Page 53 of All Saints Day (Lucifer and the Saints #2)
Sébastien
I stand on the sidewalk in the heat of the afternoon, a pair of dark sunglasses perched on my nose—a cigarette pinched between my lips as I struggle to loop the maroon satin tie around itself in a tidy knot.
“Stop it! Stop! Here, let me help,” Azura tuts like a doting grandmother, shuffling toward me—in her dusty-rose Valentino skirt suit, a pair of oversized tortoise shell Prada sunglasses shielding her from the harsh rays—as she ties the Windsor knot for me.
“I still don't understand why I have to be here,” I grumble, pulling the cigarette from between my lips and tapping the ash off at arms length—careful not to get any on the Dottore; coiffed, primped, and ready for camera.
“Sébastien!” she snaps impatiently. “You've never been much for planning for the future—I know—and I understand that until recently, it wasn't exactly a worthwhile value proposition.” She purses her lips, giving love and judgement in equal measure.
I turn away, the truth in her words stinging my pride.
“Now you have things to think about: a pack, a future—the need for a career that won't land you in jail.” She clucks her tongue for effect.
“But I'm not cut out for a white coat in a lab. You know that.” I bat my long eyelashes at her, doing my best sad puppy face—the old girl does have a weakness for a pretty face, after all .
“Nobody is saying that you need a white coat or a lab, or to go back to school,” she snips, exasperatedly pulling her clutch purse from its place tucked beneath her arm.
“You do this little bit of press and you'll have your pick of the litter from cock-of-the-walk Biotech start up types, begging to have you on their board just for recognition in the market.”
Not once had I stopped to consider this angle.
Corporate life had simply never been something within my purview, but the Dottore wasn't wrong.
I couldn't continue down the path of a professional criminal.
Especially now that Louise and Dennis were sitting in the Office of the Attorney General at the DOJ, along with the new head of the Department of Reproduction preparing to make a recorded statement about the emergent omicron designation.
“Come on,” Perla pinches the cigarette from between my lips and drops it to the sidewalk, stamping it out with one of her Gucci mules. “We don't have long until everything gets started, and you still have to powder your nose.”
The hotel ballroom is smaller than I had imagined.
Doctor Perla and I sit next to one another at a table the hotel provided, covered in a royal blue tablecloth.
Each of us was given a glass of ice water and a tall pitcher. Along with a small microphone.
The room was cramped even before it filled up with reporters, camera people, and local law enforcement for crowd control.
With all the bodies packed into the small space, and everybody looking at Doctor Perla and I; I feel somewhat like an animal at the zoo.
All the faces start smearing, blending— turning into a murmuring mass—as I drop my eyes down to my hands and the several hastily scribbled note cards clutched there. Reminders of what I can and cannot say.
It is far too hot to keep my suit jacket on, but I’m breaking a sweat and already self-conscious about having to be introduced without the prefix of doctor ahead of my name while still sounding credible for this press conference.
While I'd likely be more comfortable rolling my shirt sleeves, I decide to keep my tattoos out of sight for the time being.
I lift a hand instinctively to run it through my hair, then stop—remembering that Louise helped comb back and braid my soft dark curls into a short cord down the nape of my neck this morning, before we all left to go our separate ways for the day.
I feel her down the bond now, reaching out to caress my frayed nerves.
When I close my eyes and breathe deeply, it's almost as if the golden pollen of a rich iris dusts my nose.
I feel my shoulders let go of some of their tension; the warm reassurance of my other mates vibrating along the bond.
“Are we feeling ready?” A chipper young woman in a dark blue suit with a helmet-like blonde bob checks in with Doctor Perla and I—her news station microphone clutched in her hands.
I swallow hard and give her a nod.
“Let's get this over with.” Doctor Perla smiles, the chubby gold hoops at her ears sparkling in the bright lights.
The newscaster scuttles across the small stage, standing against the wall as the cameraman begins to roll—the woman’s news Station 7 microphone held in front of her, expression serious.
“It has only been a handful of days since the world was rocked by the discovery of a new designation—the ultimate product of nefarious secret testing by the government and a shadowy cabal known only as the Windmill. The new omicron designation is the rarest of all and comes with an impressive new set of abilities, presentation, and of course: many, many questions. While the Department of Reproduction plans to make more official statements later today—we are here live at the press conference with Doctor Azura Pearla and Mr. Sébastien Bouaziz; the pair responsible for pioneering the only known treatments for the Windmill strain of the Zeitnot virus, and the vaccine for Zeitnot prime. The pair continue to act as consultants for the development of preventatives for the Windmill strain and continuing research on the cure for Zeitnot prime, originally developed by the late Margot and Landon Penny. Both Perla and Bouaziz will be answering some questions for the press.”
Almost as soon as the newscaster is finished speaking, the police commissioner opens the floor for questions, and Doctor Perla raises one of her weathered hands into the air.
A chorus of murmuring and jostling erupts from the reporters in the front row, beginning in a wave that rolls all the way to the back of the small ballroom.
“Yes?” Doctor Perla opens her hand to a young woman in a coral-colored pantsuit, a small HD camera with a large microphone attachment in her hand.
“Doctor Perla, is it true that a widespread outbreak of the Windmill strain of the Zeitnot virus is inevitable?” she shouts over the low rumbling of the crowd.
“Inevitable? Yes. Widespread? Un-treatable?
No, and also no. I'm not at liberty to give details on national security matters.” She waves the idea away casually before continuing, “but even though an outbreak is nearly guaranteed, we are prepared with the formulated cure for both strains of the virus, and the World Health Organization along with other private drug companies are all hard at work at developing a preventative vaccine for the Windmill strain of the Zeitnot virus.”
The doctor nods her head to me, allowing me to choose the next to speak.
I do my best to mimic the doctor's actions, indicating to a young woman with a digital recording device in the third row that she may ask her question .
“Is it true that even the prime strain of the Zeitnot virus can cause a change in designation?”
I slide a sidelong glance to the doctor to confirm. She gives me a slight nod before I clear my throat gently and speak.
“It is true that the Zeitnot prime virus can change the designation of infected omegas, alphas, or sigmas who are treated with the cure.
Our research is still so early on, so we do not know how and what dictates the terms of the designation change—if anything does, or if it's random, however; the new omicron designation requires much rarer conditions.”
Dovetailing with the end of my answer, the doctor selects another reporter, the murmuring in the room growing louder and louder with each question and answer.
“Can you tell us how someone could end up with this new designation?”
Doctor Perla shakes her head gravely.
“Right now we have very little information on the omicron designation. As it stands, the only known living human with this designation is Louise Penny. She is an extremely unique case. Louise was infected with Zeitnot prime and treated with a cure architected from her very DNA before she was infected with the Windmill strain of the Zeitnot and her own body chemistry once again triggered the shift to the omicron designation. Her new abilities have yet to be explored.”
My heart jumps into my throat as the crowd erupts into whispers and gasps, but I can still feel Louise far along the other side of the bond—reaching out to comfort me.
For a moment, I'm embarrassed—even ashamed—that I must lean on her in a moment like this when she is already going through so much.
Then I remind myself: that isn't what love is. Love does not keep score. Love does not care about ‘should’ or ‘proper.’
Love simply is—without asking or expecting in return.
And so, I allow myself to be loved. By not just Louise, but all of my mates as they reach me down the bond.
“How do we know if it’s safe for some mutant like her to walk the streets?” A man with a microphone and a notebook in his hand shouts without being called.
I don't wait for Doctor Perla's acknowledgment; I just jump right in to give my answer.
“I'll ask you to take my word,” I smile softly as I continue my entreaty—the first time Louise Penny was dosed with Zeitnot prime was decades ago.
Her designation shifted after she was treated with the cure constructed from her DNA.
It was not her choice to be dosed with the Windmill strain, nor was it her choice to become the forerunner of this historic change, but she and the rest of our pack, the rest of our family, ask for you to respect our privacy during this incredibly tumultuous time.
This seems to silence the man—his surrounding peers glaring at him with disapproval.
A chorus of chatter fills the space in the room—the crowd starting to show the slightest indications of getting rowdy.
The Commissioner of the Liberty City Police leans in from his place at the end of the stage so that his voice will carry to Doctor Pearla’s microphone.