Title: Substance
Fandom: RoboCop (2014)
Rating: PG
Warnings: surgical procedure, non graphic but still? Spoilers for comics canon, Robocop: Beta.
Wordcount: ~ 600

“I won’t be rushed this time.” Dennett Norton was not a particularly assertive man, especially not to Raymond Sellars, but there were times when even he got his backbone up. This was one of them.

“I’m not saying that,” Sellars said. “I’m not trying to rush you. Just, you know, remind you of the urgency.”

It was a semantic difference, a small one. One that Norton, his surgical mask bunched down under his chin, didn’t have the patience or inclination to tease out. “I am aware. I’m also aware there’s a man back there,” his head jerked toward the OR, “whose future depends on me taking care with every step.”

“Of course. And I’m sure we all appreciate it.” His voice, slick with polished concern.

Norton cut him off. “I won’t have a repeat of the Duncan debacle.” Perhaps another man would have played a slower game, but Norton had been a neurosurgeon for too long: he could almost hear, through the walls, the beeps and clicks of the machinery keeping Alex Murphy alive. He threw down his highest card right away, hoping it was enough. It should be. If there was anything Sellars hated more than wasted money, it was a PR nightmare. And Duncan had been both.

It worked. “Nobody wants that,” Sellars said, quickly. Least of all himself, Norton figured. His mouth twitched. “I shouldn’t have to come down here myself for an update, though.”

Ah, so that was what it was. A turf war, a respect thing. Norton didn’t have time for that: never had. He’d gotten where he was on his abilities in programming, in neurosurgery, in engineering, not his political savvy or slickness. And he especially didn’t have time when a man’s life was at stake. “I was in surgery,” Norton said, hotly. If Sellars wanted to play that game, that was Norton’s first and only move.

“Okay. Okay. Fine.” Sellars relented: when he was pushed, he knew when to step back. His point had been made: he’d reminded Norton that he was under watch, that results were expected, good ones, from the Big Man himself. “Just keep me in the loop.”

“Fine,” Norton said, trying to bite back the sigh. Perhaps he’d gotten spoiled in the Omni Foundation, free to take his time, do his own work to his own specifications and standards. He forgot about ‘business’.  “I’ll update you when I’m out of surgery. When there’s something to update.” ‘In progress’ couldn’t be a satisfactory status to a man like Sellars.

He turned back to the OR, pushing through the doors, stripping the gloves off and tossing them, his hands still feeling dirty, waiting till he’d been re-gloved by the tech before pulling his mask up. This was a long procedure, delicate work, and he needed steady hands, and a clear mind, before he could begin again. So he settled on his stool, his breath steaming under his mask, letting his gaze wander over the remainders of what had once been a powerful, healthy young man, reduced to tissue, to a thing suspended in all the machinery of life support. He looked over at the anesthesiologist, who gave a thumbs-up, signaling that Alex’s vitals had remained steady and strong, that the delay hadn’t lost them anything. Yet.

He wouldn’t be rushed, not by Sellars, not by anyone. He owed it to the memory of Private Duncan, he owed it to Alex Murphy. He’d make up for his mistakes, make sure Alex had his memories, had as much of himself as Dennett could salvage. No matter how much of Dennett himself it cost.