Work Text:
He should probably mourn Dr. Sheridan, but he's just too tired of mourning.
He doesn't know what they're going to do to her. She was so alive, then - she held him, gentle in her lap, as he sobbed into the cocoon of suits surrounding both of them, what could've been moments or years or eternities ago. She was so alive, then.
He becomes aware of the stone around his neck, pounding into his flesh with the force of a collapsing skyscraper, somehow so heavy now. It won't matter soon, they tell him. They're going to put him to sleep and when he wakes up he won't care enough to wonder what they're going to do to Dr. Sheridan.
This is what they communicate to him, through flashes of darkness. He hears their sentences repeated in Sarah’s voice, as if she’s there in front of him again, almost tangible now, if it weren’t for the fact that his daughter was five years old and did not yet know the words procedure or anesthetic or hypothalamus. It doesn’t feel right to hear them with the high, sweet lilt of her voice (he almost forgot the high, sweet lilt of her voice); it’s like the creatures are purposefully keeping him there, trapped in this stasis of torturous grief just like how his family is trapped in—
They’re sealing him to the past, until the surgery can be completed. And then they’ll “explain” their side of things.
As they escort him to the Shadow Surgeon lair, he passes a cart being wheeled vertically around a corner. As it turns, he sees a flash of red-brown hair, followed by a limp hand with a ring on its ring finger - just in the corner of his vision, just a brief brush of sensation.
He blinks.
Hm. She—
He blinks, and continues walking.
One of the creatures -- the others ostensibly call them Shadows, but they don’t seem to care for that term — one of the creatures puts its hand on him, when they reach the operating room. The weight of its spindly clawed hand is surprising; it’s feather-light, as if being touched by something weightless, as if being touched by nothing at all. He stops in his tracks as the Shadow’s hand moves from his shoulder to his chin, tilting his head upwards and then, at a pace so slow it’s nearly agonizing, to each side. It studies his features in the way one admires a new addition to a prized collection. It studies his features like it’s examining a decrepit museum exhibit. It studies him, and studies him, its eyes narrowing and widening on rhythm.
“I hope you like what you see,” he says, attempting a smile that doesn’t translate very well in its grasp.
It’s too dark for him to see well, and he didn’t notice how dark all of it has been until now - he’s had other things on his mind - but he thinks he sees the Shadow give a slight nod as it releases him, letting its claws linger over his flesh.
Okay then.
He turns to the surgeon, who gestures for him to shed his environmental suit. He obeys. He thinks about it.
He thinks about it.
He’s always been so very good at obeying. Earth made him their dog, sliding him into expeditions knowing he’d always follow each order with canine-like loyalty, heeling before the ones above him. Sometimes they’d even throw down a treat for him, leftover food from the table - what the Icarus mission was supposed to be.
Look at where obedience gets you.
Obedience finds freedom for your family. Obedience equals stability.
So, yes. He is very good at obeying, and now obeying will be wired into him in a literal sense as opposed to a psychological one; the Psi Corps proved that even the deepest flaws and virtues can be erased with enough force, but technology-to-flesh is irrevocable.
He'll be an angel of obedience, a divine ruler, spreading his wings in the shadow of the universe. Waiting. Praying. Watching prey, until the time is right.
He lies face-down on the operating table. An alcohol swab over veinskin, Sarah's face, the sound of something unzipping, the color of her favorite dress (pink) (but a muted tone, a dusty rose), a clang on a metal table, hyperspace boiling and liquifying. It all stirs in his mind, all at once, undeserving holy wounds.
He feels a cold, gloved finger tap his inner arm. Sarah, in his mindscape, sheds a single tear from her small face. And th—-