TEST
In which Morgan learns about Dr. Woodworth's plan for her sister and isn't sure how to feel about it.
Nothing bored Morgan half so much as her medical tests.
She supposed that she shouldn't be complaining. She used to have them every day, twice a day, during her first few weeks outside of her gestation tank. Having them once a week was an improvement compared to that. But it was still the same old shit every time: get her blood drawn, get her heart rate taken, go pee in a cup, go run on a treadmill and do this and that and also that other thing with the headphones (because they thought Neva's deafness might be contagious or something—well, not really, but that's always what she thought when they told her to listen for the beeps). This time, though, they were poking her more than usual. She couldn't help but growl at one of the assistants for it and knock the other one back with her tail—not hard, but enough to get him to back off.
Dr. Woodworth—or Aaron, as Dr. Rosenberg called him—eventually came up to her and sighed. "You're being difficult today, Morgan."
"They're sticking me with more needles than usual. Of course I'm being difficult. Are they trying to turn me into a jolteon?" she asked, remembering the prickly electric fox she'd managed to shock into unconsciousness last week.
"They need to take more samples than usual right now. Try to bear up with it. I know you can," he told her.
"Why do you need them?" Not that she cared, really, but it would be nice to know why she was being treated like a pincushion.
"Samples are always good to have on hand," he told her. "And we're also trying to check your hormone levels. We're planning to do a minor surgery on you soon, but we'd like to wait until the timing is ideal for it."
She stared at him. "Surgery? You're planning to cut me open?" Why was she just hearing about this now? Didn't she get a say?
"Just a little. With your regenerative capabilities, I doubt you'll be held up from battling for more than a day. We're not taking anything you'll miss," he told her.
"But you're taking something."
"A few ova. Your eggs," he clarified. "But only a portion of them. You'll still have plenty if you ever want to breed someday."
Morgan couldn't think of anything that appealed to her less than having a bunch of squalling kits to take care of. Having sex might be fun, but that would require her to find someone she actually found attractive that way, and only the pictures Dr. Woodworth had of the prototype had been intriguing on that front. It would be a long time before she left this facility, though, if she ever did, so she doubted she would meet Mewtwo anytime soon.
Maybe Dr. Woodworth would catch him and bring him here, though. She'd sneaked into his office to read his files on her predecessor, and in them he'd mentioned wanting to set up a task force to do just that. Ms. Stoneson hadn't given him her approval, though, on account of how elusive, powerful, and undoubtedly feral Mewtwo was. I bet I could bring him back if they sent me after him, Morgan had thought while reading that. Yet for now, that was what humans would call a pipe dream, so she spent most of her time focusing on her battles instead. Those, at least, were a more realistic pursuit than chasing after her predecessor.
Morgan considered that as she asked, "Why do you need my eggs? To make your sample collection comprehensive?" Sometimes she imagined he had a shelf of vials in his personal laboratory dedicated to her. He'd certainly had enough creepy jars filled with gels and body parts in his office, spaced out almost artistically among his fossil samples.
"We're hoping to put your sister to some use. We'll create embryos from your eggs and have her carry them to term," he explained.
Morgan shifted in her seat. She wasn't sure how she felt about that. It wasn't that she cared about what happened to her sister, really. Everyone had to pull their weight around here, and since Neva couldn't battle, what else was she supposed to do? Help Dr. Rosenberg around the lab? Even so, something about her sister having to carry her children didn't sit well with Morgan. It seemed wrong, somehow—like it was violating something. Violating both of them, maybe. It wasn't as if they had come up with this idea on their own. Maybe if they had, it wouldn't feel so wrong.
If this was what their creators had decided, though, then Morgan wasn't sure what they could do about it. "Will she be alright?" Morgan asked.
Dr. Woodworth lifted an eyebrow. "I wasn't under the impression that you cared."
"I don't care that much. But it's not like I want her to get hurt, either."
"She won't be," he assured her. "We'll be checking on her regularly and making sure she's comfortable. She can even nurse the offspring, if she'd like. Otherwise, we can take on that burden for her. We just need her to do this part for us."
"Can't you use the gestation tanks?"
"We have commissions we need to develop for our investors," he said.
Right. There were breeders and League officials who wanted pokémon with certain abilities, stats, and appearances to be made for them, which would take generations for them to produce with pokémon husbandry. Science didn't leave those things up to chance, and with the tanks, the unborn pokémon were constantly being monitored, so stillbirths and other defects were less likely to occur. "Besides, the tanks are expensive. Using surrogates is more cost effective."
"So why her and not a miltank?" Morgan asked.
"Because miltanks at least produce milk. Neva has produced nothing of value. This is her chance to change that," he said.
His tone brooked no further argument from her. She looked away from him and nodded. "Okay. Has she been told about this?"
"I believe Dr. Rosenberg is telling her right now. We're aiming to get both of you into surgery next month, so be prepared for that. Though as I said, it shouldn't hold you up for long. It's not something you should worry about."
But Morgan did worry about it in the weeks to come. She worried about it when her surgery date was marked on her calendar. She worried about it when she and Neva were getting their hormone shots. She worried about it when she glimpsed her sister's red eyes, which looked too wide and watery. But as Morgan went into the operating room and felt the chill of the anesthetic creeping up her arm, she didn't argue or fight what was happening. In her defense, she hadn't thought that those were choices she could take.
But when she woke up, sore in her side, she nonetheless felt like she had failed an important test.