Congratulations Team (FF7:DoC [PG-13])
Title: Congratulations Team
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII: Dirge of Cerberus
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Rosso, ShinRa scientists
Summary: They told her when she was injured on the battlefield in the name of SOLDIER that this place far down below the depths of ShinRa would make her all better.
She supposes it’s a pretty clock, a nice shade of red-crimson-and the apple design to it could be called cute. This mechanical clock is burning its image into her brain. An exacting picture is being cut into the grey matter of her head and the same knife slices deep into her hand. Scientists work on her like someone must have worked on the clock to make her run all smooth and right. They told her when she was injured on the battlefield in the name of SOLDIER that this place far down below the depths of ShinRa would make her all better.
They just didn’t say they’d have to take her apart first.
She stares at the nice red-crimson-clock as a scientist announces, “Five hours into surgery and health signs stable,” like he did at four hours in, three hours in, two and one. She’s been in surgery longer than five hours with breaks all around, but the scientists call them surgeries-plural-and time them all individually, so she doesn’t know how long it’s really been. They tell her this is the last one though, the last surgery she’ll need.
And then she’ll be all better.
She can’t move, strapped down to the table, anesthetized with some crude mixture that only makes her limbs feel like rubber, she has nothing to hold her attention in the growing hours of boredom. Can’t even make shadow plays on the wall like her friend in SOLDIER training used to do in the barracks after lights out. Dead friend now of course. Got left behind all torn to bits on the sanguine-crimson-battlefield. They had no place to make her friend all better.
“Six hours into surgery and health signs stable,” the scientist announces and no one really cares because they’d keep doing what they’re doing anyways if her signs weren’t stable. She’d keep staring at the clock-can’t even move her eyes-they’d keep jabbing her with cold metal, the apple on the wall would keep being fake. “Seven hours into surgery and health signs stable,” she hears and it’s been another hour already. She thinks she could move her toes, if she really tried; she doesn’t really try.
Eight, nine, ten, and she decides she likes the color red-crimson-it just has this nice sheen to it. She’s trying to remember her name and if it sounds nice with the word crimson when the scientists force mako down her slack throat. Raw mako is in her veins, in her muscle tissue, in her eyes and the anesthetic wore off somewhere around eleven hours in. When her spasms stop and she can see the apple clock colored neon green-and wasn’t it crimson before-someone announces, “Seventeen hours in and health signs stable. Congratulations team, a success.”
She is all better now and the lovely crimson clock is neon green and she hears fingers unbuckling restraints and putting away cold metal. Her wrists feel air and her ankles tingle a bit. All the straps clink as they drop away to hang from the table and at seventeen hours in health signs are stable, she is all better, congratulations team.
And when she got up she slew them all.
Fandom: Final Fantasy VII: Dirge of Cerberus
Rating: PG-13
Characters: Rosso, ShinRa scientists
Summary: They told her when she was injured on the battlefield in the name of SOLDIER that this place far down below the depths of ShinRa would make her all better.
She supposes it’s a pretty clock, a nice shade of red-crimson-and the apple design to it could be called cute. This mechanical clock is burning its image into her brain. An exacting picture is being cut into the grey matter of her head and the same knife slices deep into her hand. Scientists work on her like someone must have worked on the clock to make her run all smooth and right. They told her when she was injured on the battlefield in the name of SOLDIER that this place far down below the depths of ShinRa would make her all better.
They just didn’t say they’d have to take her apart first.
She stares at the nice red-crimson-clock as a scientist announces, “Five hours into surgery and health signs stable,” like he did at four hours in, three hours in, two and one. She’s been in surgery longer than five hours with breaks all around, but the scientists call them surgeries-plural-and time them all individually, so she doesn’t know how long it’s really been. They tell her this is the last one though, the last surgery she’ll need.
And then she’ll be all better.
She can’t move, strapped down to the table, anesthetized with some crude mixture that only makes her limbs feel like rubber, she has nothing to hold her attention in the growing hours of boredom. Can’t even make shadow plays on the wall like her friend in SOLDIER training used to do in the barracks after lights out. Dead friend now of course. Got left behind all torn to bits on the sanguine-crimson-battlefield. They had no place to make her friend all better.
“Six hours into surgery and health signs stable,” the scientist announces and no one really cares because they’d keep doing what they’re doing anyways if her signs weren’t stable. She’d keep staring at the clock-can’t even move her eyes-they’d keep jabbing her with cold metal, the apple on the wall would keep being fake. “Seven hours into surgery and health signs stable,” she hears and it’s been another hour already. She thinks she could move her toes, if she really tried; she doesn’t really try.
Eight, nine, ten, and she decides she likes the color red-crimson-it just has this nice sheen to it. She’s trying to remember her name and if it sounds nice with the word crimson when the scientists force mako down her slack throat. Raw mako is in her veins, in her muscle tissue, in her eyes and the anesthetic wore off somewhere around eleven hours in. When her spasms stop and she can see the apple clock colored neon green-and wasn’t it crimson before-someone announces, “Seventeen hours in and health signs stable. Congratulations team, a success.”
She is all better now and the lovely crimson clock is neon green and she hears fingers unbuckling restraints and putting away cold metal. Her wrists feel air and her ankles tingle a bit. All the straps clink as they drop away to hang from the table and at seventeen hours in health signs are stable, she is all better, congratulations team.
And when she got up she slew them all.