Chapter 8

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The sound of his own breathing was louder than it had ever been before. His eyes felt like they were sewn shut by "skilled asari artisans" and the garment he was wearing on his body felt like what he had imagined an asari burial robe would feel like. Morbid thought, but frankly the only other thing he had to think about was how oxygen was being pushed into his system by something on his mouth that he couldn't describe. That, and an incessant beeping noise to his left.

With great difficulty, he started to shift on limbs which felt unusually stiff and flimsy. His eyes started to squint open, but he was greeted only by the color white. He grabbed onto the railings on the bed he was in, slowly, pulling himself up. Once he was comfortably sitting, he finally noticed a remote on a tray to his right, and if he lifted his head a bit more he could see a large window overlooking the Presidium.

Ah. So he was in that new hospital on the Presidium. Top class medical professionals, highest technology the Citadel funds could afford, and completely free from discrimination against clients due to the wide range of medical professionals for each species, even drell, hanar, elcor... And the hospital that was distinctly not finished yet.

Thinking slowly, he grabbed the remote from the tray and pushed a button to lift the bed upwards to better accommodate him. It rose up as slowly as he did, and he stopped it at a nice spot where his cowl could rest comfortably against the pillows and he could see straight. Why was he even in a hospital anyway? How long had he been knocked out? And why had that happened? Did someone duel him recently or…?

He rubbed at an itch on his abdomen and was greeted with a number of stitches and a few wires digging into his skin, connected to an IV. Absentmindedly removing the breathing apparatus on his mouth, he looked the remote over again to see if this thing also called room service or something. It didn't, as far as he could tell, but it didn't seem to matter because soon enough a door he didn't realize was there opened and a turian woman came in, clad in the standard white-and-cream uniform for turian medical specialists.

"Councilor Sparatus." She said, giving a salute. "Doctor Nehalem Quinoa. I was the specialist in charge of your emergency treatment." She stood straight and with her hands behind her back, waiting for Sparatus to respond. His tongue felt like a giant wad of cotton in his mouth, but he found the sense to at least say something.

"What ex… exactly happened?" He said, grunting as he shifted to find a more comfortable position. Who designed this thing, anyway? It clearly wasn't meant for turian physiology.

"Put bluntly, esteemed Councilor sir, your gizzard stopped working."

"What?" Sparatus said. Dr. Quinoa blinked.

"Well, in more detail, your gizzard has been suffering from a slowed form of anaphylaxis. My team and I had to perform an emergency surgical procedure in order to remove bits of food that has been sticking to your digestive system due to your gizzard's failure to liquefy food."

"Alright, Doctor. Two things. One, that is disgusting. Two, how in the name of the Spirits did I manage to contract anaphylaxis in my gizzard of all places?" Dr. Quinoa nodded, clamping her mandibles shut and crossing her arms.

"From what I could tell, at some point at least ten years ago you had consumed some levo-amino based rations without immediate adverse effects. If it had only been a one-time thing, it would have passed through your system without doing anything, but I found evidence of repeated consumption while… removing the undigested food still in there." Sparatus narrowed his eyes.

"Go on."

"Repeated consumption of those rations you ate caused a lot of havoc with your internal organs over time, sir. Your digestive system has been obstructed due to your body's refusal to digest the proteins and what I am assuming is repeatedly swallowing down any attempts of vomiting?"

Sparatus looked down at his knees. Guilt washed over him, but also confusion and fear. Had he been slowly dying of a digestive illness because he was too stubborn to let himself puke, of all things? How…?

"So, what's the damage, doctor? Were you able to… remove the obstructions?" Sparatus asked. Dr. Quinoa, however, shook her mandibles and shut her eyes. Sparatus knew that particular combination of body language. That was the kind of combination that came just before something like "your sappa got hit by a truck this morning" or "your house has been flung into the sun".

"Unfortunately, Esteemed Councilor, your digestive system has overworked itself trying to get rid of the rations. Your gizzard has been in engaged in prolonged hypo-motility for at least ten years. I'm surprised it even held out this long, but…" She sucked in a breath. "I had to perform serious surgery on your gizzard to clean it out, and your system couldn't take any more strain."

Sparatus closed his eyes tightly.

"You've been diagnosed with Post-operational Digestive Ileus. Your digestive system has been paralyzed and it is doubtful you will ever be able to eat solid food ever again. I am sorry."

Sparatus never realized how monotonous the Presidium was until he had to stare at it for five days straight because there was nothing better to do. It was on the third day he realized, if it weren't for the speedy response of Shiala, he could have died of digestive poisoning and never seen it again. He would have been dead, another tally-marked groove on his personal serrated blade. He absentmindedly wondered what the groove for "died of digestive poisoning" would be. Or what the groove for "died because he stupidly ate the wrong kind of food ten years prior and didn't tell anyone about it."

He had few visitors. He was an only child and both of his parents had passed away in a blaze of glory to stop a band of Eclipse Mercenaries ten years ago, so unfortunately nobody had "privileged access" to visit that he actually cared to talk to. Especially not while having to suffer through getting nutritional gunk shoved up an incredibly long tube stuck in his nose. Shiala was not listed as anything more than a regular visitor among his official, not-classified files, and Jane's status as his ward was heartily classified. Racial tensions between turians and humans were still far too high to risk a political fallout.

Unfortunately that meant that the only people he was allowed to see for now were medical professionals. Doctor Kimarick, his own personal doctor, had visited him and gave him a very thorough chewing out for not reporting the nausea attacks he'd been having, and looked ready to drill Sparatus between the eyes if the good doctor hadn't taken the oath to preserve life wherever possible. Doctor Michel was slated to visit him earlier today, ostensibly to make sure the human-made medical bed wasn't causing him any discomfort, but she was horrendously late by about three hours.

"How's Jane?" Sparatus asked as soon as she had arrived. The young doctor shook her head before answering. It took a moment for Sparatus' translator to parse her thick, nigh-incomprehensible accent (to his ears, at least) so her words were a little detached from her lip movements.

"She's staying with Shiala in the apartment, so no need to worry about that. But she's having serious internal conflicts over your illness. Shiala believes it might be connected to painful memories of… well, the Konietzko." Sparatus looked at his knees and shook his head. Of course this would have happened, he thought. Jane had already lost her parents once when the Konietzko was raided and all but 5 of the security personnel slaughtered by batarian pirates. The turian she was supposed to stay with for the rest of her life had suddenly doubled over the sink and puked everything in his abdomen would obviously remind her of that.

What had she seen on the Konietzko? What did she even remember? The images he got from the security vids taken during the raid were gruesome, to say the least. He never spoke to her about it. Maybe he should have. Maybe, maybe, maybe.

"What do you expect me to do about it, Dr. Michel?" Sparatus spat. "I'm bedridden until my condition stabilizes and my stomach understands that it's not going to have the luxury of solid food for the rest of forever. Believe me, I would love to be there for Jane right now but my hands are tied." He said, hating himself for saying it. He wanted to let her know with her own eyes that he was going to be okay, but the politics… Dr. Michel bowed her head and crossed her arms despondently.

"Perhaps we can get Jane to you, instead…?" she all but whispered after a short bout of silence. Sparatus tilted his head, piercing through her with his eyes to get her to continue. She had to understand that if anyone saw Jane and Shiala walking into the hospital to visit the reporters would have a field day? Didn't…

Didn't he understand that any journalist worth their salt would find his recent medical condition more important to spread? He obviously had to take great care with his job, every word he said could be misconstrued. At the end of the day, what he and his private sector knew was more important than what the faceless masses of the galaxy chose to believe. Not being allowed to see his daughter during his time of illness was doing nothing but add insult to injury.

Michel shuffled her feet a little. "If we can just make it less of a classified situation with her, we could—"

"You know what? Do it."

The words tumbled out of Sparatus' mouth before he could stop them. "I'm… sorry?" Dr. Michel queried.

"I don't care what the public thinks right now, Dr. Michel. If they don't even have the decency to let me suffer my illness in private they aren't credible news sources in the first place. All I care about right now is getting used to my new routine… and letting my daughter know I'm alright." He stared at Dr. Michel, hunched over a little. He breathed in through one nostril while the other was plugged with nutrient-pumping liquid that felt really really gross and invasive but he didn't care about that at the moment. Dr. Michel's lips began to turn up at the edges.

"I'll let Shiala know right away."

Ileus was a terrible disease and Sparatus sincerely hoped nobody would ever have to suffer through it ever again. Evidently not only did he have to drink liquid medicines and nutritional paste for the rest of his life, he also had to keep close tabs on his blood sugar, pricking his thumb regularly to make sure his nutrients were actually being accepted by his body. There were still stitches along his abdomen and he had to wear a brace until they were ready to be removed, and it made sitting down difficult and slouching out of the question.

Jane had walked into his room at the hospital clutching a pamphlet similar to the ones he had been reading. A closer look told him that it was about how to survive when you parent had a life-altering disease. The embrace they had shared all but broke his heart. Jane had said nothing, but Sparatus was almost entirely certain that she was afraid he was going to die of his illness. He quickly dismissed that claim, saying that death was an illusion and he was an immortal demon vampire to try and cheer her up. He didn't hear her laugh, but the quick breath she took in was enough.

Shiala was a great support beam for his life after he was finally deemed well enough to leave the hospital. She helped him walk out of the medical wheelchair and get his blood pumping through his legs again, while Jane ran back and forth between the taxi and his wheelchair for who knows why. Nerves, probably. He sat in the passenger seat while Shiala drove and Jane sat in the back, staring outside and tapping her fingers against her knees.

"How are you feeling, Councilor?" Shiala had asked. Sparatus shook his head slightly, at the very least grateful that spirits-forsaken tube was out of his nose.

"There's nothing in particular that I wish to say. Though I do have more sympathy for the Quarians now than I did before."

"It must be annoying to have to survive off of nutrient paste forever." Shiala said.

"More than annoying. It's inhibiting. Constricting. Like one of the joys of life has been forcibly sucked out of my grasp and thrust into the sun in such a way that it is nothing more than a pile of dust." He spat the words out more and more as he continued, his subharmonics rising in pitch uncontrollably. He wanted nothing more than to scream about it, thrash against something and maybe even eat a Pyjack-burger like the kind Urz would scarf down just to spite his illness. At the same time, he noticed more small things than he ever had before, like the colors of the nebula they were in and the quiet way the taxi flew from the Presidium, into the light atmosphere between the ward arms to their destination.

"Perhaps you can channel that energy towards doing good for others." Shiala said. Sparatus looked at her and breathed in a little too quickly.

"I suppose you contacted the matriarch and she has given you some… advice on the situation?"

"Actually, it was a saying my father had told me when I was very young and had broken an arm." Shiala said, waxing nostalgic. "I believe his exact words were, 'though one part of the spirit may have changed, that does not mean it cannot still contribute.' I took it to heart and helped random people with my biotics for a few days before I forgot about it and started yelling at him about how much I despised my art teacher."

"If you forgot about it, how come you remember it?" Jane suddenly asked. Sparatus shot a glance in her direction and then returned his gaze to Shiala. She was still smiling, but it had faded at the edges, and her hands grew stiff on the wheel.

"My father died when I was about 89. He was 132, and it was starting to show. Hobbling along on a cane with cracked plates along his face, yelling at the ankle-biters to get away from his Orachla plants in the garden, insisting that back in his day they had to jog ten miles to the store in pouring rain with no jackets while in boot camp. But then he had a seizure and toppled over, and mother called me to see him while I was in the middle of a study crunch with my roommates in college."

She paused, and her eyes started to shine with something, but the bright lights of the advertisements the began to pass made it hard to tell. Sparatus counted how many times the colors of the ads bled through the windows and bathed her face in yellow, turning her lavender skin green for a moment. The square lights passed over her face fourteen times before she took in a thin breath and continued.

"I held my father's hand in mine along with my mother and… I asked him what he wanted me to do after he was gone. He said the same thing then as he said when I asked him how to deal with my broken arm. 'Though one part of the spirit may have changed, that does not mean it cannot still contribute.'"

"And you think I can follow his wisdom too." Sparatus muttered. Shiala nodded, then swallowed.

"Yes. I know it helped me. After that experience, I quit college and transferred to the Asari Military Unit in my area, and made it to Commander when I was 237. Then I was assigned to travel with Matriarch Benezia as a bodyguard, stuff happened, and I became one of her disciples instead."

"And after a convoluted series of events you ended up becoming a home teacher for a little human girl from a military family who was adopted by the turian Councilor of the Citadel. No offense Shiala, but your life's pretty weird." Jane said. Shiala burst into a snort-laugh, and Sparatus couldn't help but smile. The little things he had begun to notice started to have more use than just giving him a more detailed picture of the galaxy. Perhaps it just made things a little bit brighter, too.

"I'm glad we're all okay." Jane said quietly. As the sky car gently landed in front of the Tiberius Towers, Sparatus removed his seatbelt and took a quick look behind him, more readily able to turn now.

"So am I, Jane." They smiled the same relieved smile at each other for just a moment longer. "So am I."

In Sparatus' peripheral vision, Shiala smiled as well.