Title: Extraordinary Measures

Author: J.M. Flowers

Rating: M

AN: I post this chapter needing to set some things straight, especially so after a review I received on the last chapter: "You didn't finish your other story, why bother with this one?" I don't know how to explain this without sounding like I'm asking for pity, which I'm not. I suffer from a mental illness called Bipolar Disorder, or Manic Depression. Most of my story ideas come about in episodes of mania, times when I don't sleep or eat or function normally. Imagine having the energy to be able to run six marathons - that's my mania. Conversely, I have my times of depression; no desire to do anything and certainly no desire to write, where I can easily sleep for 18 hours and still be exhausted. That's when projects I started in mania fall by the wayside. Like, They Named Me Sofia. But this story is different - I started this in the winter of last year and reached out to Kaitlyn in February when I began rewriting. It's lasted through a lot of different moods (which cycle really fast while they're still unsure of a correct combination of medications to treat me) and it's still something I come back to - in times of mania and depression. This story hasn't been something I quit in the past year and I'm not going to quit it now. I promised Kaitlyn I would see it to the end, so that's what I'm going to do. If you'd like to come along for the ride, hop aboard - I swear it's Extraordinary.


Non est ad astra mollis e terris via

"There is no easy way from the earth to the stars"

The Memory Machine.

It had been a dominating force on the news for nearly a week: the magic machine that would actually allow one to relive their memories. Countless professionals had been weighing in on it - both in amazement and utter fear.

Callie had scoffed as it flashed across the TV screen again, "What a hoax."

Arizona had shushed her, leaning forward.

"Dr. Randolph Lewis, that man most have deemed a 'magician', has reported that he is near completion on his machine, with trials coming closer to 100% accuracy," the reporter had stated. "More after the break."

Arizona had leaned back, finally relaxing against Callie. "You wouldn't do it?"

"What?" Callie had laughed, "No. Are you serious? How many people has he killed already? It's a money ploy."

"But once he gets it right?"

"Arizona, you're a doctor," Callie had stressed, scrunching up her features, "There will always be a risk. I can relive my memories just fine in my head - with no chance of death."

Admittedly, not all of the trials had failed. There'd been a few special cases, participants who'd lived claiming to have felt the touch of a deceased parents fingertips on their cheek or tasted the kiss of a long lost lover. One or two, including the man who'd alerted the media, had woken up with tattoos that hadn't been traced into their skin before going under, but Callie had still been skeptical. It could easily have been faked.

"Would you?" she'd asked softly.

Arizona had shrugged, her eyes searching the room momentarily before settling on Callie's. "You don't know what it's like," she'd whispered, "To lose someone you love and know you'll never see them again. I'd give anything to laugh with Tim, just one more time."

"It's all in your head," Callie had promised, pressing a kiss to Arizona's temple, "Everything is right up there, there's nothing new with the machine. It's all just memories."

Arizona had closed her eyes. "It's still something."

#

"Kill me," I howl, scratching at the tiled floor of the hallway outside OR 2, trying with all my might to beat Arizona to her spot six feet underground. "Oh God, please kill me."

"I'm so sorry, Callie," someone offers, "We did all that we could."

Liars.

Mark pulls me into his lap, stroking my hair, the angles of him both increasingly sharp and softer than ever. I sob roughly, burying my face in his chest. It smells all wrong: musk where I'm craving the coconut of Arizona.

"It's a dream," I suggest, swallowing some of my tears, "We're married. And we're going to have kids together. And married people don't just d-" The last word gets caught in my throat, releasing more of a me. A tsunami of emotion. This can't be real.

The door of the OR clicks closed, snapping me to attention. "I have patients," I mumble, wiping tears from my eyes and forcing myself to my feet.

"Cal-" Mark tries, but I push away from him.

"I have patients."

Except I don't. I don't have anything.

#

My eyes open on Denia, loosening the restraints clasped around my arms. "Thrashing?" I ask, earning a nod. Her eyes are red, the obvious stress waning on her and the full force of an orthopedic surgeon flailing on her watch clearly doing nothing to ease the pressure. "Sorry."

She shrugs, wiping at her eyes stubbornly before turning away.

"Once more," he coughs, pulling my focus to where he sits at the window. The curtains have been pulled open at some point, perhaps so he could watch. The thought feels oddly comforting.

"Pardon?" I rasp before the familiar plastic tip of a straw is pressed against my mouth. I take a tentative sip.

"You can only come once more," he says, "Then I'll be gone, and so will she."

I open my mouth to protest, but he continues.

"Love is not an infinite loop, Callie. It is not something you can rewind and play as many times as your heart desires. It grows and it changes, it disappears. You've read that chapter once already - it's time to turn the page."

But that can't be true. She can't just be a chapter when she was meant to be forever. I can't have found my soul mate for only one piece of my life. I can't love her only once; I can barely breathe without her.

I nod, though - he is the magician, after all. This is still his machine.

#

"Cal," Mark calls, knocking heavily on my apartment door. I ignore him, too busy with the piles of paper around me, knowing that he'll eventually lose patience and turn the unlocked handle. He does.

The apartment is different from the last time he saw it: sunlight streams through curtains I've thrown open impulsively, the TV has been turned off so I can read. While there are still various takeout containers strewn about, it almost looks better. Cleaner.

"Who d-" he starts to joke before catching himself. He wanders over to sit on the coffee table, watching me sift through the various piles I've made around myself on the couch. "What are you doing?" he asks.

"She kept it all," I whisper, gesturing to the mass of yellowed pages, surely a look of wonder on my face, "She kept every article about it." I look up, pointing to the now empty box beside him. "I found that, in the guest room closet."

Mark eyes it suspiciously.

"It was filled with these - all of these articles about the machine."

At that, his features harden. He stands quickly, crossing the room to the fridge, which he throws open in search of, undoubtedly, a beer. He'll find nothing of the sort in there. Truthfully, he'll find nothing. I don't miss the groan that escapes his lips upon the discovery.

"Patient X was the first one to make the change," I continue, "A tattoo. He didn't die, Mark, he just made a change. He regretted something and then he didn't anymore."

"Don't-"

"Maybe I could make a change, too." I smile, the very idea curling the edges of my mouth.

"She is dead!" he yells, shocking me into silence, stalking closer so I won't miss a single word. "She is dead, Callie, and you need to bury her. You need to stop going to this bullshit machine and spending all your fucking money on a hoax. You're not touching her, Callie. She's not kissing you. You're not with her - she is dead. And she wouldn't want you to keep doing this."

Except she would, the very proof of that is stacked up all around me. She believed in this just as much as I do.

I stand slowly, closing the space between us even slower. He flinches slightly at the tenseness of it. When he is mere inches from me, I raise a hand and slap him. Hard.

He reels, clutching his cheek.

"Get out," I spit.

He doesn't move.

"I do touch her. I do kiss her."

He shakes his head.

"Get out."

#

The idea follows me to work on Monday morning, tugging at my focus with every chart I try to read. It stands in the corner as I listen to another doctor present on a Peds case that, three months ago, would've been hers. It sets her voice loose in the room, creating giggles on the lips of the little girl who lies silent, fearful, in bed.

I hear her, explaining the resetting of broken bones, see the light ignite in her when a child smiles. I feel her eyes, catching mine across the room, a hesitant smirk at the edges of her lips. She is everywhere around me.

"Dr. Torres?" the new attending asks, snapping me out of my reverie, "Is there anything you'd like to add?"

Like Dr. Robbins should have your job? "No, I think you covered everything."

I walk the hallways of Seattle Grace-Mercy West, seeing her around every corner. She's at the nurses' station, signing off on charts, digging her hands into her pockets to hide the incessant need for movement in her post-surgery high. I hear her heelies gliding across the linoleum of the catwalk, the running stop at her favourite coffee cart.

I know the exact moment where things went wrong; Kepner, tears welling in her eyes, hands incessantly shaking as she clutches a portable ultrasound. If they'd just known the severity of her shock, seen the progression of the bleeds. If they hadn't rushed, hadn't made a stupid mistake. If they'd cut open her abdomen first, she'd probably still be alive. They would've had enough time.

It'd be one thing. One change.

One difference, and she wouldn't be dead anymore.

We'd still have forever.