building.
Hunter took another deep breath of the biting cold and
marched into the lion’s den.
The receptionist was professional yet friendly, taking
Hunter’s information and assigning him a number. If it had been a little less
frigid outside, Hunter would have waited there, rather than the cheesy lounge.
However, today, Hunter needed to pass . While he could have waited in the cold without it affecting
him too much, it would have been commented on. Noted.
A large aquarium with blue-tinted water and black-and-white striped
fish made up the third wall of the lounge. Hunter supposed it was there to be
soothing. The walls were painted an orange-brown, like oak leaves just as they
turned. The chairs had smooth, blocky, light wood arms and fabric that matched
the walls. They lined the walls as well, with nothing in the center, no place
where a soldier had to sit with his back unprotected.
Hunter sat in his seat, carefully at attention. He dialed up
the range on his senses, keeping track of everyone coming through the door,
walking through the halls behind him, relying on his ears and nose instead of
his eyes. Hearing the conversations, the footsteps, smelling the sharp
chemicals and bleach. He couldn’t look around, over his shoulder. Had to pass .
Two other vets waited as well. One seemed in better shape
than Hunter, in a clean shirt and trousers, his hands resting on a cane. The
other seemed in worse shape, his hair hanging long and greasy across his
forehead, his eyes bugged out. Twitchy.
But he wasn’t a threat—Hunter knew he could take him.
The guy wasn’t in shape, not like Hunter.
Before the other two were called back, a nurse called
Hunter’s name. She introduced herself as Trisha—a short, overweight black
woman with hair tightly braided to show the curve of her skull. Her scrubs had
a white background with Hawaiian palm trees, pineapples, and ukuleles on them.
Hunter stood patiently while she weighed him in the hallway
(same weight as always) then followed her back to an examination room.
The room looked like the hundreds of others Hunter had been
in: examination table with paper sheet, two chairs in the corner, sink and
counter in the other. Instruments hung on the walls—all ordinary, nothing
new. The standing lamp looked a little bigger, but it was within the normal
parameters. The standing desk Trisha used wasn’t standard in all the rooms,
however, Hunter had seen them enough times to not be spooked.
“So what brings you in today?” Trisha asked as she logged
into her laptop.
“Usual monthly checkup,” Hunter told her. He gave her a
smile, as he knew he should.
“Very good,” Trisha said. “You’ve come in regularly now for
the last five months. Good job.”
Really? Hunter hadn’t tracked that it had been so regular
recently.
He’d have to change his pattern soon.
Trisha took his temperature and blood pressure, then asked
for a drop of blood.
Hunter examined the lancing device Trisha handed him. It was
still in its sterile wrapper, smaller than his pinky finger, but that didn’t
mean anything. It could still be laced with something. It only smelled of
paper, though, crackled under his finger when he pressed against it. His area
of knowing didn’t show him anything untoward happening, but even he knew that
his powers weren’t always reliable.
“All right,” Hunter said, handing the lancing device back to
Trish. At least she’d asked. He supposed it was in his chart that they needed
to ask permission, and not just come at him, like that one nurse had.
‘Thank you,” Trisha said, pricking him quickly and gathering
up two drops.
“You’ll find traces of PHS-370,” Hunter told her. “Or the
street equivalent.”
Trisha merely nodded.
This one was well trained, not to react to that.
“But you already knew that, right? Because of the spy you
have, following me?” Hunter asked, aiming for innocent.
He knew this wasn’t passing .
But this was the reason he’d
Hunter took another deep breath of the biting cold and
marched into the lion’s den.
The receptionist was professional yet friendly, taking
Hunter’s information and assigning him a number. If it had been a little less
frigid outside, Hunter would have waited there, rather than the cheesy lounge.
However, today, Hunter needed to pass . While he could have waited in the cold without it affecting
him too much, it would have been commented on. Noted.
A large aquarium with blue-tinted water and black-and-white striped
fish made up the third wall of the lounge. Hunter supposed it was there to be
soothing. The walls were painted an orange-brown, like oak leaves just as they
turned. The chairs had smooth, blocky, light wood arms and fabric that matched
the walls. They lined the walls as well, with nothing in the center, no place
where a soldier had to sit with his back unprotected.
Hunter sat in his seat, carefully at attention. He dialed up
the range on his senses, keeping track of everyone coming through the door,
walking through the halls behind him, relying on his ears and nose instead of
his eyes. Hearing the conversations, the footsteps, smelling the sharp
chemicals and bleach. He couldn’t look around, over his shoulder. Had to pass .
Two other vets waited as well. One seemed in better shape
than Hunter, in a clean shirt and trousers, his hands resting on a cane. The
other seemed in worse shape, his hair hanging long and greasy across his
forehead, his eyes bugged out. Twitchy.
But he wasn’t a threat—Hunter knew he could take him.
The guy wasn’t in shape, not like Hunter.
Before the other two were called back, a nurse called
Hunter’s name. She introduced herself as Trisha—a short, overweight black
woman with hair tightly braided to show the curve of her skull. Her scrubs had
a white background with Hawaiian palm trees, pineapples, and ukuleles on them.
Hunter stood patiently while she weighed him in the hallway
(same weight as always) then followed her back to an examination room.
The room looked like the hundreds of others Hunter had been
in: examination table with paper sheet, two chairs in the corner, sink and
counter in the other. Instruments hung on the walls—all ordinary, nothing
new. The standing lamp looked a little bigger, but it was within the normal
parameters. The standing desk Trisha used wasn’t standard in all the rooms,
however, Hunter had seen them enough times to not be spooked.
“So what brings you in today?” Trisha asked as she logged
into her laptop.
“Usual monthly checkup,” Hunter told her. He gave her a
smile, as he knew he should.
“Very good,” Trisha said. “You’ve come in regularly now for
the last five months. Good job.”
Really? Hunter hadn’t tracked that it had been so regular
recently.
He’d have to change his pattern soon.
Trisha took his temperature and blood pressure, then asked
for a drop of blood.
Hunter examined the lancing device Trisha handed him. It was
still in its sterile wrapper, smaller than his pinky finger, but that didn’t
mean anything. It could still be laced with something. It only smelled of
paper, though, crackled under his finger when he pressed against it. His area
of knowing didn’t show him anything untoward happening, but even he knew that
his powers weren’t always reliable.
“All right,” Hunter said, handing the lancing device back to
Trish. At least she’d asked. He supposed it was in his chart that they needed
to ask permission, and not just come at him, like that one nurse had.
‘Thank you,” Trisha said, pricking him quickly and gathering
up two drops.
“You’ll find traces of PHS-370,” Hunter told her. “Or the
street equivalent.”
Trisha merely nodded.
This one was well trained, not to react to that.
“But you already knew that, right? Because of the spy you
have, following me?” Hunter asked, aiming for innocent.
He knew this wasn’t passing .
But this was the reason he’d
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