It had been five full days and nights since the confrontation on the helicarrier.
Since the soldier had failed his mission, staggered away from the water, beaten, bruised, shredded memories clawing at the edges of his consciousness.
The endless agony inside his mind was almost enough to drown out his physical injuries, but not enough. During those rare moments of clarity, when the demons in his head had fallen silent, the sting of untreated cuts, cracked ribs, and the burn of a dislocated shoulder viciously demanded his attention.
But he wasn't sure what to do–besides hide and wait, skulking about in alleyways and street corners, spending his nights curled up in a miserable heap on damp concrete.
Wait for what?
He wasn't sure.
The box had been sitting patiently in the alley, unseen, untouched, since its maker had abandoned it several years prior. However, the tech inside was anything but dead–merely dormant. Inside the steel case, white folds were compressed against a titanium-alloy skeleton, a fully-functional personality chip encoded into the bot's hardware. This bot had been created to assist people, but the maker's son had thrown it away. It had no place in today's society.
So now it was waiting, rust eating at the case, damp and mildew slowly invading its circuitry.
The soldier awoke, the coldness of the ground biting into his skin like cryofreeze. As he forced his stiff body into a sitting position, the bones in his right shoulder protested, grating against each other. A cry escaped from his lungs, hoarse and abrupt.
A sign of weakness. Pathetic.
He bit down hard on his lip, eyes shut tight, waiting for the pain to ebb. The only sound was the pulsing of his own frantic heartbeat and the rattling of his own breath.
Then, something cut though the throbbing–a metallic clattering, a soft, steady whoooooossshhhh. Tiny, squeaking footsteps edging nearer.
Hello. I am Baymax, your personal healthcare companion. I was alerted by your cry of "Ow". How may I help you?
Muscle memory overrode pain, bringing him to his feet, knife in hand. Ready to kill.
The white balloon-creature standing before him merely cocked its round, childish head.
It is not in my programming to harm a human being. I only wish to help.
I will scan you for injuries.
The soldier flinched, stepping backward, knife still tightly clenched in his metal fist. He was unsure how to react. The balloon-man blinked, every other part of him unmoving.
Scan completed. You have several lacerations, a subcoracoid dislocation of the right shoulder, and a stress fracture on the left side of your ribcage. I recommend immediate treatment.
Baymax shuffled forward. The soldier stepped backward, confusion and fear swirling in his mind. Then, with one swift movement, the knife flashed up and then down, tearing a huge gash across the bot's middle. Baymax glanced down at his severed belly, his bulbous form steadily growing smaller as air escaped with a piercing whine.
I am deflating.
The soldier watched with a mix of fascination and suspense as the gash repaired itself, microscopic stitches tracing their way across its length. The bot tipped his head to stare at him blankly, every inch of him sagging like a drunkard.
Excuse me while I re-inflate. Hissing emanated from somewhere in the robot's core, and the white material expanded until it was taut once more. He waddled forward. Please allow me to treat your injuries.
He bared his teeth. "нет." [no.]
Baymax paused. My language sensors indicate that you are speaking Russian. Do you wish me to revert to that language?
"oставь меня в покое." [leave me alone.]
I cannot leave until you are satisfied with my care.
Frustration ate at his nerves. Every part of him was aching, and he knew that he could not treat his own injuries–but he could not go back to his handlers. At the thought, raw terror dug its claws into him, shook him to the bone. He blinked rapidly, trying to dispel the nightmarish images that floated across his vision.
I sense distress. Your neurotransmitters indicate an increased state of fear, anger, and grief. You are also nervous and prone to violent outbursts. Diagnosis: Baymax raised a chubby finger. Post-traumatic-stress-disorder. Common treatments are: connecting with friends and loved ones, counseling, discussing your experiences with others–
"остановить." [stop.] The word was barely more than a whisper. The knife had fallen from his grasp, clattering on the asphalt. The world was spinning…he'd collapsed to his knees, head heavy and dull. Everything was cold…so cold…
"пожалуйста. помоги мне." [please. help me.]
Squeak, squeak, squeak.
White, rubbery arms gently encircled him. There, there. He felt slight, rhythmic pressure as the bot patted his head. Warmth leaked from Baymax's plush body and through to the soldier's skin. Some of the tension in his muscles began to ease, as did the burning in his shoulder.
Then–
Please hold still.
Screaming agony–searing, piercing, bone chafing against flesh–a sickening crack–and then the pain was gone. He fell backwards, gasping, into Baymax's grasp.
Your shoulder has been set. It will be stiff for several days.
He nodded numbly to show he understood.
You still have many injuries that require treatment. Do you wish me to continue?
He bobbed his head again, wearily. The bot calmly, methodically went through the process of cleaning the cuts that marred his skin. It stung, but it was a good, cleansing hurt.
The bot lifted him to his feet.
Permanently repairing your rib is beyond my capabilities. I recommend several days of bed rest.
The soldier doubted that was going to happen any time soon. Then, Baymax extended his hand, a cherry-red lollipop pinched between his thumb and forefinger.
You have been a good boy.
Not sure of what else to do, he accepted the candy, depositing it in his pocket. The robot remained stationary.
"I…" The soldier's voice croaked. He hesitated, cleared his throat.
"I am satisfied with my care."