Work Text:
A young woman in a Federation Uniform shows Cellbit through the office. She is the next newest hire, with scarring across her nose and the gills either side of her throat looking irritated from the air conditioning. Cellbit hasn't been given her name, only her rank of Junior - nobody here gets to keep their name, not really.
He has been given his own desk, however, and allowed a few moments to arrange it - there's no place for sentimentality in the Federation, and even if there were he would not risk his mission. Still, he lays out his pens and his calculator, and lets himself be talked through setting up a login for the computer.
He doesn't keep photos, and his bracelet is kept tucked under his boots and out of sight.
Just as he finishes arranging everything, Junior jolts; he looks, sees her eyes blown wide with fear, and follows them to the approaching Cucurucho.
"I will take over this investigation," the creature says, robotic and blank.
Junior bows and scampers.
Cellbit thinks of other fish-hybrids he has met, of the scars on her face where scales should be, and his ears twitch at the idea of what comes next.
"Follow me."
No matter what he suspects, Cellbit follows.
He's here for a reason, one greater than himself, and what price is mere flesh to pay for access to the Federation computers?
Cucurucho leads Cellbit to an office, and has him sit. There's a metal tray on the table, and a pair of metal cuffs screwed into the desk. He's not ordered to put his hands in them, however - not yet.
There is also a man there, with a surgical mask on. He does not say anything, just gestures for Cellbit's hands.
Cellbit cannot afford to show doubt or hesitation, not this late in the game, not when he needs this job to have a hope in hell of saving his family - he gives his hands, and barely flinches as each one is stabbed by a needle.
The tingling cold of anesthesia begins creeping from them, much like when his wisdom teeth were pulled. Local anesthetic - and, fuck.
At least he'll be awake for whatever torment the Federation has dreamed up.
(Perhaps, a weak, filthy part of himself thinks, he'd rather be asleep though.)
While the anesthetic spreads, the surgeon pulls out a set of hairpins and a mirror. Cellbit is gestured at and made to watch as his ears - his most obvious hybrid feature - are folded over and pinned into place.
The Federation demands perfection in all its workers, and clearly hybrids are not considered such - Junior proved that well enough merely by existing.
Cellbit's ears twitch under the rough touch, just grateful to be left intact; under his shirt his tail twitches too and - fuck, his hands.
His hands, where his claws lie under the skin.
His claws, his claws, an alteration in his very bone structure - local anesthetic in his hands, wrist cuffs, the tray - if they take his claws, will he ever be able to hold a pen again?
He starts to panic, and clamps it down.
Calm, calm, even breaths, do not let them see your fear.
It's worth it, anyway - he can pin his ears each morning and unpin them each night, and having his claws cut from his hands is not so very high a cost at all! To loose his claws - even his hands, if it comes to it...
It's worth it, it's worth it, if he can just save Felps.
Not even everyone, everyone else is just an incidental factor alongside saving his family - so long as he can save Felps without losing the rest of his people, any cost is worth it.
His claws, his hands, his life... None of that matters; it's not like he has morals to loose, either.
And so Cellbit memorises how they want him to hide his ears, and lets his hands be clamped into place, and watches impassive as his skin's sensitivity is tested and a scalpel unwrapped. It sits there, staring, judgemental for a good five minutes as the anesthetic kicks properly in. The surgeon remains across the desk, waiting, and Cucurucho leers over him, blank smile ever affixed to the bear's terrible face.
Eventually, the surgeon is satisfied - content that Cellbit's hands will not be able to move, and ruin his work.
There is no more warning than the man picking up the scalpel, and digging it into the skin over Cellbit's leftmost knuckle.
Cellbit looks over the surgeon's head, to meet Cucurucho's eyes.
He feels nothing as the blade digs around his hand, blood dripping onto the table as the surgeon works.
The noise, though - oh God, the noise.
Scraping of metal on bone as it seeks out the joint, ruining the muscle tissue all around. Cellbit doesn't look, doesn't look, not until the surgeon flicks the blade, and there's a crack, and there in his hands rests one of Cellbit's bones.
Even that, however, Cellbit refuses to relent for.
He can feel nothing in his hands, nor his arms, but there's something hollow about it all the same.
The surgeon doesn't even stitch up the wound as he digs the scalpel into the next knuckle.
Cellbit looks back up.
If this be the price he will pay it willingly, pay it fourfold, and pay it thrice. He will watch as his bones are carved from his skin, he will stare Cucurucho in those soulless black eyes and swear his vengeance again and again.
Everything he is, he gives for Felps.
Everything taken, he will take back from them some day.
The scraping continues, and Cellbit dares himself not to look. He remains sat tall, remains sat proud, even as he hears the scratch-scratch-scratch.
Another crack, and another bloody bone is tossed to the side.
It's not until the fourth claw that Cellbit begins to flinch. The blood loss is getting to him, no matter how he tries to stay tall. The numbness creeps up his arms, and he knows it is bad, he knows it is wrong.
He knows that, even if he says something, they'll only be crueler.
For Felps, he reminds himself.
For Felps, who saw good in him when there was no good to see. For Felps - for family.
The scalpel is swapped out for another one around the seventh claw. Cellbit's right hand is no tougher than his left, but still a bigger blade is taken to it. The surgeon doesn't flinch, Cucurucho's face remains in its soulless smile, and so Cellbit refuses to be weak once again. He keeps his stance, keeps his posture, keeps his face perfectly schooled even as his hands are ripped apart.
The scalpel slips.
A shockwave of vibration shoots back through Cellbit's bones - his posture crumples as he gasps, the pain finally becoming apparent around his shoulder.
The surgeon glances up.
His lips are hidden, but his eyes are smiling.
And Cellbit... Cellbit cannot, will not let them win - he needs this, he needs this, this is his one chance and his one lead and whatever hell they put him through it has to be worth the cost.
He cannot hiss, he cannot snarl, he can only breathe and bite his tongue and bring his eyes up once more.
Another crack, another claw, another chunk of flesh and another piece of himself ripped away.
They want perfection? Cellbit will give them perfection.
It won't be the perfection they want, but he'll give it to them all the same.
They can take his blood, they can take his bones, they can take his very soul, but he will not let them win.
What's a soul anyway?
He can answer the question in many ways, but his is black with sin, a sticky ichor infecting everything it touches. They want it? Let it destroy them - they've taken the cure, and no matter what he does, he will not let them also touch the balm.
Another claw gone - number eight caused them trouble, and it will be nothing compared to the hell Cellbit will unleash just as soon as Felps is safe.
His vision is blurring now, too much blood on the table, too much damage to his muscles and too much poison in his veins.
He hunches slightly, but keeps the eye contact. He can't stop the snarl, can't stop the venom, not now - but he can refuse to loose.
The ninth claw sheers into two as it is scraped from his hand, one piece pushing itself deeper even as the other is removed.
Cellbit turns his head down to fight the darkness, and watches as the surgeon cuts a line from his wrist to his second finger joint, peeling back skin and tortured muscle as he searches for the missing piece. At the knuckle the cut goes all the way to the bone, and yet Cellbit can barely see it for the blood.
Still he watches, still he stares, counting every crime as the blade digs through his skin in search of that fragment of bone.
It takes a few minutes, but eventually the surgeon finds it, pulling it out with a pair of plastic tweezers. This wound he bothers to stitch; Cellbit can still feel nothing, but his head is fuzzy and his breathing comes in uneven pants.
One more, just one more.
Cellbit cannot raise his head any more, cannot even twist his lips to a snarl. Still, he refuses to close his eyes - still he insists on winning, watching as his last knuckle is cut into, and the tenth claw is removed.
It comes with no fanfare and no announcement, just the wet plop of the bloody bone being dropped into a bottle of fluid - the other nine bones are gathered, various levels of intact, and join it.
Cellbit can barely breathe, can barely see. He hears his heart in his ears, uneven and struggling. He stares at the bloody mess of his hands - still bleeding, still bleeding - until the darkness is too much, until vengeance is not enough to keep him presence, until even the thought of Felps is out of reach.
"Welcome to the Census Bureau"
It's the last thing he hears before the darkness wins, and Cellbit finally, finally passes out.
Cellbit wakes up on a bunk, on top of the sheets. There's a ladder down to the ground, leading to the tiny floor space. He has a small sink, a mirror, a chest of drawers. Under the bed is a desk, a bookshelf, and a tiny cupboard.
His hands are wrapped in bandages, already bleeding through.
He moves his hands and finally, finally he gives in and screams.