Are You Proud Of Me?

He rolled his glass eye between his fingers, not with any special flair or skill, just with the basic motor function of his rough hand.

Peering sidelong at his standard-issue dormitory mirror, his faded lavender eye -- the real one -- traced the many scars twisting, crawling, and seeping across his abused chest and arms. Past the belt, over his shoulders, even beneath the soles of his feet, he knew there were more.

'I am here because I wanted to be,' he thought to himself, meeting eye with his reflection and standing a tad straighter. 'I am what I am because I have overcome the difficult without complaint. Without doubt..'

The empty socket stared back at him, urging him to finish sanitizing the glass orb and place it back where it belonged. He did this in the silence of his room, rough fingertips holding back his eyelid as he slid the delicate eye into place and spent a few careful moments positioning it properly.

'I now possess the tools that would have saved your life, father. Would you be proud of me if you knew how I had obtained them?'

--

Dr. Von reminisces on his life choices while getting dressed for BLU shift work.