Chapter Text
The first time they meet Feofan thinks about how one of the advantages of being at rock bottom is that the defeated can hardly go any lower. That is, if Tsaritsa’s Fatui experimental facility can still be considered rock bottom rather than total hell. Not that Feofan's mind was on anything other than desperately trying to breathe at that moment. Before they threw him to the human traffickers, he thought they were just going to beat him to death and dump him in a ditch.
So far, however, there is no indication that this fate will be any better. He knows is slowly losing consciousness even before a man wearing a surgical mask pulls his eyelids apart and shines a light into his eyes. Between being stripped naked and sat on a metal table he saw masked people openly carrying away the body of another unfortunate soul. There are many strange substances and surgical instruments on the surrounding shelves, he does not see his imminent future positively.
“The subject is conscious. He shows signs of numerous superficial injuries sustained approximately within the past sixteen hours.”
There is a trace of a foreign accent in the scientist’s voice, but his speech is polished. At least he’s not a big man. With a little luck, Feofan might be able to grab one of the scalpels lying nearby and make a run for it. The door is about three meters away. Maybe five. But behind it, his chances are likely over, and second ones are a costly affair. He can handle a middle-aged man even though he feels like shit, his strength slowly fading and consciousness disorienting, but the Fatui aren't known on the street for being a bunch of effeminate scientists.
“What is your age?"
Everything feels like a dream, hazy and blurry—except for the very real pain throughout his body. He isn’t sure if he answers or if his answer is comprehensible over the sound of his teeth grinding in pain. At least his examination is over quickly. Although the man looks a little disappointed with his physique.
“Vital signs unstable. The subject is rendered unusable in this condition.”
He describes his condition aloud despite them being alone in the room. It looks like that even when he’s about to cut people apart, this man really does talk a lot. Feofan is quite sure that he is the type to have a tendency toward long monologues, as if his thought processes had to be vocalized even if his audience consists only of dust, air, and corpses.
“I promise you, no one feels worse about that than I do."
"At least you keep your sense of humor—that’s refreshing."
Even through his surgical mask and glasses, it’s clear that the scientist is amused. Perhaps a second chance would present itself after all.
A man who has a whole lab for himself, who can afford to use human guinea pigs and has several henchmen and bodyguards at his disposal, must have some power. Not that a simple guard dog isn’t in a position of power over Feofan right now—he understands all too well the predicament he finds himself in. And even though he hates it, this isn’t the first time. This whole shit just a return to the drawing board for him. A well known attempt to bounce back from the bottom of the gutter.
“I guess that's just the way life is.”
The scientist chuckles again and picks up the notebook, writing something in it. Feofan forces his brain circuits to kick in like they always do; even faster when his cortisol levels are at their peak. Can he buy himself out from this guy? How much could those bastards have gotten for him anyway? Certainly not his entire debt. In the condition he’s in, Feofan wasn’t worth more than 50,000 Mora.
But although he doesn't know anything about this man he probably won't be short on money. He could try something as simple as sucking his cock - simply assuming that anyone who has attended any university swings more than one way. A superficial compliment or two might even convince the man that Feofan is serious about it, which might delay the moment when the scalpel gets inevitably plunged into his brain. But besides this being a pretty big gamble, the scientist doesn't look so bad that he needs lab rats to give him blowjobs.
So no, compliments, looks, money, desire—these ordinary things aren’t what could stick with him. And therefore, they aren’t what could get Feofan out of this utter shit of a situation either. So the question arises: how does one seduce this man? How does one carve a way into his mind when he’s the one holding the scalpel?
In the end, it’s simple—so simple, in fact, that later Feofan finds it strange that no one else has tried it. Or perhaps it’s because he knows it’s necessary to listen to what others say, even when the situation is unfavorable.
“So,” he says, nodding toward the prepared test tubes and syringes. “What is this all about?”