Chapter 17: CONTROLLED EXPOSURE
[DEO Headquarters, Tech Lab — October 2016, 2:15 PM]
Winn nearly dropped his tablet when I walked in.
"Oh god." He glanced around the empty lab, confirming we were alone. "That's your 'I'm about to ask for something crazy' face. I've seen that face exactly twice before, and both times ended with me hiding from Alex for a week."
"I need your help." I closed the door behind me. "Unofficial help."
"See? Crazy face. I knew it." He set down his work, resigned to whatever was coming. "Okay. What are we doing that's definitely against protocol and probably dangerous?"
"Controlled lead exposure."
Winn stared at me for a long moment. Then he laughed—nervous, slightly hysterical.
"You want me to poison you. Repeatedly. On purpose."
"Small doses. Measured carefully. We track my response, document the adaptation." I moved closer, keeping my voice low. "My body is learning to resist it, Winn. I felt it during the warehouse mission. But I need data—actual numbers—to understand the process."
"And you can't do this through official channels because...?"
"Because Hamilton will want to run months of tests before approving anything experimental. Because J'onn will want assessments and risk analyses. Because I don't have time to wait for bureaucratic approval when people are building lead-lined cages to trap aliens."
Winn's expression shifted from disbelief to something more complex. He understood the threat. He'd seen the intelligence reports about Cadmus, about the trafficking networks.
"How small are we talking?"
"Minimal contact. Brief exposure. Just enough to trigger adaptation without causing lasting damage."
"And you're sure this adaptation thing is real? Not just wishful thinking?"
"Alex noticed it. Hamilton's data confirms it. My recovery rate from the warehouse was significantly faster than my baseline." I held his gaze. "This is happening, Winn. I'm just trying to understand it well enough to use it."
He was quiet for a long moment. Then he sighed, the sound of someone surrendering to an argument they knew they'd lose.
"If we get caught, I'm blaming you completely."
"Fair."
"And we're starting with the tiniest possible sample. Like, atomic-level tiny."
"Agreed."
Winn retrieved a sample kit from one of his secure storage lockers. The lead fragments inside were small—barely visible to the naked eye—but my cells could feel them the moment the container opened. A distant discomfort, like an itch beneath my skin.
"Okay." He set up monitoring equipment, hands shaking slightly. "We'll do this scientifically. Precise dosage, exact timing, full biometric recording."
The first test was almost anticlimactic. A tiny fragment held near my palm for thirty seconds. The pain was manageable—unpleasant but not debilitating. I breathed through it, focused on the sensation, tried to feel my cells responding.
Winn watched the monitors. "Heart rate elevated. Cellular function decreased by about twelve percent." He set a timer. "Let me know when you feel normal again."
Forty minutes. That's how long it took for my baseline to fully restore.
The next day, we repeated the test. Same dosage, same duration.
Thirty-five minutes to recovery.
"That's statistically significant," Winn admitted, studying the data. "A twelve percent improvement in recovery time after a single exposure."
"Keep going."
By the end of the week, we had a clear pattern. Each exposure reduced recovery time by between eight and fifteen percent. My body wasn't developing immunity—the initial pain and cellular disruption remained consistent—but it was learning to bounce back faster, to repair the damage more efficiently.
"It's like calluses," Winn observed during our fifth session. "Or muscle building. Your cells are strengthening against the stress."
"How far can it go?"
"Unknown. The improvement curve is flattening slightly, which suggests diminishing returns at some point. But theoretically..." He ran calculations. "You might be able to reduce recovery time to single-digit minutes. Maybe even develop some baseline tolerance."
I flexed my fingers, feeling the lingering ache from our latest test. "Not immunity, though."
"Probably not. Lead's too fundamentally incompatible with your cellular structure. But resistance? Meaningful resistance that could let you function in low-concentration environments?" He nodded slowly. "Maybe possible."
The testing continued through the following days. Winn grew more comfortable with the process, though he still apologized after every session. I appreciated the guilt—it meant he understood the weight of what we were doing.
"I hate this," he said during one late-night session. "Watching you hurt on purpose."
"Pain now. Survival later." I shrugged. "If Cadmus builds lead-based weapons—and they will, once they figure out I exist—I need to be ready."
"You could tell Alex. Get official support."
"And spend months in committee meetings while they debate risk versus benefit." I shook my head. "Sometimes you have to act before you have perfect information."
Winn looked like he wanted to argue, but he kept his objections to himself. Instead, he encrypted our data files, buried them in DEO systems where casual audits wouldn't find them, and scheduled our next session.
Progress required sacrifice. In this case, the sacrifice was deliberate pain.
A small price for the chance to survive what I knew was coming.
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