Page 17 of Mate
With your precious life, killer? How could I?
This is Koen in a nutshell. Mocking and unreadable and maybe even a little cruel. He does, however, get shit done.
“We’re on in five,” the producer reminds me. “Anything else you need?”
“I’m good, thank you.”
A few feet away, the star journalist who’ll conduct the interview is recording a teaser. “. . . the answer that every Human has been seeking for the past month: When was the firstknown Were-Human hybrid born? How did she manage to stay undetected until her early twenties? What was her life like? Who is she, and above all, why is she coming forward right now? Stick around to learn more . . .”
I zone out. Dissociate. Try not to think about what’s at stake. In a shocking revelation, the business of going on TV to speak on how alien one is can be a bit alienating. Solitary. Misery and Lowe insisted on being here, but the less obvious my link to the Southwest, the better for Ana. Maddie’s presence would only fuel the (correct) rumors that I’m her carefully chosen political pawn. And it’s not as though I could’ve asked Danny, the last guy I dated before realizing I was a Were, to be my plus-one as I out myself as the Hybrid Whose Existence Has Been Leaked to the Press.
Hence, Koen.
The stage lighting fuzzes the crowd behind the cameras, but the tallest outline, the cross-armed, stern one, can only be him. I smile in his direction, fully aware that even if I could see it, there would be no response.
He’s so opposed to what I’m about to do, it’s almost funny. His disapproval vibrates through time and space and anchors me to this moment. Nothing else here feelsreal.
“You ready?” the interviewer asks, taking a seat across from me. She’s older. Elegant. Her scent betrays how disquieting she finds me, but her poker face is titanium solid. Honestly, I’m impressed. “That’s what the viewers at home are seeing now.” She points at the monitors. “An interview with the geneticist that I recorded yesterday.”
The road to this hothouse of a studio was paved with buccal swabs, blood draws, and lab testing.Sixindependent groups of scientists have confirmed that I am “an interspecific cross” (Latin forfreak, I believe) and not, as some pundits andsocial media trolls have decreed, “a grifter making shit up for clout.”
“. . .was not believed possible. We don’t have reports of hybrids, even from territories such as Europe, in which Weres and Humans live more amalgamated lives. What changed?”
“The most likely hypothesis is that random genetic mutations have occurred within North American packs.”
“Genetic mutations like what?”
“It’s impossible to say without more data. My hunch would be mutations in the genes that encode for gamete recognition, or regulatory genes. The bottom line is that these mutations made Weres reproductively compatible with Humans.”
“And these mutations, they affectallWeres, all over the world?”
“Unlikely. Were packs tend to be self-sufficient and isolated. For instance, packs such as the Northwest and the Southwest are known allies, which may come with genetic exchanges between them. But according to most Human observers, those two packs rarely interact with the New En gland packs. And the same is true for other North American and European packs: very few connections.”
“So what are the chances that Humans and Weres will become one single species?”
The geneticist laughs.“I wouldn’t worry about it. Keep in mind, most hybrids are not fertile.”
“What about this one?”
“She’s highly unlikely to be able to have children, with Humans or with Weres. The difference in chromosome structure will make it hard for her to produce functional gametes . . .”
An out-of-body experience, that’s what this is. My soul is up on the ceiling, dangling monkey-bar-style from a truss, staringdown at my unresponsive body as it learns that it might not be able to have children.
For the first time.
In front of dozens of people.
From someone who laughs it off as a best-case scenario.
It’s okay, I remind my body as the inside of its stomach is being raked bloody.It changes nothing. It’s the least of your problems. You knew that this would be supremely shitty when you agreed to it. Stay on task. Focus on—
“. . .made you decide to come forward and speak to us?” the interviewer is asking.
We’re on air. I switch on. Plunge back into the moment. “Frankly, realizing that it was either that or letting others take control of the narrative.” I smile the same confident, self-assured smile I used to pitch stories to my editor or to charm the pizza place guy into giving me the slice with the most pepperoni. “Since my existence was made public three weeks ago, a lot of inaccuracies have been reported. I’d like to set the record straight.”
“I see. And to remind our viewers,The Herald, Ms. Paris’s former place of employment, received information about the alleged existence of hybrids from an undisclosed Human source. Its veracity was widely debated. Then, a few days ago, you made a statement to the press revealing your name.”
“Thank you for giving me the opportunity to share my story.”
