Full Potential

KUWAIT, IRAQ JULY 4, 2007

I've been sitting in this stupid camp for five hours now. My name is Private Sydney Mankey, 19 years old. I was drafted into this stupid war because of my ties to the FBI. I was created by them to fight Drakken and Shego, my parents. "PRIVATE! DUCK!" The booming voice of my uncle, Steve Barkin, yelled. Shrapnel raced our way. "EVERYONE DOWN!" I screamed, a plan forming in my mind. I stood up, flared my hands, barked at everyone to get down, they did, and I managed to block most of the shrapnel.
Most of it.
I can't feel my chest anymore. So...painful. I can't breathe. "MedEvac NOW!" Uncle Steve yelled as I blacked out.
"Poor dear."
"Will she make it?"
"I'm not sure."
"Give her some more cc's of antibiotics!"
"I've never seen marks like those before..."
Voices swam through my head, crowding and increasing in volume. I felt a mask being lowered over my mouth and nose. Several hours later, groaning, I opened my eyes. My family was gathered in the room, unfortunately, my parents remained conspicuously absent. "They...couldn't get past security, Syd." My aunt spoke up after a long, awkward silence.
I nodded, understanding. Squealing in pain, I tried to sit up. "Syd, honey, don't." My husband's sexy voice gracefully trailed through the air to my ears. I nodded, noticing a neck brace encasing, well, my neck. "You, uh, were trying to protect your head and your claws..." Uncle Steve broke off, pantomiming a knife, or in my case, accidental claw cut. I nodded. "And, Syd?" He continued.
"Yeah?" I replied.
"You were discharged from the army. I hope you understand."
"I don't want to be."
"What?"
"I want to fight for my country."
The doctor walked in, sharing that all-too-familiar stoicism that doctors showed whenever bad news was apparent, but did not necessarily want to show their true emotions when the patient was involved. "Er...you..." He started. "You...er...are paralyzed."
"What?!" I asked faintly.
He repeated himself, and I fainted. Reduced to a dreamtime, my thoughts did nothing but wander, creating dreams, nightmares, self- realizations. Who am I...to think I can win a war? Who am I...to believe I can make a difference? I open my eyes, Josh and I are alone. I managed to prop myself up, reclining on the pillows. I can't help but wonder...
Am I still a weapon? Am I really a person?
I recline back, pondering that question, unable to pluck an answer from the garbled mess that was my subconscious.