traveled down her bones, finally dissipating at her toes. The rhythmic sound soothed her racing heart; it was another constant in the chaos of her life. The trembling gave birth to shaking as the techs worked and scurried around her head. She never remembered the procures outright, but she figured her body must have subconsciously knew and expected some kind of violence. All she could recall is blinding surgery suite lights and poking and prodding with faint voices calling, 'she's waking up- more gas'.
A tech snatched the boiled 'potatoes' from the table and chucked them into the trash. He complained and scoffed at his ruined sterile field. Some of their languages were no longer like hieroglyphics to Bulla. The common tongues on the ship were more discernable. Bulla picked up bits and pieces despite her scrambling collar by watching their lips when she could. She closed her eyes, waiting for the mask to be pinched over her nose and mouth.
So much for potatoes, she thought, Is there food in the afterlife? Maybe I won't wake up this time and It'll be over, and I will never have to see Kal-
A technician slammed gut first into Bulla's table. He folded at the waist like a busted lawn chair. He pushed himself off her restrained body. A throaty scream roared over the frantic cries of the staff. Bulla fought the table with no success. The scuffle of feet and agony, made her pant for air.
"Hello?- Let- let me out!," she panicked.
Her neck strained against her collar, but her muscles failed. She couldn't turn her head to escape her window of vision. She centered her pupils on the white- round bulb above her head.
"10,9,8,7,6," she whispered to herself.
The screaming faded to the back of her mind and her cheeks began to cool. Scarlett droplets misted the white bulb above her head. Light gleamed off the blood bubbles like tiny rubies. Blood splattered onto the ceiling in long spurting streaks. Warm sticky blood clotted on her neck and face. The stagnant taste of iron invaded her mouth. Vivid memories of being ceased beneath their firm hands and blood streaked walls send her mind reeling. She reviled it and deep festering hatred reared itself- hatred for herself. Vegeta's words bounced around in her head, 'a common whore, a common whore- whore'.
Bulla chocked on the backwash of saliva and tears. Gasps burst from her lips. Air sucking sobs muddied her groaning voice. A technician leaned over her. She remembered his stony face looking over her discolored leg after Kalus and Cloak dragged her from their ship. He didn't bat an eye. He was weathered inside and out. His nostrils flared with each passing breath. Bulla desperately searched him for something tangible- something other than listlessness. The only thing she could scrape out of him was apathy. He pressed the mask against her face with his stiff arthritic fingers.
"I want to go home!," she hollered despite the muffling face mask.
"No crying. Go to sleep now, okay," the technician told her.
His voice was smooth and unshaken despite Bulla's futile thrashing. A switch flicked in her brain. The needle of her consciousness directed her toward rage. She sunk into it, knee-deep before she even realized she was stuck in anger's mire.
"Don't touch me you crusty bastard!," she lashed out.
Humidity hugged her face as her breath condensed on the inside of her mask. Her eyes crossed despite her resolve to stay awake. The technicians swayed in her clumsy double vision. A black veil covered her eyes.
"Go to sleep… sleep," he said.
Bulla's eyes fluttered open. She threw herself from her back. Her shoulder thumped the tile floor. Pain zipped up her collar bone. She scuttled from her knees to her feet with her arms flapping for balance. Her legs were still heavy with sedation. She scanned the room and her muscles relaxed. For a moment she relished the gratitude of seeing her cot with its cheap sheets spilling into the floor. She studied Drewda; he was frozen mid bite. He was huddled on his cot, stuffing his cheeks with the red protein brick. He eagerly pulled down his food and sifted through his blankets with his palm. Bulla remembered Bell shuffling through her bed sheets trying to catch a fly. The smile on Bulla's face was short lived. The blood misted surgical suite forced itself on her brain. She felt violated even by her own emotions.
Drewda waltzed up to Bulla on his tip toes. He offered Bulla a rectangular package, offered in wax paper.
"How nice, you didn't eat mine this time," she said as she took her protein brick. Dreweda lingered just like his pleased smile. Weeks ago, Bulla prepared to live with a roommate and even looked forward to it after overcoming the dread. Little did she know, her room mate would be a bouncy, little boy in a small cell rather than a teenager sharing a two bedroom dormitory.
"What Drewda?," she barked and rolled her eyes.
Her eyes settled on his sweet apple cheeks and the little whistling gap between his front teeth. A half inch of black hair covered his head. The annoyance in her heart melted away.
"Thank you," she said and bowed to him.
He nodded his head, acknowledging her with satisfaction painted across his face. Bulla held up the brick in her hand and held up her thumb on the free hand.
"Is this the first, second, or third," she said slowly and counted with her fingers.
The boy drew a blank stare; he was quiet and still, intently watching her lips. Bulla repeated herself and waggled the protein block in front of his face. Drewda's face lit up. Three fingers popped up on his waving hand. Bulla brushed past him and sat on the edge of her cot. He followed her, but her eyes snapped to him and he stopped in his tracks. Bulla signed with her hands, bringing her finger tips together to form a right angle.
"Your corner, please," she quietly requested.
Drewda continued to prattle around her cot. He dropped a wad of linen strips on her lap. Bulla picked up the tangled white strips apart and separated them into straight lines across her thigh. Irritation sealed her lips; she would rather keep her mouth shut. Personal space was a non-existent commodity for her these days. Her dull eyes settled on Drewda.
You can't be more than 7 or 8, she thought before pausing to think about his physique, You could be closer to 10 or 11… you're awfully tall.
"Drewda," she began by scratching his arm to get his attention, "How many are you?," she asked and clumsily signed.
Drewda's fast hands went to work, but Bulla was lost. In the beginning, she figured his language couldn't be that much different than Japanese Sign back on Earth. She had swallowed her pride and realized she was sorely mistaken. Several weeks of immersion only yielded rudimentary phrases and a mutt language built from observation and crude gestures. His mouth ran just as fast as his excited hands, but the long vowels were unintelligible to Bulla.
Bulla nodded politely with a superficial grin plastered on her face, hoping to hide her cluelessness. She hoped to stave off loneliness in him. His excited banter made his isolation tangible to her. She got little glimpses of it here and there when he was quiet at last or huddling in his corner playing with knotted shreds of fabric. An idea sparked in her brain.
"Hey," she said in between his breaths, "Go play in your side, so I can make some new things for you," she said slowly, allowing her hands to catch up with her mouth.
Drewda's jaw dropped. His lips curled over his teeth. Drewda scuttled from Bulla's bed and retrieved knotted scraps of fabric hidden in his ripped mattress. They were just torn hems and dryer scorched chunks of uniform, but to him they were busy people going on adventures in their own little worlds.
Bulla soaked up the silence and twiddled the fabric between her fingers. A steep frown marked her chapped lips. She wrapped the string round and round her fingers, but her mind was with the pointy eared man in the surgery bay.
What did they do to you- to us?, she thought.
Bulla tugged on the shoulders of the string doll to broaden them. She tugged on the knees of the doll to give him longer legs. She carefully tied knots over and over to thicken his arms.
"Almost the same size as his block head," she muttered.
She pulled down the sides of the model's head until little loose fibers of dingy string separated. She licked her fingertips and pinched the tufts into sharp points.
"There," she said as she walked the string doll over to Drewda, feeling satisfied.
She tapped him on the shoulder and jiggled the doll in front of him. A toothy grin spread across his face. He received the doll like an old friend, pulling it close to his chest. Its head squashed between his chin and neck. Drewda held the doll by its arm and signed with the other.
"—see him—like me," he signed and dropped the little doll to the floor.
"Yes," Bulla said, "He's kind of like you."
Drewda shook his head and signed again, " You—see—like me?"
"Do you like him?," Bulla asked with a smile.
Drewda shook his head and her and his hands waived.
"Do I like you?," Bulla tried to fill in his charades, "Is that what you mean?"
"Dooo," he yaked with red cheeks and continued to wag his head from side to side.
Drewda poked the tips of his ears and pointed toward the cell door.
"Dude—what?," Bulla said flabbergasted.
Drewda rolled his shoulders up his neck and threw his hands up in the air, griping with unknown curses under his breath.
Foot steps pattered down the hallway, making Bulla straighten her spine. Drewda continued to fuss at Bulla with his hands propped on his hips, ignoring her haste to stuff his string knick-knacks into his ripped mattress corner. A mauve gel hound prowled down the hall, mindlessly patrolling. Bulla felt relieved despite its swimming marble eyes. She crept to the front of the cell and checked the ends of the hallway.
You're early today, Cloak, she thought, But where are you?
Tears erupted from Drewda's eyes. His lips quivered as he tried to make himself small. He sandwiched his body into the corner. Bulla froze. After collecting herself, she attempted to draw him from the corner with a limp hug. Her arms were cold and stiff. She was eager to help, but went through the motions, acting on what she should do, rather than what was natural to her. Drewda sensed her eagerness tempered with insincerity. He was torn between clinging to her leg and receding into the wall. Bulla hunkered down next to him and pulled his head to her chest. She hummed and rubbed his scalp with her fingers. He hushed and focused on the vibration of her voice. He scrubbed his eyes with his fists and hid behind her back.
"Come on Drewda," she coaxed him and gently tugged him along by his forearm. They stopped in front of the tray slot in the cell door. Bulla tore her red protein brick into beefy lobes. She pushed the pieces through the door. Drewda watched the chalky hunks bounce on the ground. He clung to Bulla's arm grouping for a life line in a hateful world, full of uncertainty. Bulla funneled some ripped up pieces into his hand and tapped the tray slot with her fingers.
"See, they're just big stupid dogs," she reassured him as it gobbled down the brick with its unhinged mouth, "It's super dumb."
Bulla nudged Drewda to look at her, "He's dumb," she said, exaggerating the movements of her mouth, "And we are smart. He doesn't know how to get in here."
Drewda watched her attempt to sign. His chest raised and fell with angry huffs. He hurled the bits of red block in his head. The tiny pieces pelted Bulla's face and got hung in the scratchy fabric of her clothing.
"Fast," Drewda signed with white knuckles, "—Eat—gulp—got me, eat."
He pointed toward the hound before giving Bulla a handful. He stormed to his bed and fell in it face first. He pulled the cheap sheets over his head.
He'll stop pouting soon enough, Bulla thought.
Her mind flashed to running bare foot through the woods with those things hot on her heels. Her gut still rumbled a little when she saw them prowling the halls after hours, but she wouldn't dare tell Drewda that.
"Awake, I see," an unexpected voice said.
Bulla raised her gaze to Cloak standing outside of the cell. Cool air poured in from the tray slot, seemingly fleeing from his presence. Ironically, his faceless, humanoid form was one of the most recognizable in the facility to Bulla. He was transparent in what he was. He couldn't hide behind a helmet. The shape shifter, of all people, felt the safest.
Cloak hovered his palm over the hound. It disintegrated, losing its shape with its mouth still smacking away. It bubbled into his hand like the contents of an over excited lava lamp. Cloak's glowing round eyes squinted. A wave rippled up his arm and shoulder as the tissue re-assembled itself.
"Does, does it hurt?," Bulla asked him.
"What is pain pup?," Cloak hummed, "Is it disruption or loss," he said. Bulla watched the hands of his silhouette disappear into his thighs.
Bulla thought long and hard about his 'pockets'. She could count on one hand how many times he forgot to tuck them away.
I guess neither of us know what to do with our hands, she thought.
"I guess," she replied as she planted her back against the cell wall. Her knees relaxed until she squatted over her feet. She knew he was still there, sucking up the heat from the corridor. The cell door was like a slab of chiseled ice on her back.
"Well," she reluctantly muttered, "What's new?"
"Nothing pup, nothing but routine," his voice started to travel from the back of Bulla's head to her right hear.
"Hey Cloak," she blurted before he could drift away.
"Yes."
"Is Kalus coming back?," she asked him.
"Go to sleep pup."
"Please- I- I need to know."
"Take some advice from my people. The saying goes: mist can't settle on the wind. Relish the peace."
"I'll give you something in return," Bulla said, feeling filthy at the thought. Shame was alive and well within her, but she refused to waste efforts scrounging around for some dignity. A long pause drew her eyes over her shoulder. He stood there mulling it over in silence. His black silhouette bounced like glitchy video feed. Tiny waves of smoke pulsed up his neck, licking his head like flames.
"You know the rules, girl," he said slow and even.
Girl?, Bulla thought, I see I pinched a nerve.
"Sorry," she offered him, but her mind was absent, swimming in the rich earthy smell of those little grey potatoes. Her heart grieved for them. She wasn't hungry for sustenance alone, but something akin to normal- something to hope for. Perplexity took over again; confusion was scrawled across her face.
If Cloak didn't give him the potatoes, who did?, she thought. Cloak sighed as his smokey body calmed. Stillness settled into his hollow eyes.
"You know pup- rules are the only thing keeping the universe civil. It defines the criteria for personhood itself."
"I wish Kalus had such a strong sense of commitment," she seethed, "Like you shit-heads know anything about 'civil'. Don't make me laugh."
"Captain Naisong went too far. He broke protocol. He thought that his wife to be-"
"Oh fuck him and fuck her. Serves him right," Bulla said matter of fact, "Drop the empathy act."
"He wronged you in a bout of anger," Cloak defended Kalus.
"What do you know about being angry, you glorified talking fart," she shot back.
"Anger—Anger?," his voice cut right through her, "Pup you are a sack of flesh gifted with sentience. I watch you taste and feel. What is it like to feel hot or cold? What is pleasure? Tell me, since you know everything—I'm waiting. Anger is this: A gift wasted on the ungrateful."
"Whatever, book thumper," Bulla snapped, "I suggest you go before you fall behind."
Cloak wagged his shadowed hand in front of her cell door, "Policy gives me shape, Rules provide the morality that is keeping you alive."
Bulla shambled across the cold tile floor. She carried her brooding anger in her shoulders. Her neck was stiff and sore, ushering in a migraine headache at the base of her skull. She leaned into her bed and closed her eyes, dreading the dreams to come of faceless men in red suites.
