Prosperity: The Steel Petal: Ch. 2: Arrhythmia
Kari arrives at Prosperity Health Systems, guided only by a room number and a too-cheerful voice. Inside: synthetic murals, soft blue logos, and machines that don’t hum like they should. Nothing breathes here. Not really.
But she’s come anyway. Because someone has to.
--Arrhythmia--
Prosperity Health Systems loomed, a black-glass monolith against a smog-streaked sky. Its surface mirrored dim light onto streets scattered with syringes and beer bottles.
She slowed to a stop outside the hospital.
Above the entrance, the company’s logo gleamed: a cold-blue staff encircled by twin serpents, their bodies forming a near-perfect loop. Not a helix—no upward climb. Just a cycle. Endless. Self-contained. Beneath it, etched in clean, sans-serif steel, with the slogan underneath in italics:
PROSPERITY MEDICAL SYSTEMS
Your Health is Our Business
A holo-panel flickered beside the main entrance, showing a looping promo, in corporate calming cursive: In partnership with Caduceus™ Pharmaceuticals—Science You Can Feel From the Hand That Shapes Tomorrow. The twin serpents twined across the screen in perfect sync, their eyes glowing faintly as they circled the blue staff. The loop froze—glitched—then restarted. Seamless again. Like nothing had gone wrong.
She took a deep shuddering breath as the automatic double doors slid open - chilled air blasting her in the face, smelling strongly of rubbing alcohol and cleaning chemicals.
A small digital sign marked with the Caduceus logo near the check-in desk scrolled lazily through rotating digital banners: “Ask your care coordinator about Paxetine™ WorkPatches. Peace is but a prescription away.” Then: “Now offering Optivacore™ regulation strips in all partnered psych evaluations. Comfort and relief start here.”
These promised things cost more than an entry-level job made in a month.
The logos blinked below each ad in perfect sync—Caduceus and Prosperity Health Systems, side by side.
Within the hospital, nurses and staff wandered the floors, each off in their own world, many of their eyes sagging with dark bags hanging underneath. In the reception area, a pit-bull and a doberman stood near the reception wall—too sharp in dress, too still to be staff. They didn’t talk. Just watched. The kind of silence that followed blood.
Even a rabbit nurse jumped as she neared them, her cottonball tail puffed in alarm. Kari could relate.
A vixen in a fur-lined coat dabbed at her eyeliner. Tear tracks and high heels clicking like applause. Maybe she was crying. Maybe she just wanted someone to notice. Kari looked away—too plain, too quiet. Wrong shape for a city that applauded pain, as long as it sparkled.
A sheep mother sat with her child curled in her lap. She stroked his ears absently, eyes locked on the ceiling tiles like they offered her a way out. He sobbed quietly. She didn’t hush him. Just stared.
The young mouse walked up to the receptionist, her ears drooping a little.
“Can I help you?” the goat receptionist asked, voice clipped and brittle. Her narrow face and curved horns curling backwards gave her an unyielding look.
“I’m here for Mr. Kazushige. Room 1346.”
“Are you family of the patient?”
“Yes, ma’am. I’m his daughter.” She bowed her head respectfully.
“Elevator’s behind you on your right. Thirteenth floor. When you step off, look immediately to your left; the nurses there’ll be able to guide you.”
“Thank you, ma’am.” Her lips parted. Nothing came. The receptionist didn’t look up—just filed her nails while her screen blinked.
Kari’s jaw tensed. She bowed anyway, and turned, stepping into one of the nearby elevators.
As she rode them up to the thirteenth floor, she watched the numbers tick upward. Her tail coiled tightly around her waist. Not a brace. A restraint.
Breathe. Focus. No wasted motion. She repeated it like Sensei’s rules. Like the nurse's tone. Just doing her job. Anger wouldn’t help.
The elevator ding pulled her from her thoughts. She straightened. Her tail uncoiled, swaying behind her in practiced stoicism as she stepped off the elevator. Behind the desk sat a poodle nurse with ruby red nails and a flawless smile.
“Can I help you?” Polished smile. Polished scent. Polished words. Hollow, all the same.
Kari steeled herself. “Hi—I’m Kari. Kari Kazushige. We spoke on the phone. I’m Mr. Kazushige’s daughter. Room 1346.”
The nurse nodded, tapping at the keys with polished nails. “Visiting hours are almost over. Need to see some ID.”
Kari reached for her wallet. The nurse’s eyes flicked to the learner’s permit as if it were a used tissue, then back to the screen. “He’s flagged low-response. Just don’t disrupt him.”
Kari’s expression hardened slightly as she nodded. “Yes, ma’am. I brought his medicine list as well.” She pulled out a Ziploc bag: a Paxetine wrapper and a torn Optivacore strip. Stability, dosed. Just patches and strips—enough to fake function. Until he broke anyway.
The Ziploc bag rustled in her clenched fingers.
She smoothed the Paxetine wrapper before offering it. The nurse glanced at the bag, then back to her screen. “That’s fine, sweetie. We already filed his case under “non-urgent.” His compliance profile is on file—Caduceus protocol. Patch data is already on file. We log dosage history automatically. Just drop it there. You can collect them on your way out. Room 1346. Sixth door on the right.” She continued to work at her screen without looking up.
The charge nurse’s screen blinked again—“Billing coordination pending.” Kari didn’t ask. She already knew the answer.
Coverage. Compassion. Gone. His life had a price.
She wanted to snap. Just once. But that wasn’t what daughters did.
Maybe she meant well. Maybe not. Kari bowed anyway. Her spine stayed straight, but her jaw clenched. “Thank you.”
She turned and made her way down the hallway.
Her steps had no rhythm. No beat. Just arrhythmia—sneakers squeaking unevenly on the sanitized tile.
Her tail coiled again. She stopped in front of Room 1346.
Father had never liked being seen sick or tired—especially by her.
She wasn’t top of her class. Just consistent, quiet. Not rebellious. Not exceptional.
He never said she failed—just looked at her like she’d cost him something. He’d come home worn down, always scowling. She’d bring soup. Hope for a thank you.
“You should spend more time on your school! Bring your grades up! You are nothing without those grades!”
A sharp flick of the wrist. Dismissal in motion.
Maybe if she’d won something. A debate medal. Been the kind of girl they called a prodigy. Maybe then he’d see her.
As her footsteps squeaked quietly down the waxed tiles, she passed a cracked-open door. Inside, a little girl placed a sticker on her father’s arm. She couldn’t see his face through the oxygen mask, but his eyes smiled.
Kari glanced away. Her turn was next.
Be polite. Smile. Bow. Don’t hope. Hope ruins things.
Her hand trembled at the knob. Her arm locked. She inhaled—sharp and still. She raised her hand to knock—too loud. Then opened the door.
As she entered the room, she was greeted by the cold, sharp smell of disinfectant and the sterile hum of machines. An AI-generated mural: cherry blossoms by a riverbank. Too perfect. Still. Dead.
She saw a still-mostly-full bowl of miso soup on the tray beside him. The SynthTofu floated near the top, pale and square, its white corners just poking through the surface of the InstaBroth.
He hadn’t touched it. But someone had asked for it. Maybe he’d been waiting for her.
She crushed the thought.
Then his eyes focused in on her. And a sudden, frantic yell shattered the air — delirious rage pouring from his cracked voice, his Japanese accent thickening as his English frayed under the weight of emotion.
“Who told you to come here!” the elderly mouse shot up in bed and stared daggers at her, which immediately withered her posture as she flinched. His voice cracked. Still, her ears rang.
The sterile, searing white light illuminated his frail frame, hooked up to IVs, wires, and electrodes. The beeping of the EKG monitor punctuated his question.
Her shoulders tightened reflexively, and her hands shot up to shield herself from that familiar furious tone. Still, she grasped the keychain for courage and straightened. “I… I didn’t mean to bother you. The nurse called me.”
“Why are you here? Go study. Apply. Be useful.” His voice croaked as it started to give out on him—forcing him to take a brief reprieve.
Tears welled up behind her eyes. She stiffened, eyes stinging. “But I’m your daughter. Even if you don’t want me—I came.” She knew it wouldn’t change anything. But she said it anyway.
Without even looking at her, he rasped, “Get out. Just get out.” He swallowed, turning away as if her presence alone was too heavy to bear. “I don’t want to see you here. Not like this. If you want to help, go make something of yourself.”
She stood there.
She’d hoped for something. Just a nod. A word. Anything.
Stupid. Hope doesn’t fix anything.
She bowed. “I’m sorry. I’ll leave.” Her lips trembled. The words lodged deep. She said them. That had to count for something. Maybe.
She glanced back before she closed the door. The petals never landed.
Just kept falling. Like nothing broke.