The first shrill of the alarm clock sends Tribble scrambling from a warm curl on the duvet to a streak of fur and colour down the hall toward the kitchen. Each subsequent beep grew louder and eroded at sleep the way a pressure-washer worked on algae covered brick; the sound one that set nerves to edge. No one enjoyed the sound of an alarm clock screaming, it was a uniquely awful sound, eliciting ire and loathing from all.

Colin Hargrove may have been a morning person, but what he is not is an ‘alarm’ person and the teeth achingly awful noise caused him roll over to kill the sound as soon as possible. On his back, staring at the ceiling, it was time for his almost-daily ritual: cataloguing his aches and measuring them against what constituted his ‘normal’.

His right hip ached, a sharp, grinding sensation to pair with the pulling that came from the disfiguring scar he’d gained during the fight with the Nega-Dragon. It felt almost as though his bones are simultaneously grinding against each other and being pulled apart, which was almost normal - a bit worse, perhaps, enough that he would need to do some extra stretching later to compensate. There was a dull ache in his lower back - probably from lifting that new ballerina the day before - and as always his feet felt as though glass had been shoved into them permanently. Half a dozen other small aches and pains made themselves known during his self-check, but the extra pain in his right hip was the only thing worth considering outre.

So, not too bad today. Slowly the blond got out of bed and wobbled to the bathroom for morning ablutions; he moved as stiffly and ungracefully as a newly born foal.

Colin had to be careful about so many things as a danseur; it would be all too easy for him to hyperextend his hip and damage himself irreparably just when he’s gotten back to working. The injury had been severe, his diet and lifestyle restricted due to the damage to his liver and kidney, but as long as work was possible, Colin had determined to take it all in stride.

From the bathroom he wobbled to the kitchen to feed Tribble and start the coffee he would use to drown the miniature pharmacopoeia of medication he took daily. Pills and coffee while the cat chowed down on wet food, then a small cup of yogurt before stretches done in the living room with Tribble supervising.

On the floor also sat Colin’s laptop, an episode of The Next Generation on Netflix was half over as he finally worked himself into a full split. “******** Lore.” Tribble kicked the s**t out of a rainbow-shaped toy, but paused to regard her human which prompted the blond to explain. “Episode three from season four, second time we meet Data’s ‘brother’. He’s a shithead.”

Carefully, Colin walked his hands toward his laptop until his chest is against the floor and his hips hit the rolled up blanket he’s put down just so he doesn’t get extra bruises during this particular stretch. It hurts, but it’s a white-noise pain, like most of the ones he lives with daily. After he pushes himself into a sitting position again he’ll go through foot stretches before quitting. A full stretch routine isn’t needed, but some limbering up is. By the time his coffee - and a second episode (another ‘starring’ Lore) - are done, the blond will be moving and acting more like his usual self.

“See? I told you he’s a ********.” Tribble, high on catnip, bolted from the living room with a kinky sort of gate and her tail poofed.

“Exactly.”