BATTER 38

The pupils of each person present sparkled as if they held their own unique light source behind them. Their eclectic clothing was somewhat threadbare in places, but clean and tidy. Baron imagined opening a clothing boutique in this ascetic village while flashing his most charming smile. It was the practiced grin he usually reserved for gifting drinks to beautiful strangers he encountered at bars.

“Nice to meet you all.”

Even with a sizeable hole in the left side of his face, sometimes a bit of damage can become part of a rugged, wild charm. The older residents accepted his greeting with a casual nod, while the younger men and boys exchanged glances with shy chuckles. It was a completely different welcome from the rude brat who had greeted him down a gun barrel. As the introductions threatened to drag on, Bijou quickly intervened. The moment he spoke, the crowd fell silent.

“Um, everyone. Where is Dr. Harrison right now? It should be time for his house calls.”

“He finished early today, so he’s at home. You’re trying to get that man’s eye treated, right? You should head over straight away.”

“That’s a relief. Well, treatment comes first, so please say your proper hellos after he’s patched up.”

“Dr. Harrison is our only doctor, so he’s usually very busy,” Bijou added in a whisper. Baron nodded absentmindedly and followed him. As the guy started walking, the crowd parted politely, though one of them insisted on acting as a guide and tagged along. Bijou obviously knew the way to the doctor’s house, but the resident was practically itching to show a courtesy.

They even resemble each other in that regard, Baron thought as they walked through the complex, intersecting passages. According to their guide, the village was divided into roughly twenty levels. Dr. Harrison’s clinic was located on the tenth floor, right in the middle.

After taking another elevator up, they arrived at the clinic. The house, painted stark white, stood out prominently among the other dwellings that matched the color of the rock. Bijou pushed open a glass door etched with a green Möbius strip. Inside the white room were a few folding chairs and a desk for a reception area, guarded by a man with thick eyebrows.

“Good to see you, Dr. Harry!”

“Ah, it’s been a while. And I take it the gentleman behind you is today’s patient.”

“That’s right. I think we need to connect a new artificial eye to the nerves.”

“Well, it looks that way.”

Dr. Harrison was an East Asian man with a faint beard tracing his philtrum and chin. Wearing a rugged brown long coat instead of a white gown, the man looked more like a diligent salesman than a doctor. Judging by his unique accent, he seemed to be a first-generation immigrant who had arrived with refugee status. Harrison rose from the desk and guided Baron toward an inner room.

“I’ll have to check if we have a compatible eyeball. Let’s take a look in the exam room. Come in.”

Baron glanced at Bijou and followed the instructions into the inner clinic. Perhaps intending to play the role of a guardian, Bijou stayed by Baron’s side. In the center of the room stood a unit chair equipped with several monitors. Baron reclined into the chair at Harrison’s gesture.

It wasn’t as if he were undergoing major surgery, but Bijou stood beside him and held his hand tight. The consideration was so excessive it was almost embarrassing. Harrison reacted as if it were a common occurrence.

“I’m going to shine a light for a second.”

The light from a medical penlight illuminated the inside of the ragged eyelid. After a swift and careful inspection of the interior, Harrison confirmed the ends of the severed nerves and clicked the light off.

“The eyelid and forehead just need sutures and disinfecting… What was your original eyeball model?”

“It’s a pretty old one… the Izumi 20xx default model.”

“Is that so? You must have had the transplant a long time ago. Whoever did it was skilled, though; the nerve graft was done very cleanly.”

Harrison admired the work while keeping his eyes fixed on the monitor. Baron merely pulled one corner of his mouth back without replying. Just then, another guest entered the exam room. It was a humanoid with an impressive, clean white surface. A pair of small, rectangular lenses looked exactly like eyes crinkling in a downward smile. Harrison, who had his nose pressed to a monitor, turned his head with a much brighter expression.

“Welcome, Lawrence.”

— I have returned after checking the status of the cyborg residents on the 7th floor. Is that the new patient?

“Yes, we’re in a situation that requires a prosthetic eye transplant. Lawrence, machine transplants are your specialty, so I’d like you to take a look.”

He didn’t use the extreme honorifics he used with Bijou, but his attitude toward the robot was very respectful. He was even making a request rather than giving an order. The humanoid named “Lawrence” nodded and approached the chair where Baron lay. Embossed on his flat, smooth chest, the product name sparkled in silver.

“7H-2390? This isn’t even a medical model originally.”

“What do you mean ‘this’? You know Lawrence can hear you perfectly well, so how about showing some respect?”

Harrison’s usually rounded eyes turned sharp for a moment. Baron decided to act wisely. He offered a semblance of an apology with a moderate nod. Lawrence’s silver eyes peered into the gray nerves and internal mucous membranes. As if they were synced, several information windows popped up on a nearby monitor. Lawrence pulled the monitor closer to Baron while explaining.

— Custom-made orders are generally recommended for major organs like this, but at our medical center, we utilize budget-model eyes considering economic and time constraints. In the patient’s case, the Dexter BR101 model is recommended.

A bizarre scene unfolded on the screen as a brown eyeball rotated 360 degrees. New information appeared every time Lawrence’s plastic fingers swiped across the monitor. It explained how they would preserve the existing nerves and what procedures would need to be followed for a new transplant later on. Concluding the detailed explanation, Lawrence asked.

— Due to the nature of budget products, the color is fixed to Cinnamon Brown, so there may be a slight discrepancy with the color of your right eye. Do you consent to the transplant?

“That’ll do fine.”

For starters, something had to be put in there to prevent the disaster of his face collapsing. When Baron nodded, Lawrence secured his neck and face with a strap. Soon after, the white plastic casing covering the robot’s hand was pulled back, revealing delicate metal instruments inside.

— For a safe procedure, I will temporarily block pain and vision. If you experience excessive discomfort, please raise your right hand. And Master Bijou, please move to the waiting room.

Bijou, who had been silently holding Baron’s hand and holding his ground, slumped his eyebrows at those words; however, when the expressionless Lawrence stared at him for a long moment, he reluctantly left for the waiting room. Baron didn’t know how “Master” had ended up attached to the guy’s name, but it didn’t change the fact that he was a ridiculous fellow.

Once Bijou left, a cold cotton ball disinfected the wound. Then, a stiff green cloth covered the right side of his face. He felt a slight prick inside the empty membrane, and then his senses gradually grew muffled, as if he were being submerged in water. An eye speculum was hooked between his eyelids to prevent him from suddenly blinking.

— Starting the surgery. Be careful, as sudden movement can be dangerous.

Baron signaled his agreement with silence. Staying still—that was the hardest part of the treatment process. Lying quietly waiting for the procedure was tedious. The sensation of his muscles and nerves becoming dull, as if they were infinitely swollen, was always stifling and awkward.

While making the most exciting mental images he could, Baron felt the long, blunt needles touching his skin, muscle, and nerves. Splicing, weaving, connecting. Those strange sensations of flesh being pulled and scraped… Amidst those dark, dull, and bizarre feelings, an old voice replayed. A cold grip pressing down on a hot, bloody wound, and a mechanical voice that was just as chilling.

Have you sustained an injury, Soldier?