93. Hippocratic Hypocrite

Date Written: November 10, 2020

Date Posted: December 10, 2020

Characters: Veneziano

Summary: There was only so much Italy could do while under confinement. Analyzing his doctor's motivations was probably not the best.

Notes: A sequel to The Scientific Method (#66).


Doctors, in his opinion, were usually noble people. It didn't matter if they were in it for the fame or the money, as long as they did their job, then he didn't mind their true intentions. Thus, Veneziano didn't altogether mind that his physician for the time being, was a little… He didn't really like the idea of slandering others unless they deserved it, but he was certain that she wasn't the best model for a doctor that he had seen in so many years.

And that was besides the fact that she was part of some sort of organization that specialized in kidnapping and "rehabilitating" the supernatural.

Fools, he was human as they come.

However, that was beside the point. Simply put, the woman wasn't an ideal doctor for him for various reasons.

First of all, despite all of his sweet talk, he had never heard her tell him her name. Technically, he didn't have to know every pretty lady's name, but it would have been far more reassuring if she was not rooting around his organs every other day. It was one thing to have a woman around him in bed after sensuous bouts of passion, another thing entirely when the woman in question was forcefully injecting him with something that he was pretty sure looked lethal. It also did not help her case that aside from never telling him her name, she never did get the hang of treating him like a normal human being.

There were times when Veneziano would look at her and there would be something fleeting and almost human if he were to catch her at a certain time…

But those moments were far and few in between.

Secondly, Veneziano knew that his doctor—if he could even call her that—took somewhat of a sick pleasure in partaking in ravaging his body with any manner of instruments and liquids. With what little conversation they had and after studying her body language for so long, Veneziano knew that the woman was a bit of a mixed bag in regards to her involvement with the organization. Sometimes, when he bothered to shut his mouth or if he had cracked a particularly terrible pun, she would smile before a great sadness would grace her eyes.

It was during those moments that had Veneziano wishing that she could leave—to quit and find a more honest means of using her skills.

And there were other times… times where Veneziano knew that the glint of appreciation in her eyes as she dissected his stolen tissues was more than just mere scientific fascination—she wanted to do this to him. And for what? Time and time again, he had interrogated her as charismatically as he possibly could, but she had refused all of his attempts.

But, to Veneziano, it wasn't just the fact that she barely regarded him as nothing more than a test subject. It wasn't that she had never gifted him with the treasure that was her name. And it was definitely not because he knew that she was at odds with the cognitive dissonance in her head.

No.

What was worse was that his doctor was simply just too good at her job.

Compliments of her physical beauty aside, Veneziano knew that from the way she handled her instruments with loving care or the way that her eyes lift up with recognition and understanding as she updated his charts… She truly loved her job. She was the master of her craft; an artist in her own right. If this had been any other life… if she wasn't involved in the nefarious misdeeds of this nameless organization…

"You've been quiet for a while now." Her voice, low and husky from disuse informed him.

Veneziano glanced up from his tray of things that were supposed to resemble food, but looked like a pile of badly chopped up vegetables amidst some wet rice. Experimentally, he took a sniff of the rice and winced. Japan and countless other Asian Nations would have cringed at the presentation of the food. Veneziano would have to wager that the rice was going through a greater existential crisis than him.

A pair of fingers snapped in front of him, alerting him to the presence of his doctor looking down at him. He didn't dare call the look in her eyes concern, but it was definitely something reaching that level of emotion Veneziano wasn't too sure that she was capable of before.

"Are you feeling unwell?" She began to peruse her clipboard with all of his information and began circling things with a pen or flipping through the pages. "Hmm, maybe it was the solution I gave you this morning, it might have affected your—"

Veneziano tuned her out. A long time ago, he would have tried engaging in conversation with the doctor—to which she would have stopped the conversation once she knew that he was properly engaging— but he didn't. A part of him knew that he should have paid attention to her ramblings—what little information he could glean would inevitably help him once he was either rescued or had escaped—but…

Everything just seemed tiring nowadays.

Perhaps it was the amount foreign chemicals that were sluggishly racing through his body. Or it could be that he was separated from his homeland and his people for so long, he could no longer find within himself the will to continue.

And that was simply the funniest thing to have happened after he had been kidnapped from the charity gala he had attended.

He had died so many countless times, he wondered if it would make sense to wish to live anymore. It would make so much more sense to just fall asleep forever, never waking up because what sort of life was he leading if all he could manage to do was barely stave off the inevitable?

The organization was probably banking on him dying anyway. After the countless experimentation and samples they had stolen from him, it would drive the prices higher knowing that their prized specimen couldn't possibly be copied or manufactured.

…And this was Veneziano hoping that the organization didn't know where the rest of his fellow Nations were.

Suddenly, Veneziano felt rather than heard the sound of a stool being wheeled over to his bedside. Without looking up from his miserable excuse of a meal, Veneziano knew that she was looking directly at him. This time, there was definite concern there. Even though she was a monster, there was no one alive who could possibly enact the look of sympathy and sadness that lingered within her depths.

"Okay. This has gone far enough." The doctor dropped the clipboard on her lap and neatly arranged all three of her favorite pens in her breast pocket.

Yes, he had asked and yes, she had answered once a long time ago.

"What's wrong with you? You're not exactly ill, you're very healthy, and—"

Veneziano casually threw his plate filled with the disgusting excuse for food. The clatter reverberated through the silence, though the object itself had stopped within seconds of meeting the ground. For a moment, Veneziano breathed in the silence.

And then he spoke.

"Stop it. You don't care. You don't even like me." His dark brown eyes assessed the doctor who looked at him, her lips pursed as if she was wondering if she should call in the guards. "Just stop. You're not even a real doctor."

Her eyes narrowed before she imperiously replied with, "And you're not even a real human."

He shrugged as he leaned back against the pillows of his bed.

"Fine by me. I, at the very least, act like one." He crumpled a corner of his blanket in his right hand. "Unlike you."

His right hand released the blanket as the doctor rose up and began injecting him with an anesthetic.

Before he finally fell, Veneziano wished for the sweet silence of death.