February 2012

The first few days of healing, she would introduce herself to the patients and explain to them that she could help them—heal their physical wounds—that she was proof that mutating could be a positive thing. After a particularly tiring Tuesday, she'd given that up. If they knew her name, they would call it, plead it, or curse it. If they could speak they begged her not to leave. It broke her heart and wore her down, although that was part of the reason that Alex found herself in the workshop—to become tougher and stronger so that she could exercise her abilities and the amount of energies she exerted at will. Her father William, more of a henchman than a doctor, had retaken custody of her after her mother had died and her step-father had given up custody of her around the time that what he referred to as when her "problematic behavior" started. It was her grandfather's idea, however, to homeschool her at his workshop.

Every day for the last three weeks her grandfather Winston Wiley had upheld her to a certain routine: Alexandria had the mornings to herself as she liked, at eleven a.m. on weekdays she would spend four hours with a tutor on schooling (which she had nearly completed) while weekends she would dedicate this time to projects, at three-thirty she would begin her special training, at six eat dinner, then finally at seven her grandfather would hand her a clipboard with a list of patients to be healed by morning—the sooner she completed her tasks the sooner she could slink into the night and pretend to be a normal teenager. And so for twenty-one days her life carried on as so.

The first two weeks Winston would follow her from patient to patient to help her assess their ailments and monitor the way she relieved them. But now he allowed her to work on her own, confident that she could at the very minimal level perform the way in which he required her too. Winston and his employees noted that with the advancing recovery times of subjects meant that they could churn out more mutants than before, although Alex had only been healing a short time—already one of her patients had mutated twice faster than he'd been predicted to.

Today Alex ran her finger down the list of patient numbers, matching them with their admittance dates. Some were familiar numbers whom she had worked on before (3KL966 was a real screamer, 7YR811 was battling terminal tuberculosis—that she couldn't heal). Other numbers were not. Part of her training was assessing their injuries herself so it was her job to ascertain from the patient precisely what emtests /emthey'd been subjected to this round. She worked her way from 5DV441 through 8UU946, humming cheerfully as she only had to muzzle 3KL966 once tonight, when she found herself outside of a makeshift cubicle the held only one patient.

According to her paper, here lay subject 9AX020, in the program 43 days. She hemmed to herself remembering tending to his space-mate 5IW834 her first week, but he'd since mutated and had obviously yet to be replaced. She stepped into the patient's area and pulled a screen behind her to close of the room. Unlike when the doctors operated on patients here, she found alone with her they felt more at ease if they were more isolated, perhaps unable to see the rest of the abysmal workshop made them feel safer. She expected some sort of reaction from the patient, but as she approached Alex noted two closed eyes and shallow breathing. She gazed at the male patient, pondering whether or not she should wake him from his peaceful slumber. She felt guilty about prodding a patient without their consent, even if she was meant to make them better. 9AX020 had no visible injuries aside from vague bruising on a chiseled cheek bone below his right eye, probably three days old.

Tentatively she found herself at the side of his gurney. The sheets looked wet. She pressed two finger on the cloth next to his hipbone, it could have been piss but it smelt like ammonia. She would have to remove the sheet, probably even his hospital gown, to get a look at his midsection. If he had wet the gurney, it was either because he had an accident in his sleep (not totally uncommon) or because he had some sort of internal injury. She leaned towards internal injury because of the lack of visible external lacerations or markings. She ran her fingers delicately up and down the length of the man's arm that rested nearest to her, oh how she hated to disturb him. Her eyes zeroed in on patches of skin that seemed to be yellowing around his inner elbow where the skin was soft and had many veins. Another sign of internal injury.

"Shouldn't we have a proper date first love, before you start teasing me in my sleep?" the body croaked. Alex moved her eyes from his skin to his face as a smile set onto her own. Blue eyes met greeted her surprise with an exhausted grin.

"I'll have to remove your clothes so that I can determine precisely what bits of you need fixing tonight," Alex said, trying to stay dethatched and professional instead of blushing at the Englishman, made apparent by his assuaging accent.

"That'll be the first thing I do when I get out. I'll take you and your pretty green eyes on a date. I was going to eat chocolate cake, but at the speed you're moving our relationship along at, I'll have to catch up," he laughed quietly. But quickly his chuckles turned to violent coughs and he groaned—as Alex removed the sheet she noticed a new stain appearing in his gown, spreading slowly. Not just yellow, but yellow and red. Not good. "I'm sorry," he muttered, suddenly more embarrassed than flirtatious.

She consciously unknitted her eyebrows and smiled at him, softly attempting to put him back at ease. She knew she'd have been mortified if she were the one on the gurney, even though it wasn't his fault. "Nothing I haven't seen before," she lied quietly. "I'll have you all fixed up in no time." He remained quiet. She wished she could remove his bindings but she was explicitly told not to do so without proper supervision should a patient be rabid and attack her suddenly. She wanted to change his sheets. At the very least she'd deliver a new gown and heckle a henchman until she got the gurney replaced.

Carefully, she lifted up the soiled gown and rolled it up to the man's chest. She kept her eyes trained on his anatomy and focused on the biological task at hand. It kept the flush from her face and hopefully his. He hissed however as she laid her hands on abdomen. She looked at him curiously. With his eyes fixed on the ceiling he mumbled "cold hands."

"What happened today?" she asked as she dragged her palms over swollen skin. The puffiness helped identify the area of trouble, she suspected he was suffering severe liver damage.

"Might've been the fire hose… oh no, that wasn't today. Today was electro-shock therapy. Not total electrocution, but selectively," he said. Bitterness tainted his groggy voice.

"Oh. Well that makes sense." He started to laugh again but she pressed down on his flesh causing him to yelp instead. "This is going to hurt a little, but if it's too much the safe word is…"

"Cleopatra." Alex raised an eyebrow at him. "Shakespeare's best work."

"Arguably," she said as she activated. The matter around her hand began to bend, creating a mirage like affect around the healing area. "I'm personally a bigger fan of The Tempest."

"Not a huge fan of Romeo?" he asked through gasps.

"She shook her head. It was hard for her to try to envision her handiwork while carrying a conversation. But healing could be immeasurably painful…imagine all the damage that would normally take months to repair rapidly sewing itself back together within a few moments. That's what white lighters do, they see it all in their minds eye as they extend their energy from one body into another. "Not as bad I thought, just a slight tear," she said aloud.

"Romeo?"

"Oh Romeo. He wasn't very bright, now was he?" she asked, playing along.

"I suppose he wasn't."

"All done," she said as she began to deactivate.

He strained to crane his head to an angle at which he could see the product of her work but gave in to the restraints instead. "What's your name?" he asked.

"Don't have one," she said coolly, as she pulled down his gown. She left the discarded sheet on the floor, fully intending on sending a clean one back.

"Everyone has a name. Mine is—"

"9AX020," she cut him off. "That's the only name you have behind these walls." He looked at her surprised, perhaps a little hurt as well, but she brushed it off. "9XL422. That's my name. Goodnight," said Alex as she picked up her clipboard and moved towards the doorway.

"9XL422?" he called from the gurney. She paused with her hand placed still on the screen and returned her gaze to him. He was smirking at the ceiling. "In forty years when our grandchildren ask how we met, don't forget to tell them how you were so stunning that I pissed myself at the sight of your beauty."

"Goodnight 9AX020."

"Sweet dreams 9XL422."