#metamorphiisis

[godmarkd]

@metamorphiisis asked:

Vivsection, Sarioglu?

"Your conversation skills need work," came the retort, some sarcastic thing dripping from his jaw. At his sides, leather cuffs rattled as the attempt to rake his fingers through greasy hair was interrupted, creature comforts abandoned in preparation for the promise of destruction that came with freedom. In some ways, he had grown used to the table, the pressure carving bruises along his hips and back, the reciprocal heat that chased his outline from too long in one position. At least Moira recognized the importance of keeping her pet projects alive, and the few instances of freedom to stave off blood clots continued to be the highlight of his day.

But it appeared that the promise of a few minutes vertical, the feeling of the floor against feet that threatened to atrophy at any moment, was left at the door given her sweeping arrival. Instead, a promise of pain followed presence of medical instruments and in the gleam in Moira's eye, as if she was a butcher looking at a particularly complex piece of meat.

"Even if you found something in there, what could you possibly hope to do about it? Your blind exploration exactly inspire hope," Emre commented idly, eyes chasing the fuzz of ceiling panels for the umpteenth time that day. He did not fear the promise of pain, something ironically mundane in the concept. "He won't let you take anything out. You can't change this, change him."

[mercymedic]

❛ Have you been listening? You're running out of time. ❜ -- @metamorphiisis

@metamorphiisis

angela doesn't think about how long she's been here because she no longer knows how long she's actually been here. she tried for the first week to keep track of it all, observing talon agent shifts, mentally tallying her meals of the day, and even trying to rely on her cycadium cycle during sleep intervals. it worked for a bit too—but the mental duress and tactical sleep deprivation has made her lose graps of it all.

under the blinding bright lights angled at her face, angela's glare is subdued into a half-squint that denies her the convenience of glaring directly at her captor, but occassionally, she tries. her wrists, secured behind the cold metal chair tug in a slow twist against their bindings. a pinched nerve has already caused a dull throb, which will only worsen by the hour. moira is always so intentional with her methods, and although angela's very mindful of the psychology of prisoners of war, it's not enough to counter the psychological torture she's been enduring.

she is tired and weary, and bordering on desperate.

at least, if anything, she knows moira is bluffing. as long as angela doesn't talk, the stagnancy is in her control. she's not running out of time, time is all she has. which is worse, but having a tomorrow is all that she has left to her name.

( hope is not always without cruelty. )

as angela lifts her eyes in a second attempt at a glare, a frustrated sigh leaves her. sometimes it genuinely feels like the real torture is being forced to converse with this repulsive woman.

"are you finished—?"

[mercymedic]

take the injections and I'll give you a blanket // @metamorphiisis

inbox | @metamorphiisis

despite everything, angela has always been a relatively healthy person. she keeps herself active with excercise, eats healthy foods ( while allowing a balanced indulgence of chocolate here and there ), follows the wellness lifestyle advice so often ignored by her patients, and genuinely believes in the science she's dedicated her life to. she understands how the body works—which makes her more privy to the calculated cruelty at play here. in all her days ( weeks? months? ) here, the thermostat has never been this low. dr. angela ziegler, known for her acclimation of switzerland winters and indefinite hospital settings, is close to freezing.

"this is a malpractice of informed consent," she says, glaring at her ex-collegue from the corner of her cell. her arms continue to grip tight around herself, the short sleeve jumpsuit a deliberate assist to her discomfort. a mostly inefficient effort, which has her hoping ( bordering the line between desperation ) that her anger might suffice, if nothing else, but the shivering has already started and as her body struggles to maintain its thermodynamics, it will only worsen. still, the doctor tells herself, it's not enough to give in. moira thrives in disguising torture as research; angela cannot let herself break.

even if she feels herself catching a cold.

[chronal-anomaly]

@metamorphiisis asked:

"Although you may not feel like it, I need you to smile." //@metamorphiisis

"Smile at what, exactly?" Typical happy-go-lucky mask splintered into pieces, eyes hard and angry and scared as she stared at the researcher from her place in bed. This was not a place of safety, this was not a place of warmth. Hospitals rarely were, but the thrill of scientific experiment weighed heavier than the hope of healing. Lena found herself wishing for the comforting presence of Winston over the haunting figure cut in the antiseptic light.

Blue staccatoed from her chest, flickering out between shatter carbon fiber blend. Hum of whirling discs and overheated batteries could be overheard from the splits, necessitating a more severe bandage than she herself could provide. Winston would return in a week from a seminar about dangers of temporal interference and Angela would be gone for the next two weeks on a support mission to rebuilding areas damaged by omnic strikes. Moira was her only hope for support.

Lena regretted her decision already.

"Only the accelerator. That's all. Put whatever duct tape I need to stay in this timeline, and that's it. No taking blood or anything else." Lena prayed her gaze did not waver as she stared the doctor down, the rabbit-thump of her heartbeat loud in her ears.

[chronal-anomaly]

@metamorphiisis

[ THUMB ]:          while cupping the receiver’s cheek in their hand, the sender slowly glides their thumb across their cheekbone in a tender, sweeping caress. //metamorphiisis; looking down at her like a specimen-

Spectre froze, muscles shattering into a statuesque stillness. Fawning, in a word, gifting herself over to the doctor for whatever rotten idea dominated the mad scientist's mind today. Compared to the noise and the chaos of the base, Dr. O'Deorain's quiet, if clinicial, administrations were a welcome balm over frayed nerves from the most recent fight. Head tilt gently, leaning into the touch, a faint smile gracing her lips. A cat, maybe, finding its comfortable spot in the shelter.

"I am stable." Her voice was coarse, dipping her chin further into O'Deorain's hands. It was a simple report in, Spectre dropping by the labs hot on the heels of her first field mission. Accelerator operated as expected, if running hotter than expected, and the overall mission was made easier by the respirator that now dangled from her chin. Still, the abuse of a first mission was plenty to deplete whatever reserves that she had.

"There was an ambush waiting for us. I was nearly caught giving chase to a runaway witness, but I got away. And took care of them." There was a plea in her voice, looking for affirmation that she did well. A kicked puppy masquerading as an assassin, seeking its masters appreciation. The remaining of the mission would be delivered in neat lettered documents, or an encrypted document appearing on her computer. Spectre, thankfully, had no more intel to share and could finally rest.

"Did I do well today?"