Chapter Text
Blood slowly oozes from your wounds. Bones protrude from your skin like daggers. If you were conscious to feel it, he has no doubt that you would be howling in agony. Yes, working your lungs to exhaustion… screaming, cursing... oh, how hilarious it would be, to watch the fallen angel grovel so.
But this… this, is just disappointing.
The Doctor sighs wistfully, the light from the monitor he’s currently inhabiting illuminating your broken body in an otherwise dark chamber.
“For all that you’ve clawed and fought your way here, it’s one unfortunate fall that finally takes the fight out of you,” he thinks aloud. “I almost feel sorry for you, little germ. What a wretched way to lose the game.”
You don’t reply, of course. Too busy (rudely) being half dead on the floor.
He gazes upwards, to the top of the long and narrow channel from which you must have fallen; a small pinprick of light within the black. From what he had been able to gather, the Prototype had detonated the ground below where you and experiment 1170’s counterpart had been left by Poppy, apparently relying on your being able to break your fall with your grab-pack somehow.
He curses. “That fool. What a pointless gamble to take with a life that’s so important to our project.”
According to all his data of you, you ought to have been able to rise to the challenge, though. Had you really been that shaken by Poppy’s betrayal? Or had it been something else that had caused you to freeze, or purposefully give in? Hm. Just when he thinks he’s got a read on you, you go and surprise him.
Inevitably, he knows this little miscalculation will cause problems for him, too. Despite having nothing to do with it, there’s little doubt that the Prototype will somehow find a way to blame him for this idiotic incident.
Again, he sighs, more annoyed this time.
“I suppose we ought to do something about you. Can’t leave you to rot in merry pieces… there’s work to be done.”
Although, this will definitely complicate things.
Threading his consciousness through the cables fixed to the wall, he reaches out to the closest one of his bodies. He feels it respond in kind, and rushes towards its presence, taking control. The odd, but by-now familiar, sensation of limbs that he can control but not feel wraps around his mind, cushioning it inside the metal frame.
He plods gracelessly through the corridors until he reaches the location of your mangled form. Ahh… it’s even more pathetic close up.
Careless of broken bones— they’re beyond repair anyway— he hauls you into his arms.
“As fragile as a mouse…” he contemplates. “Somehow, I imagined you to feel sturdier than that. Although— I suppose your current circumstances are far from favourable.”
His speakers crackle with a raspy chuckle, and he begins to move in the direction of his lab.
“Don’t worry. We’ll soon fix that.”
You dream. Of cold metal caressing your skin, of soft humming and hushed whispers. All the while, a strange, warbling lullaby plays around and around your head.
Hush-a-bye baby in the tree top…
There’s pressure. You’re not sure where; you’re not able to distinguish between any one body part. It’s all just one confused web of sensation. The only thing you know for sure is that there is pressure, at times almost overwhelming, fading for a moment only to return in force.
When the wind blows the cradle will rock…
But, there is no pain. No discomfort. Somehow, you feel calmer than you’ve ever felt before.
When the bough breaks the cradle will fall…
Calmer, yes, and focused— awareness as keen as the point of a scalpel. You’re suddenly hyper aware of every muscle, and every fibre. You can envisage how all these fibres weave together to shape these muscles, how all those muscles intertwine over bone to form limbs, twisting into arms and legs and feet and hands… and overlaying it all, you hear, you feel, the steady beating of your heart.
For the first time, your body suddenly makes sense to you. You find yourself thinking— marvelling at, really— the notion that in all your life you never even realised just how ignorant of your inner-workings you were.
…Down will come baby, cradle and all.
This awareness begins to die slowly, trickling away. Your mind begins to feel sluggish once again.
The lullaby, too, fades, and you feel yourself sinking down, down… and all around you is quiet. Your thoughts are as still as the shadowy world that envelops you.
Slowly, the darkness begins to pick you apart, unthreading the seams that hold you together.
Your very skin itself begins to unwind from your flesh like an apple peel, a spiralling ribbon disappearing into the void. Before long, you are nothing. Indistinguishable from anything else here. All you know now, and all you will ever know again, is this place of silence.
Just like the ones who haunt you.
The thought is so clear it feels as if someone had spoken it directly into your ear— and it’s enough to shake you from your dreams.
You startle awake, instinctually going to grab at yourself, shaken from the lingering images of your dream— but find you can’t move. The lack of autonomy compounds your fear, and you immediately begin scanning the area to try and make sense of your situation.
Your body is covered with a thin cloth; anything below your shoulders you cannot see, which is of no reassurance. A hard pressure against your spine tells you that you’re lying on an (uncomfortable) solid surface. Although you can’t persuade a single one of your muscles to move, you do still have sensation in your skin, so you can also tell that it’s cold. Metal of some kind, you think.
The room you’re in doesn’t give much away either. It’s poorly lit by failing lighting, and a small computer screen filled with silent static. There are plain looking cupboards and countertops fixed to the walls, and upon them are various pieces of bizarre looking equipment— but the shadows are too deep to make out details.
Your breathing picks up. The memories that come to you when you look for them are hazy. You remember Poppy turning away from you and running, and a very odd voice addressing you. In fact, from what you can recall, it sounded like several voices, all wrapped up in one.
Oh.
The Prototype. Yes, it had found you, trapped you— and then you fell. Is this… where you landed?
A sickly feeling squirms in your stomach. Did the impact paralyse you? But, you can still feel. Though… now you think about it, the sensation in some areas feels… off. Your legs in particular feel very numb.
Panic turns your veins to ice, and adrenaline begins to win out over logic. You begin struggling, desperately trying to push yourself to move, but it feels like squirming inside of a mould of yourself. It’s as if you’re just… frozen. Turned to stone, even.
You open your mouth to call for an ally, but your throat feels dry as sandpaper and nothing comes out but a broken yelp. No-one answers. So, you swallow your pride… and yelp your god damned head off.
Still, you remain alone; the only reply is a buzzing of the overhead lights.
You turn desperate.
Yells turn into shrieks, and then screaming, your mind rattling around in your unresponsive body.
“Goodness…”
You trade screaming for alarmed coughing, drawing in rapid, ragged breaths. That voice. No— but that can’t be right. You killed him, vaporised his organs for christs sake. But the familiar tone drawls on.
“…and here I thought you the strong and silent type.”
On a hunch, you turn your head to the computer you had noticed earlier. Sure enough, an eye stares back at you.
A shiver rattles your spine. “Dr. Sawyer…?”
“The one and only,” the voice purrs back at you. “But— why phrase it as a question? Oh, no… don’t tell me… you really thought you had killed me?” He cackles at you, dripping with mockery. “Your naivety is almost endearing.”
You don’t answer him, mind too busy racing through the possibilities. You destroyed his brain. His. Brain. While you weren’t at the centre of the project in its hay-day, you’ve seen enough in your past and present to know that the whole Bigger Bodies initiative had hinged on the successful extraction of the brain, in-tact. The other organs were important also, but none more so than it. So… how?
“What did I tell you? You know far—“ he pauses for dramatic impact— “less than you believe.”
He had. And now you feel the fool for dismissing it as a taunt and not the warning it was. You begin straining again, trying in vain to overcome whatever affliction had seized your body.
“Ah, ah… none of that,” The Doctor chides. “Struggling won’t get you anywhere; I’ve given you a little something to keep you still for now. By all means… keep trying to fight it. But it will only end in tears.”
Drugs. He had drugged you. Of course he had. The fear you feel is rivalled only by the seething anger. This pretentious dick, always chasing control… but you’re even more angry at yourself. You should have seen this coming, and found ways to avoid it. Now it’s too late, and you’re little more than a fly in his— and the Prototype’s— web.
But, realising it to be best that you conserve your energy, you reluctantly obey him and stop raging against the chemicals poisoning your blood.
“What—“ you swallow drily— “are you going to do with me?”
The question makes him chuckle again, soft and ominous.
“Why, my dear Angel. …I already have.”
Terror claws up your throat with every breath. There’s nothing you want more than to be able to move, to look at yourself, to flee this awful place. Gods, what has he done to you? A painful buzz jolts down your spine when you try, harder than ever, to make your limbs obey you, and you groan.
Your captor tsks, eye rolling. “Didn’t I warn you?”
“What— what have you done with my body?” You spit, smothering your anxiety with fury.
“The kitten hisses at the tiger. How frightening.” This time he giggles, sounding a little unhinged. “There’s no need to worry, my hot-headed little pet. I am a doctor, am I not? I simply healed you. Shattered bones and torn up skin… those legs of yours weren’t serving you any use any… more.”
The implication of his words makes you want to vomit.
“You— “ horror and anguish and then blazing hot rage overwhelms you— “you cut my god damn legs off?!”
“Temper, temper,” Sawyer almost coos, “no need for claws… have you any comprehension, of how far you fell? There wasn’t any coming back from that… not unscathed.”
…How long were you falling for? You barely remember. You just remember… acceptance. Accepting that you had failed, accepting death— that you’ll go, unredeemed, straight to the deepest pits of hell. Well. Looks like you were half right.
“You’re very lucky to be alive, little germ,” he interjects, “very lucky indeed. A spectacular landing, I must say.”
Unlucky, you mentally correct. There could be nothing fortunate about lying on what you’re now sure is a surgeons table, paralysed from the shoulders down, and at the mercy of this utter psycho. Better dead, than the Doctor’s test subject. Better anything.
“Take comfort. I didn’t leave you without anything. Once you’re recovered enough that I can trust you to move around without ruining my handiwork— you’ll see.
For now though… back to bed with you.”
Before you can begin to speak another word, you hear the tell-tale clunks and squeaks of valves being turned. Then, confirming your suspicions, a subtle hiss begins to whisper into the cold room. The air begins to turn red, and once again you start struggling.
“Harley you bastard—!”
His laughter is back, utterly shameless in its mirth. The red creeps closer, gas curling into your lungs and bringing tears to your eyes. Your chest feels about to pop, each breath making you cough and gasp and curse—
“Sweet dreams, little mouse.”
The world fades once more, leaving you suspended in a crimson sea.