❝ it is a good thing that i thrive on chaos. ❞

A FEAST FOR CROWS

"Is this chaos or did I just hit an artery?!"

-> A strained tone to their voice as the heel of their hand comes down hard on the too-deep incision in the throat of a barely-assembled torso, the formaldehyde gushing from the open slit as Gita gives a faint chuckle of amusement as Lyric's less than stellar surgery skills---they needed to check that all of the muscle filaments and his esophagus lined up correctly where it connected to the sternum, but they went in a little too heavy handed for the cold flesh and popped right through where they meant to check. A hiss of annoyance in the cold lab air; Gita, in no rush, comes to their side with a more gruesome looking form of a parrot clip and pinches the open skin together around a piece of gauze, using the clips to hold it shut as Lyric gives a heavy sigh. They reeked of chemical preservatives---the body kind, not for food---and exhaustion wore at their eyes from a number of things: one, the process of building a vessel to a certain likeness from scratch is far more difficult, time intensive, and expensive than they had hoped. It wasn't like books and movies made it seem: you couldn't just get an empty corpse in pieces and sew them together and expect it to live. It needed organs in good condition, it needed reinforcement to its joints and joining segments, it needed the spark of life that existed in all things.

It needed a soul. Which was the only thing Lyric did have waiting in the wings; someone scorned, betrayed, sought by death prematurely. Someone who surely would rise again, certain it was divine intervention ( but there was no divinity here. it was only them. )

"I'm glad you find my medical floundering to be amusing."

-> It's not meant to bring her down or hurt. At least one of them is getting something enjoyable out of this, because Lyric is reaching their limits of scientific experimentation for the day: their hands are getting stiff and achy from doing fine, silver thread stitches between every set of muscles and the skin, and their pages of notes are stained with fluid and congealed blood and sweat. The bright light of the lamp above their operating table was beginning to leave spots in their eyes, and if they didn't try to sleep soon ( no matter how illusive and plagued it was ) they would likely collapse and make an even bigger mess. They take a deep breath.

"I don't suppose your ghouls or whatever can take this back to cold storage?"