They don't go to the doctor on the day following the incident. Or the next. In fact, it takes Mr. Lindholm coming back home from a mission in Australia before they all go for a check-up with someone they can trust to be discreet. She allows a sample of her not-blood to be taken from her left arm without issue, but categorically refuses when the doctor asks her to remove her shirt for the stethoscope.
"Angela, it's alright. We're not going to-" Mrs. Lindholm cuts herself off, worriedly chewing at her lips. "The doctor's here to help you. We're here too."
Only that's part of the problem. She shouldn't have lied about the scar coming from an accident. If she'd just said nothing, like she should know is best, she wouldn't have to be hiding the rest of her skin now.
Likewise, it would've been smarter if she had said she doesn't remember what Uncle did to her instead of lying about the injection. It wouldn't even bie a lie. She doesn't remember. Not exactly. Not really. So when the doctor wants to put her through some sort of scanner she opts to give no explanation behind her resistance. She might not know for certain what was done to her during the surgery, but it's a reasonable guess Uncle did not cut her open for just an injection. The Lindholms try to convince her to acquiesce to the scan. They ask her to be brave. Reassure her that it's safe. That everything is alright.
They finally give up when tears start threatening to fall from her eyes - useful things.
All that is left is to wait for her blood test results.
"It's not blood," the doctor announces to the anxious cabinet.
"What do you mean it's not blood?" Mr. Lindholm recovers first, giving voice to all their questions. Angela never did gather the courage to ask what Uncle had actually done to her while she had the chance.
"Exactly what I said. It behaves like blood alright, but there's only trace amounts of red and white cells. No platelets. There's something there I assume does their work, given your daughter is alive and seems to be in good health, but what that is, much less how it works, I've no idea." The doctor says a lot of other things too, but Angela fails to follow most of it as he starts using longer and more complicated words. She catches enough to know he's talking about her body, obviously, and that he concludes with something like: "We should run more tests if she lets us."
The two adults decide it's something they need to think about, for which Angela finds herself feeling grateful. She's in no rush to go through with any of it. If there's something more than not-blood inside her, which there probably is, comprehensive examinations would likely find it. Not to mention her scars would likely also be discovered.
She rubs at the ache above her heart.
"Angela," Mr. Lindholm starts, once they're back in the car. "What happened to you- have you ever talked about it with anyone else?"
"No."
"Keep it that way. The things I've seen that we deal with in Overwatch… if the word got out there's something valuable in your very body… there are people out there who would do anything to get it."
Following the accident, an electronic lock is put on the workshop's door, which is annoying, but at least understandable. Besides, she still gets to help Mr. Lindholm, and even gets to play around under Mrs. Lindholm's supervision.
It's not great, but it could be worse as far as consequences go. Even if Angela doesn't quite know how. Not until the Lindholms tell her she'll be meeting a therapist.
"I'm fine," she insists.
"And we're glad you feel that way. This is just in case there's ever something that you don't feel comfortable telling us."
Her insides freeze at the implication. Do they know? Do they suspect? They must. Are they trying to get her to confess?
"But I'm fine." Her voice cracks, not sounding very fine at all.
When the day comes that Mrs. Lindholm ushers her inside the hideously colourful office with a promise she'll be waiting just outside the door, Angela has long devised a plan of action.
"Hello Angela, I'm doctor Bjorhall, it's nice to meet you."
Angela briefly glances at the woman's outstretched hand, and says nothing.
She says nothing when she explains what the purpose of their meetings is. She says nothing when she asks about her interests, or about her days, or school, or friends, or anything else. She says nothing when she lies about their meetings staying only between them. She says nothing, even though she wants to speak very much.
Does she think her incapable of figuring out the purpose behind these meetings? Or of reading-up on the legalities of a therapist's work? Being thirteen, Angela has no rights to her privacy. The Lindholms do.
And so, Angela resolutely says nothing. Not in the first meeting, and not in the fifth, by which time she's began to bring her earplugs to drown out the incessant chatter on the part of the therapist, and later, the stifling silence.
As expected, Mrs. Lindholm brings the topic up at home one day, as Angela knew she would eventually. Because that's how much the doctor's spiel about confidentiality holds.
"Can you try speaking with doctor Bjornhall? For me? Please?"
Angela bites her lip, and says nothing. She can't. It's safer that way, even though it means acting against her caretakers' wishes. Confirming she's a liar is by far the worse between two bad solutions.
Silence reigns in the next meeting with the doctor. There isn't another meeting after that.
All that is not to say either Angela or the Lindholms have spent all this time idle. Aside from the unpleasant waste of time in the form of said sessions, both the adults set out to figure out just what it is that Uncle put in her bloodstream. And every step of the way, Angela is there. Learning.
To that end, they actually have to buy a few additional machines. First, a microscope, and one so expensive Angela doesn't even know what she could buy with it, to even see what the doctor meant by her lack of blood cells. They seem reluctant to ask Angela for her blood, which is at once exasperating and reassuring. She wants to know too, of course she's going to give up some blood for that. Still, she appreciates them not simply telling her to stick her arm out for cutting. She appreciates it when they insist no cutting will be necessary, even when her not-blood proves to be unreasonably resilient to being drawn out with a pinprick.
What they find under the microscope is indeed not what Angela remembers from Uncle's lab and books about blood cells. The not-cells look like scaled-down computer parts - nanites, Mr. Lindholm calls them in disbelief.
Nanotechnology, he explains, has been something of a holy grail to science at large, and medicinal science in particular in the decades preceding the Omnic Crisis. No lab in the world was ever quite able to produce robots tiny and robust enough to not shred the blood vessels from the inside nor leave waste once they break apart. Then, the war happened, and any research into AI, especially its self-sufficient forms, like what courses through Angela's veins, has ceased or been banned outright. What she has in her blood should not be possible. That it's been made by one man should make it impossible.
The future of medicine indeed.
"So I'm… a proof of concept?"
Both the adults make faces like they've bit into something sour at Angela's words.
"Don't call yourself that."
Where the nanites come from is a mystery. To the Lindholms, anyway. Obviously, they are produced somewhere in her body, but don't seem to self-replicate that they can tell.
They both are growing frustrated, she can tell. She is as well. They need a more thorough look into her body to determine anything more than they already have, and Angela has no idea how to accomplish that without giving away her secrets. Her lies.
But. Even though they're clearly suspecting her, they've let the matter drop entirely following pulling her out of those sessions. She wasn't punished for being uncooperative either when she refused to go anywhere near a scanner or when she refused to speak to the therapist. Other than not being allowed inside the workshop on her own, nothing at all has changed for the worse following the accident. Things are just like they were before. Mrs. Lindholm is still complaining when she tries to join her in doing the chores, and Mr. Lindholm still includes Angela in the outings with his wife upon his return from missions.
She doesn't know what to make of it. They can't have forgotten, no way, so they have to be purposefully ignoring it. Perhaps they are planning something different to make her confess to lying to them. Or perhaps they're waiting for her to come clean on her own. Perhaps they've set a date they're willing to wait until before they decide she's not worth the trouble.
Perhaps. Perhaps. Perhaps. She doesn't know. She doesn't know how she could know.
What she does know is that if she ever wants to grow up, she needs to do more tests. That she needs to tell Mrs. and Mr. Lindholm.
How does one go about admitting to lying for months, in addition to effectively wasting everyone's time by not confessing to it when expected to? There must be good words for it but Angela knows none. Keeping quiet always worked out best for her, but then keeping quiet is not an option in this situation.
On a Saturday morning, Angela arrives for breakfast in a newly purchased tank top. The first she's worn in at least seven years. She quietly takes her seat, waiting for judgement to be passed upon her with eyes set on the scrambled eggs on her plate.
The total silence replacing the bustle of Mrs. Lindholm scurrying about the kitchen marks the moment she's spotted. She doesn't look up.
"Oh, Angela."
She doesn't cry when warm arms lock around her in a tight embrace, but it's a near thing.
They once again wait for Mr. Lindholm's return before visiting the doctor after extracting from Angela a promise to allow the tests to be done. When the time comes to get inside the roentgen machine, she forcefully clamps down on the desire to rub at her suddenly hurting chest. She remembers Uncle's lab on that night in excruciating detail. All the things that were there. All those that weren't the day after. The dull ache in her heart has served her well as a reminder.
She patiently sits at the edge of the laboratory table, waiting for the photo to be brought in as if she hadn't the faintest clue of what to expect. If they ask her, well, she didn't know something was put there, right? She still doesn't. It's possible there's actually nothing that shouldn't be there in her chest and the pain is psychosomatic.
But there is. Of course there is. She's felt it ever since she woke up that day.
Angela has seen x-ray photos before, and hers look… different, to put it mildly. It's as if her body were full of glowing dust. Nanites - she realises upon exchanging looks with the adults. That, of course, isn't the news. The news would be the object lodged under her ribs, where her heart alone ought to be. The Lindholms say nothing, the doctor asks if she's feeling any pain.
"Not really," she easily replies. She's not feeling any at the moment. No point in worrying her caretakers over matters beyond their control.
It's hours later, when they're going over what they've learned in the workshop that the inevitable question is raised.
"How did it happen?"
Even though she's been preparing for it from the moment she saw the photo, words catch in Angela's throat. She rubs at her breastbone, hidden again under her usual clothes, at the one scar only she can see - the one in her mind's eye. She wets her lips.
"I don't know." She doesn't know. It's not a lie. It's not for sure that Uncle implanted her with what appears to be some sort of heart enhancement the same day he cut her open with a power saw, so whatever she'd say would be speculation. Besides, what would be the point of telling? What's done is done.
"Angela," Mrs. Lindholm starts, hesitantly, carefully. "You know that you can tell us anything, right? We only want to help."
"I know." She smiles her best smile. It's easy. "And I'm grateful you're doing this for me."
Mr. Lindholm makes to say something, before catching a look from his wife and closing his mouth.
"It's alright. We love you."
She blinks at the couple, the ache in her chest lunging to the point she can't help but wince and rub at it to try and ease the pain. They love her? That is… good. It's good. It means her hard work to weave herself into their lives is paying off. It means her gamble to tell them has paid off. She should say something back, she knows, but what could that possibly be, she has no idea. She does what she knows how to do instead, and remains silent until the world makes sense again.