Page 7 of Stripe Theory

“Mom.” Alora rolled her eyes. “Please tell me you’re not trying to matchmake with my research funding.”

“I would never!” Her mother pressed a hand to her chest in mock offense. “I’m simply mentioning that the very single, very successful CEO of Kedi Biogenetics found your proposal particularly fascinating.”

“The very single, very successful CEO can be as intense as he wants as long as he lets me work.” Alora’s grin widened. “This funding means I can finally expand the viral mutation trials. We might actually find a cure.”

A familiar deep voice called from off-screen. “Is that my brilliant daughter?” Her father’s face appeared beside her mother’s, his silver-rimmed glasses glinting. His usual bow tie featured tiny DNA helixes today – a gift from Alora last Christmas. “Breaking more scientific barriers?”

“Hi, Dad. You know me – never met a barrier I didn’t want to smash through with the power of science and inappropriate cat puns.”

Movement at her lab door caught her attention. Maya Keller sauntered in, balancing bags of Thai takeout while navigatingaround delicate equipment with the fluid grace only a shifter could manage. Her dark hair caught hints of gold under the lab lights, matching the mischievous glint in her hazel eyes.

“You’re practically glowing,” Maya observed, setting down the food. Her nostrils flared slightly – another shifter tell, scenting the air for mood and threats. “Let me guess – breakthrough, or did Stripes finally learn the difference between water and hydrochloric acid?”

“That was one time,” Alora protested, catching the spring roll Maya tossed her way. “And we got him new toys after the old ones dissolved.”

Her parents chuckled through the video call. “We’ll let you celebrate,” her mother said, then added with careful casualness, “Oh, and darling? Do try to make a good impression on Rehan. I hear he appreciates... professionalism.”

Alora glanced down at her tiger-themed lab coat, then at the organized chaos of her workspace. “Right. Professionalism. My middle name.”

“Your middle name is Catherine,” her father corrected helpfully.

“Love you both!” Alora ended the call and turned to Maya, who had already claimed their usual spot by the window. The late afternoon sun painted Manhattan’s skyline in shades of amber and gold, glinting off nearby buildings like cat’s eyes.

Maya sprawled in the window seat with feline grace, breaking apart her chopsticks. “So,” she drawled, “ready to work for the mighty Kedi pride? I hear the CEO is quite the catch.” She waggled her eyebrows suggestively.

“Not you too,” Alora groaned. “I swear, between you and my mother – actually, no, please tell me you two haven’t been conspiring again. Remember the speed dating disaster?”

“How was I supposed to know he was allergic to cats?” Maya grinned. “Besides, having a shifter bestie has gotten youthis far in understanding our crazy biology. Remember when you thought all shifters just chose their animal based on personality?”

“That was a perfectly reasonable assumption.” Alora defended herself around a mouthful of spring roll. “It made sense at the time.”

Maya snorted, nearly choking on her pad Thai “You mean last year? When you asked if someone could wake up one day and decide to be a different animal?” She affected a high-pitched voice. “‘But, Maya, what if you’re feeling more pandas-ish today? Can’t you just... try really hard?’“

“Hey! I’ve learned since then.” Alora threw a napkin at her friend. “I know you’re stuck with what you’re born with. No surprise pandas for you, no matter how much you might want to be cute and cuddly instead of terrifying.”

“Excuse you, I am adorableandterrifying.” Maya’s expression turned more serious. “But seriously, having a shifter perspective has helped your research. You see us as people first, not just test subjects. It’s why the shifter community trusts you.”

Their conversation drifted to the increasing virus cases. Maya’s normally playful demeanor sobered as she described families struggling with affected members. “It’s not just the physical symptoms,” she explained, pushing her food aside. “When tigers can’t shift, they lose their connection to their inner animal. Imagine having part of your soul locked away, scratching to get out but never quite reaching the surface.”

Alora scribbled notes on her tablet, her earlier excitement tempered by the reality of what they were fighting. “The virus seems to target the genetic markers specific to tiger shifters. But why only tigers? Other big cats aren’t affected at all.”

“That’s what makes your approach different,” Maya said, stealing one of Alora’s spring rolls. “Other researchers focus on treating symptoms. You’re looking at the root cause – thegenetic component. Plus, you make the best cat puns while doing it.”

Her tablet chimed again – another video call, this time from her parents’ university office. Her father’s normally calm features were pinched with worry, his bow tie slightly askew. “Alora, we need to discuss the rising cases here. Three more students have been quarantined with severe symptoms.”

THREE

“What?” Alora straightened, all traces of playfulness vanishing. She pulled up a new document, fingers flying across the screen. “Send me their data. Have you noticed any pattern in who’s being affected? Age? Gender? Time since their first shift?”

“That’s just it,” her mother cut in, appearing beside her father. “The virus seems to be targeting younger shifters now. More aggressive progression too. One student went from first symptoms to complete shift suppression in under forty-eight hours.”

Stripes chose that moment to knock over a stack of papers, sending them fluttering to the floor. Without missing a beat, Alora caught them mid-air and pulled up her research diagrams on the main screen.

“Look at this,” she said, sharing her screen with her parents. “I think the virus is mutating, adapting to attack the genetic markers that allow tiger shifters to transition between forms. It’s not just blocking the shift anymore; it’s severing their connection to their inner animal completely. See these protein structures? They’re actually rewriting the genetic code that controls transformation.”

“Be careful, sweetheart,” her father warned, leaning closer to the screen. “Your work could save lives, but some people won’t want you meddling in shifter biology. The politics around genetic research in the shifter community?—”

“Dad, I’m not meddling – I’m solving. Big difference.” Alora’s tablet filled with incoming data from the university cases. “These new cases could help confirm my latest theory about the mutation rate. If we cross-reference the progression speed with the genetic markers for age and shifting frequency?—”

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