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136 - Near-zero Rejection Index [Cherno]
🕑 Added 2023-09-20 08:07:07 +0000 UTC“I would prefer not to consider the possibility that he meant it literally… And I am not well-versed in the varied morphs of the evoy. I specialize in human grafting, after all. Look into it on your own time; you ought to have access to the relevant sections. Texts regarding the Great Plague could be relevant, though the involvement of vedesians in that conflict was… Tertiary at best. Conflicts going further back into the past would enlighten you more as to how the evoy became the way they are now, but those records are too dense even for my tastes.”
“I presume you cannot simplify them for my own insufficient mental faculties, then.”
Firminus stopped his ceaseless testing and signed, thinking.
“Let us see how much I remember from the schola after all these years. They have… Become docile, you could say, but also more clever. Warring with them, rooting them out of our midst, stamping out their influence, it was once among the Twin Churches’ most crucial of tasks. It still is, merely not so straightforward. Without a warlord or something greater, many of them strayed from the vedesian faith and integrated properly into the societies of man, but… They’re still the envoys of an outer god. The potential remains within each of them to become a weapon for vedesis, or for someone blessed by her. As I see it, there is only one realistic possibility that can be drawn from the assumption of your man’s words being literal: He believes that someone in Audunpoint’s vedesian subpopulation plans to enact a rite of communion at some point in the near future. Why or how, I can’t say. Theorizing on the motivations of purely theoretical vedesians is not my specialty… It’s making sure you don’t stroke out in the street because you forgot your rejection suppressants.”
“I’ve not missed a single dose. Do relic grafts not have a near-zero rejection index?” she complained, though she was well aware it was a matter of accounting for edge-cases and making sure everything was going well, even if it wasn’t truly necessary.
“Near-zero. Not zero,” Firminus rebutted. “Even then, it is not a flaw in the graft, but merely accounts for non-ideal compatibility, issues with the implantation, or the aftercare. Some individuals are simply not cut out for grafting. It is the same as any other natural predisposition. We can do much to lessen the impact, but you are still changing your worldly shell far faster than any training could achieve. Also, I made it abundantly clear that spines are some of the most complication-prone grafts possible. Even without rejection, you can suffer severe issues due to small hitches in connectivity. That's what I am trying to prevent.”
She spent another half-hour there, going through various tests and exercises meant to expose any flaws in the integration of both spinal and rib cage grafts. Once all was done, Firminus applied an oil of some kind to the exposed musculature on her back, commenting: “As expected, there was some marginal desiccation due to the rushed procedure. You likely would not have noticed any issues, but this will help smooth out the bumps and accelerate the melding of individual muscle bundles. The graft-muscle should fully merge within the next two months, keep it covered as much as possible until then; not that I expect you would do anything to the contrary even if I did not tell you. That looks about done, you may go now.
Krahe rolled her shoulders and stretched after getting up off the chair, and Firminus rolled off across the room to grab another cigarette. He’d smoked the whole thing, unbothered and unburnt by it somehow. As she closed up the back of her suit, Krahe remarked: “You’re much less ill-humored of a doctor than I had anticipated.”
A somewhat sour chuckle was his response. “And you’re much less of a headache to work on than I had anticipated,” he said, lighting the new cigarette. Wisps of blue smoke, alongside ash, rose up from it. “I have some experience working with anathemists. Torment, hair-pulling torment to work on. Every single one is a different tangle of comorbidities and horrific internal damage. Like a puzzle box made of rusty razors. As far as I have seen, it appears that you indeed possess the faculties for metabolizing anathema and its remnants.”
“A puzzle-box made of rusty razors, huh. Reminds me of something; would you happen to know of methods to harness anathema without exposing oneself to it?”
“There are some. Why?”
“It’s not for me. I’m looking into someone at the Lost Sun Society whom I believe may be involved in something of that sort. I insinuated the suspicion on a hunch, and got a reaction that suggested I hit close to the truth.”
“I will disappoint you; the most help I can render on this matter is pointing you to a particular restricted section in the Temple of Records and submitting the access request in your stead. Section Fifty-three. If they approve it, I will send you the access permit through Casus, or failing that, give it to you when you next come for a checkup.”
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On the eve of that day she received a message; rather, Casus brought it to her. It was a request from Garvesh to come visit a few days from now, so she set it aside in her mental calendar.
“Since you’re here already, could you put in a requisition request at the church for me?”
“I have grown to dislike being treated as an errand-boy, but I understand that your situation necessitates it. Perhaps consider training Barzai to deliver messages. Until such time, though, what is the request?”
“Physical training equipment. It would be easier if I could just train in private rather than showing my face at church gymnasiums. Weights, bars, some roll-up mats, I don’t need any expensive machines.”
“...Alright. Do you have space for them, or do you intend to rearrange the furniture here?”
“I bought a place.”
“Where?”
“Where do you think?”
“A below-average part of town, out of sight and out of mind?”
“Bingo.”
“I could have it delivered to a nearby storehouse in a warded crate.”
“Works for me,” she shrugged, raising her legs and flipping forward off the sofa onto her feet. “The house is number ninety-four on the Gashward Road. Want some stir-fry?”
