The warbling voices, spectres of the long dead, provided an appropriate ambiance to the rest of the silence in the room. I watched as she worked on the girl, a symphony of two disciplines. One was warm, full of care and nurture as blood was cleaned away and wounds were tended. The other cold and full of logic, lit by incandescent light as data readouts rolled across screens.
“How is this possible?” She exhaled.
“This girl clearly had the rage virus, yet now she does not. There is no ‘cure’ for the virus, it can’t just be cleaned up, turned off. It rewires your brain chemistry. Your emotions dominate and suppress everything else, the damage this causes to synaptic pathways is beyond repair.”
The speaker sung into the silence as music wrapped itself around scattered pieces of newscasters and storytellers.
“This girl, while somewhat malnourished, is otherwise healthy…it’s not possible.”
I avoided answering, knowing anything I say will reveal more than I am willing to commit. I didn’t know this woman, a woman who was at home working on flesh and machines yet qualified for neither it seems. The mess around the room was, at first glance, chaotic but after a few minutes I couldn’t help but notice the patterns. Everything has a place.
I glanced down, 0932.
“So when do we leave?” She asked, my head shot up.
“The Protectors need to know about this.” she replied, “I assume you will be taking her to them, I’ll come along but we should leave soon. The Guardians ostensibly work under the Protectors and your antics in the street outside are no doubt being broadcast ahead of us. We can head for Cit-four, it’s closest and I think The Last Cowboy was seen there recently.”
I balked “I don’t think I can…”
How do I explain….
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