Who will tend to our injuries?

He was now alone in a room with a woman called the Black ****.

Contrary to the impression he gave others, Sasha Sokolov was not a man devoid.

Really, other parts of his body were just more ready to react to a Sharp doctor lady and her forceful examination than he was afraid. Or maybe the fear amplified arousal; that wasn't unheard of among soldiers.

Despite what he’d been anticipating, she really did want to just examine him.

The white-haired young man removed layers of his clothing, pulling off more coverage to reveal pale skin, the toned muscle beneath, and the glittering silver of his two automail limbs. Which lacked either. They reflected the dull blue light of the darkened examination room, glaring off the flickering projector the blue-haired Doctor was pulling between slides.

“Of course nobody tells me I got a goddamn amputee coming to live in my sleepy little village. You don’t mind if I smoke?”

Sasha didn’t have time to say that he didn’t, before she lit up.

“Well, as far as your general health goes, of course you’re exceptional. Tip-top shape. I could probably run you through the Rangers training courses right now and you’d fucking kill it.”

Up close, it was clear just how short Dr. Pelletier’s skirt was. Even giving it that title, instead of something more suitable like ‘belt that tried really hard’, seemed grandiose. Her legs went on absolutely forever, and when they crossed, as she often tended to do under stress, the sheer mass and power of her thighs were evident.

She could put those thighs to all kinds of uses, to hurt and heal alike.

Sasha did his best to lean out of the smell of **** and cancer now clouding up in the room, whose sole window was closed, its curtains drawn against the ravages of sunlight. At least, even with that, this place had an odd sense of quiet and peacefulness as they ran through their physical workup.

Sasha had been to doctors before, many times, even before losing an arm and a leg. He knew what to do, he knew what to expect, he could even talk to them at a decently competent level. More than that, though, Dr. Pelletier clearly believed in peace and quiet more than many of their fellow nekomata.

This was the first moment Sasha was almost alone with his thoughts, as she shuffled through files and scoured drawers.

“Okay. Lucky for you, Hanzo got in some shipments of anti-rejection **** for automail, back when he was thinking he’d get those bum legs replaced. It didn’t work out so nicely, as you probably saw in his shop. He’s told me to do whatever with the shit, so let’s see if it can help ease your transition.”

Sasha was still suffering chronic pain. He’d just never bothered to report it, even to the Captain. Since it wasn’t at the level where it would disable his ability to work and fight, it never seemed material.

Stainless steel didn’t yield. The places where artificial met natural were chafing like Sasha had no clue was even possible.

At least his nerve endings no longer felt like they were on fire.

“Unlike most of the bozos I get in here, I bet you’ll keep to the dosage instructions by the letter, so no need for that speech. But I bet you do need the ‘don’t try to do too much’ speech. Especially since you’ve signed up for the Mayor’s scheme.”

“I suppose having an outsider come in to do this is… strange.”

Pelletier spared a deathly shallow smile. “You have at least that much awareness. Honestly, a lot of girls around here are so bored, a newcomer doesn’t scream danger to them, but excitement. You’re not just foreign, you were in the war. Gonna prescribe you some special meds, boost your stamina and productivity, all that.”

Considering Pelletier seemed to know her trade, Sasha couldn’t help but wonder why she hadn’t gone to serve.

He had no clue about her circumstances or history, so he just recounted his own. Details that seemed mundane to him, like being brought as an orphaned child to the Major’s program, raised for war, and augmented physically were rattled off as steadily as one recounts their favorite sports team.

As this jaded, chain-smoking doctor watched in growing astonishment.

“So the rumors were true. If we were doing this kind of shit? Supersoldier programs, experimental ****… I can only imagine what the Empire and the Unity were getting up to.”

Losing, primarily. Especially when Sasha and the Major were in town.

“Fuck the goddess, and me while you’re at it...”

A manner other people would chafe at just as bad as the stumps where his arm and leg used to be was instead… soothing. Neither of them filled the air just to avoid the gnawing silence.

“... Doctor, if I can ask, why did you sign up for the program…?”

For once, Sasha saw a woman who didn’t exude supreme, dour confidence. She took a moment to consider, letting more silence and smoke hang in the air.

“I wish I had some grand reason, like a lifelong desire to be a mother, or wanting to help the village or leave a legacy. I dunno, that stuff doesn’t exactly repel me, especially as I’m getting on in age. Twenty-five and unmarried.”

A nekomata maiden wouldn't get too many more viable years, considering the cycle of growth maturity was only a bit compressed compared to human beings, despite an average lifespan differential of almost half.

As had been true throughout history, the flicker-races felt the drive to do things, like having kids, early and often.

Their chance would be over in the blink of an eye.

“And like I said, it’s something new. A lot of us girls have played around with each other, but you’ve got something we just can’t get without breaking the village codes and bringing in more outsiders.” The doctor took another puff, this one right in his face. “Hope you’re ready, because once word gets out you’re here, you’re going to have to beat them off with a stick.”

Well, it was going to be tough work, but somebody had to do it.

Sasha was ready to do his part to keep nekomata civilization going.