Chapter Text
“If I may give a recommendation: tie this patient to the table.” A sharp voice from the doorframe stated, clear as the day of my first escape attempt. Unfortunately, it was not as hopeful.
Standing over me blinked a particularly short lady of equally short flaxen hair — holding the hue of the vast fields I had run through before I was shot down to the savannah’s prickly terrain — and a sincere countenance of naivety, or at least in comparison to Dr. Rayna. “This patient has been compliant. I don’t think–”
“I am not asking you to think. You do not know them.” Dr. Rayna’s eyes met mine like an impeccable sword met its target. Sitting upright upon my very own (delightful, I know!) operating table, I made the effort to look back with wide eyes and flutter my lashes. I even threw in a hopelessly pitiful head-tilt as she scrutinized me. Her hand rose to push my torso against the polyurethane foam mattress and lay me flat on my back. With much deliberation, I flinched at her comparatively slow motion, gaining an uncomfortable look from the blonde doctor. Dr. Rayna, keeping her hand and eyes on my abdomen, curtly added: “Just take my advice, supply the anesthesia, and call me in when they are ready. Understand?”
A sly smile crept up my face when the blonde doctor sucked in a breath and held it there in her lungs like a tight knot I could’ve felt in her throat. Despite her nod to Dr. Rayna, my act had–almost laughably– blatantly worked, and Dr. Rayna didn’t even know it. I had to force the corners of my lips down, which hurt to do but was necessary to conceal my radiating guilty joy. I could keep my appendix for at least ten more minutes then Dr. Rayna had arranged. And if I was lucky, I could crank that number up to a solid twenty (Yippee!).
“You will behave.” Dr. Rayna informed me. I half-heartedly nodded, which I should have, by now, expected would not be sufficient for her. Her hand traveled across my hospital gown: from my stomach to my chin in one direct, smooth advance until she had my face glaring right into the blinding surgical light from above. I squinted until my eyes were practically clamped. A thin, salty stream paved a flaky path down my cheek. “Say that you will behave with Dr. Archer.”
“I will,” I croaked–the hideous scratchy sound of a dying rat. From behind Dr. Rayna, pity overcame Archer’s maple-sweet eyes.
“You will what?” Dr. Rayna’s voice rose to what would be a threatening volume. In fact, I saw Archer startle from the corner of my eye. Fingers of sky blue latex-free rubber tightened around my face, digging into my cheeks, roughly demanding the return of my attention.
“I ‘will behave with Dr. Archer.’” Promptly I realized the missed opportunity to deck my words with air-quotes, but the regret was short-lived. Archer was watching and I had her fooled to hell. I had the rest of Dr. Rayna’s reliance on me— well, my body, that is— to make her job as hard as my life (a fair trade to have with someone whose presence was relentless. Whether Dr. Rayna ever clocked out was a mystery to me).
Dr. Rayna hummed thoughtfully then released my face with a harsh jolt, my head banging against the surgical table. I laid there idly, watching her cross the room in two wide strides, past Archer and my line of sight. “Do not be careless."
“Yes, ma’am.” Archer’s small voice replied. I could almost hear how differentially her hands were clasped at her torso. I knew Dr. Rayna was gone when Archer shut the door and let out that breath she had been holding. “How do you feel?”
“Fine.” I eyed Archer’s delicate movements as she leaned in to inspect my wakeful state. I knew from my dozens of prior surgeries that she was searching for evidence the sedative she’d given me was working. Much to her disappointment and none of my surprise, I felt perfectly fine. Juniper—bless his heart—had a wonderful tendency of forgetting to digitally update my records. And I had lied about my medications to go along with it.
“Hm.” Archer pressed her lips into a line thin as the needle she’d shoved into my veins. “It's been a few minutes. Do you feel any drowsiness?”
“No.” I said, feigning boredom. Archer straightened up towards the heart monitor, shot a quick glance at me, and then the computer where she had my file pulled up on the electronic medical records. She scrolled up and down at what was probably my prior–comically outdated– surgical information.
“Strange. We’ll wait another two minutes for the sedative to kick in. Is that alright?”
I nodded solemnly but almost laughed in her face. Not only because she was, for one, so gullible, but also because being asked whether something was ‘alright’ was definitely a first for me. What if I said no?--then what? I pondered on the thought for a long, quiet while. Archer would probably laugh like I had told her the funniest joke in the world and a moment later pretend to forget the request. But then again, I would be the joke to hope for any other reaction.
“Feeling sleepy yet?” Archer asked with a gleaming anticipation.
“No.” I must have dislocated my jaw trying not to laugh.
“Killjoy.” She muttered dimly, the bright candle of optimism in her warm eyes blown out by professional obligation. All that remained was the reflection of cold fluorescent LED panels from the ceiling above. Shaking her head, Archer said with a defeated smile: “Alright then. Another dose it is.”
I pushed my torso off the table shakily with my forearm. My vision faintly blurred into a disarray of lights and colors—innocuous but damn annoying. The flimsy hospital gown rustled against itself like crisp paper, and felt the part too. “O-oh, you don’t have to sit upright,” Archer stammered as my feet fell off the table, dangling midair. “It’d be better if I injected–”
“My arm again. Please.” I interjected, my head dipped unbecomingly low. Frizzy locks of my ebony hair curved into my jaw, dry from the sterile, disinfectant-laden hospital air.
Archer’s eyes naturally lingered on the prosthetic side where my skin and heavily-programmed metal met at a vague barrier. Her eyes turned to the floor in remorse when I cleared my throat at her. “Alright.”
I watched Archer approach the sink, gingerly peeling the gloves off her lean fingers and dispensing them at the adjacent trash bin. My attention then turned to the Mayo stand at the foot of the table, carrying various surgical instruments laid neatly upon the tray. The instruments captured the light from the troffers in their sleek metal through radiant, warped lines as a result of being put through thorough decontamination and deep cleaning. Standard policies exhaustively emphasized that the slightest mishandling of any tool could necessitate a replacement which was why I mustered however much of my remaining energy I had left to lunge across the table and tear the draping off the Mayo stand. Each individual instrument scattered across the marble tile floor in a discordant clatter of ruckus around the stand. The running water from the faucet came to an abrupt halt.
Staring at the mess then at me incredulously, Archer took a cautious step forward, her countenance mistaken with worry. Brutishly, I hissed at her and like a rat, scurried off the table, making a wobbly escape from the operation room. The ECG leads and IV lines ripped from my skin, leaving a sticky residue on my arm and chest. I shot out the door delirious and dizzy. The hallway was bizarre—a swaying corridor of moving checkered patterns on the floor. I shuffled across each tile in stiff fear before remembering that I intended to keep my appendix past schedule; I decided I wanted the full twenty minutes just then.
My already blurring vision doubled upon my aimless sprint down the hall where my footing seemed disgustingly wrong each step of the way. Whether or not I was hallucinating the flickering lights was beyond me, and trying to determine the answer churned my stomach up to a limit I did not need to know.
A short mechanical note played from a small, white intercom speaker at the end of the hall. A muffled masculine voice spoke through it in tired solemnity. “Murem recupara.” It had not even been three minutes yet. A frustrated cry absconded my throat in response. At a significant physical toll, I forced my legs to make a sharp turn at the corridor bend, fleeing the speaker’s proximity in a mindless terror. I regretted that decision before I could take my next stride. A sharp prickling pain pierced my head causing my body to limp, and after barely catching myself with the wall, a screen of eye floaters flooded my vision until I was almost as good as blind.
‘Move, damn it’ I ordered myself before a gloved hand snaked over my lips, pressing me against its owner’s shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I saw the fine end of a needle, slowly inching closer.
“Don’t move or this will hurt you more than it needs to…”