by Southpaw
"Adrian Slawny?"
The man lifted himself off the sticky leatherette of the reception area bench and walked across to the small window with the sliding glass panel. The elderly woman behind the counter waited until he was almost in front of her before speaking.
"It's through that door, and then it's the green door on the right."
He followed the corridor. The doors were painted in bold colours. The green door was slightly ajar. Inside a young, female doctor was sitting behind a desk, staring at something on a computer terminal. She raised her head as Adrian entered the examination room.
"Good morning, Mr. Slawny. My name is Jemima Mowbray. I'll be your case worker for the next three months. You can sit there, or you can lie down on the couch, if you'd prefer."
The left side of the room was cluttered with medical equipment, arranged at one end of an examination couch, with the curtain partially drawn around it.
"I had an accident on the way over."
"Do you need to use the bathroom before we begin?"
"No, no, I've already cleaned myself up."
The doctor glanced around the office. She snatched a disposable plastic apron that had been draped over the leather backrest of a chair made from aluminium tubing.
"If you just put this underneath you."
"Are you really called Jemima?" Adrian took the apron. He sat down on the chair in front of her desk.
"I have your test results here, but first of all, how are feeling, Mr. Slawny?"
"Uh... Relatively speaking, a bit better."
"And what about your abilities. Do you have your diary with you?"
"They've been erratic. I got my hand stuck inside a table for half an hour."
Adrian unzipped his blue shoulder bag. He removed a curled-over exercise book and handed it to Dr. Mowbray, who made an attempt at flicking through the dog-eared pages before giving up and turning them individually.
"When did your hand get stuck?"
"Thursday."
She closed the book and passed it back to Adrian. "We'll need to take scans of the new entries next time, if you leave it at reception when you come in. That way you won't have to wait."
Dr. Mowbray rapidly typed into the computer keyboard. She turned the monitor around on its pivot so that it was facing Adrian at an oblique angle. She leaned forward and tapped on the edge of the glass screen with one of her fingernails.
"Okay, Mr. Slawny..."
"It's Adrian."
"Okay, Adrian. Your T-cell count is slightly higher than we'd like it to be. On the 29th of September, 2004, your CD4+ cell count registered at 253. That's probably why your abilities are tuning in and out. If your T-cells go above 275, then it's likely that your body will be strong enough to begin rejecting the implant."
She returned the monitor to its original position, making small movements with the computer mouse and clicking the buttons. "What medication are you currently taking?"
"I'm on a synchronised regime of androxyml, natzotrolanine, and Virodium."
"These are working a little better than we hoped. We'll need to configure some less-effective treatment for you, without making you too poorly. Ideally, we'd like to bring your CD4+ count down to between 215 and 210. We'll keep you just clear of the danger level."
"That's going to make life difficult for me. When I was at 230, I didn't have any energy. What if I get sick and I drop below 200?"
"It is a risk, but you know... whatever happens, Adrian, you'll get the best care available. We're going to begin testing you regularly for Pneumocystis pneumonia. We also do a long-range forecast of projected T-cell counts with a very high degree of accuracy..."
Dr. Mowbray was talking as she typed.
"I'm also going to prescribe a booster antibiotic and a universal vaccine that you can use over the short term. The important thing to remember is that the more you allow the implant to integrate with your body, the better it will perform for the person who receives it after your death.
"Now, do you want to stay here overnight while we revise your treatment plan, or would you rather come back tomorrow?"
"I'll go home, I think."
"Okay. And will you be needing to see a counsellor before you leave?"
"No."
Adrian waited by the counter in reception while one of the assistant nurses scanned the fresh pages of his diary.
"You wrote a lot this week," said the elderly woman, handing it back to him. "I'll buzz you out."
Outside the surgery, a short flight of stairs between black iron railings led down to a damp pavement plastered with dead leaves. Adrian hobbled to the curb and hailed a black taxi.