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“Moira?”
No reply. Reaper sighs, struggling against the straps holding him down: he can’t really see the scientist with the gurney facing away from her desk, and the heavy robotic arm cutting away at his spleen, but the sound of her nails clicking on the lab screen tells him she’s either too absorbed in her work, or just straight up ignoring him.
“Hey, Moira? Doc?” Nothing. He winces as the robot makes a sharp cut against his small intestine, instinctively moving away from it. “O’Deorain!”
“Huh?” The woman finally stops writing her report, but Reaper doesn’t hear her move from her desk. She sighs instead, as she often does when dealing with him. “What is it now, Gabriel?”
“The anaesthetic.” he grunts, trying not to let Moira’s annoyed tone get to his nerves. A claw starts tugging somewhere inside of him.
“Did it wear off?”
“What do you think?” He gestures as much as he can to the screen to his left, a red warning sign flashing on it every other second indicating the IV bag attached to it is empty.. “That fucking thing has been going off for the last thirty minutes, now!”
“I see…” There’s a pause, and then he hears the other start tapping on her screen again.
“Well?” his deep, growly voice sounds even more menacing than usual. This time, Moira sighs loudly, her hands slapping on her desk.
“Can’t you hear I’m busy?”
“Seriously?!” Reaper trashes on the gurney, the straps squeaking at the hinges as his hands ball up. “Moira, if you don’t come here right now…”
“I mean, is it that necessary?” She starts writing once again, her nails clicking more ferociously than before. “I’d have to pause the surgery bot, and rebooting that arm takes such a long time-”
“Wait, what? You can’t leave me like this!”
“- and besides, it’s not like you’re feeling that much pain, is it? It would be pretty useless to numb you up again.”
Reaper would like to retort, to let her know that while he’s not in excruciating pain he can still feel every single cut of the scalpel on his tendons, that it’s very uncomfortable to feel as the arm grabs at his heart and prods around to check if it’s still pumping correctly. But his reply dies on his lips, leaving him looking at the ceiling with his mouth hanging open in a ridiculous way. Admitting any kind of discomfort feels worse than anything that piece of junk is currently doing to him.
He closes his mouth instead, his lips pursed in a thin, disappointed line.
“Make it quick.”