Her eyes fluttered tenuously, then glowed true. Mag's vision was blurry, but it regained focus slowly, then color. She looked over to the mechanic who gave her a silent thumbs up, she nodded and stepped out of the chair, there were stains of blood on the floor and walls. The lights above were blinding, the doors reflected darkness back into the room. The electrician left quickly, Mag stayed in and stepped about the blindingly sterile room. Scalpels with the shine given from blood and silicone sat on a tray, hatred in a tool.
She meekly left and walked towards her vehicle, her driver entered the car. She could see the streets of the city, mud and concrete littering the darkness. It hadn't rained in weeks, but blood watered the earth to make a battlefield at peace. She looked down, only to see a man's thumb in the mud before she got into the car. The driver sped away, gaudy colors flying by the homeless and the Addicted. This land was a tragedy, a dark place.
Her vision clouded for a moment, then refocused on a man in a trench coat and helmet walking down the sidewalk, the way cleared for him by his shining scalpel. A horrible sight.
That got Mag thinking, what good was vision?
What did she gain from viewing the death and destruction?
How did depth and color improve the truth of her grim situation?
What good were eyes when minds were the problem?