(CW/TW: suicidal thoughts, violence/abuse)

5:00 pm. That was when Surgeon planned to have the Sniper on the table. The Doctor, in his bedroom at the front of the Family's Mansion, paced restlessly. While it was made for a single occupant, it was far too large for the Doctor. Vaulted ceiling, with deep green wallpaper, with dark mahogany paneling and baseboards, it had a single nearly wall sized window. It never opened—in fact it wasn’t built to open—and moreover it had thick, wrought iron bars over it. Barely a few inches from the glass.

While there were numerous ornate lamps in the room, it always seemed dark and cold. The air was stale on its worst days, and recycled from the air conditioner on its best. There was a queen sized canopy bed made from that same dark wood, a plush mattress with several pillows and blankets, yet it still couldn’t combat the uncountable sleepless nights the Doctor slept in it. A plush deep red area rug was beneath it, as well as his heavy wooden desk next to the night stand. The desk faced the window, and had only a few drawers, a personal computer, and series of notebooks between 2 iron bookends shaped like eggs. A chest of drawers and an armoire stood next to the bed on the other side, where a large, looming grandfather clock stood.

He stared at the clock in the corner. The deep ticks of its mechanisms too loud to his ears, he curled over his knees as he sat on the bed, running his hands through his matted white hair, still tangled with his clotting blood.

"What do I do...?" he whispered to himself. He had scarcely an hour and a half to come up with something to make good on his deal with the Sniper. He had asked him to trust him...and yet in the 2 days he had, and the rapidly trickling hours currently, the Doctor had nothing.

He clutched at his arms as he sat up slightly. His mind raced. Think, he thought to himself desperately. THINK, you fool! 

Nothing. His mind was only filled with thoughts of what could be: Sniper's heart failing, the sounds of flatlining; or the sounds of his mind fracturing, screaming as insanity flooded his mind; the whimpering gibbering of a man who lost his humanity; or the needle of a lethal injection entering his convulsing body; the rapid decline as his body shut down after; then the dead, glassy look in those canary yellow eyes, skin growing ice cold; the ashen skin disappearing as a black body bag zipped around him; the finality of the cremator slamming shut and humming to life.

And worse yet: the possibility that it all worked. That the formula would bless him with an unimaginable curse. The exchange of volumes of money to any unscrupulous buyer. A metaphorical collar tightening around his neck. The depressing future of taking that gun in his hands repeatedly at the whim of some old rich man with more money than sense. A puppet made to dance whenever his master pleased.

The horrifying repeat of the pain of grievous injury, lethal injury. The cacophony of death. Only to wake again as if nothing happened. As if the pain was meaningless. Because now, even death was meaningless.

Over and over and over again.

The Doctor stood up and snatched an ornate drinking glass from his night stand, and with a strangled cry of frustration pitched it as hard as he could to the giant window that faced the forest of the property. The glass shattered with a melodic tinkling, but the window was barely scratched. The thick iron-wrought bars loomed over it, casting its long shadows over him and the floor. The bars that had watched him for 20 years, immoveable. A reminder that even in his own room, he was a prisoner. And had been for a long time.

As he panted, trying to collect his ricocheting thoughts, the Doctor wanted to cry. His chest was so tight, it made it all hard to breathe. He hadn't felt such a wretched hatred and despair of his position in a long, long time. In fact, he felt he was perfectly numb to all of it for so long, that the nauseating feelings of regret he had now were almost too much to bear.

The tears didn't come. He vacillated between wanting to cry and being angry he couldn't.

Do SOMETHING, screamed his mind. This is your last chance to run.

The Doctor dropped to his knees in despair. He hadn't tried running in so long, but the memories of trying were still fresh. What Assassin did to him the first time. What Surgeon did after. Being starved for weeks after another attempt. The attempt to run nearly 12 years ago on one of his few trips out of the country, away from the stifling Mansion.

Trying to run physically. Then trying to run by way of exiting by his own hand. Overdoses that never were enough. Poisons that burned him so badly he never tried again. How many times had he hanged himself, only to wake on that opulent, too soft bed, sometimes the rope still on his neck, being chastised and mocked by Surgeon?

The betrayal of his body healing and recovering after each attempt, sometimes too quickly. It wasn't enough that the labs and his own bedroom were a prison. This damned, accursed body that wouldn't die was prison enough.

He was tired of turning men and women into something like himself. He hated this existence, and having to force hundreds of others to live it too, unwillingly, was the bitterest pill of them all. No one asked for this, the Doctor least of all. And now he was on the cusp of being locked away forever, to do this all with his direct hand involved. It was only a matter of time before Surgeon drained him of everything he had to make this damned drug as perfect as it ever could be. 

Because of him. On account of him. 

And the first one off the line was going to be this innocent Sniper in the cell block. A man with nothing but the gun on his back, no family to go home to, and a friend who would wonder for the rest of his blessed natural life what happened to him.

The Doctor ran his hand through his hair once more. The blood tangled it around his fingers. He languidly rose to his feet, opened the door to his bathroom and slowly walked to the sink. It too was a sign of Surgeon’s opulent tastes, with wall to wall and floors of marble, a gilded, ornate mirror above the marble basin. Glass and stainless steel shower but no bathtub. A single barred window across from the toilet. Despite the materials, it had the same sterility of the cellblock below.

He took a long time to raise his gaze to meet his own face in the large mirror. Blood flecks on his neck and cheek. White hair tinged crimson. Eyes that had seen too much. Fingerprint smudges on his glasses. A stained white lab coat. A wrinkled button-down shirt, a blood red tie loosening.

“Unhold,” he told his reflection. Monster. Fiend. His voice cracked. 

Glaring at his face with a hatred and depression, he turned on the sink and removed his gloves, dropping them into a nearby trash can. He tried to rinse his hair, but gave up and turned on the shower, as hot as it would go, and let the steam build as he undressed. Alabaster pale skin, not a single visible scar over his thin frame. The scars never stayed, but he could see them in a mind's eye as if they were fresh. How many bullet holes had he gathered over his 40 years? How many cuts? Bruises, broken bones, lacerations, dismembered limbs, disembowelment; how many diseases passed through his veins, and his organs? How many poisons, self administered and not? 

How much abuse had he accumulated, and yet there was nary a sliver of evidence? All stored in his head, locked frozen in memories he could bury only so far down.

The water was scalding but he scarcely felt the pain. Pain was meaningless. Death was meaningless. Living.

Was. Meaningless.

The blood washed from his fine hair quickly. He sank to the floor of the shower and let the water cascade over him. Despite the temperature, he still felt cold.

Somehow, over the roar of the water and the ugly memories that bubbled up, he heard his clock ring. 4 deep chimes.

4:00 pm. He had one hour to figure this out, or he was consigning Sniper to an existence he didn't deserve.

What would he do? If he could get out? If he had a gun?

He'd never make it to the lockers. He wouldn't make it past the Warden.

But if he did? Where would he go?

He'd be lost. This Facility is enormous.

If he had a guide?

The Doctor blinked beneath the water.

No one knows the Facility well enough.

No one. But me.

You're a fool.

I'm the Doctor. I'm trusted.

The Doctor kept arguing with himself, his heart beginning to race, but for a different reason. For the first time, as his mind clashed with itself, he felt the faintest bit of something he hadn't felt in decades. 

Hope?

You couldn't lie your way past the Warden. You couldn't fight your way past the Warden. You couldn't fight your way past Surgeon. 

I can stall. I know the layout. I can send him elsewhere.

Surgeon would know.

Surgeon still trusts me. He thinks I'm weak.

You are weak.

Not with help.

Help?

Sniper.

He's in the cell block.

I can stall. I can send the Warden elsewhere.

The cold rational part of him bit back with a vengeance.  Assassin.

The Doctor's heart dropped. But he was on a roll now. His little nasty habit of barreling down a path to a solution, damn any distractions, was beginning to shine through for the first time in years.

Assassin is forbidden from the cellblock until the procedure is done.

He won't obey that.

Surgeon will make him. I just need to get Sniper's belongings from the archive room. I have access.

Someone will catch you.

I'll lie.

You're a horrible liar.

Then I'll lie better. Once he has a weapon, we can leave. Together.

The labs will go on lockdown.

I can bypass it.

You don't know that.

I won't know until I try.

How will you release him?

I'll take him right before we start. We'll make for the archive room. Get his gun back. Come here to my room. Get the samples. Run for the entrance.

The voice was still and he inhaled as he tipped his head back.

It's never going to work.

He was right. None of that was a sound plan. But it was something. And despite that it was an  absolute failure of a plan, it was still more than sitting down and letting the inevitable happen, wasn't it? Instead of feeling depressed, it gave him a small jolt of energy.

I can't make this work. But I have to try. One last time.

The finality of the last 3 words almost doused the flicking light in his chest. But he shielded it with 4 more words:

I made a promise.