1.21- Amy
The man in the bed smiled at her, his lips flat over toothless gums.
"Go ahead." He said.
Amy pressed a finger to his wrist, paused, and then lightly gripped the man's withered hand instead. Something Victoria had pointed out. Using her whole hand was more comforting; less like she was touching something unpleasant.
Outwardly, he was spry, in decent shape for an octogenarian. His insides though, were a mess of cancer. The largest, most severe growths were in his liver; tumors bulging like haphazard starfish across the surface of the organ. From there, the cancer had metastasized into the man's upper colon, twisting and contorting it. It was painful- she could literally tell how much so, but the man bore it with good-natured stoicism and gave no sign of the pain.
With a thought, she forced the cancer into remission and then further. The growths turned inward, consuming themselves. An appropriately ironic treatment for cancer. From there, it was a matter of a few minutes to repair the damage it had caused and regrow the formerly cancerous sections. Another moment to remove any precancerous cells. No sense fixing him now if he was just going to get it again in a year or two.
She finished with a general tune-up; joints, bones, muscles. The Works, Panacea-style.
The man blinked as she finished.
"Oh! I felt that. What did you do?"
"Almost done. How do you feel, Mr…?"
She couldn't remember his name. Hadn't even looked at his chart; not even the fake, cursory glance she usually did to put patients at ease.
Her unfinished sentence limped on for a few agonizing moments before she finally put it out of its misery and stared at him expectantly.
"Chapman." He supplied.
"Mr. Chapman." She appended. "Would you like me to do your teeth while I'm at it?"
That ought to distract him.
Chapman deliberated, sucking at his gums thoughtfully before finally nodding.
"If it's not too much trouble, Panacea."
She assured him that it wasn't.
Fixing eighty-years of wear and tear on his teeth took thirty seconds for her. They looked out of place in his mouth. Incongruously white and perfect, like new tile in an old house. Chapman was still clicking them together wonderingly when she excused herself.
His thanks floated after her, cut off mid-word as she shut the door.
Amy sighed and slumped against the wall, out of sight of Chapman's room. He'd been her… seventh? Eighth today? It had to be going on lunchtime by now.
The digital display on her phone blinked on and…
Ten-thirty-two AM.
Amy groaned into her hands. Days in the hospital were usually slow, but working with the argument hanging over her like an albatross was pure torture. The usual guilt and shame compounded by a fresh source of self-loathing. And there would be no respite from this. After the long penance of the hospital, she'd catch a ride home with Victoria. And then?
How could you, Amy?
Carol's face, eyes gone narrow with suspicion.
Ames?
Victoria was still sprawled out on the floor. Her expression of honest confusion made her look younger, almost childishly so. For an instant, not a bombshell, but an ingénue.
Do you know those people, Amy? Those supervillains?
N-no. I just- I met them and-
Her own voice then, pitifully weak. Carol always made her feel like a child again. And that was… infuriating. Amy wasn't even her child. As Carol had made abundantly clear.
Amy took the stairs to the third floor on feet like lead. The gray morning light leaking through the windows only intensified her malaise. A few spots of watery sun came through the January cloud cover, but they were sparse, far in the minority.
Brockton Bay was just so damn gray in the winter. Let it just rain or snow or something. Anything would be better than the disgusting rock-salt gray that currently stained every surface in the city.
She pressed her forehead against the window. The cold glass cleared some of her haze; set the gears working a little smoother. And she was still too tired for this. All of it. Tired of even thinking about it. Tired of thinking, period.
The glass grew warmer, losing its refreshing chill.
What am I supposed to say to that, Amy? They offered you a deal? I thought you would know better than to- how would it look for New Wave if this came out?
I didn't say yes! What was I supposed to do then? Tell them 'no' and get my throat cut?
She pulled away from the window, leaving behind a smudged forehead print and a spot of condensation on the glass.
The third floor was busier. The nursery and maternity ward took up most of the floor, and the traffic to and from was more active than the second floor's lethargic geriatrics unit. She wove her way past a knot of expectant parents and hangers on. One of the parents went wide-eyed at the sight of her.
Don't do it. Don't. Not now. She couldn't talk to anyone right now. Just moving forward was hard enough. Too much.
"Panacea!" The woman exclaimed. "Our daughter made it out of the ICU because of you!"
She pasted on her best smile. They couldn't see it behind her scarf, but Victoria said that it still made her more personable. Dean had agreed. Something about it helping create a state of mind. Not remotely what Carol had drilled into her about public relations, but it was the best she could do.
When had it gotten this hard? Because that was the worrying part. It hadn't always been this difficult. Where had all that gone? That… confidence? Competence. When had just talking become so goddamn difficult?
She'd gotten weaker. Not just more fragile, but brittle, weaker.
Amy's smile faded behind her scarf, and she nodded her way through Mrs. ICU's praise. Mrs. ICU was halfway through introducing the other, equally grateful members of the ICU family before Amy managed to squirm free.
She really was in a hurry. Patients to heal and all that. Hope your daughter is well, etc.
Think of the public! What would Fleur say to know you were involved with the people who-
How dare you say that? I would never work with them!
And yet she was still thinking about it.
Room 317 was just down the hall from Mrs. ICU. Amy slipped in the door to find the patient waiting at the window.
"Ah, Panacea. How nice to see you!"
She recognized this one at least. Miss Kwan, a frequent flier. Kwan had some kind of brain condition- one of the ones with a name ten syllables long that Amy only remembered because of how her power worked. The imbalances it caused in Kwan's body's chemistry accrued over time, and Kwan would be back for another session.
The healing took barely two minutes. How many of these two-minute increments had they had so far? How long was she going to prolong this woman's suffering out of her own selfishness? Because of Amy's rule, Kwan got to come back every couple weeks to get her liver and kidneys rejuvenated so she'd stop pissing blood.
"I feel better already." Kwan said with a smile.
Amy tried to return Kwan's smile, scarf or no, and failed miserably.
"Goodbye, Miss Kwan." She managed.
"Until next time, yeah?"
"I'll be here."
Amy blinked back tears at the thought. There was no end to this. No light at the end of the tunnel. Just this. Hospitals, ad nauseam. An endless death march of sick and dying and her own disgust. And it didn't have to be that way. Shouldn't be that way.
A normal person would enjoy healing. Would like helping people. Wouldn't have to worry about breaking the rule because they wouldn't have the rule. And they wouldn't have the rule because they weren't disgusting and sick like-
"Panacea," Miss Kwan interrupted. "Are you alright?"
Pain flashed from her fingers. A little cry escaped her as she looked down. Her fists were clenched so tight the nails were digging into the flesh of her palm. She unfolded them gingerly, her fingers stiff and clumsy. A tiny crescent of blood rose from one of the marks. Amy looked, and there was a fleck of what had to be skin under that nail.
"Panacea?" Miss Kwan repeated, sounding nervous now.
Amy jerked her head up, forced her voice calm.
"Just fine."
She even faked the smile this time.
Mollified, Miss Kwan started gathering her belongings, and Amy left. The hall outside was still bustling with traffic. No fewer than three families held crying babies, and their cries drowned out the usual thrum of hospital noise. A harried looking RN gave Amy a rueful smile before vanishing into 317. She was glad that he didn't stop to chat. The staff knew her well enough by now to generally let her go about her business.
Amy's next stop was just down the hall. She traveled quickly, for fear of more families. Room 315, home to a man with a lovely case of… What the hell did he even have? Some kind of skin condition, obviously. Even with her immunity to diseases, Amy found herself shying away from him.
"Panashea, nishe to shee oo." The patient slurred. His smile was made gruesome by his condition.
She steeled herself and leaned in for a better look. He had lesions and pustules running in geographic ranges across his skin. Parts were peeled raw, with red meat shining through pale, ragged skin. Where it hadn't parted, his skin had bunched and blistered into mottled rows; so ridged that it reminded her of the warty outside of a gourd.
"Consent to heal?" Her voice was professional; her disgust hidden behind the mask she'd put up for Miss Kwan.
He rasped an affirmative, and she pressed a fingertip to the clearest patch of skin she could find on him- an earlobe. Public relations be damned; he looked like a leper. The blueprint of his body unfolded in her mind; less a concrete diagram and more just knowing. An impossible amount of knowledge comprehended in a single touch.
She set his skin healing. The landscape of bumps were smoothed and repurposed to fill the lesions. Pustules deflated one by one; sinking back into him in an odd reversal of their growth. Even by recycling what she could of the unnatural growths, she was still forced to dig into his body's reserves. As she healed him, Amy began explaining the various dietary concerns he'd have for his after-care.
"…And you'll need to get a lot of proteins to-"
Her phone rang. The tinny little jingle melded with the sound of heart monitors. Amy checked it.
Vicky.
"Please excuse me for a moment."
She paused the patient's healing. Not a good idea to let it just auto-pilot. He might get cancer or go Cronenberg or something. She gave him an apologetic nod before stepping out into the hallway, phone in hand.
"Hello?"
"Hey… Amy."
Two little words. Something eased in her shoulders; tension leaving her neck and hands. A loosening, an untwisting in her chest. Her lips suddenly dry. And then, as Victoria spoke again-
"Can we… can we talk for a minute?"
A jolt in her belly; a leap, like a step missed going down stairs.
"I'm here." Amy said.
She slipped away, moving out of the hustle and bustle into the alcoved doorway of a closed lab.
"Listen," Victoria began. "I… you're coming home, right?"
Amy still had a crick in her neck from sleeping in the hospital's on-call room. Frankly, she couldn't stand another second of the dreary place. But… What would she go home to, though?
"How's Carol?" She said.
Victoria hesitated. "Mom's…. she's still pissed off, but she's calmed down some from last night. I think she'd be okay to talk to you."
Haven't you learned anything, Amy? I thought we raised you better than this.
You raised? Are you kidding?! My father couldn't have done a worse job of raising me than you!
"I don't think so." Amy said. "Vicky, I… I don't think I want to come back."
The words came at a whim, growing true as she said them. They'd opened too many old wounds last night. Vented too many secret resentments. Things said in anger that couldn't be unsaid.
"Ames, you- you don't mean that." Victoria, her voice tighter now. "I could talk to her, we could-"
"Ignore it? Forget about it until next time?"
"No, but-"
Amy continued on, gathering steam. She had to say it before she lost her nerve. Before Victoria asked her again and she folded like a coward.
"How am I supposed to go back there, Vicky? She doesn't trust me at all. I was scared to death by what happened and Carol only cared about what I'd done wrong. It could have been like Fleur, and- God, what was I supposed to do? It was a once in a lifetime opportunity!"
"I don't understand." Victoria said. "They offered you some weird dead cape thing, right? It's a scam."
"They showed me. Skidmark was there, and Allfather. And I just thought… what if? Maybe I could just… just this once… and we could see Fleur again."
A muffled thud from across the phone line. Victoria's fist hitting the wall, probably.
"Amy!" Victoria shouted. "You can't trust the Empire! Mom was right about that. How would that look for New Wave?"
"So now you're agreeing with her? You think I'm bad news too?"
"I'm not agreeing with her, I'm… fuck, I don't know. It's just too good to be true."
"And Skidmark?"
"I don't know, Amy. There's all sorts of powers. Tinker holograms, illusions, mind control, I don't know. What I do know, is that you can't go breaking your number one rule for a bunch of Nazis."
"Fine. I get proof and it turns out this is legit. Then what?"
Victoria's sigh hissed into the phone. Amy could almost imagine her sister dragging fingers through her hair in exasperation.
"I don't know. But… listen, Amy. You're supposed to be the smart one here. Brains and Brawn, Guts and Glory and all that. And if I'm the one shooting holes in this idea, then something is fucked up."
Amy sagged into the wall, her eyes on the ground so she didn't have to see the passersby in the hallway.
"You're smart." She said weakly.
"Not the way you are. You think things out. You're always the one to fix stuff when I mess up."
It was a sore spot between them. Victoria's impulsive behavior, and her own enabling of said impulsive behavior. For Victoria to admit it, to point out her own flaws, was almost unreal; a mark of how serious she was.
"Please, Amy. Whatever they offered you couldn't be worth the cost."
The cost. She'd compromise her rule to… what? Heal a stranger? Some dead girl's suicidal father. Was it really that earnest a request? Certainly too good to be true, coming from the Empire. They'd shown her Skidmark, but Victoria was right. These things could be faked.
And what did she get out of it? Her original desire was… it was stupid now. Some childish attempt to win Carol's approval. And her own. The former she no longer wanted and the latter? There was nothing that could make her loathe herself any less.
So why then?
"Amy, are you still there?"
Her sister's voice triggered it. The answer came to her, and Amy didn't know whether she was going to laugh or cry.
Victoria.
Not Carol's or her own approval. Not New Wave's, but Victoria's approval. And wouldn't it just be tragic? Martyring herself, making such a heroic sacrifice to help someone. Providing closure to New Wave in the process, yes, but wouldn't Victoria just love it?
Amy dragged herself away from the wall and into the stream of hospital patrons. The room numbers counted down as she walked. Rooms she was supposed to visit later. 312… 311… 310… Too many of them. 306… 305… 304…
"I'm going to get proof." She said doggedly. "If this is real… I need to see it through."
"So you'll come home?"
"I can't, Vicky. I just can't."
"Amy-"
Her voice hitched. "I'll see you when this is over."
She hung up, and mouthed the words she'd wanted to say instead.
I love you.
Amy opened the door to 303. The man in the bed was as he had been, unchanged but for new bandages on his IV sites.
For the first time that day, Amy read the chart at the foot of a patient's bed.
Daniel Hebert, age 43.
She sank into the chair, the same one Empress- no, Valkyrie- had used before. All hard plastic and fake wood, it was positioned so that it faced the bed. Had they been waiting for her in 303, or had it just been a coincidence?
And what about the rally? Valkyrie had said something about this patient being that dead girl's father. So was healing him some kind of bizarre last request from the girl? The ghost of Taylor Hebert? It all sounded ridiculous.
It was ridiculous, but also too elaborate. Why go to all the trouble with the rally if they were trying to scam her? Frankly, she was less likely to agree now. Valkyrie was some kind of Nazi firebrand, and no one she wanted to associate with. It didn't add up. An Empire cape offering to help her, when the unspoken implication was that she'd pick Fleur.
Her phone rang, Victoria's number flashing on the screen.
Amy hung up for a second time.
She looked at Daniel Hebert, his face slack and stubbled. How easy it would be to reach out to him. Fix his brain in two seconds. Put the whole matter behind her.
Fleur's voice echoed in her mind. If you're good at something, don't do it for free. The woman's favorite phrase; surprisingly mercenary for someone as kindly as she was.
She just wanted to walk away from it all. No more wanting. No more pining. To be done with all the drama. Be done with everything.
Amy balled up her fists in her lap.
No. She couldn't just heal him now. She had to be sure she'd get something in return. Because if she made an exception this once, on blind faith, what was to stop her from doing it again? From doing that?
That was the next logical step, wasn't it? Break her rule once to get Victoria's approval. Break her rule twice and get-
Her palms spiked with pain; nails digging in, slicing into the crescent cuts from earlier. Amy folded over in the chair. Folded in on herself. The tears stuck in her throat and eyes like burning sand and still wouldn't come.
Was that all she was good at? Not healing or heroism, but bullshit schemes to get her sister to love her?
"Dammit." She whispered. "What's wrong with you?"
Her nails bit deep, staining her robe.
Victoria called three more times before Amy finally turned her phone off. She half-expected Victoria to come to the hospital in person, but she never showed.
A little past noon, Amy stood and walked out of 303. She made her way through the maternity ward crowd, down the stairs, and out the front entrance. Walking away from the hospital was like shedding her skin, pulling out of an old, dead husk to be free.
The moment didn't measure up to how she'd imagined it. She was too colored by resignation to manage any excitement about it. Now it felt too much like running away.
She drifted down the sidewalk, leaving the hospital behind. Somewhere along the way, she shucked off her robe, discarding it into the gutter to walk in her street clothes. It should have been a weight off her back, but it wasn't. Her exhaustion ran too deep. Started too deep to be fixed by a change of costume.
God, she was so tired of it all.
Even this, all the drama and dilemma, was tiresome. Because she knew the outcome already. Knew exactly how things would unfold when she went to see Valkyrie.
Knew and didn't care.
Victoria would never love her.