Chapter Text
september 3rd 2010: afghanistan
Following the dry season came violent rain, and amidst the fighting, there were men, women and children dying.
Only thick mud remained where dry sands had been several hours earlier, but Doctor Isadora-Michelle Moore strode through it, eager to meet those who needed her help. Her skin was hot and clammy beneath her doctor's uniform- even the deep brown complexion she had inherited from her parents had not protected her from the harsh heat and debris of Afghanistan. And despite the tight braids that she worked on each night, Isadora's coil-like curls frizzed with the heat and humidity of the place.
Isadora's eyes met with a teenage boy across the street, who evidently noticed her doctor's uniform, and ushered her over. He stood in the doorway to what was left of his home, desperation in his eyes as he shouted for her to come quick. Isadora made her way over, her partner Dr Adrianne Valentina swiftly behind her. The rain continued to pour as they ducked through the doorway, and the boy showed them over to where another child lay- this one was much smaller, a girl, no older than ten. Isadora had never seen a wound so horrifically infected. It stretched across the child's abdomen, exposing part of her large intestine, cloudy discharge all around it.
"Please... help." The boy whispered, his voice timid.
"We're going to do all that we can," she assured him in broken Arabic, as Dr Valentina handed her gloves out of their large bag of medicine supplies. "What is her name?"
"Layla."
"Okay, Layla?" She called clearly. "My name is Doctor Moore, I am going to treat your cut, okay? You're a very brave girl, you're doing great." I
Isadora pulled the gloves on, and began her examination. The wound was old, at least two days old, so there was no excessive bleeding to worry about- she pressed gently on the surrounding area but the girl instantly cried out in pain, and Isadora pulled her hands away, turning to her partner.
"The surrounding area is swollen, red and hot to the touch," she told her colleague, in English now. "No movement in the area, exposed organs. How are her vitals?"
"Not good," Dr Valentina sighed, removing her stethoscope from her ears. "Her pulse rate is far too high- one hundred and thirty beats per minute and she has an elevated temperature. Her breathing rate is accelerated too."
Isadora turned back to the patient, feeling her hands and feet. Ice cold. "Well, the wound is definitely septic, this seems to be a surgical case, so what's our approach, Adrianne?"
"We should get it clean and closed as quickly as possible," Valentina said, checking the bag once more. "But we're out of nearly all of our supplies, and I have no instruments for this procedure. I'm going to contact base, see if they can send a van out."
With that, Dr Valentina ducked out of the room, communicator in hand, leaving Isadora alone to monitor the patient. Five minutes passed before Layla began to convulse- the portable heart monitor Isadora had attached beeped erratically- cardiac arrest. Isadora lunged into action, immediately performing child CPR, as calmly and purposefully as she could. A billion thoughts crossed her mind as Dr Valentina burst back into a room, placing a portable oxygen mask over the child's face.
"Where's that van?" Isadora panted, urgently.
"The ETA is fifteen minutes," Dr Valentina told her, voice laced with annoyance.
"She may not last that long!" Isadora said, and in tragic irony, the heart monitor prompted her: primary pulse lost. Stop CPR. "No!" She said, continuing chest compressions, regardless of the message. "No!"
The teen boy who had led them there was sat back on his heels, watching, as if he had watched a billion deaths before. Isadora continued and continued until she was pulled away, unable to fathom the loss of a life so young, from a preventable wound. They all sat in silence, and Valentina closed Layla's brown eyes, the sound of rain louder than ever.
"It's okay," the boy said suddenly. "You tried your best. Tomorrow, I will dig her a grave beside our mother. They will both rest in peace."
Isadora's heart shattered in two. She had spent so long studying, for this? Eight years in university, three in residency, for what? She couldn't save even an innocent child. She thought back to a show the boys were watching at base, where the protagonist had the ability to heal anything, using glowing hands and movie magic. At the time, she had scoffed. Now she wished it was real.
"Sadie," Valentina's voice was faint, soft, out of focus. Then it became clearer. "Sadie, your hands."
Isadora looked down. And her hands were glowing.
~
2011: SHIELD headquarters
Isadora-Michelle didn't appreciate the threats.
And she certainly didn't appreciate being pulled out of her real job- she was just lucky the residents at New York Presbyterian were competent enough to manage on their own. The sleek black car she had been picked up in pulled up outside the large building which was SHIELD, and the car door was opened by a familiar face.
"Dr Moore," the man said, his voice all business.
"Director Fury," she answered, climbing out of the car and straightening out her white lab coat. "I would've appreciated if your goons had given me time to at least change out of my scrubs before flying me all the way out to Washington."
"Well, this is urgent, and we need your skills as a doctor. So the scrubs will come in handy," Fury said as they walked into the building. He waved off a timid assistant who approached with a stack of files. "I don't need to remind you of our agreement, do I?"
"I slave away for no pay whenever you need me to, and in turn you do the decent thing, and prevent me from losing my job," Isadora smiled sarcastically as they entered the lift, although it was true. Without SHIELD's protection, she would have lost her job if anyone found out about her powers.
Mimicry, they'd called it. Whatever skill she needs- strength, speed, healing- she can hone, by mimicking what she has seen, real or fictional. But most powers took a lot of effort and mental strain, so Sadie stuck to occasional use of her healing skills to ease the pain of terminal patients. She'd learned that any more than that wasn't worth it, brought more trouble than benefits.
"If it could be any different, it would be," Fury said, and the elevator began its descent down, down, down. "And you're no slave."
"So are you going to brief me?" Isadora asked, tapping her foot impatiently.
"Your patient has been on ice for sixty six years-"
"Then my patient is dead."
"Would I call you here for a dead man?" Fury asked as the lift doors opened.
He lead her down a corridor and into a large room, where many agents stood, all doing different jobs, some just staring at whatever this spectacle was. And there, in the centre of the room, was a lump of ice, with a man in it. Isadora scanned the monitors and couldn't believe her eyes. Steady heart rate, steady core temperature despite the ice-
"So, Dr Moore," Fury piped up again. "What's our next move?"