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The floor is cold. It presses into his cheek, solid and chafing, and he thinks, did I fall? He has arrived here somehow. Tries, falteringly, to reach back through his memory and slot the pieces together, the moment between sitting at the table and where he is now. His thoughts are treacle thick and sticky, and he can remember the table itself, can remember the tea that had been too sweet and perfectly warm, can remember talking and talking but can’t remember what he was saying or when the conversation had faded beneath the wave of fatigue that leaves him boneless and mute where he is splayed.
He has fallen. The gap still looms in his memory but it is the only logical conclusion. Vash is inordinately pleased to have reached it, but it is soured by the rolling of his stomach and the fevered awareness that something is wrong.
He tries to review the information one more time. Grasps vaguely at something linear before the touch of fingers pulls him back as someone takes his jaw in their hands and turns his head.
Bright light pierces his eyes. He blinks sluggishly, but the fingers pry his lids back and there is no escaping the brilliant, searing glare even as he attempts to push them away.
His arms move, but too slow. Too weak. All he achieves is a feebled pawing against fabric and flesh which yields not an inch.
Something is wrong. Something is very wrong. He knows it now, feels the certainty slip around him like a noose.
His legs kick but find no traction and he wonders if this is how a beached whale feels. All grace and power suddenly far from their reach, nothing but meat with a consciousness that sings for an ocean it cannot touch. This planet has no oceans. He remembers that.
Think. He needs to think, he needs to…
The light is gone. They are saying something, voices rolling like thunder in the distance and he knows it’s words they’re speaking but the meaning slips through his fingers. If he could only understand then maybe he would understand everything. The whos, the hows, the whys of it all, because there is an explanation for all of this that he’s lost somewhere along the way, and it’s important. If they would just slow down… if he could only focus… parse each sentence in full…
But it’s just sound. Just noise, pitching high or low - a question, excitement, another question, arguing…
Think, he tells himself instead. He was at the table. He has fallen. He drank something. He came here - why did he come here? There was something important he had to do… it eludes him though, and he tries to ask them what it was, forgetting that their answer will be nothing more than sound. His tongue is uncooperative but he makes it move.
There is a pause. Then voices again, but he doesn't think they're speaking to him.
Is this how his sisters live? Hearing the chirp of conversation outside their tanks in a language they cannot comprehend and were never built to use, talked of but never with? But his sisters sleep, they dream of far away things the humans cannot wrap their minds around and Vash can only admire the shape of, curled tight and beyond their bodies, returning only when something calls them - be it pain or the song of a sibling.
Sleep sounds nice. He would sink into it willingly if not for the churning of his insides and the prickle of wrong wrong wrong that fires across his nerves.
Focus. Think it through.
Table. Drink. Talking. Floor. What had come before that?
Hands find him again and he tries to break free because he needs them to stop, to wait until he's put the facts together and his thoughts line up and he finally grasps the very important thing that he's missing, but he's no stronger this time than he was the last and they don't seem to notice.
They lift him onto something flat. It's not soft but it's nicer than the floor. Shadows shift, the figures follow but the ceiling is moving… no, he is moving. They're taking him somewhere.
A memory sparks - sleep, they had said something about sleep hadn't they? Or was that him? No, it was them - perhaps they are taking him somewhere comfortable so he can sleep. Maybe that's what he needs. Rest, and let his mind recover, shake off whatever this is and wake up bright and refreshed with all the answers he is lacking at present. The thought is soothing. His eyelids droop. He drifts.
Time must have passed but there is another gaping hole in his memory between then and when they heft him onto a new surface.
It's not the cotton softness of a bed - it's hard, cold, metal - and it jolts him back to a dazed awareness, fumbling to make sense of things once more.
A table - there was a table but it's not here, he's not sure where here is… all he knows is he's not supposed to be here even if he can't name why. The situation is wrong, the world is traveling in slow motion… or maybe he's traveling in slow motion… he can't tell, he can't, fights for clarity but finds only nausea.
He needs to get up. The thought spins through his head for an eternity before it reaches his muscles, and when it does he only manages to squirm against the rigid metal at his back. The effort leaves him drained and he collapses into exhausted stillness.
The figures dip in and out of his line of sight, speaking, touching, and Vash feels the sharp sting as the nerves in his left arm are disconnected and the limb removed and…
If he loses the arm Brad will be so mad. He needs to tell them. He needs to tell them not to break it, not to lose it, or Brad will be mad. He needs… His mouth opens and he thinks he makes sound, but it’s not words.
They don't listen.
They continue to touch - mapping him out with cold fingers and clinical interest, shifting his body as they go, bending limbs like they’re articulating a doll, and it’s not painful but he hates it all the same, hates that he is pliant and unresponsive throughout.
The thought reaches him distantly - if he could tell them to stop, would they? He’s not sure anymore. He’s not even sure why this is happening - his recollection is scattered fragments that won’t align and chasing after them is as achingly slow and strenuous as wading through quicksand. It would be so much easier to sleep… to give in to the fog clouding his mind, pressing him down into suffocating blackness…
Vash resurges against it on instinct alone. Clings to consciousness by his nails, anchoring himself in the sensation of their endless prodding and prying as they peel back the layers of his being.
Something sharp, stinging - needles? - his head won’t move, he can’t look. Doesn’t want to. Should anyway. The pain fades quickly to a dull ache. Strikes again somewhere fresh, a second wound as they drive something into his flesh and tape it in place.
He is the butterfly in the spider’s web. Someone is laughing - no, they’re not, that’s his own thoughts, why is he laughing? What is happening?
Another bite. He can’t count them, he can’t hold the numbers in his mind any more than he can measure the time he is caught in the flow of. There is only the now, and the now is roiling with revulsion. The feeling of wrongness is steadily mounting.
His brother is cutting him to pieces except his brother isn’t here and what is happening???
They stop at some point - they must have, because there are no new points of pain, only the pang of what has already been inflicted - but there’s something worse. A thing that is building inside of him and Vash doesn’t know what it is. It wants out. It builds, and builds, and builds, and he doesn’t recognise its face, knows that it is his but he’s not doing this, this isn’t him, and he would claw it from his chest if he could but he can’t move and he can’t scream and he can’t fight it back into its cage and-
And something else shocks through him and all at once it’s pouring out of him in a rush, but there’s no relief in the act because it keeps building. A perpetual state of generation and expulsion with no respite… He is a gear spinning in a machine that drives itself, he is a windmill in the sandstorm, a tap locked open and spilling oceans he never meant to contain.
He wants it to stop. It won’t. His body won’t listen, just continues whatever reflex it is enacting, like a flinch, or a sneeze, or a gag, except it just won’t stop.
It.
Won’t.
STop.
All he can do is endure. Let the river run its course and try not to drown.
Time is a viscous concept - he doesn’t know if it lasts for minutes or hours or days or weeks, only that it continues long beyond what he could dream of and that for a while it is the entirety of his thoughts.
It does not ebb. Yet… yet eventually… finally… some piece of him begins to claw its way back and he can at least reason his way around it.
Thoughts bleed in slow. He can feel the metal against his back, heated from his skin. He can feel the punctures they have left in him and the coolness of the air - they have taken his clothes, when did they take his clothes? Where is his arm?
Think, review - he is inside somewhere, there are people around him who have done this, he has come to be here somehow…
A sister crying, a table, a drink, the floor… it’s beginning to form a picture he can read, and at last it hits him with shattering force - they have drugged him.
That’s why his mind lags over such simple questions. That’s why he could neither fight nor flee.
But he’s recovering his wits with each passing breath, and he knows that his body breaks down that kind of poison far quicker than a human’s would - and maybe, maybe they don’t know that.
So Vash lies motionless. Tells himself to ignore the terrible thing that still pours out of him and focus on rebuilding a timeline while he marshals his strength.
He’s halfway to a solid narrative when another fact slams into him.
His clothes are gone, and his markings are active.
They know they know they know they know-
But of course they know, why else would this be happening?
Breathe. Keep still, just wait.
When he gets up he needs to be ready to run, to fight if he must, and he has to be fast. He’s getting out of here but he can’t afford to jump the gun.
Patience.
Vash goes back to resolving his memory.
For all the tragedy in there he thinks he at least begins to understand them, and he knows he is in part to blame. It’s him who told them they needed a new plant, he who could only offer his sister the scant energy her body could contain and tender reassurances as he eased her back to her slumber…
Why risk the town on the hopes of brokering a deal for an increasingly scarce commodity when a viable alternative landed right in your lap?
He knows why they’ve done this, but that doesn’t make it hurt any less. And while he respects their need, he cannot, will not stay.
Okay. Focus, think, the important part is what happens next. He’s making proper thoughts and he knows where he is but it’s still not as fast as he’d like and his body feels far too relaxed to be natural, so he needs to give it more time.
While that happens he can gather information. There - that’s smart, he’s making progress.
Steeling himself Vash listens carefully to the voices and tries to count their number. Three… no, four, but one comes and goes. He can hear the door open and close and it’s not the hiss of motorized locks or the drop of a deadbolt so maybe it will be simple to bypass.
The ceiling offers no further details and he doesn’t want to risk turning his head just yet.
He listens to them say things like ‘output levels’ and ‘energy spike’ and ‘abnormal fluctuations’ and ‘secondary processes’ and pretends they’re speaking about someone other than him.
And then one of them says ‘tissue sample’ and he has a few moments to think ‘no thank you’ and ‘oh shit keep still’ but when the scalpel carves into his upper arm he can’t fully withhold his flinch.
It’s embarrassing because under normal circumstances he knows he can shrug off a bullet wound. Unfortunately he’s been drugged up to the eyeballs and his usual control is lacking even if the effects are beginning to wane.
He flinches, and it’s not dramatic, not a full body cringe, but it’s enough that the man pauses.
A face looms above him and a light is flicked on and pointed directly into his eye. Vash blinks - immediately tries to remedy it by leaving his eyes open, blurring his vision and hoping against hope that he looks hazy and unfocused.
The light burns his retinas and it’s painful to stare into but he tries. Maybe it will be enough. Maybe his pupils aren’t doing anything interesting. Maybe they won’t notice.
The light flicks off.
“Doctor,” the man says hesitantly, “I think it’s coming around.”
Ah, shit, busted - what’s the plan? Vash flexes the fingers of his right hand, trying to gauge their responsiveness.
“Hmm? Well, we did eer on the side of caution with the initial dosage… Mark the time and administer a second dose intravenously, we can monitor and make adjustments before the next round. Increments of point two milligrams to start - get Beaker to draw up a chart.”
“Certainly. Should I-”
Right, time to go.
Vash surges up in a single lurching motion, grabbing the edge of the table - bench? Worktop? - to save himself from suddenly overbalancing. The violence of the motion leaves his head throbbing and sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through his gut but he’s moving now, no heed to the startled cries of the engineers and he swings his legs over the side and tears the cords they’ve plunged into him free.
There's no time for delicacy. He uses his hand and teeth in tandem, and the moment the bulk for them are loose he pushes off of the table - bench? Worktop? It doesn't matter, focus damn it - and his bare feet land heavy on the metal floor.
The room sways. He staggers, adjusts, and stands there breathing heavily as he takes in the scene.
There are no windows, and only a single closed door several meters away with hulking, unfamiliar machines and two engineers between him and his escape. No sign of his gun or his arm. That's fine - he'll deal with that later. He just needs to get out.
"Easy," one of the engineers says, "don't want to hurt yourself… why don't-"
"Stay back," Vash warns. It's not much of a threat because he’s empty handed and unsteady but he drops his voice low and that seems to give them pause.
They stand where they are, just watching him, the thing inside of him is doing something strange but he can’t worry about that now so he bites down his anxiety and tells them, “Up against the wall. Now.”
They still hesitate.
He grinds his teeth in frustration and opens his mouth to try again but he’s cut short as something pierces the side of his neck.
Vash reacts quickly - reaches back to grab the wrist of his attacker and squeeze until she lets go with a cry of pain and he can shove her away - but it’s not quickly enough. He knows it’s too late - knows even before he pulls the needle out - stares dumbly at the empty syringe in his palm for several seconds anyway before he lets it clatter to the ground.
He should have noticed her creeping up behind him… He should have kept tabs on the location of all the engineers and not let them out of his sight line for so long… there were four of them, shit, he knew that… Sober, he would never have made this mistake, but he’s not anywhere near his usual self and he knows it, knows that any hope of clearing his head on the way out is as good as gone.
He still has time though. Whatever was just plunged into him hasn’t flooded his system yet, so there’s still time … he can make this work…
Vash looks toward the door. The two engineers are still blocking his path, their hands extended toward him palm up like they’re trying to calm a wild animal. He bares his teeth at them in a snarl because, fuck it, if they’re going to treat him like one then why shouldn’t he - he’s angry, he wants them to know it.
“Easy,” one of them says again.
They’re not backing off like he wants, and talking takes time and fighting takes time so he makes the executive decision to give them a real reason to move and snatches a scalpel up from one of the nearby trays.
This time, when he points it in their direction, they step aside.
Vash swallows. He begins to walk, his steps clumsy and plodding, the room still listing dangerously from side to side as he navigates his way past the machines and the cables with his focus narrowed to the door.
It’s close. He can make it, he can do this.
Things are beginning to spin though, and when he reaches it he leans heavily against the wall while he fumbles with the handle. It takes him three tries to turn it but at last it gives, and he pushes it open and stumbles through.
It’s another room. He puts one foot in front of the other, keeps going. Find himself at a second door.
This one is different though. Bigger, solid, locked. There’s a keypad by the side of it and he doesn’t have the code. He stands in front of it and tries to remember what he’s supposed to do.
There’s a way to get through doors like this - to hack the terminal or disable the locks manually - but it’s not coming to him, just spinning an eternal loading bar in his head and getting him nowhere. All he’s doing is standing around and wasting time.
Fuck, what now?
The thing inside of him isn’t growing anymore but it still wants out and he doesn’t know how to make that happen and that’s not important right now focus-
Vash turns, an arm out to steady himself against the door as dizziness threatens to overwhelm him.
There’s an engineer behind him. They’re still a distance away, just through the first door and approaching cautiously, coming to a halt when his gaze lands on them. Vash blinks, processing.
“Open it,” he decides to order them, dismayed at the slur already working its way into his voice.
There’s time. There’s still time. He clings to the thought desperately.
But the engineer just gives him an apologetic smile. “Can’t do that I’m afraid.”
He points the scalpel at him. “Open it,” he says again. Hoping. Begging. “Please.”
But the man shakes his head, and Vash knows he’s doomed.
If he’d only been able to wait a few more minutes before starting this, sharpen his mind and fortify his body to the weapons he needed them to be, then he’s sure he could have done it. He could have gotten out of here. But his hand was forced and now here he is, feeling himself slip into the same slack and addle brained haze as before as whatever drug they’ve hit him with begins to take hold.
It’s just not fair. Nai would laugh at him now, would tell him this was what he got for trusting humans, for giving them the chance to do this, but if he could have broken his way out then Vash knows it would still have been worth it. If they would only let him go he will forgive them… he will have no regrets… But they aren’t going to let him leave, not when he’s so valuable, so scientifically fascinating, and he doesn’t know if he’s going to get another opportunity and…
He doesn’t want to be stuck like this. Barely conscious, no control over what his body is doing. Feeling their hands and their implements and their needles all over him like a possession for them to mark. Is this what Tesla endured? He doesn’t want it. But it’s coming for him anyway.
Fuck. He hates it when Nai almost makes a grain of sense.
He leans back against the door because there’s nowhere else to go and his limbs are starting to grow leaden.
The engineer is saying, “It’s okay,” and other pleasant nonsense, just talking in a gentle, steady voice the way one would speak to a spooked thomas that has slipped its reigns. And he wants to say, ‘I’m not a fucking bird’, or maybe ‘I know what you’re trying to do but please stop’, or ‘this isn’t right, just let me go’, but he knows the words won’t come out with the vehemence he intends, so he steeps in his own silence instead. Keeps his eyes locked on the man and says nothing. Stares him down because it’s the only other threat he has left to give. He doesn’t look away, barely blinks, even as he begins to feel himself slide down the door, legs quivering with the effort of keeping him standing. Slowly, miserably, Vash sinks further as his strength fades.
When he hits the ground the engineer still leaves him sitting there for another minute before he tentatively approaches.
Vash has the scalpel in his hand, and the thought crosses his mind that he could stab him. He thinks he has enough energy left for that. It will achieve nothing though, nothing but more pain and he doesn’t trust his aim - can’t risk hitting an artery. Doesn’t like the memories it stirs. So he lets the engineer pry it gently from his grasp like he’s taking his keys back from a particularly obstinate child and hopes that if this is his last act of mercy that Rem can appreciate the symmetry.
The engineer steps back and calls to the other room.
He’s still cognizant when they come to collect him, and when they grab him he struggles because it’s better than surrender even though he knows it’s futile - a token gesture at best, a joke at worst.
They manhandle him onto the gurney and take him back to the room he’d fled, those few pitiful meters he’d managed to make it.
He’s on the table again. Someone’s saying something but words are beginning to lose their meaning, a thing he has to chase with relentless intent to corner. He’s too tired for that. It doesn’t matter what they’re saying. Nothing matters.
He shouldn’t be here. What had he come here to do?
There’s a light in his eye and more voices and he needs to ask them something but he doesn’t know what that something is anymore…
This is wrong, isn’t it? Something about all this is familiar and it sickens him… scares him like a nameless shadow in the night… he needs to leave, that’s right… that’s what he has to do…
But when he tries to sit up he does little more than twitch the muscles of his abdomen and when he moves his legs it’s as if they’re ten miles away and following his commands by telegraph.
Think.
A table. A floor. A door. There’s a story there, a reason for this, but he can’t puzzle it out and he wishes they would just tell him but he can’t shape his lips around a question…
He needs to leave. That’s the one thought that persists - one constant he can ground himself in.
He has to tell them this. He tries. He doesn’t know if they hear.
There are hands on him and something stinging as it’s threaded into him again and again, and he can’t see what it is, can’t see much of anything but the lights above him and the burry figures drifting in and out of his view… he loses himself a little in the lazy motion… like watching fish…
Except fish aren’t real anymore. Is this real?
He thinks he might only be a dream, something in someone else’s head. He thinks he is a girl he never met and they will leave him in pieces floating in a tank for two children to find. His brother is laughing, his brother is crying, it’s his brother in the tank, then it’s him, then it’s fish. Rem is there handing them a scalpel and standing there as they cut him open.
He’s so tired, but the thing in him won’t stop and if he closes his eyes then they will devour him until there’s nothing left and he will be a flavour and not a person…
He wants it to stop. He needs it to stop.
But it won’t, it won’t, it won’t …
There are moments of lucidity in there somewhere, pockets of time where things begin to make sense and he remembers his own name and starts the slow process of organizing his memory into a record he can read all over again, but they never last. They are fleeting, increasingly far between, and after a while he ceases to think at all - becomes only a vessel, something for the sensations and images to pour through without interruption.
That, too, fades, and at last… at last there is only darkness…
Vash sleeps.
He doesn’t dream.