Chapter 7: Cover Story
The medical library at three in the morning is mine alone.
I've been here for six hours, surrounded by immunology textbooks and research journals, chasing a lie that needs to sound like truth. My coffee's gone cold. My eyes burn. But I'm close.
The problem: I heal too fast. Eventually someone will notice.
The solution: Find a real medical condition that explains it before House does.
I flip through another journal article. "Rare HLA Haplotypes and Enhanced Immune Response." The author describes a family in Iceland with unusual resistance to common infections. Their HLA-B variants—human leukocyte antigens, the genes that control immune response—showed hyperactive T-cell production.
That could work.
Not identical to what I have. But close enough. The symptoms match: rapid infection clearance, minimal inflammation, accelerated wound healing. The medical literature supports it. Best of all, it's rare enough that most doctors won't have heard of it, but documented enough that House can't dismiss it.
I start taking notes. Creating my cover story from pieces of real science.
HLA-B*5701 analogue. Hyperactive T-cell response. Enhanced antibody production. Clinically insignificant but notable for surgical planning and infection protocols.
It's technically true. My body does have unusual immune markers—the blood tests will show that. I'm just not mentioning that the markers shouldn't be possible in normal human biology.
Truth hidden in plain sight.
The lab opens at seven. I'm waiting outside when the tech arrives, coffee in hand and a smile that says "I'm not here to cause trouble."
"Morning, Dr. Chase." She unlocks the door, yawning. "You're here early."
"Personal health tracking." I follow her inside. "Wanted to get baseline labs done. Immunology panel, HLA typing, complete metabolic. Standard stuff."
She gives me a look. "You feeling okay?"
"Fine. Just thorough." I set my coffee down and roll up my sleeve. "Family history of autoimmune issues. Want to establish baseline before anything develops."
It's not a complete lie. Chase's mother died of complications from rheumatic heart disease—autoimmune in origin. The family history is real, even if my motivation isn't.
She draws the blood with practiced efficiency. Four vials. Red top, purple top, gold top, blue top. The rainbow of diagnostic medicine.
"Results in three days," she says. "Sooner if you mark it urgent."
"Regular turnaround is fine." I don't want to draw attention by rushing it. "Just send them to my employee file when they're done."
She labels the tubes and logs them into the system. I watch my blood disappear into the lab's pneumatic tube system, carrying the evidence that will support my cover story.
Step one complete.
Three days later, I'm back in the lab at lunch. The tech hands me a printout without comment. I scan the results while standing at the counter.
Complete metabolic panel: Normal.
CBC with differential: Normal, though white count is high-normal.
Immunoglobulin levels: Elevated IgG, normal IgA and IgM.
HLA typing: Here's where it gets interesting.
HLA-B*5701 detected. HLA-DR4 detected. Pattern consistent with enhanced immune response variants documented in medical literature.
It's real. My blood actually shows unusual markers.
The transmigration changed me at a cellular level.
I stand there staring at the numbers, processing the implications. This isn't just accelerated healing or superhuman abilities. My actual DNA is different. The HLA genes are variants that shouldn't exist together in this combination, but here they are, printed in black and white.
I can work with this.
I fold the results and head to medical records.
The medical records office is a maze of filing cabinets and ancient computers that still run Windows XP. The clerk barely looks up when I hand her the forms.
"Need this added to my employee health file," I tell her. "Personal lab results with clinical notation."
She glances at the paperwork. "You filling this out yourself?"
"Yeah. I'm a doctor." I keep my tone professional. "It's relevant for infection control protocols and surgical planning. Just needs to be documented."
She stamps it, files it, and that's that. It's now part of my official medical record at PPTH.
When House inevitably snoops—and he will—he'll find:
Robert Chase, M.D.
Known immune variant: HLA-B*5701 analogue pattern
Clinical significance: Enhanced pathogen clearance, accelerated wound healing
Recommendation: Note for vaccination schedules and infection exposure protocols
Intervention required: None. Clinically benign.
Technically true. Strategically incomplete.
The paper trail is set.
The last step is HR.
I find Sandra Morrison in her office, buried under insurance forms and compliance paperwork. She's fifty-something, competent, and has the exhausted look of someone who's been explaining HIPAA violations to doctors for twenty years.
"Dr. Chase." She looks up from her computer. "What can I do for you?"
"Need to file a personal medical disclosure." I hand her the form I prepared. "Genetic immune variant. Relevant for hospital exposure protocols."
She reads it over, frowning slightly. "This says you have enhanced pathogen clearance?"
"Rare HLA haplotype. Runs in some families. Means I clear infections faster than average, heal quicker from minor injuries." I keep my tone casual. "Not a disability or a concern. Just something that should be on file in case I'm exposed to infectious patients."
"You heal faster?" She sounds skeptical.
"Minor wounds, mostly. Cuts, bruises. Nothing dramatic." I shrug. "My immune system just works more efficiently. It's documented in the medical literature—there's a whole family in Iceland with similar genetics."
She types something into her computer, probably checking if I'm making this up. After a moment, she nods.
"Okay. I'll add it to your file. You'll need to update this if there are any changes to your health status."
"Of course."
She stamps the form and files it. Done.
Now when House digs—and he always digs—he'll find a legitimate medical explanation. Incomplete, misleading, but technically accurate.
Truth wrapped in half-truths, hidden in plain sight.
I leave the administration building and head back to the diagnostic department. The afternoon sun is bright, almost blinding after hours in fluorescent-lit offices. The parking lot shimmers with heat.
The trap is set.
Not forever. House will question it eventually. He'll push and probe and test until he finds the cracks. But it buys me time. Weeks, maybe months, before he gets suspicious enough to really investigate.
And by then, maybe I'll have better explanations. Or maybe I'll have proven myself valuable enough that he doesn't care about the details.
Or maybe he'll figure it out and I'll be done.
I push that thought away. Can't think about worst-case scenarios. Can only prepare and adapt.
My phone buzzes. Text from Foreman: Case tomorrow. Teacher, 29, seizures. House wants full team.
Tomorrow. The pilot case.
Rebecca Adler.
My stomach tightens. This is it. The moment everything becomes real.
I type back: Got it. See you tomorrow.
The cover story is done. The documentation is filed. The stage is set.
Now I just have to perform.
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