This takes place at the very end of GitS:SAC #16, Chinks in the Armor of the Heart - Ag2O.
At the moment, Batou just couldn't stand to see anybody, even Togusa. Especially Togusa. They all made him sick. Nobody appreciated what they had until it was gone, himself included. Zaitsev had had everything -- a stable, fulfilling career, Olympic fame, a loving wife, physical health -- and he threw it all away. For what? Money? Idiot. He arrived in the workout room and punctuated that thought was punctuated with a particularly forceful blow to the punching bag. Memories flashed through his mind -- all the peaceful, happy times he hadn't appreciated, people he hadn't appreciated. The Tachikoma playing go, teasing the Major about using a female cybernetic body, solving a simple case with Togusa . . .
"Hey, Batou, I finished that military ID you asked me about." Ishikawa tossed a wallet to Batou, who caught it, opened it, and stared.
"What . . . is this?"
"Took an old picture of you and stuck it in with a visual capture of the Major, and used an advertisement for her pose and the background." He grinned cleverly. "You said you wanted to seem like a family guy." Batou just looked at the photo for a long moment. And another long moment. Finally, he asked,
"Who's the kid?"
"What, you can't tell?," Ishikawa asked mischievously.
"I only know four little kids, and none of them look like that."
"Well, sure, only four people who are kids now . . ."
"What, did you use an old photo of yourself or something?" Ishikawa just laughed, and Batou joined him, looking closer at the picture. "Now that you mention it, this does look a little bit like you . . . but that's kind of a twisted little family, isn't it?"
"What, you don't like it?", Ishikawa teased, reaching for the photo. Batou snatched it back reflexively.
"I didn't say that. It'll . . . work just fine. Thanks." He started to go, but Ishikawa called after him,
"No problem. But if you want any more pictures of the Major, you're going to have to pay me for them. This one's a freebie, though."
"What! Why, you . . . !" He was about to give Ishikawa a not-so-playful punch, when the Major's shadow fell upon the two as she entered the computer room.
"Pictures of me? How boring . . . you could just download PR pics of this artificial body online. Some of those are even already nude," she said emotionlessly, but with a mischievous glint in her eye.
"Major . . ," was all Batou could think of to say, but Ishikawa grinned and rescued the awkward moment.
"Hey, Batou, let her see the ID I made for you."
"What? No, no, there's no need for that . . ."
"Sounds interesting. Maybe I'll take a look." She deftly slid the wallet out of his jacket pocket and opened it. She stood there for a moment, expressionless, and then smiled sweetly. "I'm sure glad I'm not really your mother, Ishikawa."
"Ha! Not as glad as I am, that's for sure."
"Oh? Why's that?," she asked innocently, handing the wallet back to Batou.
"You're scary enough as it is."
The memory flashed through his mind as he pummeled the punching bag. A wife. How impossible was that. The Major was nothing like that picture, and even if she did decide to humanize herself enough to return affection, what would be the point? What, would they share experiences by synchronizing, like the Tachikoma? Would that make them more human? There could be no children from a union of cyborg weapons; nurturing of life was the antithesis of their death-specialized existence.
He almost laughed, wryly. There were always the Tachikoma -- the infant weapons whose battle prowess was only surpassed by their naivete. Fitting "children," he supposed. But even caring for them, as he had tried to do, hand-feeding one synthetic oil from containers shaped oddly like baby bottles, was denied him, now that they had been sent away to be dismantled.
Section 9 owned his cybernetic body, they owned his time, they owned his loyalty, but that wasn't enough. They had to own his emotions, too -- all his love and care were, ultimately, futile. The Tachikoma were to be deactivated, the Major was distant as ever -- and there was nothing he could do about it.
Punch, punch, left, right. He wanted to punch right through the synthetic skin on his fists, to feel muscles too tired to move another inch, to be gasping for air. But even those evidences of life, that control, were denied him. Normally he liked the sense of control, of precision, of perfect movement and strength that accompanied working out -- but today he felt helpless. The bag swung wildly with the force of the blows, but Batou felt like he was the one being swung about -- by Section 9, by his emotions, by . . . her.
But what could he do? It's not like he could just forget about the Tachikoma, forget about her. He couldn't really just say, "I don't care" and stop caring. He couldn't change her, not that he wanted to, really. He couldn't run away -- where would he go? Everything that mattered was right here, at Section 9.
All he could do was control his own two fists, as they beat rhythmically and mechanically, in time with his artificial heart.