A mini-series* inspired by a) @aliceinwhumperland’s comment on this post and b) an OC me and @i-eat-worlds came up with in our crossover AU who deserves a series of her own.
Dorcas Syndrome
Kit Connolly is the perfect patient. She’s curious, enthusiastic, and wants to see research of her immortality used for the good of all. By some miracle, she’s found just the medical researchers to help her: Reggie, a talented surgeon, and xir sibling-in-law, Chris, a trusted confidant and medical technician with medical research connections. Together, they perform a variety of experiments and procedures on Kit over the years.
Too late does Reggie realize Chris has been taking advantage of their patient - in more ways than one - but xe’s determined to protect Kit, even at the cost of everything xe’ve worked for.
Medical setting, experimental surgery, immortality, painful resurrection, medical trauma, strongly implied and discussed past rape/sexual assault by a medical professional, implied past abuse and violence, guilt, protectiveness
First Meeting (by @i-eat-worlds)
Theater
Lines
Ethics
Promises
Escape
*as ‘mini’ as I can make the sprawling stories in my head. An attempt will be made to be concise.
A continuation of a story I'm writing for @transneonneko I'm finally finding the pace for it and I think you'll enjoy it~
Here's your content warning, it gets gory, and I kind of got wishy washy with the perspective.
She told me to strip and lie down. That my past was gone, that pain was temporary. I thought I knew fear—until I felt the saw hit bone. This isn’t a story of survival. It’s a story of transformation... and the woman who made me hers.
I remember the first time—vaguely.
"We all have to start somewhere," Admin had said, though even then, her voice held a trace of reluctance. I didn’t understand it at the time. I don’t think I could have. No amount of warning would have prepared me for what she would do.
I remember the ride to her home most clearly. Her words echoed in my head, sharp and final:
"Your possessions no longer matter. Your purpose now is to serve."
I’d balked. Of course I had. I didn’t own much—just a few family photos I didn’t completely hate, and a handful of little trinkets from old friends—but they still meant something. I would’ve liked a chance to say goodbye.
But Admin had stopped me, hand on my chin, guiding me to look into her eyes. They were green—exhausted, ancient, and unreadable.
"Listen, my sweet little experiment," she said softly. "From the moment you sit in my car, you will be dead to the world. Whatever name you had, whatever life you lived, will be gone. I will leave no trace of you behind. There are no half-ways or compromises. You're either mine... or you're not."
She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.
It felt like I was signing a death certificate, and maybe I was. But there was no malice in her voice, no glee in her threat. Just... certainty. Like this was inevitable.
I felt the weight of that. Her voice, her presence—it swallowed everything I had been. If she was a goddess, then I was less than a servant. I was a follower. A thing to be molded.
My nerves twisted, hot and sick in my stomach, but I nodded anyway. I looked up at her and murmured, "I’m yours, Miss... uh..."
The spell cracked. I winced. "Wh-what’s your name, Miss?"
She frowned, like I’d said something inappropriate, something wrong. She hummed, then answered, flatly:
"Just call me Admin. Don’t humanize me."
At the time, I thought she was trying to be divine. Aloof. Beyond names and identity. Too great for something so simple.
But now I know better.
She wasn’t trying to be worshipped. She wasn’t pretending to be a goddess.
She was warning me.
She knew what she was doing was evil. She knew it was monstrous. And she’d already accepted that. She didn’t care to be human anymore.
Because in her eyes, she never really was.
-----------------------------------------
They pulled up to a yellowing one-story house, its siding faded and flaking in the sun. The gravel driveway crunched beneath their feet with each step—loud in the stillness—as she trailed behind Admin. There was no lawn to speak of, just brittle weeds pushing through dirt and dry patches where grass had long given up trying to grow.
The front door stuck slightly in the frame, and Admin gave it a practiced shove. Inside, the air was cool—stagnant, like the house had been holding its breath. The entryway was small, claustrophobic, a stack of dusty cardboard boxes leaning precariously in one corner. The faded red carpet was threadbare and dull, crusted with dirt and the flattened corpses of long-dead bugs. It didn’t smell like rot or mildew, just... stale. Lifeless.
She followed Admin through a narrow doorway into the kitchen. And that’s when the unease began to settle in.
The kitchen was painfully ordinary. Dated linoleum peeled at the corners, the wallpaper—yellow daisies on a green background—had bubbled in the heat. A battered kettle sat on the stove, its steel bottom blackened with old burn marks. The table was cluttered, lived-in: a pile of unopened mail leaned against a stained coffee mug, a cold cup of tea sat forgotten near a wrinkled newspaper with bright orange sauce smeared across the front page. She could still smell it—tangy, artificial. Something like SpaghettiOs.
There was no art on the walls. No magnets on the fridge. No signs that anyone had truly lived here in years, despite the evidence of recent activity. It was as if the house had once belonged to someone real, but they’d died, and now Admin was simply squatting in their memory.
They moved into the hallway, and it was more of the same: cracked white paint peeling at the corners, a small table with a chipped ceramic lamp and a bowl full of candy. Not Halloween candy—just a random assortment of sweets. The kind you'd find in a waiting room. Hard caramels, dusty peppermints, those strawberry ones wrapped in red foil with the gooey center. None of them looked touched.
A door stood ajar to the bathroom, just long enough for her to catch a glimpse of its blue-tiled floor, shining faintly under the glow of the setting sun. It was spotless. Too spotless.
Then Admin stopped at a door at the end of the hall. She produced a key from her pocket, turned it in the lock, and opened the basement door. A cold draft spilled out from the darkness beyond.
Everything changed.
The basement steps creaked underfoot as they descended, but the sound was swallowed by the heavy, muffled hum of machines. The light here was sterile and bright—oppressive in its clarity. The air smelled like antiseptic, ozone, and something faintly coppery.
The floor was gleaming white tile, scrubbed clean, reflecting the flicker of the fluorescent bulbs above. The contrast was dizzying. Upstairs had felt like an old dollhouse—this was something out of a nightmare hospital.
Black countertops stretched along the walls, each cluttered with instruments she didn’t recognize. She picked out a microscope, a bunsen burner, even what looked like a centrifuge. But others were foreign. Strange vials of clear or viscous fluid, metal arms like skeletal hands mounted on rails, a tank in the corner softly hissing vapor.
And then—near the center of the room—was the table. Surgical, elevated, flanked by monitors and tubing. Its leather restraints were undone, but the buckles were slick with wear.
Her eyes drifted downward, to the drain in the floor beneath the table. A soft trail of pink led toward it, delicate and translucent as watercolor at first glance—but unmistakable. Blood.
She stared for a moment longer than she should have, transfixed.
This was no laboratory. This was a sanctum. A cathedral to something divine and deranged.
And she was about to become part of its worship.
“Strip, and lay facedown on the table,” Admin said, her voice a hum, casual as the whir of a machine powering on.
She hesitated.
But Admin didn’t press—she simply turned away, already pulling tools from drawers, placing them haphazardly onto a standing tray beside the steel table. Clinks and clatters filled the silence, a metallic overture to what was coming.
After a long, reluctant moment, she obeyed. Her hands moved automatically, shedding worn, sweat-stained clothes one piece at a time. She left them in a pile on the floor. There were no mirrors in the lab, but she knew her body by heart.
She had been born wrong. A boy, assigned and raised as such, until she broke free and started HRT. Years of hormones had reshaped her—softened her edges, filled her chest with perky, sensitive weight, plumped her thighs and ass just enough. Her belly had a little pudge, and she loved it. It wasn’t perfect. But it was hers. As close to the ideal as her human body could get.
The table was cold. Frigid. Goosebumps prickled along her arms as she laid down, skin against sterile steel.
Admin rolled something closer. She glanced up and instantly regretted it.
It looked like a spider. A nightmare of surgical design. Eight limbs curled, poised like it might leap. Its bulky, reflective body gleamed under fluorescent lights, crawling with pin-thin needles and strange ports. It smelled like disinfectant and dread.
“Down,” Admin said, voice suddenly sharp. Final.
Straps wrapped around her limbs—ankles, wrists, waist, forehead. Leather bit into skin. She gave a small, useless tug. There was no give. No escape.
“What are you doing?” she asked. Her voice was small, almost curious.
Admin sighed.
A cool cloth slid down her back. Then the numbness spread.
“Best you don’t know,” Admin muttered. “If you live… I’m sorry.”
She didn’t have time to process that.
Pain exploded through her spine.
She couldn’t see what was happening, couldn’t lift her head, couldn’t move. But later—after the healing, after she was shown the video—she learned every detail.
The scalpel had split her open with surgical ease. A clean line carved down from her neck to her lower back. She’d screamed the entire time—sobbing, pleading, choking on every breath—but Admin didn’t pause.
Forceps pinned back flaps of skin. The scalpel dug deeper, parting tissue and muscle until the stark white of bone shone through. Admin worked with cold, exacting efficiency. Her hands never trembled. Not even when the bone saw began its song.
The saw sang up her spine, cracking her ribs free one by one. She remembered flashes—white-hot agony, her own voice breaking, the wet, grinding sound of flesh and bone giving way. She passed out. Came back. Passed out again.
Only the top portion of her spine remained—keeping her heart and lungs obedient. Admin paused. Retrieved the replacement.
The mechanical spine gleamed like obsidian laced with silver. It was sleek, terrifying, too perfect to be human. Admin held it like a sacred thing—then took a breath, and severed the final connection.
That was the moment she died.
Flatlined. Gone.
Admin didn’t panic. She simply pressed the spider-machine to the yawning wound. Pressed a button.
It came alive.
Needles punched into meat. Limbs curled and pierced. Metal fused to living tissue. The machine worked fast, anchoring itself to the remnants of her anatomy, embedding each segment deep within her back. The sound was obscene—wet, mechanical, inhuman.
Admin held her breath. Stared.
Silence stretched.
Then—her back rose. A breath.
A gasp.
Admin exhaled. Relief softened her features, just for a second.
And then she was moving again—threading needle through skin, sewing her back up with methodical care. Blood was everywhere, spattered across her lab coat, smeared on the pristine tile. Some had soaked through—seeped into Admin’s sleeves, her gloves, her skin.
She didn’t wipe it away.
Not yet.
-----------------------------------------
I remember waking up in a cot—slowly, sluggish, but not in pain. Just... quiet.
I sat up. Fast. Too fast. The motion surged through me with more strength than I was used to, like someone had tightened every bolt inside me.
"You're awake," Admin hummed.
My gaze snapped to the right. She was seated lazily in a chair, one leg crossed over the other, bouncing idly. A book rested in her lap, eyes skimming lines with tired ease.
"You're the first one to survive," she said, lips twitching into a smile as her gaze finally met mine.
"That was hell," I blurted out.
It made her laugh—a sharp, sudden sound that made the sterile room feel warped for a second.
"Yeah," she chuckled, "shit must’ve sucked. Won’t suck after this though."
"What did you do to me?" The words came out soft, like a whine.
"One of the hardest surgeries you’ll go through," Admin replied, flipping her book shut with a soft thump. "I replaced your spine with one of my own designs. Bad news? That was the worst one. Good news? We can now intercept pain signals. You won’t feel a thing in the next couple surgeries."
And I remember—
I was excited.
God help me, I was excited.
Because I was more. Just a little more.
For the first time in my life, I was more.
"Your name... it wasn’t important before," Admin said softly. Her tone changed, almost affectionate. "But now, you’ll be called by your project name: Visceral Integrated Reconstruction Android..."
I'd rather be called a "TERF" than someone who supports people getting life changing surgery by doctors who can't even be bothered to give their patients through post op directions.
The doctor gave too little information about post op care? Can anyone think of any other surgery where friends or "allies" are expected to encourage someone to get a surgery performed by such a doctor? With any other type of surgery a good friend would be expected to find some way to get their friend out and do research to find a better doctor.
Instead it looks like they chose the lesser of two evils and still got bad results
Lili Elbe (Dec. 28, 1882 - 1931) was a Danish artist. She was a transgender woman, who lived in France with her wife Gerda Wegener from 1912 onwards. Lili was born Einar Wegener, trained at the Royal Danish Academy, and had a modest career as a landscape painter.
By and by her own art took a backseat to Gerda’s career as a successful illustrator and commercial artist. Lili was Gerda’s favorite model.
In 1930 and ‘31 Lili had sex change surgery in Germany but she died from complications stemming from the experimental procedures used. Her life is the basis for the movie, The Danish Girl, of course.
This work from 1924, Tour de Cesar in Beaugency, France, is signed Einar W.
Found this courtesy of Anon Conservative -the r/K Theory guy- who wrote:
What anon? You have terminal cancer and will be dead in a week unless we give you a $6,000 experimental drug? We cannot do that, it is experimental, and thus unproven, and could hurt you. What? You want your skeletal system shattered and reformed into a more female shape, in an experimental surgery that could cripple you for life, and which has never been done before, except on a couple of cadavers, all so you can feel more feminine? And it only costs $579 million? We will pay for it, anon, as nothing is more important than you feeling like a woman, at all costs, despite your penis:
I will bet that dude has all sorts of mobility issues for the rest of his life from getting his pelvic girdle cracked. And you will pay for that perpetual medical care too, through your higher insurance premiums. I was wondering just yesterday, how the fuck am I paying so much for such shit coverage, when I never go to the doctor?
NEW YORK | NYC removes statue of doctor who experimented on slaves
New Post has been published on https://goo.gl/cZ99Ee
NEW YORK | NYC removes statue of doctor who experimented on slaves
NEW YORK | April 17, 2018 (AP)(STL.News) A bronze statue of a 19th century doctor who did experimental surgery without anesthesia on enslaved African-American women was removed from Central Park on Tuesday.
New York City’s Public Design Commission voted Monday to accept a mayoral panel’s recommendation to remove the statue of Dr. J. Marion Sims for relocation to Brooklyn’s Green-Wood Cemetery, where Sims is buried, accompanied by signage with historical context.
Dr. Bernadith Russell, a gynecologist, emotionally embraced a friend as they watched the statue being removed.
Russell said that when she was in medical school, Sims “was held up as the father of gynecology with no acknowledgement of the enslaved women he experimented on.”
The commission’s president, Signe Nielsen, wept on Monday when she called for the vote, The New York Times reported.
The names of many black women on whom Sims operated are unknown. Three of the names he recorded were Anarcha, Betsy and Lucy.
“I’m not a woman of color, but I am deeply moved by what we heard today,” said Nielsen.
Democratic Mayor Bill de Blasio called for a review of “symbols of hate” on city property eight months ago following a white supremacist protest in Charlottesville, Virginia, in August that left a person dead. The issue of possibly removing Confederate monuments initially prompted the white nationalists to gather.
Amrit Trewn, an activist who had advocated for demolition, said the decision to relocate the statue means “that this physical representation of anti-black violence will still stand and maintain its presence in the heart of yet another community of color.”
Michele Bogart, a former member of the design commission and an art history professor, had urged that the statue remain in Central Park, saying: “History matters. … Don’t run from it.”
By Associated Press – published on STL.News by St. Louis Media, LLC (R.A)
