#surgery without anesthesia

[just-whump-and-suffering]

Kamen Rider Gavv

[whumpisgoodwhumpislife]

The thing from the deep

#1 - Enhanced

Masterlist

I did a lot of research for this one, but still only found contradictory information. Do anglerfishes have a swim bladder ?

Art

CW surgery without anesthesia, manipulation of organs, noncon body mods medical whump, lab whump.

9: “Lay down”

13: Gloves

3 : cutting

It had been trapped in that box for what felt like an eternity, hunger gnawing at its stomach, its limbs aching from the lack of movement. Hours passed in the cramped tank, until the sound of footsteps finally reached it. The anglerfish could hear every noise, thanks to its ears made for the silence of the deep, but it also meant that the footsteps echoed in its eardrums like thunder. It recoiled as much as it could, which wasn't much, its lure flickering in fear. It wasn't alone anymore. Voices echoed above it, loud, words it couldn't understand.

"Just grab it and lay it down. I don't care if it's sticky, you're wearing gloves. I'll help you."

The first time they touched it, the angler snapped. Tense like a spring, it twisted on itself to reach the hands that tried to grab it, and barely missed one. The voices became louder, and it bristled its spikes and fins, in defensive position. It was a predator after all; its needle-like teeth were sharp. But they were not of great use to it as something pressed against its face; it tried to bite by reflex, and its teeth caught on something metallic. It felt an uncomfortable pressure as straps were tightened around its head. The mer tried to let it go, but couldn't. It was stuck, and couldn't bite anymore. And, despite its threatening clicks and chitters, it was lifted out of the water and dropped on a metallic surface.

Before it could struggle or squirm away, it was switched onto its back, and leather straps were tightened across its chest, arms, and tail. The angler twitched, its delicate dorsal fin painfully crushed under its weight, unable to move. It breathed in shallow gasps, the air unfamiliar and uncomfortable in its lungs. Something was pressed against its face, and as it inhaled, its movements grew slow and sluggish, until its chest was the only thing moving. It was paralysed, completely helpless.

It had known fear before of course, there were other, bigger predators in the abyss. But even when the fishing net had ensnared it in its deathly grip, it could still struggle, it could still fight. Now, it could only wait.

Something cold pressed on its stomach, where the pale skin met rough, mottled brown and grey skin. It was not ready for the flash of pain that followed, the cold agony of the blade slicing through the skin. A long cut, going from under its navel to the bottom of its ribs. And it could not move could not even screech, could just lie there, its blind eyes wide in agony. It didn't see its skin being stretched apart and locked in place with pliers, as the humans prepared to cut through another layer. It didn't know how long it took them to reach the organs, or to take all of their pictures, and touch every part of it. It just knew it was in pain and, even if it didn't clearly identify the feeling, having never felt that before, the small mer felt violated.

"Here, take the samples. See that ? It's a swim bladder. It's atrophied, since it doesn't need that in the midnight zone. But you're not going back there anytime soon, so might as well make sure you survive here."

It didn't answer. It didn't understand. They squeezed things inside of it, things that were never meant to be seen or touched. Another wave of pain washed over its limp body as they cut through its inside.

"Let's get rid of this useless thing. Hand over the pump, we'll start adjusting the implant now. It will counteract the effects of the pressure... Thankfully, that thing should stay alive a bit longer."

It hurts. It burnt. They were doing things, putting things inside of its body. Things that took space and didn't belong.

"The osmolyte tank won't last long, that's why we must keep the refill tube available outside the body. Otherwise we would need to perform surgery almost daily to refill it. Can you imagine?"

The last thing the small mer heard was the lab assistant laughing at the remark. Then, finally, its consciousness faded away.

When it woke up, it knew something had changed. There was the pain of the stitches, sure, but there was something worse. It shakily pressed a webbed hand on the jagged scar, emitting a surprised chirp as it felt something hard. Something that wasn't there before. And below, to the right side of its belly, a tube with the end screwed shut was protruding from its skin. Laughing at it, telling it that its own body wasn't its property anymore. Just a thing to observe, cut open, and close just to start over again. It didn't even notice that the crushing pain of the pressure was gone, it only felt the fear and the humiliation.

NB: Osmolyte is a molecule that helps to control the pressure in organs. Scientific article here !

Taglist : @sausages-things @jumpywhumpywriter @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @thataquaticwhumper @alyscat

@whatamidoingherehelpme @fleur-a-whump @ratsupremacy88 @scoundrelwithboba @phoenixpromptsandstuff

@vampiresprite @neverthelass @worstcasescenariolullaby @bacillusinfection

[huilian]

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

for @lulaypp

Jason wakes up to a cacophony of noises coming from all around him. He doesn’t open his eyes, all the training for not letting them know he’s up kicking in, and lets the voices wash over him, trying to figure out what is going on.

“What do you mean-,” someone says, only to be interrupted by another person.

“-violate the conservation of energy-”

“-instantaneously? Without-”

Jason resists the urge to frown. What are they talking about? The chatter is a very different one than the usual criminal-trying-to-kidnap-Red-Hood chatter. They never talk about membrane potential, or conservation of energy, or chemical reactions.

Well, okay. Some of them, particularly Scarecrow’s or Ivy’s people, might talk about chemical reactions, but never like this.

Before he can piece out what is going one, a voice calls out. “Ah, Mister Todd. Good. You’re awake,” someone above him says. “We can proceed with all the halted experiments.”

The voices stop for a while, before erupting in a thousand different ways.

“Can I-”

“-the effects on-”

“-no! My array requires him-”

What? Experiments?

Jason opens his eyes. No use in pretending to be asleep, now that they (he decides to call the person announcing his wakefulness person-number-one) have announced that he’s awake. He is greeted with the sight of googled eyes, masked faces, gloved hands, and, more importantly, white lab coats.

Shit.

What are they doing to him?

He tries lifting his arms, only to find that it’s strapped to the bed. A cursory look downwards tells him that there are straps around his chest, abdomen, and around his legs too. He looks up, and finds himself making eye contact with one of the researchers? Lab tech? Mad scientist? She holds the eye contact, unfearing of him.

And why should she? He’s stripped and strapped to the bed, unable to move, all his weapons gone. He doesn’t even know why he’s here.

“A change in eye color, Doctor,” she says, still looking into his eyes. “I believe the procedure causes his stroma to change, making the reflection appear green.”

“Yes, Mitchell,” person-number-one says. It seems that Jason is right. He is the leader of this group? Pack? Companion? What does one call a collection of scientists? “That has been recorded from the preliminary tests. Step your game up.”

The woman, Mitchell, although that’s probably her last name, considering the group holding him right now, grumbles, but doesn’t say anything outright. She grabs a syringe next to her, and jabs them precisely, but not gently, on Jason’s bare arms.

What are they doing? What do they want from him?

“What the fuck is going on?” Jason growls, frustrated. He sees a few of the scientists? Lab tech?-He still doesn’t know precisely who they are- flinch, but for the most part, they ignored him.

Weird. He is sure he went out as the Red Hood tonight, and the Red Hood doesn’t really have a reputation for being harmless. Even they should know that, if they’re operating in Gotham.

Shit. Is he still in Gotham?

Wait. They called him Mister Todd. He’s unmasked, though that alone shouldn’t tell them anything. Jason Todd doesn’t really have photos, or any presence, legal or otherwise, whatsoever.

Who is he dealing with? How do they know about him?

“Tell me what the fuck is going on,” Jason growls again, “or I swear-”

“Now, Mister Todd, no need for threats,” person-number-one says. “I assure you I went through the proper channels to acquire you. All is above board.” He gives Jason a small smile, the kind you give to misbehaving children that you find amusing but cannot afford to let continue.

“Proper channels?” Jason asks, stalling for time. When person-number-one is talking, the rest of the scientists?-what are they?- stops what they are doing, so Jason is trying to get him to talk as long as he can. The straps are, unfortunately, made of good quality. He’s been spoiled with Gotham’s cesspit of underpaid and poorly supplied criminals.

“Oh yes, proper channels. I am a researcher, after all, and we do things the right way in my lab. Unfortunately for you, being legally dead means that you do not have the power to sign a consent form,” he smiles again, less like humoring misbehaving children and more like a shark that has smelled blood, “and thus we do not need to obtain your consent.”

A second pass. And then two, while Jason is mulling over what he said. But before the full implication of it can hit him, person-number-one claps his hands and says, “Alright, enough dithering! I want that data on my desk by lunch, Bilakopic, and Kim! Don’t forget to run the gel analysis!”

“Yes, Professor,” a woman, Bilakopic, going by her features, mutters. Another man, whom Jason guesses is Kim, nods tersely.

“Do not worry, Mister Todd,” person-number-one, whom Jason still hasn’t caught the name of, says. “Your contributions will be highly valued by the scientific community. Of course, you won’t be named,” a tilt of his head, “but I will know.”

Jason opens his mouth to tell him to fuck off, but before he can say anything, a man puts a swab of cotton inside his mouth and scrapes what feels like the inside of his throat. He watches as person-number-one saunters off the room, and looks around to the collection of dead-faced scientists around him.

His hands are still not free. The straps hold throughout his attempts at escape.

Shit.

***

The… experiments, if Jason can call it that, goes on and on for hours. One of them would come with one type of test tube or another in their hands and draw various things from his body. Ranging from blood to skin to hair to urine, all the way to cerebrospinal fluid from his spine. It hurts, but not excessively so. Person-number-one, whom Jason still hasn’t caught the name of, was right.

They are professionals.

Normally, that would make Jason be a bit calmer. There is nothing worse than getting kidnapped by an amateur, especially a desperate amateur. Amateurs are more likely to either mess up or hurt him accidentally. A professional hit, even though that might sound terrifying to people not used to their line of work, is really one of the better things that can happen to them.

But this time? This time it terrifies Jason.

Because professional means that they won’t think of you as a person. Professional means that there is no way for Jason to persuade one of them, or to make them lower their guard so that he can escape.

Professional means that there is nothing for him to exploit.

So he lies there, watching as they run their experiments on him. Not literally, of course. They come to gather their samples and then leave immediately, presumably to run it somewhere else. Jason watches as they pull blood from him with meticulous, efficient moves;  as they open his mouth without any fanfare to swab his throat; as they measure his heartbeat, his breathing, his oxygen levels, and everything and anything you can monitor in a body.

It went on for hours. Jason is just lying there, unable to move and unwilling to talk, because he knows that nothing that is coming out of his mouth will convince them.

They are professionals.

Slowly, the number of people coming back for more samples dwindles. Do mad-scientists work normal hours? What time is it?

Hell, what day is it? From the expression on person-number-one’s face when he woke up, Jason can tell that they have been doing this for a while now.

How long have they had him?

“Asif, no!” Jason hears someone shouts from somewhere outside his room. What now?

“He’s not going to let us go before that data hits his table and you know it, Kris!”

“You can’t be serious! I’m not going in there with just the two of us!”

Are they… talking about him? Huh. Okay. Jason can work with this.

But before he can think about what he is going to say to them, they come in, face as expressionless as everyone's been throughout the day (Jason decides to call the time he’s been awake until now a day. He doesn’t have any other method of determining time, not with this closed up room and his fucked internal clock.). They go directly to the table full of equipment and wastes no time nor movement in getting what they want.

Efficient. Meticulous. Exact.

Professionals.

All traces of humanity, glimpsed from that snippet of conversation outside the room, is gone. In its place is the cool, detached mask of a scientist observing their object of study.

Jason closes his open mouth, swallowing down all the words he wanted to say, and then he closes his eyes. What’s the point in resisting? They don’t even see him as human.

It’s not that bad anyway. Just a couple of pricks from the needle, and the uncomfortable feeling of a cotton swab being put into his throat. It’s nothing worse than being in the Cave, getting patched up by Alfred, or even the check-ups with Leslie back when Bruce still cared enough for him to get him to do check-ups.

Does Bruce still care enough for him to search for him? Or are they going to just brush off his disappearance, relieved that this particular burden is gone?

Jason breathes out as the cotton swab is being pulled out of his mouth. It’s not that bad. It’s not that bad.

***

He was wrong. It is that bad.

He spent a few more sessions being poked and prodded and taken samples of, nothing worse than the things they did to him in the first session. But then, one day, person-number-one, whom Jason hadn’t seen in his room from that first session, comes in, with several of his scientists in tow.

“Doctor, you can’t be serious,” the one walking in right behind person-number-one says. “We can still make do with what we have.”

“Make do?” person-number-one says. “We don’t make do in the Greber Lab, Segal. We excel.” Person-number-one, whose name is probably Greber, considering everything, takes a scalpel from the table full of equipment and hands it over to Segal. “Now do it, or I am going to reject all of your proposals. It’s clear that you do not have what it takes to succeed in this field.”

A hush comes and engulfs the room. The rest of the scientists, everyone except for Greber and Segal, are standing close to the door, posture all ready to bolt. Jason tenses. This is not good.

He sees Segal gulps, looking down to the scalpel in Greber’s hands. She doesn’t raise her hand to take it.

Greber scoffs. “I see. You are always welcome to leave my team, Segal,” he says, before walking towards Jason with the scalpel in tow.

Oh, this is not good. This is not good at all.

Greber presses down on Jason’s chest, the scalpel still in his hands. Jason has never felt the lack of clothing on his chest as acutely as he does now, looking at the scalpel glinting under the fluorescent light.

But before Greber can do anything, Segal shouts, “I’ll do it!”

The scalpel stops in its descent. Jason lets out a small breath of relief, only to stop again when he realizes what she was saying.

She’ll do it. What is she going to do to him?

Another blood-smelling shark smile blooms on Greber’s face. “Good,” he says. “I always know you could do it, Segal.” He flips the scalpel in his hands and offers it to Segal, handle first. “After you.”

“At least give him anesthetics, Doctor,” someone calls out from the crowd near the door.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit. What are they going to do to him that requires anesthetics?

Or, perhaps even more worryingly, what are they going to do to him that should require anesthetics, but they won’t give it to him?

“No,” Greber answers promptly. “All of our anesthetics are going to interact with his receptor proteins, distorting the result we are looking for. No anesthetics.”

Shit. This is going to hurt, isn’t it?

Jason breathes out, trying to get to the meditation mindset both Bruce and Talia tried to teach him. In, and out, calm your heart rate, get your mind somewhere else.

Jason sees Segal take the scalpel. He sees Greber move back, out of reach. He sees the hesitation, the pity on Segal’s face, before it is quickly removed underneath the detached mask all of them always wear around him.

Jason closes his eyes, trying to will his mind to bring him to other places. Happier places. Training with Bruce. Cooking with Alfred. The small, pleased smile on Talia’s face when he completed a hard training.

Flying on the rooftops of Gotham. Feeling the fluter of his cape behind him. Feeling the weight of Bruce’s cape all around him.

It doesn’t work.

He still screams as the scalpel makes its way around him, on top of him, and finally, inside of him. He screams until the group of scientists near the door put their hands on their ears; he screams until Segal, who is still holding the scalpel, asks for someone to help her restrain him; he screams until his throat constricts and his lungs collapse.

But still, the scalpel moves on, cutting pieces of him with surgeon-like precision, uncaring of the amount of pain it gives him.

***

Jason doesn’t even twitch as he hears someone thundering into the room. What’s the point? It’s going to happen either way.

“I don’t care why you haven’t done it,” he hears Greber’s voice, the first time since a few days ago, when the man told his subordinates to cut him open and then watched. They have done worse things than just cutting him open since then, but never with Greber present.

They have cut out a piece of bone from his leg, stuck a needle in to take a sample of the marrow, and then breaks the leg, and Jason is more nervous now with Greber in front of him than he was on that day.

His leg is splinted now, probably in another experiment to see how long it would take him to heal a broken bone. These people do not do anything to him without a hypothesis and a list of ingredients and methods.

“I want it done. Now,” Greber finishes, looming in front of Jason, a power saw in his hand.

What else are they going to do to him? They have cut him open, taken pieces of skin and muscle, taken samples of various liquids from his abdomen, and broken his bone and took the marrow underneath. What else can they do to him?

“Doctor,” a woman Jason distantly recognizes says, “this procedure is too risky. Especially if you insist on not using anesthesia.”

“Oh, do shut up, Bilakopic.” Ah. That’s her name. But then, what difference would knowing her name give for Jason? It’s not like they see him as human.

It’s not like he can see them as human, after all they had done to him.

“We haven’t had any progress with any of his other cells, so obviously what causes him to spontaneously resurrect is not that. That leaves his central nervous system, the only place we haven’t taken a sample of yet,” Greber says.

“Doctor,” Bilakopic says, “have you considered that it’s going to give permanent damage to the subject?”

“Who do you think I am?” Greber snaps, for once showing something other than amusement or irritation. He’s desperate, and Jason can feel it.

It scares Jason even more. Desperate is not good. Desperate means they’re going to be careless, and careless, in a situation like this, can very well spell death for him.

Jason doesn’t want to die yet. Again. He has stared death in the face many, many times before, has even died, but never like this. Never strapped down, feeling his body getting weaker and weaker as they took more and more pieces from him, and unable to do anything.

Where is Bruce? He’s going to come, right? But it’s been, at the very least, weeks since they have him, and still, no one has come to rescue him.

Are they searching for him? They are, right? They keep saying about how family don’t leave anyone behind.

But is Jason still part of the family?

Maybe not. Maybe they see that he is gone and is congratulating each other, a thorn in their side finally removed.

No. They’re going to come get him. They will. Bruce promised, didn’t he?

“Get the headrest,” Greber barks out. A clanging noise from somewhere behind Jason tells him that one of the scientists always following in Greber’s wake is doing just that.

Wait. Headrest. Power saw. Central nervous system.

Jason feels all of his breath come out of his lungs in one fell swoop. Are they going to operate on his brain?

No. No. Nonononono. They can’t do that to him. They can’t do that.

Jason starts to pull on his restraints, doing so for the first time in days. He has to get out. Whatever he does, he has to get out.

He can feel the atmosphere in the room tensing. Greber, however, is not concerned. “Get more restraints, while you’re at it,” he says, clicking his tongue.

No. No. They can’t do that. They can’t do that.

They can, however. Hands hold him down, manhandling him to a sitting position. The first time in weeks that Jason is sitting up, and he can’t even savour it.

He can’t get out of their grip. They’re careful, always tying a new strap to hold him in place before removing another one. Besides, he hasn’t eaten in days--they had him on an IV drip-- and he can feel that he’s not even at half strength.

Soon enough, Jason is sitting up, head tied in place on top of an aluminium headrest, the rest of his body tied down either to the bed or the bars just above his bed.

This is happening.

This can’t be happening.

This is happening.

“Gloved, masked, and gowned, everyone?” Jason hears someone ask, and then he hears the chorus of agreements afterwards. He hears the thrum of a power tool being turned on, and it hits him, right then and there.

This is happening. This is really happening. He can’t get out.

He closes his eyes, swearing to himself that he is not going to scream this time.

The resolve lasts only until the saw makes contact with his head.

***

Jason swears he can feel the piece of skull moving. It shouldn’t. It was sutured close, and he felt every single one of those sutures coming in and out of his skull. It shouldn’t move.

But he feels it moving.

His head is elevated now, and wrapped with sterilized gauze. Say what you want about these people, and Jason can say a lot after weeks of being here, but they know how to properly do brain surgery.

Even though they did it to him without anesthesia.

Jason hadn’t bothered being cognizant since then. It’s better this way. They can do what they want to him, and he doesn’t have to be aware about them doing it.

It’s better this way.

Days, if he can even call it that, blur together. They keep coming back for more samples, though thankfully never reopening the hole in his skull.

He has a hole in his skull. The thought makes him want to laugh, because the other alternative is to cry.

And he refuses to cry here. They have taken his blood, they have taken his organs, they have even taken brain matter from him, but they would not have his tears. He refuses to give them his tears.

People keep coming and going and coming again, faces morphing together into a single, amorphous and emotionless face. He doesn’t bother trying to keep track of who is who.

White coats. Blue gloves. Green mask.

Black cowl.

Wait.

Black cowl?

No. It’s just a fragment of his imagination. It’s his abused brain, dreaming up of scenarios in which he gets to get out of here.

But he hears voices. Panicked voices. Voices that don't sound like a tape recorder, saying everything in a monotone.

“Jay?” the voice says. “Jaylad, can you open your eyes?”

No, dad. He doesn’t want to.

“Jay, I know it’s painful, but I need you to open your eyes for me,” the voice says again, deeper and warmer than anything he has heard here. It’s most likely a hallucination. Bruce has given up on him, that he knows. But still, he wants to bury himself in the voice that reminds him so much of home.

Home. He just wants to go home, dad. Please.

“Can you do that?” the voice asks, rumbling all around Jason’s ears. It reminds him of late-night patrols, of being bundled up in the cape, of being safe.

Jason opens his eyes, and is greeted by a sight as familiar to him as his own name. Bruce’s face in a cowl.

“Good job, Jay,” Bruce murmurs, still maintaining that soft voice. “Now, I need you to stay awake for me, yeah? We’re going to get you out of here,”- Bruce raises his hand, moving towards Jason’s exposed face, but then drops them back down again. Jason strangely misses the touch. - “but I need you to stay awake, okay?”

Jason wants to say something, wants to nod his acquiesce, but the only thing that came out of him is a whine.

Bruce understands anyway.

“Good lad,” he says, brushing his hand to Jason’s own. Jason leans to the touch, feeling sad that the one from before, the one headed to his face, didn’t make contact.

It is a blur, then. He’s pretty sure the rest of the family was there. There was a flash of blue, a hint of green, and flickers of red, yellow, and purple. But throughout it all, he keeps his eyes on the black in front of him, the black that never left his side.

It stayed with him, up until they were out, until they hooked up various machines to him, and until the voice says again, “You can go to sleep, now.”

And with that voice, and that warmth right beside him, and that hand softly drawing patterns on his hand, Jason… sleeps.

[iwhumpyou]

Operation (Part 4)

Masterlist.  Alien.

Part 3.

~#~#~#~#~#~

When she was a child, she had teeth pulled once or twice.  She remembers it dimly – sitting in the chair, head tilted back, as metal clamped down on her tooth.  The rush of fear, of terrified anticipation as her fingers curled into the chair.

The sudden, jarring pain. Her fingers squeezing tight against the chair.  And then, nothing.  A cotton pad to stop the bleeding and then an empty hole that she poked around curiously until a new tooth grew in.

The pain was an instant and then it was gone.

She wishes that this was the same.

The towel is pressed between her teeth and her jaw is already aching.  She clenches her eyes shut tight and waits for the pain.

Laden presses the cold, burning scalpel around the sixth spine, and pulls.

It hurts worse for her reprieve, the pain magnified by the brief rest and the brief glimmer of hope and the chance that had existed, for however short a time, of an escape.  Of leaving the agony and betrayal behind.  Perhaps permanently.

It is over then, far sooner than she expected, and Maia takes a ragged breath as she tries to center herself.  She can go again, have another spine removed.  Perhaps when all of them are gone, she can go to sleep and never wake up.  Perhaps when all the shackles are removed, she can grab Laden’s scalpel and finish what she imagined.

“Oh,” Laden says.

That…that doesn’t sound good.

Maia tries to ask an inquiring question but the towel gets in the way.  Laden must get the gist of the muffled noises, though, because he continues.

“The spike broke off in the scalpel,” he says, and his words sound level, but there is the noise of rummaging, of metal clanging on metal, of water running.  “An ingenious defense mechanism.” 

Maia would be sure to appreciate it if it wasn’t in her body.

“I need to remove it more carefully – it seems to be conserving its energy to stay wrapped around your spinal column.”

Maia spat out the towel. “What does that mean?” she croaked.

“It means that it’s adapting.  Thinking,” Laden says, and the rummaging stops, “It means I need another pair of hands.”  A long pause – he’s silent, he’s not moving – before he says, his voice almost worried, almost like he cared.

“It means that this is going to hurt more.”

~#~

“No,” Claude says the moment he steps outside.  He looks at her and his mouth closes.  It doesn’t matter.  They both know what he was going to ask.  “No, I won’t do it.”

Laden sighs and she can see the exhaustion on his face.  He started the procedure thirty hours ago, and had only a few breaks in between.  He wants to get this over with.  They all want to get this over with.  No one wants to causa Maia more pain than they have to and the sooner the spines are out, the sooner they can drug her and let her sleep.

“Claude, we’re halfway there,” Laden says quietly.

“I won’t,” she says, looking away from him.  Towards the crack in the blinds, where she can see Maia limp on the examination table. “I can’t.”

“If you won’t do it,” Laden says quietly, “I will find someone else.”

Claude snaps her gaze back to him, and his gaze is firm.  Sympathetic, but firm.

“I’m not a doctor,” she croaks out.

“In case you didn’t notice, there aren’t a whole lot of doctors around,” Laden says, his tone trying for amused and falling flat.  “Claude,” he says, and she shakes her head, “Claude, if we had the resources, we could’ve figured a way to remove the parasite without brute force.  But we don’t have those resources.  We may never have those resources.  And we started this procedure.  We need to finish it.” 

“I can’t do it.”

“Claude, I need another pair of hands.  Someone to hold the incision open while I remove the parasite.  Or do you want to leave your friend lying there for the foreseeable future?”

That is cruel and uncalled for.  She narrows her eyes but he doesn’t budge.  His gaze is no longer sympathetic.

“Laden,” she says quietly.

“I need a steady pair of hands,” he says, and turns to go back in the room, “If you truly want to help your friend.”

She follows him inside.

Maia doesn’t move. She lies still and limp on the table, but Claude can hear her breathe.  She remembers how fiercely she was fighting in the beginning, hands and legs straining against her restraints.  She remembers watching that fight die.

“What do you need me to do?” Claude asks, her voice high and wavering as he steps to a tray of sharp, glinting tools.

Maia flinches at her voice. She lifts her head and then stops suddenly, as if she thought better of it.  She doesn’t say a word.

Laden directs her to wash her hands and get ready while he pokes at Maia’s back, aiming a flashlight to see better.

He hands her something that looks like a pair of tweezers, but is stronger and sturdier.  “I will make an incision around the spike, which will help me get at the root of the parasite to pull the whole thing out. You need to hold the incision open, like so –” he demonstrates on the first one and she can hear a stifled groan. The outer portion of the spike has been torn out, but its remnants are still in the wound.  “Until I tell you to let go.”

“Okay,” Claude says, and takes a deep breath.  She’s doing this for Maia.  She just has to remember that. This is for Maia, this is for her friend.  This is going to save her life.

She can do this.  She has to do this.

“Okay,” Claude repeats, and steps forward to take ahold of the tool.

It is slow work. Laden tears the spike out, piece by piece.  She can see the flashlight moving, see black and sinuous and wrong amidst red and white.  She holds the incision open, trying not to flinch every time the skin underneath her fingers shudders.

It is cold and trembling. She can hear soft muffled groans but they fade away to harsh breaths.  There is something dripping on the floor, drop by drop by drop.  Soon, the skin only twitches, spasming every time Laden catches a piece of the parasite and pulls. 

Finally, there is nothing left in the wound.  Laden gently takes the tweezers from her before disinfecting the wound and taping a piece of gauze over it.  The rest have been stitched closed, Claude remembers seeing him do it, but now he steps over, near Maia’s head, and takes the towel from her mouth.

“Can you continue?” he asks.

There is a long silence. Claude feels numb and cold.  She stares at her fingers, outstretched and still, and wonders why they do not tremble.

“Yes,” Maia replies, hoarse, her voice cracking.

Laden moves back and gets his tools.

This time, he doesn’t pull at it at once.  He widens the incision, neatly cutting into skin – a low whine – and hands Claude the tweezers while he pokes at the spike with his tool.  It ripples under his touch, and Claude feels a rise of nausea.

She swallows it down, because she has to, because if she feels sick it is nothing compared to what Maia feels.

Laden cuts into the spike and this time there’s a scream, ragged and shuddering.  Laden ignores it and Claude holds the incision open as he slices deeper into the spike, as it writhes around Maia’s spine, trying to escape its own demise.

Once Laden has freed most of it from Maia, he pulls the whole thing out.

Maia screams again, her back writhing under Claude’s fingers, before she falls still and silent. Claude can hear the towel drop to the floor.

Eight down.  Four more to go.

Claude barely manages to make it to the trash can before she’s violently sick.

~#~

Part 5.

[whumpisgoodwhumpislife]

The thing from the deep

#2 - Controlled

Masterlist

I am enjoying that a lot more than I expected. Thanks to @manipulative-puppeteer for the prompt list !

CW electric shocks, noncon body mods, surgery without anesthesia, medical whump, lab whump

20: Controlling

12: Blood

20: “We'll need to run some tests”

The second time it was lifted out of the water and strapped on the metal table, the anglerfish struggled as fiercely as the first. In vain though, as it was promptly and efficiently strapped down, the two humans easily overpowering it. This time, it was restrained while lying on its stomach, feeling a bit safer with its weak points protected. But it also caused the foreign device implanted near its guts to dig uncomfortably into its skin, which made the small mer squirm weakly against the straps.

Something pressed on the side of its muzzle, and a plastic tube slipped between its teeth, held in place by the metal bit. It could only gag and heave as the tube slid down its throat, the air pocket at the end inflating to keep it from moving. Much to the angler's relief, cool water started to splutter through the plastic, dripping down the gills on its sides and bringing some oxygen to its body. Its atrophied lungs stopped straining, and it relaxed a bit on the table, lying still. Waiting. It barely twitched as the paralytic was injected into his lower back, and its hair was tied and pushed away from the back of its neck.

This time, when the scalpel started cutting through its skin, the mer was expecting it. It didn't make the pain burn any less though, and it almost choked on the constant flow of water injected down its throat. They were opening its neck, and it could feel the blood dripping down, staining its hair. It was a particularly sensitive spot, where every touch could cause agony.

Unbeknownst to the small mer, this was partially due to the two scientists' manipulation of its neural center. They placed several electrodes along its spinal cord, testing the emplacement by sending shocks through its nerves. The anglerfish could feel its muscles twitch and contract, pulling at the restraints, and it just couldn't understand how. It could feel the panic rise, due to the loss of control. The paralytic was nothing compared to this. It was nothing more than a puppet in the human's hands, its body subject to their will. When they finally stitched it close, the metal spikes of the electrodes made the skin on its back protrude in places, like a grotesque parody of its dorsal fin, that lied limply on its back.

The angler was placed back in its tank, the tube removed from its throat, its body sinking to the floor as it waited for the paralytic to wear out.

It could barely move its head anymore, the pain shooting through its back when it tried. But this was nothing.

They came back, a few hours later, equipped with a small remote control. It didn't notice them at first, absentmindedly floating in the uncomfortably warm water of the tank. It did notice though, when a shock went through its entire body, and it writhed in agony, thrashing and slamming into the glass. It was like fire, coursing through every little nerve ending. When it finally stopped, the mer sank to the bottom of the tank, its lure flickering frantically, uncontrollable. It curled into a corner, tremors wracking its body, petrified. Hoping, desperately, that they wouldn't do it again if it stayed still.

"Note this: shock too strong, not precise enough. We'll need to run some more tests."

Taglist : @sausages-things @jumpywhumpywriter @why-not-ask-me-a-better-question @thataquaticwhumper @alyscat

@whatamidoingherehelpme @fleur-a-whump @ratsupremacy88 @scoundrelwithboba @phoenixpromptsandstuff

@vampiresprite @neverthelass @worstcasescenariolullaby @bacillusinfection

[iwhumpyou]

Operation (Part 1)

Masterlist.  Alien.

~#~

She doesn’t realize what’s happening at first.  The fog of anesthesia dulls her senses and she registers the cold metal against her cheek, the breeze against her skin, the thin cloth underneath her, the leather around her wrists and ankles.

Something hard underneath her.  A pressure across her thighs and shins, across her neck.

She blinks and a wavering picture of floor tiles greets her vision.  How odd.  

A chill blows across her skin and she shivers.

“She’s waking up.”  A cold voice, dispassionate.                    

“Are you sure this will work?” A more nervous voice.  She can recognize it.  Why does Claude sound so anxious?

“It’s already more malleable.  See?” Something tugs in her back, the pressure not quite pain, not yet, and several things in the back of her brain start blaring shrill alarms.

She can’t yet muster the energy to be concerned.  

“Just a few more minutes.”

“Is it going to hurt?” Claude, again, her voice cracking.

Silence.  Some part of Maia is waiting for the answer.  Some part of it has figured it out – the tiles, the breeze, the pressure, Claude’s wavering tone – and it is growing.  The alarms are not as easy to ignore, not when her fingers begin itching and the fog begins to dissipate.

“It’s very likely,” the first voice says finally.

“How much?” Claude asks, sounding very much like she does not want to hear the answer.

Another pause.  “Why don’t you wait outside?” the first voice suggests.

No.  She is articulate enough to feel the fear but not enough to voice it.  The dullness is bleeding out faster with every second and the pieces are beginning to slot into place.

She sees floor tiles because she’s facing the floor.

The hard surface underneath her is a metal table.

There is a chill on her back because she isn’t wearing a shirt, bare skin pressing onto the cloth beneath her.

The pressures on her neck and legs are preventing her from moving.

They are designed to prevent her from moving.

She twists, trying to rub at her eyes, trying to sit up, trying to ask Claude where she’s going and what happened and why she lost consciousness.

Her hand moves less than an inch before jerking to a halt.  

The puzzle completes itself in front of her with such alacrity that she’s groaning before she even comprehends it.  “No!”

She’s topless and restrained, strapped down to a table.  Something in her back tugs again and she hisses.  That hurt.

There is a pleased murmur above her.

“What are you doing?” she tries for the words to come out authoritative but they are high-pitched with dawning terror.

“I’m sorry,” the man says, and the infuriating thing is that he pretends to sound contrite, “But we couldn’t get the spines out of you while you were unconscious.  It seems like they take your lack of consciousness to burrow deeper, relinquishing muscle control to wrap around your spinal column.”

“You can’t remove them!” her voice has climbed an octave higher – the spines are supporting her muscles, they’re the only reason she can still walk. 

There is a cold sensation on her back, like someone is rubbing gel around the spines and she twists, trying to get out of his grasp.  Other people touching the spines was uncomfortable even before she was drugged, every second that passes making her more aware of how vulnerable she is.

“That’s unfortunate,” the man says softly, “It seems to react to local anesthetic in the same way. It was worth a try.”

Maia doesn’t know what he’s talking about and is absolutely, completely certain she does not want to know.  She twists again but the straps hold, not allowing any movement, and the miniscule range of her wrists and ankles is utterly useless.  

“Let me go!” she shouts, trying harder.  She has friends, whoever this was couldn’t just hold her down and experiment on her. “Claude!” she shouts, because the other girl couldn’t have gotten far, “Claude, where are you?  Help me!”

She can’t believe they drugged her but surely it was a mistake, surely they’ll come and help.

“It will be easier if you don’t move,” the man chides and she can hear the sounds of metal on metal. She doesn’t want to know what he’s doing.

“I’m not making this easier for you!” she snarls.  There is no give in the straps so she tries to move the table, shifting her weight to see if it’ll rock.

“Easier on you,” he corrects gently.  

It shifts, but barely, and the man is back.  She can’t see him, but she can feel his gloves probing the skin around the spines, lightly moving them this way and that.  

“Don’t touch them!” she tries to shout and is alarmed when her voice hitches.  

“I’m sorry, but this is for your own good,” he says, “They must be removed.”  And then it hits her – he’s the army doctor, Laden, who had said that the foreign material was corrupting her body.  Who had argued for the spines to be yanked out.  

But her friends had argued against him, hadn’t let him touch her.

“Claude!” she screams and her eyes burn.  The tight coil of panic in her stomach is growing and she doesn’t know why, Claude is going to come bursting through the doors and stop him and – “Claude!”

“She won’t be coming,” Laden says softly, and she can feel metal against her skin, two thin prongs on either side of the lowermost spine.

She refuses to believe what’s happening, she will deny it with every breath.  This is a nightmare, some awful dream, and she was going to wake up any minute now, wake up and shudder and awkwardly laugh that she ever thought this was real.

“You can’t,” she says, her breath hitched, her words more a plea than an order, “It helps me walk, you can’t take it out.”  The attack damaged her spine, she knows that, and no prosthetic in the world will be able to replace what the spikes do.

“It’s alien, Maia,” Laden says quietly, “It’s a parasite.  It’s feeding off of you and it’ll continue to do so until you die.”

“I don’t care,” Maia says as defiantly as she can manage strapped face down on an operating table, “I don’t care, you can’t take it out, you can’t –”

Laden ignores her and then she’s choking on a scream because the tugging has become pulling, something is yanking at her skin and her spine – he mentioned anesthesia and she hadn’t understood, she refused to understand because no one would try to tear the spines out of her skin with absolutely no regard to the agony –

It lessens slightly and she takes a gulp of air, her breath shuddering, but apparently it was just a pause so he could grip better because the yanking returns, harder than before, and something ignites in her spine, fire blossoming and streaking alongside her back.

Her stomach is roiling, it’s making her sick and her screams choke up as she vomits.  The first few are dry heaves and then something black and corrosive slips past her lips to splatter on the floor.  It’s tearing at her, tearing at her back and her muscles and her nerves and she screams and coughs as the black liquid dribbles from her lips.

One hard yank and the pressure is gone.  

The pain is not and she stares as the blackness swirls and swirls until it swallows her.

~#~

Part 2.

[iwhumpyou]

Operation (Part 6)

Masterlist.  Alien.

Taglist: @inky-whump 

Part 5.

~#~#~#~#~#~

She wakes up screaming and it takes her a moment to separate the nightmare from reality.  She has the feeling it doesn’t quite work – she’s still burning, in her head and on her body, there is still something shrieking in her head and she’s choking on slime, endless amounts of it as it forces its way out of her.

The table is hard underneath her, though, and her tears trace down her face, and she can hear someone’s muffled cursing.

There is a vicious yank and she keens, arching her back, writhing, trying whatever she possibly can to stop it hurting.  Another yank, and another, until she is left sobbing and screaming once it finally comes out.

The thing inside her head is furious.  She doesn’t know if it recognizes human emotion, but there is no other word in her head for the spitting, intense wave of hurt and hissing that wash over her.

“Stop,” she says, she begs, because this is too much, she can feel the fire on every part of her and it won’t stop.  “Please, stop.”

There is no response.

“Claude, please,” Maia breaks, because Claude has to, Claude can’t – “Claude, if you were ever my friend, please.”

“Just one more,” Laden says quietly, as if that’s supposed to be a reassurance.

“It will kill me,” Maia croaked, because she knows it’s true.  It’s sitting on the edge of her mind and if it goes down, it will take her with it.

“No, it won’t,” Laden says confidently.

“It will kill every part of me that matters,” Maia hisses, because she might still be able to breathe and blink, but this will break her.

Laden doesn’t respond.

He merely sets the lighter to her skin again.

Maia doesn’t know if she’s screaming.  She doesn’t know if the shrieks are hers or not.  She doesn’t know if the fire is real or imagined, if the burning is on her skin or in her mind.

It does not matter. Pain is pain.

It flays her alive. It seizes every crack of her mind and forces itself into them, until her every thought is fire, until her every memory is pain.

She cannot think, she cannot scream, all she can do is choke under the onslaught.

It is wrenched free with a suddenness that cascades through her mind, tearing it to pieces.  

Maia drifts.

~#~

Part 7.

[iwhumpyou]

Operation (Part 2)

Masterlist.  Alien.

Part 1. 

~#~#~#~#~

She opens her eyes and doesn’t recognize what she’s seeing.  She’s tired and she aches and a point on her back, just above her tailbone, is throbbing.  There are splatters of black liquid underneath her, vicious and oily.  It looks like what Aaron had thrown up, days before the black veins had spread across his skin and left an empty husk.

She makes a sound, she must’ve, because suddenly it is silent, the soft whisper of running water gone.

“Maia?” a voice asks and she knows that voice, she knows it.  “Are you awake?”

No, a part of her brain hisses at her, because being awake meant pain.

She doesn’t answer.

“Awake enough,” Laden says and places the forceps against her skin, against the second spine.  

She screams almost as he jerks – first in terror and then in pain because it hurt so much worse, it feels like he’s trying to rip her spinal cord out.  She arches her back but it isn’t enough, the pressure grows and grows and grows and she screams even without the air to breathe.

She can hear it, the wet, sucking sound louder than her screams as the spine is yanked free, the pressure abruptly gone.  She crumples, her head hanging, and sobs as the pain slowly, achingly begins to recede.

She isn’t given any warning before the forceps latch on the third spike and this time, her voice breaks on the shriek because she doesn’t have the air to breathe.  She cries out, sucking in short, fast breaths but they have no impact and black spots swirl in her vision as the darkness claims her.

~#~

She can feel her legs twitching.  Feel them trembling in minute movements she can’t control.  She could never control them, she realizes suddenly – it was an illusion perpetuated by the thing that curled around her spine.  

She will never be able to walk again.

“Maia,” the voice says and she closes her eyes and lets silent tears drip past her eyelids. “Maia, can you hear me?”

She doesn’t answer.

“I couldn’t take the third spine out before you fell unconscious,” he says.  I couldn’t yank out an integral part of your bodily functioning before you passed out from the pain, he doesn’t say.  “It will be easier if you can tell me you’re up to removing the next one or if you need a break.”

“Fuck you.”  The words are hoarse and quiet.  She barely has the energy to form her lips around the words.

“Easier for you, Maia,” Laden says, sighing like her stubbornness is a trial to him.  “The alien has to be removed.  It will be less painful if I don’t have to attempt to remove every spike twice.”  

Every spike.  Maia sucks in a sharp breath in sudden, dawning horror because there were twelve spikes radiating along her spine and only two are out.

She tries to multiply the pain she’s felt so far by ten and she cannot comprehend it.  

“No,” Maia says, her voice cracking, “Please, no.”

“I will not stop,” Laden says, “Please just tell me if you’re able to continue.”

“I’m not,” Maia croaks out, because she’s never be ready to continue, she just wants him to stop.

She feels cold metal on a growing bruise on her back and sucks in a sharp breath – and then he pulls and all her thoughts of ‘I told you I wasn’t ready!’ are lost in screams and agony.  It feels worse than the others, it feels like he’s yanking a fresh wound and Maia’s screams trail off into whimpers when the thing finally comes free.

She waits until she has enough breath to speak.  “I told you I wasn’t ready,” she hisses between sobs.

“You lied,” Laden says, and the lack of emotion in his voice is worse than the fake sympathy.  “I will not delay it forever because you want me to. If you cannot tell me when you’re ready, I will have to make that judgement myself.”

Maia closes her eyes so she doesn’t have to see tears splattering on the floor beneath her.

“Are you ready to continue?” Laden asks, like he wants to hear the answer.

“No,” Maia says softly, because the memory of pain is too fresh.

“Alright.  Tell me when you’re ready.”

Maia can’t.  She regains her breath as the pain dulls into throbbing but she can’t open the mouth, she won’t ask him to cripple her, piece by agonizing piece.  She won’t.

“Are you ready now?” She does not answer.  “Maia,” he says and his tone is sharper – she can hear him shifting, hear him getting closer.

“Yes,” and she has no idea where the word comes from, so soft she can barely hear.  She hopes Laden didn’t hear it, hopes he wasn’t listening and she sucks in a whimper as she feels the forceps clamp on the fourth spine.

“No,” she says, louder, but Laden is no longer listening and the rest of her plea is lost to the pain.  She shrieks again, loud and high, before biting down on her lip and shuddering in silent sobs.  She slumps, flat against the cold table, when the pressure disappears, leaving a wave of throbbing pain that eases far too slowly.

She opens blurry eyes and unclenches her jaw to take in a shuddering breath and watches as blood drops splatter against the floor, the taste of iron fresh on her tongue.  

Four down, she thinks woozily.  They’re only a third of the way through.  She feels sick, the pain churning in her stomach, and only when she gags she realizes it isn’t just the pain.

She dry heaves twice before it comes up, black sludge oozing past her lips and she chokes on it, spluttering.  It’s bitter and tastes like death and she doesn’t know whether it’s a good sign or not. Fire ripples across her back every time she clenches her stomach, her spine wrenching as she retches, and the pain and the gasping dull everything around her.

She feels the last of it clear her throat, she takes one clear breath but the darkness closes around her all the same.

~#~

She stares dully at the floor tiles beneath her.  Clearly someone’s cleaned it – the sharp scent of disinfectant reaches her ears. Idly, she wonders what happens to the spines once they’re out of here.  She imagines them twitching in a metal bowl, tendrils reaching out –

She doesn’t know what sound she makes but something shifts in the room.  “Maia?” Laden asks, quiet, professional.

She wonders how he can live with himself.  She wonders if he enjoys it. 

“Water,” she croaks out, because her mouth still tastes like death and the disinfectant isn’t enough to forget the sickly, salty smell.  

There’s rustling and water running and a cup appears in her view, a straw poking out.  A hand softly bracing her forehead.  She drinks.  She does not thank him.  

She can only manage about half the cup before she sighs and lets the straw go.  Her stomach feel too small and her back too stiff.  She just wants to sleep.  Forever and ever and ever until she can pretend that this was just a dream. 

“Anything else?” Laden asks, stepping away.  Maia considers cursing him, considers begging him to let her go, considers asking for her friends.

All three will be pointless.

“Something to bite on,” she says.  Her bottom lip is split through and she doesn’t want to abuse it further.

Laden hums and soon there’s a folded towel near her mouth.  She opens wide and bites down on it, harder and harder, her eyes scrunching up in anticipation.

There’s metal on her back and then pain, tearing at her skin – she automatically clenches her stomach but that just makes it worse and her teeth are aching when the pressure disappears abruptly, leaving a blissful half-second of relief before pain washes back in.

She feels numb, like the pain is dulling all other sensation in her limbs.  It’s a curious feeling and she twitches her fingers, just to feel them again.  Then she twitches her toes.

And again.  And again.

She sucks in a half-breath of panic, her groans still muffled by the towel, as she strains and tries to move her feet and feels nothing. She can still feel the pressure near her thighs, but she can no longer sense the leather around her ankles.

She hangs her head down and lets the tears slip down her cheeks.  

“Maia, are you ready?” Laden asks.  Maia just hums through the towel.  He won’t stop.

It’s easier, this time, to lay limp on the table when he yanks at the sixth spine.  Her legs barely respond to her anymore and when her hands ball into fists they feel weak and trembling.  The pain and grief crest over her as the pressure vanishes and the fire ignites.

She barely notices the towel dropping from her slack jaw as oblivion takes her.

~#~

Part 3.