The Doctor continued to run her fingers over the tunic Jeanne had handed her. It wasn't as if she had never encountered exceptionally fine textiles before, but a fabric with such a peculiar, striking texture was a completely novel experience.
She couldn't quite find the language to characterize the sensation; it was an elusive, strange feeling that defied immediate description, leaving even a mind as analytical as the Doctor's at a loss for words.
Even more astonishing was the immediate effect the cloth had upon her failing health. The moment her skin brushed the weave, the heavy, suffocating weakness clamping down on her anatomy seemed to recede. She felt a sudden surge of physical strength returning to her limbs, and her mind cleared beautifully.
It was no illusion. Her physical decay had genuinely plateaued, halted by the extraordinary properties woven into the garment. For a considerable window of time, her condition would no longer deteriorate; it was locked into this stable, suspended state.
Though the underlying mechanics remained entirely beyond her scientific comprehension, seeing Jeanne credit these unbelievable phenomena to the Holy Shroud allowed the Doctor to accept the supernatural explanation. She cast aside her usual skepticism, embracing a concept she would have historically dismissed as impossible.
Without wasting another moment, and completely ignoring the fresh blood trickling from her punctured knuckles, the Doctor hastily pulled the crimson tunic over her head. Droplets of crimson spilled across her skin and stained the white sheets of the medical cot.
Then, an even more marvelous phenomenon occurred. The moment the stray blood droplets struck the surface of the Holy Shroud, the fabric itself manifested a striking, natural repulsion to the fluid. The crimson beads simply rolled off the pristine threads, falling harmlessly to the floor.
It was a mesmerizing trait. A textile that looked like ordinary cloth possessed a complete immunity to bloodstains. If someone were to fashion a set of combat gear from this material, would it mean the uniform would remain pristine through the most brutal campaigns?
Yet, reflecting upon the staggering historical value of such an artifact, she realized that if any warrior dared to march onto a battlefield wearing a relic of this caliber as mere outerwear, the high authorities of Laterano would be driven to such absolute fury they would probably string the offender up from a lamppost. It was a level of extravagance that bordered on sacrilege!
However, the divine tunic presented a much more immediate, personal dilemma for the Doctor. As she pulled the fabric taut, she noticed the chest area was tailored with a remarkably generous, voluptuous contour—perfectly mapped to Jeanne's impressive proportions. By comparison, when draped over the Doctor's own frame, the fabric hung completely flat and hollow.
Slowly, the Doctor shifted her gaze, staring at Jeanne's chest with an unmistakable expression of raw envy. The burning intensity of the look made Jeanne shift uncomfortably, wondering if she had somehow caused an offense. "Is this seriously what this woman chooses to stress over given her current state?"
Besides, a fine physique was a gift of nature; what was the utility of channeling such bitter jealousy toward her? If the Doctor was truly that distressed over her lack of curves, she would be far better off consulting Kal'tsit to see if the ancient Lynx possessed some medical methodology to kickstart her development.
"At a critical hour like this, can you please focus your intellect on meaningful matters?" Jeanne chided, tapping the Doctor gently on the crown of her head, thoroughly amused by the sudden display of body envy. "To indulge in such wild, wandering thoughts when your life was hanging by a thread... just how little confidence do you harbor regarding your own form?"
"An individual blessed with such a spectacular silhouette has zero right to flaunt it in front of me!" the Doctor grumbled, crossing her arms defensively. "You are secretly mocking my flat, iron-board frame right now, aren't you? It has to be that... I want to possess a striking, visible contour too!"
Perhaps because her vitality had truly staged a miraculous recovery, the Doctor suddenly possessed the surplus energy to engage in a passionate debate regarding her anatomical shortcomings, even if her tone was saturated with pure jealousy.
She had directed the operations of Babel for countless years, yet almost no one within the organization had ever deduced the reality that she was a woman. That misunderstanding was driven not only by the electronic vocal modulator built into her hood, but also by the depressing fact that her chest muscles were less developed than those of several male operators on the roster.
While the Doctor had never actively sought to broadcast her gender to the world, the reality that her closest comrades-in-arms had failed to notice it after years of shared combat left her with a lingering sense of quiet disappointment. That hidden vulnerability had completely erupted the moment she tried on Jeanne's custom garment.
Jeanne, however, could offer zero practical assistance for such a dilemma. She simply cast a look of profound, gentle pity toward the brooding tactician, lightly rubbing her back to offer whatever comfort she could muster.
"There is no need to despond," Jeanne offered softly, placing a hand over the Doctor's head while voicing a platitude she didn't entirely believe herself. "It is entirely possible that your developmental phase is simply occurring much later than normal. Who knows? By the time our paths cross again, you might find it completely impossible to disguise yourself as a man."
"I have walked this earth for far too many years; if a developmental phase was going to occur, it would have manifested centuries ago," the Doctor countered, refusing to be swayed by the empty reassurance. As a brilliant scholar, she wasn't about to be fooled by a fairy tale that even Jeanne couldn't voice with a straight face. "If my anatomy suddenly underwent a massive transformation at this stage of my life, Kal'tsit would probably lock me in a laboratory and open an entirely new field of scientific research."
Still, she forced herself to find a silver lining. At the very least, when she looked down, she could still view her own feet with perfect clarity—unlike the platinum-haired maiden standing before her, who would probably have to bend completely forward at the waist just to catch a glimpse of her own boots.
"Ah! Your hand is still spilling blood!"
Jeanne's voice sliced through the silence, her eyes catching the steady trickle of crimson welling from the back of the Doctor's hand. The sudden exclamation shattered the Doctor's preoccupation with her figure, prompting her to quickly apply firm pressure over the bleeding puncture wound.
As she remained enveloped by the tunic, a gentle, soothing warmth began to circulate through her internal pathways. Within a brief two-hour window, the sensation of strength became so pronounced that she instinctively braced her arms against the wheelchair and pushed herself up onto her feet!
Though her knees buckled almost instantly, forcing her to drop back down into the cushions, the brief movement left the Doctor completely stunned. She hadn't stood on her own two feet for nearly two months. Ever since her neurological decay had entered its terminal phase, her ruined anatomy had lacked the fundamental strength to support her weight.
Yet just now, she had stood. Even if the triumph had lasted less than a single second before her unaccustomed leg muscles gave out, the failure was purely a consequence of prolonged atrophy, not a lack of internal vitality.
"This garment... its properties are this extraordinary?" the Doctor whispered, her eyes wide with astonishment. "I feel as though I can bypass the hibernation treatment entirely. As long as I keep this tunic on, I can return to my desk and continue directing our operations indefinitely!"
The sheer efficacy of the artifact filled her with euphoric delight, shattering all her prior expectations. It was no wonder Jeanne regarded the Holy Shroud as an object capable of triggering genuine miracles.
Had the relic not been so profoundly irreplaceable—to the point where even a character as shameless as the Doctor felt too embarrassed to voice the request—she would have gladly thrown herself to the floor, wrapped her arms around Jeanne's legs, and begged the maiden to weave a duplicate garment for her permanent collection.
Then again, even if Jeanne refused the request, simply wrapping her arms around those smooth, elegant legs didn't sound like a terrible alternative. Lost in her strategic calculations, the Doctor's gaze drifted downward toward Jeanne's boots, only to find that the premium territory was already completely occupied.
Fafnir had firmly established her domain. Functioning as a permanent draconic leg-attachment, the small dragon was hugging Jeanne's thigh with an unyielding grip, making it transparently obvious that she had zero intention of surrendering her favorite spot to the Doctor.
Observing the subtle shifts in the tactician's expression, Jeanne rolled her eyes with an amused huff. She had easily deduced the ridiculous thoughts racing through the Doctor's mind; the entire sequence of events was unfolding exactly as she had anticipated.
"You can abandon that beautiful daydream right this moment," Jeanne countered, her tone firm. "The celestial energy within the Shroud is merely granting you a temporary window of artificial vitality. Your underlying physical condition remains completely precarious. You surely don't desire to spend the rest of your existence relying on a single article of clothing just to keep your pulse going?"
The Doctor understood the warning perfectly. The tunic was not an antidote; it merely suppressed the symptoms of her neurological collapse, functioning as a magnificent dam holding back a flood. It didn't mean the underlying crisis had vanished.
Yet, even if it was merely a temporary reprieve, gaining a brief window to experience the vitality of her prime was more than enough to satisfy her.
Once her limbs had fully adapted to the sudden influx of warmth, the Doctor rose from her chair and walked out of the medical ward on her own strength. The very first instinct driving her restored mind was a desire to return to the active ledger, utilizing her intellect to shoulder as many administrative burdens as possible to secure Theresa's position.
However, before she could offer her strategic counsel to the throne, she faced a far more daunting task: formulating a flawless explanation to convince Kal'tsit and the rest of Babel that her sudden recovery was genuine, and that she was fully capable of resuming her duties without dropping dead at her desk.
Watching the frail strategist stride down the corridor with renewed purpose, Jeanne could only shake her head in quiet admiration. She felt that if Theresa didn't eventually award this stubborn woman a grand medal or a celebratory banner for services to the realm, it would be an absolute insult to the sheer, exhausting devotion the Doctor poured into Kazdel.