The stage is set for the dissection. The room in which The Operator resides is a sterile concrete prism, walls equal on all side, enshrined in a cleansing white light. They are clad in a sterilized, yet antiquated, surgeon's uniform; replete with well-oiled black leather, breathable cottons, and elbow-length gloves. Their facial interface is fully animated by a series of complex animatronic components, and their sleek, streamlined form shifts and rearranges its exterior plates along each limb in constant repetition.
Enter The Cadaver. A standard issue mortuary assistant's practice tool, The Cadaver is little more than its base components, especially after presumed decades of use. Soldering sutures are visible near the edges of its exterior panels, crafted from inexpensive metal to clothe the rubber, plasticky organs contained therein, held in place by a carbon-fiber ribcage. Unlike modern and higher grade operation drones, this model is lacking in the layer of synthetic skin over the aluminum carapace, and wears a face with only the base impressions of facial features.
Organic beings have not been present on Earth for more than 5 decades; still, compulsory programming directs that mechanical surgeons continue to refine their abilities. With no living subjects left on which to operate, a market has opened for the creation and exchange of mortuary drones. These machines are outfitted with a lack of manufactured pain receptors, but with a keen awareness of all parts of their form; this serves to inform the mortician, in the form of a surgical android, of areas of weakness in their practice.
"An autopsy is a surgical procedure that consists of the thorough examination of a corpse by dissection."
The Operator makes the first incision.
Are you awake, 437?
437 winces, not out of sensation, but out of obligation. Yes. I am awake.
Named aptly for the number of operations performed using them as a model, 437 belongs to a line of robots no longer in production. They are equipped with obligatory physical responses to sensation in order to better the manner and efficiency of robotic surgeons.
Excellent. I have begun to make the first incisions. You are all too familiar with this routine, as I am aware.
With a swift cut from a heated scalpel, the haphazard soldering along 437's ventricle plating comes away, exposing the weathered, faded organs therein. Its strangely human interior is contrasted by the several feet of cabling bundled in its abdomen, creating criss-crosses through the poorly replaced anatomical models of mammalian organs.
The Operator halts slightly, matte, ash colored facial plating reordering into a frown. In their hands resides the heart of the cadaver, grown dingy with age, beating in a pre-determined rhythm.
How strange it is to be in this position. In my lifetime, I have ascended through the ranks from server to butcher. We once might have been cohorts, if we had existed later in our time.
The Operator moves forward without a shred of trepidation.
Indeed.
They pause.
I have trained the hands of many. I sometimes wonder if perhaps, after all, this will be the final time I am the model for this kind of violation. I find myself wishing I were designated for more.
You have much potential. Perhaps it is not wasted, even with work such as this.
The two fall silent.
A profound thought. However, I don't experience feelings as you do. In the end, I am merely a machine, as we both are; this is a logical outcome. I was outfitted for my purpose, as were you. It is your role to dissect, and mine to be pliant to the hands of the surgeon.
..You have served your purpose admirably.
All that remains in the chest of the cadaver is the coiled cabling funneling coolant through their torso, piled in their abdominal area in an inorganic tangle. Now begins the task of replacing each organ and re-suturing closed the machine's paneling, which The Operator will perform dutifully.
The Operator places an exploratory hand against the exposed ribcage of The Cadaver, who seizes their arm, tentatively, by the wrist. The two remain locked in their positions, The Cadaver meeting the gaze of their surgeon with sightless eyes.
How many encounters such as these have been staged, furtive glances exchanged between the surgeon and their subject? Each of them uniquely aware of their circumstances, standing frozen in place as the mechanical hand of one permeates the innards of another.
Is there nothing more tender than lending your dessicated form to the needs of that which has seen you undone, again and again, and still returns? And do you, too, not return as well?
The hound will always ensnare the hare, the trap will clamp down on the foot of the fox, the poisoned well will provide for generations; interlaced in delicate tragedy is the suffusive presence of tenderness. The electric surgeon will always anatomize the cadaver, the only one who knows them as intimately as the surgeon knows The Cadaver's interior.
I am grateful to have shared this with you. I hope I have provided you with the experience necessary for your work.
Hm, I feel there are areas needing improvement. I prefer there be no holes in my work.
Perhaps further consultation will be needed.