Chapter Text
Quinn was a quiet child.
Not the comfortable kind of quiet adults praised, but the sort that made people uneasy. So much so, that he drifted neatly out of the realm of well-mannered and into something far more perplexing.
The boy was present, but withdrawn, as though his attention was always anchored somewhere just beyond reach.
The doctor did not usually involve himself in the vetting of orphans. That task was beneath him, relegated to junior physicians and social workers who mistook sentimentality for discernment.
But the ward had requested his presence this time, asking for his opinion on which children might prove… suitable.
A sure sign they had reached the end of their patience.
He moves through the play area with measured steps, eyes flicking from child to child, then back down to the clipboard in his hand. It lists aptitude scores, physical evaluations, and developmental notes. Numbers. Measurements. Predictability.
Nothing catches his attention.
Average children. Average minds. Average bodies. Perfectly mundane.
Disappointing.
He makes a second circuit of the room, irritation beginning to settle in his chest, when something finally interrupts the monotony.
A child alone.
In the corner, tucked into the small home-themed play area. He slows his steps.
The boy is slight—long freckled arms and legs folded awkwardly together, joints sharp beneath thin skin. His dirty-blonde hair is tied back into a flimsy ponytail, longer than most boys his age would tolerate. His posture is hunched, defensive, and his mouth is fixed into a small, persistent frown.
Ordinarily, this would not earn even a glance.
But his hands are busy.
Decapitating stuffed animals.
Methodically, almost reverently, the boy removes heads from fabric bodies and arranges them into neat circles on the floor. The bodies are placed separately, aligned in rows. There is no haste. No mess. Only quiet concentration.
The doctor pauses.
He flips through the clipboard again, certain he missed something.
‘Name: Quinn Navidson
Sex: Male
Age: 7
IQ: 120’
The report continues, dense in arbitrary jargon.
‘Quinn was surrendered willingly by his mother, who declined to leave identifying information. From age six onward, the child developed an unusual proclivity for violently maiming toys. A behavioural assessment involving a live chick resulted in unfortunate conclusions. The paediatric physician Dr White, has formally diagnosed the boy with C.D. He is currently screening for more.’
The doctor’s eyes skim faster.
‘Quinn prefers solitary play but demonstrates a minimum social potential. Some children have grown unperturbed by his behaviour. He maintains a close friendship with one female peer. He enjoys structured group games, shows passion for creative endeavours, and displays some altruistic values toward younger peers.’
Physically healthy. Agile. Exceptional puzzle-solving skills. High emotional intelligence.
‘A pleasure to have in Playcare.’
The doctor lowers the clipboard and looks at the boy again.
A mental scoring that high, at that age is remarkable. More than sufficient.
He circles the name.
When he approaches, the child does not look up. The doctor stops beside him.
Unusual.
He crouches until they are eye level. His voice is calm, clear, and deliberate.
“Hello, Quinn.”
The boy glances up only briefly, meeting his eyes for half a second before looking back down at his work.
“Hello, sir…”
Quiet. Hesitant.
“Do you know who I am?”
Quinn looks at him again, brows knitting as he studies his face.
“Are you here to adopt me?”
The doctor laughs, it sounds ridiculous as it leaves him, rusty and barbed from unuse but genuine. Sometimes the young minds have do have their benefits.
“Good heavens, no.” He continues laughing just long enough to watch discomfort bloom across the child’s face.
“I’m a doctor, here to see how you’re faring.”
Hope drains from the child’s expression instantly, replaced by something guarded. Suspicious. He looks up again, voice firmer now. “Are you here to cure me?”
The doctor smiles.
“Cure you from what?”
He shrugs and gestures toward the ruined toys. “From my…bad behaviour.”
They are side by side, and Quinn resolutely avoids making eye contact, that won’t do.
He places a hand on the child’s knee. The boy startles—but does not pull away.
Interesting.
The doctor softens his voice. He rarely does this. And never for a child. But as his mentor once said, every adjustment is necessary in pursuit of a perfect experiment.
“I don’t think this is bad,” he hums. “I believe it to be a rather, charming hobby.”
The effect is immediate.
Quinn’s face brightens so suddenly that it is almost startling. Sunlight blooming bright through stormy skies.
“There’s nothing to be ashamed of,” the doctor continues, unperturbed. “You’re simply playing with toys the way they were meant to be played with.”
The boy brushes hair from his eyes and, shyly, places a hand atop the doctor’s.
Hook, line, and sinker.
“You’re an okay doctor,”
He grins. “You think so?”
~
They speak for some time.
The doctor pays no attention to the other infants, nor to the uneasy looks passing between the staff as the minutes drag on. Their whispers, thin and poorly disguised, do not concern him. A few even dare to openly glare.
It is, admittedly, an unusual sight: a man of his standing crouched on the nursery floor.
But the doctor allows the deviation. The established order must occasionally bend.
Adjustments must be made.
Always.
For a better outcome.
He learns things the report had neglected to mention.
Quinn prefers bland foods, displaying a peculiar inclination toward the merely adequate over anything richly flavoured or indulgent. He sleeps rather pathetically, with a single battered plush, once shaped like some distinct animal.
On several occasions the child snivels about his embarrassing attempts at closeness with the other children, only to be pushed away again and again, as though his awkward existence alone were reason enough.
The doctor records it all with quiet discretion.
When he finally rises to leave, he promises another session soon.
The boy watches him go with an expression so forlorn it calls to mind an abandoned dog left at the roadside.
There is potential here.
Significant potential.
Doctor Harley Sawyer—Head of Special Projects and, in many respects, the only thing resembling salvation within this wretched company—makes his way toward the main entrance at an unhurried pace. The quiet confidence of the movement is deliberate. No one stops him. No one ever does.
Already, questions are forming.
Questions no one in this region would dare refuse him.
Why has this child been withheld?
Why was his department not alerted sooner?
The oversight borders on negligence.
Harley considers the matter carefully as he steps through the corridor, hands folded neatly behind his back.
With the proper intervention… with the correct adjustments…
Something remarkable could emerge from this oversight.
Something rare.
Something rather—
beautiful.