* Reviews and constructive criticism are always welcomed.

Warnings and Genres: Swearing, canon-typical violence, graphic depictions of medical treatment, amputation, Mammon being toxic, drama, hurt/comfort, angst, trauma, pre-relationship

Edited By: PrintingPisces

Disclaimer: I do not own Helluva Boss.

Disclaimer: I am not a medical professional. Please take whatever is in this story with a grain of salt.

The Hospital - Part 1

Ambulances were rare in Hell. If a demon needed to get to a hospital, they most likely had to get there themselves. But it wasn't unheard of. Every ring in Hell had at least a few ambulances. That wasn't saying much – Pride barely had any – but it was better than nothing. And most hospitals were halfway competent. Unfortunately, for that last part and due to budget reasons, that was where the Greed ring came up short.

Sirens wailed in the distance. The hissing crackle of flames and fire mingled with it. Every sound echoed and bounced off of burning red tents.

All these noises rattled around in his eardrums like half-assed applause.

His arms and legs had grown stiff. His skin was no longer even pliable; it was draped and hardened around his scorched bones, like mangled leather left out to dry in the sun too long. It was supposed to be a dusty evening, but beneath him the ground was soaked with liquid as dark as charcoal. It stained his face, his eyelids, and ran into his nose and mouth. Where the hell did it come from? It couldn't be blood, there was so much of it. If so, who's?

Why couldn't he move at all? Why couldn't he even scream?! He needed to scream. His bones, his muscles…It all felt so wrong!

Why the fuck did this happen?!

…How could his friend do this?

His vocal chords didn't work right now, but he could still gasp and choke on smoky air. His shoulders and stomach jolted as his tears poured to join the blood on the ground. He couldn't see as his eyes burned too much to open them, and he could just barely even feel, but he could hear. Everything was sharp and rumbling, like thunder alongside what lightning should sound like.

Tires rolled over dirt and charred circus debris, its driver taking its time to park and turn off the sirens. Vehicle doors opened and closed gradually.

He scoffed against the ground. These bastards hadn't even bothered to leave the sirens on, to let everyone in the vicinity know that help had arrived. Welcome to Greed. Where medical pricks were rich as fuck yet couldn't be bothered.

He heard the EMTs talking amongst themselves, but he couldn't make any of it out. He tried tilting his head towards them. Maybe movement would alert them he was still alive. But it only resulted in him shoving his face further against the ground. He coughed up bloodstained soot, not at all expecting the suddenness. His head, his horns, they felt wrong, too. Horrifically unbalanced.

"Hey," someone shouted. "Look over there! That one moved!"

Their footsteps grew closer to him, but his ears rang loudly as he continued to cough and hack, nearly suffocating on the air alone. He couldn't hear the EMTs talking for a while. But he could feel them. Hands being shoved beneath his body, lifting straight up. His body was still stiff, aside from his tail that dragged lifelessly across the ground.

His screams, if he even was screaming, should've echoed over the entire fairgrounds upon being carried. He wasn't on fire anymore. How could anything hurt this much!? But feebly, all he could do was gasp and tremor violently, almost ripping his own vocal chords apart as he was transferred. He felt something soft beneath him, heard the ambulance doors close.

Every jostle, every bump, every rattle of this sorry excuse for a tin can wrenched the air from his lungs. He could hear a little clearer now. He could hear that this outdated deathtrap needed a tune-up. Or spare the mechanic and just chuck it off the edge of the nearest fire lake.

It could've been seconds or minutes, the nearest hospital wasn't that far from the fairgrounds. The only reason he knew that was because of how many incidences his circus often had thanks to Cash cutting corners. Well, it wasn't his circus per se, but… It was his circus. His gig. He even began making a name for himself with every passing year. People from all over that corner of Greed often came to the shows just for him. Everything he had ever needed was there. It was home.

…And now it was all gone. Who all survived? It couldn't just be him. He was hardly the most resilient performer there. Surely there had to be others. He tried to crack his eyes open, to see if he was sharing the ambulance with anyone else. But all he saw were blobs and blurs. His eyes slid shut.

When one of his eyes opened again, it wasn't of his own accord. A set of fingers, uncaring and stabbing against his face, pried his eyelids open to point a harsh light into his pupils.

The ambulance ride had stopped at some point. He was now surrounded by stark walls and a sturdy floor.

One of the EMTs listed off, "Male imp. Possible name, Fizzarolli. Severe third and fourth degree burns everywhere. Another victim of the All-Imp Circus fire."

The person controlling the blinding light, which would later be known as his Doctor, moved onto the other eye. "Jesus Christ, that's a shame," the Doctor muttered sullenly. The hands fell away. "There goes our local celebrity. Well, alright. Wheel him down to the morgue and-"

"He's still alive," the EMT interrupted.

"What?!"

He nearly cried out when claws shoved against his pulse point.

"Holy shit," the Doctor exhaled, and then sighed. "Alright, well just…Roll him over there, get an IV in him. We'll put him out of his misery in a few minutes here."

"That can't happen," the EMT said swiftly.

"Look, we can't always help every patient," the Doctor muttered impatiently. "Especially this one. Just look at him."

"No, you don't understand-"

"Just look at him," the Doctor repeated firmly. "Can't move, skin falling off, can't even breathe correctly. He's pretty much dead already. I have other patients from this fire to deal with. Ones that actually have a fighting chance. This one won't survive the night."

Against the gurney's mattress, he moved his jaw up and down. Not as an attempt to plea for his life. No. If he could actually talk right now, all that would be heard were the most scathing of expletives. Fleetingly, bitterly, he realized his best friend would be proud of him.

A swish of a paper could be heard, and someone snatching it from their hands. "We had to find him," the EMT explained. "Orders from the sin himself."

A long pause. "Why," the Doctor questioned sharply. "What could he possibly want with something like this?"

A foot pointedly tapped the gurney.

"No clue," the EMT said. "He mentioned some sort of investment. I'm just following orders."

Another pause from the Doctor. And then, "Get him his own room. We need all hands on deck for this one."

"Not the operating room?"

"They're all waiting to be used by a couple other victims. If he's in a room, we can take our time."

"…Not very sanitary. This situation is delicate."

"Not very convenient either. But there's always that one patient, I guess."

The gurney moved. Then, his body moved, lifting straight up. It was abrupt and he let out a painful gasp, even as he was placed roughly onto another bed.

A nurse spoke as a needle was jabbed into his skin. "Let's give him some oxygen."

A mask was strapped tightly around his searing face. The rush of clean air stung sharply, but was welcomed nonetheless. Only then did he make another effort to open his eyes, and his mouth. He was done with sarcasm right now, simply didn't have the strength for it. His jaw moved, desperate to say words.

To ask them for pain relief. To ask why it hurt so much. To ask why they were hurting him so much. To question what they were doing to him. To apologize, for some sort of inconvenience he seemed to be causing them.

"Where do we start," another nurse asked.

The Doctor came into view, but not into focus.

His eyes still stung and blurred.

"Start the sedation," the Doctor ordered. "We take care of each limb, one by one. One step at time. This'll take a while."

There was the distinct snip of something metallic. The object coming close to his face didn't have to be in focus for him to know what it was. It was a pair of large sheers. Sharp and terrifying, drawing closer and closer towards his neck and shoulder.

More tears sprang to his eyes. He hyperventilated against the mask on his face, and he tried desperately to move away.

"Start the sedative now."

Mere seconds later, he fell limp, his muscles giving out utterly. He couldn't move, couldn't even blink. Still, he hyperventilated, helpless and losing the last bit of any autonomy. Darkness tried to take over, but he fought it. By nature, he wasn't a fighter, hated confrontation. But those sheers… They moved in and out of his vision, slicing and cutting back and forth. It sounded like fabric being shredded, but it could've been his skin for all he knew.

And he couldn't do a damn thing about it. And he just wasn't a fighter.

The darkness won.

At least, for a while – hours? – he couldn't feel pain. Only numbness from everything below the neck, and it was neither awful nor a relief.

And one by one, pins and needles bloomed in each of his limbs.

As it turned out, hours didn't pass. Instead, it was days. Days filled with surgery after surgery. Sedation after sedation. They drugged him so steadily and so often it was difficult to discern anything. Pain versus numbness. Day or night. Drowsy or awake. Movement.

Movement was a big one. The pins and needles sensation was all over, swarming both arms and legs. He moved his fingers and hooves, tried to flex his joints. He…He thought he was moving them. Logic told him that he was, but he could just barely feel them. But…they made no sound, no swishing noise against the bed's sheets. He managed to lie on his sides a few times, just to switch up positions, but still his limbs made no sound.

He was covered by multiple blankets, so simply looking down at them wasn't an option. He tried to use his hands to push everything aside, to get a look at everything the Doctor and his team had done, but his arms wouldn't budge. It…

…Surely he was moving them. He had to be! And yet…The blankets didn't even ruffle.

He also didn't know what was real or not. He'd been so heavily sedated for days now that his mind felt scrambled. He often heard the medical staff talking about him as they tended to him, gossiping with pessimistic comments, as if he wasn't even there. But were these conversations even real?

Most of them couldn't be. A lot were outlandish and almost too cruel for his brain to comprehend. Including a late night conversation between the Doctor and…and…someone with an extremely thick Australian accent?

He knew that accent. It seemed to take up a small corner of his mind, but he just couldn't place it right then. Jesus, the fire must've fried his brain. Because the conversation that took place was almost a nightmare. There was no way it was real. But just like most nightmares, as the dreamer, he had no choice but to listen.

He heard the door to his room open. A jingle of bells and footsteps. For a few moments, silence after the door closed. Then…

"This…" the Australian accent questioned. "…is Fizzarolli."

The Doctor confirmed. "A few other circus survivors all identified him."

A low growl. "This better not be some fucking joke."

"I assure you, sir, it's not," the Doctor said quickly.

"Fucking hell," the accent snapped. "How the fuck is he still kicking?"

"Our team worked hard, day and night. Just as you requested, sir."

"I requested you keep him alive. You call this alive? Little cunt is missing pieces. He can't even breathe on his own!"

The Doctor tried to explain. "He won't be on life support for much longer-"

"No, he won't," the accent snarled. "Pull the plug now. I can't do anything with him." Footsteps and bells started to walk away. "Waste of fucking money."

The Doctor suddenly gasped sharply.

"And you," the accent said, voice low and threatening. "You wasted my time, my resources. Oh, and guess what, more money!" A sharp jingle of a bell. "I'm gonna remind you what ring we all live in."

The Doctor's breathing had sped up, and he managed to gasp out, "P-Prosthetics!"

A pause.

"What?"

"Prosthetics," the Doctor repeated. "We knew you needed him for something. So we tested out his nerves, tested the strength of his spine, neck, and any potential cranial damage. All of that is intact. We think he could tolerate prosthetics."

The next pause that followed was long and contemplative. But the tension did not readily leave the room.

The Doctor gasped sharply again, this time a sound of relief.

"So you're telling me," the accent said. "that this ruined little rodent could eventually perform again."

"Yes," the Doctor replied dutifully. "With compatible prosthetics, maybe even cybernetics, and with a long time to recuperate. Yes."

The accent snorted. "Cybernetics break the bank, but if that ringmaster says he's valuable…Hmm. Maybe this won't be such a loss after all. How much time does he need?"

"That's…the part you really won't like," the Doctor said cautiously. "We have to install the base parts for the prosthetics, which requires more surgery. And then his body has to accept each part without infection, and work in tandem with the prosthetic limbs. Not to mention potential blood clots, nerve damage-"

"Fuck, do you like to hear yourself talk? Without the medical bullshit."

An exhale. "With some physical therapy and top notch pain meds to avoid further injury, a year of recuperation, at the very least."

"We have therapy in Hell? When did we get that? Eh, whatever. You got a quote or something? Highly doubt this imp's rich."

A rustling of a paper, until the Doctor spoke again. "Here is the current bill. Not including any future treatments or complications."

There was an irate growl.

The Doctor continued carefully. "Or we could stop the life support right now. It would save you the financial strain, sir."

The accent was heavily offended. "Do I look like I'm financially straining? You forget which sin you're talking to?!"

"I meant no disrespect, sir."

The accent snarled. "I'll look into some cheap arms and legs. Give the imp the other surgeries. Try and keep him alive, but don't go all out. Bare minimum of everything."

It's not that he would eventually forget this dream completely, but more so that he could only make sense of a few parts of it. There was a roaring in his eardrums right then. This usually signaled that he needed to pass out for another few hours, which was odd because he was still asleep and dealing with this nightmare. He'd never had a nightmare that long or detailed before, but still.

Nothing made any sense to him anymore.

Another sedative-filled week passed by in a haze.

When he woke up yet again, he didn't expect himself to be able to blink away the grogginess this time. It had been a few weeks since he'd said a word, his vocal chords protested sharply as he groaned. The ventilator mask had disappeared at some point. He huffed in short breaths, not hyperventilating from lack of oxygen, but just getting used to no longer having the mask.

He continued blinking, staring up at the lights of the ceiling, until his vision finally – finally – cleared. He kept his eyes there for a while, just listening, feeling, taking everything in. His usually frenetic and hyperactive brain was telling him to slow down for once, instinctively allowing himself to ride out the last of the sedatives.

And good fucking riddance to that. He'd been immobile for too long now. He was so used to moving around and performing that none of this felt natural in any way. This was a rare occurrence and he listened to his mind and body, understanding how much rest he no doubt still needed.

The LEDs of the ceiling lights buzzed softly. The heart monitor somewhere behind him beeped slowly, almost too slow, but signaling that he was still alive. He huffed in astonishment, and he was unable to help the triumphant twitch of his lips, though it hurt his face something awful to do so.

The chuckle that emanated from him was quiet, gravelly, and didn't even sound like mirth. But it was a chuckle nonetheless.

He was still, somehow, very much alive. He didn't even know how or why, but all the same…

He inhaled and exhaled as deeply as he could, practically retraining his lungs to work on their own. Though tedious, he didn't mind focusing on that for the moment. It wasn't much, but it felt good to actually be doing something that felt productive, even if it was something as simple as breathing.

Little by little, he began to move around on the bed. He started by moving his neck and head from side to side, and holy fuck did that feel awful. And then he tried his shoulders, same thing. He couldn't really flex or move anything, his usually spry body locked up and unyielding. He wasn't really surprised, of course, but he still made a careful effort.

His burn-covered skin scraped horribly against the sheets and blankets, and it wasn't pleasant whatsoever, but it was no longer agony. He knew he'd have to ask for a dose of painkillers soon, but right now it was just tolerable, and for the first time in weeks, he could feel things again.

He did his best to work out more kinks. After his shoulders, he tried moving his arms around, hoping for at least a little movement.

…And he was still very confused about this. He tried twitching his fingers at the very least, but it was still pins and needles, a fuzzy sensation that caused him a little anxiety. It was almost like his circulation had been cut off, and there was a pit in his stomach, filled with a contradiction of curiosity and dread.

He dipped his chin, looking down at the blankets that remained still. He moved his hands – what felt like his hands – first, and then his arms, flexing all the way up to his shoulders. When that yielded no results, he continued onward.

He flexed his torso a little, as well as his hips, trying to rock from side to side, just to see what was mobile. The bed creaked a little with the motion, and the blankets shifted with these movements.

When it was time to move his legs, he instinctually started out small, wiggling his hooves and ankles. Swallowing apprehensively, he flexed his muscles, from his calves, up to his knees. The blankets didn't even budge.

He looked around the bed rapidly, wondering if his arms and legs were just dangling off the sides of the bed or something. He was relieved to find that his tail was still intact, and though it was tense, it was still tactile and most likely had full range of motion.

But that was where the comfort ended.

His tail was still pretty limp from lack of exercise, and he couldn't use it for anything just yet without feeling pain. With a grunt, he twisted his body, not unlike a cat righting itself in midair. He shifted himself backwards until he was upright against the bed's headboard. Then, he gripped the edge of the blanket with his sharp teeth. He needed to see what was going on with his limbs, in case there was something urgent that needed to be done with them. He tried for many seconds to fling the blankets aside. His hands were currently not working right, so biting the hell out of the covers was the next best thing, as well as an absolute chore.

He managed to uncover one of his shoulders.

The blanket fell from his mouth with a startled gasp that tore the air right out of him.

The hospital room fell silent. He couldn't even hear the heart monitor anymore, and he wished like crazy that he was back on the ventilator because he'd stopped breathing.

All the way up to the socket of his shoulder, his arm was completely gone.

Unblinking, he stared at the thick covering of gauze. His mouth rapidly moved up and down, not to speak, but trembling, and by the time the blanket fell away from the other shoulder, his teeth were almost chattering together.

Gauze was wrapped there, too. But no arms, not on either side. Aside from the jut of the bandages, the sides of his body were almost completely level with his ribs.

The fireworks, the flames…He knew his injuries were severe, but for them to be this bad…!

Ignoring the crackle of protesting joints, he flung his tail, which had a bandage wrapped around the center, up onto the bed. He hooked it through the blankets and tossed them to the floor.

Before tears blurred his vision, he saw it. He wished he hadn't seen it, but it was inevitable.

The hospital could only save a portion of his thighs, which wasn't saying much. His legs were also completely gone. More gauze was wrapped in place.

A vile mixture of grief, panic, anxiety, and disbelief started to crush his chest, squeezing his heart with unforgiving claws, and burning his throat like toxic smoke.

Something must have alerted the staff –most likely how crazy the heart monitor must be right now – because nurses suddenly poured in. In quick practiced succession, the blankets were thrown back on him, and a mask was yet again shoved against his face. Firm hands pushed him back to the bed.

These hands had to clasp his shoulders, carelessly gripping right next to the gauze on each side. The only sound he could register was that of his agonizing scream. It only lasted for a single second as another sedative was administered.

Before falling unconscious, he had caught a glimpse of himself in the window's reflection. And a glimpse was all he needed to see.

His skin, all over his body, was a startling white pallor, with only a few splotches left of his actual skin color. And his horns felt unbalanced because they were almost non-existent. Shattered, hollow, and uneven.

Fizzarolli the circus clown, a charismatic star of the All-Imp Circus, had no limbs and no horns. No circus and no family…No best friend.

He had nothing left. What else was there?

From then on, time became a monotonous blur, each day filled with the usual routine of the medical team that tended to him. When he was ready to keep down food and drink, they fed him when necessary. When it was time for meds, they interrupted his sleep. When the bandages were ready to be changed…He tried his best to not look at them, but sometimes it couldn't be helped, and he would catch a glimpse of odd metal plates that were embedded within his skin.

Half of him wanted to ask what they were, insatiable as was his curiosity, but the other half of him currently had no emotional energy. He simply let the staff do what they needed, day in and day out. He didn't ask questions for a very long time, and they hardly ever acknowledged him. Fine by him.

But also day in and day out, his apprehension grew less and less. To state once again, he had no energy. Therefore, he simply couldn't sustain the prolonged anxiety, and eventually he gave in. Soon, he curiously observed every time the bandages were replaced. There was terrible inflammation that surrounded each metal plate, all four of them. But a nurse mentioned, mainly to themselves, how he was free of infection. So he had that going for him.

He couldn't get over his complexion, though. His skin was so terribly pale, as opposed to the scarlet red of a natural imp.

He scoffed to himself. There was nothing natural about any of this. But what could he do? This particular nightmare wasn't going away anytime soon. Reality for him had changed so drastically, but it was reality nonetheless.

He stared unblinking at his reflection for a while, inhaling and exhaling as deep as he could manage. Each day, he chose something different to stare at. One day, it was a metal plate in his shoulder. The next, the pale red skin of his upper lip.

Today, it was his horns. Slowly, mechanically, expressionlessly, he tilted his head side to side. Horns were great at keeping a performer balanced on a beam or on a horse. Just moving ones head a little was enough to keep from falling. He was literally lightheaded now, and so off-kilter. His horns had been broken so unevenly. And yet he refused to look away from his reflection, the way his own eyes stared back at him like a self-induced challenge.

Soon, he was cringing. Not only from the overall pain, but right now specifically from the few minor burns, like around the base of his horns. They itched, badly, his skin in the process of healing and seemingly mocking him for his lack of mobility. He could use his tail, but he wanted the sensation to go away on its own, given that he would have to hunch painfully in order to curl his tail up towards his head.

With a sharp growl, he looked away from the window and twisted his body. And with a huff, he flung himself sideways onto the bed. He had already gotten really good at sitting himself up, but he could only stare at that fucking window for so long. There was nothing else to do really. There was a television in this room, which one of the nurses helpfully suggested after noticing the bored tiredness on his face. He didn't really want to use his tail, being as battered as it still was, to push the buttons, but he indulged himself. Television was only mildly interesting to him. The circus never had any technology, so he'd gotten used to never feeling the urge to flip through channels.

Although, this was one of the few positives he had right now, thanks to that one nurse. Not everyone in the hospital were assholes. A select few would actually say a slight hello to him or give him a kind but quick smile. That said, they never attempted a conversation with him, or offered any reassurance or explanations. He now sometimes attempted to ask questions, but could barely get out two or three words before heaving and coughing. Still, he had many questions.

What medications dripped through the IV? Why did they have to take all of his limbs? What was he supposed to do without them? Why the fuck did it still feel like he could wiggle his feet and fingers? Seriously, what was up with that last part? It both fascinated him and made him nauseous. More fascination though.

He didn't know he'd get a slight explanation from the last person he wanted to see.

He heard footsteps approaching his room. He glanced up at the clock. It wasn't yet time for any of the staff to tend to him, so he wondered what this was about. Brows scrunching, he squirmed until he sat up.

The door opened.

A tall imp in a clean white coat walked in with a rectangular dark blue box in his arms. He set it down on the windowsill. He opened the box to briefly inspect its contents, probably to ensure everything was there.

Fizz craned his neck, trying to see what it was. Until the other imp closed the box, walked away to sit on a wheeled chair, and looked at Fizz with an empty smile, as if now realizing there was someone in the bed.

"Well, now," the imp finally spoke after clearing his throat. "Now's the time for us to properly meet. I have so many other patients to attend to, so I had to observe your care from a distance."

Fizz's teeth gnashed together, tension clenching his jaw. His eyes narrowed as he stared right into the other's eyes. He knew that voice all too well at this point. What the fuck did he want?

The Doctor's smile vanished at the angered expression on Fizz's face, but he didn't comment to that. He cleared his throat again. "My nurses have kept me informed about how you're healing. We'll be cutting back on the pain meds this week, in order to wean you off of them completely. It was infection and shock we were most worried about. A bit dicey here and there, but no sign of infection."

Fizz didn't bother hiding an eye roll, not caring for how the Doctor was sort of rambling. None of this really mattered to him, because none of it was his choice anyway.

"…Roll him over there, get an IV in him. We'll put him out of his misery in a few minutes here."

Fizz inhaled sharply.

The Doctor paused, blatantly unsure of how to react to Fizz's mood. "Anyway. It's…great that you're doing so well. We know you're ready to get up and moving already. That box over there contains your new limbs. By the end of the day, the nurses will install them to see how they fit."

The Doctor's words barely made any sense to Fizz. Where the fuck did they 'get new limbs'? What did that even mean? Prosthetics would make sense, but only if it was for one or two amputations. How was he supposed to control four prosthetics? It wasn't possible. Fizz was no fool, and it felt like this guy was trying to pander to him, just going through the motions of a dutiful doctor.

This doctor didn't even give a shit. What did he have to gain from this? Why was he even bothering?

"He's pretty much dead already. I have other patients from this fire to deal with. Ones that actually have a fighting chance. This one won't survive the night."

Fizz was now baring his teeth, and his heavy breathing sounded more like a low growl. Something rare filled him. It was rage-filled, boiling like fire in his throat.

Thinking that Fizz wasn't going to respond in any way, the Doctor stood up and made for the door. "My team has done wonders for you thus far. I trust them to keep at it. I should revisit you after you get used to the limbs. Right now, I'll leave you to your recovery." His hand touched the door handle.

Fizz sucked in the harshest breath he'd ever taken in his entire life. "Fuck you!"

For the first time in weeks, he broke the silence. His voice echoed through the room and all the way out into the hall. He sounded absolutely awful. So awful that a chain-smoker would pale in comparison. It felt just as painful as a fresh burn, but god did it also feel cathartic.

The Doctor's response? A simple sigh. "Sir-"

"Fuck you," Fizz repeated, an angry tear streaking down his face. He was livid, his body was still hurting everywhere, and he was so fucking frightened for his future. But he refused to acknowledge this Doctor anymore, or give him any reason to pity him.

Fizz's eyes narrowed again, and his rage was replaced by sheer determination. "I...survived." From the exertion of a few simple words, he still huffed. However, at least for the moment, he had never felt so awake and exhilarated.

He stared at the Doctor, daring him, challenging him to refute.

The Doctor barely reacted, but he did go expressionless, obviously not knowing how to even respond to such a declaration. He turned the handle and walked out, closing the door behind him quietly, almost respectfully.

For the remainder of his hospital stay, for months to come, Fizz never saw nor heard from the Doctor ever again.