"There it is. Eros," the transport tech said, as he stared toward the front of the vehicle.
The driver chimed in. "Home sweet home. For now, anyway.”
I tried to turn again, tried to see what monstrous city building was replacing the quaint, home-like Brightfield. This time, I kept shifting and struggling until, from the corner of myeye, I caught sight of the building’s lower half and a sleek sign partially obscured by hunter green shrubs. The Eros Institute. My stomach clenched, anxiety coursing through me. This was more intimidating than I’d imagined.
I swallowed against the sudden dryness in my throat, as if somehow I’d carried Utah with me and the suit was only now notifying me that it was a thing of the desert. Dry, choking, full of sand. Fear wrapped around my heart like a vice.
“One cage for a new, shinier one,” I mumbled to myself, turning back from the sight of the building coming ever closer, my waist and neck aching from the strain.
After years of craving freedom from medical confinement, I now faced the prospect of a different kind of captivity—one bound by a contract rather than contamination protocols.
I closed my eyes, feeling the van’s path curve. Not long later, the light past my eyelids dimmed. I parted my lashes, finding only a blur until my vision adjusted. We were in an underground parking garage. The ceiling was low and made me nervous. The vehicle curved again, then began reversing towards a discreet door marked "High Risk Medical Transport Only”. My heart sank slightly at the reminder that I wasn't yet normal enough for the front door, despite the miraculous improvements in my condition. I was still Lucy Graves, lifelong patient.
“I need to check your suit and vitals before we proceed," said the transport tech as he reached for a clipboard.
“I feel like one of those goldfish people buy at the store, sloshing around in a plastic bag with just enough water to stay temporarily alive.” I frowned down as best I could with the stupid helmet. It really was like seeing the world through a fishbowl.
“From what I’ve heard, you’re something of a miracle. Everyone who works for Eros knows your name now.” He stood up, having to crouch. I hadn’t realized he was so tall. He fiddledwith some dials, depressed a valve that released a quick hiss of air, then wrote some things down on his clipboard.
“I’ve been called a lot of things over the years, but a miracle is new. I mean, it’s a miracle I reached my twenties I guess.” I shrugged, but the effect was lost in the confines of the bulky outfit.
“You’ll reach your thirties now. Your forties. Fifties and sixties. Sky’s the limit.” He unhooked my hoses from the tanks attached to the vehicle, and transferred me over to smaller, mobile tanks that were hanging on the back of the wheelchair.
“Old and gray. Can’t quite picture that,” I admitted. When I thought about dying, I was always young. Untested. Unloved by a partner. Unchanged from the trappings of youth. Hair still rich in color. Face free of wrinkles. Would I become an old woman someday now? Would I sit on a porch watching grandchildren?
A derisive laugh came unbidden. I wasn’t going to believe I could die old until it actually happened. Ninety on my death bed. Finally convinced I could live long enough to pass away with gnarled hands and bad hips and false teeth.
“We’re ready back here,” the tech called to the driver, who almost immediately cut the engine and got out of the vehicle.
Moments later, the double back doors opened to reveal not only the driver, but a grouping of other people—some in white coats, others in scrubs, two in sharp suits.
One of the white-coated women, the tallest in the group with a runway model’s figure, stepped forward, her smile professional and holding enough forced warmth that I could almost pretend she cared about me as a person and not an experiment gone right.
"Lucy Graves? I'm Doctor Swann. Both Doctors Mercer and Emerson have kept me abreast of your progress. Doctor Mercer is working at another facility for the next two months, so I’ll be taking over your care at Eros." She extended her handbefore seeming to remember my containment suit, awkwardly dropping it back to her side. She regained her careful composure quickly. "Welcome to Eros Institute."
She had blonde hair cut into a sharp, short bob.
High, carved cheekbones.
Obviously an Alpha, but she didn’t smell like one.
“Thanks,” I mumbled, suddenly feeling small and vulnerable in my ridiculous Big Bird get-up. I looked past her to her companions. These people looked so normal, so healthy, so... unconcerned with the kind of nonstop medical worries that had defined my entire existence. “Looks like a nice place.”
Doctor Swann’s smile widened slightly. "State of the art. You'll see more of it soon. Let's get you settled first.”
The driver, transport tech, and the suited employees huddled together signing paperwork. Handing me off, I guessed. Transferring my ownership.
I needed to stop thinking of it like that, even if it was the truth. I’d signed myself over to strangers, so I’d have a chance to live.
Someone grabbed the back of my wheelchair and began pushing me forward. Everyone but the driver and tech followed. We entered a small foyer, only big enough for about ten people crammed together. A stairwell door to the right, and an elevator. Two buttons were lit pale yellow. Up. Down. Floor lights arced above. Sublevels 1 and 2, ground floor, and numerous floors above that.
We all fit into the large elevator.
I didn’t like how crowded it was.
It made the suit feel tighter, smaller, more suffocating.
As the lift ascended, the air pressure shifted subtly. Floor by floor, it grew cooler with a medicinal scent slipping into the suit’s air filtration. My stomach clenched as we rose higher, the numbers lighting up one after another. I tried counting mybreaths to stay calm, but the suit made everything echo strangely in my ears. When the elevator doors finally opened, I exhaled in relief.
