Muho gingerly twirled the spoon in his fingers, ruminating on the fact that he still had the urge to vomit. Suddenly, the discomfort he had was recognized as sweat from the sweltering heat. He was as pale as porcelain, yet ripping the congealed bloodspot away, he saw that his chest was reddening substantially.
Everywhere that blood rushed, it felt as if he was gradually vaporizing. Clearly not a pleasant feeling, as it was accompanied by the pain a creature with functioning nerves would sense upon the very prospect of feeling their blood boil.
He furtively glanced at the pot full of gazpacho, glimpsing at anything else yet still letting his eyes return to the brew. It certainly smelled good.
(...Beggars can't be choosers. I guess I'll have to get used to cold meat from now on...hahaha...)
He swore he could feel his eyes tear up into thick streams that flowed down the sides of his face. He was lucky his bruises were patching up...as the liquid was quite...salty.
A spoon dived into the soup and delivered a (steaming) cold mix of vegetables straight to the tongue.
"This freshness...this coldness...is this heaven?"
Muho unwittingly exclaimed between scoops full of fervor, soup meeting the tastebuds faster than he could entirely swallow. It was as if the spoon had transformed into a straw, while the pot into a thermos!
...Muho had to rub his eyes because he swore he saw an umbrella garnish floating atop the quickly depleting contents of the pot.
After finishing, he looked like a crime scene. Well, more of a crime scene than he did before, which was saying something.
However, his appearance was incongruous with his body's physicality. He felt as if someone had just breathed a fresh gust of air in his lungs, the heat cooling down into a pleasant stream.
Looking down at his hands, he realized the image of the face had disappeared. All that remained were the blue scars on the backs of his hands, of which there were five on each. They were arranged in an odd manner, the graceful arcs apart from each other in oblique angles.
He felt satisfied. This in itself wasn't weird, aside from the fact that he deemed something was off.
(If the face was on my wrists once again, would it be smiling, too?)
Muho might not be the kind of guy with peerless intelligence in every single subject, but his mind was acute to the point of being considered a genius in this technologically advanced age. Determining the fact that joy seemed to be stemming from both his mind and his cells, there was obviously something amiss.
(But what can I do about it?)
He thought about it. If this supposed "sister" had fused with him, does that mean that he has multiple personalities in one body? Does it share his mind, or does it have its own thinking capacities? Are they transmitted to him because they "occupy the same space," as it were?
...How exactly do you test such a thing out?
Muho pondered over this. He was unwilling to experiment on his body, but as great ones once said...nothing ventured, nothing gained.
Besides, he would have to find out what he was capable of, to begin with. If he had to communicate with this hypothetical intelligence, did that mean his newfound Particularity was a Contractor type? Maybe a Harboror type?
Maybe he was one of the lucky few that had a unique category, but he somehow felt it would be a pretty lame name. Something like Cooperator...
(Wait...luck...shit! I have to be careful not to throw that word around; I must learn from my mistakes!)
It wasn't long since he had suffered the consequences that the word luck brought about, after all.
Rubbing his matted hair frantically, he searched for an alternative word. Unfortunately, his mad plunge down his intellectual well resulted in a bucket drier than bones left out in the sun for hundreds of years.
Young Beckham busted the door open with his signature understanding smile, clothes loosely folded over in his arms.
"Muho, when you're done eating you can go to the bathroom 'n wash up. It has a shower and sink, but make sure to turn on the cold water! I- oh. You're done."
Young Beckham's expression froze, but he placed down the clothes anyway.
"Was it good?"
Muho nodded and did his best to form a smile. It was quite small; the only demarcation was the slight upending of the edges of his lips.
"Yeah, Brother Beckham."
"Brother...? You flatter me, but you can call me uncle."
"...Hm?"
"Ah, you must've skimped out on your studies about the average lifespan. I'm 82. Plus, I have a condition known as Chronic PR-Age Syndrome, so I flip between looking younger and looking older than I actually am. Anyways, see ya!"
Young Beckham turned on his heel and made a wave over his shoulder as he left. As Muho sat there in the silence he was left in, he was soon drawn out of his daze by the sound of scrubbing coming from below.
"What..."
Maybe he really did skimp out on his studies...well, it was nothing that more reading couldn't solve...Muho hoped.
Wrapping the clothes in the blanket retrieved from the bed to avoid staining the new set with tomato/blood, he listlessly found his way to the bathroom.
Weirdly, the toilet was in a stall. There was nothing but a glass case to close off the shower, though it looked as if the steam was filtered out to another room, judging by the various ventilation methods. He adjusted his Repressor Pin and slung the clothes against a rack.
It was a good thing that the materials were waterproof. It wasn't really electricity, though that did serve as an alternative way to charge the tool in the event that the Babylon Root in its core infrastructure was jammed or overwhelmed by Carbuncle Emissions.
He slipped into the shower and saw that there was a fresh tube of soap. It read: "Smell like Spring!"...and the model for the brand was none other than the pride of Metro Celtia, The Clover Mane.
"...You know, I'm really getting tired of seeing this man's face."
Muho adjusted the nozzle to tilt towards the C(old) side, testing the constraints of his physique.
Lukewarm water was...okay!
The colder it got, the better, though.
Muho had the fear that he would never be able to enjoy a hotpot ever again. I mean, it was called hotpot for a reason, and who in their right mind would down the soup at room temperature? Collectively.
As in, in a group.
(If I eat hotpot, will I be lonely?)
Not noticing that he was being more emotive than usual, he let the tears flow down his cheeks along with the frigid water. What could be lonelier than eating food expressly made for groups by yourself? Could his poor dignity withstand such a blow...?
Sssp.
As the water stopped, he had an epiphany. He was not alone...! There had to be someone like him, someone doomed to eat hotpot by themself. And to those people, he was with them wholeheartedly.
Even if it was in spirit.
He ran his hands through his hair, and his lips formed a frown. There was still a patch of blood in it, made slick by the dappling liquid that unfortunately failed to wipe it away.
So in order to let his body dry, he avoided hopping in the shower again. Instead, he drooped his moppy hair over the sink, running his hands through it with shampoo and making sure to get the stains out.
It wouldn't do if Edna sensed anything amiss. Muho worried that he would die from the strain and boredom her lectures tended to incur; he had no idea why she insisted upon it other than the shallow justification of "I'm the older sister."
She was only older by a few months, too. They were currently the same age, 17, so Muho felt that she should hold it until she was at least 18 in number.
It felt more acceptable that way.
He craned his neck up to peer in the mirror, making sure that he thoroughly scrubbed the blood crumbs out of his locks. As he brushed his hair up to gauge his face, a hand slipped.
The nozzle on the sink was inadvertently turned to mildly warm, though Muho didn't notice. Instead, his eyes were wide, almost bloodshot, his lips trembling, and his jaws agape.
Splishhh...
A squirming sensation arose as something stirred in its slumber.
The face reflected in the mirror underwent changes that only drove to enthrall Muho into a deeper, more chasmic trance.
Suddenly, his pupils extended, stretching across his irises and taking the shape of a snowflake. A crest materialized on his glabella, and his hands were stained in a deep peacock blue, one that bordered on black.
The hands became ridged in texture and appearance, looking like wizened horns or talons upon a stout, hardy beast of the mountains. The slits on the back of them glowed before wriggling and disappearing, before opening as they circled on the wrists. Those so-called slits...were eyes.
The face of his that had transformed from a bull to a dandy had become slightly more feminine, as if his image had been partially transposed by the solemn angelic face, whereas his new "normal" appeared as if his and the face's features had simply overlapped, complementing and creating entirely new, handsome features.
His face was no longer scrunched. His lips were stained peacock blue entirely, and he had a streak of similar color in his hair. His lips were full, and his nose was no longer crooked and was instead poignant and straight. His brows were bold yet thinner than the bush they were earlier. His eyelashes that were lengthy were accentuated instead of suppressed, and while his overall visage was frosty, it was pristine and cold.
...Is this a cold beauty? Maybe Muho had read too many comics...maybe the events left him so delirious he started hallucinating...
The Repressor Pin on his neck transformed. A cartoony, overexaggerated image of the angelic face Muho had seen prior filled the lens-like aperture, the lips sewn shut.
Yet it...no, she...still spoke.
"!@#^#%$!?"
Muho: OAO
An abhorrent amount of expletives rained down on Muho as he hurried to turn the tap off.
......
Let's rewind the clock.
Many hours prior, Muho had just left home. The Gearspirit, Spokesman, stood vigil and made sure the lazy young man didn't try to come back in after tricking his master.
A young woman at the age of 17 stood in the bathroom attached to her room, intently gazing at the mirror as she deliberated on what makeup to put on today. She was a fan of the lolita style, primarily classic or casual. She was feeling a more relaxed vibe today, but she also wanted to do herself up in some extent of fashion.
The dark red beret atop her head was eye-catching, as well as the substantially sized...no, oversized pigtail braids she had set up. The loose strands of hair around her face and the wispy bangs stuck out from the reverse french braids streaming from the sides of her scalp all the way down to her waist.
She had a lot of hair and didn't feel like cutting it, so braiding it this way made its length more comfortable.
She had downturned eyes and long lashes with hints of black accents that gave off a cutesy feel. Her petite nose and luscious lips added to the beauty she had, which was evocative of a panda at some angles.
Yet, at other angles, she looked fierce, like a panther. This wasn't too far off from her personality, as she was lauded as equal parts cute and equal parts mature. It was the mature part that carried her through her responsibilities to her YOUNGER brother, Muho Suu.
She stood at 5"6 in height, taller than the average woman inhabiting The Blue Planet. She was curvaceous all around, with well-distributed weight that formed a harmonious outline. Nothing was out of place, too big in her eyes, nor too small. She was outgoing and comfortable in her own skin, and she showed this off even though it wasn't really anyone's business.
This confident woman was none other than the foretold lecturer, Edna Suu.