White showers down in little bits onto the floor of the Zero Room.
The drops form shoes, baking themselves into dual back-curves of keratin and phalange and sinew that wind up like stairs into a bolus of bulging foreleg.
The forelegs bend slightly, surging up and toward themselves like transfixed eyes following the shine off a newly-rinsed palette knife, bending and curving and rounding until they reach a certain height, a height suitable for sliding kneecaps and the gristly tinsel of glutes.
The curve of all-white laces itself in the old time fashion of good stout boots, up the walk and down and up again of pelvis and spine, jutting little pieces out here and there.
Soon, a brilliant red bowtie hangs for a second across a bare and blankish scapula; there is no skin to hold it though, so it soon melts away again, leaving alabaster lungs and other brother and sister organs pumping anti-climactically in its place. No reason, their master thinks softly, to name them here.
He already flunked Academy once.
And once is enough really.
Really and truly.
He reaches out with new hands, white hands, to touch the empty air.
His back feels chalky still; there is a certain grit to him, and for once it’s not some consequence of the life he’s led.
There are tiny bumps of dryness curdling across his upper body, scampering across him like a melanoma on shore leave.
His life, he thinks, shrugging mentally.
Soon he will be dry, hard clay instead of drippy slip.
At last, some action.