Work Text:
The main control room, situated off the dorsal aorta, is muted for a rare December evening. Soft, crimson light from the passing bloodstream casts shifting shadows across the metallic gray walls. Drixenol sits stiffly on the command center’s cushioned couch, his synthetic shell gleaming like fresh silver, patiently observing the faint, rhythmic pulse of the heart.
Ozzy, the impulsive white blood cell, paces the length of the carpeted floor—a dizzying track of white blood cell tissue—his normally vibrant blue nucleus clouded with anxiety. The faint scent of Hector’s afternoon Cuban coffee residue still clings to the air near the esophageal junction. He stops abruptly.
“Look, Drix. I’m just gonna say it straight-up, man,” Ozzy whispers, his voice unusually tight. “I think… I think I’m carrying an organism.”
He gestures vaguely at his abdomen, which feels unnervingly full. He doesn't know the microscopic invaders are intracellular Listeria, not a developing cell. Drix's metallic eyes widen, reflecting the distant, shimmering glow of Hector's teenage bedroom TV playing through the optical nerves. His straight posture softens.
“Ozzy, that is fantastic news! We are going to have an organism!” His deep voice, usually reserved for reciting pharmacology, is thick with genuine, unexpected joy.
Ozzy’s shoulders sag in relief, an unconscious physical reaction to the acceptance. Drix immediately reaches out. He draws the smaller white cell close, pulling him sideways onto the couch. Ozzy settles easily, his cheek pressing against the cool, firm plastic of Drix’s shoulder and chest plate, the rhythmic hum of Drix’s internal motors a strange, comforting percussion. This solid, unwavering structure is precisely what Ozzy needs right now. The aorta’s pulsing sounds steady and safe.