Chapter Text
Feofan wakes up in a familiar cell after having died.
His death was neither beautiful nor remarkable. He simply stopped taking the elixir, fell ill, grew old, and died.
He smoked more than any transplant could ever repair, drank more than any liver could endure. His heart had died long before his body did, and he condemned himself to a death as human as it was mundane.
So the real question is... why is he lying on the floor of the containment cell where he was sold to Dottore more than four hundred years ago?
None of this should be real. The cold he feels, the trembling in his bones, the ache in his abdomen from the wounds he received before being sold... his vision is blurry, but still far better than it was before he died.
What is happening?
Feofan is afraid that if he moves, he will still be in the process of dying. Spending so long avoiding death, even as someone who had little regard for his own existence, taught him to respect it. Perhaps, now that he thinks about it more calmly, he is in some kind of purgatory. For all the harm he caused, for all the cruelties he inflicted upon so many people. If anyone does not deserve paradise, it is Pantalone, the Ninth of the Harbingers.
That is why he cannot imagine that everything happening to him is, unfortunately, as real as life itself. When the cell is opened and two nameless Fatui drag him by the shoulders toward the main experimentation chamber, things begin to feel far too familiar.
Feofan says nothing. He only watches, now forced to remain awake among the test subjects. He remembers the screams of agony perfectly, every failed subject. Not even four hundred years could erase those memories from his mind. They are almost as vivid as the scene unfolding before him.
He doesn’t want to admit that this does not feel like a dream, nor merely a vivid memory, because doing so would mean questioning all the years he lived afterward. There are too many doubts and mysteries, too many risks to calculate, and his mind had not prepared itself for something that, somehow, he should have understood the very second he realized his situation.
He was once again at the mercy of Dottore's whims.
His heart feels no fear, though under these circumstances he would prefer it if it did. The crushing weight of nostalgia and longing overwhelms him far more than any instinct for survival. And when he sees the figure of a young Zandik approaching, something inside him seems to twist in agony.
He will not allow himself to appear vulnerable, least of all before such a young and inexperienced version of the person he...
"Next subject."
Feofan has to admit that he did not miss this version of himself. Twenty years old, bruised and fighting to survive. His legs do not support him the way they should, and all he can manage is a hard, closed expression that betrays no fear. One of the doctor's subordinates grabs him by the hair and lifts his head, and he seriously considers whether to kill the man or continue pretending to be just another victim.
He vaguely remembers being sold after being betrayed and beaten by the man who had once been his partner, who lured him into a trap.
He cannot continue reminiscing because Dottore approaches him, one hand reaching for his bruised face. The Feofan of the past had tried to bite that hand, cursing weakly. But he...
He closed his eyes, praying that this was all a nightmare.
Was it really so terrible to long for the touch of those fingers against his cheek?
When the touch finally comes, cold and analytical, tilting his face upward by his chin, Feofan feels at home. Perhaps this place was hell, but Zandik was here with him.
That was not such an unpleasant fate.
Then came the verbal assessment, exactly the same words spoken centuries ago.
"Slim of build, appears fully oriented and alert. Multiple superficial injuries accompanied by intra-abdominal hemorrhage."
Feofan opens his eyes. The harsh light of the room does not prevent him, for once, from seeing his captor clearly. Dottore returns his gaze, holding it for a few moments before finally lowering his eyes to his documents with a quick blink.
This detail escaped him in his previous life. Not this time.
He would like to say something, but he knows that opening his mouth could ruin everything. His head slowly falls to one side, only briefly revealing his weakness once his hair is released, but he quickly regains his composure.
Zandik does not immediately begin experimenting on him. The serum remains on the worktable, and he orders the guard out.
"He's weak. I'll handle him myself. Prepare the others. I won't be long."
Once they are alone, he steps closer and closer, slow and deliberate, until the tips of his shoes brush against Feofan's bruised knees.
"Look at yourself. So young and so full of anger... and yet you seem to have relaxed when you saw me. Do you think I'll show you mercy? Do you think I'll grant you a quick death?"
Feofan wants to answer, but for once he is left speechless. He does not know how to approach this, how to handle the situation. His centuries of political training allow him to hide his desperation, leaving behind nothing but a quiet denial on his face.
So he chooses to tell a half-truth, as he has always done so well.
"My life does not belong to me, and there are far too many things in this world that fill me with almost uncontrollable anger and frustration... but when I saw you, you simply reminded me of an old friend."
The sense of familiarity his body felt at seeing Zandik disappears when he notices that he does not bear his old scars. It is strange. Such a new body, so little used...
Feofan feels a flicker of frustration.
The doctor takes it upon himself to decide the next course of action, and it is not to inject the serum but to tend to his wounds.
In Feofan's previous life, they had argued before reaching this point, and perhaps he should provoke that argument again. He should say something cruel, something that would awaken enough curiosity and indignation in Dottore to keep him alive.
"You need to survive if I want to study you thoroughly."
He explained as he cleaned his wounds, disinfecting them with practiced hands.
Feofan let out a small laugh, knowing perfectly well that it was a lie, and also knowing that the other man had no idea he knew.
"What is so amusing, specimen three?"
he asked without looking him in the eye.
Feofan answered with a long sigh. Once again, his body relaxed against his will, his soul far too accustomed to this treatment.
"Nothing in particular... I think I'm simply very tired and confused, but also relieved."
A sound emerged from Dottore's throat, a quiet "Mmh" that seemed to urge him to continue.
Feofan did, this time in a murmur. His eyes were slowly closing, his head falling forward.
"I missed this."
The words slipped out against Dottore's shoulder, sending a flood of questions through the scientist's mind. The warmth with which the subject had looked at him earlier, the familiarity he had shown, the complete absence of fear...
The specimen must not die.
Zandik needs answers.