Chapter 2 #3
There are a lot of reasons to hate being a telepath in a non-telepathic world.
But one of the big ones is that since people assume their minds are private, unreachable things, they do the equivalent of going into their front yards in their underpants and screaming at the neighbors.
I’ve spent years learning not to foreground every awful, hateful, prejudiced thing I want to think, but there’s no reason for non-telepaths to do the same.
In human spaces, no one believed people like me could exist, and so they did nothing to guard their thoughts, but they didn’t spend time thinking about how much they’d like to kill people like me.
In cryptid spaces, everyone knew people like me existed, and could be anywhere, so when they knew one of us was nearby, they spent a lot of time and energy thinking about how great it would be if we were dead and hence not there anymore.
Having no interest in becoming dead, I mostly avoided non-family cryptid spaces.
Cuckoos were always going to be the enemy.
We were invasive outsiders, predators who didn’t care who we hurt in the process of getting what we wanted.
No matter how much I tried to suppress my instincts, they were still there.
I could pretend to be a nice person as much as I wanted, but when push came to shove, I would always put myself first. I would always be the monster.
I sank deeper and deeper into self-loathing, Michelle’s unguarded thoughts echoing through my mind like poisonous vapors trapped in a windowless room, and didn’t hear the doors at the back of the room opening, or the soft clack of taloned feet against the tile floor.
Dr. Morrow was a smart man who understood cuckoo physiology better than most. He stopped several feet away from me and half-spread his wings, shaking them so the feathers brushed against one another with a soft susurration.
They rustled again as he snapped his wings closed, folding them nearly away behind his back. “Miss Zellaby,” he said, voice formal.
“Making sure you weren’t going to startle me, Doctor?” I asked, turning to face him.
He shrugged. “I put a great deal of faith in the anti-telepathy charms I’ve ordered for my staff, but there’s having faith and then there’s being foolish. I don’t want to learn their limits firsthand. Thank you for coming.”
“You don’t ask me to show up very often,” I said. “Have I fallen behind on Mark’s bills?”
St. Giles’s doesn’t take any known form of insurance: they’re probably one of the last hospitals in America that bills exactly as much as they need to in order to keep the lights on.
But they do bill. They have to. Even if the staff donated their time, the supplies they use aren’t free.
Mark’s care was magnitudes cheaper than it would have been anywhere else in the country: it was still several thousand dollars a month, which I was gladly sending to the administrative office.
He needed to be looked after. I owed him.
“No,” said Dr. Morrow. “But your friend’s latest scans are … Walk with me.”
Something about his tone made anxiety lance through me, briefly coloring the world in gray.
Dr. Morrow didn’t say anything further, only gestured for me to follow as he turned, heading for the doors that would take him into the primary part of the hospital.
There was no one here to listen in on us, but I still felt like we could use a little privacy.
This was Mark’s future we were talking about here, after all.
The hall on the other side of the double doors was even brighter than the waiting room, the air cool and scented with disinfectant.
I followed Dr. Morrow to a small office with a backless chair in front of the desk and a more-standard armchair next to it.
He sat down on the backless chair, allowing his wings to relax from their folded position to a half-mantled state, reaching for his computer mouse.
“Mr. Wilson has been in a catatonic state since you brought him to us,” he said, without preamble.
“During this time, we have observed morphological transformations in the brain, most specifically the frontal lobe and right parahippocampal gyrus. Sections of his brain have appeared to functionally liquify, triggering concerns about cellular necrosis, then reconstitute in a modified configuration. I know your species has visual differences from the mammalian bipeds I customarily work with. Are you able to look at diagnostic scans, or should I describe them to you?”
“I’ll either need you to put down the anti-telepathy charm or explain them to me, but I can see them,” I said.
“I can see faces, I just can’t interpret any useful information from them.
It’s like asking you to look into an ant’s nest and tell the individual ants apart, or understand what they’re feeling from the way they’re carrying their antennae. It just doesn’t work.”
“Some entomologists develop that skill,” he said.
“I’m sure some cuckoos learn it as well,” I said.
“I didn’t. I tried, and it never worked.
When I was a kid and upset about not being able to tell what people were sharing about their feelings, my cousin Artie used to draw me sheets of cartoon faces making these exaggerated expressions, and they helped, a little.
I can tell when someone’s smiling as opposed to frowning, and if their thoughts say they’re happy and they’re frowning, I can be careful about saying ‘Wow, someone’s in a good mood today’ before I understand the situation.
But the cartoon faces never really translated into understanding real faces.
Too much nuance. A big frown and a small frown look pretty much the same to me. ”
“Fascinating,” he said dryly. “I’m not putting down my charm.”
He tapped his computer monitor and it came on, showing a scan of what I presumed was Mark’s brain. He moved the mouse, and a second scan appeared next to the first. I frowned, squinting.
They were both brains, both images taken from the same direction and angle, but they looked nothing alike.
Even my untrained eye could tell the structures I was seeing had very little in common.
The second image even had some entirely new-looking areas, separated from the rest by deep ridges. Dr. Morrow indicated the first image.
“This is Mr. Wilson’s brain the day you brought him to us.”
“I didn’t bring him,” I protested. “My family did. I was unconscious at the time.”
“You took them all to another dimension, you brought them here, even if it was by proxy,” he said. He clicked his mouse again and the first image disappeared, replaced by one that was almost identical to the second.
Dr. Morrow indicated the second image. “This is Mr. Wilson’s brain yesterday afternoon, when we took him for routine scans.”
“All right,” I said. “When was the other one taken?”
He turned to look at me, rather than the screen.
“That’s your brain, the day you came back from your transdimensional adventure.
That’s what his has been moving toward. Based on this and the recent changes to his vital signs, I would predict Mr. Wilson is on the verge of waking up.
I wanted you to be here when he did, in case he lashes out at the nearest target available. ”