He blinks up at the fluorescent light set in the ceiling, a light that he's sure isn't flattering his face one little bit. It's also bright enough already, he thinks, without the metal face of the surgeon glinting down at him.
"Are you sure you want to go through with this procedure, Mr. Smith?"
His voice echoes round the high ceilinged room when he replies - strange that the surgeon's did not, he reflects, remembering an old urban myth about ducks--
"Why wouldn't I, Harry? And please, call me John - I mean, you've been my consultant for long enough now!" he laughs - stutters like gunfire; nervous though. Is he sure he wants to go through with this procedure?
The metal face remains stiff, unyielding; one might imagine it would, really. He can't shake the feeling that it is not just the fault of a shiny silver visage that makes Harry seem so cold.
He stops laughing.
Harry starts to speak.
"Many people, at this stage, decide not to have the procedure done. I do hope that you are not one of them."
The light is flashing mercilessly in her aching eyes. Their closed darkness seems almost welcome until he realises he'd rather keep an eye on Harry at all times - it's not Harry's fault, honestly, he silently insists-
-sees the tools this metal surgeon will be using, and pales. He still can't blame Harry though, they're just the implements of his job and John will be anaesthetised for the duration of the procedure. Won't let it get him down. Somewhere in his mind is an irrational fear that he thought he had long left to die.
"I'm not one of those people," he says, moistens an uncomfortably dry mouth. The metal slab he's lying is too cold and too hard.
"Good, Mr. Smith; good," Harry states, and it is indeed a statement. "We just need to wait for the results of your tests and then-" -he indicates the pile of gleaming metal in front of him- "we can get started."
John Smith doesn't like the surgeon's voice, now that he comes to think of it. All part of the augmentations, he supposes. Perhaps he can reverse that aspect of his own later.
"Speak of the devil," says Harry, going to the door, "here they are."
John doesn't see who he is talking to - he has only previously come across the very pretty girl at reception and Harry, and had always supposed (foolishly, he sees) the clinic solely staffed with the two - until they come in.
Metal footsteps on a stone floor.
Harry clones?
Cold. Expressionless.
"He is incompatible! He will be destroyed!"
John Smith, who had a wife and a child and a doctorate in engineering, finally comprehends just what the hell he has gotten himself into now.