The pale, languid lights reflected faintly off the clean, pure metal table, contrasting with the reflection of the person wearing the bulky chemical-protection suit. The reinforced handcuffs dangled from his wrists, secured to the table, underscoring the "necessary procedure," according to the containment unit.
The individual sat on a hard, sturdy metal chair, feeling the cold seep through his clothing, chilling his skin. He appeared calm, his head slightly inclined downward.
TZZZZZZ
The speakers, mounted in each corner of the room's ceiling, emitted a faint interference buzz.
TUM TUM
Following the subtle noise—apparently knocks on a microphone—a voice resonated through the speakers.
"Doctor Misha Krankenfeld, citizen identification one-three-seven-nine-seven-four-three-five, correct?"
Seated on the metal chair, Misha raised his head and looked at the one-way mirror directly in front of him.
"Yes... Is there truly a need for such extensive procedures? This treatment is hardly common for someone who merely was near an infected individual, let alone protected by so many layers of shielding."
"I understand your concern as a current official in the field, Doctor, but the command center issued clear orders on how this matter must be handled."
Leaning back in the chair, Misha exhaled a heavy sigh, which syncronized with the clink of the handcuffs.
"A citizen of the Fortress since October of two thousand forty-nine. Brought into the Inner Ring within months after demonstrating skills in the medical field, specifically pathology. Promoted to General Supervisor of Kranver Autopsies in March of two thousand fifty-four, and subsequently given the additional role of Senior Analyst of Krazeichs Conditioning in June of two thousand fifty-five."
Misha heard a faint rustling of pages before the voice resumed its recital.
"One hundred percent diagnostic accuracy throughout your career… Discovery of the cerebrospinal physiology of Kranver bacteria… Advances in research on meta-infectious conflict between two diseases… and a host of other complex achievements that I can't even begin to explain."
Upon hearing a soft whistle through the speaker and another page turning, he remained motionless in his chair.
"For someone so impressive, I can scarcely imagine what this personal issues were, when you were asked why you left your former Fortress, venturing kilometers into desolate lands with the supply transport teams."
Tlin tlin
The clinking of the handcuffs echoed in the closed room, driven by the slight tremor of Misha's wrists. As if to compose himself, he straightened his posture against the chair.
"High Command allowed you to proceed through the inquiry without an exact account of these personal matters, in order to assess your medical capabilities. It was not requested to insist on this topic in the current interrogation."
With another shuffle of papers and a deliberate clearing of the throat, the voice inquired.
"Approximately an hour and a half ago, you triggered the emergency alarm in the autopsy chamber. When the containment team arrived, expecting a threat related to the corpse, it was actually a report of a possible infection of Doctor Hebert Martin, correct?"
Shifting uncomfortably in the chair, Misha's gaze alternated between his reflection in the mirrored panel on the wall and the metal table's surface. The visor of his protective helmet, with its reflective coating, created an endless tunnel of mirrored images in his view.
Looking back at the mirrored panel, he nodded in confirmation.
"Very well. Then, before the autopsy of the Kranver, who appeared suddenly in the Inner Ring, did you meet with Doctor Hebert at any point? At an interval of at least one week."
Shaking his head, he denied it.
"Before today, my last in-person meeting with Hebert was more than two weeks ago. My request for him as an assistant was conveyed only via messages. His physical signature for the autopsy was done at the medical center, without my presence."
The speaker fell silent for a time; the only sound Misha heard was the continuous turning of pages.
"The reason you suspected an infection in Doctor Hebert was due to his persistent throat clears?"
"...Yes. From the beginning of the autopsy, he displayed some discomfort in his throat, claiming it was just dryness after dinner."
Turning his gaze to a corner of the metal table, he continued.
"...When I noticed the symptom was more pronounced than what a simple dry throat would cause, I had already decided to set off the alarm. Because of the Kranver Pneumaston incident that occurred this week. Also, because I had reviewed Hebert's medical file multiple times, and there was never any mention of throat conditions," he concluded, shaking his head in negation.
At a different sound from the speaker, a more authoritative voice emerged.
"Doctor Misha Krankenfeld, your interrogation will pause here. Please proceed to decontaminate your garments, followed by medical analysis."
CLICK
The sound of the handcuffs releasing coincided with a mechanism unlatching behind Misha. The ivory-white wall split apart as a rectangular section and slid backward, revealing an extensive decontamination chamber similar to that in the autopsy room.
– It's been so long since I've been in an interrogation chamber that I'd forgotten what these steps and rules of decontamination are around here. I had to pass through three chambers before getting here…
Rising from the seat, he moved toward the chamber entrance. Entering and closing the door, the first thing he heard was the decontamination process beginning, with faint clouds of gas emitted through the speakers.
"Initiating extensive purification process. Please avoid sudden movements, do not inhale the gas, and keep your eyes closed."
Hearing the mechanical voice, Misha froze, closed his eyes, and held his breath. With the nozzle extending from one of the walls and connecting to his suit, it did not take long for chaos to erupt inside the chamber.
Accustomed to the process, he simply waited, and in about ten seconds, everything returned to normal.
"Procedure complete. Proceed to the medical analysis area."
CLICK
As the latch unlocking the door in front of him opened, he passed through and closed it quickly. What met his gaze beyond the chamber was a completely white corridor, illuminated by the same pale, pure lights installed in all the spaces he had encountered so far.
Step by step, he crossed the corridor, and soon saw a door along the way.
Upon reaching it and passing through, he found himself in something resembling a changing room.
"Please change into the pair of hospital garments on the table. Place your old clothing in the designated compartment."
Wasting no time, Misha began to unfasten each part of his chemical protection suit, removing it piece by piece until the entire outfit lay deposited in the wall-mounted compartment.
Looking at the mirror on the opposite wall, he saw a slender young adult taller than average, alabaster-white skin deprived of sunlight, a finely sculpted, hairless facial structure save for his sophisticated eyebrows and hair—a very pale, golden-blond hue, nearly white—along with matching pale-gold eyes. His expressionless, slender face conveyed indifference.
His hair, styled medium-length and swept to one side, indicated minimal concern for appearance.
Barely glancing at the mirror, he picked up the hospital garments and dressed.
"Please proceed to the analysis area, lie down on the examination table, and wait to be attended."
Following the mechanical voice's instructions, Misha passed through the only remaining door in the changing room.
On the other side, he entered a fairly ordinary operating room, equipped with several specialized procedural machines.
Moving to the table at the center, he sat upon it, his gaze wandering over the surroundings. When it rested on a specific machine, hisr eyebrow twitched slightly.
– Bronchoalveolar lavage? …I hope they're competent—I don't want them to suspect me of complications from the surgery.
Suppressing his worries with a sigh, Misha lay back on the table.
It took no more than ten minutes for someone to enter the room, clad in a robust chemical-protection suit similar to Misha's previous one. The person did not speak to him.
Approaching a nearby table, the person prepared an injection, removed excess air from the syringe, and approached the central table.
Stopping beside Misha, the person grasped his arm and injected the liquid from the vial.
Not resisting or protesting, Misha simply accepted the injection. Once it was fully administered, the person withdrew the syringe, discarded the used materials, and left the room.
Less than a minute after the individual exited, Misha's vision began to darken, and he drifted into sleep.
***
Feeling groggy, he opened his eyes only to close them immediately, sensitive to the blinding white lights.
Trying again, he slowly parted his eyelids, this time adjusting to the white glare. As he distinguished his surroundings, he noticed he now sat in what appeared to be a waiting area, surrounded by rows of chairs.
Seated in one of them, he observed a door opening, and shortly after, a man in a lab coat, of average height, gray hair, and slight balding, stood before him—this time without extreme protective gear, letting Misha know what news he brought.
Positioning himself in front of Misha, the man grabbed a clipboard laden with sheets of paper.
"Good evening, Mr. Misha Krankenfeld. I have come to present the results of your recent examination."
Flipping through some pages, he stopped at one in particular.
"You exhibited no gram-positive diplococci, negative PCR for pneumococcus, negative pneumococcal antigen, and absence of polymorphonuclear leukocytes."
Turning another page, he continued.
"No acute alveolar damage was found, and your glucose concentration falls within the physiological standards of pulmonary fluid."
Removing his gaze from the clipboard and looking at Misha, the man concluded.
"You have been classified as uninfected. If there are no further issues, you may leave and return to duty; no signs of possible infection were detected."
Finishing the report, he turned, likely to the door he had entered through.
"...Wait."
Hearing the summons, he paused and turned back to Misha.
"Yes?"
"...Hebert Martin. He should be undergoing his examinations now... Can you tell me when I might see him?"
Avoiding Misha's gaze, the man answered.
"Unfortunately, I don't have that information, sir. But given your level of authority, they will likely inform you when he is available for visits, since you answered during the interrogation."
Exiting the room, Misha was left alone. Shifting his gaze from the door, he looked up at the pristine white ceiling.
His heart felt a little heavier.
******
NGH! HNNNG!
Crrrk Trrrch
Thrusting from side to side on the table, Hebert writhed as a resin tube was slowly inserted through his nose.
His limbs were bound to prevent movement; a team of attendants also pressed his arms and legs against the table and held his head in place.
He could feel the tube traveling through his nasal cavity, down the pharynx, reaching the larynx, entering his trachea, following into his bronchi, and stopping at the bronchioles.
The more he felt the tube's presence against the sensitive flesh inside him, the more he bit down on the gag in his mouth.
"Mr. Hebert, limit all movement and try not to breathe heavily. You know we cannot provide anesthesia to those with high infection risk, due to the Kaiser factor."
Hebert could barely make out the doctor's words. From his nose to the tube's tip, everything felt as if searing hot pepper was being sprayed inside him.
"Releasing saline solution," announced the doctor handling the tube before pressing a button on the chamber connecting to the tube.
Only then did Hebert feel the real burning, as if pepper was being thrown inside his lung.
MMRGH! HMPH! RRRGH!
He began to struggle desperately on the table, only to be restrained by the medical team's pressure on his limbs.
"Start the thirty-second timer."
Without pausing to question the doctors' rationale, Hebert fought to cough, straining his chest as the liquid in his pulmonary cavity sloshed inside him.
His trachea attempted to expel the resin tube repeatedly, scraping against the cold tube material.
Whenever he tried to move his head, the tube pressed hard against his nasal passage internally, irritating his nostrils and forcing him to attempt a sneeze, failing each time.
After what felt like an interminable duration to him, the liquid was swiftly withdrawn from his airway.
With a sudden feeling of collapse, as if celebrating the end of that torture, his blood pressure plummeted, his vision blacked out, and Hebert lost consciousness.
***
Waking slowly, he found himself in a different chamber. Pristine white walls bore various mounted equipment. Suspended from a large mechanical arm on the ceiling was a surgical light that illuminated the center of the room—exactly where Hebert lay strapped to a table by leather straps.
His mind was still clouded, but he felt a strong discomfort in his throat and lungs. Were it not for his lingering weakness, he might have already been ready to cough with all his might.
TZZZZ
"Good morning, Doctor Hebert Martin. You must be confused and disoriented right now. Unfortunately, explanations will have to wait due to time constraints. I will share your examination results with you."
After a page turn, the voice that had spoken overhead earlier resumed.
"The data were collected via blood samples, sputum, nasal cartilage, CSF, and saline mixed with pulmonary fluid," followed another page flip.
"The most notable findings were increased antibodies concentration in the blood, sputum showing elevated polymorphonuclear leukocytes, nasal evidence of desquamated epithelial cells, CSF with over one thousand neutrophils per cubic millimeter in the meninges, and also a low glycemic index."
Finishing the report, the voice delivered its final line.
"Based on all the examinations, Doctor Hebert, I regret to inform you that you have been diagnosed with an acute infection by the bacterium Streptococcus pneumoniae."
Like a judge striking a gavel, that final sentence reverberated endlessly through Hebert's stunned consciousness.
A chill crawled up from the base of his spine to his brain, as if heralding the arrival of his personal hell.