The Surgeon, as many had dubbed him up at Haven, was a man almost bored to death by almost any and all things. You could tell it in his glazed eyes, as though they had been fried by years of looking at screens and lightbulbs and then dunked in some sort of liquid as though a doughnut were, that he had seen quite a lot in under the three decades he had been alive.
Then again, seeing a lot was quite the norm for any immigrant from above. Considering that they, aliens from a planet lightyears upon lightyears away, had escaped a war-torn world (a war ironically started by their own attempts at genetic perfection as an attempt to wean themselves from their prosthetic dependency), things such as corpses and cadavers were no surprise for the surviving “Sky-People”.
His dazed gaze remained so as he surveyed, almost scrutinized the area with the two milky globes. Not even the veil of black bangs could hide his disdain for the world he had lived in.
Except for an overabundance of blue lights in the distance, there was no cause for alarm on this stratum. Darkness was always a foreboding sign in the world the Surgeon and his kind had landed on, and yet...no signals, no sensors went off. There wasn’t anything that resembled even an inkling of hostility to the man drenched in blood.
Crushing the long-forgotten loam under his feet, the Surgeon pressed forward, sauntering as he always did above and below the levels. It was less laborious than if he were to walk like an upstanding soldier; besides, it wasn’t his character.
And then the sensors noted something green. He was in close proximity with the blue lights now, and though he suspected as much, he was still a tiny bit surprised.
That was not, however, the source of his amusement.
Two bodies lain in front of him, one living, one dead, and yet...both were so pale white…
The Surgeon kicked the first body aside, a man with frazzled brown hair wearing a lab-coat all too similar to that of the Surgeon’s, and attempted to kneel down. He recoiled, however, as the glowing blue stuff had made its way into his nostrils.
Silkwing dust. It was a cancerous thing, really, that Gremlins and various other blighted organisms on the planet placed their faith into when wounds were more important than a failing set of organs.
So the Surgeon pulled a white, gloved hand into the recesses of his coat, and produced a gas mask. After slicking his hair back, the Surgeon practically slapped on the apparatus. Through its tinted lenses, he could see that pale body once again, without fear of paying a price too steep.
Mostly human in appearance, the individual he gazed upon was something of a genetic splicing experiment gone wrong. The other body, the one of the dead lab-coat, was a man he personally knew as the Geneticist. A man tossed out from the safe walls of Haven for his pursuits in reviving the Morai, the Geneticist was a mad genius in his field, though his goals were very, very narrow-minded.
Or so it was once thought. The bastard actually managed to create something out of organisms from two different Orders, taxonomically speaking. Silkwing dust danced off like snowflakes from the hybrid’s hair, which was long and silky as opposed to the usually short and fuzzy hairs most other Silkwings would have.
Well, besides a narrow-minded view on life, the Surgeon differed in one other aspect from the Geneticist : cruelty. A sadist above all things, the Surgeon often enjoyed complicating his operations for the anxiety caused in others. Even if he had an unrealistic 40% success rate for a battle medic, his 85% success rate in civil conditions was unheard of, and so the denizens of Haven clung to his coat for their lives.
He always seemed to have a good laugh when another clinically depressed kid received a massive candlelight ritual. Now, he wasn’t a Darwinist by any means; he did not believe in the fact that depression was a pre-ordained thing.
And perhaps his amusement arose from this ignorance. Ignorance that people are born for failure, and that only a few hands could right that wrong.
And as those hands dug into the white folds for a scalpel, a thought crossed his mind : what wrong?
He nudged the unconscious hybrid so its chest was facing his : completely human in appearance, save for the thin ribs jutting out of the skin. No, he'd have no remorse today.
He'd just have fun.
