Chapter Text
"I don’t know what you expect me to do here," Baptiste says. "I’m not a scientist. Don’t you have O’Deorain for cases like this?"
De Kuiper isn’t shot or filled with shrapnel; there is nothing physically wrong with him, except for maybe being dangerously underweight. But Baptiste has never seen a scientist who eats 3 meals a day anyway, and he isn’t a nutritionist, either.
"Moira specializes in.. brute force science, shall we say. She is able to keep him sedate when we need him to be, but cannot figure out a way to keep his mind together long enough for him to fight. He is a risk on and off the field, hence," Akande gestures at the one-way glass that separates them from Project Sigma. It isn’t an exciting sight; he is asleep, half under the covers on one of those unforgivably uncomfortable talon-issued cots anyone who stays at base is subjected to.
As he and Baptiste had made their way to De Kuiper’s room-cum-holding cell, Akande had implied that De Kuiper still has not quite put together who he is staying with, nor that they are using him. Or, at least, intend to use him once they have turned him into a weapon.
Baptiste represses the urge to shudder at the thought of another Widowmaker - because that is exactly what ‘Project Sigma’ is. Another civilian stolen away and put to use.
He turns away from the glass. "I don’t have much experience fixing a broken mind, sir. Call me again when someone gets shot, yeah?"
Akande isn’t as frightening to Baptiste as he seems to be to most everyone else, but it still makes him jolt when Akande grabs his arm before Baptiste can walk away. "I was not asking for your help, doctor. You will work with O’Deorain." Akande releases him, looking maybe even a little bit regretful, straightens up and clasps his hands behind his back. "We need this. We need him, to level out the playing field between us and Overwatch. He is, simply put, a genius, and we do not have many of those around here."
Baptiste wonders how many more geniuses Talon thinks they need before they have a number they are satisfied with. He wonders how many more vulnerable people he can watch be manipulated before his conscience speaks up.
It’s looking to be getting pretty close.
Moira is the only person at Talon Baptiste can stand working with like this. The rest of them are too cocky, too mouthy, too dead-set on violence. Baptiste is no saint, but trying to patch someone up while they boasted about the arterial spray of the child they’d just killed isn’t something he enjoyed. Mauga is the only exception; only things had been odd between them, lately, as if Mauga knows Baptiste is getting soft. Something to deal with at another time, he supposes.
"Siebren," Moira begins without looking up from her papers, and for some reason the use of his first name makes Baptiste uncomfortable, "Is the greatest astrophysicist in the world, and yet cannot hold a conversation for longer than sixty seconds. He also has a habit of either killing Talon agents on the field, mistakenly, or trying to kill himself." Baptiste looks to the figure asleep on the table. They had removed his clothes, Moira’s mystery compound strong enough to knock him out and keep him out for as long as they need (or so she claimed), through whatever they did. There is an intimidating number of syringes filled with varying amounts of substances lying on the tray next to his med cot, and Baptiste can see the outline of each individual rib as it raises in tandem with his breaths. "It’s not yet clear whether that part is a mistake as well." Her expression when she looks at Baptiste is not a happy one, nor is it particularly melancholy. It speaks of, maybe, a hint of uncertainty.
"I don’t know that putting him under the influence like this and then digging around in his brain is the right decision for anyone, here," Baptiste says.
Moira rises and makes her way over to Baptiste with a large, circular object in her hand. "Perhaps not," she remarks, and then clicks her tongue. "But it is what we have been told to do, and so we will do it." She hands the device to Baptiste. It’s heavy, thick metal with silicon covering the curved edges. Moira lifts De Kuiber’s head up, with surprising gentleness, and instructs Baptiste to slide the object under him. It cradles his skull and, while not looking particularly comfortable, he doesn"t even twitch.
Where he had looked at least lithe before, now, under nothing more than a thin sheet with no clothing to bulk him up, De Kuiber looks almost emaciated. "Should he be this thin?" Baptiste asks.
Moira raises her brow at him. “Should I?”
Baptiste shakes his head. “I mean, are you feeding him?” Moira looks almost confused. “You say he can’t hold a conversation for more than a minute, yet you’ve been trusting him to feed himself? How is he supposed to be able to fight, to control himself, if he isn’t taking care of his body?” Baptiste turns to her, feels himself get angry - this shit always made him angry, this expectation of Talon to churn out killing machines that are completely vulnerable off the field without giving them the very basics they need to keep themselves alive. It’s just like the post-Crisis gangs, in Haiti, the ones that take in children and turn them into nothing more than pawns to be used when they need to manipulate. Turn them into killers.
Moira looks avoidant, chewing on her lip absently. “You are right. It’s only necessary.” For someone as intelligent as she is, Baptiste can’t help but feel that she forgets that she, and those around her, are human, if only by a slight margin.
Feeling minorly embarrassed by his outburst, Baptiste tears his eyes away from De Kuiper’s ribs to look at the screen hanging above him. There, little bursts of light connect and run between shadows of images. Colorless, mostly, and without sound, they play out on the screen: someone’s, probably De Kuiper’s, hands, writing furiously.
Moira notices his shift in attention and pulls a remote out of her lab coat pocket to unmute the screen. Sound begins to filter in through the speakers on each side; gentle, scattered piano chords. “The tool you placed under him has billions and billions of miniature sensors that cover and penetrate Siebren’s skull. This is what he is thinking about, right now and always, or at least as long as I have been working on him.”
Baptiste can’t tear his eyes away from the screen as De Kuiper’s hands fit the pieces of a device together. “Always?” The images are shadows still, but Baptiste can see his hands were shaking.
“Every time I have done this, yes,” Moira says. “This is the event that put him in the state he is now.” Onscreen there is a blast, and though the speakers clearly aren’t powerful enough, nor is the device, to communicate the true volume of it, it still seems earth shatteringly loud in Moira’s lab. Baptiste reaches up to plug his ears, but before he can reach them it stops, leaving a ringing that fades off into nothing, and darkness on the screen. The sequence repeats itself again, starting with De Kuiper’s frantic scrawling. Moira mutes the screen again. “He created a black hole.”
He looks at her; something in her voice draws her to his attention. She is still staring at the screen, but now a hint of something like anger graces her face. “Right in front of himself, he did this.The pain would be unimaginable; split, into multitudes upon multitudes of pieces and thrown into endless realities, only to come back together again. Any living being would be damaged beyond repair. Yet,” Moira shifts her gaze to where De Kuiper still lies, motionless, on the table. “He has survived, if only just. What he did was more than anything here on this planet, more than anything to do with this petty feud between Talon and Overwatch. More than what either of us have ever done.” Moira looks like a different person, for just a moment, more like a weary old scientist reaching the end of their research than a power-hungry genius working for the world’s most infamous terrorist organization. “He is much more than a tool to be used.”
Baptiste follows her gaze back to De Kuiper. Every day, every moment to repeat the worst scene of your life thus far without reprieve. He imagines seeing his manman being ripped apart by a bastion unit in front of his child’s eyes, every day, for years. He swallows the bile rising at the back of his throat and turns away. Moira does not seem to notice, fixated upon the screen once more.
“If you tell any other individual, Talon or otherwise, about this conversation I will harvest your organs while you sleep.” She says, unbidden. Baptiste lets a hysterical burst of laughter jump out of him in response. When he looks at Moira, she’s almost smiling.
With the initial brief on De Kuiper - Sigma’s - condition over with, Moira and Baptiste work together in her lab whenever he is not on assignment. Out in the field he grows wearier with each civilian he sees torn apart in Talon’s desperate search for information. He spends no less time taking care of each Talon soldier that limps to him in battle with a shot leg, still staunches the bleeding and gives them a biotic shot, but if he takes a little longer to get his supplies out and ties the gauze just a little bit tighter, no one seems to take notice.
Occasionally, Mauga will ask Baptiste to come to his room.
Breath hot in Baptiste’s ear, wild hair tucked behind his own, “For just a little fun, Baptiste,” he’ll say. “Just you an’ me, pretty boy.” Pretty, Baptiste knows he is not, but desperate for a night that doesn’t involve holing up in a dilapidated building or watching a man’s worst memory play over and over he most definitely is.
Baptiste sucks Mauga off like he always does, Mauga pulls Baptiste’s braids too hard like he always does, and at the end of the night Baptiste leaves feeling vaguely like he needs a shower but also oddly tender, too.
In the lab, with Moira, his own knowledge of medicine goes almost completely unutilized; instead, he acts as an extra hand for Moira when she needs it. Initially he was irritated at what felt like a waste of time (and perturbed at the idea that he had never even met Sigma, yet was around his nude body at least once a week for hours on end), but as his missions get bloodier and Mauga more reckless during, Baptiste finds himself relishing the small bit of time he gets to work in peace and quiet.
It isn’t until the seventh or eighth one of these sessions that anything of interest occurs, however. Sigma’s psychological progress had still been at a standstill as Moira had attempted to question him several times after her and Baptiste had worked together, only to find that Sigma was yet unable to produce coherent answers. Not only was there no progress, but Moira seemed to have either abandoned or completely forgot her thoughts from that first time in the lab. No more calling Sigma by his given name, nor criticizing Talon for their desire to use him as a weapon. He seems to be ‘Project Sigma’ for good, now, and Baptiste wonders if it might be a way to preserve the last bit of conscience Moira has left/
He is bent over Sigma’s body, checking his vitals to ensure that Moira’s recently raised dosage of sedative wasn’t pushing it, where Moira herself is poised in front of her whiteboard, scribbling equations of which their relevance Baptise has no knowledge. He has but a moment to notice Sigma’s rising heart rate before the door beeps open and Akande is in the room, bringing along with him an air of palpable frustration.
“Ah,” Moira says. “I was wondering when you would lose your patience.”
“There is pressure,” Akande says, though from where he does not specify. He turns his gaze to where Baptiste is still hunched over Sigma’s unconscious body. “How much longer?”
Akande is a person rooted in reality, here, on the ground, despite his preferred fighting style. He is a perfect businessman, a good leader; but he doesn’t understand the concept of a mind too broken to fight. Baptiste fights the urge to tell Akande he may never be able to use Sigma as a weapon - but he knows his place. He may be somewhat valuable, but that doesn’t mean he isn’t expendable.
“We’ve stabilized his physical condition, at least.” Baptiste can hear Moira scoff from her spot across the room.
“The form in which he resides means nothing if his mind does not work,” she says. “If he cannot distinguish between friend and foe, his usefulness is null.” Baptiste wants to shake her. “But I’ll admit, having begun to feed him has allowed him to gain some of his strength back.”
“And has this made his mind steadier?” Akande demands. Moira looks at him boredly, but Baptiste can sense there is something else behind her eyes, there.
“No. It hasn’t, but in all this time you’ve been standing in my lab as a businessman telling me how to be a proper scientist I probably could have-”
“Hello?”
Baptiste nearly tips his stool over; so focused on Akande he had been, he hadn’t noticed Sigma’s eyes opening. “Can you hear me?” He asks. Baptiste nods.
“Uh,” he says. Out of the corner of his eye, Baptiste registers Moira slinking forward with what he presumes is a tranquilizer in her hand. Something about putting Sigma back under doesn’t feel right; something about the fact that a higher dosage made Sigma wake rather than stay under for longer definitely doesn’t. His eyes dart, his breathing quickens, and his anxiety is so palpable Baptiste can feel it rolling off his body in waves.
Akande takes a step forward. “My friend,” he says genially; when he uses this voice, his Professionalism and Charm voice, Baptiste can see how he rose so easily to the top. Sigma fixes his gaze on Akande’s enhanced arm with what looks like awe. “Please, remember how you came to be here. You are perfectly safe.”
Sigma sits up.There is a surprising amount of control in his actions for someone that is supposedly completely unhinged. “Safe, perhaps, but I am certainly confused. Weren’t I just in my bed?” His voice is lightly accented, lilting, his tone unflinchingly polite. Baptiste can see his white knuckled hold on the side of the med cot.
“You sounded to be in pain while asleep,” Akande lied. “This man,” he inclines his head to Baptiste, “heard you while passing by and alerted doctor O’Deorain here.”
Don’t include me in your manipulations,
Baptiste thinks. “You are lucky we intervened when we did.”
Something about Sigma’s body language says he isn’t buying it. Baptiste doesn’t blame him; they’re all acting awfully suspicious. “My name is Jean-Baptiste,” he says. “I am your doctor.” Sigma’s eyes narrow, his first voluntary sign of distrust.
“But we’ve never met!” Behind him, Moira goes to slide the needle into his neck. Baptiste reaches his foot over to where he hopes Moira’s is and stomps his boot down as hard as he can. Her nostrils flare but she stays silent. He can see the look Akande sends him, he knows he will pay for it later, but he cannot allow this man to be put back down after he clearly fought so hard to be awake. “The only doctor I know is Ms. O’Deorain.” Moira wrinkles her nose at the title.
“That’s true,” Baptiste says. “But you can trust me.” He gives Sigma what he hopes is a reassuring smile as he gently pries Sigma’s hand away from the cot. It’s very bony, like the rest of him, and alarmingly cold. “See,” Baptiste says, “let me take your vitals, yeah?” He holds his thumb to Sigma’s wrist, who has finally managed to tear his eyes away from Akande, who stands stone still, watching, and is focusing instead on where he and Baptiste touch. His pulse is sluggish despite his only just fading panic.
“Moira start a timer, please.” Baptiste has done this enough he can count steadily in his head, but he feels like he needs to break the silence. He watches her silently lay the syringe she is still holding on the tray behind Sigma’s cot and replace it with a small watch sitting there. “Akande,” Baptiste says, and hopes this won’t get him into shit later, “I’ll let you know if he’s in pain again. I’m sure he’ll be fine for now, so there’s no need to worry. Right?” He turns to Moira and silently begs her to agree.
She ignores him. To Akande she says, “He’ll be fine. Now out of my lab, Ogundimu.” Moira’s insubordination elicits nary a glare from Akande, and Baptiste is shamefully jealous at her abject freedom.
“Please do,” Akande says to Baptiste. He leaves, almost silently, and if Sigma notices this he doesn’t show it.
“You are very warm,” he says instead. Baptiste blinks. “Your hands are very soft.”
“Well,” Baptiste says. “That might just be because you’re super cold. Do you, uh.” Clothes. He’s fucking naked.
Moira bends down to whisper in his ear. He forgot about her completely at Sigma’s oddly intimate observations, and it nearly makes Baptiste jump. “Dress him and take him back to his room. And,” she leans so close it feels like she’s about to bite off his ear, “if you ever try and hurt me again I will tell Ogundimu you are working for Overwatch and you will be shipped back to what’s left of your family as a cadaver.”
She isn’t smiling, this time, when she steps back to look at him. The timer goes off.
“Sixty-three bpm,” Baptiste lies absently. “Let’s..”
“Let’s heat you up and get you back to your room.”