"just fucking --- hold still, tim! jesus christ, kiddo, you signed up for this, remember?" ( :)))))))) )
There were many things Timothy Lawrence had signed away when he’d taken Hyperion up on the doppelganger program–and for the most part, he had come to grin and bear it. Surgery after surgery. Facial reconstruction. Voice modulator. Who fucking knew what else they’d done to him in his time under construction. All of that had been painful–but nothing could ever compare to this.
Mismatched eyes caught Jack’s own, a silent plea to STOP. Stop stop stop.
When Lilith had punched the relic into his employer’s face–Timothy had watched, frozen and helpless as he was toppled from the constructed throne. Had watched as it burned into flesh; bright and unnatural, crimson dripping across the floor of the Vault. Had watched as whatever information he had gained soured his very being. Turned the man into a power-hungry beast, desperate to sink his teeth into something beyond their own understanding.
He had been there as Nisha and Wilhelm dragged him out. As Athena looked away with disgust–already planning on getting the hell out of dodge. Had been there until they returned to Helios and private medical staff whisked Jack away.
He had thought the mask would be enough. No one, save for those who had been present, knew what was actually underneath. No one would have known that Timothy didn’t share the same mark. No one would know he was the copy.
Jack obviously had other plans. Had claimed that he would know, that Timothy needed to remember what she had done to them. Needed the constant reminder of what betrayal looked like. What trusting somebody would bring.
He was certain the heat would consume him before it even touched the skin. Eyes watering. Lip quivering at the very thought of it searing into his face. Jack had brought it forward without warning and he couldn’t stop himself from screaming. Couldn’t bring himself to listen and obey the command to ‘hold still’ despite the repercussions it may have had. Whatever punishment it might bring down–it couldn’t be worse than this.
If he didn’t die here and now.
Rational thought abandoned him, focus consumed by how much it fucking HURT. Unforgiving metal forced against the sensitive flesh of his altered face. Too close for comfort; eyes squeezed shut–hoping he could will it all away. The smell of burning skin consumed his senses, vile and unforgettable. Hands splayed, fingers twisting and scrambling for purpose. For something to hold tight to. When that didn’t help, nails dug into the palms of his hands, cutting where they squeezed. The instinct to twist away hindered by a restricting hand, tight where it held his jaw. Annoyed at his reaction, like he was the one in the wrong.
It wasn’t until he was released that he could crumble. Voice lost to a chorus of agonized howls and desperate sobs as he sullied the floor with his own blood, uneven lines of crimson dripping in the low light.
A matching Pawn to the King he served.
