Page 60 of Rejected Exile

"Yes, but—" Her eyes widen as she realizes what I've just implied. There are serious fines and jail time if a medical professional puts an anti-shifter microchip in someone's neck, but if they refuse to take one out, they can also face suspension of their license and a fee. "I'll go get one of the doctors."

The nurse disappears. A few minutes later a woman in a lab coat comes in. The newcomer glances at my neck and tightens her mouth. She's young for a doctor, with honey brown skin and a fashionable hijab over her hair. Given the average age of the clinicians in the pamphlets they keep in the waiting room of the clinic, I'm guessing they sent in their youngest and newest doctor to do this job for them—since the rest of the old fogies probably aren't willing to risk censure if something goes south.

"Hello, Delilah. It's nice to meet you. I'm Doctor Bashir, I'll be treating you today." I watch her scrub up then grab a hermetically sealed instrument tray—all while the nurse hovers behind her. "I've heard that you need to have a small foreign object removed from your neck."

"Yep."

"If you could, please just jump up onto the examination table, and I'll take a look."

I do as I'm told, the crinkle of paper beneath me bringing me back to my childhood. This clinic is where all of Juniper goes to get our yearly checkups and vaccinations. The faces change, but the smell of antiseptic in the air stays the same.

"Which side of the neck is it on?"

"The left side." Tying my hair back, I stretch my head to the right and motion to the scarred skin. "Right here."

"I see now. I'm going to probe it just a little."

She hovers at a respectful distance as she reaches out to brush cool, clean fingers against the knot of scarred flesh on my skin. I feel the slight flare of discomfort as her touch connects with the area; I've been scratching at it so much the past few days it's a wonder any skin is still there. Slowly she works at the muscle above and below it, prodding and pinching, her lips slightly pursed in concentration.

"I can't confirm what it is through size alone, but it does seem that your guess is correct. It seems to be a shift-repressing device."

Going to the cabinets set into the corner, the doctor opens up a drawer and pulls out a small plastic device. "These haven't been used in a long time, but we're legally required to always have one on hand." She pulls it out and holds it up. "A microchip scanner."

My stomach turns. Pushing the power button, the doctor stares at a dim green screen. I glance over at Cat, uncertain.

"Good news: it's just had the batteries in it replaced, and it seems to still be in good condition. With this we should be able to confirm what the thing in your neck truly is."

Cat pipes up. "Is that important? Either way, you have to take it out."

"I'll remove it as soon as possible," the doctor says reassuringly. "It's important that we know the make and model of it, though. Some of these things have a tendency to break during extraction." To me, she adds, "This won't hurt one bit."

As she approaches me and holds the scanner up, I feel the tingle of anticipation and uncertainty pass over me. To distract myself, I focus on the doctor. "You sound like you know a lot about these microchips. Have you removed one before?”

"Yes." Her tone is succinct, but she goes on to elaborate as she presses at some buttons on the scanner. "I did a residency in Japan. They still use them there. So I've seen a few. Now, hold still and stretch your neck out some more—yes, like that."

She doesn't sound like she wants to get into more details. I can fill in some of the blanks, though. Japanese werewolves are required to have the shift-repressing microchip until and unless they're medically sterilized. The thought makes me sick to my stomach.

After a long moment, the doctor murmurs, "It's horrible that someone would put this in you. Especially if you didn't consent?"

"I didn't. I've never even been abroad—there's no reason for me to have one." Some countries require them, which makes international travel dicey, especially outside of the European Union, which banned their use just like Canada and the US. "I don't even know when it was put in, or how long it's been there."

"That was going to be my next question. If it's been there for a considerable number of years, we'll have to monitor you—sometimes, with long-term use, there are side effects post removal." She pulls the scanner away. "You can relax now. I know what model of chip it is, and the good news is we can take it out without sedation."

Cat pipes up. "What side effects?"

Exactly the question I was going to ask.

"Mostly dizziness, a sudden drop in blood pressure, and sometimes fainting spell. A few rare cases cause anaphylactic shock, fever, and rash—the body gets so used to the werewolf prions no longer circulating through its blood that the return of them can cause the immune system to go into overdrive. But that's very rare, and if it does happen, you'll be inches away from a medical team prepared to get you through it to the other side."

"Thank you." I take a deep breath. "I want it out. No matter the risks."

Saying the words feels monumental, but as soon as they're out a huge weight lifts off my shoulders. All my life, everything has been decided for me, from this chip in my neck, to getting rejected, being exiled, and even winding up with Cat. Now for the first time I'm making a choice for myself. Good or bad, I live with the consequences—and there's something freeing about that.

"I'll start with a local anesthetic. It'll be a small sting, then we'll wait a few minutes, and once the area is numb, I'll remove the chip."

To help me through my nervousness, I meet Cat's eyes. She senses my distress and starts telling a riotous, laugh-out-loud story about the time she went backpacking after college. Cold antiseptic is applied to my neck, and a moment later I feel the bite of a needle.

Minutes pass by. Cat keeps up her story. Even the doctor laughs a little at the anecdote about her spending a whole afternoon in a small French villa, smiling at passersby—only to realize when she got home that there was a three-inch hole in the butt of her pants.

---