Chapter 13 : Translation Sickness
The fever hit at 4:17 AM.
I'd been drifting between sleep and something that wasn't quite consciousness when the first wave crashed through me — heat that started in my chest and spread outward like wildfire, burning through muscle and bone and nerve until every cell in my body felt like it was being rewritten from the inside out.
[Cross-System Compatibility: Translation Stage — Active]
[Cortexiphan Framework: Processing]
[Estimated Duration: 12-18 Hours]
The notification pulsed behind my eyes and then dissolved into static. I rolled out of bed and made it three steps toward the bathroom before my legs gave out.
The carpet was rough against my cheek. The light from the window was too bright, stabbing through my eyelids even when I closed them. Sounds warped and stretched — the hum of the air conditioner became a roar, a car horn outside became a scream, my own heartbeat became a drum pounding somewhere between my ears.
This was Translation. The system had explained it in notifications I'd tried to ignore — the process of converting foreign power frameworks into something my biology could process. Recognition was the diagnosis. Translation was the surgery. And like any surgery, it came with pain.
I crawled to the bathroom. Made it to the toilet in time to throw up nothing — I hadn't eaten since yesterday afternoon, and my stomach was already empty. The dry heaves lasted ten minutes, leaving me shaking and sweating and curled on the cold tile floor.
The taste of copper filled my mouth. Blood, maybe, or just the phantom sensation of my nervous system rewiring itself to accommodate energy signatures it had never been designed to process.
Small mercies: I was alone. No witnesses to this transformation. No one to see what the system was doing to me.
I lay on the bathroom floor and let the fever burn.
The phone rang at 9:32 AM.
I'd managed to drag myself back to the bed by then, wrapped in blankets that did nothing to stop the chills that alternated with the fever spikes. The phone was on the nightstand, buzzing with an insistence that felt personal.
Astrid's name on the screen.
I answered on the fourth ring, trying to make my voice sound human. "Hello?"
"Kade? You sound terrible."
"Food poisoning." The lie came out rough but believable. "Bad Chinese from the place on the corner. I've been up all night."
"Oh no." Genuine concern in her voice. "Do you need anything? I could bring soup. Walter makes a mean chicken noodle when he remembers to take it off the stove before it burns."
The image was absurd enough to make me almost smile. Walter Bishop, mad scientist and former government researcher, cooking soup for a sick colleague.
"I'll be fine. Just need to sleep it off." Another wave of heat rolled through me and I bit down on my lip to keep from groaning. "Tell Olivia I'll be back tomorrow. Maybe the day after."
"Take care of yourself, Kade. These things can be worse than they seem."
She had no idea how right she was.
I hung up and let the phone drop onto the pillow. The system pulsed behind my eyes — not a notification, just a presence, a reminder that this wasn't illness but transformation. My body was learning to process Cortexiphan energy, building neural pathways that would eventually let me interface with the same power framework that had given Susan Pratt her pyrokinesis.
The cost was measured in fever and tremors and a taste of copper that wouldn't fade.
I closed my eyes and waited for the next wave.
Walter called at 11:47 PM.
I'd been drifting in and out of consciousness for hours by then, losing track of time in the fever-haze. The phone's ring pulled me back to awareness with a jolt that sent fresh tremors through my limbs.
"Kade." Walter's voice, surprisingly gentle. "Astrid mentioned you were unwell."
"Food poisoning." The words came out slurred. "I'll be fine."
"Food poisoning." He repeated the phrase like he was testing its weight. "Interesting. The symptoms you're experiencing — how would you describe them?"
Something about his tone sharpened my attention despite the fever. This wasn't concern. This was investigation.
"Nausea. Fever. The usual."
"And the fever — does it spike and drop? Are there periods of clarity between the episodes? Any sensory distortion — lights too bright, sounds warped?"
The questions were too specific. Too targeted. Walter wasn't asking about food poisoning. He was asking about something else entirely.
"I've had food poisoning before," I managed. "It's just food poisoning."
"Of course." Walter's voice shifted, became warmer, less probing. "I simply wanted to share some news about Ms. Pratt's case. Her condition has stabilized remarkably well. The treatment protocol is working."
"That's good." I wasn't sure what else to say. The fever was rising again, making it hard to think.
"Yes. Very good." A pause. "You know, when the Cortexiphan children experienced their adjustments — when the compound first activated in their systems — they often described symptoms remarkably similar to what you've mentioned. Fever spikes. Sensory distortion. A taste of copper."
My blood went cold despite the heat burning through me.
"The adjustment period could last anywhere from twelve to thirty-six hours, depending on the subject's baseline physiology." Walter's voice was casual, conversational, the tone of a scientist discussing historical data. "Some subjects recovered fully. Others experienced permanent changes in perception — enhanced senses, altered neural processing, occasionally more dramatic manifestations."
"Walter—"
"I'm not suggesting anything, of course. Simply sharing relevant information during your recovery." Another pause, longer this time. "Feel better, Kade. I look forward to seeing you when you return."
The line went dead.
I lay in the dark hotel room, phone still pressed to my ear, and felt the weight of what had just happened settle over me. Walter knew. He didn't have proof — he couldn't have proof — but he'd connected my "illness" to Cortexiphan exposure. He was testing a hypothesis, building a case, waiting for enough data to confront me directly.
The Jacksonville trap from the lab. The thermometer observation. And now this — a phone call designed to probe whether my symptoms matched what he remembered from the trials.
The walls were closing in faster than I could outrun them.
The fever broke at 5:23 AM.
I woke on the bathroom floor — I didn't remember crawling there, but the tile was cool against my skin and I'd apparently spent the worst of the night curled next to the toilet. My clothes were soaked with sweat. My mouth tasted like I'd been chewing on pennies.
But the fever was gone. The tremors had stopped. And when I opened my eyes, the world looked... different.
Not dramatically different. Not the sharp perception boost from the Reiden Lake mapping. More subtle — a warmth that seemed to radiate from certain objects, certain directions, as if I could feel heat sources through my skin without touching them.
[Cross-System Compatibility: Translation Complete]
[Cortexiphan Framework: Basic Integration Achieved]
[Current Capacity: Minimal — Heat Sensitivity Only]
[Note: Full integration requires sustained exposure]
The notification confirmed what my body was already telling me. The Translation had worked — partially, at least. I could feel heat now, sense temperature differentials the way other people sensed light or sound. It wasn't pyrokinesis, wasn't even close to what Susan Pratt could do, but it was something.
The cost had been fourteen hours of agony and a cover story that Walter Bishop didn't believe for a second.
I pulled myself up and looked in the bathroom mirror. Same face. Same tired eyes. Same forgettable features that had served me well for the past six weeks.
But something was different now. Something had changed in ways I couldn't see but could feel, humming beneath my skin like a current waiting to be directed.
My phone buzzed on the nightstand. Six missed messages, the notifications informed me. The last was from Olivia, timestamped twenty minutes ago:
Get to the lab. We have a new case. It's different.
I turned on the shower and let the water run cold. The Translation was complete. The fever was broken. And whatever was waiting at the lab, I needed to face it with clear eyes and steady hands.
The water felt exactly 62 degrees against my skin. I didn't need a thermometer to know that anymore.
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