Dragorian: (Return to Humanity)

By db Hill

From nano-tech to dimension jumping and vampires to time travelers, this book has it all. The human hybrid dragon, forged in the dungeons of a mad scientist whose deal with the military for a super weapon goes awry, learns of a plot to enslave humanity. His quest begins with a desire to help an innocent murder victim, and ends up costing him wha

• Language: English
• Publisher: Stratton Press
• Release date: Dec 8, 2021
• ISBN: 9781648956898

db Hill

From nano-tech to dimension jumping and vampires to time travelers, this book has it all. The human hybrid dragon, forged in the dungeons of a mad scientist whose deal with the military for a super weapon goes awry, learns of a plot to enslave humanity. His quest begins with a desire to help an innocent murder victim, and ends up costing him what is most dear to him.This character driven adventure has twists, turns, and humor enough to bring it all to life. The parallel universe in which it takes place seems almost as real as our own. It's this author's version of urban fantasy meets sci-fi.

Book preview

Prologue

Our universe is not the only one in existence. There are many planets, stars, galaxies, and universes just like the one we live in, only a little bit different. The tale of Dragorian is from one such existence, a parallel universe, where many things are similar to what we know, and some things that are not.

In his parallel universe, Dorian Briant is an eighteen-year-old boy on a bus, going into the world for the first time on his own, when his world is turned upside down by a violent explosion. When he wakes and before he opens his eyes, he wonders, What happened? Where am I? Why does my chest hurt like that?

Chapter 1

Fear and Pain

Awareness dimly stirred in Dorian Briant’s head through the haze of a nearby clinking noise, but the sudden shock of a knife pierced through the mist in a flash, and he shrieked in pain, opening his eyes and writhing against the restraints holding his arms and legs firmly in place, arching his back in shock.

Now now, that won’t do, chided a nearby voice.

Looking around, Dorian saw a gray-haired man standing over him with a bloody scalpel in his hand. Horrified, he looked down and saw a line of blood on his chest where the stinging, fresh wound lay exposed to the air.

You really should still be asleep. This won’t be at all pleasant for you if you’re awake, said the old man.

You’re insane! yelled Dorian.

No, I’m Scizzo, Dr. Eldimear Scizzo, and you really should try to sleep through this.

Incredulity shot through Dorian’s brain as he tried to think of a logical response, but just then, the doctor made another cut about an inch below the other, parallel to the first and of equal length. Another shriek of pain and panic escaped Dorian as he realized he was being cut to pieces, alive and wide awake, fully aware of the excruciating pain of it.

Please hold still. This is going to take a lot longer if you squirm every time I cut you.

Let me out of here! shouted Dorian, still trying to comprehend even the beginning of what was going on or why.

Now, I couldn’t do that after all the trouble I went through to get you here. And you’ll thank me in the end. Dr. Scizzo paused. Oh, how beautiful you’re going to be, but I’ve got to get these first cuts just right. They’re the basis for the rest of the alteration, so do try and hold still. Dr. Scizzo smiled and raised the knife again.

A dull sinking sensation settled in the pit of Dorian’s stomach as a terrible realization stole over him. He’s going to cut me again. No! Don’t! he screamed as the panic and fear overwhelmed him, and he passed out. Peaceful, blessed blackness, neither feeling, thinking, caring, nor fearing. Just unconsciousness—for how long, he didn’t know.

When he awoke, he was still on the same table. He opened his eyes and realized that quite a bit of time must have passed since he had lost consciousness. Looking down at his chest, he could see something that resembled a checkerboard pattern of cuts, all oozing some kind of milky white substance. Allowing himself to feel the pain of it, he was able to determine that the cuts went all the way from his collarbone to his waist. The cuts on his belly felt somehow different than the ones on his chest, but he couldn’t really identify the difference. The pain exceeded any he had ever felt in his life, and unconsciousness overcame him again.

This time, the blackness gave way to dreams where memories of his life prior to this awful reality swam through his head.

Toweling off his blond head, he looked into his own eyes through the mist on the mirror and wiped a path through the condensation on the glass, noticing for the first time a ring of silver between the pupil and the blue of the iris. Then the scene shifted, and a pretty girl bent down to pick up a book that had just been knocked from his hand by a bully, handing it back to him with a smile. A fluttering sensation caught in his chest, and he felt heat rising to his cheeks as he gazed at her. He moved to thank her, but suddenly felt an excruciating pain in his right leg.

Snapped rudely awake by the awful crack that followed a heavy object breaking the bone of his right shin, he opened his eyes in terror to see the old man bringing the ax-like object down on his left shin also. His screams were muted by the tape that held his mouth shut. He tried to blink the tears of pain away to get a better look at what the detestable old man was doing, only to feel needles being pressed into the flesh where the break had occurred.

Dear Lord, please stop this horrible man from torturing me anymore, he begged in his head. I will try to be patient, but please bless me with death. I am longing for the sweet release that death will bring, Lord.

More needles, new breaks—this time both femurs.

Dear God, take my soul, I’m begging you!

Unconsciousness fell.

Time had no meaning. Each moment of pain was a new eternity of hell. Each new break, each fresh cut, searing, sanding, or peeling, every prodding, pulling, gouging, and bending meant all new realms of fear and pain. Occasionally interspersed with blessed unconsciousness or fitful sleep, it all seemed to culminate on the day he tried to open his eyes but couldn’t.

Unable to move, as usual, Dorian noticed his mouth wasn’t covered anymore, but his eyes were. Why are you torturing me? What have I done to you? His entire body ached; some parts stung, others were numb, and he had a stabbing sensation in his tailbone. No answer came to his queries, so he listened to determine if he could hear the old man nearby. Silence. Nothing moving.

Dorian began to revisit the events that had brought him to this point. He dimly remembered a musty-smelling van or truck bumping along in darkness. His head had been covered in a black cloth bag, and his hands were tied with something that felt tight and sharp on his wrists, like very thin plastic or fishing line. The ride had been a long one and ended with him being knocked unconscious by a heavy object to the back of the head.

What was before that? he asked himself. Trying to concentrate while his head hurt so badly was only intensifying the pain in his body, but he must remember.

Something very urgent—going somewhere. He was sure he had been on some kind of important mission or errand. He felt the anxiety of not being able to do whatever it was, and yet he couldn’t put his finger on where he had been going before the attack or how he had gotten into this situation. He remembered his name, where he was from, and seeing his parents waving excitedly to him as he boarded a bus, but where was he going? This was maddening—like getting up to go to the other room for something and forgetting what it was he was going for, only a hundred times worse. He was sure that what he had been doing was vital. He was duty bound, and his absence would certainly be noticed. Not being able to complete it could bring horrible results, but he just didn’t remember what it was.

Suddenly, he caught the first glimmer of hope beyond death in this situation—his absence would be noticed. Someone important was expecting him and would certainly be searching for him. Probably even now the search parties would be scouring—where? Even if he did figure a way to get away from this constant pain, he didn’t know where he was or if he would be able to find help before being recaptured.

Attempting to formulate a plan for escape, his mind kept running into barriers. He had only seen the part of the room he was facing from the table, and he was unsure how to even attempt to move with his broken legs, not to mention the open seeping wounds all over his chest, arms, and head.

He was fairly sure he wasn’t here for interrogation, or they would have wanted him awake and talking before and after the pain instead of encouraging sleep. Most likely he wasn’t being held for ransom either, as kidnappers seek to keep the victim alive, at least long enough to collect the money, and at this rate, he felt sure he would be dead in only a day or two. In fact, he was amazed that he hadn’t died from his wounds already. Kidnapping just to kill didn’t make any sense either, as they could’ve killed him at any point and hadn’t. So torture just for the sake of torture? What kind of sick person would kidnap someone just to torture them? This Dr. Sicko guy hadn’t seemed to want him awake for the most painful parts, so he probably wasn’t doing it just for the sick pleasure of watching another suffer under his hand. He suddenly remembered the doctor saying something about altering him in some way.

Just then, Dorian heard the door open and someone approaching him. What do you want from me? he asked aloud. There was no verbal response, but whoever had come in was undoing the restraints that held Dorian in place.

Hope burst in Dorian’s chest. Please take me out of here. Help me get home, he implored.

An arm moved under his back to support his weight and the other made a clanking noise as it lifted his legs under the knees, but not a word was spoken.

Please take me home, he begged, still hoping beyond hope this person was there to help him. He lifted a hand to his face and felt a bandage across his eyes. Pulling on it, he realized it was sewn to his face.

A renewed sense of dread struck him as he slid his fingers around the edge of the mask. He felt himself being lowered, and he grabbed the sleeve of the person setting him down. No! Please, take me out of here! He was far too weak to grip the sleeve for more than a moment as he was gently placed onto a soft surface. He heard a swish and then the clang of a metal door just seconds after the sound of receding footsteps.

What do you want from me? he bellowed.

The door he had heard before once again opened and closed.

Chapter 2

Acid

One day Dorian awoke and lay mulling over his most recent injuries. He never could tell what time of day it was except for recognizing the foods being fed to him as either breakfast, lunch, or dinner. Turning his head, he allowed his eyelids to relax in an attempt to open them again and realized with shock that he could see. His eyes were killing him, but the bandage that had previously been sown to his face was now gone.

He lifted his hands to feel the area where the holes in his skin still smarted and saw with astonishment that both hands were completely encased in metal. He wondered why they weren’t uncomfortable or painful—just covered with what looked like giant steel mittens. He wiggled his fingers but felt nothing—no pain, no pressure, no temperature sensation—nor could he tell if the fingers were, in fact, moving. This was a bit disconcerting, but Dorian wondered why he was able to feel anything considering the amount of pain he was experiencing throughout the rest of his body.

Looking around, he took in the nature of his confinement. He was in a cell with a cot, a sink, and a toilet behind a half wall of concrete for a semblance of privacy, along with iron bars like the holding cells in an old jail. There was a slot in the door that he assumed was for passage of a food tray, though how he was going to feed himself with the iron mittens on, he did not know.

He was looking out into the main operating area from a different perspective than when he had been strapped to the table. In the corner of the wall adjoining his was the door the doctor had obviously been using to come and go, also not visible from the operating table.

As he contemplated this door and the best chance he might have of escaping through it, it opened, and the elderly doctor walked in, dressed in the clichéd white smock.

What have you been doing to me? Dorian demanded.

Well, I’ve been improving you, of course, Dr. Scizzo answered, turning to face him and pulling up a stool several feet from the bars. You’re going to be magnificent.

You cut me up and put me in this cell as an improvement? Dorian lashed out. And how long have you been torturing me anyway?

Not quite two months, but your overall improvement will take even more time. For now, you are little more than a motherboard waiting for components, Scizzo stated, his eyes narrowing. You do know what I’m talking about, I’m sure.

Dorian puzzled over this for a moment. Of course he got the computer-based reference, but he wasn’t sure how it applied to him. So, he offered hesitantly, you’re going to implant electronics directly into my body?

No no, nothing so primitive. I’ve already implanted millions of tiny robots that are attempting to splice your DNA with some I procured. The change should be extraordinary, if you don’t deteriorate into a puddle of goo like the last couple hundred I tried this on. Scizzo smiled.

What?

Come now, don’t worry. I’ve devised a plan to make sure that won’t happen this time. Any damage or destabilization caused will be monitored and fixed by the second batch I’m going to implant next week. The ones in you right now are currently building their complex base of operations. Kind of like a central nervous system where they come and go for orders, repairs, and recharging—a miniature city between your ribs and skin. You will notice over time that your chest will be your least vulnerable point as they are building their greatest protection over the most sensitive and vital areas. Your skull and spine will also be protected, of course, as your survival is integral to theirs. Except for your back, I won’t need to cut you for those protective changes. If my computer model is correct, a majority of changes will be able to be made with only a few radiation treatments and laser surgeries. Unfortunately, your back will have to be cut deeply for the titanium plates I need to install. Your spine and rib cage, though they will change, simply won’t support the weight of the wings alone. This will also add extra protection from behind—not that you’ll need it.

Overwhelmed by so much information so quickly, Dorian fired off the questions he had previously been contemplating. So why did you break my legs? And what’s with the iron mittens?

Well, I broke your legs to inject some of the nanos into your bone marrow, of course. That’s where your growth and change truly begins. Also, after you passed out, I cut several sections from the femur as a starting point for the main bone structure in your wings. Those braces on your legs will keep them straight as they grow the new bone structure until the gap is sealed and the growth becomes natural. And as you are not yet far enough along to begin wing growth, I’m preserving the material I took from your legs until the appropriate time. Dr. Scizzo smiled, seemingly impressed with himself.

Dorian was exasperated at the omission of his hands from this discussion, though he had been interested in the need for the braces on his legs. Since he wanted to know more, he decided a less combative tone might elicit the information he was seeking. The metal hands? he reminded Scizzo.

Dr. Scizzo looked at him sternly and said, I have to protect them from any damage you might inflict while attempting to remove the braces or harm yourself in some other way. They are very sensitive at the moment.

This puzzled Dorian since he hadn’t noticed any sensitivity, but then suddenly realized he had missed a point in the conversation.

Wait a second. Why exactly do I need wings? he asked, jumping back to the point he had previously allowed to slip past.

To fly, of course, said Dr. Scizzo, looking completely scandalized. How else are you going to do it?

To be honest, I hadn’t planned on flying at all, Dorian stated flatly as he tried to think of what else to ask.

I’ve already told you, you will be magnificent. Dr. Scizzo seemed to read the puzzlement in Dorian’s face. Beautiful, strong, fast, and more deadly than any man alive. With this pronouncement, he began chuckling to himself, and Dorian was again affronted.

Unable to contain himself, he blurted, I don’t want to be any of those things. I just want to go home!

He was on the verge of crying again, but he had already shed so many tears of pain, loneliness, exhaustion, heartache, and burning desire for freedom that it seemed he had no more tears left—just a hard ball of emotion in his chest that mirrored the physical pain in his body.

I just want to go home, mimicked Dr. Scizzo in a high, squeaky voice. Is that all you ever have to say? Do you not feel driven to rip my head from my shoulders and spit in the neck?

This second question caught Dorian completely off guard. He had indeed been hoping to do something along those lines—though he was thinking of a more grotesque bodily function to drop into the neck. But to hear it voiced must mean that Dr. Scizzo was intentionally trying to provoke him. The only conclusion he could draw was that the doctor wanted him in a violent rage—destructive and murderous.

What had he said about being deadlier than any man alive? Dorian thought to himself as he lay back on his bed, closing his eyes rather than answering the doctor aloud. As he contemplated the possible motivation behind Dr. Scizzo’s question, his renewed silence was interrupted.

Well, boy? What of it? What are you going to do to me if you get out?

Don’t worry, Dr. Buko, Dorian said dryly, I’ll spit down your neck if it’ll make you happy.

Scizzo! It’s Scizzo! How many times do I have to tell you, you thick-headed dunce? My name is Dr. Scizzo! he yelled, his fists balled up and his face purple with rage.

Sorry, Dr. Sicko. I’ll get it right sometime, Dorian lied, reveling in being able to push the old man’s buttons like this.

That does it! Dr. Scizzo yelled. No food for you tonight!

Oh no! cried Dorian in mock hysterics. No food? Whatever will I do? Having my chest cut open and having my legs broken and skin peeled from my arms and face is like being tickled with fluffy kitty fuzz, but no food? The sheer ridiculousness of the situation caused him to break out in maniacal laughter. Lying there, bleeding, broken, exhausted, and laughing, he felt just as crazy as he considered Dr. Scizzo to be.

He didn’t hear Scizzo leave as he continued laughing until he just couldn’t do it anymore, regretting having gone on so long because his abdomen was now sore from the constant pressure on his diaphragm. He groaned in pain and rolled onto the side that didn’t hurt as much, but gave that up and returned to his back. Now that he was alone and sure he wouldn’t be interrupted by Dr. Scizzo bringing in food until at least the next morning, he could better concentrate on the puzzle the doctor had left him. He wants me to be deadly and is intentionally trying to goad me into anger or even rage…

Dorian spent the rest of the evening pondering this and, before falling asleep, decided he would try to do better at controlling his temper. He loathed giving Dr. Scizzo any pleasure and was sure that someday he very well might get the chance to tear the old man’s head off.

The next morning, Dorian woke up with a new surprise. His hands were no longer covered by the metal gloves. He figured Scizzo must have somehow come in while he was sleeping and removed them. Looking at them, he turned his hands this way and that. They looked shriveled, like bones barely covered by skin, and they ached with a dull, throbbing pain. He flexed his fingers as best he could, but the pain was enough that he couldn’t apply much pressure when touching things.

A sound from his right snapped Dorian out of his reverie as Dr. Scizzo entered the room with a tray of food. It appeared that the doctor was in a better mood, having brought him some runny hot cereal, toast, and a little bowl of applesauce. Dorian was sure this food was less than it might have been had he not angered the doctor the previous night, but was thankful to have it all the same. It was difficult to pick up the bowl and spoon, but he managed the best he could.

Mixing some of the applesauce with the cereal to give it some flavor, Dorian asked, So what’s on today’s agenda?

Your only goal is to escape, and yet you want to know what we’re going to do? asked Dr. Scizzo sardonically.

Recognizing that the doctor was baiting him, Dorian rephrased the question. As I have no hope of escape today, what has your tortured mind come up with next?

Smiling, Dr. Scizzo responded, Fortunately for you, nothing today. You need this time to recuperate, so I’ll be feeding you regularly again. The nanos are set up to begin the next phase of growth tomorrow, so tomorrow you get a nice acid bath.

Dorian didn’t like the sound of that, imagining that being submerged in acid might just kill him. He found himself hoping, wishing, and praying for a quick death instead of more excruciating pain.

What kind of acid? Dorian asked, a hollow sensation filling his stomach.

We’ll just let that be a surprise, said Dr. Scizzo, smiling even broader. We need to get a uniform burn, or there might be some blotchiness. He busied himself, cleaning up spare bits of bandage that had been left on the floor from the previous operation.

Losing his appetite altogether at the dreadful thought of uniform burn, Dorian tried to come up with an excuse—maybe something the doctor had overlooked.

You can’t submerge me in acid. I’m covered in open wounds. It could kill me! Dorian implored, hoping this might assuage the next day’s activities.

Thank you for the concern, Dr. Scizzo said, looking serious, but I’m counting on the acid seeping into the wounds. This isn’t the first time I’ve done this, you know, and the other subjects didn’t die until their transformation was almost complete. That’s why the next batch of nanos can wait ’til next week. Tomorrow is the last step for a while because the nanos will be changing you as you heal naturally from the damage inflicted. No, it’s the final stages of transformation that require the most care as the new DNA your body should be producing takes complete control, and you cease to be human altogether. Dr. Scizzo had a wistful look on his face at this pronouncement and placed a hand longingly on one of the bars of Dorian’s cage.

Dorian recoiled at this, and an even deeper dread filled him at the thought of surviving this procedure, only to find himself no longer human. He would be…what?

What, may I ask, will I be if not human? Dorian tried to keep the quiver in his voice to a minimum.

Beautiful, said Dr. Scizzo in the same maddening way he always said Dorian was going to be beautiful.

Dorian didn’t let this deter him though. He wanted a more definitive answer, so he probed a little further. A beautiful what? he asked.

You will be as beautiful a work as I’ve ever created. No, more beautiful than any I’ve created. Dr. Scizzo had a maniacal expression on his face. You will be the most magnificent, beautiful creation ever! The pinnacle of my success!

Dorian was not satisfied with this egotistical display and understood he wasn’t going to learn any more today, so he mechanically ate his toast and forced himself to swallow the cereal and applesauce. He found it very difficult to eat when he felt so nauseous, but he knew at the very least this food would suppress his heartburn when he lay back down. He did his best to ignore Dr. Scizzo and resigned himself that tomorrow was going to be one of the worst days of his life thus far.

True to his word, Dr. Scizzo fed Dorian several more times throughout the day. None of the meals were any more spectacular than his breakfast had been, but there were more of them than normal.

Dorian had found it difficult to eat while mentally distracted by the thought of the acid bath, and he began wishing he hadn’t allowed his curiosity to push for this information. However, he forced himself to eat, understanding the pain he was soon going to be in would possibly render movement—and thereby eating—impossible. He enjoyed the simple act of feeding himself as this was the first time since his arrival that he had been able to do so. He hated the awkwardness and absolute helplessness of being fed by another, especially when he hadn’t been able to see since his first day of torture.

When he was done with his fourth meal that evening, Dorian lay back on the cot and thought on the next day’s possible horrors. Recognizing the helplessness this activity inspired, he felt his mind would be better employed trying to figure a way out. After several hours of concocting different plans of distraction or pleas, he lay listening to movements in the other room—a room he had never seen.

Not long after, Dorian fell asleep, his anxiety and pain leading him into strange dreams about waterfalls of green steaming acid with bones bobbing around the bottom of the pool in a forbidding deep ravine.

Dorian woke to the familiar sound of the doctor opening the door to his operating room, the click of the switch, the buzz, and then hum of the florescent lights coming on. Good morning, beautiful boy, crooned Dr. Scizzo. Are you ready to take a bath?

This question struck Dorian a little funny as he had not had a bath of any kind since he awoke in this place, and the only bath the doctor was offering was one of acid.

Not particularly, croaked Dorian around the rising fear that was nearly choking him.

Really? the doctor asked in a serious tone and with a concerned look on his face. Well, that’s okay. There isn’t a whole lot you can do about it anyway. Scizzo’s concerned look transformed to one of cruelty. Without warning, the doctor lifted a black pistol, pointed it at Dorian, and pulled the trigger.

Bam!

A pink streak flew at Dorian and hit him in the neck near his collarbone. Dorian reached up and pulled the little tranquilizer dart from his neck just in time to feel a wooziness steal over him. Hey, he started to say. You shot me… And before he finished his sentence, he was unconscious.

***

Dorian woke and saw that he was lying in some kind of sling that was dangling from a metal frame attached to the ceiling. He could feel that he was entirely naked, and he couldn’t move any of his extremities.

Why can’t I move? he asked aloud, grateful for the movement of his eyes and mouth.

Oh good, you’re awake, came the reply from an unseen Dr. Scizzo. I’ve made you temporarily paralyzed from the neck down so you can’t hurt yourself or try and escape, but the effect will wear off shortly after your bath. Also, I’ve temporarily removed the braces from your legs to help with the burn, so you should know that trying to stand on your own would probably rebreak both legs.

Dorian was alarmed that the braces were gone and horrified that Dr. Scizzo had thought things through enough to paralyze him before dunking him in acid.

Now that you’re awake, I’m going to drop you in, Scizzo warned. Squeeze your eyes shut tight and inhale as deeply as you can right before I dunk you. We wouldn’t want you dying prematurely because you forgot to inhale before entering the acid. That poor girl suffered so. Scizzo said the last line under his breath, but it was loud enough for Dorian to hear and was alarming enough for him to take the warning seriously.

All right, Scizzo called out. I’m counting down. Three, two, one. Now!

Dorian inhaled deeply and squeezed his eyes shut just as he was dropped in. Every inch of his body screamed in pain, and he thrashed convulsively. All the cuts in his skin, partially healed and not, seared in screaming agony, and Dorian held his breath in desperation. Then, as if by magic, the pain in his skin and cuts all vanished. He felt as though he was in a cool pool of water, and he dared let some bubbles out through his nose. He was told by Scizzo not to open his eyes no matter what, so he didn’t, but he did unclench them a little and felt a temporary stinging sensation on his eyelids. He understood he was still in acid, but was unsure what had caused the pain to stop.

Just then he felt lightheaded and a bit nauseated as the need for air became his main focus. He let out the rest of the air he had left and felt something pulling him out of the tank just in time. He kept his eyes closed, and though the lack of air was searing, he shook his head a little and inhaled slowly through his nose, keeping any acid out of his mouth. He did notice he couldn’t hear anything, not even his own breathing, and then he realized the acid must have eaten through the skin of his eardrums since they hadn’t been protected. The lightheaded sensation and dizziness hit him even stronger, and he was no longer able to keep it in. He wretched.

He still didn’t dare open his eyes as he felt himself being lowered down onto something. Touching the object he was lying on, he realized he could feel pressure, but not whether the object was hot or cold or hard or soft, though he assumed it was hard as it did not seem to give way under him. Finally he understood why he couldn’t feel the pain of his cuts or what should be the stinging of his skin. The nerves had either been sheared off completely or had been overloaded with information.

Lying down felt good. The aching in his legs returned, but without the accompanying pain in his chest, arms, and face, it seemed a lot less troublesome. He found himself actually thankful that the acid bath, though excruciating at first, had relieved him of the pain from the cuts in his skin. The nausea was now the more troubling sensation, but that too went away as he felt his consciousness slipping. A cold chill hit his body all at once, and he began sweating profusely as he shivered.

Then sweet oblivion.

***

Something was striking Dorian’s face. It didn’t really hurt, but he could tell from the pressure of it that it was hitting him hard. He opened his eyes to see what was going on and saw Dr. Scizzo standing over him, opening and closing his mouth like a fish. Looking closer, Dorian could tell Dr. Scizzo was either talking to him or yelling at him, and, judging by the look on his face, it was yelling. Dorian let out a spontaneous burst of laughter but didn’t hear it, only feeling his diaphragm move as the air left his mouth.

I can’t hear anything, he said. So after all your work, I may end up beautiful, but I’ll never have to hear a word you say again. He looked at Dr. Scizzo and saw the doctor moving his lips again.

You crazy old bastard! Talking isn’t going to do you any good. The acid destroyed my hearing. You thought of closing my eyes and even not breathing, but you let my ears be completely destroyed.

At this, Dr. Scizzo grabbed Dorian’s face and turned it so he could see into the room. He was lying on the operating table, thought he hadn’t realized this. Looking around, he saw a puddle of vomit on the floor not far from the edge of the tank.

You mad about that? Dorian asked in amazement.

He felt the doctor shaking him by the shoulders and realized this was the first time in a long time he hadn’t been restrained in the presence of the old man. He reached up and grabbed the doctor by his work coat, pulling himself up. Though his hands screamed in pain, the look of shock on the doctor’s face was priceless. Dorian was determined to throw Scizzo into the vat of acid, even if he had to go in with him. He may end up dead, but at least the doctor would be too.

As Dr. Scizzo grabbed his wrists to try and release his grip, Dorian swung his feet off the table. He hopped down and immediately fell sideways, dragging Scizzo with him. His legs had given out, and sharper pain shot through both femurs than he’d felt in several days. Instinctively, he let go of the smock and grabbed his legs in his hands, crying out in pain. Not able to hear the volume of his screams, he let it all out. He screamed for the pain of it until his throat felt sore.

Dorian looked around to see if he could still get to the doctor, but the room was empty in front of him. He lay on the floor, naked and aching, finally deciding to look down and see what kind of damage had been done to him. His skin was shiny and white, like it had been bleached, and there was no hair anywhere. The places where he had been cut were puffy and swollen, like scar tissue or an infected wound, but when he touched them, they didn’t sting or ache. He could see a definite pattern on his chest, though he couldn’t make out what it might look like other than maybe a checkerboard where the lines were raised and the squares lower.

After lying on the floor for a few minutes while allowing the pain to subside, he decided to try and get up again. As the doctor was nowhere to be seen, he decided to see if he could make a slow, laborious escape. He found, however, that because his femurs were still not healed, he couldn’t put pressure on them by standing, kneeling, or even trying to sit up. He resolved to slide himself across the floor on his stomach, pulling himself by his arms.

He maneuvered across the floor, his pace made faster by grabbing table legs, wall edges, and the bottoms of the counters. As he pulled himself through the open doorway at the far end of the room, he felt someone grab him by the ankle. Dismayed that he had been caught and agonized by the renewed pain shooting through his leg as he was dragged, he clawed and pulled on anything he could reach to try and arrest his backward progress.

Inevitably and inexorably, he was dragged back into his cell. As he looked around, he saw the doctor’s smock swish out of view just before he saw the cell door slam into place.

Quite exhausted by his escape attempt, he decided to lie where he was for a while before attempting to pull himself up. Once he finally felt up to it, he used his arms to bodily lift himself onto his bed, flopped facedown, and fell quickly asleep.

Chapter 3

First Fight

Upon waking, Dorian lay still, keeping his eyes closed and listening for the slightest sound. None came, and he felt happy once again that the stinging from the cuts was gone and that the only pain he really felt was from the bones in his legs. It was odd not being able to hear anything, not even his own breathing or heartbeat. He was fairly certain the deafness would eventually become distressing, but as long as he was captive in this place, it meant he could escape the visual and audio oppression just by closing his eyes, though he would never be able to escape the pain. He was dreading the operation to install the titanium plates in his back, but knew that unless he was somehow able to overpower Scizzo and escape, he would have to endure that too.

After daydreaming for a while about how best to escape—or possibly hurt, maim, or kill Scizzo—Dorian opened his eyes and looked out toward the operating room. Three men in white smocks were busying themselves around the surgical table. Dorian recognized Scizzo immediately but didn’t recognize the other two, who were much larger and clearly stronger than Scizzo. Just then, he realized that the person who had been bodily lifting him to the operating table, to the sling, and to the cot never had been Scizzo, but had been one of these bruisers instead. Dorian’s fleetingly hopeful mood left him as none of his escape plans had included attempting to take on two enormous goons. Mostly they had revolved around the idea of overpowering the slight and frail-looking Scizzo.

Not wishing to dwell on the recent crushing of his hopes, he focused instead on what it was that the men were doing. It seemed they were plugging tubes into nearby machines, placing implements for cutting, prying, and pinning on a large tray near the table where he lay. One of the men who had just recently left the room came back holding large, gold-colored, metallic-looking rectangles. They appeared to be fairly heavy, which was a little alarming considering the size of this man.

Dorian suddenly understood what it was they were up to. They were preparing to install these chunks of metal into his back!

Scizzo looked over, and a positively devious grin lit his face. The other two looked over and, despite Dorian’s look of horror, began moving toward the front of his cage. Sure they were coming for him, Dorian was determined to give them the best fight he could muster as long as he was awake and able to claw, bite, or kick—well, not kick, he realized as his legs were still very much broken.

Scizzo made a small movement only discernable from Dorian’s peripheral vision, and then unconsciousness descended once again.

***

When he woke, Dorian was in more pain than he remembered from all the previous surgeries. He could tell he was lying on his stomach, his arms strapped down to his sides, and his back was on fire with a stabbing, shooting pain, which was accompanied by a throbbing ache and stiffness. He was sure several ribs were broken as well as it was difficult for him to breathe.

Trying to squirm, he quickly discovered he was completely immobile. He opened his eyes to see if he could tell where he was and found himself on the table alone. He was able to lift his head, so he looked around. His legs were strapped down, and the braces were on them again. He noticed for the first time the scent of smoke, like cooking meat. Upon realizing what that must be, he wanted to wretch, but nothing came out. He was overwrought with emotion and again began begging in his head for death to take him. Through his tear-filled eyes, he saw a white smock come into his field of vision, and then the blessed relief of darkness fell.

***

How should I know? Dr. Scizzo seemed to be shouting. This whole thing hasn’t gone like the others. I just hope I’m not wasting even more time and effort.

Hold it down, Dorian said, his voice sounding much louder in his ears than he had expected. Then it hit him—he could hear! The shock of it caused him to listen for the tiniest of sounds, like his own breathing and heartbeat in his ears. He was so distracted by the various mingled noises that he totally missed what it was the doctor had said in response. His own heartbeat was loudest when he covered his ears so he was listening to that and to his breathing.

Realizing it must seem to the doctor that he was covering his ears to avoid hearing what he might be saying, Dorian lowered his hands and looked up to see Dr. Scizzo