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An employee of the Grimsborough Police Department has a lenient and flexible leave policy, especially for sick leaves.
Detective David Jones often challenges this flexibility with playful nonchalance.
Detective Gloria Hayes uses such leaves as any model detective should.
Detective and multi-licensed Forensic Analyst Astraea Forrest, however, seems allergic to the concept of “work leave.” This insomniac woman, despite visible moments of sickness, does things on duty, does things off-duty, or steals duty. Or maybe all three.
Today, she is once more visibly at her limits, as her partners had noted when they entered the lab and saw her dipping a slide with a tongue-shaped red in… something. And instead of explaining what was happening, Forrest dragged the two into the spectacle.
“You don’t look well,” Jones commented dryly as Forrest pressed a circular bandage on his inner elbow with gentleness. Forrest scoffs in return.
“ Excellent observation ,” She continues with a sigh, “You have a well-developed detective intuition. Good job.”
Jones shrugs exaggeratedly, the tourniquet on his arm falling to the ground under the inconvenient miniscule space of under the lab bench drawer. “I speak from years of intellect and experience. Maybe you'll find me at INTERPOL next year.” To this, Forrest pauses in smearing, takes off a glove, and flicks the forehead of the man who locked a cellphone for hours trying to hack it, as if he were some technology deity. “Ow—!” Jones rubs his forehead, and she wears a new glove.
“Don’t get mad at me, but...” Hayes chimes in with a chuckle, retrieving the fallen tourniquet and setting it beside the microscope. “I think you should have gone to the hospital instead of performing blood tests yourself.”
“There’s a queue.” The sound of Forrest’s fingers clacking on a differential counter almost drowns out her quip. “Queues can kill.”
Jones flinches at the subtext. “ Don’t say that— ”
“Besides,” she shrugs, “You two get free CBCs; RBC indices included. My neighbors would kill to have your privilege.”
Hayes blinks. “Then why don’t you give them free tests too?”
“I’m not supposed to.” A heavy pause. Hayes and Jones’ eyes widened. “I don’t have the license for med stuff.”
One second.
The room temperature drops by a degree, according to the air conditioner.
Two.
A cop is performing a scope of practice violation in front of two cops.
Three.
“You two got boring blood.” Forrest, with nonchalance, loads the third slide—one with a large blot of her blood—onto the microscope’s stage as she hands a piece of paper to the man on her right. “Jones, your smear is normal. Too normal. If I didn't perform the draw right now, I’d think you used a surrogate.”
“...I don’t know if I should feel happy or offended. Or if—if I should actually start panicking because we can take you into custody right now.”
A rare snicker from Forrest’s end. Jones was taken aback at the once-in-a-blue-moon expression but kept a straight face.
“Hayes,” The overqualified detective switches to high power and passes a paper to the woman on her left, “Didn’t you say your throat was hurting? Try checking with a physician. You probably have a bacterial throat infection.”
“Did you just have the reference values memorized— wait . You can tell that by just a blood smear?!” Hayes waved the paper.
“Blood can tell you—” Her turning of the slide adjustment knob slows suddenly, ”...a lot. of things.”
“Aster?” Jones, who is lightly applying pressure on the circular bandage, peeks to see her expression; and Forrest immediately loads the fourth slide—a thin smear of her blood—places a drop of oil, and sticks it to the largest objective: oil immersion.
“...Heh.”
Hayes peers over as well, then her gaze follows Forrest as she leans back to take off her surgical mask and stares at the ceiling with a small, wry smile. “What? What’s going on?”
“My blood made friends.”
“...With whom?”
“Have a look,” Forrest gestures at the microscope’s eyepiece. “I did great staining too. It looks pretty.”
To this, Hayes took a quick glance. There was a horror in her eyes as she stepped back and gestured to Jones to see.
Yes, the staining was great.
No, her smear was not looking pretty.
Among the familiar donuts of RBCs—which had strange rings, by the way—were purple sausages, moons, and circular blobs of devil-like eyes. Jones glared into the image under the lens with the same intensity as the light that seared into his pupils.
“Astraea, what the fuck is going on in your blood? Why do I not see a single normal cell here?”
Forrest only breaks into snickering at Jones’ question.
“I’m serious!”
“Okay, okay.” Now it was Forrest’s turn to raise her hands defensively. Hayes only stares in pure confusion and a pinch of fear. “I somehow caught the worst malaria known to man.” The pinch becomes a jar.
Jones stands up immediately. “You what?”
“Tertian malaria.” Forrest rubs her eyes, still with a wry smile, but smaller. “I caught Plasmodium falciparum , of all the Plasmodium species out there.” She finally looks at Jones. “I caught the deadliest type of malaria. Possibly malignant by the look of this. Insane, right?”
“You caught something that can give you cancer?!”
“It doesn’t give me cancer, but it is called malignant because—”
“I’m ringing the Chief up and starting the car.” Hayes stood up, already organizing the spot, “You’re going to the hospital!”
And they were not kidding.
Forrest’s perfect attendance record now has a sad mark of leave, which she stares at with unending contempt. Jones sees her while passing by, and makes no hesitation to push her cap downwards, and she doesn’t even move.
‘Maybe I shouldn’t have said it was the deadliest.’