Content Warning: Blood; Gore; Violence
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"Not a very exact science, is it?"
"Not particularly, no."
Jervis clasped a hand over his nose indignantly, watching with both disgust and curiosity as Jonathan expanded an incision he'd made earlier. Beneath his clever fingers, the latest test subject—some poor unknown, a civilian the pair had previously retrieved from one gutter or another—squirmed and sniveled inarticulately through a gag, bound tightly to a lovely redwood table. The Hatter shot his partner a scrutinizing look. "I wasn't aware that psychological research was so— messy."
Jonathan paid his humorless tone no mind. "Oh, generally it's not," he said, almost sing-songy as he twisted the tool in his hand for seemingly no reason outside of pure sadism. His 'patient' responded accordingly, writhing horribly and letting out a muffled wail. "But I've found myself fairly fascinated with fear responses associated with pain as of late. That, and I've run out of human livers." Despite having lived with The Scarecrow harmoniously for over a year now, Tetch still had absolutely no idea how he managed to run through all of the entrails he harvested so damn quickly. He knew they made excellent props for Jonathan's crimes, and there were still more empty containers in his small makeshift study waiting to be filled with organs to examine and test, but even with that in mind, these surgical romps of his often seemed a bit… excessive. Where did all of those nasty little bits of matter go?
The blond grimaced and flinched away as plasma splattered all about the room, barely suppressing a girlish squeal.
"Auhg! Jonathan, you're getting blood all over the good tablecloth!" Nevermind his favorite shoes and left sleeve, which Jervis so generously elected not to mention. Crane stepped back, one hand over his mouth thoughtfully, examining his work. His human guinea pig began to wheeze and shudder spasmodically, now sorely missing the miscellaneous tripe and claret that was rightfully his, removed and claimed by an oddly calm mad scientist. In his state of dimming awareness, the abductee faintly registered that his unsolicited doctor's commonlaw spouse had stamped his foot and huffed in irritation, but half-dead as he was, the man couldn't focus well enough to make out what had been said after.
"Jonathan, you're not listening to me!"
"Yes, yes, I'm sorry dear I'll run that under cold water in a few minutes." He still wasn't really listening, mainly concentrating his thoughts on his subject's last few moments of consciousness. He still hadn't quite decided: would it be more interesting to keep the man alive a while longer or let him expire quietly, continuing to work on him post-mordem? He'd have asked for Jervis's input, but something told him that the question would fall on deaf ears. The man truly had no appreciation for the art of dissection.