"You don't seem particularly excited, Mr. Plinth. Penny for your thoughts?" The doctor says, slightly adjusting his scalpel to align with his other tools.

"Simply nervous is all; I've never been good with surgeries," the man in the chair responds, giving a weak smile. "Do you mind if I hum? It helps distract me."

A low whir sounds out from the doctor's head as his cybernetic parts ponder the strange man in his chair. "No, I don't see that being an issue. You'll be under for the parts of the procedure that I need to focus on regardless."

Laying his head back on the plush cushion behind him, Mr. Plinth sighs and begins to hum. It's nothing recent or particularly catchy; in fact, it's something quite a bit older than the man humming it himself.

"MMmmm mm mhmmm mmm"

The doctor's cheek twitches, clearly somewhat annoyed by the humming but unwilling to take issue when he's the one who gave permission. His white coat spreads apart, two smaller, mechanical arms making themselves known as they begin typing at the chair's interface from his midsection. The humming doesn't stop as the man in the chair sees this, but it does change in tone somewhat.

"I would like to ask you a question, Mr. Plinth." The man says, one of his eyes looking up from the orange display projected in front of him.

Seemingly reluctant to stop humming, Plinth's response is swift before he resumes. "I'm curious what the esteemed Doctor Yaron would want to ask me, that it required a request for the question itself."

"It was not a request; it was a statement." Yaron retorts, swishing a vial of grey liquid, it's contents bubbling violently. "I will ask my question regardless, but you may decline to answer if you like. With queries such as this, silence is an answer of its own."

Rotating his wrists inside the leathery restraints, Plinth grimaces uncomfortably as he adjusts himself. "Noted. May I ask a question of my own in exchange?"

Both of the doctor's eyes sync up as they stare at his patient's face, searching for something undeterminable. "You may, but you must answer mine first, and properly." He pauses, leering over the man. "For what purpose do you seek immortality?"

Surprisingly unphased, the man continues his humming for a bit before responding. "I don't think my current answer would entertain you very much, but I had a much better reason thirty-something years ago."

Chck

The doctor's eyes narrow, searching his operating table and tools. "What was that noise? You've done something. Do not move."

Holding his hands up as far as his restraints allow, Mr. Plinth displays his helplessness. "My hands are bound, Doctor. Your men searched me and made me change into this gown too. Could one of your machines have caused it?"

"My tools are perfectly maintained and linked to my neural network. The only externality here is you." His left hand unfolds, revealing a trio of thin green barrels. "Speak, or be dissolved. What organization sent you here, and where is the man you replaced?"

This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

Panic finally settling in on his face, Plinth tries to lean back into the firm leather of his seat to escape the weapon. "Wait, please! I'm the real Frederick Plinth! Just check my PII chip!"

Self-doubt causes Yaron to pause, contemplating the man in front of him, though, not enough to lower his limb. "It would be unfortunate for my reputation if I killed my actual patient... but too many things are awry. I will not risk my part in humanity's ascension for one man."

The circuits lining the three barrels light up, neon light washing Plinth the same greenish hue as they prepare to release their payload of nanomachines. Fervor burns in the doctor's mechanical eyes, his thin, dot-like pupils quivering as he fires.

The man calling himself Plinth jerks to the left, slipping his right arm out of the restraints he cut while he was humming. The projectile crashes into the seat behind him, breaking the vial at its tip and splashing green liquid across the white leather and his hospital gown.

Yaron's sneer warps his face as he adjusts his aim once again.  "As expected, a rat. Did you think I learned nothing over the last six hundred years? That you would be the first half-baked assassin to be sent after me? Foolishn---nyeagh!" He cries, his limb jerking toward Plinth's separated left hand on the ground and the active electromagnet within it.

"Don't oversell yourself; I'm probably the worst actor AESIR has on their payroll," Plinth says, unlatching the rest of his restraints and standing up with a groan. "I should just drop the whole false identity thing and break in through windows. You've got windows, right?"

The centuries-old doctor wastes no time struggling against the magnet, releasing the arm stuck to it from the elbow down. "AESIR? Here? Nonsense. Those idealistic Neanderthals have their hands full enough as is. Even they aren't stupid enough to spread themselves between multiple continents."

Several of the mechanical arms attached to the ceiling come to life, grasping and slashing at Plinth's back as the doctor rushes his front.

"Idealistic Neanderthals is good; I'm totally—woah—pitching that at our next strategy meeting. It's way less pretentious than our current name." He says, narrowly dodging one arm's sweep and bending it to block Yaron's saw. "But you're right, we really don't have the manpower to be doing this. Tuna said something about cutting off the head of the snake, I was coerced into flying eleven thousand or so miles, and now our separated arms are holding hands. It's been a weird week."

With one arm on the ground and the other stuck in a hunk of metal, Yaron splits his bottom jaw, firing another packet of nanomachines at Plinth. Foregoing dodging, the agent takes both shots to the cheek, taking advantage of the doctor's unprotected mouth to embed an [ICE] pick through the roof of it.

Yaron falls to the ground, limp, unable to combat the device corrupting his neural interface from within. His fingers spasm, conflicting commands rendering any attempts to remove the device null.

Satisfied that his opponent is soundly defeated, Plinth grabs at the skin beneath his ears and pulls, dislodging the quarter-inch-thick layer of synthetic skin that made up this identity. Pulling it the rest of the way off, he examines it—careful not to touch the flesh-eating nanobots that had spread from his cheek wound. 

“Tyrving here, job’s done. Am I good to remove the [ICE]?” He says, wiggling his old face as it dissolves fast enough to watch.

“That was fast; did he figure you out or something?” A light, androgynous voice responds within his neural interface. “And no, it’s pretty heavily encrypted. I’ll need at least six or so minutes to break through.”

Tyrving grunts, tossing his face onto the doctor's corpse. “Not happening; the only reason his goons aren’t busting down the door already is the [MAG] plates I stuck to them when they searched me. You’ve got two minutes, tops.”

The voice pouts, complaining about the unreasonable demand: “We’ve been over this; I can’t just ‘go-faster.’ My processor overheats as it is—which is major ass to deal with—and we don’t have the funds for better gear. Just pop his head off or something; we need that data.”

The mechanical rods that control his facial muscles shift, grimacing without a face. “He’s more Mullinium than man; I’d need an industrial-grade cutter to ‘pop his head off.’”

“I’ve seen your spec’s, old man. You could do it even without an overstim, just—shit, we’ve got an issue here. Get that head and get out; evac is on the building across from you.”

“What’s the situation?” Tyrving asks, latching his left hand back on.

Silence.

“Tuna. What’s going on?" He repeats, his pupils narrowing. 

“Damn it.”

Kicking the doctor onto his back, Tyrving grasps the corpse's chin and neck, careful not to nudge the [ICE] pick as he twists and pulls, tearing the metallic supports and ripping the head clean off. Green sludge oozes from both the neck and the head, dripping it’s thankfully inactive nanobots on the agent's bare feet. 

“Tuna, come in.”

Static assaults his senses as his neural network receives information it can’t handle, driving him to a knee.

Tuna’s voice breaks through the static, breaking up badly.  “Tyrvi—compromised. –Back here now.”

“Code H.”