vivisection
;)
The table they have him strapped to is shockingly comfortable, even though they've pinned him on his stomach, face-down. The padding around his head is made with comfortable leather, cradling his cheekbones and soft enough not to disrupt the cannula that's been inserted into his nose. It's disconcerting to see only the floor and wires beneath him, only the sounds of nurses and surgeons chatting and the sensation of cold sterilizing solution being spread over his back offering him a clue as to what's happening.
He'd lift his head and look, if he could, but they've secured his skull into some sort of rigid contraption, padding held tight to either side of his head to lock it in place. He can't move it an inch, nor can he budge the restraints that have been strapped around his wrists, waist, and ankles, his body thoroughly held down. There's an itch on his calf that he's futilely trying to scratch, the usually minor sensation a bright spot of irritation when he can't soothe it.
The sudden sound of clicking dress shoes has his eyes widening slightly, the instinct to move his head and glance over halted by the restraints. He resists the urge to hold his breath and takes a steadying inhale of the cool, dry air being pumped into his nose---only to flinch and gasp at the sensation of a gloved hand on the back of his shoulder, an icy touch he's gotten to know too well the past few days. They've already removed his gown, so the leather meets his bare skin, supple and threatening.
"Are you ready for today's procedure, Mr. Kennedy?" Wesker's voice asks coolly, his shoes coming into view in front of Leon's face as the touch glides away. "I must say, I'm rather looking forward to it."
"Burn in hell," Leon retorts, trying and failing to turn a glare on the man. "I don't even know why you want me."
Wesker laughs. "The plagas is an important asset, and it just so happens that you've got one wrapped through your entire spinal column. Did you know that? Your MRI confirmed it, isn't that something?"
Leon rolls his eyes. "You only told me ten thousand times."
"Feisty!" There's a note of smugness in Wesker's tone that Leon wishes he could slap off his stupid bioweapon face, but it suddenly darkens and he can only freeze as Wesker speaks again. "In that case, we may begin. Scalpel?"
Leon can only gasp at the sharp bite of the blade at the nape of his neck, burning pain ever so slowly creeping its way down his spine as the skin and fascia and protective tissues are peeled away to reveal his vulnerable, sensitive spine to the air-
He has to stop thinking about it or he'll vomit. He forces himself to focus on anything else, and ends up trying to remember the lyrics to a song he'd heard the day he was called for this ill-fated mission, drifting slightly when the agony grows unbearable. He can hear people murmuring; feel hands and tools pinching at his skin; hear the awful squishing of his damp tissues. It feels like a band of hot iron has been laid down his back, sweat prickling the back of his neck as the fire rips through him.
He's not sure how long it is before the clinking of tools grows quieter, only Wesker's voice rising over the rest.
"I'm not seeing it here," he muses, poking at an exposed nerve that makes Leon groan. His heart is pounding in his chest as a gloved hand presses down on the back of his neck, adrenaline leaving his mouth dry. The leads and tube that had been attached to him are starting to feel uncomfortable from how long he's been laying on top of them.
"Does this mean you'll let me go?" he rasps, the first words he's spoken since they started torturing him like this.
"No," Wesker says. "I think we'll need to move on to the skull, to check if it's integrated itself with brain tissue. It's a good thing you're awake, Mr. Kennedy, or we'd have no way of knowing what to remove."
The sound of a razor starting up makes Leon squeeze his eyes shut tight.
