Clara Newhall's Guide to Saving an Unperson

Individuality

AN: To be completely honest, I don't know much about hospital/emergency room prices, much less illegal hospital/emergency room prices. Then again, I also don't know much about medical care at all, nor the Russian language. This is basically a giant pot of inaccuracy.

-----

"Doctor Newhall.'

Clara snapped back to reality. "Hmm?"

Janice stood in front of other, crossing her arms. "Did you fall asleep at the reception desk again?"

Newhall straightened. "No, no, just dozing. Is the night shift over already?"

"Yes, it is. You've been picking up a lot of shifts lately; maybe you need to lay off. I am capable of handling this place while you're gone, you know."

Newhall yawned. "Of course you are, Doctor Shepherd. I just don't want to miss any action."

Janice narrowed her eyes. "Does this have anything to do with Smiling Boy? You've mentioned him a lot lately."

"I changed the file name, Jan," she answered. "It's Akim now."

"Uk-yeem?"

"Akim."

"However you say it," Janice waved a hand dismissively. "But that's not what you should be worried about. I just got the bill back from his handler. $387 dollars?!"

"What? That's reasonable. We don't price gouge."

"Price gouge?! That's not even a net profit!"

"Well, we want them to come back, don't we?"

A silence ensued, in which Janice and Clara stared wordlessly at each other, Janice with baffled indignation and Clara with sleepy satisfaction. Finally, Janice broke the silence.

"Do you LIKE him?"

Clara drew back in surprise. "Of course not. He's over ten years younger than me. We've barely talked."

"You TALKED?"

"Just once."

Janice shook her head and leaned over the reception desk, face-to-face with Clara. "In case you've forgotten, we don't talk to unpersons."

"Pssh. Show me where that's written. Janice," she straightened and looked her partner in the eye. "It's fine. He was hysterical and I calmed him down. I didn't hurt anything."

"But ever since you've been... weird. Taking more shifts in case he comes back. Doing research on who-knows-what. And now you're falling asleep on the job."

"Akim isn't a problem."

"No, Clara." Jan shook her head in mock sadness. "You are."

-

Jan had a point, Clara supposed as she flopped into bed at noon. She had never had a conversation with an unperson. They were all too out of it, or violent, or brainwashed, or their handlers were too controlling, or they didn't speak English. Maybe it was a little bit cruel and unfair, but at one point someone - she couldn't remember who - had explained to her that talking to an unperson only upset them. They were so focused on forgetting their humanity that being reminded of it could only cause them pain and confusion. It had always made sense to Newhall, in a dark way.

But Akim was different. He knew he was a human. Maybe he was young enough to keep hoping for something better, or maybe he still remembered who he was before all the surgeries and procedures - but no, he couldn't remember having a name. Whatever the case was, though, it didn't matter. Akim wouldn't be an unperson for long. When Clara Newhall set her mind to something, she did it, unless some scheming trust fund kid framed her for double-manslaughter. But that was beside the point. The point, however bizarre and possibly creepy, was that whatever it did to her business, this obsession was worth it to protect him.

-

An indeterminate distance away, Akim was sitting on his own bed. He had a small room to himself, but if he got up and moved around too much or sat on the floor, someone would always show up and ask what he was doing. The bed was his dominion, and it was where he kept all his prized possessions: his knife, a sharpener, the bullet from his shoulder, and a few small pieces of paper he'd found on missions. He had nothing to write with, but he could read, and they had words on them. When he was bored he would reread them over and over, or translate them into different languages in his head. Anything else he needed was in the bathroom, or was delivered to his room every morning.

Akim was stuck in bed even more than usual now, recovering from his injury. Even though the thought of the bullet remaining lodged in his shoulder kept him awake at night, Akim had done what the doctor said and let it work itself out. 

That was what he called himself now, Akim. It was an indulgence and he only did it about once a day, feeling guilty and skittish for hours afterwards. Every glance from a superior made him sure that they'd found out about his new form of contraband, that the doctor had called back and told them about it, that they could read his mind and just knew. Once, Just once, he'd whispered it to himself from underneath the bedsheet. It was the second time he'd ever said it aloud, and it filled him paradoxically with feelings of deep security and ice-cold terror.

His door opened with a click from the security system, revealing Kruschev. For a moment, he was sure his master had somehow found out and was coming to put a stop to it, but instead of chastising him, he asked, "How is your healing progressing?"

Akim sat up on the side of the bed and rolled his sleeve up, displaying the scabby wounds.

Kruschev nodded gravely. "I believe you've had sufficient time to heal. Training will pick up tomorrow morning. Be ready." Training was hard and unforgiving, but Akim preferred it to being stuck in bed. He smiled at the thought of getting back in the game. But Kruschev wasn't finished.

"Your wounds will leave a scar. Perhaps it will remind you of your stupidity in the future." Oh. They hadn't talked about the incident yet. Kruschev's steady stare meant he expected a response.

"...I apologize. I didn't mean to injure myself further."

"You know your body is not yours to injure."

"No. I belong to Mother Russia." Akim closed his eyes at the familiar words. Thinking of Russia personified as his human mother brought him comfort. He should have thought of her instead of panicking.

"Yes. You make your country proud by doing what I say. Undermining my goals only hurts her. Do you understand?" If Russia was his mother, Kruschev was the closest thing he had to a father. When he searched his memory, he remembered being a child, though he couldn't remember any moment in particular. He couldn't remember ever having parents, but Kruschev was always there, showing him Mother Russia's will. The truth was, he didn't need a name to be happy. He didn't need anything.

"Yes, Master."