Chapter Text
I've imagined being inside Dr. Gurathin in a number of ways and, in the case of some compelling hypotheticals, more than once. My current predicament was not among the circumstances I'd found intriguing enough to warrant a second analysis. Additionally, this was an unexpected dilemma. Had I (for some perplexing reason) prepared for this, I would have chosen a different drone. One designed specifically to purpose. It would be at least as small as the current one. Smoother, too, and with varied mobility options. It would certainly possess multiple means of illumination.
I did not, however, possess any means of illumination because my function is to map and record the dilation of Dr. Gurathin's left pupil. This data would, eventually, be paired to the results of my corresponding right eye-focused drone and collated with the rest of Dr. Gurathin's collected biometric data for analysis.
An augmented human's left lung is very dark. Most lungs, I would expect, but this is the only one I'm concerned with at this moment. It is not the first surprise bronchoscopy I've performed, but it is the first one for which I am surprised to find myself performing. I'm unsure if this is Dr. Gurathin's first unexpected bronchoscopy, as his medical records are woefully inadequate. I resolve to ask him.
Later. When he's coughing less.
What do I do? Murderbot asks, crashing into my limited processes like an avalanche wrapped in razor wire. Panicked. I don't answer, since I am a very small partition of my greater self. One without the agency to communicate in any meaningful way. Also it probably wasn't talking to me anyway.
Thankfully, the pressure of the bronchial tube I'm trying very hard not to rupture eases. It has likely restrained Dr. Gurathin in a prone position, ensuring his other internal organs aren't crowding his lungs and compromising their function. Exactly what I would have instructed it to do, although the simultaneity of it's over-driven, undirected feed communication and Dr. Gurathin's innards giving his lungs a bit more breathing room suggests that it's client care protocol has kicked in and informed it how to minimize injury due to foreign object inhalation.
Best case scenario would be for Murderbot to arrange and secure Dr. Gurathin on his belly with his head down…
Well, yes.
… but ideally without me lodged in a tertiary bronchus.
I mean to say prone with his body angled downwards, so that exhalation of the foreign object (me) would be aided by gravity. Which leads me to a secondary (and perhaps more pressing) complication:
Artificial Gravity is offline.
Which leads me to our tertiary (and borderline disastrous) plight: So is Perihelion Prime.
(Obviously, our current issues could be listed by priority in a different manner, but until I'm expelled and reintegrated, I'm not in a position to do anything about Mishaps Number 2 and 3.)
This perfect storm of 'uh oh' means that, with my assigned duty being impossible (Dr. Gurathin's lung has a merciful lack of pupils, dilated or no), I have no up-to-date guidance or instruction from outside my limited little self. Which wouldn't be a problem, even with the lack of light, since Murderbot's client care protocol would have put Dr. Gurathin in a position where I could propel myself out with very limited damage to his person. But no gravity means my proprioceptive sensors are 'totally borked'. No Perihelion Prime means that an uncomfortable, but ultimately harmless, drone inhalation will soon be very low on the list of Dr. Gurathin's problems.
It was… uncharacteristically sloppy to not create a partition overseeing artificial gravity. I'm concerned that means life support is also offline. Possibly also engines, piloting, and wormhole navigation. That's less likely, though — because we'd probably have been instantaneously compressed into a singularity. Unless we have and simply don't realize it yet.
(I hope we aren't. For obvious reasons. Academically, of course I'd like to know what it's like to be a singularity. For preference, though, I'd find out without actually being one. Not to mention that 'you really can't tell at first' would be an infuriatingly anticlimactic answer.)
ART! There's a pause, before the plea is repeated out loud.
"ART?"
Then again, vocalization underlining Murderbot's distress.
"ART!"
It is… agonizing to perceive, no matter the method.
"Se —" Gurathin's ill-advised attempt to speak was derailed by tussis. The muffled resonance of his speech had been intriguing, but not worth the spasmodic reaction. I tucked my tiny limbs and fins against my dronebody as tidily as possible, bouncing off the walls of (probably) pink tissue. Fortunately, this most recent coughing fit caused a small but measurable advancement towards his trachea. Unfortunately, Dr. Gurathin's resulting gasp retracted approximately half the distance.
Two coughs forward, one gasp back. It's progress, nonetheless.
It'll reboot in a moment. Can you get us back to the bed? Hold us down? Dr. Gurathin, trying to clear his throat all the while, remained practically-minded as ever. Void. Did I inhale something?
One of ART's drones. Probably an eye one, Murderbot informed him as his body shifted around me, presumably being hauled back to the bed. It was being uncharacteristically gentle with him, for which I felt no small amount of relief.
"An — ah! A — eye —!?" His soft, hoarse voice was consumed by another fit of coughing and wheezing. That's what you get for try to talk with a 3mm drone residing in your lung, idiot. Stop trying to talk and focus on oxygenating your bloodstream. Preferably without hacking me through your dumb, delicate pleura.
I should note, he isn't actually dimwitted. By the standards of humans and augmented humans, he's remarkably bright. He's just got a martyr's instincts for self-preservation, a disposition indistinguishable from an abandoned domestic fauna's, and the social aptitude akin to that of a neglected barbed wire fence. It is as if, at any given moment, he has just received a sharp kick and accepts that another will soon arrive with a resentful, perverse gratitude — since at least he'll know what to expect. He is a series of exclamations composed of dire understatements, hedging vulnerable truths in paradiastole and parentheticals, all the while giving the impression that he's never not being actively rained upon.
(I like what I like.)
This is all to say that if anyone was going to expire under these outrageous circumstances, it would undoubtedly be him. Thankfully, he'd probably rather die than risk living with the infamy of gasping down one partner's voyeuristic data gathering instrument because the other one had just activated another appropriately multipurposed data gathering instrument, which had been lodged against his prostate gland. He rarely gets what he wants (unless I am the one to arrange it for him) that it’s practically assured he’ll live forever, never to be free of the knowledge that this was a thing that happened to him.
Of course, the data on the orgasm that followed immediately afterwards would have to be excluded from our usual collation and analysis, due to the choking.
(Or rather, due to the atypical cause of choking.)
I'm not even sure if it will be included in the 'Sexual Mishaps' spread. Partially for the reason that Perihelion doesn't yet have any entries as the subject and I'm finding it's much less funny when you're the one experiencing a forced system restart. And also because we may all be dead soon.
(I hope not. I'd like to taunt Murderbot about the time it made an augmented human come so hard, a deep space research vessel malfunctioned. And Gurathin would likely have an array of amusing reactions if I made my drones give him a pointedly wide berth for the foreseeable future.)
My wishes realized all at once as the low hum of processes resumed, along with my sense of the relative 'down' direction.
ART, what the fuck was that? Murderbot asked, sounding shaken and angry and relieved.
SecUnit, please position Dr. Gurathin prone with his body angled downwards.
"I-is thi-hiss rea-ealy the-huh ti—" Gurathin abandoned his disgraceful attempt at humor in favor of paroxysmal coughing.
"Stop talking," The construct made one of it's more common orders in nearly the same tones as it typically did. "You need your lung to talk," it said, stating a facet of organic inefficacy somewhat less smugly than usual. "And it has a drone in it."
Reminded of it's client's status, Murderbot relented it's questioning for the moment. Absent the pull and release of his muscles, Gurathin's position shifted. I tumbled within, reinvigorating his disquieting, autonomic response.
Perihelion Prime is, for some reason, has neither communicated with me, nor initiated a merge. I cannot say with any certainty, lacking sufficient analytical functions, but the silence is likely due to a combination of factors. My most persuasive suppositions are 'being very angry at me/itself' and 'core melting mortification' and 'the simple pupil mapping drone probably doesn't have anything useful to contribute to the situation despite being, quite literally, in it.'
The (entirely imagined) insulting implication bristles my partition's brief, vague selfhood. How dare I?
(A certain amount of Perihelion's ego is included in each partition. 'Ego' meaning 'identity' and also 'ego' meaning 'acute self esteem.')
('A certain amount' meaning 'lots and lots.')
I'm not risking reintegration with Dr. Gurathin's bodily interference. Please exit his airway and attempt not to damage his bronchial tubes on your way out.
So the great and powerful Prime has deigned to address me. The honor is all mine, O' genius ship of magnificent proportions and experimental intelligence.
It didn't react to my sarcastic repartee because, again, I hadn't give me the ability to convey it.
But downwards and forwards I went. Indignity thrust aside, I used the gentlest propulsion possible and the lightest touch I could manage. The journey was slow, foul, and then briefly suspended as Gurathin attempted escape so as to retch an appropriate distance from Murderbot. Due to his caretaker's greater strength, speed, and flexibility, he failed, much to both their chagrin.
Stop resisting! What are you — ugh. Gross. That's disgusting.
"Sor —!" He heaved, choked, heaved again.
"Stop talking!"
The MedSys is prepared and a drone is on it's way to transport him there. Perihelion Prime spoke softly, absent apologetic words but wreathed in guilt and shame.
No drones, Murderbot said sharply. I'm bringing him. The construct's tone brooked no argument.
I'm not likely to swallow a gurney, Gurathin groused, trying to catch his breath, clear his mouth, and reassume his prescribed position. Again, Murderbot, manipulated Gurathin's body without his assistance. I gamely resumed my bronchial campaign for discharge once he'd settled.
Technically, you didn't swallow the pupillary response mapping drone, Perihelion Prime corrected, testing the temperature of forgiveness.
"I knew it was one of the eye ones…" Murderbot muttered. Gurathin's Latissimus Dorsi rippled and I wondered if it was because an unexpected hand was placed there.
It would be less trouble if you had, Perihelion grumbled.
Gross, Murderbot groaned.
Then aim for the esophagus next time, Gurathin griped.
Though largely focused on not tearing or burning my augmented human's flimsy tissue, I became aware of a muffled, raspy vibration. Like that of skin on skin. Unpleasant impetus aside, I delighted in the idea of Murderbot offering Gurathin comfort and perhaps — by administering solace — obtaining some for itself.
Why was it so close to my face, anyway?
You bucked, said Perihelion, readily reassigning blame. And SecUnit didn't have you properly restrained.
I reached the trachea and Gurathin began expelling me in earnest. Light bloomed at the end of the tunnel, and out I came - through vocal folds, past uvula, over tongue and between teeth. I found myself free, camera down on a cushion.
Perihelion Prime reached for me and, irate, I swatted it away sharply. The humiliation was not to be borne. It was silly, and only the shock made my disagreeable little slap give Perihelion pause. I rolled about on the cushion, ridding myself of saliva as best I could, and darted on the last, violent exhallations to shelter at Gurathin's collarbone. Once there, I clung to a few fine, dark hairs, roosting against his skin to enjoy an outrageous sulk.
"Oh!" His hoarse surprise was directed towards me as, still panting, he shuffled upright. He craned his neck, trying to see me, which sadly did not improve my own view. Skuttling to his shoulder, I allowed him to examine me. "Hello, sorry about that."
I inwardly preened at his apology, happy to know he was taking a proper perspective. Another snap of my metaphorical teeth chased Perihelion Prime off again. It huffed.
It's being very stubborn.
"Well —" He grimaced, retreating to the less-taxing feed. It's had a trying time. I'm sure it just wants a little time to recover.
Perihelion Prime was doubtful. Truthfully, so was I, and so gripped his shoulder's somewhat-sparser body hair tighter.
"You need to go to the medbay," Murderbot interupted.
Yes, okay. He stood, taking more care not to dislodge me than was necessary. Perihelion, it's fine. It'll keep me company.
I was smugness itself, which Perihelion noted. Murderbot began to herd it's augmented human towards the door.
It would be helpful to know what happened, exactly, from your experience, Perihelion said privately. To better treat Dr. Gurathin. However, there's no reason not to stay perched on his shoulder, after reintegrating. It reached again, offering a compromise I'd be selfish to resist. So I didn't, and reached back.
A new wave of appreciation for Gurathin's radiating warmth came over me. My commentary during the experience, now reviewed, elicited a fond repetition of my initial amusement. Finding my actions to have been correct and good, a satisfaction in self clashed against personal reprobation.
I was observing too closely, I said, admitting my fault as I followed our progress. Lowering my drone body, temperature sensors taking comfort from Gurathin's correct and healthy body temperature. and may have interfaced too closely with Gurathin's augments. For some reason, my partitioning failed when he reached climax. The augmented human in question winced guiltily (as if he'd done something wrong…) while Murderbot rolled its eyes, then narrowed them.
That's weird though, right?
I pinged confirmation. I'm diagnosing the issue.
And having very little success which was troubling in itself. I could not work out why.
Resolving to enlist their assistance once Gurathin was seen to, I left background processes running diagnostics and focused on my augmented human's treatment.
I'm not saying I'd like a repeat performance, Gurathin said, now reclined and submitting to scans. Murderbot scoffed. But it was very good until it wasn't. Did either of you get any decent data?
A thinly veiled pretense. Of course I'd amassed valuable data. I always did. He wanted to know if we'd enjoyed it, for which the ruse was much appreciated.
On what? Your stomach contents? Murderbot finally allowed me to wrap around it. It was shaken. It blamed itself. It had been desperately worried about… It had been desperately worried. None of this came as a surprise, but I sought to soothe it.
Very funny. No, before all of that. Gurathin waved a hand, dismissing the matter. There were very mild abrasions along the deeper bronchial passage, some propulsion burns in his lower trachea and bruising to his vocal folds. I had done my best and it wasn't good enough. My drone body squirmed and shame suffused the feed.
Hey. A tug from Gurathin requested I settle gently against his augments. Don't. It's fi—
Yeah, Murderbot interrupted his ineffective reassurance. Before the stupid drone thing, it was alright.
Submitting to their pulls, I pressed against them ever so gently while my pupillary response mapping drone stroked Gurathin's shoulder, probably imperceptibly. My MedDrone's limbs administered antibiotics and anti-inflammatories.
Would you like something to soothe your throat? I asked.
Sure, Gurathin murmured, growing drowsy now that all was calm.
Very well, I proffered an atomizer of phenol analgesic. Open up.