Disclaimer: I don't own Bioshock.

______________________________________________________________

New York, 1945…

Dr. J. S. Steinman removed his surgical mask and smiled with pride at the satisfaction of a job well done. Facing him now was the reconstructed face of a young woman, a face which had once been covered in hideous, pus-filled boils and festering scabs. All of her life, men would stare at her sores; other women would point and snicker; little children would run in fear. She had no friends, no fiancés, and no familiar faces. Alone, she would cry herself to sleep at night, the salty tears streaming into her scabs and burning her mercilessly. She came to Dr. Steinman's office, tears in her eyes, and spilled her entire story to the young doctor, sobbing uncontrollably as she tried to complete her sentences. The good doctor had put his arm around her and reassured her: "we'll do everything in our power to help."

Her name was Carolyn Monroe, but Steinman knew her as "Patient 21-7-12-25B." Not that he called her by this name, of course; to him she was a patient, not a medical sample. Nonetheless, names confused him unless the actual person was in front of him, so Steinman simply gave numbers to his patients when he created files for them or penciled them in for appointments. It tore at his heartstrings, but he had to throw out his emotions sometimes. The medical profession, he had been taught, was supposed to be objective and scientific, not subjective and personal. Numbers were the only logical way of keeping the science in his otherwise personal interest in benefiting his patients. Sighing, he lit up a cigarette and put away his scalpel, tucking it gently into the drawer of his surgical cabinet. He loved that scalpel, that life-changing knife which glistened in the light of his office. It was his pride and joy.

The young woman groaned loudly as she awoke from her deep slumber, rubbing her eyes gently as she leaned upright. "How do I look, Dr. Steinman?" she asked meekly. The good doctor looked at her and smiled. The hopeful twinkle in her eyes was exactly what Steinman loved about his job: the satisfaction of knowing that his work brought joy to other people. He reached into his cabinet and pulled out a mirror covered in dust.

"Ms. Monroe, when you came to me today, you were covered in scabs and sores, as well as pimples which developed when you touched the scars," Steinman said matter-of-factly as he polished the mirror. "Well, I think that the days of picking endlessly are over for you, Ms. Monroe. I think that your life from now on will be far different from what it has been. Say hello, please, to the new you." He handed her the mirror and beamed with pride as she slowly lifted it to her face. He knew that patients loved to make a drama out of this sort of thing, so slow lifting of mirrors was common in his office.

Carolyn's hand slowly moved up to touch the face in the mirror. It was her hand on her face! She could not believe it: the sores and scabs were gone, as though they had never been there. All of the pus had been emptied out of her face, leaving clear and smooth skin. And her cheeks, once rough like sandpaper, were now gentle and soft. A tear rolled down her cheek, and for once, there was no burning. "Oh, thank you, Dr. Steinman!" she cried. She put down the mirror and hugged the doctor tightly. Steinman pulled his cigarette out of his mouth and blew the smoke into the air of his operating room.

"Ms. Monroe, today is the first day of the rest of your life," he said with a smile. He wiped her tears away and turned away from her momentarily. He scribbled down her price on a piece of paper and signed it "Dr. J. S. Steinman, surgeon extraordinaire." Next to it, he wrote down his new number code for her: "2-5-1-21-20-25W." Turning around, he handed her the piece of paper and smiled. "Take good care of yourself," he said. Carolyn nodded and briskly walked out the door, ready to face the day with her new face.

Steinman sat down in his chair and smoked his cigarette, filing through the stacks of paperwork on his desk. There were potential clients to be examined, records to be assessed, and methods to be researched. He crushed the cigarette butt inside the ashtray and tossed the ashes into the trash bin. Scanning the paper, he couldn't help feeling somewhat bored. A fast and eager reader, Steinman was always able to get the general gist of documents by reading particular words, names and descriptions, which saved him the trouble of being totally thorough. He picked up his pencil and wrote in various dates for each client, being extremely careful about days and times so as not to cluster patients together in the waiting room.

Suddenly, something came crashing through the window of Steinman's office, just several inches behind him. It fell to the ground with a deafening thud, creating an impact in the floor next to the operating table. Steinman picked up the item and examined it: a solid brick. Attached was a note, which came as no surprise to Steinman. Sighing, he untied the note and opened it:

"Cease and desist thy wicked acts! God's work is not to be tampered with by the hands of mortals! The face is as God intends it to be! Cease thy actions!"

Steinman chuckled and shook his head. These letters were common, and the bricks even more so. He had now grown so accustomed to these religious fanatics that he would be surprised on days where bricks didn't come flying through the hospital windows. He put the note in his cabinet, tossed the brick into the garbage bin, and sat back down at his desk.

Charles Lentworth, Steinman's assistant and longtime friend, walked into the room, having heard the crash outside the hall. Lentworth took a puff from his cigarette and tossed it out the broken window, staring at Steinman. "Another one?" he asked with amusement. Steinman smiled and nodded. "Steinman, aren't you afraid that something might happen to you if you don't do something about these idiots? They're not backing down, you know, and they're almost spoiling for a fight. It's only a matter of time before this kind of thing leads to something worse."

Steinman pulled a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it, coughing slightly as he thought about what Lentworth was saying. True, these kinds of incidents could lead to unpredictable events of more devastating violence. But in the end, the reward of giving someone the life they wanted seemed to outweigh his own personal fear of death. "Charlie, I don't care if they threaten me. I will keep providing surgery for my patients. And I will not call the authorities. They have every right to stand out there and harangue people about how they're 'violating God's will' or whatever they're so into saying we're doing." He flicked the ashes into the trash bin and went back to sorting through his paperwork.

"Where are you going on your lunch break?" Lentworth asked, leaning up against the wall and looking around the room. It was so bright and clean in contrast to his own. Everything was in its proper place: the picture frames were totally straight, the equipment was filed neatly, and there were no clumps of hair or drops of blood on the operating table. Lentworth was the most unorganized doctor in the entire hospital, and he occasionally broke some of the rules by prescribing natural remedies for patients rather than synthetic ones, but the administration kept him there because he was a very professional doctor. Steinman, on the other hand, was obsessively neat and adhered to every rule in the book, even where it wasn't necessary.

The good doctor looked up at Lentworth. "I'm just going to go to the diner across the street," he said. "Want to join me?" Lentworth nodded and walked out of the room. Steinman sighed and started annotating his paperwork. The red ink seemed to come to life on the pages as he wrote down important bits of information, as well as designating numbers to individual clients. Next to the picture of each patient, he wrote down a different number code. On the profile of one young woman, Steinman ran through one particular sentence: "patient wants her face reshaped into a 'work of art'." He shook his head and wrote underneath those words: "surgery, not sculpting."

An hour later…

Steinman sipped his coffee calmly and browsed his menu, waiting for Lentworth to show up. It was five past noon, so he figured that he'd be showing up soon. The diner was pretty empty now, so he had been able to get a booth for himself and his friend. He sipped his coffee again and thought about how he wanted his eggs.

"Hey there, surgeon extraordinaire," came Lentworth's voice. Steinman grinned and looked at his friend. Lentworth was roughly five-foot-seven and sported a good-looking crew cut. His eyes were like green orbs floating in white seas, and his teeth were perfectly bright in spite of his constant smoking. A waiter came over and handed Lentworth a menu. The two men looked over their choices, and then placed their menus on the table.

"So Steinman, your patient seemed rather happy with her operation," Lentworth noted.

"Carolyn, Charlie. Her name is Carolyn. She has a name, you know."

"Yeah, yeah. But you know how the hospital works: a subject is a subject, not a human being, etcetera, etcetera." Steinman nodded and remained silent. That was the hospital's mentality: patients were merely subjects, labeled with numbers and conditions to differentiate them. Names seemed completely foreign to the world of professional medicine. Nevertheless, he hated giving people numbers like that; it was so disturbing to him.

"Hello gentlemen," said the waiter. "What will you be having today?"

"I'll have two eggs, sunny-side-up, with bacon," Steinman said. Lentworth ordered an omelet and coffee. The waiter smiled and walked to the counter, ripping the paper out of his pad and placing it on the rack, waiting for the chefs to get around to it.

"So Charlie," Steinman said, "how did Mrs. Aldridge's operation go?"

"Oh, it went fine," Lentworth said. "She was very nervous about it at first, but I reassured her that there was nothing to be afraid of regarding it." Lentworth was a part time OB/GYN; in fact, he was one of the most requested abortion providers in New York. The Christian protestors who demonstrated outside the hospital mainly targeted him, referring to him as a "baby-killer" and calling him "Satan's Physician." Despite the zeal of these protestors, Lentworth continued to provide abortions, remaining unconcerned with what the moralistic crusaders said about him.

"I'm guessing the recent violence hasn't stopped you?" Steinman asked somewhat amusingly. He sipped his coffee and lit up a cigarette.

"No, not really," Lentworth said. He was fully committed to his line of work, though he didn't talk too much about it. Most of his family members were evangelical Christians, so if they knew that he was an abortion provider, he would never hear the end of it. Heck, he might never even hear from them again at all! And besides, he wasn't interested in talking so much about himself. "So Steinman, your patient seemed to like her new face. She wished me a good day as she was heading out the door."

"It was something she'd always wanted: to be beautiful." Steinman looked down at the table and moved his finger in a circular motion on the tabletop. It was true: she had come into his office actually demanding that he make her beautiful, and those were her words. As a result, he had to spend much of his time advising his patients about the possible risks of surgery, which was often pointless since they didn't listen anyway. Yes, surgery was the de facto path to beauty, but should it be? Shouldn't people be comfortable with their looks? It felt great to help people out, yet it crushed Steinman's spirit when people came in asking for a new appearance.

The waiter placed the food in front of the two men, smiling and telling them to enjoy their meals. Steinman looked down at the plate and picked up his fork. The two eggs were laid next to each other, and strips of bacon were laid underneath them, both ends arched up pointing at the eggs. Steinman picked up his knife and cut away at the white parts and stuffing them into his mouth. He occasionally poked at the yolk and put the pieces into his mouth. His favorite part was the bacon, which he would often devour before completely eating the eggs.

The two men sat in the diner and ate their food, discussing the interesting aspects of their jobs and the fascinating parts of their day.