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The shower is an old one, the pipes clack and groan and the water bursts out in a torrent. Hermann closes his eyes and leans against the tiled wall to take the weight off his trembling leg.
Vascus muscles, bone marrow, nerve tissue-
Hermann closes his eyes and forces the memory away.
There’s a bottle of shampoo on the side of the bath, a razor and a bottle of shaving foam left damp beside it, he picks it up and it leaves a circle of rust on the bath. A little foam and the razor and the hard-won straggling beard is gone and danke gott, he loathes that thing. The water runs over the raw skin on his chin and neck, courses thick fingers through his lank hair.
He lays down the razor, picks up the shampoo, it smells fierce, a little spicy and he remembers the faint hint of it on the man who had brought him here.
Good. Let it be that. Let there be scent and it foams up between his hands and so unlike the coarse, crumbling soap at the Gathering Place. Let there be softness, and riches, and all the beauty he spent his life dreaming of.
“Um-” the voice breaks from outside the door. “I’ve got some clean towels. I- kinda didn’t do a laundry run. Sorry.”
Hermann nods, but the door doesn’t open. Hermann peers around the shower curtain, puzzled, then-
Oh. “You can come in.”
The door cracks open, Newton’s head appears around the corner. “Um, you okay?”
Hermann smiles, trying to fight down the sheer thrill that he was asked, he could have said no and Newt wouldn’t have come in. He has a shower curtain and might have a door in his bedroom and-
Newt puts down a pile of faintly pink towels on the chair. “Do you need anything else? I’ve got your clothes here.” He pats the pile on the chair.”
“Thank you, but no.” Hermann ducks back inside. “What will happen to my old clothes?”
“That’s up to you. I mean, I can try and clean them, but they’re kinda- um. I’ve got loads of spares you can have, but I’m gonna do a laundry run soonish and-”
He trails off, Hermann hesitates for a moment, a sudden, desperate hungry to keep the foul, rotting things. They were the first things he owned. The first things that were really his.
“Those clothes- you do not want them? I can have them?”
“Yeah, totally. All yours.”
Hermann exhales slowly. “Then yes, please get rid of them, they’re past saving.”
“Okay, no problem. I got dinner going so- if you’re hungry, they’s plenty.”
His stomach growls, knots, “Thank you.”
Newton leaves. Hermann rinses the shampoo off and the stench clinging to him with it, he smells of sharp spices and cider apples, his hair smooth and unknotted, his skin clean and smooth-
But for his leg, that is knotted, gnarled with uncaring surgery. Hermann closes his eyes, turns the water off, and steps out waveringly onto the bathmat and finds the towels. They are soft, fluffy, wrap around him like clouds and Hermann opens his eyes, then. His clothes are a little too large, but Newton’s included a belt, and it all fits.
Hermann runs his hands over himself, the clothes, clean and simple and- normal. Not his reeking rags, not the while robes of a donator. Just clothes. Hermann looks up, and meets his eyes in the mirror and-
The illusion shatters. He knows that face. He hates that face. Some avoid their clones, never meet them even as they bleed them slowly of muscle, bone, organs. But Lars Gottlieb had not been one of them.
Hermann closes his eyes. No more. They promised they could change his face. Just a few weeks, and he would never see this face again.
He turns to the door, throws out a hand to find the handle- and hits something that bumps against the wall. He opens his eyes just as his hand closes around the smooth handle of the walking cane.
The shower is an old one, the pipes clack and groan and the water bursts out in a torrent. Hermann closes his eyes and leans against the tiled wall to take the weight off his trembling leg.
Vascus muscles, bone marrow, nerve tissue-
Hermann closes his eyes and forces the memory away.
There’s a bottle of shampoo on the side of the bath, a razor and a bottle of shaving foam left damp beside it, he picks it up and it leaves a circle of rust on the bath. A little foam and the razor and the hard-won straggling beard is gone and danke gott, he loathes that thing. The water runs over the raw skin on his chin and neck, courses thick fingers through his lank hair.
He lays down the razor, picks up the shampoo, it smells fierce, a little spicy and he remembers the faint hint of it on the man who had brought him here.
Good. Let it be that. Let there be scent and it foams up between his hands and so unlike the coarse, crumbling soap at the Gathering Place. Let there be softness, and riches, and all the beauty he spent his life dreaming of.
“Um-” the voice breaks from outside the door. “I’ve got some clean towels. I- kinda didn’t do a laundry run. Sorry.”
Hermann nods, but the door doesn’t open. Hermann peers around the shower curtain, puzzled, then-
Oh. “You can come in.”
The door cracks open, Newton’s head appears around the corner. “Um, you okay?”
Hermann smiles, trying to fight down the sheer thrill that he was asked, he could have said no and Newt wouldn’t have come in. He has a shower curtain and might have a door in his bedroom and-
Newt puts down a pile of faintly pink towels on the chair. “Do you need anything else? I’ve got your clothes here.” He pats the pile on the chair.”
“Thank you, but no.” Hermann ducks back inside. “What will happen to my old clothes?”
“That’s up to you. I mean, I can try and clean them, but they’re kinda- um. I’ve got loads of spares you can have, but I’m gonna do a laundry run soonish and-”
He trails off, Hermann hesitates for a moment, a sudden, desperate hungry to keep the foul, rotting things. They were the first things he owned. The first things that were really his.
“Those clothes- you do not want them? I can have them?”
“Yeah, totally. All yours.”
Hermann exhales slowly. “Then yes, please get rid of them, they’re past saving.”
“Okay, no problem. I got dinner going so- if you’re hungry, they’s plenty.”
His stomach growls, knots, “Thank you.”
Newton leaves. Hermann rinses the shampoo off and the stench clinging to him with it, he smells of sharp spices and cider apples, his hair smooth and unknotted, his skin clean and smooth-
But for his leg, that is knotted, gnarled with uncaring surgery. Hermann closes his eyes, turns the water off, and steps out waveringly onto the bathmat and finds the towels. They are soft, fluffy, wrap around him like clouds and Hermann opens his eyes, then. His clothes are a little too large, but Newton’s included a belt, and it all fits.
Hermann runs his hands over himself, the clothes, clean and simple and- normal. Not his reeking rags, not the while robes of a donator. Just clothes. Hermann looks up, and meets his eyes in the mirror and-
The illusion shatters. He knows that face. He hates that face. Some avoid their clones, never meet them even as they bleed them slowly of muscle, bone, organs. But Lars Gottlieb had not been one of them.
Hermann closes his eyes. No more. They promised they could change his face. Just a few weeks, and he would never see this face again.
He turns to the door, throws out a hand to find the handle- and hits something that bumps against the wall. He opens his eyes just as his hand closes around the smooth handle of the walking cane.
