It's eight am.
He knew this because that's what the clock said as it ticked loudly away, not a foot away from his face. Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick. It was an old model, one that wasn't hooked up to the atomic station in LA, one with arms from the hours, minutes and seconds. Many of the new Genterns complained about it, how it was hard to read and the usual holo-watches were just fine and always accurate unlike the ancient model on the wall, but he liked it. It had character, with its clear plastic cover protecting the internal components, and simple black painted wood making up the sturdier, protective shell. And, well, if they couldn't take five seconds away from seducing patients to learn how to read an old clock, to hell with them.
"Doctor, you have a heart replacement at eight ten." She had told him this when he had arrived at seven that morning, with coffee in one hand and dark bags under his cloudy grey eyes. He was exhausted, and hadn't even indicated he had heard the order, brushing by the attractive young Gentern without so much as a second glance.
You see one, you've seen them all. Only a bit short than him with their heels on, short, short dresses that leave so little to the imagination. Typically blonde with blue eyes, though he highly doubts they're natural; probably as natural as their perky breasts. Too much make-up for productive nurses, pursed lips and soft hands. All the same.
This one was persistent, following after him as he walked and took a sip of his drink, the hot liquid doing wonders to burn his esophagus. "I've given the patient the typical run down, and blood tests confirmed they're not allergic to Zydrate."
It always amazed him how they could do this to him. Every surgery, he walked in knowing so little about the patient personally. He didn't even know their genders, their names: All he knew is what he was giving them, or taking away, or modifying, and whether or not they were allergic to zydrate.
He hated it.
His imagination always wandered before the surgery. He wondered who he would be seeing under the knife again. Would it be a young woman, seeking to enhance her exterior with some frivolous nips and tucks? Or a scruffy but kind looking old man, the one who had crinkles around his eyes when he smiled at his Genterns, thanking the surGEN for saving his life and giving him a new kidney. Or, a young child, scared to be having her first surgery, holding a brown teddy bear to her small chest while she looks at them all with big brown eyes, lip quivering as she tries her hardest to look brave. It never matters though; All that matters is what they look like under the knife.
"This one is an emergency replacement. Heart Failure, though localized to only the heart; We're sure it isn't NOS, we gave the test with the blood test."
He wonders if and when he'll see them under a knife again.
"Did you get all that--?"
"Yes. I got it," He replied shortly, waving her off with a dismissive wave of one hand. He turns to watch her walk away, slowly taking another sip and wincing slightly. Still hot, still burning.
Surgery was so… peaceful. With the patient semi-conscious, eyes closed and still as the Zydrate takes its effect, body relaxed. Sometimes he can hear words beings spoken, or soft music being played from the virtual reality library every patient is plugged into that makes surgeries more bearable. He never pays any attention to it, giving short orders to the Genterns to hand him specific tools as he opens the patient up and gets to work, the white from his lab coat and the white of his gloves contrasting sharply with the red in the body.
"Doctor! How are you this morning?" A loud, male voice from a fellow surGEN. He sighs silently, flicking his eyes toward the ceiling as if to question his deity why he had to deal with people so early in the morning, and why he couldn't finish his damn coffee in peace and silence. With a false smile on his face, he turns to face the other man.
"Oh, hello Roger, how are you?"
"Fine, fine! Just got out of a surgery, lovely patient that needed a full body replacement. I'll say, we had it done and the old girl into recovery in less than two hours, can you believe that?"
No, he can't, and he knows it's a lie.
It was never peaceful the second time around. This time, there's no zydrate to numb the pain, no Genterns to prep the patient. Only him and his knife, running through some back alley, slamming someone into a wall or the ground and quickly knocking the back of their head or slitting their throat with his knife if the surgery allows for it. This time, there is no soft music or quiet words, only screams and honks, yells and cries. This time, there is no white to compare to blood. Black and red go so well together.
"Really, now?" He asks, fake smile beginning to hurt his cheeks.
This time, he imagines his soon-to-be heart transplant receiver. He imagines a woman, with black hair that flows down her back and brown eyes, natural brown that synthetic colors can never quite match, not that many people care to make their eyes brown. He imagines tan skin, not quite soft, but weathered and real, so real that it makes him pause. He imagines the smile on her face as she sees him, thanking him in a light alto voice for performing the operation, and singing GeneCo's praises as she chatters eagerly about her plan to pay for her new heart, and how she'll pick up another job if she had to in order to make ends meet.
The two chat for what feels like hours. Roger goes on and on about his surgeries from the night before-- This man never stopped talking at work-- Before wishing the SurGEN a happy morning and soon leaving. Roger works the night shift, and gets to go home at seven thirty; he, on the other hand, works the day shift. He can't afford to work at night.
He imagines her five months later. Same brown hair, same weathered skin, this time pale. This time, her brown eyes are wide with fear, and she isn't singing praises. She's screaming, and he has to quiet her down, lest she draw attention to him. With a flick of his wrist, his knife carves a smile into her neck as she falls silent, brown eyes focusing on him as a hand goes to her neck, her fingers coming away sticky with blood. He stands there, patiently waiting for her to collapse.
"It's seven forty five, doctor." It's that same Gentern again. (Or is it a different one?) She smiles, insincere sweetness as she pokes her head into his office. He hums in the back of his throat, not bothering to look up and acknowledge her. He never does, they all know he can hear them just fine, and would be there soon to start getting ready for the surgery.
He crouches over her body, ripping open her blue blouse with one hand while the other, with the knife, touches the skin between her breasts, coyly curving a line down the middle with one finger as he mentally marks her up. Soon, the knife traces down that line and he carefully splits her open, one hand working to hold the skin out of the way while the other cuts it to shreds.
He becomes aware that her brown eyes never leave his, and he imagines she can see him through his goggles. Part of his mind dismisses this, but the other mind persists, begging him to look at her and… Do what?
Do nothing. Keep working.
At seven fifty, he turns his computer off and shrugs on a coat. It's such a light coat, in color and weight, that he has to pause and marvel at it. He isn't used to it, it occurs to him, and he chuckles once or twice, shaking his head and leaving his office, heading for the surgery rooms and the sinks.
The heart is free. He pulls it out, admiring it shortly before stuffing it into his refrigerated container, specifically marked to carry this heart, with all of it's measurements and other such information scribbled on it's side. He doesn't read any of it-- it's not for him, anyway-- Simply closes it before wiping his bloody knife on the dead woman's blouse.
He reaches the sink, turns it on and focuses on the clock in front of his face. It's eight am.
It's eight pm.
She's still looking at him. He can't meet her eyes.
"Doctor?"
Instead, he calls for the cleanup crew.
"Doctor?"
They'll deal with the body. They'll look in her eyes and feel nothing. They won't remember her.
But he will.
"Doctor Adam!"
Aloysius's head snaps up as he is rudely jerked into the present by that… Or, one of the Genterns. She is staring at him, one eyebrow raised, (Fake.) lips pulled into a small frown. (Fake.) "Yes?" He asks patiently, plastering a charmed smile on his face. (Fake.)
"You've been washing your hands for ten minutes…" She says slowly, a note of concern audible in her voice. (Fake?)
He nods slowly. "Ah, yes, well… Cleanliness. You know, have to be sterile."
"Ten minutes?"
"Very sterile." With another smile, Dr. Aloysius Adam shakes out his hands, rolling his neck once to get out a kink that had developed while he was standing there. "Now, then, shall we get to work?"
"Of course doctor, right this way…"
He doesn't voice the real reason, that he was cleaning the heart transplant receiver's blood from his hands. She wouldn't understand, anyway.
It's eight oh five am.