Clara Newhall's Guide to Saving an Unperson

Confidentiality

AN: So this was initially supposed to be a Marvel fanfiction but it's not now. However, it operates on comic book logic, where there are hundreds of nefarious organizations running around causing mayhem. Plus, there are all kinds of superhumans via said nefarious organizations. Basically, it's a comic book universe. You can think of it as Marvel, or DC, or the Powerpuff girls, or whatever if you want to.

Kinda wrote this whole thing on a whim, and it's my first non-fanfic. So... when I'm famous, future readers, you'll be able to look back at my younger days and say "Wow. She was an idiot."

Speaking of which, I'm gonna be writing a lot about things I don't understand here. If you notice anything inaccurate, please call me out on it. I may fix it and I may not, but really, please do.

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Dr. Clara Newhall was not a villain. She also wasn't a mad scientist, or an amoral money-grabber, and least of all was she a hero. She also wasn't a doctor, not technically. She had passed most of med school, but had been unable to finish due to being inconveniently framed for double-manslaughter by a rival. Said rival was now one of the premier surgeons in America, and Clara was here.

Where "here" happened to be isn't really of importance. WHAT "here" was was the most successful underground medical service in the world. Dr. Newhall never asked unnecessary questions, adapted to abnormal anatomies as easily as switching fonts on a computer, and never charged more than she felt was necessary. She didn't need money. She didn't do it for the money. She didn't do it for the glory or for any higher purpose. Sometimes even she didn't know why she did it. When she stood in front of a mirror asking herself what got her up every morning, the only consistent answer she could offer was "I like it," and that was enough.

Newhall still stung at her lack of legitimacy, which is why everyone called her Doctor - it put her in a good mood, and a happy doctor, however technically qualified, was better at compromising. She had also never taken a Hippocratic Oath or any equivalent, which proved convenient on occasion. Sometimes, for example, to complete her job, she would skip over nasty inconvenient things like informed consent.

Ordinarily she wouldn't be so callous, but she didn't work for gang bosses, arms dealers, or dictators. All of them had people for that, people with actual degrees. Her clients were the lowest of the low. Not supervillains, though one or two might drop by occasionally. Newhall's calling was for the people no one was supposed to know existed. Usually that meant people thought to be dead, assassins, human guinea pigs, and combinations thereof. She never asked for informed consent because most of her patients were in no position to give it. Almost all had handlers who did the talking. In her mind, Dr. Newhall called these people "unpersons." It was like they didn't exist, and she was just a mechanic repairing a coffee machine or air conditioner. 

She didn't doubt that many if not most of the unpersons she came across were being held against their will in some way or another, but business was business, and that wasn't her business. They would be in the same position if she hadn't been involved, and she'd seen how others in her profession worked. They didn't care for their patients' well-being, just their usefulness, and they would never waste expensive anesthetic if it wasn't absolutely necessary. If Newhall wasn't around, the numerous shady organizations she worked for would pick one of those people to send their unpersons to, and that would be worse.

Yes, Clara Newhall was happy. She wasn't expecting a Nobel Prize anytime soon, but she also didn't consider herself a bad guy, not at all. She did what she enjoyed, and she wasn't hurting a thing. It was just life, and life was good.