Lord Turtle the First
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085
🕑 Added 2025-08-11 19:19:54 +0000 UTCWaiting for him was his wife, his pequeña hada. Her presence was a stark, breathtaking contrast to the urban grit outside. Nordic in her beauty, her hair was a cascade of spun gold, thick and luminous, intricately braided to fall gracefully over one shoulder. She wore a simple, hand-knitted sweater the color of a fading sunset and comfortable, worn synth-cotton trousers. Her skin, impossibly fair, seemed to radiate a soft, internal light in the dim apartment, and her eyes—a deep, clear blue like the ocean on a smog-free day—held a love so profound, so unconditional, it felt like the only real thing in the world.
Their kiss was a tender, intimate communion, a fragile moment of peace he tried to stretch into an eternity.
"What did you bring?" she asked, her gaze, sharp and expectant, falling on the unassuming gray plastic bag in his hand. The sound of it crinkling was loud in the quiet room.
"Close your eyes," he said, his voice laced with a playful anticipation that felt like a luxury. She complied, her hands fluttering to cover her eyes, a smile playing on her lips. "No peeking."
He fumbled with the bag, the suspense hanging in the air between them, thick and sweet. "Now you can look."
In his hands, a small, real chocolate cake. A miraculous treasure in their world of manufactured food, its candles already flickering with a defiant warmth that danced in her wide eyes.
"Happy birthday!" he cheered, his voice a joyful explosion that pushed back the shadows.
Happy tears, hot and insistent, traced shimmering paths down her face as she leaned forward, making a silent wish, her breath a gentle sigh that extinguished the tiny flames. The smell of smoke and sugar hung in the air.
"What did you wish for?" he asked, his heart swelling so much it physically ached.
"If I tell you, it won't happen," she responded coyly, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Besides, I have a surprise for you, too." She wrapped her arms around his neck, her touch a comforting anchor in the chaos of the world. "I'm pregnant," she whispered, and the words were not just a sound, but a soft, profound force that reshaped his entire universe. Then she kissed him, a kiss that held the promise of an entire future.
Salvador's face, illuminated by a joy so pure it was almost painful to witness, fractured into a mask of ecstatic disbelief. He lifted her effortlessly into his arms, spinning her gently, their laughter a harmonious counterpoint to the city's distant, indifferent hum. They celebrated, two souls entwined, their small, perfect life expanding to embrace a future that shimmered with bright, boundless promise.
That night, he held her close, their quiet moments spent reliving cherished memories through old videos and faded photographs, each image a tangible link to their shared past, a foundation for the future they were now building.
The memory file glitched, the warmth corrupting into something cold and sharp. The timeline jumped.
The harsh blare of Salvador's alarm ripped through the stillness of dawn, a brutal, metallic intrusion. Another day. He whispered her name, a soft endearment into the dim light, and turned.
The other side of the bed was empty. The sheets were cold.
Perhaps the bathroom, he thought, the idea a simple, logical defense against the seed of unease taking root in his gut. He rose slowly, his limbs stiff, and walked to the bathroom door. The floorboards creaked. He knocked gently. The sound was absorbed by the silence on the other side.
"Elin? Are you there?" he called. His own voice sounded strange, thin.
No response. The silence wasn't just an absence of sound; it felt heavy, suffocating.
"I'm opening the door," Salvador said, his voice a strained whisper as he slowly, cautiously, pushed the door inward.
He froze. His breath caught in his throat, a sharp, painful hitch.
Elin lay on the cold tile floor, a pale, fragile tableau. He knelt beside her, his heart a frantic, wild drum against his ribs. He lifted her, gently, reverently. Her face was covered in a cold sweat, her features ghostly pale, an ethereal beauty tinged with an alarming fragility.
"Elin?" he pleaded, his voice cracking, the name a useless prayer. He said it again, and again, but there was only silence, a vast, echoing emptiness that swallowed the words whole.
The ensuing hours became a blur, a maelstrom of raw, visceral emotion. The frantic rush to the clinic, her fragile form cradled in his arms, the world outside a dizzying kaleidoscope of panicked urgency. He paced the sterile hallway, a caged animal, the clean, antiseptic smell choking him. The floor was too polished, the lights too bright. His mind was a frantic kaleidoscope of terror and despair, until an indifferent doctor, his face a mask of clinical detachment, walked towards him, his shoes squeaking on the linoleum.
Salvador lunged forward, desperation clawing at his composure. "Did you find what she had?" he demanded, his voice a ragged whisper, trembling with a fear that threatened to consume him.
"I'm sorry to inform you that your wife suffers from a rare, aggressive form of neurological cancer." The words were delivered with a detached efficiency that sliced through Salvador's soul, each syllable a shard of ice.
His knees gave out. The floor seemed to slip from beneath him, and he was clutching at the man's pristine robes, his grip an act of pure, unadulterated desperation.
"Tell me, please? Can it be cured?" Salvador pleaded, his voice a raw, guttural cry that echoed in the sterile silence.
The doctor, with a dismissive shove, cast him aside as if he were an unruly dog. Salvador remained on his knees, his gaze fixed on the man, a desperate, unseeing stare, as if this stranger held the very key to his salvation. His messiah.
"It can be treated, but the treatment is very expensive," the doctor said, his tone devoid of empathy.
"How much?" Salvador asked, his mind already a frantic, useless calculator, turning over impossible sums.
"200,000 credits. For the complete treatment," the doctor explained, his words a death knell. "The treatment will take a few months."
Salvador processed the words, each one a hammer blow to his fragile hope. What to sell? How much to work? The questions screamed in his mind, a deafening chorus of despair.
"And the treatment has adverse effects," the doctor continued, his gaze fixed on a datapad, his voice a flat monotone. "We have been informed that your wife is in her first trimester. Unfortunately, we do not recommend undergoing this treatment if you want to keep the child."
"What?" Salvador whispered, the word a mere breath. His gaze was fixed on the man, disbelief warring with a rising tide of horror.
"You will have to choose," the doctor's voice was cold, clinical, brutal. "Either your wife or the child."
The impossible choice, a monster that had been lurking in the shadows of his mind, was now dragged into the light. The doctor turned, his back a dismissive barrier, and walked back into his office, leaving Salvador alone in the crushing silence of the hallway.
He didn't remember how much time passed. His mind was a maelstrom, a terrifying vortex of grief and despair. An assistant, her tone as robotic as her movements, tapped him gently on the shoulder.
"You can go see your wife now," she said, and walked away.
Salvador rose, his limbs heavy as lead, and dragged his feet towards the room. The weight of his impending choice pressed down on him, suffocating him.
He stepped inside, and his gaze snapped to her. She was lying in the bed, pale and fragile, an IV slowly dripping a clear, cruel lifeline into her veins. He knelt next to her, his heart a raw, exposed nerve.
She looked at him with a tired smile, a faint, heartbreaking curve of her lips.
"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice thick with unshed tears.
"Like I fell from the line," she tried to joke, a flicker of her old spirit, but she flinched, a spasm of pain twisting her features.
"What's wrong?" he asked, his voice laced with renewed fear.
"Just a migraine, don't worry," she said. A brave, fragile lie.
Salvador stared into her eyes, the clear blue now clouded with a nascent weariness. Tears, hot and stinging, threatened to spill.
"Did the doctor tell you?" he asked, his voice trembling, barely audible.
Her expression sobered. A shadow fell over her features as she offered a small, heartbreaking nod.
"Either me, or the baby," she said, her voice barely a whisper.
Salvador opened his mouth, a desperate protest forming on his lips, but Elin spoke faster, her words a final, devastating blow.
"I wanna keep the baby."
She said it while staring at the far wall, at a crack in the plaster, at anything but him. She couldn't meet his eyes. She couldn't witness the agony of the choice she had just forced upon him.
Mouths passed in a blur of pain.
The vibrant gold of Elin's hair grew dull and thin. The fair skin that had glowed now had a pale, almost translucent quality. The migraines became more frequent. The woman who had filled their small apartment with laughter now spent her days in bed, her energy a flickering candle against a rising, merciless wind.
One evening, he sat by her bedside, holding her hand. It felt so frail in his. She turned to him, her eyes surprisingly clear. "Don't look so sad, my love," she whispered, her voice a dry rustle. "He can feel it, you know."
"I just... I wish I could do more," Salvador choked out, the words a familiar, painful refrain.
"You're doing everything," she said, her grip surprisingly strong. "You're here. That's all that matters. Just promise me... you'll keep fighting. Not for me. For him."
"Yes," he sobbed softly. "I promise."
The ping of an incoming message. A new memory, sharper, more brutal than the rest.
It was from the clinic. "Mr. Varela, your wife had been rushed to our clinic a few minutes ago after going into labor."
The words hit Salvador like a physical blow. Five months. She was barely five months pregnant. He didn't hesitate. The world around him faded as he bolted, a primal urge to reach her consuming him. He tore through the crowded streets, each ragged breath burning his lungs. He tried to call her, but the line was dead. The maglev trip was an agonizing crawl, every second a sharp sliver of torture.
He burst into the sterile clinic, his eyes scanning wildly until he spotted her room. The doctor was already there, a grave expression on his face. He glanced up at Salvador, then back down at his datapad. A silent judgment.
"We are sorry to inform you, but the child was stillborn," the doctor announced, his voice flat, devoid of emotion, a sterile fact for a sterile room.
Salvador looked at Elin. Her eyes, once so vibrant, were vacant and glassy, fixed on the sterile ceiling.
He stayed by her side, a silence heavier than any machinery he had ever worked with pressing down on them. Finally, numb with a grief so vast it had no shape, he walked over to the doctor.
"You told us about a treatment for the cancer," Salvador asked, his voice barely a whisper, his heart shriveled to the size of a flea. "Is it still viable?"
The doctor tapped on his datapad. The clicking sound was obscene in the quiet room. "Yes, but the treatment will be significantly more expensive. The estimated cost would be 400,000 credits and the adverse effects will be much stronger."
It was all for nothing. All of it. The thought was a cold, sharp blade in his mind.
"How strong?" Salvador rasped, dread coiling in his stomach.
"There is a chance your wife will not make it to the end of it," the doctor responded.
Salvador was speechless. His mind was a barren wasteland. The doctor, sensing there were no more questions, simply turned and walked away, leaving him to stare at the cold, unforgiving floor. His mind was utterly blank, a void where hope once resided.
He wasn't sure how he made it back to the apartment. Elin had remained at the clinic. Alone, he lay on the floor, his gaze fixed on a water stain on the ceiling that looked like a screaming face. A single number twisted like barbed wire in his mind.
400,000 credits.
The number was an impossible, monolithic wall. He saw it behind his eyes every time he blinked.
“What the fuck am I supposed to do?” he whispered, his voice raw as he scrubbed at the hot, angry tears streaming down his face. He wasn’t just sad; he was terrified, a profound, bone-deep terror that left him hollowed out. This kind of money was astronomical. He was a simple mechanic. Cheap labor.
He was cornered. A fresh wave of irrational guilt washed over him. Did I miss a sign? Was she tired and I didn't notice? Did I not take care of her well enough? Was it something I did?
“She’ll die,” he choked out, the thought a physical blow. “All of it was for nothing. Damn it!” he screamed, his fist slamming into the floor, the dull thud swallowed by the silence of the small, empty room.
The next few days were a blur. Waking, grinding through his shift at the workshop in a state of numb detachment, collapsing into a sleep that offered no rest. He barely ate.
“Salvador?” a voice cut through the fog.
Salvador slowly raised his head, his eyes burning red. His gaze drifted until it landed on the man standing before him. It was Kao, an older colleague from the workshop, likely in his late thirties. He was a man built of solid, dependable lines—broad shoulders and a strong, stocky frame that spoke of years of hard, physical labor. His face was open and kind, with laugh lines crinkling at the corners of his dark, empathetic eyes. His black hair was cut short and practical, with a few stubborn strands sticking up in a way that made him look perpetually boyish. He wore a standard-issue, dark blue workshop jumpsuit, the fabric worn soft and faded at the knees and elbows, but clean and well-maintained. His hands were thick and calloused, the knuckles scarred from a thousand slips of a wrench, but his posture was relaxed and non-threatening.
“What’s the problem? You’ve seemed very sad these past few days,” Kao asked, his voice gentle.
Salvador kept his mouth shut, turning his head away. The weight of his despair was a physical thing, pressing him down.
Kao walked closer and gently placed a warm, firm hand on Salvador’s shoulder. “It’s bad for your stomach to keep negative energies inside. You need to expel them, or you’ll get ulcers,” he said, his tone earnest.
The touch was grounding. A small point of warmth in the encroaching cold.
Comments
ClaudiuC.
Ok. I will try to fix. Thanks for the feedback
ClaudiuC.
I will fix it in a few hours after some sleep. Thanks for the feedback. And you are right the grave is to this episode
Findell
Its unclear exactly whats going on here. I have to assume this is related to the grave and aparment right? I think it would be better to write these as a third person experiencing or rembering another life as the perspective of the Nanite thing whatever name you end up choosing for it.
Natox Biohazard
Is it possible to say or show when you are doing a pov change or flashback. I read lots of ongoing books and it all gets twisty sometimes
