"Good morning, David," the old man said for the seventh time, one eye on the monitor positioned over Wash's stomach as he strode into the office marking yet another chart Wash suspected wasn't actually his. He had a disheveled look about him. The kind that said "I'm not technically a doctor, but you should trust me with your health anyway."
Washington, he thought, trying as hard as he could to beam the name into the doctor's brain. He'd fought far too long and hard for the title to be called David anymore. It's Agent Washington now.
"Let's see if we can't get you out of here early then." Wash rolled his eyes, wincing as the steel in his chest extracted yet another tissue sample. As if he hadn't already been here for six hours.
"Psych evaluation checks out. No history of instability. You've adapted quite well to the simulation AI in your training suit. Tell me, David-" Agent. Washington. "-how has your arm been?"
To be honest, it was still excruciating at times. The limey fuck had snapped his arm like a twig, and the six-week prognosis would have been enough to discount him from the program. Humiliated by Wyoming's easy victory in practice and frantic that he might miss his chance at implantation, Wash had feigned health for over a month, fighting the urge to cringe with every blow he took in training.
"Never been better," Wash grinned lopsidedly as the doctor turned his wrist over on the examining board.
"Excellent," he answered, clearly less than sympathetic. "Barring any unforeseen difficulties, we'll have you rated for implantation tomorrow morning."
