Doubt
It had been a busy week for Dr. Ziegler. She sat on her reclined chair, staring vacantly at the ceiling of her lab. Her ponytail had long lost its hold on her hair, letting loose strands drop. Dark bags pooled under her eyes, and the dense smell of sweat surrounded her like a mantle. In that moment, she was disgusted with herself. Not because of her state, but the things she had agreed to. Her hand scribbled absently on a blueprint, and then reached for one of the many unfinished cups of coffee in her reach.
Ever since she had officially joined Overwatch, it seemed paperwork and research piled on her desk endlessly. It didn't bother her at all. To her, this meant she was making advancements and being helpful. It didn't mean, however, that she couldn't use a little recreation. That being more work. Personal projects and field medicine always got enough adrenaline pumping through her veins to keep her from growing lethargic.
The Valkyrie suit had been the epitome of both. It had taken several years only to flesh out the idea enough to begin working on actually building it. A couple more to have a working prototype. Now test rides were the next step to a functional result. Of course, she would let nobody else use it for her. She might argue it was not completely safe in its current state, or that the necessary knowledge to operate it was already known to her. The real reason was, in a way, much more selfish. She wanted to be the one to save people, to know everything first-hand.
Many had argued she was not ready. That the cruelty of a real battlefield would be too much for a girl her age. She had smiled, reassuring those above her that she would come to no harm. That she would be safe. But internally, she had scoffed at them. She knew perfectly what a battle entailed. She had been in several. She had seen enough death and suffering to know that she needed to be there.
And yet, when she had stepped out of the carrier wearing her suit and distant gunfire reached her, a knot had formed in her stomach. She despised violence. She hated the idea of people dying, of people hurt. And she had been afraid. Even when Morrison himself had guarded her closely and a platoon of highly trained soldiers had already swept the area. She had been afraid to fail those in need, and experience death again.
When they had first found the highly mutilated body right at the mansion's first room, they had wasted precious seconds. People had prevented her from approaching, saying it might be an enemy. She didn't give a damn. Not then, not now. To her, a body that is in need of care falls under no special clauses. The suit had taken a little more time to fully engage than she had expected, but soon the gentle stream of biotic nanobots had helped her stabilize him.
His breathing had been greatly spaced and weak, and his body temperature had already begun to drop. She had spoken to him gently. Encouraging him. She didn't know if patients actually heard her. It was more of a hopeful chant to keep herself focused than anything else, but she always did it. As with many things, her work involved much more luck and hope than others perceived. They had watched her intently, still weighing the chance of him being an enemy, battling with uncertainty. But once he had been sufficiently stabilized and she had ordered it, they had carefully carried him to the carrier.
The rest of the night had passed by in a similar pace. She had healed and tested. Sometimes protected. When the stars had slowly begun to fade and light hit her skin, the troops had been recalled. As she had walked through the mansion's entrance, dirty with blood and tired from work, she had looked up at the garden's trees. The cherry blossoms hadn't flowered.
A sudden knock at her lab's door startled her, making her jump in her seat. It was the head surgeon, beckoning her towards him. She already suspected what he was going to say before she even stood up from her chair. A pit of annoyance and discomfort settled in her stomach, threatening to rip her fake smile apart. She opened the glass door, waiting for him to speak.
"The patient has woken." For a second her lips trembled, giving her away. The man in front of her eyed her up and down, grimacing. "As has been stated previously, it is your duty to gain his consent for the procedure." A small, crooked smile pulled at the corners of his lips. He seemed amused. "Of course, it IS to be expected of a young, beautiful girl such as yourself to coax any man into her will." Angela frowned slightly, fighting to keep her calm.
"As has been discussed amply before, I will comply with the orders given." She hated bargaining. And manipulating. She knew perfectly well that the only reason for her to get the consent was because of her gender and age. Always the pretty image, always thought to be naïve. She had disagreed with the surgery completely. But she had been called young and unwise. As if turning the man into a weapon was the right thing to do. "And I'm sure that you know I do not agree in any way with this so-called enhancement procedure of yours." She threw the words at him, almost spitting through her stiff smile. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I have a form to prepare." She didn't bother to keep her facade once the door slammed shut, hoping the man would see her annoyed expression clearly as she turned around.
Now, it was time for a bath. She let the thoughts run freely through her mind as the warm drops of water did through her body. No matter how much she obsessed over it, she never seemed to reach an alternate solution. The commanders wanted the militaristic approach of Overwatch to continue unbound. For them, the young man currently in the brink of death was nothing more than an opportunity. A mean for their violent ways. It was not right. She would have never taken part in this if it weren't for the other option. Either he lived to become a cybernetic weapon, or he died. No follow-up treatments. No second chances. It was clearly stated that if the procedure was refused, Overwatch would immediately cease any life support. That meant her patient would die. That she would let another life slip past her.
She sighed. The water had begun to run cold. With a final scrub she stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in a towel. As she let her hair down and began to run a brush through her hair, her mind continued to loop. It just wasn't fair. The man had no direct involvement with Overwatch whatsoever. Sure, he had been found inside the mansion of the Shimadas, one of the largest criminal organizations in Japan. But definitely anyone killed by the Shimadas could not be part of them. The reaction seemed disproportionate to her. Something was missing.
As she walked the long halls of the Japan headquarters and entered the patient's room, her will steeled. He laid there, tubes connecting him to countless machines that buzzed silently. His breathing was more of a continued gasp. His face was still swollen and unrecognizable. His eyes were closed, but she doubted he could sleep. This man should not be forced to take this decision. She should not be forced to present it. It was all wrong. And inevitable.
"Hello." As the cold voice of a professional left her mouth, the disgust inside of her grew. "I am Dr. Ziegler. I was the one to find and stabilize you. It seems that you have finally woken. How do you feel?" She knew the question was idiotic. He felt like shit. The weak groan that came from him also proved he couldn't speak.
"Take it easy. You had several broken bones and severe organ damage. You lost too much blood." With difficulty, his eyes opened enough for her to see the brown iris in-between his burst veins. He probably could only see blurry contours and shadows.
"It is highly unlikely that you will survive without the introduction of technological aid." She gulped. It was true. In order for him to go on and live a normal life he needed prosthetics and organ implants. Maybe if she phrased it correctly she wouldn't need to lie.
"It would involve partial reconstruction of your body with cybernetic parts." His pupils dilated, and his breathing rate increased. The swollen mess of his face morphed into what she could only guess was a frown. "This procedure is highly invasive. And dangerous. We would need your explicit consent for it to go through." She could feel the pressure in her stomach increasing, threatening to make her vomit.
"O-of course we would maintain the highest security considerations for your well-being." She could feel herself sweating. His expression was bewildered. He probably didn't even know where he was. Silence followed, only broken by his mismatched breathing. It had been instructed to her that the less information she gave, the better. But she couldn't do it. She would not play with half-truths.
"However… there is something Overwatch would like for you to do in return for their help." She looked away into her lap, re-reading the form. She could feel his eyes burning her, questioning. She wanted nothing else but to bolt out the door.
"This… procedure." She had to compose herself to continue. "Involves the installation and use of non-essential prosthetics and enhancements." His eyes didn't react for a while. When the information finally was processed, they darted. If his breathing got any more erratic, she would probably have to sedate him.
"Overwatch also expects these enhancements to be put to use in any matter they see fit." How could she be part of an organization that could do this? That could undermine the basic human right of freedom? Were those few more lives she saved truly worth this? She could see he was desperate now. That she was desperate.
"This conversation is being taped. Please, blink once if you agree and twice if you disagree." She truly hoped that he would just agree. That he would make it easier for both of them. But he didn't. Furiously, he blinked twice in rapid succession. She sighed, letting a silent whimper escape her at the end of it.
"I- I should clarify." She moved slightly, scraping the form with her pen. "If it is decided the procedure is not to be done… Overwatch will immediately stop providing any health care or aid." The last words came rushing, in a much more high-pitched voice. He grew still. Stopped breathing. His heart monitor beeped alarmingly.
Even before he turned and blinked once, she knew he had given up. His weak shoulders plummeted, and all the tension that he had built up seemed to deflate. She stood up, thankful her legs still managed to keep her upright. As she moved to the door at a hasty pace, she could still feel his blank stare on her back. She needed to vomit.
The day of the surgery came much faster than she wanted. She was needed inside the operations room. The prosthetics and implants chosen for the reconstruction of the man were infused with biotic technology. One she had developed herself. They were meant to be used to alleviate the host body's initial rejection of foreign bodies. While theoretically they also augmented the body's resistance and regeneration, she never intended for them to be used this way. Somebody had taken her designs and adjusted them, introduced storage passageways, hydraulic devices, sharp edges.
As she stood near the surgeons, adjusting the flow of nano machines into the body, she watched. Watched as they unceremoniously cut off his extremities, even those which still could be used. Watched as they opened him up and pulled at his insides. Watched as they screwed her prosthetics onto him, and tried their functions with electric shocks. Watched as a broken man slowly turned into something complete, but inhuman.
When the surgeons left the room, and he was finally left in her care, she extracted the fine tube with which she had injected him. She looked at him with a face so contorted with unshed tears she could feel it cramp. She whispered an apology to him, through chokes and whimpers. She refused to look at her own face, reflected by the shiny plates that she had helped create.