The next day, instead of going to the playroom, Clio was taken to the lab first-thing in the morning.

The lab matched the rest of the PCA interior in every way: white on white on white. There were white tables spaced out on the glistening, white-tiled floors. Computers and white medical equipment littered the area, as well as a patient’s bed, centering it all, like a stage for an audience of doctors.

Clio stepped forward excitedly, ignoring the worried gestures of the newbie guard behind him, and was ready to be at the center of it.

Many of the doctors he already knew, though there were a few younger ones who stood off to the side, staring at Clio with wide, nearly-disbelieving eyes, as though Clio were a rare animal that had just done a hand-stand. This was another reaction that he, especially when visiting the lab, elicited on occasion. 

He liked to think that they were all admiring his diligence to his duty. Still, there was a mystery there that remained, as he knew that the other PCA children were just as diligent, and yet they did not produce the same reaction from the newer PCA staff. He knew because he’d asked.

It made little to no sense to Clio, for if he were being secretly honest to himself, all PCA children were Special Ones, yet he didn’t know what he was.

All the other children were defined by their species, such as vampires, witches, warlocks, werewolves, etc. Clio could not even begin to guess at which species he was, though the thirsting desire for this knowledge nagged him incessantly. 

He’d asked about his own classification, on many occasions, when he was younger, and each time, instead of receiving a proper answer, he had been told not to ask again. When he had asked one too many times, it had earned him a full week in the boxroom, and he’d never voiced the question after that.

Still, every single day, he wondered about it.

He was treated differently from the other children, such as the overall shock he received when encountering new people, yet why?

The lead doctor, Dr. Connors, greeted Clio with a warm smile, patting the bed at the center of the room. “Hello there, Clio, how are you?”

Dr. Connors was one of the rare PCA members who acquiesced to Clio’s insistence to be called ‘Clio;’ Clio’s only rebellion from the PCA rules and guidelines.

Clio, ignoring the eyes on him as he moved about the room, sat up on the bed.

“Shouldn’t he be restrained?!” blurted one of the new, ‘observing’ doctors, glancing between Dr. Connors and the seated Clio in a near-panic, as though the fresh doctor were about to take some kind of action.

Dr. Connors turned to throw the outspoken doctor a look, and though Clio couldn’t see it, the other doctor immediately took on a sheepish disposition and stepped back.

“Fine, thank you,” Clio chirped, not one to miss an opportunity to speak to the charming PCA doctor. “I colored an elephant the other day!”

“An elephant,” Dr. Connors said wondrously, smiling down at Clio before rummaging through a low drawer of a side table, eventually pulling out a stuffed rabbit, one of the lab’s comfort toys. “What an exciting animal! Far more exciting than a rabbit…I suppose you don’t want it.”

Clio giggled and reached for it, and Dr. Connors passed it along. 

He was asked a few questions about his health. They removed parts of his shirt to take blood samples, check his heart rate, lungs, etc. He was weighed and measured, as was routine, before he was made to sit again. 

The part that followed was always the part that confused Clio, though he knew there was punishment to follow whenever he voiced too many questions, so he merely accepted that once again, this next routine simply went beyond his level of shallow understanding. 

Three curtains on rollers were pushed into the room by guards, creating a type of curtained box, like a small room, big enough to be a large closet. Though nobody explained the procedure to Clio, he knew (because it was fairly obvious spotting the feet beneath the curtains) that someone was behind those boxed-curtains.

Who, and for what purpose, he had no idea.

“Allright,” Dr. Connors said warmly, turning to Clio. “Now, Clio, you are going to speak to the curtain, the same as always, okay?”

Clio nodded. “All right.”

The doctors were now shifting their gazes between him and screen monitors that were angled away from his own line of sight.

Clio was given a sheet of paper which listed the lines in which he was supposed to read to the person behind the curtains, as though talking to a wall. Why Clio could not simply meet this person face-to-face remained another mystery.

Without waiting further, he cleared his throat and said, “Touch your head!” he called to the curtain.

The doctors’ attentions were now enthralled with whatever displayed on the wide screens, not meant for Clio’s eyes.

A moment passed and he waited ten seconds, as was standard, before moving down the list. “Hold your breath for ten seconds!”

This was how it had went, nearly every lab day, within the past year or so. Clio would shout seemingly-ridiculous orders to someone he couldn’t see, and the person (it was a new person each time) would simply stand there, unmoving. The doctors would watch with full-attention, as though on the edge of their seats.

But this time, for some reason, seemed different.

Clio wondered who was behind the curtain, as he always did, and when he randomly scratched his nose with a sniff, his sense of smell picked up on something within the air that he had not been able to detect before. Even though the person behind the curtain was at quite a distance, Clio could still, for some reason, smell them, and they smelt like Three. He realized this, and though he knew the person behind the curtain was far too large to be Three, his brain finalized to another conclusion. Not Three, similar to Three.

The person behind the curtain was a warlock.

Trying not to let his realization show with the shake in his hand as he held the paper, he continued down the list. The scent lingered, though, and it was not something that he could ignore now that he had picked up on it. He knew that only other vis users could smell vis, so the human doctors in the room did not experience the same sensations. Perhaps this was finally proof that he was a vis user. A paranormal. A Special One.

With new confidence and fighting back a smile, he announced, “Touch your feet!”

There was shadowed movement behind the curtain, followed by the slamming sound of hands meeting naked feet. From below the hem of the curtain, Clio could fully see the action, and was alarmed because of it. Never had one of the curtained people ever followed an order he had given.

Gasps sounded throughout the room as the doctors reacted to what happened. Even though this result might have been the purpose of their test, they had not been expecting positive results.

Clio once more counted to ten in his head, ignoring the murmurs of alarm from the new doctors, and shouted, “Jump five times!”

Jumping. The person was jumping.

The sounds of distress were trickling into the voices of the senior doctors, and suddenly, Dr. Connors stood before him, blocking his view of the curtain, and snatched the paper away from Clio’s hand. Beyond, the guards quickly ushered the curtained-person out of the lab.

The moment the other vis-user was out of the vicinity, a curious swell of regret tugged at Clio’s core that he did not understand. He almost wanted to shout ‘Bring them back!’ yet held his tongue, knowing such outbursts could send him to the boxroom.

“That’s enough line-reading for today,” Dr. Connors said hastily, snatching the stuffed rabbit away from Clio as well, as though Clio had behaved poorly, and storing it away.

The doctor motioned to the team in the room, and the next hour was spent with the doctors in discussion, behind a glass wall in another room, glancing over to Clio every other moment.

They eventually returned.

“Clio, take your bottoms off and hand them to the nurse,” Dr. Connors instructed, becoming more stern as their time in the lab lengthened, as often happened. 

Clio felt his face redden at this new set of instructions, noting the amount of people in the room, yet he complied, handing over his underwear as well when he was instructed to. 

He was told to sit, and more doctors observed and measured the parts of himself that he kept private.

Finally, he was told to re-dress. 

“Clio,” the doctor began carefully, as though choosing his words from a hat, “have you experienced any…urges recently?”

Clio, staring up blankly at the doctor with incomprehension, shook his head. 

“Has down there,” he gestured to Clio’s lap, “felt any differently?”

Clio shook his head harder. 

“You know what this change is called, yes? When you feel different?” the doctor wondered.

Swallowing with narrow comprehension, Clio nodded. “A bit, doctor.”

“It’s called puberty, and you need to help us detect it when you go through it, do you understand?”

“...Yes.”

“When you see any signs of it, you are not to speak to any of the PCA children, but instead tell your counselor immediately so we can schedule a lab. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“Good.” He smiled down at Clio, though for some reason, Clio believed that it didn’t quite reach his eyes, and he wondered why.