My stomach dropped like I'd just stepped off a cliff into thin air. I shifted in the stiff exam room chair, my boots squeaking against the worn linoleum floor. I forced my shoulders back, took a deep breath, and tried to play it cool.
After all, I'd faced worse than a doctor's appointment. Like those endless nights staring at the ceiling, wondering why the world felt so damn heavy on my chest. Or the way people had started glancing at me lately, not with pity for the chubby kid, but with something entirely unfamiliar, but suspiciously close to... desire?
"That's… not exactly reassuring," I said, my voice coming out louder than intended in the sterile quiet. Even the dim hum of the overhead lights seemed to pull back, as if listening.
Dr. Ryebald exhaled slowly through his nose, his mustache twitching like a wary caterpillar. "No," he agreed. He tapped the tablet once. Then twice. The screen didn't change. "It's not."
I caught the glow reflecting off his glasses. Just one word, centered and steady, as if burned into the glass.
ANOMALOUS.
A prickle raced up my fingers, pins and needles dancing across my palms. Great, just what I needed. I'd come in for a routine checkup, maybe hoping for some answers to the weird pressure behind my eyes, the sleepless nights, and the faint sweetness that lingered on my tongue sometimes, like I'd been unconsciously sneaking candy.
But this? Panic bubbled up, and I shoved it down with my usual defense: sarcasm. "So, either you spill what that means, or I start assuming I'm about to get black-bagged by some shady government agency for super-soldier experiments."
That earned a short, humorless huff from him.
"Normally," he said carefully, "this is where I would explain next steps. More tests. Referrals." He paused, his voice dropping. "Documentation."
He finally met my eyes, and the warm, paternal concern I'd seen earlier when he had first come in had disappeared. Now it was more clinical. Possibly even predatory, like I was no longer just a patient, but a problem he wasn't sure he was allowed to touch.
"I'm going to ask you a question," he said, "and I need absolute honesty."
The room shrank around us. My jaw clenched before I nodded. "Okay."
"Have you noticed any... unexplained physical changes in the last six months? Any unexplained... social changes?"
My pulse hammered in my throat. The sleepless nights and nagging pressure in my skull were one thing, but why did he also seem to have an inkling of the lingering looks from strangers, especially women? Admitting that now felt like cracking open a door I wasn't ready to step through. Not with him.
"No," I lied smoothly, after a beat. "Nothing worth dragging my ass to a doctor for."
He didn't jot it down. Just watched me, like he could see the cracks in my facade.
The tablet chimed softly. The word on the screen vanished, replaced by a spinning icon and text I couldn't quite make out. Dr. Ryebald stiffened, muttering, "Some updates just came through."
"What is it?" I pressed, leaning forward despite myself.
Dr. Ryebald didn't answer.
"That can't be right," he said under his breath.
"What can't be right?" I pressed.
He didn't respond but just turned the screen toward me.
Instead of a spinning icon there were columns of data and lines stacked neatly on top of one another. My eyes went straight to the bolded entry near the top.
Blood Glucose: 4,912 mg/dL
I blinked once, slow. "That's… high?"
For a second, I thought he might laugh. Instead, he pressed his lips together so tightly they turned white beneath his moustache.
"Normal," he said, carefully, closing his eyes, "is under one hundred."
Sweat slicked my palms. I flexed my fingers, trying to shake it off. "But I feel fine. Better than fine, actually." It was true.
He leaned closer to the tablet, as if the numbers might change out of embarrassment. "At levels above six hundred, patients are usually unconscious. Above a thousand, survival is… rare." He swallowed. "At your levels, organs should be failing. You should be in a coma. Possibly dead."
Dead. The word hung there, ugly and final.
But I was standing. Breathing. Annoyed more than afraid.
I looked back at the screen. The number didn't flicker or pulse. It just sat there, absurdly calm.
"Are you sure the machine not busted?" I asked.
Dr. Ryebald shook his head once. "We ran it three times. Different samples. Different analyzers."
He lowered his voice. "Your blood sugar didn't spike. It just stays there. I was sure, too, that it was an error. Perhaps some other condition interfering with the proper reading. But no. There is real sugar in that blood."
The room seemed to tilt, just a fraction. Vertigo? Maybe the reality of my seemingly undead variant of diabetes catching up with me? Maybe just shock.
A new line appeared at the bottom of the screen, highlighted in a warning yellow.
Metabolic Response: Unknown
My pulse was found near my ear this time. "Unknown how?"
He met my eyes again, and curiosity slipped into caution.
"Unknown," he said, "because the human body isn't supposed to be able to do this. Let me tell you something about what that word now means in a medical context. There is very little we now do not know that we should be able to know via ordinary scientific means. When something is unknown today, it means—"
"Magic."
I swallowed more loudly than it should've been in the quiet room.
"So, what happens now?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he flipped the tablet face-down on the counter, like it might summon demons if left exposed. The gesture sent a small, irrational jolt through my chest.
"That depends," he said slowly, "on how much attention this draws."
A sharp knock shattered the tension. We both flinched.
The door cracked open without invitation. A nurse in blue scrubs poked her head in, eyes widening when she saw Dr. Ryebald. Her gaze flicked to the tablet, then to me.
"Doctor," she said, voice clipped but controlled. "Radiology's buzzing asking why your patient's metabolic panel tripped a Level Three alert."
My stomach twisted. Level Three sounded like red flags and locked doors.
"I didn't authorize any alerts," Dr. Ryebald snapped.
"I know," she replied. "The system did it automatically."
The room felt suddenly warmer. I rolled my shoulders, trying to shake the sensation crawling up my spine. It felt like standing under a camera I couldn't see. I probably was under a camera I couldn't see.
Through the thin walls, I could hear muted footsteps. Voices. Someone laughing too loudly down the hall. Normal hospital sounds, but now they felt pointed, like they all belonged to me.
"Give us a moment," he said.
The nurse hesitated. Her gaze lingered on me this time, sharper than before. Curious. Measuring. Like she was trying to memorize my face. Then she nodded and slipped out, the door clicking shut, like a cage locking.
Dr. Ryebald turned back to me. "You weren't supposed to trigger that."
"Sorry," I quipped. "I'll try to have more normal blood next time."
That earned me a startled bark of laughter. It came out rough, then stopped just as abruptly.
Before I could ask another question, the tablet on the counter chimed again. And again.
A rapid series of soft tones filled the room, overlapping, urgent. Dr. Ryebald swore under his breath and flipped the tablet back over.
The screen was crowded now. Multiple panels, each stamped with the same identifier.
My chest felt hollow. "What alert did I trigger?"
A new notification slid into view, stamped with a seal I didn't recognize.
REQUEST FOR CONSULTATION – AUTHORIZATION PENDING
Dr. Ryebald's jaw tightened. "It's too late."
Another knock at the door, harder this time. Except this came with an ignition at the base of my spine, a fire kindling low and spreading. Something sweet and warm, like I'd inhaled pure affection, infused my body.
"Doctor," a new voice called from outside. It was smooth and commanding. "This is Madame Elaine Mercer. I believe you have something of mine."
Dr. Ryebald went very still.
"That's… faster than expected," he muttered.
I glanced at him. "Worried?"
He shook his head, eyes on the door. "That's... complicated."
It swung open.
She didn't wear scrubs. A tailored black coat hugged her curves under golden curls cascading over her shoulders. Her posture was relaxed, but her green eyes locked on mine instantly. Full lips curved in a knowing smile, and that warmth in my chest flared hot, spreading outward. Colors became more vivid and the tightness in my shoulders melted away.
I pressed my tongue against the inside of my cheek, grounding myself. The faint sweetness lingered at the back of my throat, imaginary but convincing, like I'd just taken a sip of something sugary without actually tasting it. A splash of cinnamon.
The tablet chimed again. An icon appeared quickly and vanished. Dr. Ryebald stepped back from me, wary.
She smiled wider. "Well, you're standing. That's a very good sign."
My mouth went dry. "Am I supposed to know who you are? I have a feeling that... well, that I should."
"Not yet," she purred, stepping fully inside, door clicking shut. Her scent of dark, warm honey filled the room. "But we're about to get very, very familiar."