Natasha's bone marrow extraction technique was nothing compared to the deranged Dr. Harlow's. The two of them spent three full days holed up in the sterile lab, and the results were one failure after another: extraction failures, culture failures, failures for every absurd reason imaginable.
There was nothing Bella could do about it but grit her teeth. So it hurt for a few days, big deal. It wasn't going to actually paralyze her. And if it did, well, Sadako could heal her. She couldn't just lie on the surgery table doing nothing, either. Natasha made her watch surgical videos; later, when the time came, Bella would have to perform the egg retrieval herself.
Learning and suffering at the same time, Bella's face had gone bone-white. Never mind looking pretty; she'd even developed bags under her eyes. She looked like someone who'd been wrung completely dry.
When Natasha announced that the stem cells had been successfully isolated and the artificial sperm had officially entered the cultivation stage, and that Bella was free to attend Stanford's graduation ball, a full week had passed.
"Off you go, darling husband. Have fun!" With that one line, Natasha shoved her out of the lab.
Bella caught her own reflection in a mirror and winced. Looking like this, fun was the last thing on her mind.
Her complexion was so pale she could have passed for Azog, the white Orc who'd been chasing Thorin. Two days ago, William Miles from the Brotherhood had dropped by for a talk. At the end of the conversation he'd hinted, delicately, that although we carry Isu genes and our lifespans are comparatively long, Mentor, you really do need to exercise some restraint.
Restraint. Right. How was she supposed to explain this? A sentence or two wouldn't begin to cover it. She'd just had to nod vaguely and change the subject.
Bella cleaned herself up with care, applied makeup with real precision to cover the haggard look, and made her way out of the lab, one hand bracing her lower back, the other steadying herself against the wall. She let out a long breath. Not easy. She'd actually walked out of there alive.
Four years at Stanford were done. For the next two she planned to stay on as a graduate student, with the Japanese-born Professor Serizawa as her faculty advisor and Dr. Graham, the half-merfolk scientist, handling her day-to-day supervision.
She remained deeply curious about the world beneath the surface. Her graduate work would center on running errands for those two, and in doing so, digging deeper into Monarch's real mission.
...
Stanford's graduation ball was a more subdued affair than usual, easily the dullest in recent memory. Even with Bella's rescue, the faculty and student body had suffered heavy losses, and a great many people couldn't bring themselves to come to an event like this. Some couldn't bear the reminders. Most were focused on the more immediate concern of making a living.
Unlike the high school prom, where everyone had been carefree, partying and burning energy without a thought, college graduation meant most of them were about to step into the workforce. Right now, a lot of new graduates were running around dropping off résumés and showing up at job fairs.
Fewer than thirty percent of the graduating class actually had the time or the heart for the graduation ball.
The American economy had taken a brutal hit. Mass unemployment. In California especially, competition for jobs was vicious. Homes gone, companies gone, even insurance providers gone. Whole swathes of the middle class had crashed straight into outright poverty, with no money to keep their kids in school. Plenty of graduates were brilliant in their own right, but reality forced them straight into whatever work they could get.
Attendance at the ball was thin. Bella's own little circle, however, was untouched.
Bella, Barbara, and Heather were drinking together off to one side. Sam Winchester and Mustached Max stood nearby, chatting.
Mustache had only gotten in by riding Heather's coattails; the guy was a slacker who'd never have made it on his own. The instant Bella spotted him she'd warned him in no uncertain terms: he was not to call himself the Sorcerer Supreme ever again.
"Oh? Did our princess come in... flats today?" Barbara caught the difference in Bella's height at a glance, and a closer look confirmed it: Bella was wearing flats.
Bella waved a hand, easy. "Not planning on dancing. Heels just hurt your feet."
She sounded casual, but the truth was she had no strength left in her body. If she put on heels she was liable to fall, and that would be embarrassing.
"Why do you look so washed out? You should show a little restraint, don't you think?" Heather had a bottle of beer in her hand, and she clinked it lightly against Bella's.
The girls all knew, in a general way, about the situation. They just didn't know who the woman was.
Bella shot them a long-suffering look.
Why do all your minds jump straight to that? Why doesn't it occur to anyone that I might be pulling all-nighters? That I might be studying myself half to death?
There was no reasonable way to explain it. She stammered her way through a redirect, snuck in a discreet yawn, and shifted her gaze across the room. "So Sam's going on to law school. What about you?"
She tipped her chin toward Barbara's boyfriend, Sam Winchester.
"I'm going to enlist. That Republican presidential candidate keeps encouraging people to sign up. I think this year's a good window. And I love the military. I love the battlefield."
The bravado in Barbara's voice was every bit her usual self.
"And you?" Bella turned to look at Heather.
Heather sighed, looking troubled. She and Mustache had moved past their honeymoon phase, and these days things between them ran hot and cold. The bigger issue was money: both of them were earning very little, and Heather's classical literature degree was essentially unhirable in the current market. The best she could find was shifts at supermarkets and coffee shops.
Her natural physical gifts drew way too much male attention, and the usual ending to a shift was Heather beating up whichever man had been harassing her. A couple of times she'd even used the chainsaw. If Bella's family hadn't been climbing fast in California's police hierarchy, and if it weren't for their connection to the Black President, she'd have been arrested several injuries ago.
"You really should go back to school. And this time, pick a degree that isn't a dead end like classical lit. Switch majors. The money..." Bella thought for a moment. Handing money over directly was a cardinal sin; it hurt both sides.
She lowered her voice. "Let me put you in touch with a dairy company, or one of those big famous farms. You could be their spokesmodel."
"Hahaha! Now that's a good plan!" They'd all been around the block. Barbara caught Bella's meaning instantly and cracked up.
Heather didn't mind using her natural assets to make money. This was a capitalist society. As long as the income was clean and aboveboard, she had no objection.
Sam Winchester took a phone call, said his goodbyes to the group, and left the ball.
While Barbara and Heather had gone off to dance, Mustached Max sidled over to Bella, putting on his most ingratiating smile. "Heh heh... boss, you're looking lovelier than ever these days."
Bella eyed him suspiciously. "The flattery sounds sincere enough... but I'm swamped right now. I don't have time to handle any of your weird little exorcism gigs. If something comes in, turn it down. Stop taking every job that walks through the door."
Mustache waved his hands frantically. "No, no, it's not that. I haven't taken any of that work in ages. I've been chasing a major client lately. He wants to buy a weapon, or an item, with genuine magical power."