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Trying to calm his own encroaching panic, Tart begins to go down the standard treatment admission list.
Assessment: What's the problem?
Twisteds are dangerous, this is fact, and as obvious as can be. There are very few outliers, and are usually due to preexisting issues with the Toon. Twisted Scraps and Goobs are a pair, both capable of deadly stealthiness when it comes to hunting.
The poor Goob, Cotton, is already halfway to twisted, sclera tinged a soft pink, inky black tears staining the soft plush that makes up his body. That's not the dangerous part, far from it. Perhaps it could be the sharp teeth, bared in a grimace, but Goobs actually have one of the least amounts of biting incidents. Not to say it doesn't happen, but it's few and far between.
Diagnosis: It's already too late.
That's been decided by the others, mostly Cosmos, a handful of Gingers, and about... 3 Sprouts. Tart can't do anything to change that, no matter how much he wants to. Cotton is in the red, and the only thing to do now is preventive measures. Mama said it was damage control.
Care Plan: Removal.
Cotton is a standard Goob, a solid C grade. No massive defects, but certainly not perfect. He's one of the more sensitive Goobs, quicker to cry and get frustrated. But he's not himself, snarling and fighting against Papiermache, his Scraps, who's been desperately trying to hold him back. Obviously, they wouldn't send a Cosmo down completely alone with a soon-to-be twisted, with the standard disposal team also consisting of a Blot, for ease of escape, a Yatta, if one can be spared, for extraction, and a Rodger, for management and further research. That's just how it is.
Papiermache isn't a part of the standard team at all, but it'd be cruel to not let a Scraps say goodbye to her Goob. Tart has even heard of cases where they choose to stay with their Goob, refusing to go back up to the lobby.
The real problem is his arms, or more precisely, the black, extendable cables that make up them, and the looming, imminent danger they pose.
Implementation: But how?
Unfortunately, this is Tart's first time with such a process. It sounds pretty straightforward, but...
Dottie, a much more experienced Blot, puts their hand on his shoulder. "Don’t freeze up now, baby. Have gotten far enough." They squeeze, unable to smile, "Try not to think so hard." They're older, as Blots tend to last quite long. They've been doing most of twisted wrangling, keeping them away from the soon to be just as dangerous cargo.
Tart swallows. Right, they would know. Mama said he picked out one of the older teams, one that would be able to hold his hand through the process. But he's a Cosmo, he doesn't need his hand held! He just needs to get this over with, and out of this damn elevator!
He tries to remember what Big Mama, the oldest Cosmo, told him. He's been working so hard, to be a proper healer, maybe even one of the nurses, the Cosmos that stay in the infirmary all day! Usually, only the A and B grade Cosmos are nurses, but there have been exceptions. Then he won't have to go on runs anymore, won't have to fuss with his Sprout about taking care of himself. He hates the machines, but helping, healing, that's his entire purpose!
It's a lot easier if it's saving future runs, isn't it?
Cotton, with bloodshot eyes, strains against his sister's grip, who's crying her own tears with such fever that she's at risk of melting herself.
The first incision is always the hardest, that's what Mama said.
Tart checks over his supplies, arranged neatly into a medkit. Mama quizzed him, as he packed it, saying that every little detail is important, that the rules were written in blood, and he'll certainly never be a nurse if he fucks this up. It's supposed to be simple, but what medical procedure is?
Gauze, for any smaller nicks and scrapes his team might get during disposal. Antiseptic, given that infection is how they all ended up in this situation in the first place. Duct tape, because they aren't going to throw Cotton out of the elevator with raw, open wounds, but they don't have the time for stitches. Most importantly, the shears themselves. Usually, a scalpel would be expected for this sort of operation, but it's genuinely just easier to snip them off, rather than the delicate slicing. He watched Mama sharpen these, just for him.
Out, and in.
He holds his breath.
Papiermache doesn't let go, solely letting out wordless sobs. Cotton is too far gone, and there's only one thing left to do.
The shears are red, a bright, almost cherry sort of color. Sharp enough that it shouldn't be too difficult. Tart hopes that, at least. It'd be a shame, if all of Mama's work was for nothing.
Careful not to nick Papiermache, Tart slides the blades over the first arm. He can't manage to keep his eyes open while cutting, but the sound, it's horrifying. Mama was right, to tell him not to eat before this.
Sinew snapping, ripping tendons, and the scream.
Tart can't tell if it's Papiermache, Cotton, or even himself.
He drops the shears as if they've burned him, and finds himself halfway across the elevator, unable to tell where spilled ichor ends and his own tears begin.
"Oh, Dandicus, they just had to send us down with a trainee..." Scrooge, the Rodger, murmurs, reaching to wipe the tears off of Tart's face, dabbing with a purple handkerchief.
Tart can't help his whimpering, "I'm sorry, I-" He hiccups, feeling his icing starting to melt from sheer stress, "I can't- I can't, I want Mama-"
Guava coos, "Aww, buddy! Don't be so mean, Scrooge, this one is only a baby, I think he's like four months!!" He can't even breathe enough to correct the Yatta, he's actually five.
His vision is already blurry with tears, when Dottie takes it over instead. "Hey, hey. Look here. It's alright, we gon' be alright. Just need to finish this."
"Dots, leave the infant alone, I'll just do the damn thing myself-"
"Ach! No! Ain’t doin' that!" They glare at Scrooge, making a vague shooing motion. "Talked to Big Mama, before this. Gots to do it himself." Dottie turns back to Tart, voice soft, "Yes? You a big boy. Gots'ta do it all by yourself. Then back to Mama, promise."
Tart swallows, and nods. Back to Mama, so very soon.
Dottie takes his hand, and all but drags him to the tangle the Crafts have gotten themselves into. Papiermache has what's left of her tail wrapped around her brother's torso, and is using herself as some sort of living tie. "A-any day nyow?"
Of course, she certainly doesn't want to rush Cotton's dismemberment, but she absolutely would like to minimize his suffering. His right arm is only half cut, stuffing and ichor spilling on the white tile floor. He still tries to move it, purely out of instinct and a growing desire for flesh.
Tart wills his hearts to stop feeling like they're going to rip out of his chest. Dottie hands him the shears, the metal feeling infinitely heavier then before.
Dripping with ichor, he fails to steady his hands. He's already done the assessment list! That's all he’s got for calming practices!
Screwing his eyes shut, Tart grips the shears, and tries again.
Cotton, poor poor Cotton, thrashes and howls, his screeches ringing in the Cosmo's head.
The cable finally gives way, snapping as it drops onto the ground with a wet thud, splattering as it adds to the already large pool of ichor. The thing wriggles disgustingly for a moment, movements reminiscent of a dying worm.
Tart does not look, he can't bare the idea, only peeking to make sure he gets the next one correctly.
The left arm cuts smoothly, falling away after only one attempt. It flops next to the other, squirming as it further smears ichor on the once pristine floor.
This time, Tart cannot look away, thinking only of how angry the Tishas will be, how badly his head seems to pound. The shears ring out when they drop for the second time, but by that point, he has long fallen on the floor behind them.