As she lay there, she listened to a group of five interns gathered around her bed. Cold season must have been approaching. Everyone's voice was slightly pinched and nasally.
"This specimen," said Dr. Grobe, a Clinic scientist, "hasn't walked for a year, and has been blind for fourteen. Go ahead." There were several loud snaps and the bitter scent of latex filled the air; they had put on gloves. "Sarah, you can check her vitals."
"Is she dangerous?" a woman asked.
Dr. Grobe laughed. "No, no; we only keep class two mutants on this level."
"'Class'?" asked a baritone voice.
Broghan winced as two rough fingers punched her vein and she was overwhelmed by the stench of "Sarah's" sweet perfume.
"Yes. We classify each mutant that comes through here based on the danger of their mutation. Nightingale—that's our pet name for this one—is a class two mutant, for the simple fact that her mutation isn't powerful enough to harm anyone."
There was a general murmuring, until another woman spoke up. "The gloves—"
"Are mainly for her safety, correct. Nightingale is what we call a healer. And, until recently, it was believed that she controlled the outflow of healing energy when in skin-to-skin contact with another living being. You see, one of my esteemed colleagues discovered that—"