towerofanimus | Surgery

Entry tags:

*event,
[ou] romeo

Surgery

Characters: Romeo, France, Ψiioniic, Germany, Kanaya, Romana, Dean
Setting: surgical suite
Monday: Romeo; Tuesday: France; Thursday: Ψiioniic; Friday: Germany & Kanaya; Saturday: Romana & Dean (and therefore forward-dated as needed)
Format: either
Summary: Special experimentation.
Warnings: extreme descriptive body horror/trauma/general unpleasantness
Note: Use your thread header! It has your character's name on it.

They all start the same. The red-collared retrieval units show up again, whether by force or not you're removed from your cell and brought to the elevator, taken deeper into the tower, emerging into a surgical suite. Wordlessly, they strap you to an operating table and inject you with a liquid the same color as your collar. It will remove pain entirely, although your nerves still work in all other respects.

There are five of them, and they're preparing various tools and machines. It's not like you're going anywhere.

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[Skin was held back out of the way as the intestines were dropped into a bucket sloppily. From there the bladder, kidneys, and pancreas were snipped out, and the buckets switched--the intestines had taken up most of the bucket. As a new one was procured, the contents of the old were taken to be thrown away into a neatly labeled medical waste bin.]

[He had to clench his jaw until it ached to keep from screaming obscenities at them with every crude sound of entrails meeting bucket registered. The emptiness grew with every moment, every precise incision separating slick muscle from connective tissue. His head hurt from the overwhelming number of thoughts that were by no means as sluggish as the rest of him. Granted he couldn't move from the neck down and the comparison was all but moot.

There was a pause in the feeling of incessant prodding and tearing and he opened his eyes slowly, the sterile of the suite overtaking him once more and making him feel nauseous like a jolt against a brick wall. Sudden and all-encompassing, he had to take a few wavering breaths that seemed to hitch when he had the morbid thought of looking down and seeing the functioning organ in a much too intimate fashion.]

I do not care if it kills me; I will make it my goal to casually shove each and every one of you off of this abysmal HELLHOLE.

[He'd sounded casual until naming this place for what it truly was; eyes hard on the nameless drones that were currently gutting him. His lips curled when he saw the first bucket being dumped. His heart hurt and he gave another futile attempt to jerk free though he didn't know what he would do with the lower half of his organs currently in the bin. It wasn't as if he could guarantee his fluke for healing would surpass this surgery. The helplessness made his temper flare, continuing in the same tone he'd used so many times before, a mix between arrogance and anger and he was passed that point.]

I will be wanting those back you brainless beasts of burden. How dare you!

[Once the new bucket was in place, and without paying any mind to France's words, his stomach, gallbladder, spleen, and liver are next to be cut out. Then there's another pause in dramatic removal as extra veins and arteries are cut out, leaving him empty from the diaphragm down.

Then they pull out something that looks like a very small whirring saw.]

[France was not the grin and bare it type. He was also not the type to openly weep despite the theatrics he was prone to displaying at any other time. He was in shock both mentally and physically; unsure how the organs that remained hadn't faltered yet -- why he hadn't bled out in to oblivion was a completely worrying addition.

As for the red collars he may as well have been talking to a brick wall. He felt like he was talking to a brick wall. The only thing was, these walls seemed impossible to crumble and they were efficient to a fault.] Are you making me one of you? Hollow and mindless?

[He had meant it to sound biting, intimidating like the other attempts but with every part of himself that was cut away completely he felt the fight turn in to fatigue; he was weary. He felt at a loss greater than flesh and he wondered if they just wanted to experiment with how much they could take away before the whole was irrevocably broken.

There was no romanticizing this, no need to express some cliche line he knew he'd used in the past about laying himself open. That was all and fine until the point where a man literally lay open and hollowed out. Nobody would swoon and call him a philosopher now - they would say he was some macabre freak. That is, if he lived.

France caught sight of the saw before it grew blurry from the wetness he'd been so stubborn to hide. He knew, France did, of where that saw would go and what they would remove next. Just a hunch, really... He refused to watch, wishing that he could be blessed just this once enough to pass out, better yet, death. There was no way that he could tune out the quiet thrum of the saw but he did his best, turned his head as it was the only thing he could do, and hoped that he would wake up and this be some horribly perverse nightmare.

He would wake up. He would have wine on his terrace in the sun and enjoy a good novel. Perhaps bother some of his neighbors with a story from his past they probably thought was some imaginative fairytale.

And if he didn't... well, he prayed he just didn't wake up.]

[France's ribcage is cut--first the sternum is sawed in half and then his ribs snap apart one by one, to finally be removed in two pieces. His lungs are removed, left and right, flesh not even glanced at after its removal before being thrown away with the rest. One unit works on cutting apart and removing the diaphragm while the other removes the trachea and esophagus that remain. There's only his heart left in the chest cavity.

Then that's cut out, too.]

[The minute bone was cut in to his pride left and he sobbed, sounding somewhat hysterical - though the cries fall on deaf ears. Bits and pieces of him are detached and dumped and he can't even concentrate on feeling that increasing void inside of himself - because he cannot, in all truth, even believe that he is himself.

It reminded him of the way his home was (presumably) in ruins. Flattened to the ground, chaos as far as the eye could see, and now it reflected itself in the nation himself.

Lung were removed--he was free of the obligation to breath. Then it was the necessary pathways to organs no longer attached. Why was his heart still beating? He was, admittedly, a lech and a horrible man at his worst, but had he ever done something so bad to deserve this?

When his heart was removed and the companionable pulse - it had gone from rapid-fire to a dull flutter to silence - the Frenchman seemed to quiet. Resolute to simply fade. It killed him to just act as an unwilling spectator to dismemberment - that he hadn't even had a fighting chance. It wasn't the first time that he'd prayed in recent decades, but he hoped that someone was able to get past this place and run. Hell was looking like a favorable option, if he did say so himself.

He was so distracted in mourning that he didn't even contemplate what they would do to him next... didn't know there was a 'next'.]

[Sewing him back up was simple now--there was a lot of give in the skin that hadn't been there before, after all, and the units were skilled in their work. The black thread stood out obviously, though perhaps not so much as the way the skin sagged once they had finished.

A surgical retractor is procured as one unit forces his mouth open. The device is used to keep the mouth open and the tongue out of the way during various mouth surgeries--in this case, it's to keep him from preventing them from sliding a tube down into his empty chest cavity.

Another unit wheels over a large transparent container, in which a thick, black sludge sloshes around.]

[He wanted, more than anything, to take a stroll back to medieval days when he was a bit freer with a sword and a person's throat. He'd been content in his old age (enough, oh how he'd made excuse after excuse to fool even himself) to have others flock to him, to grow soft and accept that the golden days were long gone.

France tried to comfort himself in the thought of heads rolling as he was stitched up. The prayers had died even in his mind a few minutes ago and only violence remained. Hadn't the God he'd come to know been an angry one? Well, he certainly sympathized at the moment, but why pray to someone who had shown little compassion to he and his people in the past?

Damp or not, he turned his face (before it was to be forced, anyway) when another cart was wheeled out, eying the units and the contents of the container warily. It was strange to emotionally feel the spike of duress but have no gut-wrenching, pulse-pounding reaction; which he expected were to happen when his mouth was forced open. Oh, France had contemplated biting those unfeeling fingers - but strapped to the table, numb and hollowed out and unaware of how to escape, he was at their mercy.

A garbled groan was muffled out by the device and that's when it clicked.

There had been a reason they had gutted him. To make room. He started cursing anew, words indeterminable around the contraption holding his tongue back. When that failed he made an attempt at shouting which ended up being a battle not to drown himself on his own saliva. IF ONLY.]

[The tube is hooked to the pump at the top of the container, and the pump is turned on. The sludge is as thick as it looks, and the path from tube to mouth is slow. It bypasses his tongue as it finally reaches his mouth, then begins pumping into his chest cavity, filling it out more properly.]

[Let it be known that France is not appreciative of the sludge's slow advance along the tube. Let it also be known that while he now had an all-encompassing void within - and oh how great it was (he could genuinely say that he'd never felt quite as he felt now), he did not want that to fill it.

At first he gagged at the pressure on his throat. He would have taken a few steadying breaths to calm himself as best as possible, however...

The sludge settled in like tar, filling and fleshing out his abdomen. France should have found that part pleasing, the concave appearance would have been unsettling. Only it was being filled with a mysterious substance that he could only guess would do to his body.

What was left of it, that is. He wanted to thrash and scream but the funnel of sorts and tube in his throat kept him from doing anything outside of making muted sounds - not words, not moans - just what could be described as noise.]

[The sludge fills his chest little by little, the tube slowly slid back more and more, until it's starting to collect in his neck and finally filling his mouth partway. Some of it spills out onto the table, and proceeds to burn through it, and the floor below.]

[His throat clenched uncomfortably in panic the moment the thick sludge leveled up. For some unfathomable reason he thought they would have stopped before filling him to the 'brim'. Not that any of this was nice, but it would have been favorable if they had just filled the space they'd so graciously vacated. Mais non, they were truly experts of inflicting hell in whatever way they could.

They hadn't filled his mouth completely, no. He noted that it was enough that he would be stuck with his mouth closed like a damned mime if he wanted to keep the details of his surgery completely unnoticeable.

It was about that time that a bit of the pitch dribbled over and hit the table... and went through it with a noiseless plop. Eyes wide, he lay there in hope to not repeat this in fear of causing himself more damage. If he was being logical France would have noted that his throat was still intact. Better yet, the torso the sludge had emptied in to.

He felt heavy and hopeless, so much that the old adage of 'having a good cry' wouldn't bring relief. For having wanted to fight he now was immobilized by more than the medicine; he was terrified of what he now harbored thanks to the friendly staff of the facility that had supposedly saved him.]

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