Isn't it interesting that time itself slows in a doctor's office?
Perhaps, the contribution of having few other things to listen to other than the tick of the clock made time slow or the strong stench of antiseptic cleaners stunned time itself out of breath.
It did seem suspicious that the medical staff had probably forgotten about him waiting inside.
He wrinkled his nose, brushing his pant leg while he tried to dissuade his mind from poking at the smell too long.
He imagined the medical staff painfully loitering somewhere before checking up on his waiting self even though his mind told him otherwise. Clinics were busy places — Lively and zooming with activity.
He faced the pale-faced walls, examining them momentarily — They were lined with neat aluminum framed diplomas perfectly spaced across the wall. Fancy curved letters with imprinted seals of prestigious schools and or others. Often impossible to read out a signature and distinguish amongst the wavey font.
The pale white light reflected off the even brighter walls, closing one's eyes only engraving their gleam through eyelids. Not much of a sight, not much of anything at all.
It wasn't too visually pleasing to pin under his scrutinizing eyes.
— There unfortunately wasn't a sound to fancy his bored mind, just the meshing voices echoing somewhere in the hall. The occasional jab of faxing tones and the clink of a hung-up phone.
The footfalls of a few crept by but the carpet swallowed most noises. The linoleum in contrast held to drastically cold temperatures along with the awkwardly short bed.
He could always pedal it upward but what of it, if he wasn't all that sick anyway? Injured? perhaps he was wasting time — That's what this was!
A waste of time in a small chamber that reeked of mind-numbing antiseptic wipes.
What else to make of a visit like this?
What else to think about other than escaping this stench?
Oh,…but he remembered it was all the product of the creature who'd pondered with a steel nerve to drag him into any clinic unafraid to give him a once over.
What of an injured ankle? What of a bruised knee? He'd lived through worse and thankfully better; his worse being close to death...
An individual of simple dispositions transformed into the winged phoenix to live the alleged life of a nonexistent man. If that wasn't a form of death he didn't know what was.
—Death; as one might say, had come in an unlikely form. Not entirely in its fullest but the Michael Long everyone had known had "died", transformed completely, and yet mostly the same.
The cold gust of conditioned air rubbed at his skin, making his cheeks blush pink and his nose begin to run.
The creature capsulated just behind an iron frame and tidied objections in favor of friendly medical care over his rueful complaints. It was only a matter of time before he'd give in to its objections, which had ultimately happened.
'I beg you Michael, visit the doctor!' It would go on and on and on.
When the nagging no longer worked it made arrangements and dragged him over to where these medical centers rose over the hills.
At first, he'd not given in to the notion. He didn't want to be probed or felt sorry for.
Eventually — The endless nagging became begging. And the creature, far more dearer to him.
With its intricate way of being, knotting itself in his new life — This was no accident. The last living breathing Knight; Wilton Knight, who had stood up to challenge such a drastic world had made no error in ensuring the two-thousand could wiggle its way into someone with such a brittle heart.
No mistake — The two-thousand was perfectly made to accommodate all his needs, and study him to the letter — He should have listened a little more often to its notice of distress. It seemed to somehow always know when something was going to hurt before it did.
— but why come to the doctor?
He grumbled, awaiting the agonizing hum of cold drafts flooding this already freezing room to stop.
"Michael, it's for your own good." He heard the voice cheerfully encourage him from his wrist noting his discomfort probably by the hitch of his heart or breath. Heaven forbid it was reading his thoughts.
"If it's for my own good, do something about the arctic winds buffeting me in the face!" He shrieked, nervously gripping a fist full of butcher paper spread over the bed. His nose twitched furiously from the misted fumes attacking his nostrils.
"Gladly." Kitt obliged, satisfied.
The "winds" choked up behind the vents and staggered into obscurity.
Michael smiled.
"Not bad." He teased, finding himself grinning to the walls as he wrapped his leather jacket tighter around himself.
" — Thank you, Michael." Kitt chirped, quite contently. "But you must understand that in coming here —"
"I wish you'd be more like my father, a true appreciator of lost science. Never bothered coming until he tried all the house methods first." He interrupted with a sigh, his shoulders sagging. Hoping Kitt could be persuaded from this angle.
"Records don't address him as a man of science." Kitt pointed out gingerly, intrigued to know more. "— And by all 'the house methods', you mean—?" Kitt inquired curiously, as it was often rare for Michael to mention the man.
"He'd take a small swig of vinegar or he'd rinse out with salt and water." Michael listed, pondering the slim possibility of convincing Kitt of their effectiveness with a faint shiver. "Or just take a good old-fashioned nap and sleep it off. You know…maybe that's all I need? A good sleep at HQ, about now." He tried to put it convincingly. Dreading to stay any longer in this antiseptic refrigerator.
"The salinity of water is known as a natural antiseptic and anti-inflammatory. Believe it or not, I do see effective implementation of science by your father. Vinegar is no exception." Kitt remarked rather amused at Michael's surprised expression playing before him. "In addition, humans do seem to experience a natural reset after sleep —" Kitt commented thoughtfully. " — but in our case, it would be best if you took word from a trained professional before implementing any of your father's methods," Kitt added helpfully.
"Maybe." Michael grumbled, pinching his nose for a moment to stop the flames of the overpowered cleaners from crawling up his nostrils. " — can't we just visit the good doctor at the mansion? If my house remedies don't work, I'll let you talk me into seeing him. Deal?"
"I was under the impression, you two do not see eye-to-eye," Kitt remarked, somewhat skeptical. "The last time you both spoke —"
"Never mind the last time we spoke, prefer his place rather than this clean-room nightmare I'll have to put up with for the next hour." Michael sneezed abruptly.
"I presume your father was neither a fan nor in 'dire need' of medical attention half the time," Kitt steered the man away from the topic of leaving.
"Hey, pal, just because I lack metal plating like a car doesn't mean I'm broken every time I get banged up." Michael rolled his eyes. "You see, we people get hurt all the time but unlike you — we self-heal with the help from our house-bag-of-tricks." The man mused proudly.
"Michael, I do not doubt the medicinal benefits of your father's wisdom but my odds calculator dictates that you should visit a professional regarding your rolled ankle," Kitt objected.
"Nothing some ice can't fix," Michael grumbled gazing toward the ceiling. "Or a stack of pillows." The man grinned pondering the thought of a warm blanket about now.
"I'm afraid I can not vouch for that," Kitt replied, dryly.
The man chuckled.
"Get me out of here, pal. You know I'm miserable." Michael confessed, finally. "And you don't like to see me miserable, do you?"
The computer paused momentarily.
"No." Kitt agreed, politely.
"Then if you could please work your magic —" The man pressed on, illy-bent on leaving.
"Michael. I — I understand your frustration, in regards to this visit." Kitt meekly answered. "If you could kindly, as you often say, 'hear me out'?"
The man pounded the bed quietly. Would it hurt to challenge that idea? He wanted out now! This place was cold, tight, and too funny smelling for his liking to stay any longer!
"Fine." He gazed at the blinding rays of light fixtures hung up over his head as he tossed his arms up in frustration. Finding it difficult to imagine getting something through Kitt's data processor enough to release him from this prison.
There was a momentary pause of silence, if Kitt could sigh, perhaps the silence had worked as one.
"Far before I was installed into the car they kept me in clean rooms. Unnecessary precaution I assure you. These rooms were bare and tight, mind you. Heavily guarded by the clock, cold, lonesome, and as later I would discover, strangely scented."
"That sounds awfully like a prison to me," Michael replied, hiding a hint of worry from his voice.
"Oh, well — Not…I don't think…" Kitt mumbled, somewhat taken by surprise by the statement.
Michael frowned. He didn't like the sound of Kitt's voice dropping weakly in the air like that — it hit too close to times Kitt had nursed a serious injury out in the field unbeknownst to Michael.
He also knew Kitt didn't handle loneliness all that well, whether he admitted to it or not and the scientist didn't exactly think of Kitt as human. So they wouldn't have thought too much about accommodating Kitt's mental needs in a room washed clean of color and company…or fragrance…
What's more, the computer would never attempt to display its discomfort in any way, perhaps nagging Michael for his everyday hindsight but never opening up about what was really going on under the dash —
LIKE his father.
Just like having learned to read that tightly knitted man, he'd learned Kitt could hurt just as much as he. What's worse, as he'd mentioned before, Kitt was not capable of self-healing. Stayed in discomfort until Bonnie strolled along to scold Michael for his constant indecency regarding the care of equipment (what more could be said?).
" — If one were to contrast the two, it would superficially seem so —" Kitt managed to regain his composure. " — but realistically it was an attempt within Wilton Knight's power to keep me safe. Dozens of people had heard of the project, the majority desired to steal and pirate." Kitt added, stitching assurance and forced self-conviction about that having been the right course of action.
It interrupted Michael from his pained thoughts but he still didn't like the idea of a younger version of Kitt imprisoned in a lab like that with no regard to the mental turmoil he'd have to deal with on his own.
"Are you comparing the doctor's office as a safe but prison-like sanctuary?" Michael raised his brows. The two certainly didn't give the idea they could mix. Safe and prison?
"No. Actually, I wasn't making a connection at all." The car replied sheepishly, suddenly scrambling to correct itself. Aware it had crossed a threshold it wasn't aware it could. "I just wanted to share our similarities. I'd like to restate that it bore no semblance of prison." The computer comforted the man, noting Michaels's lips going crooked. "I was in no way imprisoned, Michael." He added firmly, somewhat unsettled about worrying Michael to death over such trivial matters.
The man laughed, somewhat amused over Kitt's never-ending efforts to appear less human than he already was.
His pal had been born in isolation, something he'd never allow anyone to return Kitt to.
The pleasant sound of laughter made a dent over the silent hum of electronics, summoning the nurse who burst through the door hurriedly, much to Michael's disappointment.
"Sorry for the wait." She remarked, confused over the man's sudden smiling disposition.
He'd looked annoyed, irritated, even troubled when he'd first stepped in but now he'd turn a number.
"So what's bothering you?" She mused, taking a seat to jot down notes. Intrigued to know why he'd settled down.
"A friend is bothering me. He wants me to check out this bad ankle." He remarked, deciding he'd give in to Kitt's pushy nature. In retrospect Kitt was looking out for him; his only friend.
Could he really blame him for that?