CHAPTER ONE

IN THE CORNER of a medium-sized office was a sleek black desk. A computer sat on it along with several notebooks, pens, pencils, and a cell phone, all lying there in a fashion so organized they seemed to be molded into the desk. The floor and three walls were a calm baby blue, and the fourth was a huge window. Through it one could see that the sky was gray and dark, beautiful in a different way than normal, and so, along with the lights turned off, the computer was the only thing that shed light into the room.

In a feminine voice, the machinery read:

Ninety one percent.

Ninety two percent.

A boy stood behind the window, watched the rain pour gently down, and listened to the thunder roll, feeling trapped in his office. He rolled his shoulders uncomfortably, wishing the computer would either hurry up or never finish. He already knew that the loading graphs and charts wouldn't give him and the hospital ward team much more information, but he hoped it would at least confirm something new. Anything new.

He rolled his shoulders again as the computer continued counting.

Ninety three percent.

Ninety four percent.

Ninety five percent.

Trying to momentarily distract himself, he started looking into the window at himself. He had bright, messy orange hair (that he proceeded to run his nervous fingers through) and ocean-blue eyes. He wasn't very tall, only about five feet and maybe five inches, nor was he broad. For a nineteen-year-old, he looked very small and very young. His white lab coat just added to the effect, making him look as if he were only playing doctor.

Unfortunately, this was not a game. The boy, known in this life as Will Riverside, had been a doctor there at the medical wing of PIPA for two years now, since the day after he graduated medical school and the day before he turned seventeen. This kid was a genius, and it had been obvious since he turned eight. That day he changed back into himself.

Ninety six percent.

Ninety seven percent.

Ninety eight percent.

Ninety nine percent.

Upon hearing the number, Will clenched his teeth and tightened his muscles, his eyes fixed somewhere past the window, his ears locked on the feminine voice of the computer, and his mind clutching something between hope and fear.

One hundred percent.

Will stood there, frozen, the voice echoing in his ears and sinking into his mind slowly, slowly.

The phone on his desk rang, knocking Will from his thoughts. He shook his head and walked over to the desk, then glanced at the caller ID and picked up the phone.

"Anything?" came his friend's voice, an unusual sliver of desperation lying hidden.

Will stayed quiet for a moment, surveying the graphs and charts of information. He sighed loudly. "We reconfirmed that it is not caused by a bacterium, fungus, or virus. And we need to look at the karyotype again."

An angered and annoyed sigh could be heard through the phone, along with a voice: "So nothing. It was all for nothing."

"No," Will argued, "We reconfirmed-"

"For the fifth time, Will! The fifth!" Another sigh came through, this one sadder. "We put you through all that agony for nothing."

Will flinched, and his chest, neck, and arms hurt again as he remembered the incident.