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"What is two plus two?"
The voice was mechanical, echoing through the sterile space and bouncing directly into his skull.
Two plus two.
His brain felt like it had been dipped in molasses, then frozen, then thawed out too fast. It was a math question—simple math that he knew. He was a scientist. Or a teacher.
Both?
Four, he tried to say. The answer is four, weird robot voice.
He opened his mouth to speak, but no words left his mouth. Instead, a bizarre vibration came from his chest. A dry, clicking wheeze escaped his throat, immediately followed by a high-pitched whistle that harmonised perfectly with his own breath. Two distinct tones at the same time.
What?
That wasn't possible—literally. The human vocal cord could only output one distinct tone at once. But he had just made a chord.
"Incorrect," the computer voice droned on. "Cognitive assessment. What is two plus two?"
He forced his eyes open, feeling like he was peeling apart glued paper. Everything was a blinding, oversaturated white. He was lying on what he assumed was a medical cot, hooked up to a dozen blinking monitors, but his arms felt heavy. Too heavy.
He tried to lift his right hand to rub at his eyes, but the sensory input he felt as it dragged across his chest was completely wrong. There was no friction of bare skin or the fabric of a gown.
Instead, he felt something soft. Dense. Something extremely fluffy, even.
Do I have a duvet on top of me? He furrowed his brows, thoughts still as thick as syrup. No, wait… the fluff is attached to me?
He tried to flex his fingers, but the joints didn't bend right, feeling rigid and strangely elongated. He tried to rub his thumb against his index finger, expecting the familiar soft friction of human skin.
Instead, there was a sharp, distinct click.
He held his hand up to his face, forcing his blurry vision to focus.
What the fudge.
He stared.
Instead of soft and squishy human flesh, his hand—if he could even call it that anymore—was made of what looked to be dense, tan keratin. Sharp ridges replaced his knuckles, his fingers ending in sharp, curved points.
Claws. He had claws.
A massive, red-alert alarm blared in his mind. He didn't know his name, he didn't know where he was, but he knew basic human anatomy, and this definitely wasn't it. Human hands do not look like a taxidermy project gone wrong.
The heart monitor beside him started beeping frantically, matching the sudden beat of his heart in his ears.
"What is two plus two?" the computer insisted.
"Shut up," is what he wanted to scream, but instead, what came out was a panicked, two-toned trill.
Adrenaline flooded his system. He had to get up. He had to get away from whatever mad scientist had done this to him. He flailed, twisting his torso to swing his legs off the bed, but as he moved, he was suddenly made aware of a dead weight attached to his back.
He froze. There was something trapped between his spine and the mattress—it felt massive, and when he moved his shoulders, the weight shifted with them.
It wasn't a medical brace—he could feel it connected to him. There was a dull, throbbing ache from two points deep into his shoulder blade. In fact, it felt like two extra limbs.
Okay, okay… calm down. If it really is attached to me, then I should be able to move it, right?
He squeezed his eyes shut, focused on those new muscles, and with all his might, commanded: move.
And behind him, he felt something twitch.
A massive, jointed appendage dragged sluggishly across the sterile sheets.
Rustle. Swish.
The sound of heavy, stiff feathers, sliding against fabric.
Wings, his brain finally connected the dots, the realization hitting him like a physical blow. Those are wings. I have wings.
His breath caught, vibrating in two terrified pitches. This wasn't possible. This isn't possible. There was no way he had claws and wings. Humans aren't supposed to have them. And he was definitely human—so what the hell happened to him?
The monitors around him wailed in a chorus of alarms as his heart rate redlined, the white room starting to spin as he struggled to catch his breath.
Completely overwhelmed by the sheer absurdity and terror of the situation, his brain did the only logical thing left to do: it shut down.
And so, Dr. Ryland Grace slipped backward into the dark, instinctively pulling his heavy, feathered wings tightly around himself like a shield as he blacked out.