"Doctor Peterson, you're not taking my sharpshooter's eye. That's his livelihood, God damn it."

"Captain Redfield, be reasonable! His memory is nearly gone, along with his sanity. He has no need for the eye. Point of fact -"

"Fact is, my soldier sacrificed more than you can imagine. Piers Nivans doesn't deserve to have anything more carved out of him. While he's under my command, your bullshit excuses are for the birds. He's a soldier, not a specimen. Don't you dare take away the respect he's earned twice over."

"We think it may hold clues about the enhanced C-Virus strain. Getting all the information we can will help us in finding a cure. We want to heal your partner." Horseshit. They could take blood or get a biopsy of another body part, but his eyes? Those enchanting, haunting hazel eyes with their sharpened flecks of gold. Those flawlessly bold eyes. "Have you forgotten, Captain? That eye is completely dead. There's nothing we can do to get it back, leaving it there as a constant reminder. Removing the eye benefits both your soldier, and my doctors." Eye. That was right… Bubbling water pouring down around them as his fingers clasped the wounded shoulder of his partner while he grimace in pain, watching as the color drained from that single ocular while the oil facility deep in the crushed around them. Adrenaline and fear of losing his partner had driven Chris to bring him to safety, something more even. He had almost forgotten that he could no longer see with that eye. Seeing the tawny haired dissociative soldier had been impossible, the mental horror stricken feeling of Piers' declined state turning over the whiskey he'd had to drink for bravery the night before. Fear of seeing him wasn't the penetrating soul shatter that most everyone assumed it would be. But it was the complete lack of recognition he feared, that same look that his once lifelong partner, Jill Valentine had looked at him with when Albert Wesker stole her mind. Only Jill had a cure…, there was something that could be done to save the former B.S.A.A. operative. For Piers, there was only the darkness.

That phone call had done more to wound the former P.T.S.D. sufferer than these petty little peons could ever have imagined. To recall how pathetic he had been rendered. Back to the bottle that Piers had found him in, just to be able to face the daunting challenge of seeing those shadows of a memory dancing just behind empty eyes. That weakness should be gone now. The guilt was killing Chris to see photographs of the surgeries and hearing word that electricity was once again surging through Piers in the most painful of ways. Seeing Piers… it was so fucking wrong to leave him behind. Never leave a man behind, he had always functioned that way. Point of fact, it was A.T.L. Nivans who had broken that rule when they had come into contact with the C-Virus and dragged his Captain from his men's sides as they turned into mutated creatures, and he had never once been alright walking away from them. "Listen quack, you aren't using my partner as a fucking pin cushion. Yeoman told me you about the blood and did every biopsy known to man. Bones, skin, organs. You don't think that's enough?! You don't need shit else from my partner. From now on every test comes through me. Anything you even think of doing, gets signed off by my badge or isn't done at all."

"That is not possible! Captain you are not qualified to make medical decisions based on Agent Nivans' behalf. More than often your partner, spends his days drooling from the corner of his mouth like a vegetable, or trying to tear that useless thing from his head, that you keep insisting he require. Agent Nivans is a soldier he is certainly prepared for what we did to him. A man talking to himself has been more fit to deal with his own care than you are."

"What the fuck do you mean, what you did to him?" Baritone dripped with loathing, a simple explosive verbal confrontation becoming a deeply bellowed rage that started with a simmer as the file still clutched in tightening arms of the doctor seemed to be used to protect him like a shield. The little blue folder with all its tabs. The cage doors of a rabid dog were broken down as the full understanding of what wretchedness transpired before Chris' very eyes; roaring as a titan while his face contort in misery, slamming both fists down upon the desk of the would be dead man, double hammer fists crushing the heavy wooden slat just as it easily as it would Dr. Peterson's skull. Scarred broken knuckles from years of clobbering their enemies to dust, now forcibly restrained from colliding murderously with a torturer by continuing to pummel down upon the cracked desk, smashing its contents downward. He didn't need an explanation to know that Peterson had done. To know the reason that he fought so hard for consent was because he had already done the surgery… All this arguing was for naught, and that irreversible travesty had already taken place. Restraint cut loose as blood clung like spittle to wounds of splintered wood that stabbed into pounding meat hooks, frantic fervor shards of wood to pieces. They took it, God damn them, they took him.

Security fumbled their way inside the terrified doctor's office, making what meager attempt they could make to stop the tantrum like outburst. Grasping out at one of the bugling veined forearms which heaved above the Captain's head and back downward to crush yet another bit of desk before turning on those who would stop him. Swinging one man with ease by the arm, his scrawny body falling limply in the broken mess. Jerking up the scrunched uniform by the collar and hoisting up the torso of the fallen security officer, a fist drawing backward to pummel down upon the ripe fruit. The sound of birds fluttering or papers scattering somewhere in the distance as the 'good' doctor playing Mengele ran for through the door, folder files flopping noisily as they drew attention, fist poised to shatter bone and cartilage loosening like a dead boa, reaching out for the photograph of that once so youthful face…, covered in gauze. No… this wasn't Peterson's fault… It was his, and it was time to right the wrongs.