Chapter Text
Diego doesn’t know why he’s afraid of needles. There was no traumatic incident that sparked his phobia, no psychological conditioning that fed it (not about needles, at least—god knows there was psychological conditioning abound in other areas of all their lives at the Academy).
You could call it an irrational fear for that reason, but that doesn’t seem quite right. There is an inherent unpleasantness about needles: they’re sharp, they can hurt, break skin, draw blood even. They’re small and invasive, and for some reason, that makes them scarier to Diego than other things that could hurt him. A blade, a gun, a fist—those were at least honest ways of inflicting pain. Or so his brain told him.
His earliest memory of needles is at four years old. He and his six siblings are lined up in a neat, single-file line in the infirmary, not one of them fidgeting an inch while under the severe gaze of their father, who looms as always as an imposing presence in the corner of the room. Pogo stands at the head of their line, a scrub-like, white apron over his normal, crisp suit and a tray of syringes on a table at his side. The kind chimpanzee was not usually in charge of their medical care, but their most recent nanny had left just as quickly as all the others had seemed to over the past year, and Mom, as Diego would come to know her, would not be created for another two months.
Four-year-old Number Two (he doesn’t have a real name yet, none of them do) doesn’t know what these shots are supposed to do, but he knows to do as he’s told, and so he waits his turn and watches as Pogo prepares the syringes. The silver needle seems to glint harshly in the sterile light of the room as he plunges it into a vial, drawing a clear liquid up into the barrel. He pulls it out and depresses the plunger ever so slightly to release any possible air bubbles, and Two can’t help but notice how viciously sharp it looks.
Number One steps up with no hesitation, arm bared and ready, and the sharp smell of rubbing alcohol fills the air as Pogo wipes a swab over his arm before stabbing the needle into his skin.
Stabbing. That might have been a harsh word. But that’s how it appears to Two, the needle piercing his skin, going into his arm, into muscle, and it lingers as Pogo emptied the syringe’s contents into One’s bloodstream, feeling like an eternity. One, ever the strongest of them, doesn’t even flinch. Two finds himself having to squeeze his eyes shut, an overwhelming feeling of nausea sweeping over him.
“Master Two,” Pogo says gently, “it’s your turn.”
Two opens his eyes to see that One is standing to the side with a plain, tan-colored bandage on his arm, leaving a clear avenue between Two and Pogo. He steps up and swallows nervously, yanks up his shirt sleeve with white knuckles. The swab soaked in alcohol is cold against his skin, and he watches with wide eyes as Pogo picks up the ready syringe, drawing it closer and closer to his arm…
It’s no more than an inch away when Two steps back abruptly.
“D-do I have t-t-to?” he stutters out, anxiety tinging his every word. He regrets his actions almost immediately. He can feel his siblings’ eyes burning holes into his back, and as soon as father barks out a reprimand, he flinches harshly.
“Number Two! This vaccination is of the utmost importance for your health, and you will take it without complaint!”
Two can only nod, averting his eyes to the floor as Pogo approaches him once more, but he can feel the needle coming, and panic overwhelms him once more as he draws away. “Ii-it’s just, I—”
“Number One, restrain Number Two until Pogo is finished administering his vaccination.”
“N-no, p-p-please!” Two cries, but One is too loyal, and he has his arms around Two in an instant, his brute strength keeping him in place. Tears slide down Two’s cheeks as he struggles in the hold, but it’s no use.
“Just try to relax, Master Two,” Pogo says sympathetically, but he quickly and resolutely plunges the needle into Two’s arm anyway. There is a sharp flash of pain. Two’s vision goes white, then black.
The next thing he knows, he’s lying down on his bed. His arm throbs with a hot, dull pain. His father, siblings, and Pogo are gone—he is alone.
He cries until he is called to dinner.