May 15, 4021 18:00 [Matriarch 07- Med Bay]

“Ugh….” Indra awoke to a blinding array of lights over his head. Shielding his eyes with his arm until they adjusted to the brightness, he surveyed his surroundings. He laid on a sick bed, dressed in a hospital gown, in a relatively small and empty room save for a closet and a single window. The room was cold and the sharp smell of antiseptic lingered in the air. A pulse oximeter enclosed his right index finger; several wires from electrodes placed on his chest ran out of his gown, hooked up to a monitor. An IV had been attached to Indra’s left forearm, preventing him from moving around too much. He adjusted his posture so that he was sitting upright and reached over to press the nurse call button that had been tucked in between his mattress and the railing of the bed frame.

A sharp pain shot through his left side, causing him to pull back and gasp as he gathered his bearings. Indra lifted his gown to check the area where the pain had come from. As he peeled back the fabric, he was met with a thick wrapping of gauze along his ribs. Despite appearing newly applied, a red splotch formed where blood had been oozing through the gauze before drying. When did I get injured? As Indra pondered the injury, a light knock on the door interrupted his train of thought. “Uh, come in!” he called, shifting his gown to cover himself better.

The knob of the metal door turned gently as the person on the other end pushed the door ajar carefully. A young woman in her late twenties stepped into the room, a clipboard with pages of medical information in her left arm, held tightly against her bosom. She wore black almond-toe ballet flats, matched with black capris that hugged her thighs, a créme colored turtle neck fit snugly over her upper torso, complementing her voluptuous frame, and an eggshell white lab coat that reached her knees. Cyan horn-rimmed glasses rested upon the bridge of her nose, shining brightly against her peach-colored skin. The woman’s raven hair was tied back into a tight bun, a jade zanzi holding it together. Other than a minuscule beauty mark below her lower lip, not a single blemish presented itself on her face.

The woman made her way towards the sick bed, the soft clicks of her flats echoed as she walked. “Hi, Dr. Ouma,” Indra greeted her nonchalantly, keeping a firm grip on his gown.

“Oh please,” Ouma brushed off Indra’s embarrassment, rolling her eyes. “I’m your physician. There’s nothing there that I haven’t already seen.”
“I’m allowed my dignity,” Indra grumbled, his ears turning red.

Ouma stifled a laugh. “How are you feeling? You’ve been unconscious for a couple of days.”

“A couple of days?” Indra asked incredulously.

“I think it’s best to go through things in an orderly fashion, it’ll get your head thinking straight,” Ouma replied.

Indra nodded. “Okay. I guess the first thing I should be asking is what happened? Why am I in the Med Bay? I remember reaching an archive in Filoc Valley with Akula. The entire facility was in shambles. I think Mirai was supposed to be in the archive, so I ran towards it… After that, everything’s dark.”
Ouma stared out the window for a few seconds before turning and answering. “The mission was unsuccessful. Injured Coalition troops and civilians retreated to their naval base, so Jìguāng and his team had to pull out of the area. They circled back to see if you were still alive and found the three of you in the debris—”

“—Wait, the three of us?” interjected Indra.

“Yes, you, Akula, and Mirai were piled together. You looked like you were ambushed. Jìguāng thinks that the Coalition troops assumed you were dead, given your injuries, so they left you there. Mirai had some substantial injuries, but Akula managed to get away with some minor abrasions. They woke up about a day after you all returned.”

Indra tried to picture the scene, but a mental fog seemed to cloud his recollection of events. Like a muddled image; the general structure of the memory was there, but the details seemed to have coalesced.

“I don’t remember getting injured or even seeing Mirai.”

“It could be trauma or shock that you’re experiencing,” explained Ouma. “Stressful events can cause memory loss. You’ll most likely remember with time or if you’re exposed to a potential trigger. What’s more concerning is your wound. It’s a miracle you even survived.”

“That’s pleasant,” mused Indra.

“It wasn’t pretty. Your heart was exposed, and one of your lungs was spilling out of your body. It was just flopping all over the—” Ouma paused, seeing Indra’s face turning sickly. She cleared her throat. “A-anyway what’s with the tattoo?” she asked, pointing to Indra’s right arm. He glanced at his arm and gasped. To his surprise, a spiraling white pattern covered his entire forearm. White lines stretched across the back of his hand, banding over his fingers. They led into his palm, centered around a scarlet sauwastika. “Embracing your heritage?” commented Ouma.

“I don’t remember getting this tattoo…” pondered Indra.

“Don’t tell me you got it during your mission,” chuckled Ouma.

“Well, it wasn’t here before I left for the Desolate Coast.”

Ouma’s expression quickly morphed into that of fervent curiosity. “You’re kidding! How?!”

“Is this a prank? Am I being pranked? How would I get a tattoo during a mission? Somebody probably tattooed me while I was sleeping,” answered Indra indignantly.

Ouma shook her head. “You had the tattoo when you were brought in,” she said.

Indra looked at the markings on his arm, puzzled. “I have no clue how this got here, then. It’s definitely not my type. You think this is a Trait?” he asked.

Ouma rubbed her chin. “Hmm, it could be but we won’t know unless we run an analysis of vitals, measure your energy output, homeostatic maintenance, and a bunch of other tests,” she replied. “With that being said, Homunculus Traits have a one-hundred percent chance of manifesting in surviving patients. So this could be it,” Ouma reassured him.

Indra managed a half-hearted smile. “Yeah, I hope so. Ten years is a long time to wait.”

Their conversation was cut short by an audible growl from Indra’s stomach.

Ouma tousled his hair. “Let’s head to the Great Hall so you can get some real food. You must be starving after days of just liquids through a nasogastric tube. Can you walk? I’ve got a wheelchair lined up outside the room if you want me to push you,” stated Ouma as she removed the contraptions and wires hooked up to Indra’s body. Ouma lifted up his gown cutting the gauze wrapped around his ribs to reveal a dark red scar running up from his ribs to his sternum.

“I’m alright,” Indra stated, feeling the heat rise in his cheeks, picturing the shade of magenta his ears must have been. “I can walk, just let me get changed and I’ll meet you at the Great Hall.”

Ouma smiled. “Sounds good, just make sure to let me or one of the other staff know if you need any assistance, okay? I’ll see you there.” She made her exit, the light clicking of her flats getting quieter and quieter as she got further from the room.

Indra sighed, exhausted. Okay, now where’d they put my clothes?

He got up from the sick bed, wobbling slowly towards the closet, reacclimating his legs after days of non-use. When he reached the closet, he grabbed ahold of the worn iron handles, cool to the touch, roughly nailed to the wooden doors. Peeled paint hung from areas where the lamination had eroded off the cheap plywood. Indra pulled back the doors, revealing a row of small empty shelves. At the bottom, neatly folded, were a fresh pair of clothes, slippers, and a shower kit. Grabbing the clothes and hygiene products he exited the Med Bay in his gown and slippers, making his way down a long corridor past the dormitories towards the shower room.

The shower room would be empty at this time; everyone would be eating dinner in the Great Hall, coming back from missions or training, lounging in the recreation centers, or enjoying some drinks at the bar. Indra checked the time on the digital overlay plastered above the entrance: 18:30. Dinner service had just started; most likely it would continue late into the night given it was a Friday evening. Next to the time, a scrolling digital message read: WATER SUPPLY REPLENISHED AT 4:05 05/15/21. SANCTIONED SHOWER TIME IS 15 MINUTES. PLEASE BE RESPECTFUL OF THE TIME FRAME IN ORDER TO PROVIDE EVERYONE WITH CLEAN, HOT WATER.

Indra stepped into a shower cubicle, careful not to slip on the freshly waxed tile floor. He disrobed, placing his garments in a small compartment to keep them dry. As he prepared to step into the shower he glanced at the full-body mirror next to the alcove near the shower door. It was the first time he had seen his own face in almost a month. Thinking about the time that he had spent out in the field surprised him; it had seemed much shorter.

In retrospect, he had been moving along the Desolate Coast so frequently during his month-long absence that he had seldom time to allow his mind to wander or dwell on anything in particular. His routine boiled down to eating, sleeping, and carrying out whatever mission Jìguāng assigned them. I’m tired just thinking about it. Looking at his figure in the mirror, he couldn't help feeling annoyed. His body was well developed, lean muscle woven like a tapestry on his slight build, due to his training. The dark red scar from his unknown injury had crusted over with blood. I can just wash that off. His hair had grown longer; unruly silky dark hair tumbled over his forehead, spilling over his soft hazel eyes that shined like dark pools of honey. A strong jawline and gaunt cheeks made his facial features sharp and sculpted. Despite all this, his small stature gave him a boyish appearance. Reassurances from Ouma like “You’ll grow, you just need to eat more” and “You’re probably just having a late growth spurt. By the time you’re an adult you’ll have grown taller than Akula” replayed in his head. He was already eighteen years of age; not only had he failed to grow, Mirai had already grown several inches taller than him at just fifteen years of age. Disregarding Akula and Mirai, even his younger sister, Aisha, had grown taller than him by an inch or so last summer. Fuck’s sake, this is embarrassing.

With a resigned sigh he took one last look at his arm, now covered in a bizarrely intricate tattoo. Questions about its origins nagged at Indra’s mind, but he decided to leave those thoughts for another day, stepping into the shower and enjoying a warm bath, letting the scalding water wash away his stress and worries for a couple of minutes...