Chapter Text
‘You are a nurse. Your profession dictates that you sedate and comfort the sick, but some illnesses cannot be cured. Thus, you must enable your patients to live with what ails them. Assess our new Prime Asset and placate his symptoms, and you may return to your regular duties.”
You hated how Easterman spoke to you. Despite working for Murkoff for a good portion of your new medical career, the Doctor still insisted on treating you like one of his many brainless reagents. Maybe it was because you were a nurse, maybe because you were a woman, but regardless of reason, it frustrated you to no end. Nevertheless, the fact that the Doctor hadn’t disposed of you yet was a good sign. You knew he would have to at some point- you can’t keep a secret project quiet forever- but, until then, there was work to be done- no matter your feelings towards your employer.
As you wandered down the sterile halls of the Sinyala Institute, heels clicking against the cold, clean floors, you took your clipboard from under your arm and glanced at the notes you had been given on your newest patient. The Doctor’s most recent addition to his growing collection of Prime Assets- one Franco Barbi, otherwise known as ‘Il Bambino’. You had dealt with the Assets before- Lord knows how many times you had Coyle breathing down your neck- but the information you were given about Barbi was less than ideal. All you could gather from the smattering of transcripts and data files was that he was the only son of a mafia Don and that he had a bit of a… complex regarding his mother- or rather, mothers. There were a few extra notes regarding his weapon- his Lupara, as he called it- but that was in Easterman’s hands. You certainly weren’t given much, but it was just enough to scrape together an idea of how to handle him. Calm, but firm. Like handling a child.
Approaching the security checkpoint to the Asset holding cells, you quickly checked the contents of the small bag that hung by your hip. Nurse Barlow had put it together for you upon Easterman’s request, but you hadn’t had the chance to look through it properly. Most of the items were relatively standard- morphine shots; bandages; a small taser- but you couldn’t help but raise your eyebrow at the bottle nestled amongst the other equipment. A baby bottle, with an off-coloured liquid inside. You recall Nurse Barlow mentioning a beverage that could pacify Barbi, but you didn’t expect it to be presented in such a manner. You cast your mind back to the Asset’s files, glancing between the door to the cells and the bottle. Your nose wrinkled slightly at the implications, the uncomfortable fluid swilling as you quickly zipped up your bag before the guard could let you through.
Typically, sessions with the Assets would be held in separate consultation rooms. Easterman would claim this was for your own safety, but you couldn’t help but suspect that it was more for Murkoff’s convenience. Peeling your pulverized flesh off the walls of an empty room would be much easier than scrubbing you out of the soft furnishings, after all. However, the Doctor had assured you that Barbi was lucid enough to be assessed within his own quarters. The sickening shrieks of Gooseberry’s drill could be heard echoing through the sector, barely masking the sound of your own quickening footsteps as you hurried your pace towards your patient’s cell. At the very least, Easterman had the sense to put significant distance between the three Assets; you could only imagine what hell would break loose if they were all next to each other.
As you drew closer to Franco’s hold, however, you found that the unpleasant whirs and clanks were slowly being drowned out by something else. Something more pleasant. Music. It was grainy and a little scratchy at points, but it was undoubtedly music. In fact, it almost sounded like Frank Sinatra. You couldn’t quite pinpoint how long you had been with Murkoff, but it felt like an eternity since you had listened to actual music. You didn’t even think that sort of thing was allowed in the facility, considering the fact that the closest thing to ‘outside music’ you had heard was that dreadful Futterman jingle and the patchwork of lyrics Coyle would hum to himself. It was nice, refreshing, almost relaxing, but you knew you had to stay on your toes. Easterman and his toys were always good at luring you in.
You rounded the next corner and immediately found yourself face to face with the large glass window into Barbi’s cell. It was almost like he was expecting you. Reclining in the middle of the room, feet kicked up on a small table, sat your newest patient; an empty seat waiting across from him. It must have been one-way glass because, despite how much you stared, the young man didn’t seem to notice you. It felt a little off-putting just to stand there and watch him, but it gave you the opportunity to admire his living quarters. Low, ambient lighting; upholstered furniture; a monochrome color palette, pierced with splashes of luxurious reds; and, there in the corner, the source of the music: a record player. Despite his very limited options- he was essentially imprisoned, after all- Franco’s room was exactly what you’d expect from the son of a Mafia kingpin- or, it would be, if not for the large crib along the far wall.
Your notes were starting to make sense.
You took a deep breath and swiped your keycard, straightening out your uniform as the locking mechanism clunked loudly. You could hear some of the patrolling security on the walkway above you shuffle anxiously as the door heaved open and you took your first step inside. You were about to introduce yourself, but your patient cut you off.
“The fuck is this?” Franco spat. “You ain’t my usual doctor.” He shot you a smug grin, showing off his jagged teeth. “What? Are the scientists sending me Strippergrams now?”
You chose to ignore his statement and calmly made your way over to the chair he had presumably placed for you. “Hello, Mr Barbi,” you began, slowly sitting down. “I’m going to be your nurse for today. The purpose of today’s appointment is to get a better idea regarding your psychological profile, so I’ll be asking you a few questions- is that alright with you?”
Your patient sneered, his expression halfway between disdain and disbelief. “Wow, you must be new here. I haven’t heard that spiel for a LONG time.” He put his hands behind his head. “You fresh out of medical school, sweetheart?”
“Yes, actually,” you replied, keeping your voice measured. “I’ve been with Murkoff for some time, but I can assure you that I’m very capable.”
Franco snickered. “Let’s hope so.”
Satisfied with the lack of aggression in his tone, you gently placed your clipboard onto the table, the bag at your hip settling into your lap. “Before we begin, I have a little gift for you.” Ensuring not to take your gaze away from your patient for too long, you removed the bottle and slid it towards him. Franco’s eyes lit up at the sight; his body stiffening slightly as if he was resisting the urge to lean forward and snatch it. “The other nurses told me you were quite fond of this. I believe they called it Wolf’s Milk?” You smiled, though the consistency and color of the liquid still turned your stomach. “Consider it a peace offering. I hope we can get along in our sessions together.”
Slowly, almost suspiciously, Franco sat himself upright and took the bottle into his hands. He swirled its contents slightly and held it to the light like he was evaluating a fine wine, the cocky smirk from earlier returning twofold. You weren’t as surprised as you should have been when- instead of twisting the lid off- he eagerly began to suck at the rubber nipple. It was… somewhat uncomfortable to watch a grown man drink from a baby bottle but, in a way, it was an ideal prelude to your assessment. The second he brought the bottle to his mouth, it was like you weren’t even there. The way he clinged to it, his eyes barely open, emitting the strangest little whimpers and gulps, it was an odd demonstration of what you were set to be working with. A man who longed for the comforts of childhood- of infancy- to a near fetishistic degree.
All that just from watching him drink that disgusting cocktail.
After a few more full, savored gulps, Franco drew his attention back to you, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “Thank you, sweetheart,” he hummed through labored breaths. “I’m more than happy to answer your little questionnaire.”
His voice dripped with patronising wit, but you took it as an opportunity to truly begin the assessment. You turned to the correct page on your clipboard, pen in hand. “Alright, Mr Barbi, I-“
“Franco.”
You cocked an eyebrow. “Pardon?”
“None of this ‘Mr Barbi’ shit,” your patient retorted. “Mr Barbi was my scumbag father. Just call me Franco.”
You cleared your throat, setting your expression back to neutral. “Okay then, Franco,” you began again, “I suppose we should start by getting some standard questions out of the way. Can you tell me your full name?”
Franco rolled his eyes. “Franco Barbi.”
“And do you know where you are?”
He looked around, barely moving his head. “Some shithole facility in the middle of nowhere.”
You reluctantly wrote down his answer. “These are just formality questions, Franco,” you said firmly. “They’re to ensure you’re lucid; that you have the capability to be assessed properly. I’m not trying to aggravate you.”
“I know that,” he scoffed. “If it makes you feel any better, most of my psychologists didn’t even make it this far, so you should be real proud of yourself.”
Your body language didn’t show it, but you were fully aware of how many medical staff had tried- and failed- to manage Franco. From what Doctor Easterman had told you, female nurses were able to extract more than male ones but, even then, the smallest mistake would have them splattered across your patient’s shoes. With another deep breath, you put pen to paper again.
“I suppose we should start at the beginning,” you said, keeping your tone as professional as possible. “Can you tell me a bit about your childhood, Franco?”
The young man let out a disapproving tut, any hint of smugness or pride from his previous sentence disintegrating in a near instant. He massaged his temple with one hand and grasped the bottle with the other, taking a swig before he spoke. “Oh boy, can I,” he grumbled. “For starters, I didn’t have no mother. My father killed her when I was- oh, I don’t know- maybe a couple months old? I may as well have been dropped off in a cardboard box.”
You felt yourself somewhat taken aback by how forefront he was about his mother’s death. The notes implied that it was a significant event, even to this day, but he spoke about it like she had just gone to the store.
“That must have been hard for you.” You adopted a warmer tone as you continued. “Not being able to know your real mother.”
“Of course it was, but my father made sure I was never without a replacement.” Franco grinned, but you could tell he wasn’t happy. “I had a new mom nearly every year and when I didn’t, I had a nanny. Though, half the time, those nannies would become my new mom until dad got tired of ‘em.”
“Were these women good mothers?”
“I don’t remember half of ‘em,” your patient replied dryly. “Lotta the time they were there, but not there, you know? Except the last one.”
“Oh, yes,” you chimed. “Angelina- that was her name, wasn’t it?”
“Mhm.” He took another drink. “She knew how to mother, let me tell you.”
You tried to keep your expression soft and compassionate, but your smile wavered slightly. From what you had read, the reason Angelina was Franco’s final stepmother was because of their illicit relationship. In fact, it sounded like the only relationship Franco had ever been in - unless you wanted to count the myriad of prostitutes he had been soliciting prior to his admittance to Sinyala. You continued taking notes, your pen pressed a little too hard to the paper, but were suddenly interrupted.
“You look like her, you know?”
Your head shot up. “I’m sorry?”
Franco leaned forward, resting his chin on his knuckles. “My stepmother. You look just like her.”
A pit grew in your stomach. His tone told you that you should be flattered, but his words evoked disgust. Was this why Easterman said you were fit for this job? Your demeanor was thoroughly rattled; you could practically visualise the spike in your heart rate.
“Franco, I-“
“Though, and don’t tell her I said this, but-“ he somehow managed to close the gap between you more, “I think you’re much prettier than her.”
You put your pen down. “Well, that’s very… sweet of you, Franco, but please don’t forget that this is a very important assessment. Doctor Easterman expects this to be done with the utmost detail and efficiency.”
“Oh, come on,” Franco pouted. “Can’t you indulge me for a little while, nurse? Hell, it might even help your little assessment.”
Grimacing slightly, you folded your hands in your lap.“I will humor you this once, Franco,” you said firmly. “How would it help?”
With a wry grin, Franco tapped at your clipboard, the leather of his gloves producing a firm, sharp thwack as it made contact with the paper. “You’ve already got it written down, sugar. I ain’t ever had any real maternal affection. No mommy to hold me or kiss it all better.” As he continued to speak, you couldn’t help but notice how his tone grew more impassioned. An unusual mix of desperation and suave flirtation. You couldn’t help but hang on his every word; morbidly curious. “I know I look like… this on the outside, but on the inside? I’m just a scared little boy. I don’t know no better.” He was so close to you now that you could smell the cocktail on his breath. “Wouldn’t you like to see what I could have become if I did get that affection?”