Post by Jordanna on Dec 11, 2005 0:43:13 GMT -5
Miriam Van Linden hated her job.
That was not to say she wasn't proud of it. In the course of her career as an assistant medical examiner, she had already brought dozens of murderers to justice--but this was not exactly due to her skills at the autopsy table. As a mutant, she had a gift that other forensic pathologists lacked: a psychic perception that caused her to relive the last memories of the dead.
And it hurt her every single time it happened.
It wasn't so much a matter of physical pain; she sensed that too, but not quite as if it were her own. It was the emotional burden that took its toll on her, and made her dread walking into the office a little more each day.
The worst part was that she was all but alone in her struggle with her gift. Her colleagues thought she still had a squeamish streak, the way she so often turned pale and flinched--and indeed, on occasion, had almost passed out--when she approached a body on the table. She knew they speculated, sometimes unkindly, about the reason for her chronic lack of sleep and bouts of excessive weight loss. Yet any conclusions they had drawn for themselves were better than what they would have thought, if they knew that she was a mutant.
Her only confidante was Henry Casselton, a kind man she had known first professionally, then as a friend. The first time he chanced to see her suffer a physical reaction to a decedent's last memories, he had taken her aside and asked what was the matter, and his demeanor was so soothing and gentle that she felt drawn to confide in him. And when he knew what she was, he had looked at her in amazement--and then he said how brave she was, and how he admired her for using her gift for good. Unprejudiced toward mutants, he accepted her ability as a mere natural aptitude. Since that day, his patient sympathy had been a better solace to her than any satisfaction she had ever gotten from sending a killer to prison.
Still, each day, her work went on.
Miriam had learned to arrive early at the office, to face her perceptions before anyone else was there to see her reaction. The more bodies were lying in the morgue, the worse it was for her. However, on this particular morning, there was only one. She read the police report of the unidentified young woman whose body had been found in the East River--presumably a prostitute, but the cause of death was unclear, and the remains had been in the water for days. Perhaps by now they had deteriorated too far for Miriam to get any reading from them. Perhaps all she had to face today was a simple autopsy. A mixed blessing; there was always relief in not reliving a murder, but it meant she could do far less to help identify the killer.
There was only one way to find out. Squaring her shoulders, she set aside the police report and slowly walked toward the door of the morgue.
She never reached it. Her perceptive powers kicked in when she was still three paces away from the door, and the final memories of the victim on the other side assaulted her with a violence she had rarely experienced.
The next one of Miriam's colleagues to arrive found her on the cold linoleum floor, unconscious.
That was not to say she wasn't proud of it. In the course of her career as an assistant medical examiner, she had already brought dozens of murderers to justice--but this was not exactly due to her skills at the autopsy table. As a mutant, she had a gift that other forensic pathologists lacked: a psychic perception that caused her to relive the last memories of the dead.
And it hurt her every single time it happened.
It wasn't so much a matter of physical pain; she sensed that too, but not quite as if it were her own. It was the emotional burden that took its toll on her, and made her dread walking into the office a little more each day.
The worst part was that she was all but alone in her struggle with her gift. Her colleagues thought she still had a squeamish streak, the way she so often turned pale and flinched--and indeed, on occasion, had almost passed out--when she approached a body on the table. She knew they speculated, sometimes unkindly, about the reason for her chronic lack of sleep and bouts of excessive weight loss. Yet any conclusions they had drawn for themselves were better than what they would have thought, if they knew that she was a mutant.
Her only confidante was Henry Casselton, a kind man she had known first professionally, then as a friend. The first time he chanced to see her suffer a physical reaction to a decedent's last memories, he had taken her aside and asked what was the matter, and his demeanor was so soothing and gentle that she felt drawn to confide in him. And when he knew what she was, he had looked at her in amazement--and then he said how brave she was, and how he admired her for using her gift for good. Unprejudiced toward mutants, he accepted her ability as a mere natural aptitude. Since that day, his patient sympathy had been a better solace to her than any satisfaction she had ever gotten from sending a killer to prison.
Still, each day, her work went on.
Miriam had learned to arrive early at the office, to face her perceptions before anyone else was there to see her reaction. The more bodies were lying in the morgue, the worse it was for her. However, on this particular morning, there was only one. She read the police report of the unidentified young woman whose body had been found in the East River--presumably a prostitute, but the cause of death was unclear, and the remains had been in the water for days. Perhaps by now they had deteriorated too far for Miriam to get any reading from them. Perhaps all she had to face today was a simple autopsy. A mixed blessing; there was always relief in not reliving a murder, but it meant she could do far less to help identify the killer.
There was only one way to find out. Squaring her shoulders, she set aside the police report and slowly walked toward the door of the morgue.
She never reached it. Her perceptive powers kicked in when she was still three paces away from the door, and the final memories of the victim on the other side assaulted her with a violence she had rarely experienced.
The next one of Miriam's colleagues to arrive found her on the cold linoleum floor, unconscious.