[A/N: Thank you so much for the guest review and words of encouragement. I super appreciate it.
So here's the next instalment! I'm afraid it's mostly set-up. I've decided to take my time with this story, and not skimp on world-building or establishing characters in order to get to the 'good stuff'…
BTW, guys, this is the first proper fan fiction I've ever written, never mind submitted. I'm a pretty slow writer, and I'm going chapter by chapter. I'm already experiencing a bit of a learning curve, so I hope you bear with me. I plan on updating on Wednesdays, real-life and procrastination permitting.]
o}{0}{o
Drix arose at precisely 8:08am. That was the time he had designated as the commencement of his daily activity.
There was something pleasing about the repetition of the number eight, both infinite and yet…solid. Well balanced. He considered that perhaps it was a little bit obsessive compulsive to be so precise with his schedule. Even though his strict time-release program was a thing of the past, he found habitual punctuality a hard thing to break.
He knew that Ozzy would have mocked him for it, if his friend had known about it, but as it was the cell was never up before him anyway. Ozzy would sleep like the dead until either prodded or shouted at. Drix was prepared to bet a large number of calories on the fact that Ozzy would be out cold right at that moment.
Drix needed only a small burst of effervescent bubbles to propel himself from beside his narrow cartilage bed to the doorway of his room. It was miniscule, even by cellular living standards: more reminiscent of a walk-in cupboard than a spare bedroom.
Ozzy had gone from a disadvantaged lower-city kid to a meagrely-waged immunity patrol officer. The apartment complex in which he now resided was situated in The Lower Back, only four blocks from his childhood neighbourhood. The apartment itself was cramped, slightly shabby, and sparsely furnished. It reflected the fact that Ozzy had been a bachelor for the entirety of his adult life, and spent most of his time out cruising the circulatory system. He had no living relatives left in Frank. There had been nobody to drop by for unexpected visits, to bestow homely gifts upon him, or chide him for not presenting a more welcoming abode.
When he had brought Drix home for the first time, the pill had been a little worried that he was intruding on his friend's already very limited space. Ozzy had pressed the issue, insisting that he wanted Drix as a housemate to help pay the rent.
Drix knew that was a lie. Ozzy had always managed to scrounge together the needed funds to make payment, and that was before he'd become known as 'The Saviour of Frank'. Now, not only had he been given full privileges with his reinstatement onto the force, he'd also been promoted to the position of a Memory T Cell, and was earning more carbs than he ever had before.
In reality, they were both uncomfortably aware of the real reason why Drix had to move in with Ozzy, but it went unsaid between them.
Ozzy had been a cell of his word, and as soon as he'd had his fill of praise, adoration, and wild celebratory parties, he'd taken Drix down to the haemorrhoid to meet Mr Thromboski, the most insidious, (figuratively) blood-sucking, (literally) anal retentive cell the pill had encountered so far in Frank.
It was like he had been spawned to be a lawyer.
Thromboski had secured Drix a green card in no time at all and honorary Frank citizenship to boot. But the key word was honorary.
Drix was an outsider, and a non-organism. Despite his contributions to the city's survival, cells were predisposed to be suspicious of foreign bodies, and preferred to form close-knit communities (which was just a well, considering there was about forty trillion of them crammed together to form one Frank).
With the recent shake-up in the cerebral hierarchy, and Tom Colonic's inauguration as the new mayor, a palpable climate of change hung over everyone's heads. Although most liked the idea of a new consorted effort towards improved health, putting it into practice was proving more strenuous than they had anticipated. The trauma caused by Thrax the last time there had been a lapse in border control was still painfully fresh in the public's collective consciousness. It was no real surprise that many of Frank's residents had become downright xenophobic.
If Drix had felt compelled to live alone, and had attempted to independently rent accommodation or invest in property (if he had possessed the means), his status and lack of a papillae trail guaranteed that he would almost certainly be rejected.
To make matters harder, the system simply wasn't set up for someone like Drix. Medicinal individuals were expected to come into the body, do their job, and then depart swiftly on the next convenient bladder express. There was no prior instance of one sticking around.
The economic migrant population of Frank consisted solely of bacteria. Despite the bad rep they had amongst the cell populace, there was a large amount of them who came to Frank with the ambition for a better quality of life, and with no intention of achieving it via criminal activity. They would inevitable end up in the gut, trying to carve out a niche for themselves in underpaid, menial positions as enteric labourers.
When the immigration advisor assigned to Drix had seen his burly stature, she had suggested that he go down to the intestine and speak to the head contractor in charge of faecal haulage. She had seemed genuinely cheery as she informed him that, due to having only one functional hand, he would easily qualify for assisted living residency in the Colonic Crypts Facility.
Drix had hightailed it out of her office so fast she was probably still trying to get the scent of wild cherry out of the soft furnishings. He had an FDA certification for Frank's sake!
So even though he never expressed it aloud, Drix couldn't be more grateful to Ozzy for helping him avoid living in a festering pocket of Frank's bowels, shovelling shit for the next decade. He'd silently vowed to demonstrate his appreciation by undertaking all domestic duties. This was proving particularly beneficial, as Ozzy was a horrendous slob with an apparent allergy to housework. Drix could see how Frank's bad influence had rubbed off on him, although he'd never insult the city in front of Ozzy.
Drix decided it was about time he got breakfast made, so he quietly exited into the corridor, trying his best to move stealthily past the master bedroom, so as not to disturb the cell slumbering inside. It was times like this that the pill lamented his lack of legs. He would have dearly loved to be able to experience the sensation of tip-toeing.
Not that it would really have made a difference. There was no way that Ozzy could have heard any commotion over his own snoring.
Drix risked a peek inside. In the dim light he could make out Ozzy sprawled across the bed at an angle, looking oddly similar to a shimmery blue starfish, wearing nothing but a pair of polka dot boxer shorts and thoroughly entangled in a knotted mess of blanket. His head was tilted back, a splash of drool bubbling in the corner of his gaping mouth, as he emitted from it what sounded like a cross between stomach gurgles and a windstorm in a partially blocked nasal passage.
Drix wondered how Leah put up with it. He was pretty sure earplugs had to be involved. Then again, the loud obnoxious noises probably made it easier for her to get up early in the morning to depart for Cerebellum Hall. As Tom Colonic's newly appointed P.A, her work days started at the crack of dawn and carried on well into the evening. At least she finally seemed to be thriving and getting the recognition she deserved.
Since the day Thrax had been defeated, and they had exchanged kisses fuelled by the fear of loss and the joy of re-union, Ozzy and Leah had become an official item.
Leah had her own, much more luxurious condo up in the prestigious estate known as Medulla Drive. However, in order to be with Ozzy she spent most of her out-of-office hours round at his apartment, where they now co-habited his bed at night.
Honestly, Drix had been surprised that they had actually stayed together, seeming earnest in making a long-term go of it. He was very aware of his social ignorance, but when the pill had witnessed their earlier interactions there had appeared to be little more than flirtatious bravado from him, and coyly disinterested rebuffing from her.
A small, vindictive part of Drix's mind thought that she might only be interested in Ozzy now that he had gained recognition and fame.
But he also had to concede that there was a chance that he was just a teeny bit jealous.
It wasn't as if Drix was sexually attracted to Ozzy. He was devoid of interest in that kind of activity in general. It just wasn't in his nature; those types of impulses weren't hard-wired into him like they were in organic beings. At best he felt apathetic, and at worst slightly nauseated, by the intricacies of cell bonding.
He was also fairly sure that Ozzy was strictly heterosexual, and if anything quite close-minded and traditionalist about relationships. Drix didn't want to scare him off by admitting to any feelings he may be harbouring. Even if Ozzy was receptive to Drix's advances, his was still a hot-blooded cell with natural urges, and Drix knew he couldn't cater to his needs, or satisfy him physically.
At least in their current, bromance-esque relationship he could be close to Ozzy, even if it meant watching him find happiness in the arms of another cell.
There were certain aspects of a romantic relationship Drix found appealing.
Like cuddling.
He wondered what it would be like to cuddle Ozzy. The cell looked so soft and warm. But then he imagined that his own embrace would feel like being pressed against a cold, unyielding wall…
Drix realised that he'd been floating in front of Ozzy's bedroom for far longer than he had intended. The contemplations of his complex feelings towards the currently prostrate cell, who was at that moment snuffling noisily into his pillow, were swiftly secreted to the back of his mind.
He was just recommencing his journey along the hallway towards the communal chamber when he heard it. Barely audible beyond the threshold, Ozzy groaned out a single word, in a throaty voice laced with slumber:
'Thrax.'
o}{0}{o
Having arrived in the kitchenette, Drix set to work on preparing a plentiful, cooked breakfast for Ozzy. He himself didn't need to eat, but he had decided it was important for his personal growth that he develop some hobbies outside of congestion eradication. He'd discovered that he garnered great satisfaction out of cookery. And he seemed to have an intrinsic talent for it, despite the limitations of having only one hand.
When being a cold pill had been his sole pre-occupation, having a cannon instead of an arm had seemed perfectly acceptable. But now that he was moving beyond that, and had started trying to accomplish everyday tasks; he'd realised just how significant his disability was.
It was a setback that he was working hard to overcome. Drix wanted to be useful in a non-symptom relief capacity, now that his medicinal capabilities were largely defunct. He also wanted to be an asset to Ozzy in his crime-solving duties.
So he'd taken to studying, determined to supplement his specific medical knowledge with general expertise. On evenings when Ozzy's attention was focused on Leah, he would abscond to the Dream Memory Library and while away the hours in the few LTM depositories not dedicated to sport statistics.
Having thoroughly and uniformly sliced the mushroom polyps, Drix turned his attention to the stove in order to fry some rashers of lipid.
Humming tunelessly to himself over the sizzle of hot fatty-acids, he switched on the small TV (tract vision) on the sideboard in time to catch the tail-end of a news report on NNN.
'…And finally, a former member of the Salmonella Mafia faces rectal extradition today following the climactic conclusion to yesterday's trial. Bacterium Vito C. 'Clampy' Jejuni was charged with multiple counts of perverting the course of stomach acid and attempted food poisoning.
Immunity officer Osmosis Jones and his pill associate are at it again: proving invaluable in the arrest and successful prosecution of Mr Jejuni. Whoever said one cell can't make a difference? And now over to Mindy with the flatulence report…'
Drix smiled sheepishly to himself. Ozzy considered the pill his patrol partner, but in actuality he wasn't an official member of the immunity force. Although Drix liked to consider himself a 'consultant' to the police, at the end of the day he wasn't paid for his services.
Unable to secure a proper job, he had elected to assist Ozzy with criminal investigations in an amateur capacity. There had been no objection from law enforcement superiors, who tuned a blind eye to this breach of policy. They must have realized that allowing him into the fold was the best way of demonstrating their gratitude for his aid in thwarting Thrax.
Drix was content with the unsanctioned arrangement. He felt that he was doing an exceptional job in both protecting Ozzy, and aiding in the capture of criminal scum. For now, that was all he wanted.
The news turned to a soft-story about the current shortage of potato chips. Drix soon lost interest as reporter Trudy blabbered inanely on, so he turned the tube off again.
When the food was nearly ready and gently steaming, he bellowed happily for Ozzy to join him, and heard an unenthusiastic grunt of recognition.
o}{0}{o
He was just arranging the breakfast fry-up onto a platelet as Ozzy sauntered into the kitchenette, still wearing nothing but his boxers. Drix was a very modest pill, so when he realised that he could see a good 80% of his friend's cytoplasm (not to mention most of his organelles) through his membrane, he had to fight very hard not to show any signs of embarrassment.
He could feel his cheeks heating up, but as they were coloured red anyway he hoped it wouldn't be obvious. Ozzy didn't seem to notice, as he hoisted himself onto a tall stool in front of the kitchen island, scratching languidly at the cilia on his chin.
Drix supposed that he could at least be pleased Ozzy felt comfortable enough in his presence to parade around in nothing but his underwear.
He watched as Ozzy pulled the platelet of food towards him, mumbled an incoherent word of thanks, (Drix thought he made out the phrase 'home skillet', which made zero contextual sense to him) and began tucking into his meal.
Being in a constant state of hovering, Drix had no real need for a chair, so he simply positioned himself adjacent to his partner. He picked up the morning news-papillae and began pretending to read it. Ozzy clearly wasn't in a talkative mood, and Drix knew he would find it unsettling to be observed as he ate.
Ozzy's lethargic state quickly turned to one of ravenous consumption.
Trying to ignore the disgustingly messy eating habits of his companion, Drix found his attention drawn to Ozzy's downcast eyes. Dark rings encircled them, contrasting harshly against the cell's pale blue membrane. It looked as if he hadn't slept in days. Which made absolutely no sense. From Drix's cursory observations, if anything he had been sleeping a lot more recently. Maybe he was getting too much sleep. Or maybe it was the subject matter of his dreams.
'I heard you sleep-talking when I came past your room earlier. You said his name again,' Drix said simply.
Ozzy sounded despondent when he finally replied, 'Aight listen, man. Both you and Leah keep goin' on 'bout this but I already told you: I don't remember having no dreams about Thrax. That's all there is to it. It doesn't bother me, so it shouldn't bother you.'
He finished the last mouthful and got up, effectively ending the conversation. Drix decided to drop it, for now. He knew pestering Ozzy would just make the cell irritable. He didn't fully believe Ozzy's claims of sleep amnesia; he just hoped that his friend felt he could confide in him if he needed to.
Peaking over the top of the news papillae, he watched Ozzy march over to a cupboard. As the cell reached up to rummage around inside, Drix got a clear view of the mark Thrax had branded him with. A narrow, shiny streak of scarring that ran across his navel.
The moment Leah had realised that Ozzy had been hurt by the virus; she had summoned paradendritics and he'd been rushed to a germinal centre. Of course, there was no precedent for the type of lasting damage or infection that Thrax could have inflicted. His other victims had met a blisteringly explosive end shortly after making his contagious acquaintance. No time for a prognosis.
All the tests they had thought to run on Ozzy had come back negative. He'd been given a clean bill of health, and as he hadn't subsequently burst into flames, everyone believed he'd had a lucky escape.
Ozzy pulled out a box of crystallized protein flakes, and then retrieved a carton of lactose from the fridge. He perched himself back on the stool, pouring himself a heaping bowlful before setting to work on consuming that too.
This was the second recent development that slightly troubled Drix. Ozzy's appetite had apparently increased exponentially.
It was a trend that Leah hadn't picked up on (or at least she hadn't confided in Drix that she'd noticed), most likely due to the fact that she and Ozzy only really got quality time together in the dwindling evenings. She couldn't know that the large bowls of popcornea he chowed down on whilst they curled up together on the sofa to watch a late-night dream broadcast, or his frequent midnight snacks, were just the finale to days that had largely consisted of gorging himself silly.
Drix had hoped that providing hearty breakfasts for Ozzy would quell his ravenous hunger, but whilst the cell seemed genuinely grateful, he'd always followed up with a second breakfast. Then throughout the day, as they went about their police work, he would make frequent pit-stops for snacks. At the end of their shift they would detour on the way back to the apartment to collect multiple portions of takeout, all eaten before Leah got home. She would then cook a simple and nutritious meal, oblivious to the copious amounts of funk food that had preceded it, leaving Drix to watch dumbfounded as Ozzy polished that off as well.
It was almost impressive how he managed to pack it all in and not balloon in size. His physique appeared much the same as it ever was: broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist.
Except now, as Drix gave him a furtive inspection, it did seem as if the cell was starting to gain the smallest suggestion of a paunch. It was probably only visible because of the way Ozzy was sitting (Drix had to stop himself from reprimanding the cell about his poor posture), and because of his semi-nakedness, but there was no mistaking the slight protuberance of his belly.
The bulge created an upturned curve in the thin scar line drawn across it. The thought occurred to Drix that it looked a little bit like a curled lip, as if Ozzy's stomach was sneering at him. It was a weird notion, and Drix quickly shook it from his mind and raised his eyes back to staring unseeingly at the advice column on the papillae.
Ozzy finished off the crystalline flakes by picking up the bowl to slurp the last few mouthfuls down. Without a seconds hesitation he began pouring out a second serving.
Drix felt that he should probably tell Leah, but he wasn't sure how to approach it.
'Your boyfriend has been eating his way towards a diabetic coma ever since you got together,' probably wouldn't go down well.
He'd heard that couples in newly-formed romantic relationships tended to put on a little 'contentment weight', but he was pretty sure this wasn't how it worked.
o}{0}{o
When Ozzy pulled over on their way to the FPD's third precinct, and returned to the car with not one, but two boxes of glycine-glazed donuts from the stand, Drix felt he had no choice but to broach the subject.
'You know, Jones, maybe you should cut down on your glucose intake. If you keep going like this; cells are going to start mistaking you for a macrophage,' he quipped, with a small grin.
He included a little joke at the end to try to soften the criticism, but judging by the expression on his friends face, he still had a long way to go before achieving any competency in witty banter.
The impact of the death-glare Ozzy was giving him was slightly spoilt by the fact that his cheeks were stuffed with donut. Drix thought it made him look like an irritated hamster. He's quite adorable, a tiny, secluded part of his mind ventured.
Ozzy swallowed hard.
''Ey! Who you callin' a macrophage, Chunky?! You have to turn sideways to fit through some sphincters! Look what you're doing to my baby right now: stretched all outta whack since you been riding shotgun. You're the one who could afford to lose a few nanograms,' he ranted back.
Drix couldn't help but be a little hurt. His innate size was a sensitive topic. But he knew what Ozzy was trying to do: distract from the actual issue in his typical, brash fashion.
He responded reproachfully, 'you know I can't help it Ozzy, I was manufactured this way. And I don't require sustenance so it's not like I can lose or gain weight-'
'So maybe you shouldn't judge what you don't understand,' Ozzy snapped back, cutting him off mid rational placation, 'You got no idea what it's like to be starving all the dang time.'
Drix took a moment to process this revelation. Ozzy had eaten more in that morning than a typical lymphocyte ate in an entire day. He chose his next words carefully, and delivered them with a quiet earnestness.
'So you are honest-to-glutinous still hungry right now?'
'Yeah…'
They exchanged a glance. Ozzy was trying to look unabashedly annoyed by Drix's prying. But the worry-line between his eyebrows, and the way he bit down on his lip, betrayed a latent anxiety.
The moment passed, Ozzy brushing it off by saying in a falsely nonchalant way, 'Let's get to the station already.'
He stuffed the unfinished donuts into the glove compartment and accelerated away, driving like a germicidal maniac with an attention deficit. Drix had reached the point where his friend's unorthodox motoring skills barely fazed him anymore. Still, he wished Ozzy would at least consider wearing a seatbelt.
As Ozzy's eyes were fixed on the artery ahead, Drix risked a quick scrutiny of the cell's abdomen. Ozzy's signature varsity-style jacket was undone. The thin white t-shirt beneath was practically membrane tight over his stomach, but there was no sign of the slight bump that Drix had seen earlier.