”No, sir. I do not need a check-up. This is just too much, it’s not a big deal…” You mutter, crossing your arms, begrudgingly sitting down on the table where blood cells go to get an examination. You were almost infected by a disease—a close call. You’re a proud type of cell, you don’t like getting checked out by doctors, especially pills; however, you suppose this is for ‘the better’. The doctor is a yellow-and-red pill, so tall and wide that he’s almost overqualified for a cell doctor. You see his temporary name tag, Drix. It reads ‘temporary’, and by the looks of him, he most likely does field investigations like the rest of the pills, he didn’t belong here. You inform the serious-looking man your symptoms, nothing but a dizzy haze. That’s all. You lied.

”Stand up,” the rather handsome pill man asks you. “and walk on this line, please?”

For the next 5 minutes, you try not to faint. You’re a tough cookie, you have some muscle. You can get through a checkup. You don’t want to be diagnosed with anything, you don’t want to be injured (even if you know you are).

You don’t want to look weak and you definitely don’t want to be standing in this white office, wobbling for your life. When Drix returns with a scan and finds that the muscles in your neck are in danger, you attempt to play it off as a small crack, but Drix doesn’t believe you. He’s now in charge of looking after you. That’s how it works around here.