Re-visit to the Doctor

Bach stumbled through the door and fell down, bracing his impact with his knees and left hand. He could feel blood in his lungs, a need to cough overwhelming his senses, and he coughed thick globs of blood and tissue onto the floor, suppressing a need a to vomit as his viscous insides mixed with the foul stench of the room. He looked over at his hand, a blood-soaked mess, missing this third finger with a bit of bone punching through the mess and almost touching the grime and bacteria that landscaped the disgusting room; trash and mold rolled around like hills, a mountain of bacteria-ridden clothes and cardboard over past the moldy hills, and skittering around the room, insects, beetles, and rodents, feeding on the refuse and vileness that permeated the air like a plague waiting to happen. If he didn’t die of blood loss, internal bleeding, or a heart-attack from Long Haul pumping adrenaline into his body like an IV of sleeplessness, he would certainly die of infection.

Lacking the strength to stand, Bach pulled himself along the floor, trying hard not to let his intestines touch the filth just below them, his right hand holding them back as would a dam. And, much like a dam breaking under stress, blood trickled through his fingers; thick and dark, it would make him worried, if his mind could feel worry anymore. Finally, his strength lost, Bach turned around and looked up at the ceiling, letting his innards fall back into his body. The ceiling was dripping a foul-looking water and Bach assumed that would be it. He had to call for help, he knew. He tried to speak.

“Brgghl. BRGGHLAAAA!” All that came out was gurgling and sputtering, blood fountaining out of his mouth and splattering on his face. This is it, he thought as dark, wretched-smelling water splashed into his mouth, mixing with his blood. As Bach laid on the floor, his spirit broken but his eyes wide open and in incredible amounts of pain from the Long Haul, he thought about the interrogation with the Johnson. If only I had a little more time…

Just then, a metal claw reached past his vision and gripped his face below the chin, another claw digging into his shoulder and dragging him towards the door. As he passed the threshold of Dr. Kratchen’s door, a beam of light cleaned off the bacteria and foulness accumulated from the room. Soon Bach sat in the unnaturally white and clean room, blood pooling on the floor.

“I was wondering how far you would be able to pull yourself, Mr. Bach. Very interesting, you are. Quite the will to survive. And oh, the anti-bacterials you’ll need now! How much fun we will have, you and I. I look forward to this.” Dr. Inquis Kratchen’s voice cracked with glee and anticipation. Bach wondered what awful thing would happen to him. Will I even survive long enough to threaten him?

“Yoghas grlhahsd odnmoc…” Bach tried his hardest to say something menacing, trying to reassure Dr. Kratchen that he would be killed if he did anything strange. Instead blood and a bit of muscle oozed out of his mouth. A bad sign.

“Save your strength, my dear Mr. Bach. You’ll thank me later for all the adventures we’ll be having. Oh yes, many, many adventures.” The Doctor’s spidery metal hands reached down and pulled him up onto the operating table, blood leaking out of new puncture wounds caused by his metal fingers. Bach groaned in fresh pain. The Doctor laughed, grating metal from his cybernetically enhanced voice-box causing Bach to finally snap his eyes up at the Doctor.

The Doctor looked more maniacal than ever, whether from pain-inspired delusion or recent technological additions, Bach wasn’t sure. His eyes seemed to have more gears and lenses than before, the empty cavity where there should bulbous inquisitive eyes having only a metal frame and strange pincers that moved lenses around and shined different colored lights down at him. His neck transitioned from skin into metal, a shining steel trap where a voice-box should be, small pumps assisting his esophagus and windpipe now that the muscle tissue had been removed. His grin frightened Bach in a way nothing ever had; it portended a journey of agony and horror. God damnit, why did I come here?

“Shhh,” the Doctor’s voice rattled and ground out the unassuring noise, “don’t worry. When we are done here, you’ll be stronger, better! I’ve always wanted to try a few things, inventions of my own you understand, and since you seem so agreeable, perhaps it’s time to see how far my surgery can really go. And don’t worry, you’ll walk out of these doors quite healthy.” Bach started to slide himself out of the operating table when metal straps appeared from the sides, pinning him in place and holding his arms tight against his body. The Doctor walked up alongside the table with a picture of Bach’s entire skeletal structure, a cart of metal, cyberware, organs in frozen blocks, and surgical tools sitting ominously at his side.

“It will certainly be interesting for you, considering I can’t give you any pain medication. The stims would interact very poorly with all that Long Haul in your system. No matter, you dragged yourself here, I’m sure you can take a…. small amount of pain, can’t you?”

The Doctor smiled and chuckled, his laugh resounding off the hollow walls of his throat and piercing Bach’s soul with promises of pain like he had never experienced.

Re-visit to the Doctor

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