But there's no answer. There's never any answer.
There's just me, and the collar, and the waiting.
Just like Moore taught me.
The door opens again two hours later.
I tense, expecting Webb, expecting another session, expecting more of my past ripped open and spread across his monitors.
It's not Webb.
The one Jace called Abernathy stands in the doorway, filling it with his bulk. Behind him, two guards shift nervously.
"Out," Abernathy says to them. "Wait in the hall."
They leave. The door closes.
Abernathy crosses to the table, looks down at me with an expression I can't read.
"I heard what Webb's doing," he says. "The neural interface. The memory extraction."
I don't respond. I don't know if this is another test, another layer of the game.
"He's exceeding his authority." Abernathy's jaw tightens. "The asset was supposed to be held as leverage. Nothing more. This—" He gestures at the room, at me. "This isn't sanctioned."
The door opens again.
Webb enters, coat pristine, tablet in hand, utterly unsurprised to find Abernathy here.
"Ah, hello," he says pleasantly. "I thought I saw your vehicle outside. Come to check on our guest?"
"I came to ask what the hell you think you're doing." Abernathy turns to face him, and I see the anger simmering beneath hiscontrolled exterior. "Neural extraction wasn't part of the agreement. The asset was supposed to be held, not tortured."
"Torture is such an ugly word." Webb sets his tablet on the cart, begins checking the equipment with casual indifference. "I prefer 'comprehensive psychological assessment.' The data I'm gathering will be invaluable for future conditioning protocols."
"The Custodians didn't authorize this."
"The Custodians authorized me to handle the situation as I see fit." Webb's voice hardens. "And I see fit to understand why one of our most valuable assets malfunctioned. If that requires some... discomfort for the catalyst of that malfunction, I consider it an acceptable cost."
"This wasn’t cleared by the other Directors."
Webb laughs. The sound is dry, hollow, utterly devoid of warmth.
"He's an asset. A commodity. A piece of property that was damaged goods before we ever acquired him." He gestures at me without looking. "Look at the file. Seventy-three documented abuse sessions under Moore. Four suicide attempts. Psychological assessments that classify him as non-recoverable. He was destined for disposal before Harrison's malfunction gave him a temporary reprieve."
"That doesn't give you the rightto—"
"I have every right." Webb's voice drops, turns dangerous. "I am the Director of Erasure. I erase problems. I eliminate threats. And this—" He finally looks at me, and I see nothing human in his eyes. "This is a threat. Not because of what he is, but because of what he represents. A weakness in our system. A flaw in our methods. A disease that could spread to other assets if I don't identify and eliminate it."
Abernathy is silent for a long moment. His hands clench at his sides, knuckles white.
"This isn't right," he says finally. "Whatever he is, whatever he represents, this isn't right."
"Right and wrong are concepts for philosophers and fools." Webb picks up the headset, examines it. "We deal in efficiency. In results. In the preservation of an order that has kept The Silent functioning for generations." He sets the headset down, meets Abernathy's eyes. "If you have objections, take them to the Custodians. Until then, stay out of my way. And Abernathy… it sounds an awful like you need some reconditioning of your own. I would tread lightly."
He holds Abernathy's gaze. Neither man moves.
"This won't end well, Webb. For any of us."
