It sat prettily in its chair, the ruffles of its dress nicely arranged as it waited to be played with. Elegant hands were folded in its lap, assisted in their position by a pretty ribbon binding them together. This was necessary, for the doll could not hold the position otherwise- the tendons at its wrists had been carefully severed, as had those at the elbow, as had the ones that moved each and every finger. This had been done with great precision, so as not to damage any nerves, and stitched up very neatly with a pretty pink thread. The doll still remembered the pain and the swelling and the itching as it healed.
The doll's face, too, had been neatly done. The painted mouth was fixed into a smile, the stitching from the corners running almost as high as rosy cheeks, ever so pinchable. The smile was always friendly, no teeth behind it- who would want a doll with teeth? Its eyes were open- they were always open, each eyelid stitched neatly out of the way, with big black stitches done to imitate long eyelashes. The doll had not been able to see out of them for a long time, but dolls, as the dollmaker had kindly explained, did not need to see. Its hair was freshly washed and ever so silky-soft, highlighted by pretty ribbons, its skin clear and clean wherever it was visible.
The parts of the doll under the dress were not so pretty, though still kept perfectly clean- covered in scars that had not healed so neatly, knees mangled, a femur healed out-of-shape and one foot missing- though there was no need to worry about that, for the dollmaker was working on a replacement. The dollmaker had considered replacing all the limbs, at one point, had said as much while working on it. But a doll that could feel, down to each finger- now that was something special.
Of course, feelings had to be expressed appropriately. Dolls should not scream, or speak, or cry, and it had not been able to learn, so the vocal cords and tear ducts had been modified accordingly. That had fixed it, and now it reacted very cutely indeed, according to the dollmaker, who was, of course, the expert.
Today, someone new was coming to play with it. The doll did not know who, or when, or what game would be played. (It caught itself hoping it would not hurt much, and shut the thought down- dolls did not feel hope, the dollmaker had said.) It knew its place, however, and its role, and so it waited.
sewing again and because of the doll's rigid body parts, i have to pop leon's arms off to work with the clothing
and now... whump concept.
of leon being experimented on with bioweapon tech (when don't i propose this? lol) . similar vein to the regeneradors and to the c-virus and g-virus.
leon can heal himself, but his method of healing is similar to a mix of amphibians, reptiles, and bugs. for some parts, he has to molt in a shell. for others, it's just a matter of time and major sheds.
leon thus being tortured, to test this regenerative ability.
of course, like these real world examples, it... takes awhile. at least for the beginning stages of his captivity and experimentations.
first it starts with a few fingers, which, much to leon's relief, begin to regrow that evening. slowly, slowly.... visited by nurses and scientists to study the regeneration. maybe it's a period of a few weeks, and it's back to normal. like nothing ever happened.
and he's not fucking stupid, of course. he was just hoping on escape/rescue before they started to vivisect him (without anesthesia on some operations) and to amputate limbs.
at least they came back.... the bigger stuff takes a lot longer, though. that's where the cocooning process takes over. major damage requires the most intensive healing measures.
but with enough r&d, the process does speed up. he's a great candidate for this.
a stubborn warrior hellbent on fighting until the end? if only they can convince him to join their cause... immortal tank of a living weapon... that sounds perfect....
Content warnings: implied/referenced past noncon and forced to hurt, emotional whump, self harm, self mutilation, burning, hand whump, blinding / eye whump.
(Yes this is the “Sev spirals and decides to burn his own eyes out” bit. First draft I wrote down earlier today when I was sad, but I'm happy with it, think I'll leave it be.)
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It's shaking- it can't stop shaking, and it's been... it doesn't know how long it's been. Not long enough. It's still shaking, and its eyes are squeezed shut but that doesn't help, doesn't erase what happened, can't make it forget, and it doesn't deserve to forget and it is alone and Leonia is alone and how is she supposed to manage when even it is struggling so?
It is alone, and shaking, cold and clammy all over, and it prays that they've let Leonia go home because it cannot stand the thought of her being alone and shaking too, she was never part of this, was never meant to be part of this, and neither it nor Canna could have guessed that this would be the result of their attempt to change things, and it's not fair, nothing ever is but this is worse than anything before- it knows, it knows that suffering is never deserved and that has always been a comfort but now it stings because why, why her? It wishes it had the power to go back, give the time to the serpent to eat and start over, but only Canna can do that and Canna is not here, it is alone, alone, alone and it doesn't know what to do.
Canna would know what to do.
And it- it knows Canna, doesn't it? Think. Think. What would Canna do, other than give the time away?
It is shaking, so Canna would hold it. Is cold, so she would warm it. It wraps its arms around itself, and that helps, a little. It cannot remember the last time it did so, the gesture unfamiliar and clumsy after so long without the ability to.
How to fix things?
It cannot reach Leonia right now. Cannot help her. So- focus on the self, first. What does it need?
It needs to not be guilty. Or to not feel guilty, because it cannot undo what was done but it knows that that wasn't really its fault, even if the guilt says otherwise. It had to obey, or Eshha would have done worse- he said so, and it could not risk the possibility of that being true.
It did what it had to but it still feels horrible for it, still cannot stop the tears it held back earlier, held back for her sake, but she is not here, it is alone, is crying, is shaking still.
Think.
Shaking isn't helping. Squeezing its eyes shut isn't helping. Being cold and alone isn't helping.
It forces its eyes open. Too bright. The world is always too bright because it has adjusted to years of darkness, but normally the cell is dark too-
They left the brazier lit.
It's right there, in the middle of the room, blazing bright and warm while it huddles cold in its corner when it could- it could.
It crawls closer. Could get up and walk, but no one is watching. It is alone, but for the brazier. The fire.
What would Canna do?
It reaches out and the fire doesn't respond, of course not, but it can feel the warmth and reaches further and-
It hurts. Ithurtsithurtsithurts and instinct screams for it to snatch its hand back, but Canna would say be still, and so it is still, patient, yes, good, until it remembers how to breathe without screaming.
It curls its numb-aching-burning fingers around something glowing, soft, beautiful, so beautiful and the idea comes to it then, because it likes beautiful things, is one itself, and like attracts like even though it can barely think through the pain, can barely see, but it doesn't want to see anyway, it wants to go back, back to when things were dark and warm and painful in a way that was easy. It wants to burn the irrational guilt away, it wants agony to confirm what it already knows- that it is the victim here, not the perpetrator, never the perpetrator.
It has never wanted to hurt anyone.
...Anyone else.
And it knows what it has to do. What it wants to do.
Its fingers don't move right anymore- it brings the numb hand to its face clumsily. There is no one here to move this doll's limbs for it, to pull its strings, so it has to do that itself, even though it's hard, even though it hurts.
It is shaking so badly it risks losing the glow if it waits any longer, so it doesn't, and the handful of shimmering heat makes contact with an eye.
It forgets, then, to hold its breath- it screams, flinches and falls back, face burning, sizzling as the eye is cooked- not burnt out, no, but it's enough, for the time being, it's enough. It doesn't think it can do anymore. It wants the pain to stop.
It curls up and shakes and sobs, tears flowing from one eye only, the other burning, burning, but isn't that what it wanted? There is no room for irrational emotions when pain is all-consuming. It can hardly think, and only the sheer amount of experience it has keeps it from falling apart completely, gives it a sliver of calm, of focus.
Good. Good so far. One more.
It doesn't want to anymore.
Irrelevant. This is for the best.
If Canna were here, she wouldn't hesitate. It wishes she were, but it knows it has to do this alone. It knows it can.
Its hand won't, though. Won't move, fingers stuck curled and burnt and useless. No matter- it has another.
Its breathing comes too fast and too shallow, leaves it dizzy as it reaches for the flames again, up because it is still half-curled on the floor, and plucks a burning ember from the base of them. Its nerves scream as its heart skips a beat, and it doesn't want to anymore, but it can and it will. An involuntarily jerk has it losing balance, sprawled on the floor, on its back, but it manages to hold on, sheer desperation holding the overwhelming urge to let go back for just a moment. It holds up its prize, a golden-red glow that blurs in its remaining eye.
Now.
It holds its breath, and brings the burning piece down. Its aim is- good enough. The cry it lets out echoes back to it in the cell, too loud, but it couldn't- can't -help it, this is worse than the last, worse than anything- that can't be true- is it?- it doesn't matter.
Canna had her captive for ninety-five days. She completed her work by day fifty-eight. The first time she embraced him in comfort was day fifty-two. She called him pretty on day forty-eight, and burnt his face after he leaned into her hand. She cut out his tongue on day thirty-six, but he’d long been speaking with her freely. She stopped someone else from hurting him because she wanted to do it personally on day three. On the first day, she made note of how non-threatening his gaze was.
It has been a long time since Canna last cared about anyone.
Canna looks after what is hers.
There is something that is Canna’s and it is quiet and patient and it has no eyes no hands no tongue to speak with but it leans into her touch and is that not communication?
If Canna has all the power does it not make sense to surrender to her? What is surrender if not submission? What is submission if not trust?
Some say pain comes in waves. Some say despair is like an ocean. It thinks it has long since drowned. Maybe the storm is on the surface, maybe things hurt less down in the airless dark. Canna calls it broken.
Everyone who visits only comes to hurt it. Jiri, Norin, even Telnu. But Canna does more than that.
Yes, Canna looks after what is hers.
Canna’s voice is soft. Canna’s touch does not always hurt. Canna gives it advice, and instructions, and it follows the instructions- crawl to her, kiss her boot, lean into the knife, the High Inquisitor is watching and we wouldn’t want to disappoint -and then she gives it blankets, so warm, so soft, and says it is time to reap the rewards and takes its eyes out and it doesn’t even miss them-
It spends a lot of time sleeping. Healing is exhausting, after all.
It doesn’t remember what not being tired felt like.
It doesn’t remember what not being in pain felt like.
It doesn’t particularly like trying to remember things in general. It is tiring and difficult and hurts in a way that has nothing to do with physical injuries.
It doesn’t stop to think of its friends.
But its friends think of it.
They are watching, when it goes on display, as per the Emperor’s orders.
They are watching, and this time, Rill has brought his bow and arrows.
It doesn’t know this. It hasn’t seen or spoken to Rill in just over ninety-five days.
leon being "interrogated" but instead of being beaten for information, he's beaten for the hell of it.
and instead of taking an entire finger, a few of his fingers get dismantled by the joint. one, by one.
captors take the "least important" fingers cause they don't wanna babysit their catch, so he has no need to be so upset about a lost pinkie or two. and maybe he's declawed a few other fingers. he can still use them, the damned crybaby.
for extra fun, maybe it's taken a bit slower. first the nail. then the tip. then maybe a little degloving.
they're just cutting out waste, ya know? a demonstration of what can be done with bioweapons! maybe. get rid of what's not necessary. that idea's prone to be forgotten later when he's dolled up for his pretty looks. pretty is important! *interrogators scribbling furiously in their notes*
