"Subject LK279, January 8th," the man introduces in nasally monotone, standing straight with his hands behind his back in front of the camera he'd just set up and turned on for the first time today. His form is slightly blurry in Leon's vision, the world swaying around him in a way that doesn't make sense considering the fact that Leon is currently strapped to an unmoving medical chair, even his forehead restrained. He blinks sleepily. "Session 5. Subject is dosed with 10 milligrams of the usual sedative, as well as a small dosage of anti-emetic due to recent nausea resulting from treatment. Subdermal temperature monitor indicates slight fever is present, but heart rate and respiration are stable."
The man clears his throat, stepping back and over to the tray of gleaming metal tools laid out to Leon's left, running a gloved finger over several scalpels and wicked-looking implements before selecting a syringe with a large, yellowish barrel and old-fashioned metal flanges. Leon glares at the blinking red light beside the video camera lens, that damn flashing speck that taunts him and tells him that he needs to brace himself for what's coming next. The cool swipe of an antiseptic wipe on the side of his neck makes him inhale sharply, eyes fluttering closed only a second before the sharp bite of a needle plunges deep into the side of it. He grits his teeth against the ache as fluid is pushed into the muscle, the injection slow and languorous as the man pushes down the plunger at an even pace.
"Excellent," he murmurs, sounding smug. "First injection administered."
Leon doesn't know what the hell it is they're putting into him, only that it hurts like a bitch, his back arching a moment later as the familiar burn begins to creep outwards from the injection point. He groans into the rag they've gagged him with, the one he'd gotten a few days before when another woman had gotten fed up during a foiled attempt to get Leon to cooperate with an interrogation about his symptoms. Apparently, these people don't appreciate his wit and charm. Or threats of death.
"Good, good," the man is saying, Leon's brow twisting as a cold sweat breaks out on the back of his neck. He's holding the camera in Leon's face now, that blinking red light and hollow black lens staring at him as he scans it over Leon's trembling body. He's unclothed save for the thin blanket draped over his legs and hips, a fact that this particular doctor seems to delight in as he slowly moves the camera along Leon's skin. Leon rolls his eyes. Pervert.
He doesn't know what they're doing with the videos. Sometimes it seems purely like a method of recording data and information, the people who've got him bound like a prisoner speaking aloud to the camera as they poke and prod and slice at his body. Others, like this man, seem to use it like their own personal blog, showcasing every inch of Leon's suffering so they can jack off to it later in a group or whatever. It's possible they're sending them to the DSO or the BSAA as some sort of bargaining chip or threat, but Leon doubts that. One doctor had threatened to do so when he had Leon sobbing on the table as some sort of sick attempt to humiliate him, but Leon thinks it was probably just the guy being a dick.
"Wonderful," the man at Leon's side says, drawing him back to the present. "Truly wonderful. You're a remarkable specimen, Subject 279. Not a trace of necrosis even with several modified injections of the virus."
At that, Leon stiffens, a smirk peeling open the man's lips when he sees the movement.
"Oh, you didn't know? We've been testing the T-virus against your natural antibodies," he hums, mocking. "So far they've been resistant against our attempts to mutate the pathogen, but with your help, we can change that."
The man sets the camera back on its pedestal, now dragged closer so that it can be directed at Leon's face. He smirks, picking up one of the sharper tools and zooming in when Leon's breath hitches.
"Now," he says cheerfully, "let's proceed onto today's tests."
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