Before We Met

John Murdoch


The night that they initiated the Murdoch experiment began in darkness, in the cold.

Everything was black around him, and the Doctor was vaguely aware of a syringe slipping from his fingers falling to the floor, smashing. His body sagging, head lolling back, and then he was caught and supported by cold hands behind him, setting him on his feet. The same hands beginning to dress him, slipping his arms into a shirt, into a vest, coat, and he opened his eyes, blinking, trying to bring his mind back to reality. Trying to place where he was, trying to remember what had happened, how he'd gotten there. Numbly he moved to start to button the shirt, staring at the angry red marks on his chest, disoriented, feeling a wash of shame run through him at his own appearance. They'd... branded him? Why? "What... what did you -- do...?"

"You fell asleep with the others, Doctor," Mr. Hand speaking - how long had he been standing there? "You hit your head. Most unfortunate. We were forced to mark you, to protect you against future incidents."

Mechanically, he finished buttoning his shirt, tucking it neatly into his slacks, buttoning his vest and coat. Whatever they'd done, they must have partially healed it, and his clothing didn't cause any additional pain. But try as he might, he couldn't remember falling asleep, or where he'd been when he did....

He heard a soft groan and looked up, staring at the wheel in the middle in confusion. There was a dark haired man, bound to the metal frame, gagged, watching him with a helpless, sorrowful expression. "Why is there a -- subject here?"

"He is for the Mruexperiment," Mr. Hand said dryly, moving away from him, over to the wheel. "Assist Us, Doctor."

He gave a short nod, following him, feeling stronger now that he was dressed, more connected to reality again, the awful burn marks on his chest hidden. He knelt to unbuckle the restraints around the man's ankles, then stood, unbuckling the gag. He vaguely remembered imprinting this man, but it must have been some time ago, as he couldn't recall exactly what his current identity was...

"Daniel!" The man gasped as soon as the gag came free. "Thank god - are you all right?"

He stared at him for a long moment, uncomprehending. Daniel? He wasn't Daniel anymore, hadn't been Daniel for a long time, just the Doctor, and very occasionally Schreber, in the outside world. There was no need to have a name when you spent your time with the dead and sleeping. No need for a name when you were familiar with no-one. He and this man shouldn't be anything but strangers. "How do you -- know my name?"

The man went deathly pale at his words, lips parting, voice a horrified whisper after a short moment. "Oh god, love... what did they do to you?" He jerked to look at Mr. Hand, green eyes blazing with rage. "What was in that syringe? What did you do to him?!"

Daniel stared at him, uncomprehending. Love?

"Sleep," Mr. Hand said simply, touching a fingertip to his forehead, and the man slumped on the wheel, eyes falling closed. Hand gave a wave of his hand and the buckles on his wrists disappeared, letting the man sag into the arms of one of the others - Quick, Schreber recalled, who hefted the subject easily, throwing the prone form over his shoulder.

Mr. Hand was watching him silently, and spoke as he turned to look at him. "Come, Doctor. Time for work."

Around him, more strangers were arriving, taking their places in the tiers around the room and on the center platform, watching the machine. Mr. Wall stood nearby, holding Schreber's coat and hat, the bag with the night's syringes in them. A bag full of lives, full of memories he'd never have. Schreber pushed the mystery of the dark haired man from his mind and took his things, putting them on and catching up the bag, following Mr. Hand to the surface.

Just another night in the unending darkness.

Mix the memories, inject the subjects to a new life, a new identity. He'd felt bad for them, at first, but he couldn't allow himself to do that anymore. Couldn't handle emotion. He hardly even spoke to them, even when he wasn't working. It was easier, that way, though he took to speaking his thoughts aloud sometimes when he worked, as if talking to Them, though they never answered.

That night, though, something finally managed to break through the numbness. He watched as they brought the dark haired man into the hotel, followed them into the bathroom to watch them strip his clothes, place him in the bathtub. It was easier than staying in the other room with the now dead woman, the mutilated corpse. It wasn't something they did often, placing people in a sexual situation, and even less frequently in something like this. This man was to be a murderer, a serial killer, and he found himself speaking aloud as he waited for them to finish. "Of course you would be the perfect -- candidate for this. Women will trust your -- handsome face."

He set his bag on the floor as They finished and left, knelt awkwardly beside the tub, and found himself looking at the face for a moment, syringe in hand. He was very handsome in sleep, and looked as though he would be more so upon waking, and Schreber found himself wishing that he'd had the opportunity to see this man awake, more than the handful of times he'd seen him during implanting. He had kind of face that would have mischievous eyes and a generous smile. Not the kind of face that deserved to have this particular experiment pinned on it. Then there was the question of the strange occurrence that had happened in the underneath. The man had called him by his first name, something he hadn't heard anyone do in years. His speech was familiar, like he'd known him...

"I am truly sorry about this," he found himself saying. "When it is done, we'll -- inject you again, and you won't remember killing -- one bit. None of this -- will be your fault." Still, something made him hesitate, made him feel something other than numbness. In another life, could they have been friends, he and this man with the pretty face? He felt a pang of guilt, the kind he tried so hard - and often failed - to bury deep inside him. With a sigh, he took the syringe from his bag. "Better this than -- dead because of my refusal," he murmured, preparing the syringe and piercing that spot in the center of his forehead with practiced ease.

Then, almost as if he'd heard him, his subject moved. Piercing green eyes flew open, and as he struggled, the syringe flew out of Schreber's hand and across the room to smash against the wall - flew as if shot by a gun. He stood in a panic, darting backwards and smacking his head painfully on the pot light that hung from the ceiling.

That was no accident.

The man fell still again in the bathtub, no sign of anything wrong apart from the small red drop of blood welling up in the center of his forehead.

He'd had the most beautiful green eyes....

Schreber thought quickly. They'd told him about strays, but he'd never had one wake in the middle of imprinting. There was no telling what would happen with only a partial memory template, how the man would react upon waking. And he knew what would happen to the man when They found out - especially if they caught the doctor with him - and that was the last thing Schreber wanted. So he caught up his bag and ran, pausing only to take note of the room number, going as fast as his damaged lungs could handle, through the empty halls and out of the hotel.

His heart was racing when he reached the pay phone, and not only from exertion. There was something about this man, something beautiful and enthralling, and no matter what, he couldn't let Them get to him.

He dialed the phone, breathing a sigh of relief when the man answered. "You're confused, aren't you? Frightened? That's all right - I can help you...."

It wasn't until much later, back at his office, that he happened to put his hands in his pants pockets and discover the strange ring and necklace that were tucked there. He regarded them curiously for some time, then strung the ring on the chain and fastened it around his neck, tucking it to hide safely under his clothes. Where they had come from was a mystery, just like the man with the green eyes. But even though Schreber was a scientist, spending so much time working for Them had left him with an appreciation for the unknown, for things that could not perhaps be proven by mankind's current knowledge. Perhaps keeping this mystery close to his skin would bring him luck with the mystery that was John Murdoch.


~~finish~~

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed!