Content: Lab whump, sedated/unconscious whumpee, explicit surgical procedure, vivisection, noncon body modification, stripping whumpee while unconscious, nonsexual nudity, noncon touch, dehumanization, scientifically inaccurate/fantastical medical procedure
As Saul lays unconscious with the beeping of monitors and the hum of the surgical equipment surrounding him, the world grows small and sharp, focused. The environment becomes so much more productive than before. More streamlined. No longer is there a man before Dr. Greyson, but a living thing that looks like one, has the anatomy of one, breathes and has a pulse just like one. A subject.
Mechanical arms power on at her command, precise and ready to cut him apart, expose his insides, slimy and inky-blue.
Dr. Greyson readies a video feed to archive footage of the surgery, making sure the angle is perfect, the image crystal-clear.
Screens surround her with different images and graphs, vitals and data that will supplement her work, all glowing brilliantly blue, illuminating her and her subject with their icy glow.
There’s only one way out now. Only one way he’ll get out of here alive. An objective not even he is aware of.
Survive the surgery.
Dr. Greyson cuts away his uniform first. Her silvery scissors glint as she does, the motion swift and familiar, knowing. She drags away the unwanted fabric, discarding it. It will be sanitized and recycled later. (After all, nothing here should go to waste.)
She barely blinks at his naked body before her, not even giving it a second thought. It’s all flesh and blood, bones and organs to her, the content of anatomy textbooks.
Machines ready, she starts up the vivisection process, typing in a quick keyword to initiate it. The mechanical arms whirr and click ever so slightly as they move into position, barely audible, and a scan runs over his body, mapping out where to make incisions, a half-second flash of glimmering blue light that disappears as quickly as it made its presence known, passing over his body.
One arm lasers away his body hair until his skin is bare and smooth where they need to make the cuts, another changes its tip to a blade as it does, beginning to slice the skin after the other arm finishes.
The blade goes into his flesh easily, and blue wells up where it touches, creating a dark, shiny line across his chest and stomach. An additional set of arms help pry apart his skin as the knife cuts deeper, plunging through the layers of fat and skin.
Once it’s finished, one pins the skin back into place, leaving the ribs and his organs exposed. The scene is slightly lewd, wet and fleshy and slightly pulsing like insides usually do… and he’s all exposed and left so vulnerably open — however Valeria and her machines handle it with the unflinching accuracy and coldness only a Rigorian surgeon or their tech could have.
He doesn’t even stir, his only movements are the involuntary ones laid out for all to see. His hearts beating. His lungs shrinking and growing with every breath. The swell of his stomach following each inhale. All measured and recorded for posterity.
Dr. Greyson changes the machines’ procedures to a more custom set, the one made specifically for her experiments, and the machines follow her commands fluidly, transitioning into the experimental procedure without so much as a hiccup.
With a click, three of the arms change their tips to nozzles, panels in their sides opening to reveal empty glass tubes. Dr. Greyson fetches the vials with the specimen inside and loads the panels up. They click shut automatically after she does, stationary until each is filled, and then they return to working on him.
As they position themselves where they ought to be (his heart and on either side of his lungs), Dr. Greyson checks her subject’s vitals.
Stable…
Wonderful.
She watches closely as they pump his body full of the specimen, making sure it stays confined to his innards.
It should be fine, considering the modifications the biotechnologists have made to the specimen’s mental faculties and biological processes. Once it bonds with her subject’s tissue, it shouldn’t be able to rid itself of him — and vice versa.
It merges quite well, melting into his chest, squirming between his ribs and seeping into his serosa, making itself right at home. The screens before her show the very percentage of their coalescence, the number slowly creeping towards 100%.
It finally reaches completion, and the only change is the stained appearance of his internal organs, the slimy, desaturated blacks and greys clinging to his insides.
Good. The operation is now two-thirds of the way through.
Dr. Greyson manually moves the pumps away from his chest and torso, now-empty, dripping with remnants of the black goo. The tips recede back into the arms, self-cleaning – Valeria taps in the code for them to start sealing Saul’s body up, idly monitoring the machines, relaying her observations onto a screen. Her notes glow, reflecting against the surface of her glasses while the machines do their work, sealing his body up.
He shouldn’t have so much as a scar left afterwards.
… Shouldn’t have.
The skin parts after it’s sealed. The specimen’s ooze leaks through the cracks as the skin parts, resisting the seal.
Dr. Greyson’s gaze hardens. Fuck. She’ll have to take this at a different angle.
Instead of beating a dead horse, she decides to go in herself, readying her tools to stitch him up.
The needle and thread go in easily, and come out caked in slime, filthy. The synthetic thread holds together though, and soon Dr. Greyson is able to tie it off, manually cleaning and disinfecting the area.
As she does, the skin on his chest darkens, turning dark and muck-colored. When she touches it, it gives, softer than skin normally should be.
She’s so glad she’s recording this.
Verbally putting down her notes, she probes his body, examining him.
“Subject continues to be stable after needing stitches. The self-administered mastectomy scarring is unaffected by leakage. Subject’s body and internal organs are considerably discolored. Subject’s skin in the thorax area –” she gives his chest another press, testing how much give it has, pulling her hands away when it dips under her touch like slime – “has a considerable amount of give.” She presses again, making sure she can feel his bones. “Ribcage is intact, however.”
“Specimen seems to have integrated with no offensive side effects. Subject remains unconscious.”
She disposes of her dirty gloves and snaps on new ones the moment her hands are bare.
“The surgery appears to be a success… I am entering the subject into the recovery phase now.”
Some days I’m totally self-aware and grateful for my (stressed the fucking hell out) life, and other days I’m like, wtf is even happening with me and the world.
(read: rant — I genuinely want to do something that helps, to give back in some way that matters, but I have no clue where to even start or how to make that happen).
