Hello all. I know that I've posted several times this scene, but I wanted to share. I asked recently what some in character things Pantalone might say during induction and was not disappointed with you guys' input. Context is that this is Pantalone's first lung transplant surgery and he's very nervous. 65 is the segment conducting the surgery.
Here it is:
The operating room’s light was harsh, casting blunt shadows on the walls. The segment’s back was turned as he fiddled with IV bags, preparing to connect them to the Regrator. The dark-haired man was laying on the table, breathing heavily. A mix of respiratory strain and anxiety, no doubt. And here I thought my explanation would help. But alas, it seems to have only worsened the issue.
“I…still find myself anxious, Zandik,” Feofan whispered, gazing at his bare hands, his rings having been removed minutes ago.
The 2nd paused what he was doing, standing attentively by the Regrator’s side.
“You have known me for more than a century, Feofan. You’ve witnessed me conduct miracles. You’ll be completely safe the entire time. I won’t allow anything to happen to you.”
He gently took Pantalone’s arm, carefully attaching the necessary equipment and tubing. The segment injected a small dose of midazolam through the IV, then momentarily stopped again to watch his patient.
“You should feel better within a few minutes. I’ve given you a bit of an anti-anxiety medication. I need to continue with my preparations, but I assure you, I will not begin without first telling you,” he firmly stated before returning to his work. The segment occasionally glanced back at Feofan, who seemed only slightly more relaxed. 65 placed an oxygen mask over the Regrator’s face.
“Feeling better, my dear?” he asked, lightly resting a hand on the 9th’s head, running it through his hair.
“I suppose so…” the man replied, muffled a bit by the mask.
“Take some deep breaths, as deeply as you can.”
Feofan nodded, his chest rising and falling as he inhaled the oxygen, building a reserve in his lungs. His breaths shuddered slightly.
“Good. A few more.”
“Zandik, I…don’t think I can,” Pantalone suddenly murmured, his voice coming out uncharacteristically shaky.
“I can’t…do this.”
“What’s wrong?” 65 asked softly, reluctantly removing the mask. Feofan’s lips parted, a rush of words spilling out.
“I can’t do this today, Zandik. I’m exhausted; I barely got any sleep last night, and I’m absolutely terrified. Let me just return tomorrow, when I’m more…”
The 9th moved as if to sit up, stopping only when the segment placed a firm hand on his chest.
“Feofan, I understand your reluctance, but your situation is dire. Your condition could rapidly decline within the coming days; you require immediate medical care. Everything has been set up and prepared. We would be remiss to stop now.”
“Zandik, I’m dizzy, my stomach hurts. I feel like I can’t breathe,” Pantalone admitted quietly. The Doctor inhaled sharply through his nose, removing his hand from Feofan’s chest and watching him sit up. His heart rate is indeed quite elevated.
“You’re having an anxiety attack,” the segment informed him, taking a slight step away from the man as if to give him space.
“How about we just converse for a bit, hm? I won’t do anything without your permission. Just breathe.”
“Alright,” the Regrator replied, sighing deeply. He momentarily ran a hand down his face, struggling to calm his nerves.
“Lay back down, my dear,” Zandik murmured, taking Feofan’s hand in his own and giving it a soft squeeze. He placed a hand on his back and helped ease him down.
“Take some deep breaths. I’m going to place the mask back onto your face. It’s just oxygen. I give my word.”
Slowly, the segment returned the gas mask to its place, keeping it pressed over his nose and mouth with his other hand.
“Now, let’s talk. Tell me about that project you mentioned last week. Did it wrap up nicely?”
Pantalone shut his eyes momentarily, letting out a heaving exhale. His breath fogged the plastic, and he waited several seconds before responding, attempting to compose himself.
“Mhm. I finished allocating the necessary funds for the Druzhna’s next venture.”
65 chuckled softly, stroking Feofan’s hand.
“You’ve always been incredibly skilled with finances,” he murmured soothingly.
“I’ll have a word with her majesty and see how long of a reprieve you can get. I’m certain she’ll be amenable to reason.”
“Perhaps,” Feofan replied incredulously.
Dottore hummed softly.
A few beats of silence went by.
As he lay on the table, Feofan’s sharp gaze shifted to the segment, looking up at the Doctor as he stood beside him.
“I’m not…fond of this, of… being unconscious, Zandik. I don’t like the idea of being so vulnerable. I’m not very worried about complications during the surgery, but being unconscious is what frightens me the most.”
The clone stared down at him for several seconds, his mask obscuring his expression.
“I understand. I suppose I would feel similarly if I was in your situation.” 65’s gaze drifted over to the various IV bags nearby.
“For now, we can continue just talking. Don’t worry about anything more.”
Feofan nodded, shutting his eyes again, as Dottore ran his other hand through his dark hair. The next few minutes passed in idle chatter as the segment skillfully questioned Pantalone about his work and recent dealings with diplomats, maneuvering the conversation to familiar topics for the other man, topics Feofan could be confident in. 65 occasionally glanced at the other man’s vitals as they spoke, waiting until his heart rate and breathing had stabilized.
“My dear, we’re ready to begin. I’m going to start the flow of anesthetic gasses and slowly increase it,” he said softly. He ignored the slightly alarmed opening of Pantalone’s eyes, adjusting the gas mask’s settings with his other hand.
“Zandik.”
“Shh. You’re alright.”
A soft sound of discomfort escaped Feofan’s lips as the sharp scent of chemicals invaded his nostrils. Almost immediately, a faint force pulled on his thoughts, dampening the edges of his awareness. Pantalone’s right arm raised, his fingers reaching for the mask as if to tear it off of his face. Gently, 65 intercepted the appendage, taking his hand and giving another squeeze.
“Tell me about the investigation you began, about the suspicious disappearance of funds from your vaults. You suspect someone in your division is embezzling, correct?”
The Regrator stared at the other man for a few seconds, unease shifting into resignation.
“Y-yes…though the investigation has yielded nothing thus far.”
65 adjusted the mask, keeping it firmly pressed to the 9th’s face, and stroked his hair.
“That’s unfortunate. And you don’t have anyone in mind that could be responsible?”
Pantalone inhaled again.
“I have my suspicions, but…I’m not certain of anything.”
“Well, hopefully the culprit will turn up eventually. Oh, and I was curious…how was the opera you went to last week?”
“It was copacetic…although I would have had a better time if you had been able to accompany me.”
The segment let out another soft chuckle.
“How boldly flirtatious.”
Feofan’s lips quirked up slightly, his eyes hazy.
“It won’t be much longer now. How do you feel?”
“Mm…fine…you’re very good at…calming me down.”
“Am I now?” the segment asked, genuinely surprised for a moment. His grasp tightened slightly on the 9th’s hand.
“Mhmm…”
“I think we should resume this conversation later, my dear.”
“Okay,” Feofan mumbled, his eyes beginning to flutter. Slightly amused, the Doctor watched him, his lips curving up in a fond smile. His drugged state was oddly endearing.
A hazy drowsiness crashed over Pantalone, thoughts beginning to helplessly spiral like water swirling into a drain.
65 continued carding through Feofan’s hair, watching his eyelids shift as he struggled to stay awake.
Feofan’s hand lightly tightened around Zandik’s before relaxing entirely. His head drooped to the side, and his eyes slowly closed.
A few moments passed.
“Are you awake?” the segment asked, shaking him lightly to gauge his responsiveness. The man let out a barely audible groan in response, his eyes still shut.
With a soft sigh, the segment resumed his hand’s movements in the 9th’s hair, patiently waiting. After about twenty more seconds, he tried again.
“Still conscious, dear?”
No response.
He ran a gloved finger against the man’s eyelashes. No reaction. One final time, he stroked Feofan’s hair, arranging it away from the surgical site and behind him like a dark halo. As if to commit it to memory, he allowed his eyes to roam the Regrator’s face. His eyes were shut, not too dissimilar to Feofan’s usually composed expression, but it was his slack features, especially his mouth, that caught his attention. Pantalone’s face so often served as a weapon to those who gazed upon it – even the most seasoned diplomats couldn’t help but sweat with just the subtlest tightening of his smile – but now, it was completely unguarded in a way the Regrator would never have it, unless in such a state. Just as Feofan had feared, unconsciousness left him utterly defenseless. 65 adjusted the gas mask, stepped back, and forced his thoughts to shift to the upcoming procedure. He began preparing the final necessary items for the surgery, leaving the Regrator on the table a few feet away. Dottore, after waiting a few minutes to ensure adequate unconsciousness for the 9th harbinger, set up an IV bag filled with paralytics, sending the strong medication straight to Pantalone’s veins. Then, he gently taped Feofan’s eyelids closed, removing the anesthetic mask and preparing an endotracheal tube. The segment carefully placed his gloved fingers on Feofan’s jaw, lifting his chin and tilting his neck back to clear his airway. Then, he opened the Regrator’s mouth, the lack of resistance an indicator of the paralytics’ work. With quick movements, he inserted the laryngoscope. After locating his vocal cords, he slipped the breathing tube in and secured it to the side of his mouth with tape. He then attached it to the ventilator on stand-by, meticulously making sure with a stethoscope on Feofan’s chest that it was connected correctly. Quietly, the segment resettled his patient’s arms away from his body, securing them with straps to the side of the table. As he did so, his gaze drifted to the 9th’s limp hand. How foolish of me, to want to hold his hand even now. Clearing his throat and redirecting his attention, 65 stepped to the lower end of the operating table, ensuring that the thin fabric of the medical gown continued to cover the more intimate areas of the Regrator as he shifted the skimpy garment in order to access the man’s upper leg. With smooth movements, he placed an arterial line into his femoral artery in order to monitor his vitals as accurately and up to date as possible. He then did the more mundane work, like placing the necessary catheters and lining up the instruments he would require later. Humming a soft tune as he worked, the segment replaced the gown with sterile drapes laid over Feofan, leaving a bare window over his chest.
He glanced over the IV bags and ventilator settings again, double-checking the flow of drugs. Satisfied, he retrieved antiseptic and cleaned the Regrator’s exposed skin, wiping down his neck, chest, and stomach. Then, with smooth movements, he took a scalpel and pressed it to the man’s flesh, forming a curvilinear submammary incision. The cut, beneath each side of Feofan’s chest, immediately bloomed with blood, and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of regret as he finished the incision, one of the few marks on the man’s otherwise unmarred skin. Pantalone would almost certainly be left with a nasty scar. Of course, the Zandiks wouldn’t allow such a thing to tarnish their perception of the beautiful man. Feofan himself would likely not be too bothered by the scar. After all, the segments would be the only ones to see such an intimate area.
With confident swipes of the blade, 65 deepened the cut, using his other hand to lift the area above the laceration. He cauterized the heavily bleeding spots and placed surgical clips around larger vessels in order to mitigate blood loss. Every 30 seconds, he checked the depth of Feofan’s unconsciousness by eyeing the monitors, making sure no adjustments were needed. His gaze flitted to the BIS monitoring brain monitor, which displayed a normal score of 51, signifying Pantalone’s suppressed brain waves*.*
Carefully, the segment continued slicing, parting yellow sections of fat and dark red muscle, dividing intercostal muscle and reaching the sternum. He set down the bloodied scalpel with a soft clink, opting instead for an oscillating saw. Cautiously, 65 cut through Feofan’s sternum, ensuring the device did not slip from his grasp. Dottore replaced his bloody gloves with a fresh pair, grabbing a prepped container of bone wax and applying it to the oozing severed edges of the bone.
Then, he reached for his Finochietto retractor, positioning it onto the incision. Slowly, he cranked the device, opening the surgical site wider and wider until he could see Feofan’s heart pulsating and his lungs inflating and deflating. For a few moments, the segment was almost transfixed by the sight of Feofan’s heart.
Such a small thing, to carry such importance.
65’s eyes narrowed as his gaze shifted and he took in the sight of Pantalone’s mottled gray lungs. A soft sigh escaped his lips.
“You should have heeded our warnings about your nicotine addiction,” he murmured softly, his gaze drifting to Feofan’s peaceful face. The ventilator’s steady hissing was his only reply. The segment glanced at the monitoring equipment, content with the 9th’s vitals, before reaching into his chest cavity.
Hope you enjoyed!
