"Kerrigan!"
A nasal, imperative male voice, nearby but muddled, as if the speaker is swathed in cotton. Or perhaps I am. I feel heavy, numb. I'm pretty sure that should worry me, but I can't seem to make myself care.
The voice is familiar. I know I have heard it before, but where? When...? I don't like the voice. I want to open my eyes, but the lids won't budge. I can only listen, and can barely manage that.
"I'm here, Professor."
A second man's voice. Unfamiliar. Eager to please, like a puppy with its master.
"Subject TU-021 had several severe infections, which resulted in acute systemic inflammation. Attempts with Cure and Esuna failed, but response to medical treatment seems satisfactory."
Am I alive? I think so. Death is non-existence. Weightlessness. I feel too heavy to be dead.
"Hm. Unusual, and aggravating. My work will be delayed by weeks. I can't conduct research on impaired specimens."
"Oh, speaking of that. Your previous test results are ready, Professor."
"Finally."
The rustling of paper, the occasional humming sound.
"The tests confirm that the specimen has human DNA. How disappointing. Just another delusional fraud."
I should remember this. It is important. I think. Yes. Yes, it is. If only I could remember why.
"But Professor, there's an abnormally high number of rare mutations... Perhaps they are worth a closer look?"
"While mildly interesting, none of them fit the genetic profiles we're looking for. In fact, several of them render the specimen unsuitable for our Mako research."
An indignant huff.
"Such is the fickle nature of mutation. A random shuffle of the genetic deck holds the potential to produce brilliant specimens, but sadly, it's more common for the end result to be of no evolutionary value. In this case, inferior genetics leading to a poorly developed immune system. Abort the scheduled experiments. This is a waste of time."
"Do you wish to discontinue the treatment too, Professor?"
A long-suffering sigh.
"I suppose we may as well try to keep the specimen alive for now. Its appearance in my lab is unexplained, not to mention worrying."
More shuffling of papers. Then the first voice again, growing distant as it speaks. Are they leaving? My head feels so heavy.
"If the specimen survives, give it to the Turks. Maybe they'll drag out the truth about that, at least."
The voices are very faint now. I can only just make out the reply.
"Yes, Professor."
The first detail I became aware of was a regular beeping sound. With some effort and concentration, I was able to determine that it was coming from somewhere on my right. It was a rather mellow sound, really. Soothing.
Eventually, it occurred to me that I had more senses than just my hearing. I was lying on something firm, although not uncomfortable, and I could feel a light softness draped over my body. I was warm. That, in particular, was a wonderful feeling. I wasn't sure why. I just had the impression it had been a long time since I felt warm.
After a sluggish mental check of my body, I concluded that I wasn't in any particular pain. That, too, struck me as a novelty.
A presence in the room made my eyes drift open.
"Oh, you're finally awake."
The female voice sounded pleased, with an underlying note of surprise. I lolled my head over in its direction until my gaze landed on a plump woman with blonde hair and a warm smile, dressed in some kind of a white uniform. I frowned, confused.
"Don't you worry, sweetie," the woman chirped. "You'll be just fine."
She was so cheerful. That didn't seem right. My mind was fuzzy, but I was pretty sure there was nothing to be cheery about. Not at that level of cheer, anyway. Only the blissfully ignorant were that full of pep, or maybe... Uh, peppy... puppies? Puppies were pretty ignorant, right? Not that this particular train of thought was of any importance right now. Or, in fact, ever.
Christ, my brain was infested with candy floss. Despite this significant drawback, I attempted to form a sentence.
"Whu–"
My weak croak was interrupted by a cough when my parched throat refused to cooperate. The blonde disappeared, but returned only moments later with a glass of water.
"Here you go," she said, holding the glass to my lips while she supported my head with the other. "Small sips, now. Take it slow."
I was distantly annoyed at being handled like a helpless child, although to be honest I wasn't sure I could have held the glass on my own. My arms felt tired and heavy, along with the rest of my body. With the woman's aid I was able to swallow a few mouthfuls.
"There we are," she said, satisfied. "Now, you just wait here a moment while I get Dr. Maxwell, okay?"
Before I could endeavor to come up with an appropriate response, the portly woman had hurried out of the room. I let my eyes wander over the room at a languid pace. Pale green walls, a white ceiling. Larger than the cell I remembered, with a real bed. A hospital bed. Had I been ill? My memories were hazy. With a deeper frown, I closed my eyes and concentrated, trying to think back.
My eyes flew wide open with a startled gasp as the appalling images returned to me. The lab. The tests. Hojo.
In a pure panic, I tugged at the covers to try to free myself, simultaneously rolling off the bed. If I'd had more presence of mind, the inevitable end result would have been obvious, but as that wasn't the case, I landed on the floor shoulder-first and collapsed in an ungraceful heap.
Having the wind knocked out of me had one benefit: it halted the senseless fear. Tangled in sheets, I closed my eyes and breathed through my nose to calm the panting, trying to ignore the monitor's urgent, prolonged beep of alarm. Wherever I was, it didn't look or smell like Hojo's laboratory. The woman had given me the kindest welcome I had received since I arrived in this awful Shinra place. No immediate threats were visible. In short, this was not the time to be ruled by anxiety.
Actually, was this still Shinra? I had no idea how I'd gotten from the laboratory to this room or how much time had passed. Nothing I had glimpsed before crashing to the floor had given me a clue as to my whereabouts.
"Oh dear!"
The exclamation from the door interrupted my musings only a second before I felt hands grab me and hoist me into a sitting position. Upon opening my eyes, I saw the same nurse as before, now accompanied by a middle-aged man in a white coat. A vision of Hojo and his assistants in lab coats flashed before my eyes. My muscles went rigid.
"It's alright, sweetie, we're just helping you up," the woman soothed. "Come on, let's get you back into bed."
She was an old hand at handling patients, because even with my half-hearted protests, the blonde had me bundled up on the bed in no time, with some aid from the doctor. She reattached a small, clip-like device onto my finger, bringing back the gentle blips that exposed the steady, although now rather agitated, rhythm of my heart. The man took my other hand to check my drip – which I hadn't even noticed until now – then turned his serious, gray eyes to my face and gave a curt nod in greeting.
"Good afternoon, Miss FitzEvan. I am Doctor Ian Maxwell. It's good to see you awake, at last, and so enthusiastic about getting out of bed. Let's leave that until a bit later, though, shall we? You're still recovering from a severe condition."
A subtle touch of humor injected a friendly note into a comment that I might otherwise have taken as snide. His dark hair was turning silver at the temples, enhancing his distinguished air. Dr. Maxwell seemed to be the type of man that only grew more attractive with age. They were always medical doctors, for some reason.
And this was another amazingly irrelevant line of thought. Well done, Tess. On a roll today.
"What..." I swallowed another cough, then tried again. "What happened?"
"You were unconscious when you were brought in, with impaired breathing and high fever. Pneumonia, caused by several microbial infections, which deteriorated into full-blown sepsis. It was touch and go for a while there."
I nodded slowly. It made sense. Systemic inflammation due to a immune system that was unprepared for the infectious agents of an alien world.
Hang on, was this an alien world? The current circumstances seemed so at odds with the preceding experience. Could I have just hallucinated the whole nightmare?
"Where am I?"
"The Shinra hospital wing," he answered. "You will remain here under observation for a while, but that is more of a precaution than a necessity at this stage. All signs point to a full recovery."
He gave me a small, reassuring smile, but my fledgling hope plummeted back into the abyss it had tried to rise from. I was still at Shinra. It had all been real. My poor, bleary brain reeled from the thought. I was in no shape, mental or physical, to deal with all the implications of my situation.
"Amanda will draw a blood sample now," the doctor continued. "I will see you again when the results are in. Good day."
After a polite nod, the man left the room with long, purposeful strides. I just stared tiredly at the ceiling while the nurse grabbed my arm and took my blood, trying to bring some order to the flighty thoughts in my head.
So, once again I had survived against improbable odds. The trouble was, I didn't know if that was anything to be pleased about. I had the vague but persistent notion that I was to be interrogated further. Were they bringing me back to full health just so they could continue their questioning? Or worse, did Hojo have something planned for me after all?
The mere idea of it made me sick to my stomach. I squeezed my eyes shut with a choked whimper as unwelcome memories threatened to return. It's embarrassing, but when the nurse returned, likely alerted by the hastened beat on the monitor, she found me curled up on one side with my arms flung around my head, hiding under the covers like a frightened child. I got through the next few days with the aid of tranquilizers and sleeping pills.
By contrast, my physical condition improved quickly over the same period. Hojo never returned, though, nor did the men in dark suits. While I considered it a blessing, it turned out to be just as much a curse, because no one else came for me, either.
My questions were dodged when I asked why I was kept in this place. When I wanted to know when I could leave, the answer was always "when it's been authorized". The reply to the question "by whom" was "it's classified". With time, it became clear that for all intents and purposes, I had been shuffled to the back and forgotten.
A waste of time.
To pass the time – and to distract myself from far more painful trains of thought – I concocted theories of parallel worlds and alternate universes, then twisted and turned them around in my head to the point of visceral frustration. I lacked sufficient data to confirm or deny, simple as that, and I only ended up going in circles. My requests for information, scientific or otherwise, were denied, on the grounds that they would only "feed my delusions". I wasn't even allowed to see my own test results.
My existence was defined by the ward's light-dark cycle and meal times. In this tangible reality of sterile rooms, stainless steel and ubiquitous medical green, my old life became distant and dreamlike. Eventually, I didn't mind the bland palette that surrounded me anymore, but let it engulf me and drown the uncertain thoughts and disturbing memories. It was easier to let go. What had seemed like a maddening, monotonous routine became comforting and safe. Days became weeks, and weeks turned into months, but the passage of time was no longer relevant.
Was I drugged? It was possible. After the first week or so, I wasn't overtly given pills or injections, but they could have put anything in my food. To be honest, though, I believe it was just my reaction to an unbearable, impossible situation. After all, what was the use in fighting? If I ran, where would I go? If I made them believe me, what good would that do? Among all the uncertainties and unanswered questions about where I was and how I'd gotten here, one fact loomed painfully clear: there was no way for me to go back home.
The staff appreciated such a docile patient. Little by little I was granted more freedom. The exit lay behind locked doors, but I was allowed to leave my room and sit in the patient lounge. The TV was set to one channel, the Shinra news broadcast. Often I would sit on the worn, green couch for the entire afternoon, watching without seeing.
I rarely saw other patients and when I did, they were either drugged beyond cognizance or lost in their own little worlds. The only friendly face I saw regularly was that of Amanda, the motherly nurse who always had a kind word or a happy smile ready for her patients.
Amanda was my main source of knowledge about the world of Shinra, although the information came in the form of juicy gossip. In my former life there was only so much talk about boys and relationships I could take before the need to throttle someone became overpowering, but now I just sat and listened, desperate for any form of human contact. After months of regular updates, I probably knew more about Shinra HQ's office romances and interdepartmental drama than most of the building's employees.
Nurse Amanda also provided me with reading material, although it was rather one-sided. The woman had an endless supply of sappy romance novels. For the first time in my life, I read about knights in shining armor saving damsels in distress, office romances, and lovers torn apart by war, disapproving relatives or other calamities. People fell in love left and right, drama ensued and in the end, unconditional love conquered all.
A load of bollocks, in my opinion, especially that last part.
Yet I kept reading them. Their predictable nature was a perfect match for my unchanging schedule. The one that held my unenthusiastic attention tonight was about a boy and a girl, just like all the others I had read, making doe-eyes at each other in sunny Costa del Sol during the day and meeting up for moonlit walks on the beach by night. I had heard of Costa del Sol, on one of the few occasions I let the TV reporter's words penetrate my haze. Judging by the news report, the book painted a highly idealized picture of the resort.
Halfway through the chapter, the book nearly fell on my face when the sound of a yell made me jump. Almost immediately, a loud crash followed. My bed even seemed to vibrate a little. For a few seconds I stared in the direction of the racket, mouth hanging open in stunned surprise and heart beating wildly in my chest. Whatever it was, it must have been nearby.
I set the book aside and padded to the door with quiet steps, pricking my ears. I could hear a voice in the corridor outside, faint through the door. It sounded angry. A second, much quieter bang rang out and the owner of the voice let out an extended, pained groan. Someone was in trouble. I opened the door and peeked into the hallway.
A metal cabinet lay diagonally across the hallway. It must have been the source of the noise. In front of it, someone dressed in the usual, dreary green was lying in a heap on the floor, partly obscured by a toppled wheelchair. For some reason, the figure was ensnared in what looked like twisted sheets. A male voice muttered irate curses while his arms flailed around for purchase. A leg jutted comically in the air, trapped in place by the combined strength of its inflexible cast and the tangle of sheets.
I rushed over and righted the wheelchair.
"Hang on," I called. "I'll get you up."
I rounded the chair, extending a hand to the man, but as soon as I got a look at his face, I recoiled in shock. An old fear surged through me, trapping my breath in my throat. Even in the dim light of the corridor, I recognized those bright, turquoise eyes, framed by red crescents. The equally red explosion of spiky hair was splayed out like a demonic halo around his head.
The man seemed to be as astonished as I was. Several seconds passed by while we stared at each other. His mouth moved several times before he found his voice.
"Holy shit," he stated. "FitzEvan?"
I narrowed my eyes and crossed my arms over my chest, sending him an even glare. He may have plagued my nightmares for more nights than I cared to remember, but I'd be damned if I let him intimidate me when lying in a crumpled pile on the floor, covered in gauze.
The man – Reno, I recalled – gaped at me with wide eyes, until he blinked a few times and seemed to recover. A goofy grin appeared on his face.
"Hey, uh... Don't s'pose you could gimme a hand, eh?"
Was this what some people would call karma? How the tables had turned. I didn't trust my voice to hold, but turning on my heel and heading back to my room would no doubt convey my sentiments.
"Aw, come on!" he shouted after me. "I'm a fuckin' cripple here! You can't just–"
His agitated protests were cut off when I slammed the door shut behind me. I collapsed onto the bed, raking unsteady hands through my hair. My legs were shaking too. So much for my fearless bravado. It had taken every ounce of willpower I had to keep myself from breaking into a sprint; what exactly I felt the urge to flee from, I didn't care to scrutinize.
Just like before, I could hear his muffled yelling in the corridor, although I couldn't make out what he was saying. The noise wasn't too bothersome. I doubted I would be able to concentrate on my reading anymore, but with a pillow over my head, I should be able to go to sleep just fine. I stood up again and pulled back the blanket.
There was a fair chance he could remain there all night. Besides me, there was only the madman next door in this hallway. If no one else had heard the crash, Reno wouldn't be able to wake anyone up with the shouting either. The insulation was pretty good.
I picked up the pillow and lay down, pressing it over my ear. I was right; blessed silence descended. I felt my shoulders relax a fraction.
A broken leg wasn't his only injury, judging by the amount of bandages. He may have hurt himself even more in the fall. His own damned fault, of course, for breaking the rules by roaming the halls at night and being stupid enough to get into more trouble than he could handle.
I pulled the covers over me and snuggled into the soft warmth, settling into a comfortable position. With a deep breath, I closed my eyes.
It could get chilly out there on the floor at night. He might catch a cold, or worse. He must already be seriously injured, too, if he couldn't get up on his own. If no one found him before morning, the man might end up in a really bad state.
With an exasperated huff I threw the pillow at the wall behind me and reached for the call button. A voice crackled over the speaker.
"Yes?"
"Some idiot has crashed his wheelchair outside my room and can't get up. He needs help."
"Oh, okay. I'll take care of it. Thanks."
The voice sounded a bit uncertain. Maybe it was the way I'd growled the word "idiot".
I threw myself back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling as I blew my hair out of my eyes with a long exhale. My pulse was still racing and I gritted my teeth in frustration. One look at him; that was all it had taken to reduce me to a nervous wreck again. While the nurses would soon take the yelling man away, I knew that any hope of a restful night's sleep – a slim one at the best of times – was now well and truly dashed.
What I didn't know, however, was that my actions that night had just shifted my future onto a whole new course.