Chéri bent their heads to the side. The doctor had been seeing them semi naked. He had also heard them speaking before, so it couldn’t be how they spoke or what they said, hopefully. Chéri had been on their best behaviour, so it was confusing. What could it be. Chéri bent their head to the side “Do you think you could try not to judge me?” that was how they could feel comfortable. They asked sincerely, for Tristan was nice and polite, but people with that look on their faces tended to make assumptions and, Chéri knew, assumptions were a rather dangerous thing for them. They nodded. Or Dr. Witaker. The man was probably going to judge them just as well, but they ought to try anyway before making a choice, have all the cards on the table.

Chéri looked at the syringe with distrust. They had seen syringes before, but not exactly for medicine, not official one. Chéri stared at it “Is that so that I don’t feel pain?” they asked. “A little funny,” they repeated “How? For how long? Will I be able to speak and decide what to do?” Chéri was now growing somewhat nervous. It was one thing to endure pain, another to let somebody, anyone, dull their senses “Is it a lot of pain?” maybe they could take it. They were good with pain.