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Blood Pact / Heart to Heart

• Unreliable summary: Zandik, or as the public knows him–Il Dottore, had invited you for a luxurious dinner in the middle of his personal study. Aside from the large table in the middle of the room, books were placed in random stacks—piling up as high as your waist, countless half-full mugs of cold caffeine were shoved to the side in a pathetic attempt at cleaning, and reports littered the room in chaos. It was far from the perfect place to dine, but possibly the most intimate one among the other choices. You’d choose the study over his blood-stained lab and the medical-smelling library where he stores ongoing experiments. For some reason, it felt like he was trying to impress you. And after being his assistant for many years, you knew he was about to ask something difficult of you. • Warnings: Yandere, unhealthy relationships, assistant!reader, fictional depiction of surgery, organ transplant, surgery without consent, dark fiction, DEAD DOVE DO NOT EAT, detailed surgery description, gore • Note: Coping with my surgery from a few months ago. By now, I’ve recovered from the procedure, but this truly is a statement to the mental horrors I’ve had to undergo with my 10th (and hopefully last ever) surgery. Dottore in Nod Krai… Wife, come home…

The second Harbinger is a peculiar man.

He possesses a dangerous level of intelligence and has a threatening charm that works unsuspectingly and is, in almost every case, harmful. After years of research, he has found a way to create segments of himself, each a part of him—all sharing the same mind, thus amplifying his presence to a ubiquitous level.

Be that as it may, the abundance of time he created is never enough. The Doctor despises any time separated from his lab; always engrossed in experiments, going from one project to another. Dottore does not allow his mind to rest—already occupied with the next greatest invention as he works on the last.

Ultimately, it makes sense why the Doctor’s assistant is the one to capture his affections. If not you, who else?

When you tell him you love him, you understand what that means... right?

A place filled with creation and destruction: Dottore’s study.

You stand in the doorframe of the entrance when your eyes fall upon the table in the middle of the room.

If it were any other day, you’d be here to fetch books, notes, miscellaneous items, and occasionally Dottore himself. However, today you’re the one being fetched. After an unusually eventless morning, he had tugged you with him, bringing you to where you’re standing now.

Endless thoughts spiral through your mind as your eyes land on the table he uses as a desk, now cleared and decorated with flowers and candlelight.

Compared to what you’re used to, the room seems to have been organised—a state in which you’ve never seen it before. A hint of his usual insanity and disarray remains, but for the first time since you’ve started your job as his assistant, you walk through the room with ease.

Your eyes move over the remainder of the space.

Placed against all walls, bookshelves line up against the ceiling. Every area is filled to its maximum capacity. Books and miscellaneous items lie pushed against any crevice of the ledge—the latter a residual from past experiments, stored out of sight but preserved all the same. Then, below at your feet, shoved towards the sides of the floor, it continues. Stacked up against each other and reaching to above your knees, books, books, and more books.

The space might be crowded, but every single item in this room exists with a purpose. That much is evident from the way Dottore treats this space. ‘Organised’, only in a sense you can describe it.

And while any sane person finds his study anything but romantic, Dottore’s efforts seep through when you look at what he’s done.

Countless books, ink-stained parchments, and equipment have been replaced by lit candles and a single vase filled with flowers. Amidst them, you recognise heliotropes, red salvias, magenta and red zinnias, violets, and purple hyacinths. The reds and purples give a welcoming pop of colour to the otherwise dark colour scheme within the room. They, similar to the fire of the candles, bring a sense of warmth that his pale blues and whites lack.

A steady hand rests on your lower back, thumb circling over the clothes that separate your skin from Dottore’s. While he had given you a moment to appreciate the room, he had now dragged out a chair for you to sit on at one end of the table. Furthermore, you notice a single white rose lying in front of you.

When Dottore first brought you to his study, you expected him to need your help. You can recall several dozen times when he had grown frustrated trying to find a specific book or item lost in the vast sea of knowledge. Usually, you were the one who ended up in this room, spending hours searching for the correct thing. Always something to do with an experiment—or, on rare occasions, requiring your opinion on a situation or problem, while he sat back, relaxed, as you scoured the shelves.

You take the white rose that lies in front of ‘your’ seat.

The green stem has been pared. Any thorns that would’ve punished you for holding it were gone. Your fingers graze over the scars left behind, feeling the careful cuts to be precise and surgical, keeping the flower’s original beauty intact while ridding the imperfections Dottore saw.

For the words he lacked, he made up with actions.

But… why white? Is there a meaning behind the colour and cut thorns?

You lift the flower in front of you and twirl it around.

Against the candlelight, it has a warm outline. You resist a smile, knowing he had stolen the flower from his business partner, the ninth Harbinger’s garden, made and gifted specifically for the Tsaritsa. Quite a prize for you, even if it would wither in days now that it’s been separated from its kin.

Your thoughts and observations are cut short when you feel warm air tickling your neck, the sensation following to your cheek. It seems he has noticed your curiosity and has sneaked up behind you. He curls his body against yours so your cheeks are side by side, less than a centimetre apart, his sight aligned with yours. A shared perspective.

He reaches forward to cage you between his body, the chair, and the table, moving his hand over yours—taking the rose through your hand in his.

“For you, my heart.” His voice is driven with purpose and lacks any visible affection, yet the gentle hold of his hand betrays him.

Part of you wishes he weren’t as close, hoping you could peek at the expression on his face, even if he still wears his mask.

A smile reaches your face. “Thank you.”

“Keep that thought. I wouldn’t want you to waste your breath when I’ve barely shown you what’s planned for tonight.”

“Should I be scared?” You joke, turning your face to Dottore—just slightly.

With much anguish, you feel his half-embrace fall as he stands up. “Nonsense. You’re the star of tonight’s act. I have assured no one but I can bother you, so feel free to relax.”

A teasing peril seeps through his words, keeping you on his toes like he tends to do. And as much as you are curious, you know Dottore won’t spoil his plans. So, you watch him leave the room and return with two plates in his hands. One, he places in front of you; the other, across from you, at the other end of the table.

Before sitting, he removes his mask and puts the vase with flowers to the side, assuring nothing will be between you and him.

“Go ahead,” he gestures to the food in front of you. Then, commands; “Eat.”

As you’ve worked with Dottore for many years, you know better than to delay any of his requests. While his actions seem patient and giving, this is, and will never be, in his nature. Any challenges will only rile him up and guarantee your downfall, much to his pleasure, probably.

With the fork and knife, you take your first bite.

The events leading up to now are uneventful by normal societal standards, but you know he’s anything but conventional, and you’re certain he’s trying to lead up to something. You comfort yourself, knowing that whatever experiment you’re in, he will never harm you beyond what he can fix.

To your surprise, you enjoy the taste and return for another bite.

“Are you enjoying your dinner, my heart?”

Dottore’s voice echoes from one side of the table to the other. Two untamable strands fall next to his jawline. The rest of his pale blue hair is swept behind, falling into a mullet, with its ends curling and spiking upwards. The sleeves of his dark blue blouse are rolled up to his elbows, revealing his scarred forearms. His mask lies next to his dinner plate; face open, vulnerable.

Despite having seen his face before, the current moment brings an unusual atmosphere of intimacy. For once, Dottore is straightforward and direct without reserve or secretiveness.

“I can’t argue with good food.” A soft chuckle escapes your lips. God knows that Dottore rarely meddles with making a full meal, lest he prepare one himself. You won’t pass up the opportunity to indulge in what’s been served.

With your fork, you stab and take another bite.

Your plate is an exact copy of what Dottore is eating. A rare steak; a side of mashed potatoes, topped with rosemary and a pinch of salt; and a side of vegetables, common to Snezhnaya and filled with nutrients and flavour. You’re certain he, or one of his segments, made it. Despite the classy choice of today’s dinner, his preference is made known through the Sumerian spices.

“It’s hardly worth your praise.” Dottore sits back comfortably in his chair. “Though I do enjoy the look of pure satisfaction on your face. Perhaps I should be required to cook for you more often.”

You laugh, “I’m afraid it’ll make me spoiled. Rarity is not a negative thing. It makes the scarce moments of true importance hold their recognition value.”

“Perhaps.” He shifts his body weight as he flaunts his hand in the air. “Though this is true, most people seem to resent this truth. No matter the efforts done; to some it may never outshine what they feel has been ‘not done’.”

“Why do you think this is?”

“Humans tend to cling onto the negative more than the positive as an act of survival and anticipation, categorising the world by what it has done wrong and reforming their perspectives accordingly. Hope, as strong as it is, is also fickle. Without a solid form of ‘light’, people will get lost in the ‘dark’. If someone lies to you, as a direct consequence, you become wary of any other person doing the same, even if no one before had done you that injustice. Perhaps it is simply human nature.”

You chew the spiced vegetables in your mouth as you digest his words.

He segues, “Have you read about the Hedgehog’s Dilemma? It's an essay by a philosopher that illustrates the challenges of human intimacy. Quite an interesting read, if I do say so myself.”

You chuckle. “Hedgehogs have piqued your curiosity? Should I worry about the labs being overrun with those spiky rats?”

A smile forms on his lips. “Not at all. I simply found the metaphor to be an interesting one. Fun fact, in the original parable, they’re porcupines—for they have even sharper spikes than hedgehogs. Here, I’ll repeat his words to you. Perhaps you can share the sentiment with me once I finish.”

Dottore leans in closer from across the table. It seems as if he’s excited to share it—.

He clears his throat, hands moving with his words as he starts to talk.

“On a cold winter’s day, porcupines huddle together to find warmth, but as they prick one another with their quills, they are obliged to disperse. However, the cold will drive them back together, when just the same thing happens.”

The lock of pale blue hair falls onto his cheek when Dottore tilts his head.

“At last, after many turns of huddling and dispersing, they discovered that they are best off by remaining at a little distance from one another. This is shown in the same way that society drives human porcupines together, only to be mutually repelled by the many prickly and sharp qualities one can have. Both social rules and human nature keep us from truly closing in on others. In the end, with this arrangement, the mutual need for warmth is only very moderately satisfied; but then people do not get pricked.”

Your hands rest on each side of the plate. “That seems lonely.”

“The dilemma may encourage self-imposed isolation, but the closer we become, the more deeply we may hurt each other.”

“But what if we don’t?”

“Don’t harm others?” He interprets.

No,” you specify; “what if the porcupine doesn’t get any warmth? Isn’t it better to have a few scratches and wounds—bleeding but surviving, instead of being guaranteed to freeze to death?”

He is silent.

“The dilemma brings such a melancholic and pessimistic philosophy. Is it a guarantee that we can’t achieve human intimacy without getting hurt? What if a porcupine were to meet a turtle who isn’t hurt by its quills and can share its heat without fear or harm?”

Dottore puts his elbows on the table, one at either side of his unfinished plate, careful to avoid hovering above his food. You want to believe that his smile and gaze are as unnerving to you as it is to others, but you find a strange comfort in his attention.

He muses to you. “And which are you supposed to be, the porcupine or the turtle?”

He tilts his head, curious for your answer.

“Does it matter? Either way, I won’t subject myself to anticipatory fear. In any scenario, it is better to seek what you need in an unpleasant situation instead of evading it and dying regardless.”

“I see.”

You pick up your fork and knife, aiming your attention back on the food in front of you. “One would think you’re testing my personal philosophy with these questions. Though I suppose that might’ve been your true purpose for inviting me tonight.”

A chuckle escapes his lips as he falls back into his chair, his composure slacking and relaxed. “Nonsense. This is a treat. Enjoy it as such.”

“Oh? You say it as if this is a normal occasion.”

He smiles.

“Please,” You raise your eyebrow, holding in a scoff. “You rarely praise anyone. Let aside treat them to dinner in your… study.”

“You’re not ‘anyone’.”

Dottore’s voice lingers on the last word. He spats it out as if with disgust.

His eyes shine with an emotion you can’t quite place.

He clarifies;

“You’re my assistant.”

In your mind, you shuffle the meaning behind those words. It is a fact, you are his assistant, but there should be a reason for it being said the way he did. You are not simply ‘anyone’; yet also no more than what you are.

You are you. That is part of why you’re sitting here tonight. The intention of his words lie in the unknown, waiting to be uncovered. Though, possibly too comfortable to want to be uncovered. A porcupine, maybe.

You don’t support the gossip that surrounds the Harbinger sitting in front of you. You know he is far from a saint, realising he is a monster to many—but never to you.

Perhaps that's the reason why he invited you.

You break the silence.

“Thank you for inviting me, Dottore.”

His food remains untouched. “It is far too early to give any conclusions. Don’t thank me yet. The night is still young, and anything might happen.”

For a second, you’re blessed with the sight of a gentle smile in his eyes.

For a moment, Dottore seems to be at peace; even more now than when he successfully finishes an experiment he holds dear. When he looks at you like this, there is no doubt in your mind. Some part of him, although it might sometimes be obscured with darker feelings, is capable of peace.

But like the sun in Snezhnaya, it is bound to hide as soon as it reveals itself, and a cloud falls upon his mind once more.

He lays down the knife and fork next to his plate. His expression is one of resolve.

“As my precious assistant, you know I require your ultimate loyalty. For you to never betray me, and always share your thoughts—blindly and without suppression.”

He fiddles with the utensils, moving them through his fingers before placing them down to their original state.

“On these terms, will you promise me something?”

Taken aback, your eyebrows furrow. “...That depends.”

In your mind, you know his promise will lead to a request, which will lead to an inevitable pact hidden by the word ‘promise’. Promises are meant to last. You know he values all possibilities. If you wanted to, you could refuse him—though much to his disappointment.

What will he suggest?

Silence creeps around the room and takes the light atmosphere from before, occupying its space instead. Hesitantly, you gulp down whatever is left in your mouth. While you continue to hold your fork and knife in your hands, you let them relax on the sides of your plate.

After nothing from him, you continue, “Sure.”

‎

‘Could you love me?’ he asks.

In the silence, you find company in the absence of an answer.

Love him?

Love.

Love?

Love is a topic you’re eager to avoid. Dottore has made it clear that he, too, is not the man to utter those specific three words you run from, yet he asks this question with more ease than you ever could be comfortable with.

Your relationship with the 2nd Harbinger is built on respect and actions. Soft moments between you and him are as fleeting as the spring blossom, but you’re a fool to deny yourself the moments that have led up to this question. Perhaps under normal circumstances, you’d have a clear answer. But he is the 2nd Harbinger, and more importantly, you are you.

Years with you by his side have made him used to your presence. Much so that he isn’t seen without you—not alone across Teyvat nor in the privacy of his study. He’s grown to value your opinions, used to you completing his actions and his train of thought, needy to the way you complement him—complete him.

He knows you.

If this moment hadn't arrived, would you have thought about the possibility of you loving him?

No.

You are too much a coward.

“Are you testing me?” You inspect his ruby gaze, narrowing your eyes as you do.

Love…

Could you…

Do you…?

You look at his face, realising that it isn’t a test.

“You appear surprised.” He says, amused.

“Can you blame me?”

There is no malice or mocking in your voice.

He recognises your surprise.

“You have believed me to be unmoving?”

You almost believe you hear insult in his words. “To your subjects, perhaps. Logically driven, yes, but always with purpose. Unmoving? Not when I've seen you passionate about your goals and achievements. Hide it all you want, at this moment you remain human.”

“Then you must see the importance of my question.”

He shifts his body weight from one side to the other. Behind his eyes, you imagine cogwheels turning as he composes another sentence easier for you to digest.

"Accepting oneself is often difficult. We tend to see reflections of ourselves in others, especially when it comes to flaws. Often, the imperfections we notice first are those we recognise in ourselves. On the other hand, the same counts for things we value. You learn a lot about somebody through their daily choices and basic behaviour."

You think about it and conclude the truth in his words. It is hard to find a flaw without you recognising it as such. If you don't have the insecurity, you’ll have a harder time noticing somebody else's. The same counts for values. Some people wouldn’t find kindness in Dottore’s actions today. But you do. It is subjective.

“Do you not believe in love?” Dottore asks.

Again, you feel as if he's leading you into a trap. But perhaps that is your answer.

You purse your lips and then try to formulate an answer as close to your ‘truth’.

“It's not that I don't believe in ‘love’. Perhaps my love is different from everyone else's subjective ‘love’.”

One corner of his mouth lifts up. “That is interesting. Then, what requirements hold your ‘love’?”

“You mean its conditions?”

He shrugs his shoulders. “All love is conditional. If gods are picky to choose who may be worthy of their benevolence, why would it be evil for humans to strive for what even gods cannot give?”

“Hm.” You shift your eyes away from him and to the side. Your hand subconsciously reaches your face. “I guess my condition would be ‘understanding’? Love in a way that only one person may recognise you as such. To be seen not only from an outside perspective, but also to be observed within.”

“An emotional worth,” Dottore concludes.

You shake your head. “Not exclusively. It is seldom that the most valuable things come without hard work. Only the person who shares my heartbeat shall know what my ‘love’ means.”

Dottore hums. “I suppose that answer is decent enough.”

The remaining food on your plates has gone cold. Neither of you touches it.

After a while, you search his gaze again.

“I think I could.”

“In your way?” He asks, and you know he understands what you meant.

You don’t answer.

You suppose that you wouldn't get an answer out of him if you asked about his definition of love. Not that you are particularly interested in hearing his own specific conditions. You are certain they are impossible to be met. Even if you cannot help but gravitate towards him with curiosity.

If you've concluded anything from your time of working under him, it’s that his thoughts are unconventional. Perhaps if he were to answer, you'd have more insight to his character, but that would require you to cross another boundary, and you had already walked over yours enough tonight.

Unlike Dottore, you do reach for your utensils. The food has long lost its original charm when you put a bite into your mouth, and a weird aftertaste lingers once you gulp it down, but it's far from stale or rotten.

You know it'd be a while before you get a chance to eat a balanced meal like this with the workload balanced between your own and Dottore’s experiments, so you devour it without another thought.

‎‎

‎‎ The second act of the evening starts with another heart-to-heart.

It is not unknown that the Doctor favours you to an extent. Amongst his other assistants, there is none he asks for but you.

Unbeknownst to you, in your existence, he had found a sense of kinship.

“Dottore?”

The pale blue-haired male comes out of the door a few beats after you call out to him. His pointed mask rests on his face. The intimacy and amity from before are now closed off by a physical border—the one between your eyes and his.

You cross your arms, inquiring about his temporary departure in an oblique way, feeling childish if you’d otherwise ask him directly. “One would think you had started and finished an entire experiment with the time you were gone.”

Dottore adjusts his mask so it rests more comfortably. “It is only a matter of business, unimportant to our current plans. Necessary, nonetheless.”

“As always.”

He chuckles, “Relatable, I assume?”

“Given I work for you…” You shrug. “I wouldn't say I'm unfamiliar with a constant flow of business. Though I’d like to say I prefer it over a lax life. It gives me satisfaction in ways nothing else can.”

Dottore tilts his head to the side. He takes a moment and then concludes, “A sense of purpose by physical results in the form of achievements.”

It is less a question than a statement, nor was it something you'd think he'd find new in you. Dottore saying it out loud felt like he was trying to get a reaction out of you rather than him stating his thoughts. Though—you don’t sense malicious intent in his words.

“Are you prepared for our final stop for the night?” Dottore says without much of a segue.

You nod. “I was prepared for something of the kind. It is rare for you to organise something extravagant and selfless without concrete reasoning. I assume this is when the night truly begins?”

“You’re not incorrect.” Dottore cranes his head. “However, what if my reasoning had been to spend time with you? Would that not have justified my actions?”

“It’d be an unlikely outcome to that wish. I believe you would've put me to work by your side instead of inviting me to a seat at a dinner table if your only purpose was to see me.”

You glance at him.

“Though I am entertained to see your efforts at trying to make me more agreeable for whatever you have planned. If someone told me this morning I'd be dining with you, I'd laugh.”

An agreeable hum escapes his lips. “Is it unlikely for me to make food?”

“Maybe? It is unconvincing for you to spend so much time on something you'd otherwise find a shortcut in. So I guess it was surprising to me in that sense.”

A vial of sustenance with precisely measured nutrients, vitamins, and minerals was more his style. In the height of his focus, you'd often see him in the most extreme states, dragging his barely but still human body to the limit of what it could handle.

The only enemy of the Doctor could ever be time.

“Shall we?”

Dottore opens his arm to the hallway and gestures forward.

You cannot point it out, but he seems to have grown simultaneously more tense yet less composed. The unique charm he usually has is replaced by something that mimics it. Perhaps the business he had attended was a frustration to his brain. You don’t risk asking him about it.

Instead, you find something different to focus on.

“Can I ask something?”

Dottore’s pace remains even and unchanged as he proceeds through the empty hallways of the palace, heading towards the lab to fill the last remaining hours of the day.

You take the silence as a yes.

“Why do you hire assistants when you have segments of yourself?”

Knowing he accepts any and all your questions, mainly because he takes it as a study of your character, you expect him to answer immediately—but he hesitates.

If you hadn't been walking in pace with him, you wouldn't have noticed the slight delay. It's but a fraction of a second, yet enough to unsync him from yourself. Instinctively, your body holds back the same amount until your footsteps fall into a choir.

You worry if the question was something you should've avoided.

“There are certain things…” His red eyes stare ahead, lips pressing into a tight line. “I suppose ‘segments’ have inherited a similar way of behaviour, as they are a fragment of a certain time and circumstance. As much knowledge as they hold, segments are but a slice of the same life. I'd like to believe another, perhaps a different set of eyes, could give a perspective with new knowledge.”

He glances at you.

“That, and assistants are quite helpful when it comes to unwanted tasks. It saves time where it could be spent more… proficiently.”

You cannot help but smile at his quip. You don’t feel attacked, knowing this is true without harm.

“How did your question come into existence?” he asks.

Dottore’s hands, which are usually confidently at his sides or back, fiddle with his sleeves, as if the layers of fabric were particularly annoying today. Then they remember their home on his lower back.

“I suppose I was curious. You never let me learn about your segments. Much about you, including them, remains a mystery. Even when I spend all my time working for and with you, I know close to nothing.”

He seems particularly alert to your current thoughts. “For what reason did the segments catch your attention?”

“Are you kidding me?” You resist a scoff. “Anyone who isn’t at least slightly curious about the creation of clones to that degree must be stupid or arrogant. The sheer possibilities your segments have opened in the name of science and evolution surpass me, though I don’t doubt the applicable pool of organisms is smaller than I wish for.”

You think about how different Dottore is to anyone else. He has far surpassed human standards. Even if you wanted a clone and followed his exact methods, there is a high probability that the outcome will be different. Likely, unsuccessful.

Still, you wonder what conditions the cloning would have.

Dottore seems unwilling to share his secrets. “Curiosity will be the death of you.”

“It hasn’t killed you yet.”

His eyes sneak towards you, catching a glimpse of your expression as he walks. “Oh? It is quite a statement to compare yourself to someone like me.”

“Life favours the bold.” You turn to him as you walk, catching his hidden gaze behind the metal mask. “Do you?”

He huffs, looking in front of him again. “If you insist, you’re exactly the person I need for my latest project. It is the most personal work I have ever done. Far beyond the usual scope of work I include assistants in. In fact, my previous business involves it.”

As he walks, his shoulders move up in a light shrug.

“Perhaps it might even answer your question if you pay attention.”

This piques your curiosity indeed.

From the countless documents you've read and worked on, tests you've performed and practised in, and the amount of experiments you've been included in—‘most personal’ can range from one of his interests to something you probably couldn't comprehend.

Your heart races when your thoughts come to the creation of his segments. This is likely because it has always been your desire to see the making of. Perhaps your close bond with Dottore comes from the mutual desire to dissect each other until both parties know every atom of their existence. Not to mention the fact they were previously the star of the topic.

Surely, if it's personal, it would include Dottore himself more than it would his interests, right? While the creation of dreams is personal in regards to his interests, you doubt it'd lead to that experiment today. Something else… what could it be?

Death of the cat? You feel quite alive right now.

“Is your silence confirmation that you are in over your head after all?” Dottore pulls you out of your speculations. He taunts you. “You can still back out if you are frightened.”

“No. I mean, yes. I’ll help you.” —Though you don’t doubt this was the route you were on since the beginning of the night.

Somehow, he is always miles ahead of everyone. You cannot help but try to catch up to him in this cat-and-mouse game. Or maybe you don't. Perhaps you are more content with your position than you're willing to admit.

When he turns around at a familiar corner, you are forced to skip a few steps.

Through your somewhat scattered movements from excitement, you look up at him.

“What's the experiment? Does it include one of your segments?”

He comes to a halt and turns to you. He takes a beat, watching your eyebrows furrow together and your eyes search for reason in this delay.

The sharp edge of the mask points directly at you.

“And ruin the surprise? Where would be the fun in that?”

You almost cross your arms, awkwardly bringing them to your chest before letting them fall to your hips instead.

“What is going through your mind?” he asks.

Standing still in the quiet corridors, you gaze away from him. For some reason, Dottore seems different today.

While he might come across as unexpected, he is still susceptible to habit. ’Only human’; even if you are wary of classifying him as such.

He readjusts his mask awkwardly.

“Does it matter? I’m certain you can speculate my thoughts well enough without needing an answer.”

“You want to join my experiment, correct?” He tilts his head, following your gaze before returning to face you. “In that case, your thoughts are pivotal.”

How casual of him to manipulate an answer out of you like that.

You turn to him. “Well, I know for a fact you are only giving me the illusion of choice tonight. No matter how, I would’ve ended up in your experiment one way or another. I even mentioned this hours ago.”

No matter how nicely he packaged it, you knew he wasn't spending time with you without a motive. You count the dinner as a prelude.

“Aside from that,” you continue, “I wonder what part of the project will be personal to you. After all, there are many sides to an experiment. Will it be personal in a sense where you are included or is it something directly connected to you? Are you valuing the process or is it the outcome you're after? There is a lot to think about.”

He seems to think for a moment and then agrees.

“If you are participating,” he says, “I suppose we shouldn’t waste time.”

You watch him readjust the collar of his blouse, which, you only now notice, lacks the cravat he had been wearing earlier. His fingers move to tug on it and then retract as if they had changed their mind.

You let out a single vowel, about to point it out, but he turns to the direction of the lab, intersecting your words before they can form.

“Follow me. By now, all preparations have finished.”

He turns his head over his shoulder, letting you see the pointed edge of his mask.

“The final act may begin.”

The smile forming beneath his mask sends the feeling of precariousness crawling up your spine. It is a picture of a predator, even when he has never put you in harm’s way.

You don't bother asking for more information this time. If you were getting anything out of him it would've already happened. Dottore, who kept the suspense by evading your questions, was clear that he wanted your thoughts raw and unprepared.

For a second you move to take your place by his side. When he continues to look down at you, you take initiative with the first step towards his lab.

But a moment later, he falls into your stride with comfort.

Like a shadow, matching your movement to his.

He eventually picks up the pace, taking the route to another hallway right before you reach the normal entrance, moving himself in front of you and changing the dynamic.

In front of heavy steel doors he scans his face with the mask, gaining access and opening the doors with a loud click.

You cannot say you are entirely unfamiliar with this part of his lab. There are many rooms yet to be opened, but occasionally you have been allowed to follow him inside exactly like today.

Because the labs are isolated from assistants and other personnel, it is quiet. The loud clang of the door closing behind you echoes from one wall to the other, finding no objects to absorb the sound. After that, two pairs of footsteps and the breathing of the lab is all that remains.

For a moment you wonder who cleans this space. After experiments, clean ups are important. You gather any material that can be reused, store and gather data or samples for future use, and then clear the space for a new experiment.

Perhaps this mindset had set Dottore, or more likely one of his segments—who could possibly be watching you without your knowledge right now, up to the task of cleaning. Either way, this act of privacy made whatever went on behind the doors even more secretive and important.

‎

After a quite short stroll, you come to a natural halt.

“Is this it?” You ask, standing in front of a door.

By a simple process with your thoughts, you've eliminated most options of its occupation. You'll likely be walking into a surgical chamber soon.

It's unlikely you're wrong since the doors to these rooms tend to have a small window. While this one is blacked off with paint, it is similar to the surgical rooms back in the main labs.

You are certain.

Dottore gestures his hand;

“After you.”

You grab the iron handle and drag the heavy door open. The sound of conversation is immediately cut short.

“...?”

You take a step inside, finding the source of illumination to come from a buzzing and blindingly white LED hanging above. It gives you a temporary headache until your eyes become adjusted.

In the room, you find cleaning supplies and a strong infiltrating scent of bleach. It seems recently touched.

Then, with your second observation, you see supplies ranging from machines to latex gloves, lab coats and surgical knives lie scattered on an iron table in the middle of the left part of the room.

You look over your shoulder.

Dottore stands with patience, eyes focused on you.

Taking it as reassurance, you take a few more steps inside, letting him catch the door as you let it go.

“Am I supposed to guess or does the equipment give it away?” You say with a hint of sarcasm.

The room’s occupation is obvious, though your purpose within it remains unknown.

Dottore closes the door and it clicks in place. His body then turns around and he puts a hand on your shoulder, turning you back to face forward after you had moved to him.

“Why do you doubt yourself? Can't muster aplomb?”

You shake your head. “I’m confident in myself. I believe you're the one doubting me.”

A sharp sound comes from the connected room, followed by muttering. You want to ask about it, but you know the answer.

“Well then. Whenever you're ready, assistant.”

‎‎

‎

“Cut it out. You'll bring everything in disarray.”

“Nonsense. Your way of organising is hardly logical. I am doing you a favour. You should thank me, really.”

“Heartbeat is stable, blood pressure is normal.”

“Machines are all online for operation.”

“What about the other one?”

“Prepared and disinfected, ready for use.”

‎‎

‎

“Ah, assistant. Welcome, at last.”

When you walk into the connected surgical room, you are surprised to see pictures of his past, alive and staring back at you.

Segments.

Only on rare occasions have you seen this many together. Even rarer to see them silently observing you.

They are all scrubbed in, ready for surgery. You feel like a patient rather than an assistant walking into the room.

The uncanny scene is enough to bring you to a standstill at the entrance.

Your mind is quick to count the heads in the room. One, two, … seven total—, but then you see the real Dottore on the surgical table behind them and stop the count.

Machines hang from the ceiling, surrounding him and descending from above. The triangle shaped lights illuminating his body hangs right above him, casting a sinister angelic light.

All the hanging devices put together look like a single mechanical wing that sinks down to just above the centre of his chest.

If he were awake, you believe he'd find beauty in the image. You, however, haven't discovered what to feel.

Seven segments, Dottore on the table, that makes eight—adding the imposter at your side.

“Theta,” you spat out.

With a sharp movement you turn to the segment next to you.

His mask is on, obscuring his mechanical parts perfectly. When you look closer, you see the imperfect perfection. It seems close to the real deal, but not mortal. Perfect without pores or edges. Perfect, in ways humans chase eternal youth or a standstill with time but losing its human qualities in the pursuit and making it something new. A replica.

Suddenly, the endless fidgeting made sense. A feeling of annoyance washes over you.

You retake some of your pride by telling yourself that you had taken notice of this. It had been your instinct telling you something was amiss. You simply hadn't had the time to figure out what exactly it had been. Theta had played his part a little too well.

You had almost caught him, but he caught on to your notice and cut you off before you could confirm your suspicion.

He smiles.

“Yes?”

You've interacted with this segment a handful of times. Dottore (yours) had mentioned he had been particularly pleased with Theta, as he could act as a stand-in to even his fellow Harbingers.

As proven, this segment goes through great lengths to impersonate Dottore in his current ‘time’. He is composed and almost always on a pre-written script—a few steps ahead of everyone. Sneaky with his identity, though you can't say deceptive, knowing he is still, well, ‘Dottore’.

Similar more than any other is to their creator; but on purpose. Just the slightest less secure in who he is. A segment. Always hunting the meaning behind ‘identity’.

That makes you remember the hedgehog problem.

It couldn't have been Theta who had been with you, you are certain of that fact. With the mask off, you could see the faded scar covering his face, the bloodshot eyes, and the lines and creases that formed over time.

That was your Dottore.

A temporary wave of relief washes over you before your face heats up, realising you hadn't gone unobserved.

“When could you possibly have arranged all this?” You direct your feelings of betrayal to the segment by your side.

He doesn't take your anger to heart—acting as if he hadn't been caught. Or maybe he simply didn't care. It's not as if you had made a connection to him. Not really, you think.

Maybe the reveal wasn't relevant to him at all. Perhaps only the interaction had been. You render all answers after the dinner invalid. Asking a segment about segments. It seems silly in hindsight. Of course his answer would be biased.

The fragments of Dottore quietly flock together, quitting their previous actions to focus on you. One stands oblivious to his appearance with a surgical knife in hand, gazing straight at you with curiosity and leaving his previous task abandoned. Acting too ordinary for the bizarre.

You are at a loss for words.

Your brain, too, is having trouble coming up with your next action or thought.

“Why is he…” Your words get stuck when you try to describe Dottore’s predicament.

Looking closer, you realise that while he's unconscious, he is not plugged into breathing machines, nor is he getting a form of anaesthesia.

Dottore's chest moves up slightly. He is bare, with the exception of sterile surgical drapes covering him from the hips to the middle of his upper thighs.

You bring your fingers to the bridge of your nose and rub the space between your eyebrows.

Is this a test of loyalty? Of character? Is your knowledge being tested?

The only idiotic story you can weave around this fever dream is that Dottore could be gauging whether or not you would save him from himself, but that seemed out of character. So, you push that aside as well.

No answers then.

Fine.

Have it your way, Dottore.

Theta puts his hand on your shoulder. His grip is grounding but far from comforting. It feels as if he's trying to divert your attention back to him.

From the slight difference in the mask, you recognise Omega amongst the others, —

“As our assistant and a scholar, you should be prepared for any possibilities at all times. This is simply one outcome of many tonight.”

Theta tilts his head, adding; “courtesy of the Dottore laying unconscious, of course.”

“He had prepared this?” You ask.

“Would you find it more plausible that he didn't?” Another segment, one you don't believe you've met, answers. His hair is shorter in the front and he seems more withdrawn.

You cannot argue with him.

After the initial shock wears off, you find a strange comfort in the many faces watching over you.

Having become familiar with his gaze, you find that it doesn't intimidate you as much as you had anticipated.

There is no threat in this room.

“So…”

Omega nods, turning back to the image he was made of. “So, indeed.”

You take a step forward, walking underneath the outer ring of machines hanging above you. You look up, finding white led lights blaring at you, as well as the choir of buzzing and beeps.

Then, you gaze at where the spotlight meets Dottore.

Your eyes trace his face, his expression, and then cover his body.

Something interrupts you.

A small paper is handed to you between an index and middle finger. The handwriting of your name matches Dottore’s. You briefly wonder whether the segments would be able to mimic that too.

Looking up, you snatch the folded square from between Omega’s fingers.

He remains silent, so you unfold the words that would otherwise remain unsaid.

A message is written in the usual barely legible handwriting, though he noticeably added more care writing the single sentence compared to his personal notes.

‘Prepare me for a heart transplant. All preparations are accounted for. I have found a suitable match.’

You turn it backwards, checking for anything else, but the message ends there.

While it had direct instructions, the information remains vague.

“A heart transplant? Is he sick?”

One of the segments releases a manic chuckle, but shuts himself up before more gets thrown up from throat.

Omega, still at your side, lets out a breath, crossing one arm over his chest and resting the elbow of the other on the hand.

“Yes, regretfully so. He hasn’t been himself because of it, though he has found the perfect solution for his illness, it seems.”

A frown rests on your face. You desperately want to overcomplicate the scenario to make sense of it, but focusing on the task at hand is more important.

His life is more immediate.

Your brain switches over into action; knowing that hesitation will turn into a mistake.

“How long has he been lying here?”

Theta answers without hesitation; “36 minutes since he fell unconscious, induced by relaxing medication.”

“All equipment has been readied and checked for use,” answers another.

Your head ping-pongs from one similar looking Dottore to the next as they answer back to back, each adding a bit more information to the pool of collective knowledge.

You stop at Omega. “What will come of his heart?”

He cranes his head. Another segment swiftly answers in his stead, “It will be repurposed accordingly. Preparations for transport are ready.”

Another, again. “The donor heart has already arrived at the facility.”

“Bypass machine is standing by. The flow is clean. Reservoir stable.” A segment with rigid body posture stands near the cardiopulmonary bypass machine. A bunch of blood pouches are on a free table, possibly sourced from Dottore himself, likely in preparation.

You vaguely recall the difference in this segment's tonality, but you are hesitant about your claim to a name.

“Delta is ready with scrubs in the other room. 9 more minutes until the initial estimated starting time. One last check-up before the procedure starts. Gamma, start the anaesthesia and pain medicine.”

The segment who you thought to recognise by voice, one whose mask is covered in neon blues and rounder engravings, steps forward, pushing a needle into Dottore’s vein.

Gamma, it is.

The names help, even if only slightly, to keep you from madness.

You look over at Theta. “Will you scrub in?”

His arms are behind his back. He seems more like Dottore than he did before. Perhaps this is because all other segments, Dottore included, are out of the element you usually see them in. He is the only one unsheltered by scrubs and unification.

Theta wears what Dottore had worn earlier today. It makes him more human, which he's not.

There is a dangerous comfort in that familiarity.

“Would you like me to?” He asks.

Part of you wants to say yes, but only because you subconsciously are seeking Dottore’s guidance. The other part says no, knowing you would no longer get it once he removes his clothes.

You shake your head.

“So it has been decided. The floor is yours, assistant.”

Theta mimic’s Dottore’s speech pattern with ease.

For a single moment, you let yourself be fooled and head back into the other room without thought.

~

As expected, when you open the door, the Delta segment stands there waiting for you. He, too, is dressed as the other segments are—gloved and scrubbed in.

On the table rests your new attire: a sterile undershirt, pants, a cover for your hair, a tie if needed to pull it back, a mask, and a set of pristine step-in shoes that lay neatly prepared.

They hadn’t been there when you first entered the room.

He must’ve come in after you.

“Are you wearing any jewellery?” Delta asks.

You shake your head.

He takes your arms, inspecting them in silence. You realise he’s checking your skin for cuts, debris, and nail length. Once you pass his exam, he gives you a short moment to change clothes. Then, after his return, you start to scrub in.

While you prewash at the cold sink, Delta silently steps forward to put the antiseptic soap in your palm. You take your time with the nailpick he hands you after.

You clean under your nails and dispose of the plastic tool in a nearby bin once you’re done. Then, you rinse again, and Delta rips open a package, offering a sterile surgical sponge for you to grab next.

You scrub in silence—each finger, between the knuckles, up the wrists, then along your forearms to just below the elbows. Because of your focus, time passes quickly. When you finish, Delta drapes a sterile towel over your arm. You pat your skin dry with care, never using the same section twice. The towel joins the nail pick in the disposal bin once you’re done.

Then, still without a word, Delta opens the gown for you to step into. You slide your arms in, letting him pull the sleeves up. He grabs the tie at your waist, and you turn, positioning your back to him. He fastens both ends slowly; deliberately. Not rushed. Not quite mechanical either.

“Too tight?”

His voice surprises you. While you hadn't focused on it before, you find that his voice sounds younger than you expected.

You shake your head, and by the time you’ve turned around again, he stands ready with the gloves.

You push your fingers forward, letting him help you. As his hands make sure the glove is comfortable in place, you observe the way his pale blue locks fall forward and frame his face. His cheekbones also appear less sharp. Another detail that makes him appear youthful.

Once he's finished, you continue to keep your hands in front of you and above your waist. You’re careful not to contaminate them.

Your heart feels unruly in your chest. Stepping out had given you distance, but now, with the preparations done, needing to step back into surgery reawakens quiet doubt within you.

Delta remains patiently to the side.

He doesn’t make any further effort to help you, so you assume his task must’ve ended.

For some reason, you feel compelled to thank him. The words come out soft and methodically, but Delta responds nonetheless.

A single nod—, but he doesn't move.

He won't accompany you with your final steps.

You're on your own. Even if he's right around the corner waiting for you.

~

One step in and you’re reminded of why you rarely help with surgery procedures. While you had the expected experience to assist in the lab, you often avoided surgery when you could, stepping in only when absolutely necessary.

Now standing in the door frame, scrubbed in and ready for operation, the room feels quieter than before.

Pointed masks turn to you like a flock of crows, still and sharp-eyed, as if they’re watching an intruder step into their nest.

Everything remains exactly as you left it.

With your goal in mind, you step to the table. Dottore lies intubated and is now connected to the right machines to monitor his vitals.

“4 minutes over the estimated starting time.”

You don’t look up from Dottore’s face.

It is strange to hear his voice without it coming from his mouth.

Your eyebrows furrow together.

A thought crosses your mind.

“He arranged all this, but he never said why.”

A segment moves by your side.

An answer follows.

“Because he didn’t need to. He left you the procedure, not the reasoning.”

Dottore’s face is the most relaxed it has ever been, yet it misses the feeling of peace you saw in his expression during dinner. He looks older now. Tired, even asleep.

He looks vulnerable.

He looks human.

You come to a cruel realisation.

“He left everything in order. He knew I wouldn’t say no.”

“He knew you would understand. That’s why he didn’t ask you.”

His voice echoes from somewhere within the room.

“Understanding is irrelevant. Consent was documented. Procedure is scheduled,—” an exasperated sigh follows the words. “Emotional latency is outside protocol. Begin, or postpone. The body will not wait indefinitely.”

And another reminder, “9 minutes over the estimated starting time.”

You look up.

One quick look around the room confirms that everyone but you is ready, standing at their respective places.

“Stop talking like you’re not him.”

Gamma scoffs and glances at Omega, who is quietly amused.

“It’s not that we aren’t. We simply know what he wanted.”

For your sake, you ask someone to put a surgical drape over his face.

After that, it becomes easier.

You stand in front of the table. Tools are ready for use, all laid out with inhumane precision. A segment, the one who counted down before, moves into place across you. Omega, who stands by your side, holds out a scalpel to you.

There is one last moment of delay where your body inhales sharply. It realises you're the only one who can start this before you do.

Your fingers grasp the stainless steel from Omega’s hand.

It feels heavy. Such simple weight should not make you falter. But it is not the stainless steel that weighs, it is the anticipation and build up.

You hover above his midline.

“Incision details?”

“Position at the sternal midline. Incision length: twenty-one centimetres.”

The blade is cold in your gloved hand—a should-be familiar weight with an unfamiliar purpose.

Light falls onto the blade.

“Making an incision now,” you say.

The knife meets his skin with ease. You press down, and when you drag it, a line of red follows.

There is no real spoken coordination in the room. The only moment when information is shared is when you ask for it. Otherwise, the segments follow your lead. Their connection to each other creates a hive mind, to which you are the sole outsider. Yet, for a reason without answer, it is you who leads the entire procedure.

It feels like a solo mission with a distant guide.

You try not to think of the paradox. Dottore, who has never feared cutting others apart if it brings knowledge, now lies dissected by his own will.

Tissue retractors are handed to you without a word. You place them gently, pulling the skin aside to expose the deeper layers beneath. This red should remain unseen.

Your thoughts are pushed aside by focus. You turn distant from yourself when you no longer run on your feelings and opinions. You become a mechanic step-by-step. An insider.

“Proceeding with sternal access.”

The following steps you cut out of your memory. However, the sound of saw splitting bone is sure to follow you for the next few months.

When the bone parts, his chest opens. More retractors are placed. And there it is—his heart. Still beating. Still fighting.

You hesitate.

It looks healthy… Strong, even.

He isn’t dying.

You remember the message, ‘Prepare me for a heart transplant’. No diagnosis. No explanation. When you had asked Omega about it, he made it seem as if Dottore needed surgery urgently. Perhaps, he thought so. Either Dottore or Omega did. Still, the quiet thumping makes you question your next steps.

“Prepare for cardiopulmonary support. We’ll place him on full bypass before extraction.”

“Vitals are stable. Proceed.”

“Initiating bypass,” Gamma says. He is decisive and precise with his movements, taking over before you can dissect information.

You know how the bypass works. Instead of allowing the blood through the heart, it’s rerouted through a heart-lung machine. The machine puts oxygen in the blood, removes carbon dioxide, and then pumps it back into the arterial system. It bypasses both the heart and lung function, hence the name.

You watch Gamma work. For a split second, you recognise that in his movements, he dances with familiarity.

“Bypass is a success. Proceed with extraction.”

A mechanical heartbeat rises as the body relinquishes its need for the original one.

The monitors shift.

Dottore is now alive by artificial means. His own heart—no longer necessary.

You place the scalpel on a steel plate. It clatters. Then, you take a new tool.

How the heart can be so easily replaced…

“He wanted this.” Theta, who had been silently observing all this time, speaks from the shadows. “Remember that.”

You take a moment.

“Alright.” Your hands take position. “Let’s continue without complications.”

Between his ribs, you reach carefully for Dottore’s heart. From the open cavity, you lift it like treasure, and in a way, it is.

It's not light, not heavy, but it is.

The organ is still warm and the blood has covered your blue glove with a deep crimson.

One moment, you can feel the heat; in the next, a segment has taken it from your hands and quickly disappears through the doors without a word.

You hear the door come into place with a muffled whoosh followed by a click.

“Okay.” You let go of a breath. “Where is the donor heart?”

It takes only a second for a weird atmosphere to enter the room when none of them react instantly.

Nu replies. “Donor heart is on-site. The other room is prepared.”

“For what?” Your eyes narrow as your eyebrows come down. “Moving Dottore is not possible. We need to transfer the heart fast. We should get it as soon as possible.”

“Agreed,” Theta says.

Then, silence.

You feel as an outsider once more. There is a message going around the room without it ever passing you.

After a moment, Gamma groans.

“Get it over with. Room B is ready with preparations.”

“Estimated starting time is 6 minutes.”

Omega puts a hand on your shoulder.

You look at him.

“Good night.”

‎‎

“Wisdom which is only theoretical, and never put into practice, is like a double rose: its colour and perfume are delightful, but it withers away and bears no seed.”

‎‎

You’ve never felt this tired. Your body doesn’t feel like your own. It’s too heavy, too far away—you feel separate from it.

Instinctively, you try but fail to open your eyes. It seems like they’re glued together. So, you focus on sound. It is distant and your brain fails to process where it comes from, but it exists nonetheless. And that seems enough.

After what seems hours, the locks on your eyes break and light pools in.

You remember what happened, something—vaguely. But none of it feels real. Maybe Dottore’s invitation for dinner had made your mind produce all kinds of scenarios. Perhaps your fascination for his segments had gone from curiosity to horror—a ‘nightmare’.

Dottore lies across from you. Mirrored to yours, the upper part of his bed is lifted 45 degrees so he can sit upright without strain.

You gaze at him for a while. Recognising his voice over the other muffled sounds of the room.

Your mind takes a while to process their meanings.

“Your body has undergone significant trials. Don’t force nonexistent strength.”

Through the haze, you blink your eyes. You lift the less heavy arm to your face, uncoordinated and with pain, wiping the tear ducts clean from whatever had been building up. Slime? It seemed like thick glue. Vaseline, maybe.

The limb falls down at your side again.

You lay there for a while, letting the two sets of heartbeats fill the room.

Beep…beep…beep…

Once your mind starts to come down from whichever cloud it was resting on, you can properly describe the heavy feeling that washes over your body.

An intense pain, so blinding that it becomes muffled by a sensation of tight pressure, spreads from your torso. Your throat is like cotton, and it feels foreign when you swallow the first few times. Your breathing feels odd…

Why can’t I move my arms properly?

You don’t remember lying down.

“What happened?” You ask.

Even your voice fails you. It sounds as if it had been put on a shelf and only recently was remembered for use.

Dottore puts a hand over his chest where his heart is. “It was a success.”

“The surgery…”

Your memories reshape with clarity, and with it; instant punishment.

You lean over slightly, gasping as the beeping next to you increases its pace, falling out of beat with Dottore’s. You move your hand to your chest, wanting to ground yourself, but the pain intensifies, and you keep your fingers hovering right above it.

With all your might, and being forced to, you muster your energy to take slow and controlled breaths. At first, they shake and cut through your throat, then they become familiar again.

A wheeze escapes your lips and tears prick in the corner of your eyes.

The fog in your mind makes you walk into walls—again and again—until you forget where your thoughts were trying to go.

Beeps fall into a normal pace. Your heart slows. You are pulled back by it.

You lean back against the pillow. It catches you and forms your shape into its feathers.

Dottore stares at you, and all you can do is stare back.

“Isn’t it peculiar how they call it a transplant? It's more like a trade if you think about it.”

He looks comfortable in the hospital bed. Well, perhaps not. Where are you? Not the labs, not one of the resting rooms. Certainly not somewhere you had been before.

His voice fills the room again. It’s like he cannot help himself. He has always been prone to talking.

“Did you know our blood types are the same? This was before I modified myself, of course. Unfortunately, sharing blood is no longer viable without major complications—but at its natural state, it is compatible. A perfect match, one can say.”

The words pass by in a hurry.

You look at your hands, which lie next to you—somehow looking even more tired than the rest of your body. You find the culprit for the strange sensation on your hand. An IV is inserted and contributes something into your bloodstream. It doesn’t hurt, but it is uncomfortable nonetheless.

Nausea seems to creep up like a shadow at dawn.

With a stable breath and the pain under control, you move your fingertips to your chest. You hover them above the blue gown. Then, as if to avoid scaring it into pain, you touch yourself lightly.

A thick layer rests between the gown and your skin. Your fingers now rest on it, and by texture, you believe you are bandaged underneath your clothes.

You don't play with it for longer than necessary, letting your arms fall back without grace. Tired. Your body is too tired.

“What happened…?”

Dottore doesn’t answer you.

The beeping sounds have synced up again. His heart and yours.

For a moment, you feel at peace, too spent to want anything else, but Dottore, as always, cannot be in this state.

He calls your name.

“How does it feel?”

You lightly move your shoulders, too tired to get annoyed by his line of questioning.

Exhausting, painful, confusing…

“I don’t know.”

And your answer is honest.

Dottore smiles.

“I believe I have never felt quite as clear as I do today. Without any barricades, I can learn to understand you fully, exactly as you desire. No longer do you need to uphold barriers in fear of being misunderstood.”

He seems satisfied with something.

“It is unfortunate you don't recognise this feeling yet. Ultimately we are the same. I am glad you confirmed that to me before.”

Your hand has moved to cover the place where your heart would rest. The pain is sharp and dull at the same time. Possibly a byproduct of the intensity and your mind still trying to orient itself.

“How so?” you muster.

“Well,” he starts, and truly seems enthusiastic, “for one, after today we’ll always be together. Without the fear of porcupines being forced into the winter by themselves, you shall always carry me to give you warmth, no longer reliant on anyone else. No sharp pointe either.”

A heart-to-heart.

“And then, I shall ascend us to a level where we may share more than a heart. A mind, too. With your perspective and mine combined, we will uncover a different kind of knowledge, and I am certain we will bring a new perspective into the world.”

Your fingers caress the gown, feeling the layers of tightly bound bandages.

“Like it or not, after today, you'll never be alone. Your love is reciprocated. Exactly as you wanted. A gift for you, my heart.”

It is at this moment that the synchronised beeps sound like a haunting choir. Without a second to react, your body turns your head for you and stomach acid splatters onto the ground next to you. The pain in your chest makes the retching unbearable. Yet, you cannot stop the wave of sickness.

When you are left heaving, empty in stomach and hope, you do what he forces you to—and you rest.

With the realisation, the heavy feeling of your body also feels like a choice that was his.

He is keeping you caged with his own heart in your chest, home in your body as if he owns your entire being.

Then, you look at him. His own chest. Then, the heart monitor.

Your heart beats for him.

His beats for you.

The diagnosis?

Omega had been correct.

He was sick.

Sick with a twisted idea of love.

‎‎

A heart-to-heart. Bound by a blood pact.