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Description
The Titan
Chapter Four: Dr. Reese

DeFoe's back was in agony as he lay there in the dark room. Even just thinking about moving caused it to flair in protest. He was still far from opening his eyes, but he heard the door open and a heavy man with a cane approach him: the Professor.
"He looks sickly," the Professor said.
"All patients do after surgery," a man nearby replied quietly.
"I trust you were able to insert them all?"
"There are seven total sautered to his spine," the second man was probably the surgeon, DeFoe surmised.
"Splendid," the Professor said, "Have him in my room in one hour."
"With all due respect, sir—"
"What?" the Professor snapped.
"The patient will need at least eight hours of Deep Heal-ing before he will be well enough to perform. Moving him so soon could damage him and the amulets."
There was a pause. "Very well," the Professor growled. "I want a detailed report of him every half hour."
"Yes, sir."
The Professor walked out of the room and closed the door. The room went silent again and DeFoe fluttered his eyelids open and caught a swift glance of the surgeon bent over a table writing something before they closed again. He sighed and the surgeon glanced back at him and then, seeing no change in the patient's state, went back to writing.
"Please," the frail word rode on DeFoe's breath as he exhaled. The surgeon turned around.
"I didn't expect to hear anything from you so early," he said, "Are you in pain?" Knowing the answer any patient who had just undergone back surgery would give, the surgeon grabbed a syringe off of one of the metal trays and stuck it into the insertion hole on the top of the IV. "That should make you feel better."
"Fool," he breathed and then, with a few breaths in between, "Out."
"That's no way to talk to your doctor," the surgeon said softly as he wrapped the syringe in a hand towel on the tray.
This was as alone as he would ever get, DeFoe realized, except perhaps with the Professor, but he didn't care to try an escape while alone with him. This might be the only chance he had. DeFoe struggled to lift his arm and aim it at the surgeon, but he only succeeded in moving it a little.
"Aug—" he took a deeper breath. "Aug—Auger… frost." There wasn't even a tingling in his hand. DeFoe sighed and closed his eyes; he was too weak.
"That's why you aren't gagged," the surgeon said. "There is no way you could muster enough power to use any spells against me." The surgeon was quiet for a while, writing at the table before he spoke again. "What were you planning on doing once I was down, anyway? If you had sat up, you would have ripped your stitches, bled internally and died before you even made it to the door for the suits to apprehend." He chuckled softly to himself and folded the paper he had been writing on and stuck it into his lab coat pocket. "I'll be right back. Resist the temptation to do anything foolish." He said as he opened the door and left.
DeFoe and the surgeon had a different concept of foolishness, however, and when the surgeon told DeFoe not to do anything foolish, he meant attempting to escape. But the foolish course of action, it seemed to DeFoe, was to remain lying on the operating table even when no one was there to guard him, and waiting for something else to be done to him against his will.
With all his strength, he tried to sit up but failed. He chose an easier course of action and rolled onto his side and slowly inched his feet toward the edge of the operating table. He began to be tangled in the IV tube. DeFoe pulled the duct tape off of his arm, taking the IV with it and let it drop wherever it would. He rolled onto his stomach and felt for the floor. Sweat rolled over his temples and moistened his brow; his back pumped with searing pain that made him nauseous – of course, the anesthetic still wearing out of his body didn't help.
His shoes felt the floor and he gradually put his weight on them. Once he had full weight on the ground, pain ripped up the length of his spine and his knees buckled under him. DeFoe hoped he hadn't torn his stitches, as he crawled slowly for the door. He needed to get out immediately; the surgeon surely wouldn't be gone very much longer.
"Ever Fight," he whispered, to no advantage.
Being with the Organization so long had made him strong and DeFoe liked to think that any normal civilian, or even a normal suit, would not have been able to move their body nearly as well as he could, after such an intense surgery. And despite what the surgeon had told him would happen, he made it to the door and, leaning against the wall, managed to open the door. He felt pretty proud of himself, but once the door was open, however, he wished he hadn't for in the hallway were five suits all staring down at him.
DeFoe clawed his way up the doorpost, trying to get to his feet, but fell back to his hands and knees. He looked back up at the suits, who stood around him stationary without an order. He needed to get out. "Hyperstride," he exhaled, with no response. He held out one hand. "Ray…Pulse." Still nothing. But it did upset the balance between him and the suits; once they realized he meant to escape and was willing to fight to do it, they rushed at him and grabbed hold of him, jerking him to his feet. DeFoe cried out in pain: the clearest he had heard his voice since waking up.
The surgeon came running up the hallway yelling, "What are you doing with him!" in alarm, "Put him back on the table before he bleeds to death. And, for Pete's sake, be careful! The Professor will have all of our heads if he's damaged!"
The suits obeyed, carefully dragging him back to the table. The suit from before, holding his lower back steady, lifted his hand, now red on the palm.
"He's bleeding," the told the surgeon.
"Of course he's bleeding," The surgeon replied irritably. "He shouldn't even be sitting up!" He looked down at DeFoe's drooping head. "I just hope you didn't tear anything."
DeFoe didn't struggle as they laid him on the operating table again and the suit that had spoken covered him back up with the blanket.
"Since it appears I won't be leaving for any amount of time until he is handed over to the Professor," the surgeon began as he looked at DeFoe. Defoe kicked himself for ruining his chances of escape. "I need you to come in every hour and take my written report to the Professor."
The suit hesitated but then replied, "Yes, sir." And exited, closing the door.
The surgeon approached DeFoe and folded back the blanket. "Time for another healing session," he muttered as he placed his hands on DeFoe's chest. "Deep Heal," he said. His hands glowed and the flesh inside DeFoe's ribcage tingled with warmth as it was mended.
"It may not be as quick as Ever Fight, but it does a much better job," he said. "Ever Fight heals from the surface inward, while Deep Heal heals from inward to the surface."
DeFoe didn't care for a lesson. "Let me out," he rasped, the spell having given him strength to speak.
"My name is Dr. Reese, by the way," the surgeon said, ignoring him.
"Don't tell me your name; I don't care what your name is," he breathed. "I want out of this miserable place."
"That isn't possible," Dr. Reese told him. "I'm afraid the Professor is rather adamant about your remaining here."
"And I suppose what the Professor says, goes, doesn't it?"
"Indeed," Dr. Reese said. "Come, don't act so hopelessly; the Professor has a special place for you in his heart, now."
"My knife has a special place in his heart."
Dr. Reese clapped a large hand quickly over his mouth. "Don't speak like that!" he scolded. "Do you want to be killed?"
"He wouldn't kill me," DeFoe said, pushing the surgeon's hand away from his mouth.
"Probably not," Dr. Reese admitted, "since so much rests on you now. But he would wipe your mind clean!"
DeFoe hesitated; he had only heard of such a power. He could only erase certain memories, but there was a rumor that the Professor had another spell, twisted and manipulated by himself, that emptied a mind completely of memories, leaving the victim like a lump of clay, ready for the Professor to mold into any shape he wanted. DeFoe shivered at the thought.
Dr. Reese let the thought soak in as he cleaned the IV needle and pulled the duct tape off of it.
Maybe I had better go along with what the Professor wants. DeFoe thought. Maybe he will give me power and position. I was looking for them anyway. Perhaps we are finally seeing, eye to eye, striving for the same prize: Dante Vale. No, even more than him… the entire Huntik Foundation defeated singlehandedly by me, DeFoe, greater than any seeker.
The Professor obtained things in a way few people would tolerate; he bullied and manipulated everyone around him to his own ends. It was as if he viewed everyone as below him, and obligated to serve him. However, the man was so powerful, with no one knew how many spells mastered and bonded with more titans than anyone dared to count, that he received what he desired and if he didn't, serious consequences followed.
Dr. Reese stuck the IV into DeFoe's arm again and taped it up. He laid his hands on his chest and again spoke Deep Heal. The door opened and the suit who had first delivered him to the Professor entered.
"I'm here for the second report," he said.
"Ah, yes," Dr. Reese went over to the table and began writing on a sheet of paper.
As he waited, the suit stared at DeFoe with the face of stone all new suits were required to adopt on duty. At first, it seemed like a glance to pass the time, but he continued staring and it made DeFoe uncomfortable.
"Don't gaze upon me as if I am weaker than you," DeFoe said with less of a rasp in his voice than before.
"Don't trouble yourself with him," Dr. Reese said as he wrote. "He's really quite harmless."
DeFoe did not appreciate this belittlement. "I'll show you harmless," he growled "Augerfrost!" He shouted. Though he felt better than before, there was no evidence he had said anything at all. The suit slowly lowered his defenses.
Dr. Reese smiled and handed the written report to the suit. "See, Austin? Completely harmless. It's just the effect of the drug he's on."
Austin nodded his head of short brown hair, looking at DeFoe – fuming, lying on the operating table – and exited. As soon as he had, the surgeon became angry. He turned to DeFoe.
"Are you trying to get brainwashed?" he demanded.
"What does it matter to you?" DeFoe asked spitefully. "Or to anyone? Why do you care if I am or not?"
"Because I don't like to see it done," he admitted. The surrender in his voice caught DeFoe off guard. "It was done to a friend of mine many years back, and he turned into a monster."
"Friends are extra weight," DeFoe replied. "You would do well to shake yours off, as I have mine."
"You think ties with others are a nuisance?"
"Indeed."
"Even when you're at the end of your rope?"
DeFoe was silent for a moment, shocked by the surgeon's sharp and honest words.
"My rope has no end," he replied. "This situation will prove to be a great achievement; you'll see."
"I know it well enough," Dr. Reese said, bending over the table to write. The conversation was left at that; the surgeon concentrated fully on writing his next report and DeFoe stared at the ceiling.
He would be closer to the Professor than even Rassimov; despite the threatening beginning to this new life, he forced himself to believe all would be well. Besides, he told himself, if it isn't, once I'm healed, escape will be effortless.

Description
The Titan
Chapter Four: Dr. Reese

DeFoe's back was in agony as he lay there in the dark room. Even just thinking about moving caused it to flair in protest. He was still far from opening his eyes, but he heard the door open and a heavy man with a cane approach him: the Professor.
"He looks sickly," the Professor said.
"All patients do after surgery," a man nearby replied quietly.
"I trust you were able to insert them all?"
"There are seven total sautered to his spine," the second man was probably the surgeon, DeFoe surmised.
"Splendid," the Professor said, "Have him in my room in one hour."
"With all due respect, sir—"
"What?" the Professor snapped.
"The patient will need at least eight hours of Deep Heal-ing before he will be well enough to perform. Moving him so soon could damage him and the amulets."
There was a pause. "Very well," the Professor growled. "I want a detailed report of him every half hour."
"Yes, sir."
The Professor walked out of the room and closed the door. The room went silent again and DeFoe fluttered his eyelids open and caught a swift glance of the surgeon bent over a table writing something before they closed again. He sighed and the surgeon glanced back at him and then, seeing no change in the patient's state, went back to writing.
"Please," the frail word rode on DeFoe's breath as he exhaled. The surgeon turned around.
"I didn't expect to hear anything from you so early," he said, "Are you in pain?" Knowing the answer any patient who had just undergone back surgery would give, the surgeon grabbed a syringe off of one of the metal trays and stuck it into the insertion hole on the top of the IV. "That should make you feel better."
"Fool," he breathed and then, with a few breaths in between, "Out."
"That's no way to talk to your doctor," the surgeon said softly as he wrapped the syringe in a hand towel on the tray.
This was as alone as he would ever get, DeFoe realized, except perhaps with the Professor, but he didn't care to try an escape while alone with him. This might be the only chance he had. DeFoe struggled to lift his arm and aim it at the surgeon, but he only succeeded in moving it a little.
"Aug—" he took a deeper breath. "Aug—Auger… frost." There wasn't even a tingling in his hand. DeFoe sighed and closed his eyes; he was too weak.
"That's why you aren't gagged," the surgeon said. "There is no way you could muster enough power to use any spells against me." The surgeon was quiet for a while, writing at the table before he spoke again. "What were you planning on doing once I was down, anyway? If you had sat up, you would have ripped your stitches, bled internally and died before you even made it to the door for the suits to apprehend." He chuckled softly to himself and folded the paper he had been writing on and stuck it into his lab coat pocket. "I'll be right back. Resist the temptation to do anything foolish." He said as he opened the door and left.
DeFoe and the surgeon had a different concept of foolishness, however, and when the surgeon told DeFoe not to do anything foolish, he meant attempting to escape. But the foolish course of action, it seemed to DeFoe, was to remain lying on the operating table even when no one was there to guard him, and waiting for something else to be done to him against his will.
With all his strength, he tried to sit up but failed. He chose an easier course of action and rolled onto his side and slowly inched his feet toward the edge of the operating table. He began to be tangled in the IV tube. DeFoe pulled the duct tape off of his arm, taking the IV with it and let it drop wherever it would. He rolled onto his stomach and felt for the floor. Sweat rolled over his temples and moistened his brow; his back pumped with searing pain that made him nauseous – of course, the anesthetic still wearing out of his body didn't help.
His shoes felt the floor and he gradually put his weight on them. Once he had full weight on the ground, pain ripped up the length of his spine and his knees buckled under him. DeFoe hoped he hadn't torn his stitches, as he crawled slowly for the door. He needed to get out immediately; the surgeon surely wouldn't be gone very much longer.
"Ever Fight," he whispered, to no advantage.
Being with the Organization so long had made him strong and DeFoe liked to think that any normal civilian, or even a normal suit, would not have been able to move their body nearly as well as he could, after such an intense surgery. And despite what the surgeon had told him would happen, he made it to the door and, leaning against the wall, managed to open the door. He felt pretty proud of himself, but once the door was open, however, he wished he hadn't for in the hallway were five suits all staring down at him.
DeFoe clawed his way up the doorpost, trying to get to his feet, but fell back to his hands and knees. He looked back up at the suits, who stood around him stationary without an order. He needed to get out. "Hyperstride," he exhaled, with no response. He held out one hand. "Ray…Pulse." Still nothing. But it did upset the balance between him and the suits; once they realized he meant to escape and was willing to fight to do it, they rushed at him and grabbed hold of him, jerking him to his feet. DeFoe cried out in pain: the clearest he had heard his voice since waking up.
The surgeon came running up the hallway yelling, "What are you doing with him!" in alarm, "Put him back on the table before he bleeds to death. And, for Pete's sake, be careful! The Professor will have all of our heads if he's damaged!"
The suits obeyed, carefully dragging him back to the table. The suit from before, holding his lower back steady, lifted his hand, now red on the palm.
"He's bleeding," the told the surgeon.
"Of course he's bleeding," The surgeon replied irritably. "He shouldn't even be sitting up!" He looked down at DeFoe's drooping head. "I just hope you didn't tear anything."
DeFoe didn't struggle as they laid him on the operating table again and the suit that had spoken covered him back up with the blanket.
"Since it appears I won't be leaving for any amount of time until he is handed over to the Professor," the surgeon began as he looked at DeFoe. Defoe kicked himself for ruining his chances of escape. "I need you to come in every hour and take my written report to the Professor."
The suit hesitated but then replied, "Yes, sir." And exited, closing the door.
The surgeon approached DeFoe and folded back the blanket. "Time for another healing session," he muttered as he placed his hands on DeFoe's chest. "Deep Heal," he said. His hands glowed and the flesh inside DeFoe's ribcage tingled with warmth as it was mended.
"It may not be as quick as Ever Fight, but it does a much better job," he said. "Ever Fight heals from the surface inward, while Deep Heal heals from inward to the surface."
DeFoe didn't care for a lesson. "Let me out," he rasped, the spell having given him strength to speak.
"My name is Dr. Reese, by the way," the surgeon said, ignoring him.
"Don't tell me your name; I don't care what your name is," he breathed. "I want out of this miserable place."
"That isn't possible," Dr. Reese told him. "I'm afraid the Professor is rather adamant about your remaining here."
"And I suppose what the Professor says, goes, doesn't it?"
"Indeed," Dr. Reese said. "Come, don't act so hopelessly; the Professor has a special place for you in his heart, now."
"My knife has a special place in his heart."
Dr. Reese clapped a large hand quickly over his mouth. "Don't speak like that!" he scolded. "Do you want to be killed?"
"He wouldn't kill me," DeFoe said, pushing the surgeon's hand away from his mouth.
"Probably not," Dr. Reese admitted, "since so much rests on you now. But he would wipe your mind clean!"
DeFoe hesitated; he had only heard of such a power. He could only erase certain memories, but there was a rumor that the Professor had another spell, twisted and manipulated by himself, that emptied a mind completely of memories, leaving the victim like a lump of clay, ready for the Professor to mold into any shape he wanted. DeFoe shivered at the thought.
Dr. Reese let the thought soak in as he cleaned the IV needle and pulled the duct tape off of it.
Maybe I had better go along with what the Professor wants. DeFoe thought. Maybe he will give me power and position. I was looking for them anyway. Perhaps we are finally seeing, eye to eye, striving for the same prize: Dante Vale. No, even more than him… the entire Huntik Foundation defeated singlehandedly by me, DeFoe, greater than any seeker.
The Professor obtained things in a way few people would tolerate; he bullied and manipulated everyone around him to his own ends. It was as if he viewed everyone as below him, and obligated to serve him. However, the man was so powerful, with no one knew how many spells mastered and bonded with more titans than anyone dared to count, that he received what he desired and if he didn't, serious consequences followed.
Dr. Reese stuck the IV into DeFoe's arm again and taped it up. He laid his hands on his chest and again spoke Deep Heal. The door opened and the suit who had first delivered him to the Professor entered.
"I'm here for the second report," he said.
"Ah, yes," Dr. Reese went over to the table and began writing on a sheet of paper.
As he waited, the suit stared at DeFoe with the face of stone all new suits were required to adopt on duty. At first, it seemed like a glance to pass the time, but he continued staring and it made DeFoe uncomfortable.
"Don't gaze upon me as if I am weaker than you," DeFoe said with less of a rasp in his voice than before.
"Don't trouble yourself with him," Dr. Reese said as he wrote. "He's really quite harmless."
DeFoe did not appreciate this belittlement. "I'll show you harmless," he growled "Augerfrost!" He shouted. Though he felt better than before, there was no evidence he had said anything at all. The suit slowly lowered his defenses.
Dr. Reese smiled and handed the written report to the suit. "See, Austin? Completely harmless. It's just the effect of the drug he's on."
Austin nodded his head of short brown hair, looking at DeFoe – fuming, lying on the operating table – and exited. As soon as he had, the surgeon became angry. He turned to DeFoe.
"Are you trying to get brainwashed?" he demanded.
"What does it matter to you?" DeFoe asked spitefully. "Or to anyone? Why do you care if I am or not?"
"Because I don't like to see it done," he admitted. The surrender in his voice caught DeFoe off guard. "It was done to a friend of mine many years back, and he turned into a monster."
"Friends are extra weight," DeFoe replied. "You would do well to shake yours off, as I have mine."
"You think ties with others are a nuisance?"
"Indeed."
"Even when you're at the end of your rope?"
DeFoe was silent for a moment, shocked by the surgeon's sharp and honest words.
"My rope has no end," he replied. "This situation will prove to be a great achievement; you'll see."
"I know it well enough," Dr. Reese said, bending over the table to write. The conversation was left at that; the surgeon concentrated fully on writing his next report and DeFoe stared at the ceiling.
He would be closer to the Professor than even Rassimov; despite the threatening beginning to this new life, he forced himself to believe all would be well. Besides, he told himself, if it isn't, once I'm healed, escape will be effortless.