She’d assumed they would map her entire genome, which would take a long time.
But if they only needed to test a single X chromosome, then even with this era’s technology it shouldn’t take too long, should it?
So Angela said breezily, “All right, if the two of you insist on explaining it that way, let’s just wait for the result together. Hm—even if I’m not a mutant, you wouldn’t throw me out, would you, Charles?”
Charles Xavier let out a laugh.
“Of course not. You’ll always be a welcome guest.”
Angela made a show of patting her chest as if relieved, and the three of them broke into laughter together.
The machine still needed time to finish, so the three of them fell into easy conversation.
All three held doctorates—more than one apiece, in fact—and all three had done research in biology, so with mutant genetics as a starting point, they could happily talk at length about almost anything.
It was the kind of conversation that happens between learned, cultivated, clever people—thick with the air of intellect, glittering with the sheen of knowledge—the kind of atmosphere only people with that level of education could share and enjoy.
(Somewhere, a certain mutant with no education to speak of, good for nothing but hauling scrap: …I feel like someone’s throwing shade at me.)
Just as Angela had guessed, testing a single X chromosome didn’t take long—and if they only needed to flag the mutant gene rather than sequence everything else, it was simpler still.
The machine would have a result well before nightfall.
—In fact, if the only goal was to tell whether someone was a mutant, there was an even simpler method: a quick trip to Cerebro.
But both Charles and Hank felt that, when dealing with a medical doctor like Dr. Ziegler, a gene test would be more straightforward and easier to accept.
Otherwise the three of them would likely have plunged into an endless debate over questions like “Why are mutant brainwaves different from ordinary people’s?,” “Do latent mutants exist whose brainwave signatures aren’t obvious?,” and “Doesn’t that kind of scan run the risk of false positives and false negatives?”
In a sense, they perhaps owed some thanks to the fact that the mutants of the past hadn’t been all that highly educated.
(That certain mutant with no education, good for nothing but hauling scrap: …I think someone just threw shade at me again?)
The machine finished its analysis with a chime, and Hank darted over at once, eager to be the first to see the result.
When he picked up the printed report, Hank visibly froze.
Angela naturally assumed this was the disappointment of a result that didn’t match expectations—the kind of cruel outcome every researcher faced again and again.
So, full of empathy, she offered comfort: “Even if I’m not a mutant, you won’t hold it against me, will you, Dr. McCoy?”
Hank didn’t answer right away, and the brief silence made the atmosphere a little awkward.
Charles Xavier looked at Hank. Enjoying the story? Read on at novelping.com.
Catching the cue, Angela went over to lend a hand, helping Charles—who still wasn’t quite used to walking—move closer to the bench.
Hank’s right hand trembled slightly as he handed the report to Charles.
“Professor, I imagine you’ll very much want to see this. One look and you’ll understand why I’m so stunned.”
Charles Xavier took the report, skipped past the analysis charts at the front, and went straight to the conclusion.
His own face shifted into surprise to match.
Angela looked between the two of them, baffled.
“What is it?
Dr. McCoy, did the machine malfunction and fail to produce a result?
Surely my not being a mutant wouldn’t disappoint you this much?”
“No…” Hank took off his glasses, scrubbed his face hard a few times, then put them back on.
“Dr. Ziegler, the machine didn’t malfunction. The result is perfectly clear. Beyond any doubt, you carry the special mutant gene—you really are a mutant.”
That left Angela completely dumbstruck.
A little rudely, she took the report from Charles’s hands and flipped straight to the last page.
And there it was, in a line of bold type: RESULT POSITIVE — MUTANT GENE PRESENT.
So the Overwatch world really had no mechanism for detecting this “mutant gene,” and had never singled out “mutants” as a category at all?
Or had her genes mutated somewhere in the process of being blasted across space and time?
“…I’ve lived thirty-some years, and this is the first I’m hearing that I’m a mutant? Well, I suppose there’s nothing so hard to accept about that. But why are the two of you so shocked?”
Hank flipped the report back a page.
“Dr. Ziegler, I detected a fairly high concentration of healing factor in your blood. This healing factor lets your body recover quickly from injury and illness; it also stimulates cellular activity, keeps the body vital, and slows aging. Among all mutants, only a very small handful possess a healing factor like this—Wolverine, for instance. So I tried comparing your genes against Wolverine’s, and the results suggest the two of you are distantly blood-related. It’s a distant connection—likely more remote than five generations of kinship—but it’s there all the same.”
Angela felt as though the floor had just dropped out from under her on a freefall ride.
“Wait—hold on a second? Setting aside the whole ‘Wolverine’ thing for now—you just said my blood contains a high concentration of ‘healing factor.’ What is that? I never knew anything about it.”
Hank looked even more surprised.
He glanced at Charles, then went back to the computer and pulled up the analysis screen for the healing factor in her blood.
“You should be able to read these results yourself. Perhaps you simply never paid it any attention—but Dr. Ziegler, you must have always been in excellent health, recovering quickly even from injuries, no?”
No kidding—aside from scripted plot deaths, when had anyone ever seen a game character get sick?
She recovered from injuries because she had a healing ability, obviously.
That was right—left-click to heal, right-click for damage boost, Guardian Angel to fly to a teammate, Resurrect | Valkyrie.
Just those few active abilities.
After counting off the skill icons that surfaced on the system panel, Angela was about to object—when she suddenly remembered that, besides active abilities, there was such a thing as passive abilities.
When you actually played, it was easy to forget your passives.
What was Mercy’s passive again?
Angela silently focused, selected her own character portrait, opened her status, and confirmed the information from the hero panel.
Mercy’s passive ability was: Regeneration.
The effect description read: automatically restores health after going some period of time without taking damage.
And how long was “some period of time”?
One second.
Wonderful.
If that didn’t count as a “healing factor,” what did?
There was no spinning her way out of this one.
Angela nodded with difficulty.
“Yes…”
Hank and Charles both lit up with delight at the same moment.
Fighting back a headache, Angela gathered up the shattered pieces of her worldview and her grip on reality, and said slowly, “So—not only am I a mutant, but I’ve also found a long-lost relative right here at this school?”