Page 21 of Peacock Me Like a Hurricane

“First, there’s this feline thing,” he looks at me suspiciously. “Either you’ve joined an elite team of mutants led by a telepath in a wheelchair or you’re screwing with my head.”

Chuckling, I shake my head. “Move to the next one. You should probably find strains of my DNA in the other samples.”

Giving me a weirded out look, Diz switches to the next slide, nodding his head in confirmation. I didn’t tell him how I collected the samples on purpose—drink from a clone, scratch myself, bleed into a tube, clean up the mess, and hope for the best. I couldn’t ask them to fill a cup; this is a top-secret project. So I cheated. When I come out of my musings, he’s moved to the last slide, murmuring under his breath.

I watch as he moves to another workstation, setting up my slide and typing furiously. Curiosity piqued, I tap his shoulder. “What’s in your ear?”

He shakes his head, brow furrowing more. “Not sure. I gotta theory. Why did you want me to look at this again?”

“You’ve seen my DNA and you have to ask?” I reply sarcastically.

“Obviously, you’re going through some changes.”

“You’re telling me,” I mutter.

He looks up, raking his hand through his hair. “Things you’ve physically manifested?”

I chortle and he blinks. “Absolutely. Do you want to see?”

The struggle of a scientist wanting to gain knowledge and the wariness of a human war on his face before he shakes his head. “Nope. I think I’ll wait on the results before I venture forth.”

“You can’t tell me anything today?” I pout, feeling antsy about the whole thing.

“No way, sistah. I have to send this stuff to a colleague of mine that can do an expert analysis. She might even confirm the theory I’ve got buzzing ‘round in here.”

“Dizzzzzzzzz,” I whine. “You can’t say you know something and not tell me.”

“I sure as hell can. Hey, how fresh is your sample?”

“I’ve had them for a minute. Why?”

“I’m going to get a nurse. I want a new one,” he replies, turning to hit the intercom.

“No, wait.” I grab his arm and spin him around. “You don’t need a nurse. Do you have a sample cup? Like a fresh one?”

He nods, picking one up that looks suspiciously like something people normally pee in, and I give him a dirty look. Undoing the lid, I position it under my arm before pausing. “Don’t freak out, alright?”

Arching a brow, he scoots back instinctively. I flick a claw out, slicing my arm over the cup. Squeezing it enough that it flows in, I give Diz a lopsided smile. When I let go, the cut tingles, the edges burn, and it makes a distinct popping sound. There’s not a trace of trauma left on my skin when I hold up my arm.

“There.” I shrug nonchalantly as Diz goes through the Shemp routine that most people adopt when seeing me do that for the first time. “Oh, quit with the Three Stooges act.”

“But you!”

“Yes.”

“Well, it explains some things,” he muses, scratching his chin thoughtfully.

“Like what?”

“Patience, sistah. Give me a couple of weeks and we’ll see what turns up. Should I call you when I find out?”

“Fuck, yes. You can also email or text. Will it really take that long?”

He rolls his eyes, giving me an exasperated look. “These things take time, woman. Chill.”

“Alright,” I sigh. “Do you have everything you need?”

“Absolutely.”

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