A sharp, gruesome snap echoed through the cold, sterile chamber as Rhys's neck broke, the world around him fading into a blur of agony. His body crumpled, and the last sensation he felt was the searing pain as everything went dark. The Necrolythian standing behind him remained still, the faint impression of a smile tugging at its metallic features, though its rigid, mechanical face betrayed no true emotion.
Rhys lay lifeless on the floor, his consciousness slipping away. He couldn't fight anymore. His body, despite its newfound power and supernatural resilience, had reached its limit. The Necrolythian loomed above Rhys's broken form, a cold, calculating figure of death. With deliberate precision, it reached down and, with a sickening tear, ripped Rhys's spine and head from his body in a single, brutal motion. Blood and fluid spilled onto the cold metal floor, pooling around the Necrolythian's feet as it lifted Rhys's head and spine like a trophy.
The Necrolythian's grip tightened, its long metallic fingers sinking into the flesh of Rhys's severed head. As the Necrolythian turned, the remnants of Rhys's body slumped against the floor, leaving behind a trail of crimson.
Through the thick smoke that still lingered from their brutal battle, a squad of Necrolythian soldiers emerged. Their skeletal frames moved with an eerie silence, their metallic forms casting strange shadows against the dim lighting of the room. Upon seeing the towering Necrolythian standing triumphantly over Rhys's dismembered corpse, they immediately halted. Each one raised their right arm in a precise, synchronized salute, their metallic limbs clicking in unison as they paid their respects to "The Doctor."
"The Doctor," as the other Necrolythians called him, stood unmoving, holding Rhys's head and spine as though they were nothing more than tools in a long experiment. Paying no mind to the soldiers, the Doctor stepped forward, his mechanical joints clicking with each movement, and casually walked past them, leaving a trail of blood dripping down his hands. The soldiers, still saluting, remained frozen in place, watching as the Doctor disappeared into the darkness beyond the chamber.
***
Rhys's awareness returned, but not in the way he expected. Instead of the relief of death, he found himself once again strapped to a metal table. His mind raced, his heart pounding with an unnatural intensity. He attempted to move, to free himself, but his body refused to obey. His wrists, ankles, and neck were bound by what seemed like shackles forged from a bluish-silver metal that he had never seen before. It shimmered faintly in the dim light, as though it pulsed with some strange energy. Even with his superhuman strength, Rhys couldn't bend or break it.
Panic began to well up inside him. He had been through hell before, but this... this was different. The table beneath him felt alive, almost as if it resonated with his struggles. The more he fought, the tighter the restraints seemed to hold him in place.
"Relax," came a voice from above, calm and clinical. The voice belonged to the Doctor.
Rhys's eyes darted upward, straining to see through the metallic contraption that held his head in place. The Doctor stood over him, his shadow looming like a predator's. The faint hum of machinery filled the room as the Doctor's cold, detached gaze lingered on his captive.
"The syringe," the Doctor began, his voice dripping with condescension, "it was never important. It was nothing more than a prop."
Rhys's mind reeled. How could this be? The entire battle—the struggle, the desperation—had been built around the syringe. He had fought with everything he had, believing that the small vial of glowing liquid was his only hope of preventing the Doctor from stealing his body. And now, the Doctor was telling him it had all been a lie.
"Why would I need something as trivial as that to incapacitate you?" the Doctor continued, almost mocking Rhys's ignorance. "If it were truly that important, why would I bring it into combat? No, Rhys… you were played."
Rhys's heart sank as the full weight of the Doctor's words hit him. The battle had been a farce, a manipulation. He had never stood a chance. How could he have been so blind, so foolish? His mind screamed in frustration, but his body remained helpless, bound by the unyielding restraints.
"You will serve your purpose," the Doctor said with a thin smile. "And now, it's time for the next phase."
The Doctor lifted a sleek, helmet-like device from a nearby table, its surface gleaming under the flickering lights of the chamber. Without another word, the Doctor placed the helmet on Rhys's head, securing it tightly. Rhys's heart raced. He could feel the weight of the device, its cold metal pressing against his skull.
"Once this process begins," the Doctor said, his tone devoid of any empathy, "We will be mine. Your soul, your mind… all of it will be under my control."
For the first time, the Doctor's usual cold, stoic demeanor cracked, giving way to something darker—something maniacal. His laughter filled the room, echoing off the walls as he reached for the control panel beside the table.
Rhys watched in horror as the Doctor initiated the machine. The room filled with a blinding light as the machine roared to life, its mechanisms whirring and clicking with a terrifying intensity. The heat from the process began to rise, so hot that the very air around them seemed to warp and bend. Rhys's body screamed in agony as the temperature increased, his flesh burning from the inside out. The pain was unbearable, but even as his body began to break, it also started to heal—his enhanced regeneration keeping him alive through the torment.
He couldn't move. He couldn't scream. But his mind was still there, trapped in a body that refused to die.
Then it hit him—he couldn't move. Rhys's heart sank as he realized his body was no longer his own. His limbs, his muscles… they no longer responded to him.
"Ah, it seems the process was a success," Rhys's mouth opened as words came out of it.
Rhys could hear his own voice, but it wasn't him. Words were coming from his mouth, but they weren't his own. The Doctor had succeeded. He had stolen Rhys's body.
Panic set in. Rhys screamed internally, desperately trying to regain control, but it was useless. The Doctor, now inside Rhys's body, walked toward a nearby machine with a look of triumph. He picked up a syringe—a similar one Rhys had fought so hard to stop him from using.
"Time to power you down," the Doctor said, injecting the syringe into his stolen body. Rhys felt a wave of nausea as the nanomachines that had once empowered him began to shut down, leaving him weak, vulnerable. The Doctor convulsed in Rhys's body, a grin stretching across his face as he reveled in his victory.
Then, with a smile too wide to be human, the Doctor grabbed a laser pistol from the table beside him.
"This is the part I've been waiting for," the Doctor said with unrestrained glee.
Rhys watched in horror as the Doctor aimed the pistol at his own head. There was a flash of light as the shot pierced Rhys's brain. The pain was unimaginable. Rhys, trapped in his own mind, screamed.
The Doctor then said with a whisper, "I am free."