Chapter Text
"Junco?"
A light female voice calls to him. He doesn't reply.
"Junco."
His head rotates ever slightly towards her, an aversion to providing spoken acknowledgement.
Shuffling is heard by his side. He's reclined in a rather uncomfortable metal chair, arms on the sides and head placed back against the open centered rest. A slight pop paired with a quick airy hiss is felt in the back of his skull. The connectors, from what he knows, are like some type of oversized component plugs. There is recollection of how they felt in his hand when they were first shown to him. The intrusion causes what feels like a small headache. He doubts he'll ever truly get used to that.
"Respond to me, please. I need to know you're conscious."
Translation; I need to know you're alive.
He simply gives her a small hum back.
She sighs.
He knows she's paused in her place, thinking about what to say to him. He's been here for a good several weeks now, so he's started to pick things up rather quickly. His hearing has always been good, yet now it's one of the only things he has left. The last few plugs are removed and there's a click, the chair rising to a normal sitting posture. She walks around behind, beginning to fidget with his bionic right arm. She said he'll be able to use it like normal once she connects everything accordingly. She also told him she will have his eyes done soon but they'll come after his legs. He'll be able to see again. But... he doesn't know he wants that right now.
He remains still at least another few hours before she walks away, adjusting her tools and setting up to transport him back to his designated spot in the hospital ward of this place.
Gibraltar.
That's what it's called.
Base for the organization known as Overwatch. He signed himself away to it given the promise that they'd save him, as long as he accepted becoming an agent. He didn't really think twice about it. There wasn't enough care to do so. He remembers one of the officers coming to talk to him. He introduced himself as Gabriel Reyes, who said he'd be in charge of him from that point on. That he'd get him back on his feet. Junco doesn't believe that but has no intention of backing out. From what he was told, this guy really fought to have him on his squad. Something about the head honcho here not liking it held things up a tad, he said.
He hears the woman walk back over. Her arms slip under his own and she gently slides him off the metal chair to a soft rolling bed. She's relatively small, he's noticed, yet she can lift him without much help needed for these daily transfers. Once situated, he uses his left arm to move about for some semblance of comfort. He goes still once more, just as he was in the operating room, his face turned away from the direction he knows the woman is. After he's set up with an IV and monitoring equipment, the doctor speaks up.
"I will be back in a little while. Do you need anything?" She asks.
Junco shakes his head lightly.
"Okay." She replies, softly.
Her footsteps depart the room, leaving him on his own.
This is his reality now. It was made sure of that this would be known. That he would never forget. From living days filled with harsh training and nights of escape, to becoming a stagnant pile of spare parts, limbs that only fill half of the fabric his clothing is made for.
After a while of silence, his left arm twitches hesitantly. Dragging his palm across the surface of the mattress, his hand slowly rises to his face. Fingertips graze his chin, following upwards until they meet the edge of the bandage over his face. He presses lightly against it, ghosting over where his eyes had been.
He utters a small, shaking inhale.
An almost wheezing exhale follows.
This repeats.
And then again.
Curling forwards, his shaking hand plants itself at his side for support, fingers gripping at the sheets. He grits his teeth, fighting off the devastating urge to scream, a pained groan escaping in its place. Wetness begins to pool against the bandage, soaking into the absorbent material. The fear he felt that night begins to bud in his chest, causing air to catch in his throat halfway through his second cry. His mind isn't sure what to hang on to as the memory flashes. A sudden gleam of silver. An exclamation of anger. Frozen, he can do nothing but suffer through his erratic breaths, the heart rate monitor spiking, blaring his current state out to the world.
It's not long before he feels a hand on his arm. Gentle and calm, the same woman's voice can be heard through the veil. His name is spoken with reassuring words tailing it. She sits by his side, keeping contact with him until the episode fades. This takes several minutes that feel like hours.
She gets up, returning momentarily and lifting Junco's hand up to place a cup of water in his palm, encouraging him to drink. He just holds onto it. Her presence remains by his side until his mind becomes numb. He uncurls himself, lying back against the raised back rest of his bed. He takes a deep inhale, followed by one quiet, long release.
"Doctor Ziegler?" He asks.
"Yes, Junco?" She replies.
"Stay."
His tone is almost in the form of a question, yet it's more of a plead.
"Of course." Ziegler says.