Octonauts

Part 2

The door is closed for mere seconds before it opens again.

"Uh, hello?" Shellington's voice calls from outside. "Jumping jellyfish, am I late?" he asks, letting himself in. Shellington's greasy, red hair is messy, his ponytail barely holding together. The grinning man still has blood on his face from his work in the lab.

Peso sighs. "What is it, Shellington?" he replies while beginning to check his vitals.

"Uh, um..." He pauses. "I've been having some, uh, troubles."

"With what?" Peso dreads the answer.

"Uh. You know. Uh. Troubles. With my um... you won't tell?"

"I legally can't tell."

"I keep hearing things." He whispers. As soon as he says that Peso understands. He needs a refill.

"Well." Says Peso, blinking quickly, "Take this, uh, general anaesthetic, to help with, that."

"Won't that put me to sleep?" Shellington asks.

"Yes. So, I can remove the problem area."

"What!?"

"No. Take..." He rummages in a drawer before finding a small bottle. "These. It'll go away."

"Thanks Peso." Shellington leaves.

Peso barely gets a chance to breathe before he hears a loud banging on the door.

"PESO!" An angry voice begins shouting from outside.

Peso flinches. It's Kwazii. "Oh, for fuck's sake." He mutters.

"LEMME IN YA LITTLE- oh." Kwazii growls, flashing his white teeth as Peso opens the door.

"Hello." Peso doesn't bother hiding his anger when Kwazii's around, the other crew members know the loathing that is constantly between them.

"Get on with it, Peso" He spits the name like it belongs to someone vile.

"Move." Peso snaps before gesturing upwards. "Up."

Kwazii grudgingly lifts his muscular arms, yanking his shirt over his tanned body. He pulls his hands through his sun-bleached blonde hair as Peso checks his blood pressure and heartrate. Every check-up, Peso wonders the same things. How did Kwazii get the mess of bubbled scars that speckle his collarbone? Across his chest? Peso's hand reaches out unconsciously, hovering over a particularly bad circular scar above Kwazii's left hip.

"Oi!" Kwazii shouts.

The rest of the check-up passes, done in resentful silence.

"You're all good." How is he so perfect?

"'You're all good'. Ya fancy piece of-" Kwazii taunts him, cursing under his breath. His freckly face with its angular features matches his indignant attitude. "Back in me pirate days I 'ad to slit a man's throat justa eat for the week. I was shot you know. Bloody Octonauts. Conscription my ass."

Peso sits down in his chair, raising his eyebrows at Kwazii and looking towards the door. It meant 'Leave'.  Kwazii scowled, his pearly white teeth shining in the surgically bright light.He opens his mouth, about to spit a torrent of awful words at me.

"Uh, Peso?" Inquires Dashi, stopping Kwazii's rant by knocking on the door. "Can I have a moment?"

Letting out a sigh of relief, Peso opens the door. Kwazii backs out of the room, his stare shooting daggers. He glances down, gazing at Dashi as she walks in.

"Hey." Peso smiles, the expression designed to comfort Dashi, "What's happening?"

"So..." she pauses, her sad expression framed by her long mahogany locks. "About last night."

"What?" A rare look of surprise flits across Peso's face.

"I-it was just a fling. First and last time it'll ever happen."

"What?" this time the surprise stays. "But I thought-"

"No." her face is stern. "We were drunk. It was a mistake."

"You're healthy, leave." He chokes, tears threatening to pour from his eyes. He turns around. Hiding his face. "Go!"

Dashi storms out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Peso throws himself onto his chair. A tidal wave of thoughts crashes in his mind.

What did I do? We were talking for months. What does she mean? How was it just a drunk fling? Why would she cut me off? Is there someone else? What did I do? Was it my fault? It was my fault. She hates me. She thinks I'm worthless. She knows I'm worthless. I'm worthless. Worthless. Worthless. Worthless. 

"Hey, Peso, ya in there, hon?" Tweak's raspy voice drags him out of the depths of his breakdown.

Peso sniffs. Wiping his nose. "One minute!"

"That's alright hon, take your time." Tweak is the only one other than Dashi who really tried to get to know him. The one who doesn't care if he's a bit sad. The one who wants to help.

He rinses his face, wanting to look nice for his friend. Shaking off the wet, he takes a mouthful of gin from his flask, slips it into his bag before opening the door.

"Hey Tweak." He smiles weakly. Relieved to see her died green hair with its exposed brown roots.

"Hi, how ya been?" has she noticed his ruffled hair?

"Great." He replies, closing the door. Awful.

Tweak raises her eyebrows. Peso leans in, hugging her. The returned embrace opening the floodgates. He tells her everything. Sobbing throughout the exchange.

"Look, Peso." he glances up from his lap, his damp face staring up at hers. Putting her hands on his shoulders, she puts him at arms-length, "Are you sure you can work while all this is going on?"

"I-" he sobs again. Covering his face. "I can't go back. Not after- She's gone, Tweak. Mom's gone."

"Oh." Tweak knows about the attack. They came in from all sides. The sound of gunshots, the screams. They haunt him to this day.

"Look, we can get the check-up done and then there's only one left after me." Tweak suggests.

"Yeah." Then I can sleep.

Climbing onto the table, Tweak slides into the MRI.

As he looks at the results printing out the machine, he freezes. Dropping them on the floor.

"What?" asks Tweak, "What's wrong?"

"Your lungs." A bandage can't fix this. "Do you smoke?"

"Used to. Cigarettes. Got sick of em."

"You..." he stares at the floor with the intensity of a dying sun. "You have cancer."

"What?!" Tweak's gravelly voice shouts at him, "I don't understand. I stopped years ago."

"You have a month to live." Or less. Much, much less. The understanding hits her like a truck.

"Go get some sleep. You need to process."

"I-I will." She shudders, stumbling from the room.

Peso collapses into his chair, clutching his head in his hands. The ache of the morning's hangover returns to his temples. The throbbing of his head competing with the slam of his heart in his ears. When will it happen? What will he do after she's gone? He selfishly wonders who will check up on him?

Fumbling with his bag, he reaches for his flask. He holds it up, gulping down the liquor. Too much for his good, but he doesn't care. The burn in his throat and the pain in his head distracting him from the fire of rage and confusion in his mind.

Ooh Peso are you feeling the pressure yet?