Scent to the Feral Daredevils (The Eros Institute Omegaverse #3)
Prologue. Lucy Graves.
{To the pain}
First phase of treatment.
Yet another person entered the surgical suite, and the hiss of the hermetically sealing doors sent shivers down my spine. Or... they would... if I was currently capable of moving a single muscle. Even blinking seemed difficult, as if they’d strapped down my eyelids along with the rest of my body.
Being surrounded by so many other human beings was making me anxious.
I could feel them moving, shifting the antiseptic scented air as I lay immobile on the cool table.
They’d covered me in warmed blankets originally, yet those had long gone cold.
I wanted to open my mouth and ask for fresh blankets, but my tongue was another thing rendered useless.
Maybe this was a mistake...
Maybe I can change my mind...
Maybe it’s too late for that.
All these figures, spilling into the room one by one—each with lower faces disguised by masks—couldn't possibly be here for my initial treatment. It just wasn’t reasonable.
Was this experimental process really that interesting?
Every set of eyes—which I strained to make out by angling my own eyes as far to the right or left in their sockets as possible—was filled with curiosity.
I only felt apprehension bordering on abject terror.
I’d always lived like a goldfish in a too-small bowl.
Confined, reliant on others to care for me, always observed from the outside looking in and forever unable to touch reality.
Very few people in my life had become solid human beings, near constants I could almost count on.
Like Doctor Emerson. Was he here? Did he join this crowd to watch me claw at survival?
Sharing a room with so many felt unnatural.
My body chilled further.
I was beginning to feel numb.
Physically, and mentally.
Immobile, frozen. Metaphorically stood on the precipice of either complete and utter destruction or life-altering transformation. I was so scared… and so hopeful. And that hope was worse than any nightmare.
Because hope meant risking disappointment again. And disappointment was an all too familiar companion. What was worse was that this was the last hope. There was no new medicine or treatment waiting to be tried.
Can a hope be terminal?
Can a hope be the final nail in a coffin?
I didn’t want to live caged forever.
Didn’t want to die young.
I wanted to be free.
So, I was risking it all.
Someone came closer. The blanket shifted, exposing my already cool arm to chilly air. My teeth began to chatter. “Edema around the IV site.”
“Let’s set up a PICC line. I don’t want any complications during the procedure.”
“Yes, Doctor.” Which doctor were they talking to? Not Doctor Emerson... the voice was too different. The Institute’s physician maybe? I tried to remember the tenor and cadence of that man’s voice, but my mind was abuzz with too many things to focus clearly on something specific.
I closed my eyes as the blanket shifted further, and strangers’ hands began to touch my left arm. The original IV was removed from my left. I winced at the dual sources of discomfort and eventual pain as they guided the thin tube to a large central vein after applying anesthetic.
“That’s a good line,” a voice said, “flushes cleanly.”
“I can taste it,” I murmured, out of habit. I always could smell and taste whenever a fresh IV was flushed with saline. I didn’t know if that was normal or not; for whatever reason, I’d never asked.
No one answered me, as if I were invisible.
"Vitals are holding," someone announced from beyond my limited field of vision.
“Wonderful.” I heard an odd swishing sound, a rattle of instruments, and a whirr of machinery kicking in.
I tried to speak, to ask what was happening, but my tongue felt glued to the roof of my mouth now. The lights above me were too bright, making my eyes water. Or maybe those were tears of fear. Hard to tell the difference anymore.
A face with kind eyes above a pale blue mask stepped into view.
He leaned over me enough that I didn’t have to strain to see him.
Cloudy gray pupils, advanced wrinkles deepening as a smile sprouted, hidden by the face covering.
There were so many more carved lines framing his features these days, almost as if he’d aged in direct correlation to my body failing.
His hair had faded too, the vibrant ginger dulled.
But he was here with me, and I was relieved.
Doctor Arnold Emerson—my primary physician at Brightfield ever since I moved here—was like family now; the only person who made me feel like staying alive was worth it on days when I was fed up with living a half-life.
He was also the only person not currently treating me like a fascinating science experiment.
“Lucy, we're going to begin the infusion now. Remember, this is different from anything we've tried before. The initial gene therapy targets your compromised immune markers specifically. Unfortunately, this process is far from painless, and we can’t put you to sleep.”
His voice paused.
The room seemed to hold its breath in response to his quiet.
Seconds ticked by and my flight instincts began to scream inside me, despite my inability to run away.
“Lucy, are you hearing me?” Doc Emerson’s kind voice filtered into my spiraling thoughts.
I wanted to nod, but even my head was strapped down.
“Yes,” I managed in a weak voice.
“Then I’ll tell them you’re ready,” he responded.
“Okay,” the single word slipped through my dry lips and quickly faded. Despite shivering beneath the blankets, I suddenly felt flushed with heat. The sensation lasted no longer than the span of two heartbeats before I was ice cold again.
“Positive thoughts, Lucy.” The good doctor seemed to be making a last-ditch effort to put me at ease. “I’ve studied the research, and I know what to expect.” He seemed to want to say more, but he gave my shoulder a squeeze instead and moved out of view.
They’d warned me there was a possibility of extreme discomfort. That warning was woven into the fine print of modified snake venom and chance of gene mutation. I’d signed the consent forms anyway.
Extreme discomfort and far from painless: that was all just medical speak for this is going to hurt like hell, but I didn’t care. I’d claw at life until the very end. I’d never give up, even if it meant a thousand needles and a million pills.
Besides, I’d been poked and prodded my entire life. This couldn’t be worse than other things I’d endured to survive from one birthday to the next.
Twenty-four years of hollowed-out living had led to this moment—this terrifying, wonderful, possibly final moment.
“Pushing pre-meds.” A young voice announced.
Warmness began to flood through me.
It actually felt good, and I had a blissful moment when I imagined this wouldn’t be so terrible after all.
“First phase medication is prepped.”
“Vitals stable?”
“75 bpm, respiratory rate 16, Systolic at 100 and diastolic 75. Temp is 98.7 and Oxygen sat 90 percent.”
“Adjust the supplementary Oxygen.”
I felt the oxygen mask being adjusted against my face, the plastic pressing into my skin. My lungs expanded a little easier with each breath, though anxiety still clawed at my chest.
"Beginning first phase of gene therapy infusion," someone announced.
A gentle tug at the line.
“Slowly… slowly,” someone murmured.
This was not a rush of warmth.
This offered zero comfort.
The medication hit my bloodstream like volcanic magma.
Or was it lava now? Was it magma while contained in the syringe, transforming the moment it moved into its new environment?
My spine arched against the restraints as much as it could, which was… not at all. A scream built in my throat but died there, trapped behind clenched teeth. This was agony. Torment. The most wretched kind of suffering.
Who could survive this?
But I had to survive. I had to!
My veins felt like they were being stripped raw from the inside out, but I couldn’t succumb to dying now. Not when the promise of tomorrow scorched throughout me.
"Patient showing expected pain response," a clinical voice noted. "Heart rate elevated to 110."
Expected? This was expected? I wanted to laugh or cry or both.
Through tear-blurred vision, I looked as far as I could to my left.
Doctor Emerson watched the monitors intently; his forehead creased with anxiety.
This was why he’d stopped speaking. This was what he’d kept trapped inside instead of telling me the truth.
That I’d been wrong; I’d never experienced pain before, and this redefined the word.
I bit down on the inside of my cheek, tasting copper as my teeth broke skin.
The burning sensation raced from my arm to my chest. Once planted at the center of my being, it spread outward, seeking every corner of my body.
My fingers clenched into fists, wrist straps biting at my skin as I pushed upward, desperately wanting to hit anyone close enough to make them feel pain too.
Though my fists were too weak. They couldn’t damage anyone or anything.
Low muscle tone. Loose joints. Brittle bones. Papery skin.
If I lived through this, would those assessments of my fragile body shift? Would I become strong?
"Heart rate increasing," called out one of the technicians. "110... 120..."
I forced air into my lungs, trying to steady myself. "If I survive, it's worth it," I whispered over and over again, the mantra barely audible even to my own ears, let alone those working around me. "If I survive, it's worth it.”
The burning intensified, transforming into something sharper, more precise—like thousands of microscopic blades carving new pathways through my cells. Sweat beaded on my forehead, trickling down my temples despite the room's chill.
There was purpose in this pain.
But... God, I’d thought all the other pain held purpose. Yet, I was still dying a little each day. And soon, the end would knock upon my door. Death desiring to carry me away.
The torture was becoming too much.
My lashes fluttered as unconsciousness threatened. I fought to peel my eyelids apart, fought to stare up at the blinding lights above.
"Blood pressure rising," someone said from somewhere far, far away. "Administer five milligrams of stabilizer. The blue, not yellow."
"If I survive, it's worth it," I repeated, louder this time. The words became my anchor. "If I survive, it's worth it."
My body betrayed me, starting to tremble despite my efforts to remain still. The tremors began in my fingertips and spread, becoming full-body shudders. A groan escaped before I could swallow it back.
“You’re doing so well, Lucy. So very well.” Doctor Emerson’s voice pushed into the haze of my mind. Things were becoming fuzzy. I couldn’t think. His soothing voice continued to offer me a stream of serenity to counter the chaos.
"Heart rate 150 and climbing," called a technician, alarm edging into his voice.
"Adjust the flow rate," ordered a voice muffled by the fog of aching. "Decrease by twenty percent."
The adjustment made no difference to the fire consuming me from within. I had no energy to fight against the pain now. My body felt limp and lifeless. Stubbornly, through gritted teeth, I added my mantra to Doctor Emerson’s voice: "If I survive... it's worth it. If I survive..."
Worth never having to endure endless needles, immunity treatments, blood transfusions. Worth walking outside in the fresh air. Worth the chance to truly live instead of merely exist.
"Halfway there, Lucy. You can do this, my girl. You’re a fighter,” Doctor Emerson spoke fiercely, lending me his strength now.
I couldn't respond, even my mantra had abandoned me when I needed it most.
My vision blurred completely, darkness creeping in from the periphery. The figures and activity surrounding me melted together into nondescript smudges, like wax figures too close to a flame.
Though I was slipping into the blackness, I heard the monitors screaming, my vital signs dancing into dangerous territories.
The pain returned, but I was too far away to care.
The last thing I heard before blacking out was: "Record this response. She's showing remarkable cellular activity. This could be the breakthrough we've been waiting for."
Then Doctor Emerson’s response: “Pay attention to the damn patient. She’s not your experiment.”
If I survive, it’s worth it.
Worth this never-ending. Agony. No light at the end of this brutal tunnel…