Faustite couldn't say how many days had passed; he stopped caring for a sense of time once the shakes set in. In the hours following the operation, when his constitution began rotting, he told himself he'd see improvement in a day or two. But a day or two passed, and the pain never abated. By the end of the first day, he felt atrociously cold. By the second day, he felt inexplicably moody. He felt tired. By the third day, that tiredness grew into a virulent, soul-deep exhaustion. By the end of the third day, he shook like he had Parkinson's. He suffered cold sweats.

Optimism slipped like water off rocks. No longer did Faustite expect there would be any improvement, but there was no time to rest, either.

So Faustite worked, or tried to work. He spent hours in his office, nonetheless. And he answered calls for meetings, as he had with Paracelsian, who was to meet with him today. He had tried to gather his thoughts for it, but those thoughts continually slipped from his fingers like so much sand. Instead, he tidied his desk: its smooth metal-and-glass surface had stacks of papers protected under a glass tray, his communicator sitting next to it, and litle else but for a tea set by his left elbow. High grade porcelain — a gift he hadn't deserved.

The glass-faced bookcases he couldn't touch, but he wasted time on arranging and rearranging the metal chairs before his desk, uncertain on a more conversational or more professional style. He supposed nothing about his office suggested comfort, so the pair of chairs sat facing forward. Then he sat on the metal stool that served as his chair, and he waited. Folded his arms across the desk. Rested his forehead on them.

Fell asleep. Half hour later, he woke to the same shakes and the same pains and the same nebulous need to vomit. Whatever the subject matter, this meeting would drag.

sami-fire
he's fine