Chapter Text
Little China, 2074 (1 Month Later)
She's been on his table for nearly a month now. A month of having to hide his business with a wanted criminal inside it. A month of Victor stewing in his anxiety, waking up every morning with the thought that he'll come into work that day, and find himself apprehended.
In retrospect, they gave up the search rather early for an officer of the law, but it was long enough to annoy the ripperdoc. More than once, he's entertained the thought of throwing her out, and leaving her to her own devices.
...It's not really worth the guilt, though. Or the risk of her being captured, and snitching on him out of revenge.
Treatment for her has gone far past her pay grade - whatever damage she's been inflicted runs deep - but an old, sentimental part of Viktor can't find the will to so much as slack. Thankfully, it's also gone pretty steadily and without issue, removing her broken bits of tracker as well as any other mods she insists she wants gone.
Removing what he can, that is. He's more knowledgeable in the ways of biology than most ripperdocs, probably, but he's not so good that he can turn metal back into flesh. The risk of mods is that once it's cut out, it can't be cut back in. She's left with some pieces that lie dormant in her, useless to do anything but hold her together. If there's anything about this situation that's lucky, it's that she does what's she's told and doesn't complain, like a good patient.
Which he thinks is because she might feel guilty, dumping herself on him like this, without so much as an enny to justify it.
'Least she has a conscious, but it leads to a whole other issue; she won't tell him something's wrong unless it'll kill her.
Viktor greets her the same every day. "Good morning. You going to tell me your name today?"
She doesn't. She never does.
It's really not his job to play therapist, psychoanalyzing her like this. He was Trauma Team, not a psychiatrist. However, he can't help her if she doesn't communicate.
"How are you feeling today?" he asks, going over mental checklists in his head as he sits in his swivel chair, turns to his computer, and pulls up her files. Left arm has been fixed, broken tracker has been removed... "Anything I can do to make you more comfortable?"
"No."
Because it's not about comfort, with her. It's just about being functional. Because that's what she is - a function.
He sighs, wishing he had... just more. She's responsive, and cooperative, but otherwise keeps a closed vest. Victor swivels in his chair as he adjusts his hand tool, following the line of her silhouette; where there was once strict stubble, dark brown curls are forming, ever so slightly. It's a testament to how long she's been here.
"I got a question about your medical history here," he starts, knowing he's about to press into something unpleasant.
"Yes?"
"You said you didn't have a history of cancer, but maybe, uh... A prolapse? Or you heard something about 'endometriosis'?"
Her brows furrow, seemingly confused, and Vik hopes that's genuine; shit will get really complicated if she starts withholding past grievances. "Not... that I know of. Why?"
"Well, strangely enough, I can't find your uterus," Vik says. "You had a hysterectomy, I just need to know why. It's important to factor these things in."
"...Oh. That was MAX-TAC."
Ah.
Forced hysterectomy. Not the first Vik has heard of it, unfortunately, though usually the perpetrators are organ harvestors. Shit.
"Sorry," he nods in understanding, but he's broached the subject already. No backing out now. "That why you left?"
Her brow hardens in her pause, and in that silence, Vik almost feels pressured to take it back. But, now that he's said it, he ought to submit to biting the bullet.
Incredibly, though, she isn't all that angry. Instead, she scoffs, giving him a withering look, "No. Surprisingly, I don't begin and end at my baby-maker."
It's about the most attitude she's ever given him. A topic that isn't entirely clinical.
Progress? He's gonna call it progress.
"Okay. So why leave?"
"'Why leave'?"
"Listen. I can only help you if we communicate, right?" he explains, gesturing between the two of them. "But I don't know anything about you, other than some vague medical history, and that you're a former cop and they wanna kill you for it."
But the lady doesn't seem to get it, "You're already helping me."
"I'm keeping you together, but you show signs of physical and mental trauma. You'll survive, but that can translate into more issues down the road. This isn't recovery."
But maybe that's a little accusatory, because she asks something that's audacity kind of makes him double-take, "Why did you leave Trauma Team?"
She's not the first to be nosey; he has a lie already prepared. "You askin' because of my pack? Maybe I stole it."
"It's not just the equipment," she says matter-of-factly, crosshair pupils boring into him, and Vik realizes she's scanning him. The same way an agent would scan a cyberpsycho for potential threats, like their positions aren't swapped here. "No mods. Just the glove. You've got a virgin body, like a real doctor."
He knows she's a cop, but how... observant she is spooks him a little.
...Funny though, how she calls it 'virgin body', like she's been roughing it with all the other chooms. Crass slang from the street. A ripperdoc can be observant too.
"It wasn't... what I expected. I'll leave it at that," But he sighs in defeat, not wanting to answer a question with another question, and not wanting to entertain her any further. Call him hypocritical.
Though he just wants to get down into the schematics of it, they don't get into whatever took place. It may be outside his expertise, something she needs a real therapist for, someone he needs to partner with to give her more long-standing treatment. Viktor knows someone - a tye-dyed-hair hippy of a woman, who left the field for similar reasons as him, and now offers her services for free - but he's been reluctant to drag her into this... legal issue.
"I have - a request."
Oh? That's a first. The ripperdoc perks up, distracted from his current documenting. "Yeah? What'cha need?"
"It's not really something I need," she clarifies, and Vik realizes she's unfurling something from her side - a sheet of crumpled paper - to hand it to him. "But something I want."
Another first. They're making leaps and bounds today, despite how mysterious she remains.
What she hands him is schematics for an augmentation - purely cosmetic.
Which... Eugh. It's awful scary-looking, and besides, she's suffering a blow to her humanity as it is. As a ripperdoc, he can't recommend. "You lookin' to remove whatever flesh you got left, kid?"
"You can put Sleeves on the rest of me, right? And that'll help with the, uh - I don't know, immersion?"
"Well, sure, but... Eh, I don't know..."
"I'm going to pay you back for everything you've done for me. Every last enny, including this."
Viktor massages a temple, looking over the sheet again. V is no professional, but there's details on how to eat and vocalize. A lot of thought was put into this, despite there being no function. A labor of love.
He finds V twisted in her seat to better face him, uncharacteristic to her usual stillness - she's normally more afraid to take up space, to dip her toes in anywhere he hasn't immediately allowed. Now, instead, she looks more... her age. Anxious to jump out. An excitable woman, waiting for the go-ahead.
He scratches at his stubble in thought. Yes, he's been a little reluctant to recommend his therapist friend... but V is a good kid, who came to his clinic, crying for help.
"Sure - on one condition," The ripperdoc opens a drawer, fishes out the card he knows is in there, and hands it to his patient. "Her name is Nessa. You go see how you like her, and I give you a discount."
Crosshair pupils glance over the information, scanning her address carefully. "...I just go see her?"
"A few appointments. That's it. Other than that..." he prompts. "You know, so long as you're paying me, you don't need my permission. You could just... demand I do it."
A shift in her eyes. Something hungrier.
A proper streetkid, when she breaks out into a grin. "I gotta have it, Vikky."