Work Text:
Most of the universe quietly rejoiced at the absence of Daleks. Davros did not. As far as he was concerned, it had already been far too long without them.
That was an easily rectifiable problem.
Confidently, he peeled his tunic back, exposing paper-thin chest tissue to the sterile air of the medical room. For a moment, cynicism forced him to pause: Would this really be so simple? So small a cost for a payoff so monumental?
Yes, he eventually answered himself, yes, and he made the first incision.
The scalpel lines stung, but it was alright, because pain was progress and purpose and righteousness; blood spilt, liquid devotion. Each grimace and micro-expression served as divine communication no tongue could match. You are worth everything, my children, the tiny arch of his eyebrows said. Gritted teeth sang you have always been greater than all things, but you will now be perfection because you are mine.
Hours of careful toil later, he set the stolen flesh in tiny metal dishes with a shaking hand. Ribs abruptly exposed were shrouded in the familiar comfort of darkness by the closure of tunic clasps. Dressings were for later, his own skin clearly not the priority. He was almost giddy now, from a potent mix of blood loss and excitement his chair’s systems were unable to entirely quell. In all ways, his heart had been bared.
He turned his head to the ordered chaos of machinery and glassware beside him, which would mould and guide each cell to exact specifications - there could not be deviation by so much as a nucleotide.
Now there was work to do.