Firmament

Mykolai Voloshyna

Mico looks down at the pill in their hand for a moment, sighs, and chucks it down their throat.

Mico: Stomach Check

2d6 = 6

+1 Pain Theshold (Mico)

+1 Chemical Soup (Mico)

= 8 (Partial Success)

There's a reflexive shudder at the acrid, sour taste, the sensation like burning acid at the sides of their throat and in their nostrils. The weight starts to build in their stomach; as if one by one, each of the muscles in their abdomen snaps tight, squeezing their organs. Mico sits back on their bed, hand over mouth, trying not to vomit. Their heartbeat quickens, even the muscles in their chest feel tight --- hands shake, head splits open, they can hardly breathe, can hardly imagine a heart attack being worse than this. They ease themselves on to their side, shuddering in silence. Light peeks in from behind the blinds of the inn room window.

Before it was pills it was needles. It makes Mico sad to think how they can hardly remember ever not taking it.

What's the medicine for?

Mico has, well, a disease. The long and short of it is this: They take Renthenol each day, and if they don't one day, they won't wake up the next. Probably not ever again, not as anything recognisably human, at least. It takes about a quarter-hour each time for Mico to recover, though the headache takes longer to fade. They're used to this. They've had this disease since they were twelve.

It's eleven in the morning, and they're probably gonna be late for their shift again. Mico gathers their things. They consider opening the blinds or making the bed, but they don't have the energy. Downstairs, the innkeeper's not there at the moment, so Mico gets themselves a glass of water to wash out the taste.

---

Where does Mico work?

"Sir?" Mico says to the small, balding man behind the desk.

Leszek, the clerk, looks up from his papers and peers at Mico over his reading glasses. He puts down the quill. "Oh. Erm. Mykolai, yes?"

"Yes, sir."

He pulls himself vaguely upright in his chair and begins thumbing through the timesheets. Mico stands patiently, trying to keep their posture as straight as possible.

"You are late," the clerk says flatly.

A rehearsed intake of breath. "Incredibly sorry, sir. I slept in and I swear it won't-"

"Ach. None of that. It is no issue."

"Um. Sorry."

Lezsek continues to look through the pages as Mico elects to instead stand silently. Eventually he finds the page and scratches a mark in one of the rows. "You're posted to the south-east."

"Yes, sir." Mico makes for the door. They leave feeling more ill than when they entered.