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The pain struck him before full consciousness did.
The way his head throbbed and swam. The jagged, unrelenting ache across his torso, like he was actively being sawed in half. The bright shock of fresh agony with every jolting motion.
Someone had him clutched in their arms, and together they were careening forward at full tilt, cold wind tearing at his wounds like raking claws. For a moment he thought it might be M-24 carrying him, but the form was too narrow, and there was a different energy to it, sharp and intent the way it scythed through the night air.
M-21 opened his eyes to a billow of golden hair and the front of a collared shirt, normally starched and pristine, now stained with something that looked dark and irrecoverable under the moonlight. That alone might have explained the cold and furious set of Frankenstein's face, but he thought there was more to it.
It came back in fragments, shocky pain breaking up his attempts at recall like the harsh hiss of static. Volunteering to go with Frankenstein and his master to the Union base, to keep the attention off M-24, who wasn't well enough yet to fight. The long, abandoned hallways, empty but for the bodies left strewn like trash. And at the end of them, Dr. Crombel himself— the glint that came to his eyes when he saw M-21 with the intruders, that cruel, triumphant smile when he knew he was about to send your world tumbling down—
Oh god. Oh god, no.
"What Crombel said," M-21 gasped, or attempted to. His voice stuck to his throat like a dried reed, but he had to try. "It wasn't true— I didn't— I never—"
Frankenstein glanced down with cold eyes, before turning his attention forward. "Don't speak."
Panic gripped him, followed by a new surge of pain as he struggled to move, squeezing Frankenstein's arm like a tight hold could make him understand.
"I wasn't— spying—" M-21 choked on another spasm. He realized suddenly that Frankenstein was somehow cradling him with the strength of a single arm, that the other was on top of him, manicured hand pressed firmly to what must be a gaping wound in his gut. "You can't believe him—"
Frankenstein didn't even look down this time, and M-21 became abruptly aware how pitiful his denials must look. Crombel had put the idea into their heads, that M-21 had been planted there as a Union spy, that he'd worked his way into their household on Union command. It wasn't even an outrageous accusation, was the thing. If it would have bought safety for him and M-24, he might have considered it, if the Union had ever offered. He knew it, Frankenstein knew it, which meant that though he was by chance innocent, all protesting did was make him look more suspicious. Since when had anyone ever believed him, anyway, just because he said so?
As the house swam into view, M-21 was reminded of the first time he'd seen it, only a few short days ago. Frankenstein had been carrying M-24 that time, and had paused on the doorstep to unlock the front door, while M-21 warily waited to find out what shape their new captivity would take.
This time, Frankenstein didn't stop or even slow. Merely angled his shoulder forward—the one M-21's head wasn't leaning against—and slammed straight through the door, forcing it open with a splintering crash. M-21 couldn't have been more shocked if he'd simply been dashed into it like a battering ram. Frankenstein was nothing if not scrupulously fastidious with his things, and fought with deadly weapons, not his own body. He must have been in a blind rage to be so callous with his belongings—which promised nothing good for M-21, still clutched his grasp.
M-24 came running out at the commotion, but Frankenstein didn't pause to acknowledge him, only veered off toward a section of the house they'd never seen. With Frankenstein on the warpath, M-21 tried to catch M-24's gaze, warn him with eyes alone to stay away. But M-24 didn't take the hint, only raced after them, footfalls hurried and uneven. He shouldn't even have been out of bed yet, but here he was, charging into danger, all because of M-21.
Earlier, Crombel had called M-21 out as a traitor. Denying that would do him no good, but maybe if he admitted to something, he could at least spare his friend. He pulled at Frankenstein's arm again and rasped, "It was just me. M-24 had no part in it. You have to believe me. How the hell could he do anything, when he was dead half the time?"
"You're speaking nonsense," Frankenstein said, in no mood to listen. "We need to get you down to the lab."
Lab.
The word alone silenced M-21 like a second stab to his gut.
Of course Frankenstein would have a lab in his home. M-21 had spent his whole life in the Union, with scientists like Frankenstein. To them, a laboratory was as good as a dungeon or interrogation room. After Crombel's revelations, it only made sense that was the fate hurtling towards him. If only M-24 weren't foolish enough to follow. If he could only take the opportunity to get away, leave the house, leave Korea, M-21 might at least have that comfort to hold on to, through what was to come.
An elevator yawned open for them near the back of the house. Dashing inside, Frankenstein immediately jabbed a button to close the door; if M-24 hadn't put on a burst of agility and thrown himself in, he would have been left behind. The elevator descended at a lurching speed, and M-24 only had a moment to look over M-21, eyes going wide at what he saw, before the doors opened on a pristine white laboratory, no smaller than the Union's sprawling facilities. At the Union, M-21 had known what every single machine did; could recall the feel of half of them on his flesh. He didn't know if it was better or worse that every hulking device here was unfamiliar, promising unknown and novel torments as vengeance for a spy.
He was lowered onto a gurney, and then with rapid, furious motions, Frankenstein peeled away his shirt and stretched something over his stomach, some kind of bandage. It ached where it clung to him, but also felt like it was holding him together, somehow. Frankenstein freed his hand at last from where he'd been pressing it to M-21's wound. It came away crimson in the light, and M-21 felt abruptly faint.
Everything after that was a flurry of activity, too fast for M-21 to track. The doctor peered into his jaw, or was pressing hard on his fingernail, or there was something cold on his chest. He noticed, though, when the familiar IV bag came out on its stand. He thought back to when M-24 was hooked up, how easily it left him open to whatever drug the doctor chose to put into his vein, and shuddered. M-24, looking on with hands balled into fists, must have had the same thought, because he flinched when the needle went in.
Before M-21 could think of some weak reassurance to give, he was wheeled head-first into some kind of scanning chamber that enclosed him to the chin. In the humming darkness, there came a series of steady beeps, and then just as rapidly he was pulled back out into the light.
Pronouncing him in no immediate danger of brain damage—"no more than than when you decided to throw yourself into the path of that attack, you idiot," Frankenstein couldn't seem to resist adding—the doctor wheeled him over to another room that he recognized instantly as an operating theater. The brushed steel fixtures, surfaces and drawers and cabinets, the glaring overhead light, the operating table at the center of it all—it was all seared so deeply into his subconscious, he was already shivering before he had actively registered how similar it looked to all the ones he'd known before.
As the doctor began to cut the clothes from his body, M-21 couldn't help the pathetic mewling noises that pressed their way out of him. The vulnerability of being exposed, the dread of what was about to happen, the stupid part of himself that had started to think he had escaped from all this—
Terror and panic lengthened his fingers into claws, and he tensed his arms, preparing to strike. He might only get one good shot, but if he was going to be dragged back into this, he was going to make it as hard as possible for the doctor, maybe even make him bleed for his efforts.
As Frankenstein bent over his work, M-21 seized the moment to lash out— Aim true, strike swift, never faltering despite the sharp lance of pain—Only for M-24 to suddenly appear, catching his wrists in strong hands, looking at him like he was crazy.
It took a moment for reality to assert itself, a moment of struggling against that grip, but then M-21 sagged, knowing his friend was right. However bad this would be, it would be infinitely worse if he were to resist, or, heaven forbid, even harm the doctor.
By then, Frankenstein had finished cutting away M-21's shirt, his last line of defense, exposing his stomach and chest. He looked over at the two of them, M-24 holding M-21's clawed hands, but there was no change in the grim set of his face.
"We're going to need to tie him down," he said curtly, nodding toward a cabinet at his side. "M-24, the straps."
Giving him a sick, helpless look, M-24 went to the cabinet as directed, though his steps seemed even slower than earlier. He knew how much M-21 hated to be tied down, even more than the pain of the treatments, but there was little he could do. Little that either of them could do.
Unaware or uncaring of the dilemma going on between them, Frankenstein came over and lifted M-21 from the gurney with that same easy strength, leaving the remnants of his shirt behind. He was set down, almost gently, on the operating table, and the familiar cold touch of it on his shoulders was almost enough to break him to pieces right there.
"Of course I can't put you under," Frankenstein said as he went, which was obvious. What would be the point of knocking him out for the torture? Part of the fun would be watching him writhe and react and, once they'd been into it long enough, finally dragging the screams out of him.
"But I'll give you some local anaesthetic," he added, which would have knocked M-21 flat if he weren't already down.
Why? He couldn't wrap his mind around it, unless it was to ensure that he complied with the interrogation. Put in that light, it almost half made sense. If he behaved, he got anaesthetic. If not—
It was a kinder form of torture than he could have imagined. For his supposed crimes, he was going to be subjected to whatever punishment Frankenstein had in mind anyway. If there was something he could do to earn a painkiller, to blunt even a fraction of the pain—
"I'll comply," he said quickly, as M-24 came back with his hands full of straps. "I will comply."
Frankenstein, turning to reach for one of the drawers at his side, stopped to give him a sharp look. "As long as you are on my operating table, your compliance is not a question, but a given. Understood?"
Cowed, M-21 gave a rapid nod. Had he said the wrong thing? Lost his chance at the painkiller? He'd thought he was only agreeing, but if he'd impossibly angered the doctor even more—
Frankenstein directed M-24 on where the straps went, and slid a drawer open to reveal a tray of implements laid out with his characteristic neatness. He selected a syringe, but M-21 couldn't help but inspect the other items arrayed: scalpels, needles, pincers. He knew exactly how each one would feel, but he didn't know the order in which they'd come.
As for the syringe, he couldn't decide whether its selection should give him fear or relief, whether it was the promised anaesthetic or something worse, to mark the start of the torture. Frankenstein muttered something brusque and imperative, and M-24 gave another helpless look as he paused in the process of tying M-21 down to roll him onto his side, exposing his bare back to the doctor. The sting came somewhere near his spine, a pinprick that hardly registered against the other pain, except for the fear as to what Frankenstein was doing to him.
If it was some kind of horrible venom— If it killed him, or paralyzed him, or put him in horrible, debilitating pain— Even worse than it currently was, anyway— He met M-24's eyes, which were so close now, almost like M-24 was embracing him, comforting him, rather than holding him still for the shot.
Then he must have gotten another signal from the doctor, because he set M-21 back down on the table, and resumed tightening the straps on his shoulders and legs.
M-21 had survived countless experiments, and the worst part wasn't ever the pain. There was a limit to how much a body could feel, and once he had been brought to it, M-21 could somewhat resign himself to the agony, grit his teeth and ride it out for as long as the doctors chose to keep him there. The worst part was the helplessness, not knowing if he'd walk away from this, and being unable to fight back, to resist, to so much as squirm in protest. He would rather have been torn apart than be tied down and held immobile for it, and had many times made things worse for himself by fighting back when the restraints came out.
But he wouldn't struggle, if it was his friend doing it to him. He even managed to choke back a sob as the straps tightened, pulling him against the hard table. If he didn't thrash against them, he could almost pretend they weren't there. Pretend he was choosing to lie so still. At least until the pain started in earnest and his body began to spasm involuntarily, trying to get away, and the bindings made themselves known.
Oddly, the pain seemed to be dulling. Maybe the injection had been the promised anaesthetic after all. A mercy? Or just the doctor's preference, to start gradually, before ramping the torture up?
Finally, without the all-consuming agony biting away at his ability to think, M-21 managed to take stock. He supposed he must have some kind of head injury, that was what the scan was for earlier. To make sure he didn't pass out during the interrogation, perhaps. And his abdomen—he couldn't quite remember what happened, but he thought he might have thrown himself in front of Crombel's attack, and taken it right to the torso. It was a miracle he was alive, much less not hurting anymore, at least not the gut wound. He was left with only the various minor aches and scrapes on his extremities, which was nothing in comparison.
He realized abruptly that the bindings were nowhere near as awful as he was used to. A series of bands, firm and snug over his shoulders, chest, and thighs, rather than wrenching his limbs out of their sockets. Had M-24 purposely gone easy on him, knowing how much he hated to be restrained? The fool. There was no need for him to attract Frankenstein's wrath, not when he was already simmering.
"Don't make him watch," he said weakly, with his still too-dry throat, as Frankenstein came over, pulling the tray of surgical implements with him. It detached from its drawer, and rolled over on its own stand with a faint but ominous clatter. "Please, you can do whatever you want, just don't make him watch." If M-24 could get away and not draw further attention, there was still hope for him.
But Frankenstein only snapped, "Focus on your own survival, before you worry about him."
Which made M-21 wonder if there was a chance he might survive this after all. If he was on his best behavior, if he submitted to the interrogation, answered the questions to satisfaction. If he paid for his crimes, Frankenstein might let him live.
It wouldn't be easy, half out of his mind with fear, strapped down, bleeding out. But it was better than he might have expected, with the accusations laid against him.
"But he's right." Frankenstein pulled on a pair of latex gloves and picked up the first scalpel, twirling it as if in unconscious reflex. "I don't need an audience for this. Take the elevator back up."
Instead of seizing the reprieve like he should, M-24 hesitated, clearly trying to think of a way to stay.
"Just go," the doctor snarled, pointing the scalpel at him. "I need to focus, and besides," he smiled nastily, "you won't want to see what happens next."
Despite what those words implied, M-21 could only sag with relief when M-24 finally nodded. They shared one last look over the doctor's shoulder, M-24 pale and rigid, but with a determined look of reassurance. You've been through hell before, that look said. You can survive it again.
As M-24 disappeared into the elevator, M-21 could only hope that was true.
At least his friend was safe from the immediate brunt of Frankenstein's wrath, and M-21 subsided, letting out a deep breath. It wasn't trust, but a combination of knowing he had no other choice, and a weak hope that he was still more valuable to Frankenstein alive, mostly intact, than he was dead.
"Do you feel that?" Frankenstein said, doing something to his stomach. "You should feel pressure, but no pain. Let me know if it starts to hurt."
Of course. That would be what Frankenstein was after, to hear his cries of pain and penance. But there was none so far. He wondered if he should make it up, pretend he was suffering horribly for Frankenstein's enjoyment, but he was half terrified that the doctor would have some way of knowing.
"It doesn't hurt, Doctor," he admitted, and Frankenstein nodded sharply and applied himself to changing that.
With Frankenstein's head bent over him, and M-24 safely out of the way, M-21 finally let the tears flow. Helpless to do anything about it, he laid there as Frankenstein peeled the bandage from his abdomen, targeting his weak point like any enemy would in a fight. There came the strange sensation of being cut open without pain. As though someone were running a hard finger over his skin, except it was gouging into him. He had known he'd end up back here, as much as part of him had hoped otherwise. The past few days had been like a dream, but he'd always kept one wary shoulder hunched. At least it was him on the table, and not M-24. And the strange thing was, though he waited for it to start hurting, the pain never came.
"You shouldn't even have been there," Frankenstein said as he worked. It was about time for the pointed questions to come, the ones M-21 couldn't answer, but that wasn't a question. He didn't know what to do with that.
"I'm sorry," he said eventually. But if apologies could ward off punishment, they had never worked for him before.
"You just had to insist on going with us, rather than stay here."
"I'm truly sorry," M-21 said, waiting for the interrogation to take its expected course. What was he doing there, how long had he been spying, what had he told the Union already and what did he plan to reveal. Nothing, would be his answer, and those denials would mean approximately nothing to the doctor as well.
But Frankenstein said little more until he finally stepped back with a sigh. He had worked through a number of tools, and cast his last one with the others in the now-bloody tray. As Frankenstein stripped his gloves, M-21 stole a surreptitious glance down. His stomach was cleaned, and the gaping wound had been neatly closed, with straight, even stitches. It was all he could see before the doctor came back with bandages, and began to layer them over the incision.
As much of an unexpected luxury the anaesthetic had been, it made him feel disconnected from his own body. He'd been through a thousand of these before, he knew what it felt like to be damaged, carved, altered, and could tell how badly from how much it ached. Numbed up like this, he had to wonder what it was the doctor had done to him under that clean, white dressing.
"Now that you're no longer in imminent danger of bleeding out," said Frankenstein dryly, dropping into a rolling chair like he was letting out a sigh. "Let's have another look at the head."
Rather than wheeling him back out to the scanner from earlier, there was one right in the surgery that swung out on a long arm, like a thick plastic cap with a display screen. Frankenstein brought this down to settle over M-21's head, where it hugged him scalp to brow, and it hummed in a familiar way as he turned it on.
"Talk to me," said Frankenstein, after a moment, absorbed in taking readings from the screen.
He no longer sounded quite so furious, so M-21 ventured, "What are you doing to me?" When silence met his question, he added, "I'm not going to fight you. I'm strapped down. I just want to know what you did. And what's going to happen now."
"I had a patient presenting with severe hemorrhage from an abdominal wound, along with potential traumatic brain injury. I first applied a hemostatic bandage to stop the flow of blood, then checked your airways, breathing, and circulation, including monitoring for cyanosis, irregular lung operation, and checking your capillary refill time at the nailbed. Next, I gave you a saline drip to prevent shock."
That sounded like Frankenstein was trying to fix him. As he went on to describe checking his skull and then stitching up his stomach, M-21 glanced down involuntarily at the bandages laid across his torso. But what about the interrogation? Or at least the punishment for his betrayal? Did it really make sense to fix him up only to tear him back apart?
"With that appropriately treated, I am now re-examining your head for signs of trauma or further deterioration since my initial exam. It was a matter of triaging which injury was most likely to leave you dead or permanently damaged. I trust you understand how serious matters were, that checking you for long-term brain damage made the bottom of that order of operations."
"Will I live long enough for that to matter?" said M-21 without thinking.
Frankenstein huffed into his readings. "Are you doubting my medical abilities?"
"I mean. Will you let me live? After what you heard from Crombel, you don't need me to explain myself?" Or beg for forgiveness? Or bleed to his satisfaction to earn it?
Frankenstein rolled over on his chair so he could look M-21 right in the eyes. It reminded him uncomfortably of being laid open under his scalpel.
"Are you reporting on us to the Union?" he said, which finally sounded something like the interrogation M-21 had expected. Normally they did this while they were torturing you, but this was effective too. Surrounded by cutting instruments, in the heart of the doctor's lab, there was no question what awaited him if he gave the wrong answer.
When he denied it, Frankenstein continued, "Are you planning harm to me or my Master?"
And then, when he denied it again, the doctor added, "Do you think that you could cause harm to either of us?"
About to delve into another round of denials, M-21 spotted the slow smirk on Frankenstein's face. That hadn't been a serious question. Perhaps none of them had.
"You've been living with us for days now. Crombel is a Union asshole, a stranger. Why on earth would I believe him over you?" Frankenstein rolled back over to his device, which had started to emit a slow, steady series of beeps. "More importantly, you were bleeding out in my arms. Why do you think I rushed you down here in such a state, even going ahead of my Master? Simply to torture you?"
Silence was the only response M-21 could muster, and Frankenstein sighed deeply, as if understanding it in the affirmative.
"You have nothing to fear from us. Either of you. When Crombel aimed that attack at my Master, you were the one who threw yourself in front of it. That was how you came to be so grievously injured in the first place. Even if you had betrayed us, even if you had spat on my face, I would have stopped at nothing to treat your injuries, for that alone. Do you understand?"
"But you were furious," M-21 muttered, "when you heard what Crombel said. I thought—"
"I was furious because an idiot got himself injured on our watch," Frankenstein said fiercely. "I was furious because despite knowing I could treat you in my lab, we were nowhere near it. I was furious because I thought you might die."
M-21 let that sink in for a long moment: both the words, and the emotion that bled into Frankenstein's voice at the end, something he would never have imagined the doctor to be capable of. Not for him.
"Can you undo the straps?" he said finally, quietly. "I really hate being tied down."
It wasn't something to admit at any cost, not to a captor, a tormenter, anyone who had reason to use it against him. Frankenstein only breathed in sharply at the request, and then got up to do so. "Don't go running around now. If you tear those sutures I worked so hard on, I might just kill you myself."
As the straps sprang free, M-21 nodded seriously. But the words didn't hold quite as much threat as they would have, just a day before.