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A Bouquet of Pure Poison

In which an experiment goes terribly wrong, and the Plague Doc plays the calming goat. Warnings: dubious consent, nonconsensual drug use, tentacles, oral, spitroasting, handjobs, technical necrophilia, overstimulation, dirty talk, double penetration, awkward morning after

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And they called him the quack. The Plague Doctor had never quite understood the way the foundation went about things, throwing together half-assed, half-thought experiments to answer questions they hadn't even bothered to ask yet. Nothing like the Doctor's one, true Cure, where he had scoured every book he could get his hands on and met every scholar with a barrage of questions in the hopes of getting some finer tuned solution than what he had thus far developed. The Foundation drones simply lacked a fundamental understanding of the scientific process, how else, by all means, could they not have considered that whatever children's mythology textbook they had taken inspiration from might hold an answer to their inquiry or that, even if the fellow certainly did not make it easy on them, the Theatre Mask may just give an interviewer the same if the thespian- the Doctor dared not guess his old friend's current pronouns. They changed frequently, even without a host- felt that the future experiment could be a potential health risk. Those lab monkeys could not have possibly asked the mask before the experiment the Doctor knew they mustn't have. With his dear friend's typical aversion of true self-intoxication,  particularly when lacking the safe company of a drinking partner, the thespian would surely have quickly ventured from that treasured web of lies for the sake of the mask's own health. The Doctor paced, truly fretting. He had been hearing whispers of the experiment to come. He had even attempted to sneak out a patient- though, unless there was some sort of special occasion, these consisted primarily of bovine with the occasional half-rotten primate thrown in. His non-human patients were incapable of speech, yes, but if he could guide a cow close enough to the mask's cell, then a sense of foreboding could be sent throughout the mental link between Doctor and patient as some sort of omen. 

The Plague Doctor paused as he reached the opposite wall once again. Fretting would do no good, and neither would pacing about his cell like a feral animal. He was practically guaranteed to be brought down to, at the very least, mediate at some point. After a few more enjoyable experiments had proven to the Foundation staff that his presence often calmed his companion down from even the most violent tantrums quite effectively, he had been able to see the mask with ever increasing frequency. Still, he was nearly relieved as the scent of lavender-far too strong and a bit too sweet-smelling to be anything but synthetic- permeated his small containment cell and soon caused his clamoring thoughts to cloud and mellow, his pupils beginning to dilate as the manufactured scent made the world look like it had been painted in a strange sort of watercolor. The entrance of the MTF assigned to lead him through the corridors went nigh unnoticed, as did the clicking of the heavy collar fastened about his neck. Even the prongs that dug lightly into his skin, something he knew would buzz with a harsh electric shock if he dared misbehave or even hesitate on his trip across the facility, bothered him nowhere near as much as it should have. The professional remained still and complacent, swaying lightly under the lavender's effects, observing the efforts going through to contain him with mild bemusement. Even placing his hands directly into the cuffs meant to keep him from lashing out at the first disease-ridden soul he came across when the person attaching them seemed somewhat nervous to approach his curing hands, a slurred inquiry of "Hello, dear, are you new?" that he wasn't quite able to help slipping out and earning him a harsh jostle from the MTF on his right side that had just attached their pole. The Plague Doctor went quiet after that, the message going through that he was not to speak as he was led through the halls, using the poles clipped into his transportation collar to keep himself steady rather than pulling against them as he normally would. Must have been a hefty dose. He realized, idly, that he didn't quite recognize the route he was being taken on. His friend must have finally corroded through the old cell. Or perhaps the mask had asked to be moved closer, as the trip seemed far shorter than it once was.