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It’s not as though he hadn’t heard it. In fact, he had heard it every time.
The pleas for mercy followed by a solid crack to the skull, the desperate cries turning to whimpered apologies. The sniffles and hiccups that meandered past his room, the sound of stumbling as the child’s balance failed him, the beratement from the assailant trailing not far behind.
It wasn’t new. Indeed, it was more akin to a cycle. Once he’s heard something break, or the thump-thump-thump of little feet sprinting, he knew exactly what was to occur.
Shouts. Smacks. Then quiet.
Sometimes he’d sit back and process the sound of the hit. How bad had it been, based on nothing but what he could hear? Did the skull fracture? Did the eye rupture? Did the boy’s jaw fall slack? Some sounded softer than the others, some sounded harsher. Some preceded a fall. Others were wet with blood. He’d map the image in his mind and let the possibilities dance, fingers tapping and twitching as he weighed the benefits of seeing for himself.
It’s not as though Henry would be pleased with his presence. They’d already had their confrontations. Should he risk another for something the boy may recover from just fine?
…At what point would Henry grow too careless? At what point would his intervention be necessary? At what point would the wariness toward an altercation be ignored for the sake of the boy’s survival?
Would he be able to tell based on nothing but the reverberation off the walls?
He supposes now he would have his answer.
He heard it, of course, when the blow was dealt. The one-two clap of mallet before wall. The boy must have been struck hard enough to be subsequently bashed into the hall; enough to leave a dent, perhaps. He then heard the dragging of feet as the boy returned to his room, the soft click of a door closing, and then nothing but silence.
He’d considered it, then, what the damage would be. How poorly the boy must be faring. Concussion is obvious, too simple and clean; what else would there be to concern himself with, should he be needed? Linear fractures of all shapes and sizes, perhaps a break straight through the zygomatic arch. The chances of significant injury along the base were low, given Henry’s height and striking range. However, the hairlines throughout the skull must be plentiful by now, interlocking together in a delicate puzzle waiting for the right shock to send them shattering…
Had this been it? Had there finally been a cave? Would the boy even know, or would all the pain meld together, an ache too familiar to differentiate from the rest?
Well, the questions he’d had weren’t enough to get him to stand. To peel himself away from his project and set it aside for a check-in. After all, were it truly a problem, it is not as though the child was unaware of where he resided. Memory lost or not, the curiosity would drag him back every time.
He would figure it out. He was a smart child.
…And then the silence stretched. On and on, an almost pristine quiet. It was nice, in a sense, as all distractions had been done away with. Instead of mulling over what could be happening just outside his study, he could work unburdened by the sounds of whines and cries and snarls. The world became little more than himself, the flesh beneath his fingers, and the assurance that the Beast he resided in still lived through the occasional shifting of the walls.
Perhaps if he were not so invested in what he’d already been doing, he would have noticed the time passing sooner. He would have found it strange that several days had passed without him hearing the child’s voice. He would have finally made an effort to detach himself from the viscera of his duties and step into the role of someone who felt concern undulled by medication.
But he did not. Instead, what drew his head up and attention away was the sound of claws rasping at the portrait that blocked entry to his hovel.
“Damn thing,” A harsh voice grumbled, frustration evident in the way it clearly curled past grit teeth. “Hell do I even have this here for?”
And before the Surgeon could properly turn to address the attempt at intrusion, said attempt became a successful entry. The portrait was ripped ungraciously off the wall. It clattered as it was tossed aside.
Had the Surgeon eyelids left to blink with, they would have done so incredulously.
There stood Henry, snout wrinkled in distaste, lip pulled back in clear display of all his teeth. Unfocused eyes peered pointlessly through his glasses as he scanned the room, clawed hand finding a place to rest on the ledge, before he must have caught sight of his target through the haze.
“You,” He gruffly stated. “You fix shit, right?”
Well, that is an informal way of putting it. They would describe it in more pleasant terms, if they might be so bold. Finding they did not have the wits about them to do so, however, they simply nodded.
“In a sense.”
A phantom brow raised up their head. Do they dare to believe it, that the time has finally come?
“Do you require my services?”
“Why else would I bother with you?” Henry bit back, claws digging into the only thing separating him from them with a ferocity that suggested he wished it didn’t exist there. “You’ve been squatting here too damn long without some sort of payment. This is the least you could do, for how long I let you stay here.”
It is in the Surgeon’s best interest that he does not point out the fact he has lived here longer than Henry has. No matter how the urge tempts him. He is not foolish enough to believe himself above those who Henry is willing to take out his anger on.
“What is it you ask of me, then?” He let his full body turn, clasped his hands together and gave Henry his full attention. “Do you wish for sighted eyes, or a straightened spine? I have not had experience improving upon a member of your species, but—”
“You’re not getting anywhere near me,” Henry snapped. “I don’t need any ‘improvements’ from you. You’re here to fix this.”
Finally, his other hand raised, and the Surgeon’s mind went blank.
There, cupped limply in Henry’s grasp, was the boy. He was still. Unmoving. Silent. His hands and feet lay useless at his sides, his chest did not rise with breaths, and through his eyes were open, they were wide, glazed, and unmistakably empty.
Even from where the Surgeon sits, the cause was blatant. His head was split, a massive gash seen carved down the center of his skull. Dried blood surrounded the wound; an obvious trail having poured down as gravity dictated. Tissue and bone sit exposed, messy and crushed, and the smell –
The Surgeon abruptly stood, chair shoved out from under him as he approached Henry and the corpse he held. His own hands then raised before hesitating, attention forcibly recentered back onto the hostile lizard before him.
He’s never been one for peacefully handing off what he considers his property. They couldn’t know for certain what reaction he’d have to them taking the body from him.
“Hell are you standing there for?” Henry thrusted his hand forward. “Take it. Do your job.”
It.
The Surgeon said nothing to that. He just wordlessly scooped the boy out of Henry’s hand and into his arms before making a sharp turn back toward the operating table.
“What happened?” He set him down, angling his head back just slightly so he could hear any response. “How long as he been like this?”
He heard a snort, then a pause, before Henry answered.
“Few days,” Vague, unhelpful. Leaves too much room for error. “Couldn’t tell you exactly.”
“Estimate.”
“Is it that damn important?”
“Yes.”
Henry aggravatedly sighed. The Surgeon ignored his irritation to let their lights flicker to life before he leaned in close for better inspection. He was fairly certain he could see straight through to brain material.
“…Three days,” Henry landed on after a moment of contemplation. “Could’ve been longer. I don’t know or care.”
Three days. The Surgeon pulled back again to rest a hand on the bridge of their nose. That would explain the smell and beginnings of decomposition. This late stage, revival is complicated. It’s needlessly complicated. This could have been so much easier if Henry had come to him sooner.
He supposed lingering on what could have been would be useless, however. Both to him and to the child. The longer he waits, the worse it’ll be, and the less there will be left to reliably salvage.
Why couldn’t it have been the other one? Some cruel, selfish part of him thought. It’s not as though Henry would have the intelligence to tell the difference between the boy and the clone. Had the latter just been in his place, the magnitude of the problem would be far less. This one is too precious, too important. He has use for me. I will not be able to repair him back to how he was.
…Though perhaps I can make adjustments…
“Can you fix it or what?” Henry’s voice rudely interrupted his thoughts. He let his hand drop back to the table, gaze soon falling as well. The poor, weak thing at his hands would never be the same after this. Such is the cost of resurrection. But…
“Yes,” He assured. “He will be different. He may not remember much. But he will live.”
The terrible sound of claws releasing their grip on the wall greeted him, then. He was not optimistic enough to believe that was born of relief. Henry did not harbor that sort of emotional attachment to things. The most the Surgeon could surmise was that it was satisfaction that earned him that response.
“Good,” Henry grunted. Then, as though it was an afterthought, “So long as it comes out alive, I don’t care. Do whatever you want.”
“I’m surprised you care he survives at all,” The Surgeon quipped. He was unable to stop himself that time. He stepped a little further away to fetch his surgical kit, and certainly not to avoid any oncoming attacks. “You do not seem the sentimental type.”
“Watch it,” Henry warned. A dull thunk followed his words, likely from his tail hitting the ground. “I’m not going to toss something because it breaks, even if it’s as annoying as that boy. Would be a damn waste.”
A waste. As though the boy is a material. Something to be applied, to use, to own, and not to care for.
…It bothered the Surgeon how he found himself seeing the logic in that. It is not as though he was innocent in the matter. Regarding the boy as a tool with a purpose is hardly better than seeing him as a toy or a pet. Though the Surgeon dismissed the concept almost as soon as it struck him.
His intentions are better. Grander. Far beyond anything Henry is even capable of conceiving, let alone carrying out. What he planned for himself and the boy would be for the betterment of all, for the betterment of the world, and for that, his methods are justified.
He would never be so brutish as to turn to physical reprimands, either. This would never even be a possibility in his care.
Which is why it’s a wonder the boy wasn’t in his care to begin with.
“I’ve got shit to do,” Henry lied. At least, the Surgeon can only assume as such. “Get this done and I won’t leave you looking just like him. Which is pretty generous of me, all things considered.”
The Surgeon had already splayed out his tools. His had had already begun to hover over the forceps, plan stitching together in his mind for how he would go about removing any foreign material before delving any deeper. The concept of refusing this “commission” hadn’t even occurred to him.
He raised his head up to Henry for all of a moment, expressionless mask painting a picture-perfect image of how he felt toward that threat.
“It will be done. Leave me, now. I will need space while I work.”
Henry rolled his eyes, but any further comment he had was kept muttered beneath his breath. He did linger for a moment, however. For just long enough, and with just enough attempted focus on the boy, that the Surgeon may have been so curious as to question Henry’s capacity for empathy further.
He did not, of course. Though the intrigue would plague him.
And once he seemed through with whatever it was he was thinking about, Henry turned and stalked away, heavy footsteps fading as the Surgeon was left to his lonesome once more.
…Well. Not quite his lonesome.
“Rodger Thompson. Age nine, presented seventy-two hours post-mortem,” He recited aloud to himself, one hand grasped around the forceps while the other gently lifted his patient’s head. “Cause of death, blunt force trauma via mallet. Resuscitation procedure requested.”
Click, click, tick, tick.
“Begin.”
The child woke up approximately two days later.
He did not remember his name, nor his whereabouts, or who any resident of the house was. As any child reacts when placed in an unknown situation, separated from those who love them and in pain, the first thing he did was cry.
His mood did not improve when the Surgeon handed him back to Henry. That was to be expected. But the child could not stay with them; they had their own work to do, and Henry would be none too pleased if they “stole” from him in such a blatant manner.
The child’s crying was met with the usual.
And since then, he hasn’t cried again.
He has coined a different name. The Surgeon has no theories as to where it came from. All he knows is that the total shift in the boy’s demeanor falls almost entirely upon his loss of memory and surgically-implemented modifications.
He is smarter now. Wittier. More resilient, too. The next the Surgeon heard that sickening crack of the mallet, it was considerably muffled. Duller. No less painful, he’s sure. But the skull did not give this time.
Good. That was the objective. With that, the boy will be fine for longer. He will not require their assistance again. They will not have to put aside their work to fix more of Henry’s mistakes, and he will be all the better for the goals they have in mind.
So, there is no reason to dwell on guilt, or shame, or any such emotion they should not be able to feel anymore. They were given a job. The job was fulfilled. The intentions of his client should mean nothing to him. The fact he can remember what the cries sounded like contrasted with the obedient quiet he hears now should not haunt him.
He will be fine. After all, he’s a smart boy.
He can figure it out.