The fluorescent lights of Grey Sloan—still Seattle Grace for now—hummed with a clinical indifference that Christopher Wright found deeply offensive. At twenty-one, he was a triple-board-certified surgical unicorn, a child prodigy who had skipped the awkwardness of puberty only to land in the middle of a literal soap opera.
He stood at the scrub sink, his movements mechanical. Beside him, Preston Burke was prepping for a CABG.
Burke, Christopher thought, cutting a side-eye toward the man. Enjoy the steady hands while they last, Preston. A season from now, you're going to be a cautionary tale about ego and tremors.
"You're quiet today, Wright," Burke remarked, not looking up. "Usually, a prodigy has more to say to prove they belong."
Christopher didn't blink. "I prefer to let my sutures do the talking, Dr. Burke. They have fewer ego problems than most surgeons."
Burke let out a huff that might have been a laugh if he weren't so repressed. "Arrogance is a resident's right. Just don't let it kill a patient."
I won't, Christopher thought darkly. But the bus, the plane, and the gunman might.
He knew exactly what day it was. The "007" day. George O'Malley would be nicknamed a bumbling idiot within the hour. Meredith Grey would be nursing a hangover after a one-night stand with the Head of Neuro. And Izzie Stevens would be reduced to a "Model Surgeon."
Christopher exited the scrub room and headed toward the bridge. He saw them—the "Original Five"—standing in a huddle, looking green and terrified. There was Meredith, looking hauntingly like the tragedy-magnet she was destined to be.
"Is that him?" Izzie whispered as Christopher walked past, his white coat crisp, his expression a mask of bored brilliance.
"Dr. Christopher Wright," Alex Karev muttered, sounding already bitter. "The kid wonder. Heard he's already a resident and could probably out-operate the Chief."
Christopher stopped, turning on his heel. He fixed Karev with a look that had withered veteran nurses. "It's not 'heard,' Dr. Karev. It's a fact. And if you spend as much time on your rounds as you do on your gossip, you might actually survive the first week without killing a man with a simple dehydration case."
Alex's mouth snapped shut. The rest of the interns stared, stunned.
Christopher's internal monologue was a chaotic ticker tape of spoilers. He looked at George—sweet, doomed George—and felt a pang of genuine pity. He could save them. He could stop the disasters. But the ripples of changing the timeline were a variable he couldn't calculate yet.
He caught sight of Derek Shepherd stepping off the elevator, his "McDreamy" hair perfectly coiffed. Christopher felt a familiar flare of irritation. He knew Derek's secrets; he knew about Addison and the New York betrayal.
As Christopher turned the corner toward the ER, he nearly collided with Richard Webber.
"Christopher," Richard said, looking weary. "I need you to oversee the incoming interns on the floor today. Bailey is busy, and I want a sharp eye on them."
"I'm a surgeon, Chief, not a babysitter," Christopher deadpanned.
"You're both today," Richard countered.
Christopher sighed, glancing at his watch. In twenty minutes, a woman with an aneurysm would come through those doors. He knew the diagnosis. He knew she'd die if they followed the 'original' plan.
Screw the script, he thought, a sharp, dangerous smile touching his lips. I think I'll play God today.
He turned back toward the interns, his eyes landing directly on Meredith Grey. "Grey. With me. We have a woman arriving in ten minutes with a subarachnoid hemorrhage she doesn't know she has yet. Don't trip over your own feet."
Meredith blinked, confused. "How do you know she has a hemorrhage?"
Christopher didn't look back. "Because I'm better than a crystal ball."