Page 29 of Crimson Moon Falling

The doctor sighed, her annoyance leaking out. “Langston and I have very different views on the best way to gather information. I’ll do everything I can to make sure your privacy is protected.”

Conall gazed at the doctor. “Your clinic sits in the middle of my territory. If the information you gather is misused or leaked, no one will find your body.”

For the first time, her professional demeanor cracked. She eased back and swallowed. “I understand.” The woman turned to me and removed the stethoscope from her neck. “May I start?”

I nodded, and she began by checking my vitals. “What symptoms are you experiencing?”

Instantly, I started weighing the risks and benefits of disclosing my condition to her. I decided getting answers outweighed the risks. “Decreased emotional responses, persistent sensations of coldness, and enhanced cognitive functions in certain areas.”

She paused in her note-taking. “The implant appears to be redirecting neural resources. We’ll want to monitor that closely.” Then I told her about the recent cracks in the ice and the implant feeling almost sentient.

“Fascinating.”

Her hungry curiosity unsettled me. “I’m not here as a research subject.”

She glanced at Conall. “I’m aware. You’re here to fulfill your agreement with the FBCI, but understanding what’s happening to you serves you as well, doesn’t it?”

“Maybe, but I don’t trust them.” I didn’t trust her either.

Dr. Wharton inclined her head. “You’d be foolish if you did. Let’s finish the exam, and then I’ll scan the implant and run a few tests.”

After she drew blood, the doctor examined the implant. My heart pounded as I lay face down on the exam table, my chin resting on a padded ring while Dr. Wharton guided a device along my neck and spine. Flashbacks flickered through my mind like a nightmarish slideshow.

Conall stood nearby, and my energy sought his. To keep my thoughts from spinning out of control, I cataloged each sensation with mechanical precision. The slight pressure of the scanner, the cool air on my exposed skin, and the doctor’s breathing as she concentrated.

On the monitor beside me, images flickered and shifted. I couldn’t see much from my position, but Dr. Wharton inhaled sharply.

“My god,” she whispered. “This is amazing.” She dropped her stylus on the floor.

Conall laid his hand on my leg. “What is it?”

I remained motionless, monitoring the doctor’s reaction. Her energy signature had shifted from professional curiosity to fascinated repulsion.

“I’ve never seen anything like this. The implant is organic, and it appears to have some awareness.” She bent to retrieve her stylus. “It’s integrating with your nerves, specifically the pathways connected to the limbic system.”

She continued her scan as she spoke. “See these tendrils? It’s weaving them through her cerebrospinal fluid and into the neural tissue. Almost like roots.” I couldn’t see what she was pointing at, but adrenaline flooded Conall.

“Can you remove it?” His voice was tight.

“Absolutely not. These connections are too deeply integrated. Attempting to remove it at this stage would cause catastrophic neural damage.” Crushing disappointment slid through me, and the implant shivered in response. “You can sit up now.”

I pushed upright and looked at the monitor. “Show me.”

Dr. Wharton explained it all again, the screen displaying a cross-section of my cervical spine, with something resembling a thin, rectangular tumor nestled against it. From the central mass, hair-thin filaments extended outward into surrounding tissue, creating what looked like a network of frost across a window. It reminded me of a lightning strike.

“Can it be neutralized?” I asked, my voice flat.

Dr. Wharton dragged her eyes away from the screen. “I don’t know. This technology is... it’s beyond anything in current medical literature.” She hesitated. “May I ask what Commander Marlowe and his people said about it?”

“That it was designed to enhance my abilities while making me ‘focused and efficient.’ And completely under his command. He said emotions cloud judgment and inhibit potential.”

“Efficient,” she repeated, her mouth twisting. “What he tried to do is essentially rewire your brain’s emotional processing centers. The implant was redirecting neural resources away from emotional regulation and toward cognitive functions such as pattern recognition, analytical thinking, and memory.”

Conall found my hand. “You said was. What has changed, and is there any way to stop it?”

Dr. Wharton tapped her stylus against her palm. “Perhaps. Or maybe rewire it to better suit you. The brain is remarkably plastic and adaptable. It can form new pathways, especially in response to consistent stimuli.” She turned to me. “You mentioned that the effects are progressing?”

“Yes. Every day, the emotional numbness seems to expand while my analytical capabilities sharpen. But it’s not linear.”