Samantha Taylor, Dr. Arata's primary research assistant, had just finished prepping the exam room when Arata arrived at the door, the mother and a security guard close behind.
Dr. Arata placed the girl gently on the exam table. "Please run a full scan, Sam."
Samantha gave her a brief look—concerned, uncertain—but after years of trust and quiet respect, she said nothing. She turned to the console and began the scan.
Monitors flickered to life—heart rate, oxygen saturation, neural activity—all dangerously low. Then a secondary display illuminated with deeper diagnostics: biomarkers, protein anomalies, mapped synaptic drift.
Sam leaned in, squinting at the data, not quite believing what she was seeing. "How can this be possible?" she whispered.
"What is it, Sam?" asked Dr. Arata.
"Have a look for yourself," Sam replied, stepping aside.
Dr. Arata studied the readout in silence. Her expression didn't shift at first—but slowly, she turned to the mother seated quietly at the far side of the room. The woman's face was unreadable. She didn't move.
This wasn't just abnormal. It was impossible.
For the past four years, Arata and her team had been quietly studying the initial stages of a disease based on emerging models of genetic drift. A disease thought to be contained—limited to non-human primates, and even then, only under tightly monitored conditions.
Until now.
"She's showing all the markers for Simian Prion Drift Syndrome," Sam said quietly. Then, after a pause: "We haven't published any findings yet. How would the mother know to bring her here?"
"Doctor, do you know this woman?"
"Of course not," replied Dr. Arata.
"Let's stay focused. This girl needs our help."
"How are we supposed to help? We're months away from having a working serum—and that's for primates."
"We're going to have to surgically remove the misfolded proteins manually. It might buy us the time we need."
Sam hesitated, then nodded. "Are we doing this right now? What about the mother?"
"This is exactly what she was hoping we'd do," said Dr. Arata.
"Okay," Sam replied. "I'll tell Miles to start prepping the OR."
"OR-3, please."
Sam gave her another uneasy glance, then tapped her wrist comm. "Miles, prep OR-3 for immediate surgery. No questions, please."
A brief pause.
"Affirmative," came the response.
Through the windows of the prep room, Miles watched as the robotic arms of the surgical array flickered to life. One by one, they powered on—each joint humming with cold precision, each lens adjusting as if waking from a dream.
The display above the console read: LUMENSURG X-01 – INITIALIZING
A soft chime echoed through the sterile space.
The AI of OR-3 was online.
The screen read: Awaiting your command.