Chapter Text
Specimen 3: Male, 20 years
Specimen Presentation: Slim of build, appeared fully oriented and alert. Multiple superficial injuries accompanied by intra-abdominal hemorrhage. Vital signs unstable.
Route of Administration: ——
Reactions: ——
Investigator: Zandik
***
They beat him first.
There’s no purpose outside of the cruelty of it all, Feofan thinks as one of their kicks lands just below his ribcage. The waste of it all infuriates him more than the physical injuries. If he’s going to die regardless in the unnamed medical experiment he’s been sold off to, it’s wasteful to, as one of his unnamed attackers had said, “soften him up first.”
Alternatively, from their perspective, perhaps it’s a waste not to. He’s an easy target to overpower physically, and with his most recent endeavour now in the hands of Snezhnayan organized crime — Feofan himself framed for fraud and money laundering — he has no immediate assets to seize.
What intrepid thug wouldn’t want to take advantage of a free canvas?
Feofan laughs and then chokes as another well-placed kick lands in the centre of his stomach, rendering him unable to breathe for what feels like several minutes. The taste of iron and bile fills his mouth. He wheezes, coughing a dark splash of blood onto the snow-covered steps. It drips from the corners of his mouth onto his chin, but Feofan cannot raise his hand to wipe his face.
He can barely feel his fingers at all. Several of them must be broken.
“That’s quite enough,” a haughty and slightly-muffled voice says. “Although there was little chance of his survival within the framework of my experiment, you have nearly ruined my specimen.”
One of Feofan’s assailants spits onto the ground near Feofan’s head. He grumbles something intelligible to the ringing in Feofan’s ears.
“Yes, well perhaps I will not be so forgiving next time,” the haughty voice answers, dripping with disdain. “Thank you so much for the delivery.”
A shadow falls over Feofan. He hears footsteps crunch in the snow, stopping just short of where his cheek is pressed against the icy ground. He groans loudly as pain lances through his body. It takes a moment to realize he’s being lifted and then supported.
Eyes fluttering open, Feofan is greeted by two eyes, so red they almost glow, narrowed above a clean surgical mask. The man’s light-coloured hair falls across his forehead stopping just short of the man’s glass spectacles. Feofan coughs again. Blood and saliva splatter across the man’s surgical coat in a burst of red and rust.
“Well,” the haughty voice says with a sniff, like he’s deliberately smelling Feofan’s blood rather than expressing disgust as it drips down his torso, “I suppose you cannot help that.”
The man, presumably the doctor in charge of this experiment or one of their assistants, drags Feofan inside, supporting Feofan with a surprising amount of strength given the man’s slight build. Feofan’s head lolls onto the man’s shoulder. One of his feet is definitely broken and will not move correctly so Feofan settles for hopping awkwardly forward, tucked underneath the man’s arm until the man gives a frustrated sigh and heaves him onto an old operating table.
“I wouldn’t move if I were you,” the man says, turning towards the small tray next to him. “You have been beaten quite badly.”
“If you’re correct,” Feofan spits out between hissed and painful breaths. “I’m going to die anyway.”
Black spots flicker in his periphery. Feofan closes his eyes to block out the near-blinding light from a lamp above his head. The metal surface of the table feels pleasantly cool against his battered body.
“Don’t slip into unconsciousness just yet,” the man orders. The scraping of surgical tools against the tray fills Feofan’s ears. A shadow falls across his face again and he opens his eyes to the man staring at him from above. Dots of Feofan’s blood pepper his mask, making it look patterned instead of clinical blue. “You may call me Zandik,” he adds, “although it hardly matters since, as you have already noted, you will most likely be dead shortly.”
Hand shaking violently, Feofan reaches for a cigarette, one of two left in the paper box crumpled into his trousers pocket. His fifth finger is completely crooked — likely snapped in half — but he manages to take a stick in hand and raise his trembling fingers to his mouth. Blood tickles down his neck. Some of it lands on the tip of the unlit cigarette loosely pressed to his lips.
A dry and humourless noise echoes in Feofan’s head.
The recognizable sound of a sparking lighter and a small flame drowns out the caustic sound of Zandik’s laughter as Zandik leans forward and lights Feofan’s cigarette. “You are the third specimen for this experiment. None of my other specimens have survived this toxicity test,” Zandik says, red eyes narrowing, “and you may die before I’m able to administer it.”
Zandik’s long and slender fingertips are graceful as they arc over Feofan’s prone body, enveloped in black surgical gloves that disappear into the sleeves of Zandik’s medical coat. “Where did you come from?” he asks, turning back towards his tools.
“Snezhnaya.”
Smoke, warm and familiar, fills Feofan’s lungs. He tries, despite the searing pain in his ribs, to inhale and exhale slowly, savouring what little he can taste. Briefly, he regrets not using his earnings to purchase higher quality imported cigarettes from Fontaine or Sumeru. Had he known that he would be framed, and that his last stick was on his immediate horizon, perhaps he would have.
It’s a silly thought. Feofan’s laugh quickly turns into a wet cough. Had he known, he would have simply avoided being framed at all and wouldn’t be at the mercy of this doctor Zandik.
“That’s a filthy habit you have developed, Specimen Three.”
“Why did you light it then?” Feofan can’t help but choke out along with another cloud of smoke.
“A passing curiosity,” Zandik answers. “I wanted to see if, despite the obvious fractures in your fourth and fifth metacarpal bones, myriad internal injuries, and aforementioned impending death, you would attempt to smoke it.”
“And?”
“My curiosity was satisfied.”
“I can satisfy many more of your curiosities,” Feofan dares after another stuttering drag, “if you let me live.”
“Charming,” Zandik says, raising an eyebrow. “Perhaps if I have need of that later, and you survive, you may offer your services again. For now, and for the foreseeable future, I have no use for that, Specimen Three.”
Feofan tries to shrug, his hand falling uselessly to his side with the stub of the cigarette still clasped between his fingers. “Weighing profit against loss is a necessary part of any business venture, and a part of life,” he means to say. The words form in his head but his mouth refuses to move.
Years later, in another conversation between the two men, Feofan will claim that the last thing he remembers seeing is Zandik’s half-covered face mercifully blocking out the light.
***
* Specimen 3's records were transferred to another file.
*File Name: Feofan Sergeyevich Veksel